And he told them this parable: “The ground of a certain rich man produced a good crop. He thought to himself, ‘What shall I do? I have no place to store my crops.’
“Then he said, ‘This is what I’ll do. I will tear down my barns and build bigger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I’ll say to myself, “You have plenty of good things laid up for many years. Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry.” ‘
“But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?’
“This is how it will be with anyone who stores up things for himself but is not rich toward God.”16-21
(Luke 12:16-21)
:
This past week was one of many thoughts. Not all good, not all coherent, and not all complete. Yet the single thought that comes back most repeatedly and seems to flash most brightly is this: I’m sure glad we didn’t decide to build any storehouses lately.
Remember this picture from last month? Seems like a lifetime ago. But the image has returned.
There will be more to learn from the layoffs, though not just as an observer this time, but as a participant. This time, the sign’s not only in front of my building, but apparently also in front of my cubicle.
My office has become the latest casualty as the market rumbles down the highway in its insatiable quest for more growth, more productivity, more efficiency. My department is the next to be relocated to a more efficient venue.
::
With this sitting on my lap, I reread Luke 12. The parable of the rich fool. It’s a story of greed, of misplaced priorities.
But it’s more than that. The story of the rich fool’s greed is bookended by sparrows on one side, lilies on the other. Both are an encouragement not to worry. To trust Him to care for us, down to the littlest details.
So the story of the fool’s greedy tightfistedness is also an encouragement to us to be open-handed. To allow God free reign to use the resources He’s blessed us with in His way, not ours.
And not to worry with that because He’s got us covered just like the sparrows. And the lilies.
::
Whether we want to hold our stuff tightly for our own pleasure or our own security, He is determined that we not permit it to consume us in worry.
He is determined that we hold treasure that is not about possessions but is about the wealth of our relationship with Him.
He is determined that if our hands are tightly clenched it is in hanging on to Him, not to our possessions.
For if our treasure is tied up in Him, worry is just not that compelling anymore.
I’m enough of a cynic not to have been completely shocked when the other shoe dropped last week. Not wanting to hear the Voice saying “You fool!” has always kept me from believing paychecks and bank accounts will always be there. Or fully meet our needs.
::
So I look again at the remnants of this shoe on the floor and I am disappointed.
But not devastated.
Unsettled. But not undone.
There is a peace that passes understanding. It defies explanation. Goes beyond comprehension.
And I’m experiencing some of that, inexplicably, right now.
::
And he told them this parable: “The ground of a certain rich man produced a good crop. He thought to himself, ‘What shall I do? I have no place to store my crops.’
“Then he said, ‘This is what I’ll do. I will tear down my barns and build bigger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I’ll say to myself, “You have plenty of good things laid up for many years. Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry.” ‘
“But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?’
“This is how it will be with anyone who stores up things for himself but is not rich toward God.” (Luke 12:16-21)
This past week was one of many thoughts. Not all good, not all coherent, and not all complete. Yet the single thought that comes back most repeatedly and seems to flash most brightly is this: I’m sure glad we didn’t build a storehouse lately.
Remember this picture from last month? Seems like a lifetime ago. But the image has returned.
There will be more to learn from the layoffs, though not just as an observer this time, but as a participant. This time, the sign’s not only in front of my building, but apparently also in front of my cubicle.
My office has become the latest casualty as the market rumbles down the highway in its insatiable quest for more growth, more productivity, more efficiency. My department is the next to be relocated to a more efficient venue.
that you established them to last forever. (Psalm 119:151-152)
::
Last night I walked the track at the gym (I’m trying to reconstruct this habit). The walking track is actually suspended about 15 to 20 feet over a basketball court. It’s structurally sound, well constructed and has a very solid and secure guardrail all the way around that extends at least past waist height.
It’s not dangerous.
::
Yet, last night as we walked, each time we rounded the far corner, my stomach dropped out in terror. Kind of like that feeling when the roller coaster drops. It was bad enough that, even though I’m not all that verbally emotive, I often let out an involuntary gasp or groan as we walked around the corner. You see, tucked up against the guard rail a mother sat with her two young boys, contentedly watching their big brother’s basketball game on the court below.
They weren’t rambunctious. They weren’t misbehaving. They didn’t run out onto the track. They sat, quietly. They peered through the very safe, very secure rails. Their mom even kept a hand on their sweatshirts most of the time to make sure they didn’t take off anywhere.
They were safe.
I was sick to my stomach.
::
I’m not afraid of heights.
I’m not.
At least not as far as I’m concerned. I can climb stuff. I even fell off a ladder picking apples a couple of years ago. And I still don’t mind being up off the ground.
But for other people? Heights terrify me. It’s the stupidest thing I have ever seen.
My brain told me that these little boys were safe. They couldn’t fit their heads through the rail, let alone somehow slip their entire bodies through unnoticed by their very attentive mother. But my belly told me different.
My belly told me those boys were going to fall. Over the rail, under the rail, through the rail. They’d find a way to fall to the ground.
::
“Do you see how easily a little kid could slip through the rail?” I asked my friend. “All she’d have to do is look away for two seconds, and WHOOSH! There he goes!”
She chuckled. And shook her head. She’s been there with me before.
“No way he could fall, right?” I conceded.
“Nope,” she said.
And we walked on. Until we came back to that corner.
My stomach dropped.
I searched for a bucket.
And then I regained my composure, only to reach the corner and go through it all over again.
::
It’s an irrational fear, through and through. I can’t find a definition in a medical dictionary for my particular idiosyncrasy. But there is a definition for its counterpart, the more “normal” kind of fear of heights:
Fear of heights: An abnormal and persistent fear of heights. Sufferers experience severe anxiety even though they realize as a rule that heights pose no real threat to them. (MedicineNet.com)
Even though they realize as a rule that heights pose no threat to them. In my case, to others.
::
You know, I was normal once. Well, more normal. Until Josiah was about four years old. One fateful day at Camp Snoopy, he rode with Isaac in the big, huge, monstrous ferris wheel. The one that went way high. The one that had no seat belts or restraints of any kind to prevent a fearless sort of kid from standing up, walking around and occasionally leaning over the side.
I looked up at my one son sitting quietly in his seat. But I saw the other taking in all the sights from halfway out of the car. Seven stories in the air, he was leaning over the side wall, which was really no higher than his little waist. As I stared up aghast, I no longer saw them in the car. I only saw a little boy on the ground.
I had to find a place to throw up.
::
In the end, they both came safely down to earth, delighted to tell of their exhilarating ride in the sky.
Meanwhile, their mother was indelibly changed. I can no longer bear the sight of anyone in any position even slightly above the ground, even though I know there is no real danger. It’s an abnormal reaction to a circumstance my head knows to be harmless. But my heart, or perhaps my stomach, does not.
The disconnect.
::
Not unlike the disconnect between what I know God’s Word says and what I act like I believe in the midst of pain or doubt or disruption.
It seems at times that I have an abnormal and persistent fear that the truth of His Word should turn out to be untrue after all. (Yes, I’m afraid many of my roads still lead back here.) I know there is no basis for that fear. I know it to be an abnormal fear, for His Word is true.
His Word is solid.
His Word endures.
His Word is enough to overcome an abnormal and persistent fear.
::
Yet you are near, O LORD,
and all your commands are true.
Long ago I learned from your statutes
that you established them to last forever. (Psalm 119:151-152)
Last night I walked the track at the gym (I’m trying to reconstruct this habit). The walking track is actually suspended about 15 to 20 feet over a basketball court. It’s structurally sound, well constructed and has a very solid and secure guardrail all the way around that extends at least past waist height.
It’s not dangerous.
::
Yet, last night as we walked, each time we rounded the far corner, my stomach dropped out in terror. Kind of like that feeling when the roller coaster drops. It was bad enough that, even though I’m not all that verbally emotive, I often let out an involuntary gasp or groan as we walked around the corner. You see, tucked up against the guard rail a mother sat with her two young boys, contentedly watching their big brother’s basketball game on the court below.
They weren’t rambunctious. They weren’t misbehaving. They didn’t run out onto the track. They sat, quietly. They peered through the very safe, very secure rails. Their mom even kept a hand on their sweatshirts most of the time to make sure they didn’t take off anywhere.
They were safe.
I was sick to my stomach.
::
I’m not afraid of heights.
I’m not.
At least not as far as I’m concerned. I can climb stuff. I even fell off a ladder picking apples a couple of years ago. And I still don’t mind being up off the ground.
But for other people? Heights terrify me. It’s the stupidest thing I have ever seen.
My brain told me that these little boys were safe. They couldn’t fit their heads through the rail, let alone somehow slip their entire bodies through unnoticed by their very attentive mother. But my belly told me different.
My belly told me those boys were going to fall. Over the rail, under the rail, through the rail. They’d find a way to fall to the ground.
::
“Do you see how easily a little kid could slip through the rail?” I asked my friend. “All she’d have to do is look away for two seconds, and WHOOSH! There he goes!”
She chuckled. And shook her head. She’s been there with me before.
“No way he could fall, right?” I conceded.
“Nope,” she said.
And we walked on. Until we came back to that corner.
My stomach dropped.
I searched for a bucket.
And then I regained my composure, only to reach the corner and go through it all over again.
::
It’s an irrational fear, through and through. I can’t find a definition in a medical dictionary for my particular idiosyncrasy. But there is a definition for its counterpart, the more “normal” kind of fear of heights:
Fear of heights: An abnormal and persistent fear of heights. Sufferers experience severe anxiety even though they realize as a rule that heights pose no real threat to them. (MedicineNet.com)
Even though they realize as a rule that heights pose no threat to them. In my case, to others.
::
You know, I was normal once. Well, more normal. Until Josiah was about four years old. One fateful day at Camp Snoopy, he rode with Isaac in the big, huge, monstrous ferris wheel. The one that went way high. The one that had no seat belts or restraints of any kind to prevent a fearless sort of kid from standing up, walking around and occasionally leaning over the side.
I looked up at my one son sitting quietly in his seat. But I saw the other taking in all the sights from halfway out of the car. Seven stories in the air, he was leaning over the side wall, which was really no higher than his little waist. As I stared up aghast, I no longer saw them in the car. I only saw a little boy on the ground.
I had to find a place to throw up.
::
In the end, they both came safely down to earth, delighted to tell of their exhilarating ride in the sky.
Meanwhile, I’m wrecked. I can no longer bear the sight of anyone in any position even slightly above the ground, even though I know there is no real danger. It’s an abnormal reaction to a circumstance my head knows to be harmless. But my heart, or perhaps my stomach, does not.
The disconnect.
::
Not unlike the disconnect between what I know God’s Word says and what I act like I believe in the midst of pain or doubt or disruption.
It seems at times that I have an abnormal and persistent fear that the truth of His Word should turn out to be untrue after all. (Yes, I’m afraid many of my roads still lead back here.) I know there is no basis for that fear. I know it to be an abnormal fear, for His Word is true.
His Word is solid.
His Word endures.
His Word is enough to overcome an abnormal and persistent fear.
The king, moreover, must not acquire great numbers of horses for himself or make the people return to Egypt to get more of them, for the LORD has told you, “You are not to go back that way again.” He must not take many wives, or his heart will be led astray. He must not accumulate large amounts of silver and gold. (Deuteronomy 17:16-17)
::
In the History of the World Part I, one of Mel Brooks’ various roles is King Louis XVI. In one scene, after all kinds of questionable activities, he repeatedly turns to face the camera and says, “It’s good to be the king.” I won’t post the video clip here because, well, the liberties to which Mel Brooks and King Louis XVI find themselves entitled just don’t fit here very well.
Now, on a day like today, when we mark the departure of one president and one era in U.S. politics and governing and welcome in a new president and what is at least billed as a new era, with a lead-in like that and the verses I’ve dropped in, you’d be expecting me to talk about the inauguration of Barack Obama.
I’m not going to.
::
A lot of others have already dealt with the subject, and dealt with it well. In fact, here are a few places you can do a little reading if you’d like. You may not agree with all of the thoughts, but they all should at least challenge our thinking, which is always a good thing.
Inauguration Day Attitude Check (Red Letter Believers)
Text of Inaugural Prayer and Benediction (Caffeinated Thoughts)
Inauguration Thoughts (Rogue Angel)
There, now I have fulfilled that aching in me to address the inauguration of President Obama without actually having to write a political post. (No small feat for a political scientist by education.)
::
As I read this passage a while ago, I thought to myself it would make a great introduction to a post about the inauguration. Here is God, instructing the Hebrew people in advance on the role and responsibility that their someday king would have. Then I had this brilliant, and humbling, thought that I was in no place to be putting together instruction for the President of the United States. Not only does he have his own advisors (nor has he asked for my resume), but how much good does it do anyone for me to sit here and ponder the appropriate behavior for the president?
Don’t I have enough of my own behavior to grapple with?
So the thought that swept in behind my brief visions of self importance, influencing the POTUS, was that God’s instruction to Israel’s king could just as well be instruction to me. Goes that way a lot.
::
In this short directive, God recognizes that “it’s good to be the king.” What He says suggests that He’s aware that royalty has its privileges. Even though he could, the king is not to collect a huge number of horses, and even though he could, he’s certainly not to send the people back to Egypt for more. Even though he could, he’s not to take numerous wives. And, you guessed it, even though he could, he’s not to just accumulate masses of silver and gold for himself.
He’s the king. Certainly all these things would be at his disposal. A king could have as many horses as he wanted. And he could take them from whomever he wanted. He could even ship people back to Egypt to get him some more. He could have wives. All kinds of wives. The neighbor’s wife if he wanted, I suppose. He’s the king. And silver and gold? As much as he wanted.
It’s good to be the king.
::
God recognizes it’s good to be the king. But He is much more interested in the king being good. As the king, the king is entitled to much. His entire kingdom. Just by virtue of being the king. But God wants him to be a good king, not just enjoy the good parts of being the king. And so he has to submit his entitlements to the good of his people.
He’s not to do these things that amount to nothing more than enjoying the privileges of being the king “for himself.” He is expected to use his power and privilege and position for the good and protection of the people.
I don’t have the privileges of being a monarch. But I suppose there are a lot of things I find myself entitled to. A lot of things I think I should have. Ways I should be treated. When I focus on what I’m entitled to, I miss seeing the needs of others. I become closed fisted instead of open handed. I become willing to achieve my goals at someone else’s expense.
It seems that God tells us here not to do that. Jesus came to us entitled to all of heaven and earth. And He submitted the entirety of his entitlement to our good. He gave up every last scrap of what He was entitled to for the sake of redeeming us.
Whether the king, or the POTUS or ordinary me, entitlement gets in the way of doing what’s good for others.
::
The king, moreover, must not acquire great numbers of horses for himself or make the people return to Egypt to get more of them, for the LORD has told you, “You are not to go back that way again.” He must not take many wives, or his heart will be led astray. He must not accumulate large amounts of silver and gold. (Deuteronomy 17:16-17)
In the History of the World Part I, one of Mel Brooks’ various roles is King Louis XVI. In one scene, after all kinds of questionable activities, he repeatedly turns to face the camera and says, “It’s good to be the king.” I won’t post the video clip here because, well, the liberties to which Mel Brooks and King Louis XVI find themselves entitled just don’t fit here very well.
Now, on a day like today, when we mark the departure of one president and one era in U.S. politics and governing and welcome in a new president and what is at least billed as a new era, with a lead-in like that and the verses I’ve dropped in, you’d be expecting me to talk about the inauguration of Barack Obama.
I’m not going to.
::
A lot of others have already dealt with the subject, and dealt with it well. In fact, here are a few places you can do a little reading if you’d like. You may not agree with all of the thoughts, but they all should at least challenge our thinking, which is always a good thing.
There, now I have fulfilled that aching in me to address the inauguration of President Obama without actually having to write a political post. (No small feat for a political scientist by education.)
::
As I read this passage a while ago, I thought to myself it would make a great introduction to a post about the inauguration. Here is God, instructing the Hebrew people in advance on the role and responsibility that their someday king would have. Then I had this brilliant, and humbling, thought that I was in no place to be putting together instruction for the President of the United States. Not only does he have his own advisors (nor has he asked for my resume), but how much good does it do anyone for me to sit here and ponder the appropriate behavior for the president?
Don’t I have enough of my own behavior to grapple with?
So the thought that swept in behind my brief visions of self importance, influencing the POTUS, was that God’s instruction to Israel’s king could just as well be instruction to me. Goes that way a lot.
::
In this short directive, God recognizes that “it’s good to be the king.” What He says suggests that He’s aware that royalty has its privileges. Even though he could, the king is not to collect a huge number of horses, and even though he could, he’s certainly not to send the people back to Egypt for more. Even though he could, he’s not to take numerous wives. And, you guessed it, even though he could, he’s not to just accumulate masses of silver and gold for himself.
He’s the king. Certainly all these things would be at his disposal. A king could have as many horses as he wanted. And he could take them from whomever he wanted. He could even ship people back to Egypt to get him some more. He could have wives. All kinds of wives. The neighbor’s wife if he wanted, I suppose. He’s the king. And silver and gold? As much as he wanted.
It’s good to be the king.
::
God recognizes it’s good to be the king. But He is much more interested in the king being good. As the king, the king is entitled to much. His entire kingdom. Just by virtue of being the king. But God wants him to be a good king, not just enjoy the good parts of being the king. And so he has to submit his entitlements to the good of his people.
He’s not to do these things that amount to nothing more than enjoying the privileges of being the king “for himself.” He is expected to use his power and privilege and position for the good and protection of the people.
I don’t have the privileges of being a monarch. But I suppose there are a lot of things I find myself entitled to. A lot of things I think I should have. Ways I should be treated. When I focus on what I’m entitled to, I miss seeing the needs of others. I become closed fisted instead of open handed. I become willing to achieve my goals at someone else’s expense.
It seems that God tells us here not to do that. Jesus came to us entitled to all of heaven and earth. And He submitted the entirety of his entitlement to our good. He gave up every last scrap of what He was entitled to for the sake of redeeming us.
Whether the king, or the POTUS or ordinary me, entitlement gets in the way of doing what’s good for others.
Someone in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.”
Jesus replied, “Man, who appointed me a judge or an arbiter between you?” Then he said to them, “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; a man’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.” (Luke 12:13-21)
::
We’re experiencing winter’s full frontal attack on the Midwest. And it’s not just winter weather by itself. It’s the impact winter weather has on driving. And how winter-impaired drivers tend to have more accidents. And more accidents means more claims for damaged automobiles.
As a claim handler, I have a window into a side of folks that honestly, maybe most people would prefer no one saw. I’m pretty sure that a lot of people I talk to during the day would never talk to anyone else in their lives like they talk to me. It’s as though they slip into this purple claim funk where they don’t believe they are talking to real people and so they can say and do anything they like and it just won’t matter. (Let me add this disclaimer here before we go any further. This isn’t everyone. I do have the opportunity to deal with some of the nicest, most decent people around, who are able to maintain that decency throughout what is always at best a difficult circumstance.)
::
I had one such experience this week with an individual who was at odds with me over the value of her claim. We were about $1500 apart, which apparently is the going price for nastiness these days.
I find this a good question to ask myself, what this price happens to be. Where is the line that stands between when something isn’t worth bothering over and when I sense an entitlement worth defending even if I must become unkind and obnoxious and hurtful to another? Is that price $10? $1000? Perhaps that’s too petty. I’d let those go.
But what about over $10,000? Would I find $10,000 to be sufficient compensation to give up plain old decency for a few minutes? What’s the amount that justifies really bad behavior?
I digress. By the time we were done, this young woman had run out of bosses to complain to about me. And she’d run out of people to be nasty to. She was stuck back with me, after finding that none of us really flinched much at nastiness. We’re too familiar with it.
Nevertheless, she reminded me of a basic truth that I see illustrated in claims nearly every day. For some reason, people behave in the most unusual ways when their stuff gets wrecked. I find people, especially lately, demonstrating this little rule I like to call, “It’s the Little Things That’ll Kill You.”
One of the crazy things I see is how differently people respond to significant injuries as opposed to minor damage to their cars. Kind of like how a scratched bumper seems to lead to much more drama than a disfiguring facial laceration. A dented fender seems to produce more agony than a crushing fracture to a person’s limb.
Somehow, I think, the person who has sustained a significant injury has perhaps had an opportunity to think about close calls and near misses and what really matters. The person who has sustained a little damage to his property is experiencing some inconvenience that seems to suddenly get the best of him. Rather than recognizing what’s really important, he loses his head over banged up stuff. I have no statistics to prove it out, but it seems to me that the degree of difficulty in dealing with a person who has sustained a loss is inversely proportional to the severity of the damages. That is, the more minor the claim, the more anger, frustration and hostility it seems to generate.
::
Jesus helped us understand in Luke 12 how this can happen. It’s when we forget that our lives do not consist in the abundance of our possessions. When we become focused on what we have, what we don’t have, what we want, what someone else has, we miss out on what really matters. We lose track of where our treasure is, or should be. We permit ourselves to place a higher value on stuff than we do on relationships, and goodness, and kindness and decency.
Later in this same chapter, Jesus said to the people that “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Our heart will follow our treasure. And out of our heart pours our words and actions.
::
If my treasure is in Christ, my actions and words will be consistent with that. I’ll behave in a way that reflects Him. I’ll be seeing fruit like love, joy, and peace produced in my life.
But if my treasure is in my stuff, and making sure I have everything I want taken care of, then I’ll see that the going price for nastiness hits bargain basement prices.
::
Someone in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.”
Jesus replied, “Man, who appointed me a judge or an arbiter between you?” Then he said to them, “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; a man’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.” (Luke 12:13-21)
We’re experiencing winter’s full frontal attack on the Midwest. And it’s not just winter weather by itself. It’s the impact winter weather has on driving. And how winter-impaired drivers tend to have more accidents. And more accidents means more claims for damaged automobiles.
As a claim handler, I have a window into a side of folks that honestly, maybe most people would prefer no one saw. I’m pretty sure that a lot of people I talk to during the day would never talk to anyone else in their lives like they talk to me. It’s as though they slip into this purple claim funk where they don’t believe they are talking to real people and so they can say and do anything they like and it just won’t matter. (Let me add this disclaimer here before we go any further. This isn’t everyone. I do have the opportunity to deal with some of the nicest, most decent people around, who are able to maintain that decency throughout what is always at best a difficult circumstance.)
::
I had one such experience this week with an individual who was at odds with me over the value of her claim. We were about $1500 apart, which apparently is the going price for nastiness these days.
I find this a good question to ask myself, what this price happens to be. Where is the line that stands between when something isn’t worth bothering over and when I sense an entitlement worth defending even if I must become unkind and obnoxious and hurtful to another? Is that price $10? $1000? Perhaps that’s too petty. I’d let those go.
But what about over $10,000? Would I find $10,000 to be sufficient compensation to give up plain old decency for a few minutes? What’s the amount that justifies really bad behavior?
I digress. By the time we were done, this young woman had run out of bosses to complain to about me. And she’d run out of people to be nasty to. She was stuck back with me, after finding that none of us really flinched much at nastiness. We’re too familiar with it.
Nevertheless, she reminded me of a basic truth that I see illustrated in claims nearly every day. For some reason, people behave in the most unusual ways when their stuff gets wrecked. I find people, especially lately, demonstrating this little rule I like to call, “It’s the Little Things That’ll Kill You.”
One of the crazy things I see is how differently people respond to significant injuries as opposed to minor damage to their cars. Kind of like how a scratched bumper seems to lead to much more drama than a disfiguring facial laceration. A dented fender seems to produce more agony than a crushing fracture to a person’s limb.
Somehow, I think, the person who has sustained a significant injury has perhaps had an opportunity to think about close calls and near misses and what really matters. The person who has sustained a little damage to his property is experiencing some inconvenience that seems to suddenly get the best of him. Rather than recognizing what’s really important, he loses his head over banged up stuff. I have no statistics to prove it out, but it seems to me that the degree of difficulty in dealing with a person who has sustained a loss is inversely proportional to the severity of the damages. That is, the more minor the claim, the more anger, frustration and hostility it seems to generate.
::
Jesus helped us understand in Luke 12 how this can happen. It’s when we forget that our lives do not consist in the abundance of our possessions. When we become focused on what we have, what we don’t have, what we want, what someone else has, we miss out on what really matters. We lose track of where our treasure is, or should be. We permit ourselves to place a higher value on stuff than we do on relationships, and goodness, and kindness and decency.
Later in this same chapter, Jesus said to the people that “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Our heart will follow our treasure. And out of our heart pours our words and actions.
::
If my treasure is in Christ, my actions and words will be consistent with that. I’ll behave in a way that reflects Him. I’ll be seeing fruit like love, joy, and peace produced in my life.
But if my treasure is in my stuff, and making sure I have everything I want taken care of, then I’ll see that the going price for nastiness hits bargain basement prices.
I lack words to describe this, except to say that you should check it out. Probably good, so I don’t detract from the message. The stories (from Korn’s Brian Welch to baseball’s Josh Hamilton and a lot of ordinary folks in between) give me reason to believe — in my core — what God says is true.
And that’s good for me these days.
Bring a cup of coffee, plan to stay for a while, and just listen to God change lives.
That’s what He does when we are second. He is first.
I Am Second.
And that’s good for me these days.
Bring a cup of coffee, plan to stay for a while, and just listen to God change lives.
Can a man scoop fire into his lap without his clothes being burned?
Can a man walk on hot coals without his feet being scorched?
(Proverbs 6:27-28)
::
Sometimes, it seems like we overthink following God. We make it so doggone complicated. Truth is, God went to great pains to keep the Gospel so simple.
God loves us.
We sin.
Our sin separates us.
God sent Jesus.
Jesus had no sin.
Jesus paid our debt.
We accept His payment.
We are forgiven.
We spend forever with God.
::
For some reason, we like to complicate that. Make it harder. Make it more about what we can do than what God’s already done.
And it seems we do the same with following Him.
Instead of just accepting His direction, as we accept His forgiveness, we try to overthink it. Find ways around it. Figure out how we can do all the stupid stuff He doesn’t want us to do and somehow not get burned.
Or bitten.
::
This little video of two goofy little boys is huge on YouTube right now. It’s kind of taken on a cult following. It’s been remade and remixed and even redone in Legos. Every once in a while I hear one of my kids snort-laughing at the computer and then realize they’re watching it. And now and again, someone can be heard in the house shouting, “Charlie! That really ‘urt!”
Charlie’s brother let himself get bitten.
Again.
How can he not know that if he sticks his finger in the mouth of a teething toddler, Charlie will bite him?
How can he not know that if Charlie bites him, it will “really ‘urt”?
How can we not know that if we do stupid stuff God tells us not to (read: sin), we’ll get burned?
How is it that we fool ourselves into thinking that God doesn’t have our best interests at heart? That He made up a bunch of irritating rules just because He was God and so He could?
::
In Proverbs 6, the writer warns his son about doing stupid things. About sinning. About not following God. In specific, he warns him in this chapter about sexual sin. But the lesson is the same for any kind of sin, any kind of walking away from God’s best.
He warns him because he knows that if his son follows his desires and goes after these things, he’ll get burned.
The Message translation asks, “How can you build a fire on your lap and not burn your pants?”
The YouTube translation would ask, “How can you stick your finger in a toddler’s mouth and not be bitten?
::
Later in the chapter, the writer tells his son why it’s so important to refrain from sin, and to follow God’s way instead. He says, according to the Message, that the sin of which he speaks is a “brainless act, soul-destroying, self-destructive; expect a bloody nose, a black eye, and a reputation ruined for good.”
It’s not just dangerous to walk on hot coals. It’s really stupid.
It’s not just reckless to stick your finger in a little kid’s mouth. It’s really dumb.
Our sin is brainless.
We don’t have to be brainy to follow God, but it sure does reflect a good deal of wisdom.
::
Can a man scoop fire into his lap without his clothes being burned?
Can a man walk on hot coals without his feet being scorched?
(Proverbs 6:27-28)
::
Sometimes, it seems like we overthink following God. We make it so doggone complicated. Truth is, God went to great pains to keep the Gospel so simple.
God loves us.
We sin.
Our sin separates us.
God sent Jesus.
Jesus had no sin.
Jesus paid our debt.
We accept His payment.
We are forgiven.
We spend forever with God.
::
For some reason, we like to complicate that. Make it harder. Make it more about what we can do than what God’s already done.
And it seems we do the same with following Him.
Instead of just accepting His direction, as we accept His forgiveness, we try to overthink it. Find ways around it. Figure out how we can do all the stupid stuff He doesn’t want us to do and somehow not get burned.
Or bitten.
::
This little video of two goofy little boys is huge on YouTube right now. It’s kind of taken on a cult following. It’s been remade and remixed and even redone in Legos. Every once in a while I hear one of my kids snort-laughing at the computer and then realize they’re watching it. And now and again, someone can be heard in the house shouting, “Charlie! That really ‘urt!”
Charlie’s brother let himself get bitten.
Again.
How can he not know that if he sticks his finger in the mouth of a teething toddler, Charlie will bite him?
How can he not know that if Charlie bites him, it will “really ‘urt”?
How can we not know that if we do stupid stuff God tells us not to (read: sin), we’ll get burned?
How is it that we fool ourselves into thinking that God doesn’t have our best interests at heart? That He made up a bunch of irritating rules just because He was God and so He could?
::
In Proverbs 6, the writer warns his son about doing stupid things. About sinning. About not following God. In specific, he warns him in this chapter about sexual sin. But the lesson is the same for any kind of sin, any kind of walking away from God’s best.
He warns him because he knows that if his son follows his desires and goes after these things, he’ll get burned.
The Message translation asks, “How can you build a fire on your lap and not burn your pants?”
The YouTube translation would ask, “How can you stick your finger in a toddler’s mouth and not be bitten?
::
Later in the chapter, the writer tells his son why it’s so important to refrain from sin, and to follow God’s way instead. He says, according to the Message, that the sin of which he speaks is a “brainless act, soul-destroying, self-destructive; expect a bloody nose, a black eye, and a reputation ruined for good.”
It’s not just dangerous to walk on hot coals. It’s really stupid.
It’s not just reckless to stick your finger in a little kid’s mouth. It’s really dumb.
Our sin is brainless.
We don’t have to be brainy to follow God, but it sure does reflect a good deal of wisdom.
::
Can a man walk on hot coals without his feet being scorched? (Proverbs 6:27-28)
Sometimes, it seems like we overthink following God. We make it so doggone complicated. Truth is, God went to great pains to keep the Gospel so simple.
God loves us.
We sin.
Our sin separates us.
God sent Jesus.
Jesus had no sin.
Jesus paid our debt.
We accept His payment.
We are forgiven.
We spend forever with God.
::
For some reason, we like to complicate that. Make it harder. Make it more about what we can do than what God’s already done.
And it seems we do the same with following Him.
Instead of just accepting His direction, as we accept His forgiveness, we try to overthink it. Find ways around it. Figure out how we can do all the stupid stuff He doesn’t want us to do and somehow not get burned.
Or bitten.
::
This little video of two goofy little boys is huge on YouTube right now. It’s kind of taken on a cult following. It’s been remade and remixed and even redone in Legos. Every once in a while I hear one of my kids snort-laughing at the computer and then realize they’re watching it. And now and again, someone can be heard in the house shouting, “Charlie! That really ‘urt!”
Charlie’s brother let himself get bitten.
Again.
How can he not know that if he sticks his finger in the mouth of a teething toddler, Charlie will bite him?
How can he not know that if Charlie bites him, it will “really ‘urt”?
How can we not know that if we do stupid stuff God tells us not to (read: sin), we’ll get burned?
How is it that we fool ourselves into thinking that God doesn’t have our best interests at heart? That He made up a bunch of irritating rules just because He was God and so He could?
::
In Proverbs 6, the writer warns his son about doing stupid things. About sinning. About not following God. In specific, he warns him in this chapter about sexual sin. But the lesson is the same for any kind of sin, any kind of walking away from God’s best.
He warns him because he knows that if his son follows his desires and goes after these things, he’ll get burned.
The Message translation asks, “How can you build a fire on your lap and not burn your pants?”
The YouTube translation would ask, “How can you stick your finger in a toddler’s mouth and not be bitten?
::
Later in the chapter, the writer tells his son why it’s so important to refrain from sin, and to follow God’s way instead. He says, according to the Message, that the sin of which he speaks is a “brainless act, soul-destroying, self-destructive; expect a bloody nose, a black eye, and a reputation ruined for good.”
It’s not just dangerous to walk on hot coals. It’s really stupid.
It’s not just reckless to stick your finger in a little kid’s mouth. It’s really dumb.
Our sin is brainless.
We don’t have to be brainy to follow God, but it sure does reflect a good deal of wisdom.
Everyone who calls upon the name of the Lord will be saved. How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can they preach unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news! (Romans 10:13-15)
::
The other day, Isaac asked me to review the list of ideas in my “story ideas” notepad. I ran the list by him, and most of it probably didn’t make a lot of sense, because the notes are cryptic and are just reminders to me without reflecting a complete thought behind them. After naming off some things about Mr. Magoo (wait for it, Dad, it’s coming), roundabouts on the highway, Josiah’s recent band concert, and food that tastes like manure (no, not prepared on my stove), I mentioned a young Chilean friend of mine, David.
I didn’t expect that one to be of any interest. But Isaac turned to me and said, “Oh, the little boy in your Bible?”
He was exactly right. I still carry this picture of my friend David in my Bible. He’s been there since 1984, when I met him in Argentina.
David was seven years old.
Though I haven’t seen or spoken to David since 1984, I keep his picture because he represented a turning point in my life.
David was seven. I was twenty.
His parents were in Argentina being trained to be missionaries on staff with Campus Crusade for Christ once they returned to their own country. I was in Argentina on a summer missions project with Campus Crusade for Christ.
David was a fearless ambassador for Christ who would preach the Gospel to anyone who would listen. I was intimidated by the intellectual and often communist-leaning university students, and preferred to feign ignorance of the Spanish language and look on and nod supportively while my Argentine companions shared the Gospel at the campus instead.
David knew exactly what he wanted to do when he grew up. I didn’t have a clue.
::
At seven years old, David believed with all his heart that God had called him to be a pastor one day, and he couldn’t wait to be big enough to do it.
At twenty, I was still scrambling around, trying to figure out what I wanted to do.
Actually, I had some ideas about what I wanted to do. And I had some ideas about what He wanted me to do. I was still trying to convince God that I wanted to do was the same as what He wanted me to do.
Because He and I hadn’t come to terms, it mostly just felt like I didn’t have a clue.
::
This little pipsqueak who had to stand on a chair to look me in the eye preached to me every chance he got. He taught me whenever he could about seeking God’s will for my life. About doing the things that God calls us to do.
The most important thing wasn’t the specific thing that we would do, but that we sought out His desire and did it. The most important thing to David was that people were lost, and they needed a Savior, and they needed someone to point them to the Savior.
That was the only box David could see putting ourselves in. That whatever we did had to be about bringing the lost ones to Jesus.
::
I returned home from Argentina with some specific ideas about what I’d do with the rest of my life. As it turns out, they still weren’t the same specific ideas God had. But at the core of both God’s plans and my ideas was this thing that David was so passionate about at a tender seven years of age:
“And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them?”
::
I often wonder what David’s doing now. I imagine he looks a lot like he did, only big enough to not have to stand on a chair any more. And maybe a five o’clock shadow has set in. Maybe he has a wife, and children. Maybe a young son who looks just like the picture.
I Googled him the other day, looking for a pastor in Latin America that shares his name.
I found traces of one. Not enough to be sure, but I like to think it’s him.
The little boy in my Bible has been sent out to preach.
::
Everyone who calls upon the name of the Lord will be saved. How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can they preach unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news! (Romans 10:13-15)
The other day, Isaac asked me to review the list of ideas in my “story ideas” notepad. I ran the list by him, and most of it probably didn’t make a lot of sense, because the notes are cryptic and are just reminders to me without reflecting a complete thought behind them. After naming off some things about Mr. Magoo (wait for it, Dad, it’s coming), roundabouts on the highway, Josiah’s recent band concert, and food that tastes like manure (no, not prepared on my stove), I mentioned a young Chilean friend of mine, David.
I didn’t expect that one to be of any interest. But Isaac turned to me and said, “Oh, the little boy in your Bible?”
He was exactly right. I still carry this picture of my friend David in my Bible. He’s been there since 1984, when I met him in Argentina.
David was seven years old.
Though I haven’t seen or spoken to David since 1984, I keep his picture because he represented a turning point in my life.
David was seven. I was twenty.
His parents were in Argentina being trained to be missionaries on staff with Campus Crusade for Christ once they returned to their own country. I was in Argentina on a summer missions project with Campus Crusade for Christ.
David was a fearless ambassador for Christ who would preach the Gospel to anyone who would listen. I was intimidated by the intellectual and often communist-leaning university students, and preferred to feign ignorance of the Spanish language and look on and nod supportively while my Argentine companions shared the Gospel at the campus instead.
David knew exactly what he wanted to do when he grew up. I didn’t have a clue.
::
At seven years old, David believed with all his heart that God had called him to be a pastor one day, and he couldn’t wait to be big enough to do it.
At twenty, I was still scrambling around, trying to figure out what I wanted to do.
Actually, I had some ideas about what I wanted to do. And I had some ideas about what He wanted me to do. I was still trying to convince God that I wanted to do was the same as what He wanted me to do.
Because He and I hadn’t come to terms, it mostly just felt like I didn’t have a clue.
::
This little pipsqueak who had to stand on a chair to look me in the eye preached to me every chance he got. He taught me whenever he could about seeking God’s will for my life. About doing the things that God calls us to do.
The most important thing wasn’t the specific thing that we would do, but that we sought out His desire and did it. The most important thing to David was that people were lost, and they needed a Savior, and they needed someone to point them to the Savior.
That was the only box David could see putting ourselves in. That whatever we did had to be about bringing the lost ones to Jesus.
::
I returned home from Argentina with some specific ideas about what I’d do with the rest of my life. As it turns out, they still weren’t the same specific ideas God had. But at the core of both God’s plans and my ideas was this thing that David was so passionate about at a tender seven years of age:
“And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them?”
::
I often wonder what David’s doing now. I imagine he looks a lot like he did, only big enough to not have to stand on a chair any more. And maybe a five o’clock shadow has set in. Maybe he has a wife, and children. Maybe a young son who looks just like the picture.
I Googled him the other day, looking for a pastor in Latin America that shares his name.
I found traces of one. Not enough to be sure, but I like to think it’s him.
The little boy in my Bible has been sent out to preach.
And they will live securely, for then his greatness
will reach to the ends of the earth.
And he will be their peace. (Micah 5:4-5)
I had to buy a new fire extinguisher yesterday.
To replace the old one.
That’s what happens when you use one. You have to replace it.
::
Neither housekeeping nor cooking are really my strong suits. People think I’m joking when I say that I’ve set the smoke alarm off making Jell-O. But as funny as that might be, it’s not really a joke. I’ve done it.
You see, while I’m proactive in a lot of areas of life, I have this not very smart and definitely not proactive approach to dealing with an old stove we probably should have replaced a while ago. We got a great deal when we moved to our first house about 16 years ago. The former owner sold us her old (not just used, old) appliances for a thousand bucks. To first time home buyers, it was a great deal. A washer, dryer, stove and refrigerator for a thousand dollars was too good to pass up. Then we could gradually replace them as they failed instead of buying all new appliances at one time. One by one, the others have dropped.
But the stove lives on.
Only two burners work. The clock has never worked. And the oven is way hotter in the back than it is in the front so food has to be moved around during cooking so that I burn it evenly on all sides.
It’s anybody’s guess when it’s going to give up all together. Since I figure she’s going to crash any day, I don’t do much about taking care of it. Or cleaning it. So often after using the oven, we have to open the windows to let out the smoke because of all the stuff that’s still burning off the bottom from the last time I cooked, oh, two or three weeks ago.
And the burners end up kind of the same way. Sometimes there’s a little stuff to burn off ‘em. I figure if the thing’s going to fall apart anyway, why spend so much time cleaning it up? I have stuff to do that is so very much more fun. And I won’t just replace it since it’s dying its slow death anyway. Spending money on appliances is just not so very much fun at all.
::
I had to start rethinking my not very proactive and probably downright irresponsible approach to my stove’s certain demise on Friday. Isaac was whipping himself up a little bit of Ramen. He’s used to a little smoke but even so had to wonder about the unusually high level of smoke that was burning off.
I’d made a pot of beef stew and dumplings the night before, and I guess the pot was too small, because it kept boiling over. And over. And over. I’d cleaned it up, I thought reasonably well under the circumstances, and assumed that the next cooking venture would finish it up for me.
It finished it all right.
We’d already opened a couple of windows to clear the smoke, and then we stood there and watched, kind of fascinated by the occasional spark that let off from the burner. The smoke died down, and we figured he was good to go.
::
And then it happened.
While Isaac had his hand over the pan to stir his meal, BOOM! The whole thing ignited in a big huge burst of flame. Isaac was agile enough to yank his hand away unharmed. And then, to hear him tell it, we both just stood and looked at it for a while, calmly mesmerized by the flames threatening to consume our kitchen.
After an appropriate amount of standing and watching, I put a lid over the fire, he retrieved the fire extinguisher, and the whole adventure was over in minute or two, no harm done except the incredible cloud of smoke that seemed to have completely taken over the house.
And I’m out $17.88 for a new fire extinguisher.
Just in case there’s a next time.
::
Fire extinguishers are kind of like insurance. The thing about both of them is that you’ve got to have them, but you never want to use them. If you have to use them, it means something bad has happened. You shell out the cash, hoping to never have to put them to use.
It’s because having them gives you, what we like to say in the insurance business, peace of mind.
You know the fire extinguisher is there if you need it, even though you don’t want to need it. And that can help you sleep a little easier at night. Especially when you have a stove like mine.
::
But the other thing about insurance and fire extinguishers is that the peace of mind they might buy you is limited at best. You never know until you actually have a claim if your loss will actually be covered. And I wasn’t completely sure when I pulled the trigger on the ten year old fire extinguisher that it really had enough juice to get the job done.
God’s peace isn’t that way. Paul tells us that it’s a peace that transcends our ability to even comprehend. There is so much of the Word that tells us about the kind of peace God gives. Permanent peace. Complete peace.
But I really like when the prophet Micah tells us that with God our shepherd, we will live securely. We have security, that peace of mind. Because, as he tells us, God Himself is our peace.
He doesn’t just bring us peace, but He is our peace.
Peace we can count on all the time, not just when the policy is paid up or the extinguisher is charged.
::
He will stand and shepherd his flock
in the strength of the LORD,
in the majesty of the name of the LORD his God.
And they will live securely, for then his greatness
will reach to the ends of the earth.
And he will be their peace. (Micah 5:4-5)
I had to buy a new fire extinguisher yesterday.
To replace the old one.
That’s what happens when you use one.
You have to replace it.
::
Neither housekeeping nor cooking are really my strong suits. People think I’m joking when I say that I’ve set the smoke alarm off making Jell-O.
As funny as that might be, it’s not really a joke. I’ve done it.
You see, while I’m proactive in a lot of areas of life, I have this not very smart and definitely not proactive approach to dealing with an old stove we probably should have replaced a while ago. We got a great deal when we moved to our first house about 16 years ago. The former owner sold us her old (not just used, old) appliances for a thousand bucks. To first time home buyers, it was a great deal. A washer, dryer, stove and refrigerator for a thousand dollars was too good to pass up. Then we could gradually replace them as they failed instead of buying all new appliances at one time. One by one, the others have dropped.
But the stove lives on.
Only two burners work. The clock has never worked. And the oven is way hotter in the back than it is in the front so food has to be moved around during cooking so that I burn it evenly on all sides.
It’s anybody’s guess when it’s going to give up all together. Since I figure she’s going to crash any day, I don’t do much about taking care of it. Or cleaning it. So often after using the oven, we have to open the windows to let out the smoke because of all the stuff that’s still burning off the bottom from the last time I cooked, oh, two or three weeks ago.
And the burners end up kind of the same way. Sometimes there’s a little stuff to burn off ‘em. I figure if the thing’s going to fall apart anyway, why spend so much time cleaning it up? I have stuff to do that is so very much more fun. And I won’t just replace it since it’s dying its slow death anyway. Spending money on appliances is just not so very much fun at all.
::
I had to start rethinking my not very proactive and probably downright irresponsible approach to my stove’s certain demise on Friday. Isaac was whipping himself up a little bit of Ramen. He’s used to a little smoke but even so had to wonder about the unusually high level of smoke that was burning off.
I’d made a pot of beef stew and dumplings the night before, and I guess the pot was too small, because it kept boiling over. And over. And over. I’d cleaned it up, I thought reasonably well under the circumstances, and assumed that the next cooking venture would finish it up for me.
It finished it all right.
We’d already opened a couple of windows to clear the smoke, and then we stood there and watched, kind of fascinated by the occasional spark that let off from the burner. The smoke died down, and we figured he was good to go.
::
And then it happened.
While Isaac had his hand over the pan to stir his meal, BOOM! The whole thing ignited in a big huge burst of flame. Isaac was agile enough to yank his hand away unharmed. And then, to hear him tell it, we both just stood and looked at it for a while, calmly mesmerized by the flames threatening to consume our kitchen.
After an appropriate amount of standing and watching, I put a lid over the fire, he retrieved the fire extinguisher, and the whole adventure was over in minute or two, no harm done except the incredible cloud of smoke that seemed to have completely taken over the house.
And I’m out $17.88 for a new fire extinguisher.
Just in case there’s a next time.
::
Fire extinguishers are kind of like insurance. The thing about both of them is that you’ve got to have them, but you never want to use them. If you have to use them, it means something bad has happened. You shell out the cash, hoping to never have to put them to use.
It’s because having them gives you, what we like to say in the insurance business, peace of mind.
You know the fire extinguisher is there if you need it, even though you don’t want to need it. And that can help you sleep a little easier at night. Especially when you have a stove like mine.
::
But the other thing about insurance and fire extinguishers is that the peace of mind they might buy you is limited at best. You never know until you actually have a claim if your loss will actually be covered. And I wasn’t completely sure when I pulled the trigger on the ten year old fire extinguisher that it really had enough juice to get the job done.
God’s peace isn’t that way. Paul tells us that it’s a peace that transcends our ability to even comprehend. There is so much of the Word that tells us about the kind of peace God gives. Permanent peace. Complete peace.
But I really like when the prophet Micah tells us that with God our shepherd, we will live securely. We have security, that peace of mind. Because, as he tells us, God Himself is our peace.
He doesn’t just bring us peace, but He is our peace.
Peace we can count on all the time, not just when the policy is paid up or the extinguisher is charged.
When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your sinful nature, God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins, having canceled the written code, with its regulations, that was against us and that stood opposed to us; he took it away, nailing it to the cross. And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross. (Colossians 2:13-15)
::
I picked Sanchez up from the vet today. Once it was clear that nobody in the vet’s office really had any interest in taking her home so I didn’t have to (shoot, I’d even still pay for the work they did), I asked whether they’d been successful with her personality transplant. They told me that wasn’t in their orders. But interestingly enough, she does seem to have a new attitude.
According to the paperwork, Sanchez was the recipient of a “feline sex modification.” Now that sounds like a pleasant procedure. And as much as I’m delighted to know that she now is incapable of reproduction (I’m pretty sure that between the total absence of male cats in our home as well as her “old attitude,” that reproduction was unlikely anyway), I am more delighted that in addition to the “modification” she also has been disarmed.
She’s been declawed.
And she seems to know it.
::
My friend who regularly walks into the house and greets Sanchez by saying, “Hello, Satan,” may have to find a new nickname for this one-time devilish threat. Because, at least for the moment, she’s a little more humble. A little more meek. And a little less aggressive.
And so far, a whole lot easier to be around. I haven’t bled once in the hour since I brought her home.
Now, it might just be the pain in her abdominal area talking, but that would take all the punch out of my story here. I’m going to prefer to think that it’s all about her having been disarmed.
She is without weapons.
::
Sanchez has come by a few times, stared up at me and given me that look. The one where her pupils are practically bigger than her whole head, and she can hardly be still because she is so anxious to just jump right out of her skin and grab my face. And then she kind of timidly lifts one of her paws, shakes it a little, and walks away.
She’s got nothing to work with.
She’s got nothing to cut me.
She’s got nothing to cause me pain.
She’s been disarmed.
And suddenly, the cat who a few days ago seemed poised to completely take over our home, is powerless. She has nothing that feels good but curling up and sleeping.
She’s got nothing.
::
Paul wanted to remind his Colossian brothers and sisters that with Jesus’ finished work on the cross, we were brought from death to life. And in that moment of His victory on the cross, he “disarmed the powers and authorities.” Satan certainly is an enemy for us to be wary of. He has many tools and weapons at his disposal. But sometimes we give him more credit than we should. Sometimes we get more frightened of him than we should. Sometimes we act like we don’t remember how Jesus’ victory took away his power.
He has been vanquished. He continues to fight a battle he has already lost.
He does not have power or authority over us.
::
A friend shared a timely quote from John Piper this week, not knowing that as I anticipated Satan’s Sanchez’ return from the vet, I was already considering this disarmament idea. Piper tells us, “Whatever Satan’s liberty in unleashing calamity upon us, God never drops the leash that binds his neck.”
On Satan’s scrawny neck is a little kitty collar that attaches to a leash that is held firmly by God’s hand.
And that leash is never absent mindedly dropped.
::
(For those of you new to the life of Sanchez, read more of her life lessons here, here, here, here and here.)
When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your sinful nature, God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins, having canceled the written code, with its regulations, that was against us and that stood opposed to us; he took it away, nailing it to the cross. And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross. (Colossians 2:13-15)
I picked Sanchez up from the vet today. Once it was clear that nobody in the vet’s office really had any interest in taking her home so I didn’t have to (shoot, I’d even still pay for the work they did), I asked whether they’d been successful with her personality transplant. They told me that wasn’t in their orders. But interestingly enough, she does seem to have a new attitude.
According to the paperwork, Sanchez was the recipient of a “feline sex modification.” Now that sounds like a pleasant procedure. And as much as I’m delighted to know that she now is incapable of reproduction (I’m pretty sure that between the total absence of male cats in our home as well as her “old attitude,” that reproduction was unlikely anyway), I am more delighted that in addition to the “modification” she also has been disarmed.
She’s been declawed.
And she seems to know it.
::
My friend who regularly walks into the house and greets Sanchez by saying, “Hello, Satan,” may have to find a new nickname for this one-time devilish threat. Because, at least for the moment, she’s a little more humble.
A little more meek.
And a little less aggressive.
And so far, a whole lot easier to be around. I haven’t bled once in the hour since I brought her home.
Now, it might just be the pain in her abdominal area talking, but that would take all the punch out of my story here. I’m going to prefer to think that it’s all about her having been disarmed.
She is without weapons.
::
Sanchez has come by a few times, stared up at me and given me that look. The one where her pupils are practically bigger than her whole head, and she can hardly be still because she is so anxious to just jump right out of her skin and grab my face. And then she kind of timidly lifts one of her paws, shakes it a little, and walks away.
She’s got nothing to work with.
She’s got nothing to cut me.
She’s got nothing to cause me pain.
She’s been disarmed.
And suddenly, the cat who a few days ago seemed poised to completely take over our home, is powerless. She has nothing that feels good but curling up and sleeping.
She’s got nothing.
::
Paul wanted to remind his Colossian brothers and sisters that with Jesus’ finished work on the cross, we were brought from death to life. And in that moment of His victory on the cross, he “disarmed the powers and authorities.” Satan certainly is an enemy for us to be wary of. He has many tools and weapons at his disposal. But sometimes we give him more credit than we should. Sometimes we get more frightened of him than we should. Sometimes we act like we don’t remember how Jesus’ victory took away his power.
He has been vanquished. He continues to fight a battle he has already lost.
He does not have power or authority over us.
::
A friend shared a timely quote from John Piper this week, not knowing that as I anticipated Satan’s Sanchez’ return from the vet, I was already considering this disarmament idea. Piper tells us,
Whatever Satan’s liberty in unleashing calamity upon us, God never drops the leash that binds his neck.
On Satan’s scrawny neck is a little kitty collar that attaches to a leash that is held firmly by God’s hand.
And that leash is never absent mindedly dropped.
::
(For those of you new to the life of Sanchez, read more of her life lessons here.)
But whatever was to my profit I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. (Philippians 3:7-11)
::
The last several times I’ve settled down to write, I’ve been surprised by the result. Not that it was necessarily good or bad, but it wasn’t what I intended to write. I finally concluded after considering the father in Mark 9, twisting and turning in the turmoil between belief and unbelief, I just wasn’t going to write this post after all.
What I’d wanted to say wasn’t going to be said, and what I’d said instead seemed sufficient.
But then my good friend Dr. Schamu came back from her Christmas hiatus and returned to challenging me with her comments. And with her latest, I knew I wasn’t done.
At least not quite.
::
In response to Truth vs. Turf she says this: “That is really the core issue isn’t it??! I want to protect [whatever] and thus in any practical way deny the truth! What am I thinking when I do that? At least the Pharisees were consistent with their words that they were threatened and hated Jesus. How often do I claim publicly (and believe privately) that I love him and trust him? Then, in a stressful situation, my core beliefs come out and are opposed to my profession! Nothing like a little heat to bring the true beliefs to the surface.” (Emphasis added.) Read her whole comment here. There’s a lot to it, as I’m sure you find there always is.
The difference between what we really believe and what we say we believe is often stark. It seems to me that we profess to believe one thing, but in our innermost being, we believe something else.
We want to believe one thing, but our hearts run to something else.
We want folks to think we believe one thing, but if we lift the curtain, that just isn’t what’s there.
This is hard territory for me.
::
You know I’m a fan of Ted Dekker. I spoke once before about a character of his, Caleb, who was trying to return to the faith of his youth. Part of his journey he spent at the feet of a desert wanderer, Father Joseph Hadane. As Caleb wrestled through his own crisis of faith, he told Father Hadane that he was trying to “live up to” his beliefs.
Father Hadane countered with a painfully difficult answer. “We always live up or down to our beliefs,” he said. “Beliefs are the rails which govern our lives. Our trains roll on them whether we like it or not. If your train is not rolling on the set of rails which you claim are yours, it’s because you have diverted your train to a different set of rails — these are your true beliefs now, not the rails you left.”
::
Saying I believe something is not the same as believing it. How I live will reflect what I truly believe in my innermost core.
My life, whether I like it or not, will reflect what I, in fact, believe.
Do you see why this is hard?
::
I can say anything I want. But is it what I truly believe? Does my train roll on the rails I claim are mine?
The most critical thing for me to believe, to fully accept as mine, to make both my professed belief as well as my deeply held core belief, is that abiding belief of which Paul spoke to the Philippian believers. That I do not have a “righteousness of my own that comes from the law,” but rather a “righteousness that comes from God and is by faith.” Access to God that comes only through Christ, and not the slightest bit through me.
“What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”
“I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.”
These bold things that Paul says here, I want them to be what is truly true for me.
I want this to be the set of rails I roll on every single day.
::
But I’m not convinced that my life reflects that this is it for me. I’m not convinced that my train hasn’t become diverted. I’m not convinced that when the heat is turned up, as my friend points out, that this will be revealed as my deeply held, authentic belief.
It all boils down to something as simple as this: Do I live what I say I believe?
And if I don’t live it, then do I really believe it at all? (Ouchie.)
And if I don’t believe it, then why do I say that I do? (Ouchier.)
::
But whatever was to my profit I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. (Philippians 3:7-11)
The last several times I’ve settled down to write, I’ve been surprised by the result. Not that it was necessarily good or bad, but it wasn’t what I intended to write. I finally concluded after considering the father in Mark 9, twisting and turning in the turmoil between belief and unbelief, I just wasn’t going to write this post after all.
What I’d wanted to say wasn’t going to be said, and what I’d said instead seemed sufficient.
But then my good friend Dr. Schamu came back from her Christmas hiatus and returned to challenging me with her comments.
That is really the core issue isn’t it??! I want to protect [whatever] and thus in any practical way deny the truth! What am I thinking when I do that? At least the Pharisees were consistent with their words that they were threatened and hated Jesus. How often do I claim publicly (and believe privately) that I love him and trust him? Then, in a stressful situation, my core beliefs come out and are opposed to my profession! Nothing like a little heat to bring the true beliefs to the surface. (Emphasis added.)
Read her whole comment here. There’s a lot to it, as I’m sure you find there always is.
The difference between what we really believe and what we say we believe is often stark. It seems to me that we profess to believe one thing, but in our innermost being, we believe something else.
We want to believe one thing, but our hearts run to something else.
We want folks to think we believe one thing, but if we lift the curtain, that just isn’t what’s there.
This is hard territory for me.
::
I’m a fan of Ted Dekker. I spoke once before about a character of his, Caleb, who was trying to return to the faith of his youth. Part of his journey he spent at the feet of a desert wanderer, Father Joseph Hadane. As Caleb wrestled through his own crisis of faith, he told Father Hadane that he was trying to “live up to” his beliefs.
Father Hadane countered with a painfully difficult answer.
We always live up or down to our beliefs,” he said. “Beliefs are the rails which govern our lives. Our trains roll on them whether we like it or not. If your train is not rolling on the set of rails which you claim are yours, it’s because you have diverted your train to a different set of rails — these are your true beliefs now, not the rails you left.
::
Saying I believe something is not the same as believing it. How I live will reflect what I truly believe in my innermost core.
My life, whether I like it or not, will reflect what I, in fact, believe.
Do you see why this is hard?
::
I can say anything I want. But is it what I truly believe? Does my train roll on the rails I claim are mine?
The most critical thing for me to believe, to fully accept as mine, to make both my professed belief as well as my deeply held core belief, is that abiding belief of which Paul spoke to the Philippian believers. That I do not have a “righteousness of my own that comes from the law,” but rather a “righteousness that comes from God and is by faith.” Access to God that comes only through Christ, and not the slightest bit through me.
“What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”
“I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.”
These bold things that Paul says here, I want them to be what is truly true for me.
I want this to be the set of rails I roll on every single day.
::
But I’m not convinced that my life reflects that this is it for me. I’m not convinced that my train hasn’t become diverted. I’m not convinced that when the heat is turned up, as my friend points out, that this will be revealed as my deeply held, authentic belief.
It all boils down to something as simple as this: Do I live what I say I believe?
And if I don’t live it, then do I really believe it at all? (Ouchie.)
And if I don’t believe it, then why do I say that I do? (Ouchier.)
Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24)
::
The tension I continually face between belief and doubt keeps playing itself out on these pages. If you find me redundant, it’s not that I don’t know I keep covering the same ground. I do know. But each day brings yet a new moment for me to choose one or the other.
Belief.
Or doubt.
And I wrestle with the tension all day long.
::
I often feel much like the father in Mark 9, who came to Jesus in complete desperation, pleading for the release of his son who was possessed by a demon. He had heard of this Jesus, and believed He was his one last hope to see his son delivered.
This father had surely faced disappointment before, even just moments before, as Jesus’ own disciples failed to restore his son. And so now he came to Jesus, perhaps in a mix of hope and belief, but with doubt beginning to stain the edges.
“I asked Your disciples to drive out the spirit, but they could not,” the anguished father told Jesus.
::
He had reason to doubt. He’d stood by helplessly while a demon tormented his beloved son since his childhood. He’d watched his son thrash and convulse on the ground, out of control, foaming at the mouth. He seen his son, under the power of an unknown force, throw himself into water or fire. He’d seen people look away, even run away, in abject fear and disgust.
Yet he’d never found a way to bring him back. He was the boy’s own father, and he could not help him.
Even that very same day, his hopes had been dashed once more when these men, men that he had heard were with the Master and could do what He did, could not help him.
If they couldn’t help him, why should he believe their Master?
Was it just more snake oil?
Was there any hope at all?
::
Of course there was hope.
The Master was his hope. His only hope.
He brought his son to Jesus, and they talked a while about his tortured son. At last, the father asked Jesus to move on his son’s behalf. “But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us,” he begged.
“‘If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for him who believes.”
And at that moment, the tension the father fought between belief and doubt burst out in the most contradictory of exclamations. “I do believe,” he cried out. “Help me overcome my unbelief!”
::
My same cry, daily.
I do believe!
Help me overcome my unbelief!
How can I say those things in the same breath?
::
I say them all the time. Together. In the same sentence.
I believe, and I doubt.
I believe, but I see doubt creep in. And so I, like the young man’s father, beg God to help me believe more. To help me believe it all, with all.
To help me, in the midst of my doubt, to believe like I say I do.
::
Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24)
The tension I continually face between belief and doubt keeps playing itself out on these pages. If you find me redundant, it’s not that I don’t know I keep covering the same ground. I do know. But each day brings yet a new moment for me to choose one or the other.
Belief.
Or doubt.
And I wrestle with the tension all day long.
::
I often feel much like the father in Mark 9, who came to Jesus in complete desperation, pleading for the release of his son who was possessed by a demon. He had heard of this Jesus, and believed He was his one last hope to see his son delivered.
This father had surely faced disappointment before, even just moments before, as Jesus’ own disciples failed to restore his son. And so now he came to Jesus, perhaps in a mix of hope and belief, but with doubt beginning to stain the edges.
“I asked Your disciples to drive out the spirit, but they could not,” the anguished father told Jesus.
::
He had reason to doubt. He’d stood by helplessly while a demon tormented his beloved son since his childhood. He’d watched his son thrash and convulse on the ground, out of control, foaming at the mouth. He seen his son, under the power of an unknown force, throw himself into water or fire. He’d seen people look away, even run away, in abject fear and disgust.
Yet he’d never found a way to bring him back. He was the boy’s own father, and he could not help him.
Even that very same day, his hopes had been dashed once more when these men, men that he had heard were with the Master and could do what He did, could not help him.
If they couldn’t help him, why should he believe their Master?
Was it just more snake oil?
Was there any hope at all?
::
Of course there was hope.
The Master was his hope. His only hope.
He brought his son to Jesus, and they talked a while about his tortured son. At last, the father asked Jesus to move on his son’s behalf. “But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us,” he begged.
“‘If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for him who believes.”
And at that moment, the tension the father fought between belief and doubt burst out in the most contradictory of exclamations. “I do believe,” he cried out. “Help me overcome my unbelief!”
::
My same cry, daily.
I do believe!
Help me overcome my unbelief!
How can I say those things in the same breath?
::
I say them all the time. Together. In the same sentence.
I believe, and I doubt.
I believe, but I see doubt creep in. And so I, like the young man’s father, beg God to help me believe more. To help me believe it all, with all.
To help me, in the midst of my doubt, to believe like I say I do.
Just think—you don’t need a thing, you’ve got it all! All God’s gifts are right in front of you as you wait expectantly for our Master Jesus to arrive on the scene for the Finale. And not only that, but God himself is right alongside to keep you steady and on track until things are all wrapped up by Jesus. God, who got you started in this spiritual adventure, shares with us the life of his Son and our Master Jesus. He will never give up on you. Never forget that. (1 Corinthians 1:7-9 MSG)
::
You know Inigo and Vizzini, right?
Please, tell me that you do. You have to know these guys from The Princess Bride. If you know them, then what I’m going to say should make pretty good sense. But in case you don’t, let me fill you in. Not on the whole story — you really should rent the DVD for that, and do it soon — but just a little bit about these two fellas.
Vizzini’s favorite word, it seems, is “inconceivable.” He says it all the time. Anything that doesn’t happen to fit into his construct of reality is simply “inconceivable.” The problem is that as often as he says something is “inconceivable,” it turns out that it is not only quite conceivable, but it is also quite possible. Even probable. Very likely.
In fact, the inconceivable has probably already happened.
It was inconceivable that anyone from Florin could have caught up with their ship, it was inconceivable that the Dread Pirate Roberts wouldn’t fall off the Cliffs of Insanity, and it was inconceivable that he could be beaten in a battle of wits (he was a Sicilian, after all, and you never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!). Yet, all those very inconceivable things…happened.
And so, after hearing his companion repeatedly insist that completely conceivable events are inconceivable, as the hero does successfully scale the Cliffs of Insanity, Inigo finally tells Vizzini, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”
Vizzini acts like the word means one thing. But reality keeps making it look like it means something completely different.
::
I think many times, it would be very reasonable for the Inigo’s in my life to say to me, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” When you line up the things I say I believe against how I live my life, does it look like the words mean what I say they mean? Does it look like I believe they are true?
Words like…grace.
Words like …faith.
Words like…redemption.
If I really believe these words mean what God says they mean, if I really believe what Jesus says is true, why is my life characterized by so much doubt and striving?
::
If I really believe that God extends His grace to me — that I can do nothing to earn His favor because He gives it to me for free — why do I work so hard to convince Him to like me?
If I really believe that God will do what He says He will — if I really have faith in Him — why do I second guess and make contingency plans just in case He doesn’t come through? (And why am I surprised so often when He does?)
If I really believe that Jesus paid the price to redeem me — that His blood was substituted for mine and that He paid the price to buy me back — why do I still act like I’m a slave to sin and that He doesn’t own me?
::
It seems inconceivable in the face of all He’s said and all He’s done that I would have trouble with this.
But I do.
What about you?
::
Just think—you don’t need a thing, you’ve got it all! All God’s gifts are right in front of you as you wait expectantly for our Master Jesus to arrive on the scene for the Finale. And not only that, but God himself is right alongside to keep you steady and on track until things are all wrapped up by Jesus. God, who got you started in this spiritual adventure, shares with us the life of his Son and our Master Jesus. He will never give up on you. Never forget that. (1 Corinthians 1:7-9 MSG)
You know Inigo and Vizzini, right?
Please, tell me that you do. You have to know these guys from The Princess Bride. If you know them, then what I’m going to say should make pretty good sense. But in case you don’t, let me fill you in. Not on the whole story — you really should rent the DVD for that, and do it soon — but just a little bit about these two fellas.
Vizzini’s favorite word, it seems, is inconceivable. He says it all the time. Anything that doesn’t happen to fit into his construct of reality is simply inconceivable. The problem is that as often as he says something is inconceivable, it turns out that it is not only quite conceivable, but it is also quite possible. Even probable.
In fact, odds are the inconceivable has already occurred.
It was inconceivable that anyone from Florin could have caught up with their ship, it was inconceivable that the Dread Pirate Roberts wouldn’t fall off the Cliffs of Insanity, and it was inconceivable that he could be beaten in a battle of wits (he was a Sicilian, after all, and you never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!).
Yet, all those very inconceivable things . . . happened.
And so, after hearing his companion repeatedly insist that completely conceivable events are inconceivable, and as the hero does successfully scale the Cliffs of Insanity, Inigo finally confronts Vizzini.
You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
Vizzini acts like the word means one thing. But reality keeps making it look like it means something completely different.
::
I think many times, it would be very reasonable for the Inigo’s in my life to say to me, You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
When you line up the things I say I believe against how I live my life, does it look like the words mean what I say they mean?
Does it look like I believe they are true?
Words like . . . grace.
Words like . . . faith.
Words like . . . redemption.
If I really believe these words mean what God says they mean, if I really believe what Jesus says is true, why is my life characterized by so much doubt and striving?
::
If I really believe that God extends His grace to me — that I can do nothing to earn His favor because He gives it to me for free — why do I work so hard to convince Him to like me?
If I really believe that God will do what He says He will — if I really have faith in Him — why do I second guess and make contingency plans just in case He doesn’t come through? (And why am I surprised so often when He does?)
If I really believe that Jesus paid the price to redeem me — that His blood was substituted for mine and that He paid the price to buy me back — why do I still act like I’m a slave to sin and that He doesn’t own me?
::
It seems inconceivable in the face of all He’s said and all He’s done that I would have trouble with this.
MAKING HEADROOMchronicles a year (or so) of weekly trips to a monastery,
where words are spoken slowly,
as though the point is to hear them —
not to see how many can fit into an
already bustling space. It’s the kind
of place where the next thing is glad
to wait as long as it takes for an old man
to shuffle across the room.
I learn to meet him in the quiet
so I can also meet him in the clamor.
Somehow, I think, the person who has sustained a significant injury has perhaps had an opportunity to think about close calls and near misses and what really matters. The person who has sustained a little damage to his property is experiencing some inconvenience that seems to suddenly get the best of him. Rather than recognizing what’s really important, he loses his head over banged up stuff. I have no statistics to prove it out, but it seems to me that the degree of difficulty in dealing with a person who has sustained a loss is inversely proportional to the severity of the damages. That is, the more minor the claim, the more anger, frustration and hostility it seems to generate.
I didn’t expect that one to be of any interest. But Isaac turned to me and said, “Oh, the little boy in your Bible?”
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