A Drop In The Bucket Is Something

The tower shuddered with the impact of the plane. For a moment, it swayed as pieces of debris began falling from the heights. Then, in one destructive moment, the foundation gave way and the tower collapsed inward, toppling over on itself and spreading the remains across the floor. Blocks were heaped in masses with the crumpled nose of a paper airplane protruding from the rubble. Little Megan stood close by pleased that her airplane had finally taken down this once proud skyscraper.

Watching her play, something long forgotten had awakened inside me as the poorly constructed tower of lego blocks, molded by the hands of a five-year-old, lay in smoldering ruins on the kitchen floor. The memory had been dormant for years, waiting to be released once more by some abstract sight or thought. I was sitting again in Mrs. Stempien's 10th grade homeroom surrounded by those drab, brown curtains and dull tile floors typical of the region's under-funded high schools. With every eye glued to an antique television set, the room was left utterly speechless. Those flaming towers, tinted blue on the old screen, were burned in my memory forever as they crashed to the earth.

Similar to my own experience with the infamous assassination of John F. Kennedy, the defining moment in history for many of my elders, she has heard only faint legends of twin towers from ages past. She will never know precisely how I felt that day sitting uncharacteristically silent at my creaky, wooden desk. There is much pain in the world that she does not yet know.

Recently, someone criticized me and my youth, questioning my ability to understand anything about the world. After all, I'm not even thirty yet, how could I really know anything?

But the truth is, I have seen the world in all its beauty, beauty that quietly uncovered my village with the first light of dayspring as it emerged from looming Himalayan peaks. I have seen the world in all its pain, weeping with Mother Theresa's nuns as they cared for leprous, dying Indians who, their whole lives, had known only the street. And I have seen its violence, living amidst the rage of Arab Africans as they angrily fanned the flames of revolution in hopes of a better life.

I have sat at the feet of the great thinkers of history and asked them the hard questions. I have studied the world around me and discovered universal truths that many have rejected and many more will disregard to their destruction. I have known mankind and attentively listened to his hopes and dreams, regrets and hurts. I have become personally acquainted with the world's suffering, that feeling of gasping for air, or a searing heat that comes suddenly upon the body, when the most intense pain breaks through with the news of divorce and separation, growing up with an alcoholic single mother, and a stepfather's rejection after discovering faith in a Savior who was supposed to make everything better right now.

My time on this earth has indeed been short, but I have savored it and squeezed out as much as I could. If today was my last day, I couldn't honestly say I did not know the world. I do know the world, we're just not that well acquainted yet. There is so much more I want to explore; so many more adventures yet to be had that it's almost overwhelming. I'm bursting at the seams with my experience with the world, and yet it's only a drop in the bucket.

I did, in fact, see the towers fall; one day she will have her own towers. One day she will stand in my shoes, somewhere between innocence and adulthood, gathering herself to step into this mystery: a world that she has known, but not nearly well enough.

Rob Bell and African Kung Fu (Or, On "Love Wins")

Bad theology is sort of like Kung Fu training in Africa.

For several months I was a member of an African Kung Fu school, the first Arabic-speaking martial arts class I have attended. Throughout my training, I struggled to acclimate to not only the foreign language that was in many ways still a mystery to me but to the African mindset -- widely unknown in today's America -- that bones break, people get hurt, and life moves on. On every level, this was a new experience for me. Unlike my former Tae Kwon Do training in America, where everything was done on heavily padded mats, under constant supervision, and with specific instruction and warnings against how not to perform certain moves, my experience here, both in terms of instruction and sparring, could be described as "no holds barred."

One day, two months into my training, and a mere week before my knee injury, I nearly crossed that proverbial line only to be met with a brief "look" rather than the severe rebuke I likely deserved. In performing a specific defensive maneuver, in which the arm is tucked around behind the back in order to control the attacker as he lies on the ground or to lift him back onto his feet, I mistakenly looped my arm outside-in through his arm rather than inside-out. Just before I lifted him up, thereby putting all of his 130 pounds on that one specific hold point, another, more skilled, participant took notice of me, still a novice, and my egregious error. A brief look and word of correction, "no, no, not that way, you'll break his arm; the other way," and I was set off on my way again.

Now, I had thought I knew what I was doing. After all, when the instructor had quickly demonstrated the move on one unfortunate victim the first time, and even a second time which was unusual, I had taken in everything; I was obviously ready to go and make it happen. Thankfully, someone caught my mistake before I made it; this would prove to not be the case a week later when I performed a move wrong several times without guidance, effectively spraining my knee and setting me out of Kung Fu for three months.

With seven years of camp counselor experience under my belt, I can confidently say that 90% of the mothers I met over the years would never let their children train at my African Kung Fu school. Now the point, while I'm not advising a "helicopter parent" approach, is that I do see the need to balance freedom with oversight and instruction in any discipleship or mentoring relationship. The middle ground is the way to go; freedom with oversight and training.

This is what is sorely lacking amongst our pastors today. In the same way no Kung Fu master rises overnight without years of training, neither can a pastor perform his duties effectively without the proper training that balances freedom with oversight and instruction. Freedom to flourish, to innovate, and to love, but oversight and training that gently guides and leads along the path of truth, not taking for granted the essential doctrines laid as the foundation for our faith. It seems that too many pastors today have not been given this gentle training and oversight that Paul so strongly advocates in letters to Titus and Timothy. Too many ill-prepared pastors are leading churches, and in many cases leading them astray. They wield freedom, free from the constraints of godly instruction, and find themselves quickly using it "as a covering for evil."

Case and point: Rob Bell. Though I intend to read it, I have not yet read his new book entitled "Love Wins: Heaven, Hell, and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived". From what I gather so far, it looks pretty universalist/inclusivist and therefore anti-Christ and His teachings. I wouldn't make this judgment simply on what I've heard about this one book, but have been increasingly skeptical about Rob Bell since college. But, unfortunately, he seems to be just the latest example of a "Christian pastor", whether emphatically or subtly, who, while likely a believer in the Lord Jesus himself, is leading thousands astray and as James writes, "will incur stricter judgment", certainly not from me, but from God on the Day of Judgment.

And, by the way, this isn't my standard that I'm holding him to. Simply follow the line of orthodox Christianity throughout the centuries and you will find continuity amongst the greats: Jesus, John, Polycarp, Irenaeus, Athanasius, Augustine, Aquinas, Calvin, Luther, Edwards, to the modern day. The line is clear and goes back to Jesus following the trend he set forth himself, "I am the way, the truth, and the life, no man comes to the Father but through me." And He made very clear what the only other option would be.

And one last thought. I understand Bell went to seminary. That's great, so did I. But seminary and good, effective pastoral training don't always go hand in hand. Discipleship is a necessity and I had a hard time finding that in seminary.

Iron Will (Or, Mankind's Shtick)

Is it possible that man can will anything? Is he that strong? Referred to as "the measure of all things" by Protagoras, can man overcome aything?

War. Tragedy. Pain. Inconvenience. Cold, for instance, is a cancer. It lurks close by as I awake in my warm bed. It nips at my heels as I make for the shower. And it takes shape as the hot water ends and I reach for a towel. It begins small, but grows maliciously. Soon, my whole body is seeping with cold. But I endure. I remind myself of my strength and press on. For a day, it is a small trial. It makes me better. A second day, another opportunity. A week and the optimism holds strong. But as the cold lasts through the weeks and on to months, the will begins to wane.

The first choice is easy. But with time, the will corrodes. The will is strong at first, steadfast. But over time, steadfastness turns to uncertainty turns to improbability turns to impossibility. Do you see how it works? Man does not lose his power to will with one choice. But as decay spreads through the bones and returns the man to the earth, so a life of trial can decay the soul leading to ultimate destruction. After weeks of cold, I lie here wrapped up in my blanket, striving for any and every drop of warmth to fall on my parched tongue. What was once a good and easy decision of my will is now just a stumbling block before my idol of comfort. My will is gone. My comfort takes over.

A month ago, Wednesday night's trip to the gym was a given. Of course I would work out, but I would also carry on with Mohammad in the cardio room. I would laugh with Saiad about how I came to see him at his restaurant again, but my suspicion grows that each time he sees me coming he escapes through the back door. I work out hard because I like the praises mixed with silly comments that I get from Abdul Aziz. A month ago, Wednesday night was non-negotiable. A week ago, Wednesday night was a fight, but a victorious fight. But here I lie, Wednesday night. My will has given way to Comfort, my god. Cold has battered my weak will into submission. The walls have fallen, the city is taken, and the golden calf has been erected. Life, joy, and laughter have ceded their superficial pedestals in my life as selfish idolatry has turned me inward.

Do you see it yet? This is what we do. John Calvin would tell you that your heart is an "idol factory". Hardly complementary words considering you're such a good person, right? Consider the man of Isaiah 44...

He comes home from a hard day's work. Tired, he crumples over against the wall outside his home. As night falls, the cold comes and a shiver trickles down his spine. Soon the shiver turns into a rumble in the pit of his stomach. So he motivates himself to make dinner. He pulls together some kindling and sticks and starts a fire. As he sits close by the fire, the warmth returns to his body. The fire crackles and rumbles; after some time he places a large stick in the middle. Warmed, he looks on in admiration of his accomplishment. With half of this stick, he begins cooking bread. With the half protruding from the fire he begins to carve a figure. When the bread finishes, he adds meat to the fire and continues his work. About the time he finishes carving, his meal finishes. Next to the fire, he eats his dinner and then bows down before his carving. The one half of his log he burns in the fire while he bows down before the other, praying, "Deliver me, for you are my god!"

How silly is this man. How silly this story, one more outdated chapter from a caveman scroll. But you do it. I do it. Man's will is weak, he will eventually succumb to any and every trial and temptation. He will make every love, joy, and pleasure into his god, seeking some deliverance. Man's only hope is to replace his will with that of someone or something greater. Some realize this and seek to replace their own will with that of another man, we call them accountability partners. Or, perhaps, he'll use some 12 step program. Someone better. Some set of rules. Some code.

What we really need is a divine will. Not the stick. Not the will of man as it shifts with the shadows. But the source of all light. For the light source can not be shadowed, but, rather, is the wellspring of radiant glory, the forgotten desire of those shadowed souls who stand behind their idols.

Dependence is natural to man. It's buried deep inside him. We all will depend on something. So what are the options. There is, of course, dependency on the stick. There is dependence on oneself which through the decay of the will simply leads back to the stick. There is dependence on some other person just as vulnerable as yourself which eventually leads to his stick. And finally, there is dependence on something more, something eternal. The only One true. The only One wise. The only One everlasting, never failing. One who was, is, and is still to come.

As I lie here wrapped up, defeated, I am reminded that I stray so easily. Before I know it, I'm right back to the shtick. Half of it comforts me, the other half I bow down to.