Tag Archives: reflections

211. A Witless Witness

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Have you seen those Jesus fish decals Christians put on the back bumpers of their cars?

Jesus Fish

My car doesn’t have one. I have no objection to Jesus fishes—in fact, I value the Ichthys symbol as a relic of Christian heritage—but I don’t want people to know my car is driven by a Christian. I’m not ashamed of my faith. No, I’m embarrassed by my lousy driving. Glory to God and all that, but I prefer not to credit him with my mistakes behind the wheel.

My car has no Jesus fish, but I do wear a cross on a chain round my neck. It isn’t an elaborate rosary or a crucifix with a likeness of Christ crucified—just a plain steel cross. It serves as a constant reminder of my commitment to Christ, and it’s a nonthreatening way to express my faith.

I’m not perfect. I’m most certainly not perfect. All the same, I try to live a godly life. My hope is that people will see the cross, notice my lifestyle and put two and two together. Then, perhaps, conversations can happen about Jesus and grace and faith.

My efforts to witness are rather timid, but they were once quite bold. I would go so far as to call them completely obnoxious. There were several weeks during which I handed out tracts and collared random strangers on the street to share the Gospel of Jesus.

Few thing I have ever done felt so wrong.

Shoving the Gospel down the throats of passersby seemed cheap and shallow—and it was. I wanted to share. They did not want to listen. The best solution was not to share anyway, which was what I did, but to find people who wanted to listen.

There are places where random strangers will listen to the Gospel. America is hardly one of them. In America, where people know just enough about Christianity to be inoculated against it, where Christians have a (tragically well-deserved) reputation for being shallow and judgmental, where faith is a cultural curiosity, the Gospel must usually be shared in actions before people will listen to it in words.

Evangelism isn’t quick and easy. It’s a long-term investment. Evangelism isn’t about statistics and numbers. It’s about people. Evangelism doesn’t consist of cheap tracts and three-step plans. It consists of relationships.

As usual, the Apostle Paul put it well. “Because we loved you so much,” he wrote, “we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our lives as well.”

207. A Postmodern Prayer

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Our Parent of Unspecified Gender,

Hallowed be your name—which is, naturally, whatever we want it to be.

Your kingdom come, but only if you make it a democracy.

Your will be done, but only if it doesn’t interfere with ours,

On earth as it is in heaven, the latter being a quaint metaphor.

Give us this day our daily bread (which we deserve)

And don’t bother forgiving our debts

Because we have no debts—after all, sin is just an outdated philosophy.

Don’t feel obligated to keep us out of temptation, because it’s just natural instinct;

Or evil, since discriminating against anything is intolerant.

For yours is the kingdom (just democratize it!)

And the power (just don’t use it!)

And the glory forever,

But only if you acknowledge you’re no more special than the rest of us.

Amen.

202. Church Grumps

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I am a grouchy churchgoer.

Every Sunday morning, I find myself griping about something or other: the music, the sermon or some other aspect of church culture.

For example, it bothers me that churches in America spend tens of thousands of dollars on unnecessary, self-indulgent stuff when Christians in poorer countries can hardly afford to rent tiny buildings for church services. (My favorite church in the world met in a disused soccer stadium: pretty much the only building it could afford.)

Instead of building a church gymnasium which will be used twice a week for potlucks and basketball, why not build five new churches in Vietnam or support ten pastors for a year in Colombia or feed thousands of children in India? Come on, fancy churches! There’s a world out there, you know, and it needs food and Bibles a heck of a lot more than you need new carpets or stained glass windows!

See what I mean? There I go: ranting like a madman, shaking my fists and being a church grump.

I miss the old hymns. (Many of the newer songs are, um, strange.) The lack of emphasis on international problems like poverty and religious persecution frustrates me deeply, and I’m appalled at the haphazard way the Bible is taught. Don’t even get me started on short-term missions trips.

I’m not usually irritable, and I’m not sure why church makes me grouchy. During college, I grumbled about mandatory chapel services and tried to avoid mainstream church culture. For months I’ve found something to bother me every Sunday morning.

Then, a number of weeks ago, as I mumbled my way through yet another contemporary song that seemed very emotional and completely meaningless, I remembered something.

The Lord Jesus once told a pleasant little story about two men, one of whom showed definite signs of being a church grump.

To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everyone else, Jesus told this parable: “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’

“But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’

“I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

All churches have problems. However, as I stand in self-righteous (and grumpy) judgment of these churches, I generally forget one all-important fact.

I have problems. I have a lot of problems.

As the Apostle Paul pointed out, “You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things.”

I have no right to be a church grump. Some of my complaints are legitimate, sure, but I don’t have much authority to make them. A man with a plank in each eye is hardly the chap to go pointing out specks in the eyes of others.

More to the point, being a church grump won’t help anybody.

Acknowledging my faults and trying to be humble seem like good ways to start. Then, perhaps, without shouting or shaking my fists, I can suggest how churches can be better.

184. An Explosion of Pink

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A tree has stood outside my apartment all winter: an empty, skeletal tangle of bare twigs and branches. There were brief moments when this tree was lovely—its intricate silhouette looked quite nice against the rising sun—but it seemed bleak and ugly most of the time.

One day, about two weeks ago, I was astonished to glance out my window and see this:

002This transformation happened almost overnight. A skeleton of weathered wood had burst into a fountain of blossoms, swaying in the breeze and sending petals fluttering to the ground. Something dead had exploded into bright, beautiful, exuberant life.

So yeah, that’s what’s been happening with me.

April was not a good month. My work schedule, ever as capricious and unpredictable as the clouds, changed repeatedly, forcing me to switch between daytime and nighttime shifts. I suffered from severe sleep deprivation. At work, I was compelled to handle unexpected responsibilities on short notice. I lost my appetite. My recurring struggle with depression became a constant battle.

All the while, my obligations and commitments kept coming with the unstoppable regularity of ocean waves. I felt about three seconds away from a breakdown on at least two occasions. To paraphrase the words of Lincoln, it seemed impossible for me to remain as I was. I could recover or break down, but I couldn’t keep going.

Then, around the beginning of May, things changed with the suddenness of a tree exploding into bloom.

My depression disappeared as quickly as it came. I managed to get some sleep. My appetite returned. Work became easier and my schedule eventually returned to normal. (I doubt it will stay that way, but I can hope!) I watched a couple of movies and some YouTube videos and actually enjoyed them.

I’m taking a break from work this week, starting tomorrow. Fueled by cookies and coffee, I’ll travel north to watch Iron Man 3 with my uncle, discuss Abraham Lincoln with my grandfather, play Mario Kart with my cousins and generally have a good time visiting friends and relatives.

My life is looking better and brighter by the day.

I knew the tree outside my apartment wouldn’t stay bare forever, but I didn’t think it would resurrect so suddenly. I definitely didn’t expect it to be pink.

I was sure my life would get better eventually, but my recovery still astonished me. I certainly didn’t expect it to be so overwhelming.

My sufferings are trivial compared to those faced by other people in the world. I have enough to eat. My family is awesome. I have no desire to hang myself, read the Twilight series or end my own life in any other way. I’m ridiculously blessed even through difficulties.

All the same, my difficulties last month seemed quite bad enough, thank you.

It has been endlessly comforting to look back over those dark weeks in April and realize they were not without purpose. Unlike poor old Job, who probably never knew why God made him suffer, I can see at least some meaning in last month’s trials.

Never before have I had such an appreciation for not being depressed. Freedom from anxiety and hopelessness is something I no longer take so much for granted. I’m getting more sleep and worrying less about the future.

More importantly, I learned last month to stop blaming myself for bad days. Neither bad nor good days are usually my doing.

This makes my life less complicated. I don’t have to figure out what I’m doing wrong on bad days or right on good ones. I can simply persevere through the bad and be thankful for the good, giving God my best through every kind of day. My best will be better on some days than on others. That’s all right. I may be inconsistent, but God’s grace is not.

The tree outside my window has faded to dull green. My life will sometimes seem hopeless and difficult. I’m not giving up. After all, every desolate, skeletal tree may soon become an explosion of pink.

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183. A Lesson from Doctor Who

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I often discover lessons in unexpected places. True, I learn from the Bible and wise people, but I also learn from Batman and webcomics about video games.

The Doctor from Doctor Who is not particularly wise—in fact, he has all the tact and maturity of a twelve-year-old boy—but he recently taught me an invaluable lesson.

This is not the face of a wise man.

This is not the face of a wise man.

I work in a group home for gentlemen with mental and physical disabilities. As you can imagine, my job is often amusing, sometimes heartbreaking and never predictable.

When I began working in a group home, I felt pity for some of its residents. Their lives are often dark and difficult. Some endure chronic physical pain. Most suffer from depression. Few are ever visited by friends or family. All of them are hurting in some way and few of them understand why.

At first I pitied only these gentlemen, but as months passed I realized they aren’t the only ones deserving of compassion.

Most of my coworkers are hurting. Some are divorced. Some have family issues. Many struggle with financial woes or health problems. I’ve heard tearful stories, bitter complaints and vicious arguments I wish I could forget.

Apart from work, I have friends facing heartrending difficulties: divorce, debt, depression, loneliness and grief.

I’m constantly surrounded by people whose problems I can’t solve, and I hate it.

At one point in Doctor Who, the Doctor and his friend learn that a person whose life they tried to save committed suicide. The Doctor’s companion is overwhelmed with grief. “We didn’t make a difference at all,” she says.

“I wouldn’t say that,” replies the Doctor, blinking back tears. He adds:

The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant. And we definitely added to his pile of good things.

I may not be able to fix someone’s life, but nothing will ever prevent me from adding to his pile of good things.

I can’t fix my coworker’s marriage. I can’t take away the pain of the gentleman with arthritis or the hopelessness of the gentleman with depression. I can’t promise healing to a hurting friend.

I can, however, be patient. I can listen. I can pray. I pretend to be terrified when the gentlemen with whom I work tell me there are mummies in the cupboards or a mouse in my shoe.

On an afternoon a few weeks ago, just a day or two after I remembered this lesson from the Doctor, I was administering medications at work when a resident of the group home ambled up to me.

“This is for you,” he said with a grin, holding out a cup of coffee.

It occurred to me in that moment that I’m not the only one trying to add to the piles of good things around me.

Sometimes other people, even hurting people, add to mine.

180. Thoughts on Job and Ecclesiastes

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I like some books of the Bible much less than others.

Take Ezekiel. I dislike Ezekiel. Paradoxically, it manages to be both trippy and tedious. It also paints an uncomfortably harsh picture of God.

Then there are the books I love, like Job and Ecclesiastes. Job is a meditation on punishment, pain and the authority of God. Ecclesiastes describes a philosopher’s search for the meaning of life. (Ecclesiastes is not to be confused with Eccleston, who played the Ninth Doctor in Doctor Who.)

These books fascinate me. They put the story of Scripture on hold to ponder some of the deep questions that have frustrated, tantalized and challenged thinkers for millennia: Why do good people suffer? Is God fair? What matters in life? What is the outcome of death?

These books come to the same conclusion, broadly speaking.

Most of us are familiar with the story of Job. At Satan’s request, God torments a righteous man named Job as a test of faith. Will Job remain faithful to God through his afflictions, or will he curse God for making him suffer?

Job’s friends arrive and say some stuff. Job says some stuff. A bystander named Elihu says some stuff. And just when the reader thinks everyone has finished talking, God himself shows up to say some stuff.

Job’s questions remain: “If I have sinned, what have I done to you, you who see everything we do? Why have you made me your target? Have I become a burden to you?”

Now that God has revealed himself to speak directly to Job, it’s time for answers.

Except it’s not.

God’s response to Job is to emphasize his own absolute power and authority over everything. From lightning bolts to ostriches, God has it all under control. Even though God answers none of Job’s questions, he resolves them. Job acknowledges God’s greatness, and God goes on to restore Job’s life.

While the book of Job ends on a comforting note, it’s not a very satisfying one. Job lived happily ever after, but he never (as far as we know) discovered the truth behind the cosmic contest that caused his suffering. Job’s agonies remained a mystery to him for the rest of his life.

The book of Ecclesiastes ends on an even gloomier note. Its author comes to the conclusion that life is beyond understanding, and it’s best simply to live and to work and to be happy. “Meaningless! Meaningless!” he declares. “Everything is meaningless!” Remember, this is the Bible I’m quoting here; these statements seem strangely agnostic to be included in the Word of God.

In the end, as we live in world we can’t understand, we’re left with one guiding principle: “Now all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter: Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the duty of all mankind.”

I like Job and Ecclesiastes because they’re honest. They’re not bright, cheerful Sunday School lessons that pretend to make sense of everything. They struggle to find meaning in a world that seems meaningless, and conclude it can’t always be found. The most sensible option is to trust someone to whom nothing is meaningless: the God for whom there are no mysteries.

I once wrote a post for this blog, one of the best I’ve ever written, in which I admitted I have my doubts about Christianity. Some things don’t make sense to me. I’m a Christian anyway because these doubts are outweighed by evidence supporting the twofold idea that God is and that he is good.

God hasn’t answered my doubts and questions—but he has resolved them. Like Job and the author of Ecclesiastes, I must believe that God knows what he’s doing, even when I haven’t the faintest clue.

179. Of Pink Ponies and Civil War Nurses

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I like making top ten lists. (You may have noticed.) For whatever reason, I enjoy organizing the best (or worst) things together in groups.

I once made a list of my top ten favorite books. The Bible was there, of course, along with classics like The Lord of the Rings and The Innocence of Father Brown (because J.R.R. Tolkien and G.K. Chesterton are awesome). In fact, there was only one surprise: a very short, very impromptu series of autobiographical sketches by a nurse who called herself Tribulation Periwinkle.

Hospital Sketches

Tribulation Periwinkle may be the best name ever.

Tribulation Periwinkle was really Louisa May Alcott, who is best known for her novel Little Women. When the American Civil War broke out, she enlisted to care for wounded soldiers in Washington D.C. as a volunteer nurse: an experience she described in a cheerful little book titled Hospital Sketches.

War is horrible. I’ve never been in a battle, but I’ve seen and read and heard enough to understand that armed conflicts are unspeakably dreadful things. General Sherman, who fought in the American Civil War, famously declared, “I tell you, war is hell!”

Written from such tragic circumstances, Hospital Sketches is unexpectedly hilarious. It may not be very accessible for modern readers—the book is crammed with old-fashioned words, archaic idioms and references to classical literature—but I find it hysterically funny.

What really impresses me is how Alcott found humor in the bleakest situations. When confronted with an unappetizing meal, she cheerfully compared the bread to sawdust and observed how much the stewed blackberries looked like preserved cockroaches. Listening to her injured patients snore late at night, she declared them a “band of wind instruments” and restrained herself from breaking out in John Brown’s favorite hymn: “Blow ye the trumpet, blow!”

This incredible optimism and humor in the face of difficulty reminds me of something G.K. Chesterton once wrote: “Always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do?”

It also reminds me of a certain pink pony.

Pinkie Pie

I’m pretty sure real ponies don’t come in pink, but whatevs.

Pinkie Pie is a character from a popular cartoon called My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic, of which I am a fan. She breaks the fourth wall, blurts out non sequiturs and generally does things that make me laugh.

Pinkie also finds humor in miserable circumstances. Surrounded by horrific demon trees? She giggles at their twisted expressions and makes faces at them. Trapped in a surreal nightmare by an ancient spirit of discord? She points out the advantages: “Eternal chaos comes with chocolate rain, you guys! Chocolate rain!”

I’m a pessimist. A pessimist is not a fun thing to be. Louisa May Alcott and Pinkie Pie seem to have discovered a brighter outlook: finding glimmers of hope and humor in dark times.

Perhaps I should try to be positive, even when my circumstances are not.

Jesus Broke the Fourth Wall

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Truly I tell you, wherever this gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.

~ Matthew 26:13

One of my favorite storytelling tricks is called breaking the fourth wall. There was once a playwright, you see, who insisted on making his stage productions as realistic as possible. In a play performed on a stage with three walls, the audience must be the fourth wall.

Thus the fourth wall became a phrase describing the imaginary boundary between the audience and the performers, or (more broadly) between reality and fiction. When a performer acknowledges the audience, that fourth wall is broken. This trick is often used for comedic effect or even as a clever, self-aware way for fiction to communicate its meaning.

It occurred to me not long ago that Jesus seems to break the fourth wall, so to speak, in the Gospels of Matthew and Mark. The story is a familiar one. Days before his crucifixion, Jesus is anointed with perfume by a woman. His disciples are indignant: “Why this waste? This perfume could have been sold at a high price and the money given to the poor.”

Jesus gives this touching reply: “Why are you bothering this woman? She has done a beautiful thing to me. The poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have me. When she poured this perfume on my body, she did it to prepare me for burial.”

Then things get awesome as Jesus breaks the fourth wall.

“Truly I tell you, wherever this gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.”

In simply speaking those words, recorded in the Gospels of Matthew and Mark and later preached to countless people over many centuries, Jesus made them come true.

As much as I’d like to assume Jesus specifically meant the Gospel of Matthew or the Gospel of Mark when he said “this gospel,” history tells us otherwise. The word translated gospel in this passage—and later applied to the books of Matthew and Mark—means good news. By “this gospel,” Jesus was speaking broadly of the good news of his life, death and resurrection—not of a specific Gospel in the Bible.

All the same, I chuckle every time I read that passage. Jesus was a man of miracles. He walked on water, healed the sick, raised the dead and did what no one (as far as I know) has ever done outside of fiction.

Jesus broke the fourth wall.

176. Another Conversation with Myself

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This post is the sequel to a previous conversation with myself. I just can’t seem to catch a break, can I? On a brighter note, check out this opportunity to win a free copy of my novel!

Hey, Adam!

For once, can I write a blog post without being interrupted? Is that too much to ask?

Sorry, I didn’t know you were busy. Blog post, eh? It must be for your amazing typewriter monkey blog.

Go away.

Your blog is great, and I love your novel. How many people are published authors? Not many. You’re really something special, dude. And your sideburns are fantastic. Way better than the Tenth Doctor’s.

Blasphemy! Nobody has better sideburns than the Tenth Doctor.

Except for you, Adam. You’re a good-looking guy, you know. And you’ve got a great sense of humor.

Thank you. Now would you kindly shut up and go away?

There’s no need to be so huffy, dude. I was just trying to be nice.

Really? I assumed you were trying to be a pest.

I’ve never tried to be a pest.

Well, I must say you’re doing dashed well for a beginner.

Ha! That was a brilliant comeback. You clever guy, you!

I was plagiarizing P.G. Wodehouse and you know it. Stop being a shameless sycophant.

Dude, I’m just trying to let you know you’re awesome. Totally awesome.

I’m also annoyed. Totally annoyed. Go away!

What’s the problem? You’re so down on yourself, and that other guy is always tearing you apart. He’s like an evil version of you—the Anti-Adam. I just want to build you up. Call me the Pro-Adam.

There’s a difference between building up someone’s confidence and puffing up someone’s ego. The Anti-Adam exaggerates my faults, but you exaggerate my virtues. You’re just as bad.

The Anti-Adam makes fun of you, dude! At least I’m trying to help.

You and the Anti-Adam have different stories, but you’re equally wrong. If you drive a car off the road and crash, it doesn’t matter much whether you’ve gone too far to the right or too far to the left—a wreck is still a wreck.

The Anti-Adam is wrong, but I’m totally legit. Seriously, you’re a great guy.

I don’t want to hear it. “A man who flatters his neighbor spreads a net for his feet.”

Quoting the Bible. That’s classy. I love how you quote people all the time, dude. You’re really smart.

Nah, I’m just really good at faking it.

There you go putting yourself down again! Listen, dude, you can’t deny you’ve got some mad skills. Like playing Mario Kart. Nobody beats you at Mario Kart.

I concede that.

And you’re generous with your money. And you spend forty freaking hours every week serving mentally handicapped men. That’s a tough job. And you’re good at it. You’re really patient—I’ve hardly ever seen you lose your temper. I could go on and on.

Leaving out all the unpleasant bits, of course. You haven’t mentioned that I’m selfish and insecure and sometimes kind of a jerk.

Everyone is, dude. It’s called being human. On the whole, I think you’re a really good person. Don’t pretend you’re not a good writer or a patient guy.

Do you think I should be congratulated for being a decent writer or having a patient temperament? These talents aren’t mine. They’re God’s. At the moment, they’re on loan.

You learned to be a good writer! You learned to be patient! Give yourself some credit!

My gifts and skills and things are like seeds. I didn’t make them grow. All I did was water them. God made them grow—and he was the one who planted them in the first place.

What about your virtues? You’re kind and respectful and honest.

Only because I’ve been conditioned to be. If I came from a background of abuse or neglect or poverty, I’d be a mess. That’s not what happened. I come from a background of kindness and faith and love, so that’s who I am. I’ve spent my life with good people. They’ve rubbed off on me.

You’re not just naturally a good person, dude. You’ve had to work at it.

I’ve built up some good things, sure, but the foundation was already there.

You’re being modest.

I’m being honest. Whatever goodness I have is borrowed. That’s really all there is to it. Now go away and let me work on my blog. It’s too late to write a new post… but that might not be a problem.

I love your blog, but, um, don’t post this conversation.

Why not? Now then, if you really want to be help, go heat up some water. I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup of tea.

170. Batman Syndrome

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I have Batman Syndrome.

I wish this meant I were as cool, skilled or accomplished as Batman. It does not. It most certainly does not. What it means is that Batman and I have something in common: we obsess over our mistakes.

If you or someone you love suffers from Batman Syndrome... I feel your pain.

If you or someone you love suffers from Batman Syndrome… I feel your pain.

I like fictional characters who overlook their victories and overemphasize their failures. There’s something compelling about characters who are heroic without realizing it. Take the Doctor from Doctor Who, who has saved every planet in the universe roughly twenty-seven times. In all his travels through space and time, he never leaves behind his insecurity, self-loathing or guilt. Consider Jean Valjean from Les Misérables, who atones for a few petty crimes by spending years serving the poor and helpless. They bless him as a saint. He despises himself as a criminal.

Then we have Batman, the eponymous sufferer of Batman Syndrome, who is so blinded by guilt that he fails to recognize one all-important fact: he is freaking Batman. No matter how many thousands of people he rescues, he remains obsessed with the two he failed to save.

I’m not a savior like the Doctor or a saint like Jean Valjean. I’m certainly not a superhero like Batman. Even so, I occasionally do things right. I also do things wrong. In my mind, the wrong things eclipse the right ones. A mistake cancels out all successes.

This isn’t always such a bad thing. I feel driven by my mistakes to try harder, to be better, to get it right. In the short term, it helps.

In the long term, however, Batman Syndrome wears away my confidence. It also makes me anxious. Dash it all, does it ever make me anxious. Doing anything is hard for someone desperately afraid of making mistakes. Perfection is a lousy minimum standard.

Batman Syndrome haunts me with one dreadful question.

You’ll never get it right, so why even try?

I write a lot about grace and stuff. In the end, I suppose it’s because I’m amazed (and sometimes incredulous) that God loves me. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. More to the point, I make a lot of mistakes. It’s easy for me to accept God’s forgiveness for a sin committed ten years ago. What’s hard for me to accept is forgiveness for a sin committed ten minutes ago.

It can also be hard for me to acknowledge my victories. I want to be humble, but there’s a difference between true humility and false modesty. I’m often reminded of my weaknesses. I think I must also allow myself to be reminded of the strengths God has given me. I’ve a long way to go, but I mustn’t overlook how far I’ve come.

I’m not Batman, and I think I’m finally beginning to accept that I don’t have to be.