The Shot Heard Around The World

A young 20th century would stumble into the world desperately seeking identity. The expectations were high; previous generations had been responsible for reformations, industrial revolution, and the Enlightenment. Progress was lifted high as the banner that historians would use to define the age, a powerful diversion to steal the world's attention away from the atrocities of imperialism, ongoing wars, and the rising discontentment of nationalism.

Mankind looked down from his high tower reveling in the glory of his great masterpiece all the while oblivious to the corrosion of its foundations. Then, one warm summer morning in Sarajevo, a shot was fired that was heard around the world. Before the projectile reached its mark, the world was at war. Piercing the jugular vein of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the bullet released a flow of long overlooked anger and virulence into a shattered world loosely held together by the tenuous geographic lines laid out by the imperial powers that be.

Fired from the gun of a young Serbian, this shot would signal the mobilization of the world's armies. Declarations of war would be heard as far as the shot's ringing echoes could reach. With one swift action, the world was at war. An unstoppable chain of events brought modernity crashing back down the very mountain of progress it had intrepidly stood upon.

A fledgling 21st century would find itself in that same struggle to discover its identity. One more generation fed up with its oppressors, the Arab world unwittingly awaited a catalyst as it stood by watching kings and dictators -- risen from among their own people -- multiply the iniquities of previous centuries' colonists. Once more the answer would be heard loud and clear by the world that had turned a blind eye to their suffering. With the strike of a match, a young Tunisian man would ignite the Arab world sending far and wide the flames of violence and rage long suppressed.

College-educated but out of work, his only hope to support a hungry family -- the produce cart that he pushed around the streets of his city -- was confiscated by corrupt policemen whose own families were well provided for. The next day he set himself and the Arab world on fire. The empty gas can lying by the side of the road, his smoldering body would spread the flames like a wildfire to the far reaches of North Africa and the Middle East. As the flames spread, every major Arab leader would feel the heat of Mohamed Bouazizi's fire.

Wisdom of Words

How is it that our words can be so powerful? How can such small exertions of air -- manipulated and repackaged according to various nuances -- carry such a heavy burden, bearing the heavy baggage of both the past and the now?

Words, while taking the form of a sharp blade, or, perhaps, a dense, blunt object, even a virus, small as it is in its preliminary form, which quickly spreads and overwhelms its victim, bear the power -- at times blatantly, but often acting from a more subversive nature -- to cripple, to maim, and in such extreme cases to kill. But this is the easy way; the broad path leading to the destruction of all involved, even, in due time, the destruction of he who wields such deadly power.

And what -- apart from the obvious answer of man's fallen nature -- motivates such violent a power? Lust, greed, pride, hate, anger, competing ideologies, in some cases religion itself, poor reasoning, and on goes the list from the very minor, subconscious ticks, to the far spectrum of worldview and culture.

But my interest does not so much lie in the realm of the nature of evil in its marriage with words, but moreso in the divorce of the two. I choose the word divorce because the time is past for a pre-emptive strike; prevention was only possible in the garden. The task now is restoration; to bring all things into submission under Christ.

So what, indeed, is the motivation -- in contrast to the above stated motivations that open the door for evil to play its role in our words -- behind the arduous task of redeeming our words? Quite simply put: wisdom. And so for this I lean on proverbs to bring light to how one's words are to conform to his position and continual transformation in Christ to his likeness.

Proverbs 1:7... The key by which we understand wisdom: "the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom."

"Put away from you a deceitful mouth,
and put devious speech far from you." - 4:24

"A worthless person, a wicked man,
Is the one who walks with a perverse mouth." - 6:12

"The mouth of the righteous is a fountain of life,
but the mouth of the wicked conceals violence." - 10:11

"when there are many words, transgression is unavoidable,
but he who restrains his lips is wise." - 10:19

"By the blessing of the upright a city is exalted,
but by the mouth of the wicked it is torn down." - 11:11

"There is one who speaks rashly like the thrusts of a sword,
but the tongue of the wise brings healing." - 12:18

"Anxiety in a man's heart weights it down,
but a good word makes it glad." - 12:25

"The one who guards his mouth preserves his life;
the one who opens wide his lips comes to ruin." - 13:3

"A truthful witness saves lives,
but he who utters lies is treacherous." - 14:25

"A gentle answer turns away wrath,
but a harsh word stirs up anger." - 15:1

"A soothing tongue is a tree of life,
but perversion in it crushes the spirit." - 15:4

"The heart of the righteous ponders how to answer,
but the mouth of the wicked pours out evil things." - 15:28

"He who restrains his words has knowledge,
and he who has a cool spirit is a man of understanding." - 17:27

"Even a fool, when he keeps silent, is considered wise;
when he closes his lips, he is considered prudent." - 17:28

"A fool does not delight in understanding,
but only in revealing his own mind." - 18:2

"He who gives an answer before he hears,
it is folly and shame to him." - 18:13

"He who guards his mouth and his tongue,
guards his soul from troubles." - 21:23

"Do not go out hastily to argue your case;
otherwise, what will you do in the end,
when your neighbor humiliates you." - 25:8

"Do not answer a fool according to his folly,
or you will also be like him." - 26:4

"He who rebukes a man will afterward find more favor
than he who flatters with a tongue." - 28:23

"A man who flatters his neighbor
is spreading a net for his steps." -29:5

"Do you see a man who is hasty in his words?
There is more hope for a fool than for him." - 29:20

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.

Sight Reading

Everything appeared crisp and clear. Every turn of the soccer ball. Each individual ray from the line of street lights. Each object in that small park with its own particular detail appeared enlarged, magnified even, as an insect observed through a magnifying glass. On this particular night I viewed the world in high definition.

I could see clearly the expressions of happy couples on the benches skirting the park. Each girl's joy uniquely revealed by means of her own individual facial features. And their counterparts each brandishing that same soul-searching gaze that every man knows, whether as a genuine reflection of his inner man or a contrived act, the perfection of the artful diversion designed to mask deeper motives.

Not too far off was an enclosed area where there was a football match underway. Nothing too serious, but scrappy football at its best. As I studied these teenagers, nothing escaped my vision. The highlight of the night was a brief scuff over a disputed goal. With perfect clarity I had seen the ball bend just inside a black shoe marking the goal post. From my distant vantage point, I had not missed the shooter's frustration with the disagreement over a legitimate goal. Nor did my eyes miss the knowing look on the goalie's face as he adamantly argued against the goal. With force he made his case, but his eyes were revealing. Taking pleasure in the other boy's fury, he was well aware the goal was true. Despite the intensity of the argument, these friends were soon back to the game with angry words a thing of the past.

Panning across the park to the street view, cars moved rhythmically through the large roundabout. Here the traffic flows similar to a Handelian movement. Each musician knows when to play and with what dynamics, and, subsequently, each knows precisely when to rest. Weaving in and out, each vehicle smoothly made its round and flowed on to the next destination. I marveled at the clarity of brake lights fading off to distant streets. Taxis and buses, bikes and strollers filled the square and carried on with their part in the sonata.

This is life. No better and no worse than it always has been. To them, this life is simple. To understand it is to flow with it, to be caught up in the various melodies and crescendos that life offers. Yet sitting on my park bench seeing it all afresh through new glasses, I see with greater clarity, but still cannot seem to follow the rhythm.

Across the street is a cafe. This is where the men go. They watch Champions League football, talk business, and relax with old friends over a coffee. And before they were old enough to do so, their fathers were here. And one day their sons will come here. In the same way, the teenagers playing football have always done so. Every summer they can remember was spent forever perfecting that shot, practicing this move, and playing with a certain team.

And here I sit. On the outside looking in. My father did not have a favorite cafe where everyone knew his boy. That special one in which we watched our first football game together. When I go to a cafe no one knows me, or my father or his. I did not grow up watching Champions League or playing football. None of these boys or their brothers did I run around with on endless summer nights. As a virus invading the body seems my existence in this African life. It is unknown, foreign. To the natural inhabitants and defenders of the body, it could appear a threat or simply be ignored.

Though a new pair of glasses offers greater clarity of vision, at least one great composer has created beautiful music without such an advantage. This piece I am now learning is driven by a different beat; a new style for me, but hardly new in itself. All great movements find their beauty and rhythm in an ordered complexity, a culture that each individual musician must perfect over a lifetime.

Life is too intricate to enter into on a whim. Adjustments must be made gradually. Unwritten rules discovered with experience. Dynamics explored through feel and often dictated by varying circumstances. An outsider cannot step in here and play first violin. He must defer to those who are more familiar with the part.

With new glasses and new vision, I look over the sheet music with greater clarity. Details come into focus that were once too blurry for me to make out. The most important of which is scribbled in the right hand corner: "second violin". Those who play second violin recognize and accept that sight is only one piece of the pie, a pie that will never be natural to them. Those who continue striving to play first violin without the talent to do so merely bring undo negative attention on themselves from the surrounding symphony.

At no other time in my life has my vision become more clear. Had I not come to live in Africa, my eyes would have never been good enough to see just how much of the world was still blurry. I can now see more clearly the rhythm of life, though I struggle to follow. I can see the unique qualities of the beat, but it does not flow through me. And I can read each individual note as it lies on the page, though I will never play them as well as my neighbor. But, at least now I am on the same page.

Holiness: What Do I Really Long For?

I have thoughts about God. But, of course, so do you. You see, all of us have thoughts about God. Even my friends who subscribe to the new atheist movement. We suppress the truth of God as revealed by His invisible attributes, His eternal power and His divine nature. Or, we submit to Him as Lord and Savior.

Now despite my suppression or submission, if my thoughts about God are not proper than they're pointless. For if my thoughts about God are not the primary thoughts of my life, they really don't count for much. Unless my thinking on God is my best thinking, my most inspired thinking, and the thinking that produces my most aesthetically-oriented word choice to reflect the beauty I claim to grasp, my thoughts on God are not true to life. For, if He truly is who He has revealed Himself to be, my only response must be to fall before Him with Isaiah and cry out "WOE! Woe is me for I am a man of unclean lips."

And it is true. But it is only the first leaf to fall in a vast forest of flaming, golden trees. Not only are my lips unclean, but consequently my heart. And if my heart is unclean, clearly the countless desires that pass to and from that heart each and every day are as tainted as the once white snow that is now an eyesore with its bountiful amalgamations and reproductions of the various shades of brown compounded by each successive plowing; snow that was once gifted with a glorious purity.