I hit full stride at the 50-yard line. With the goal square in front of me, nothing could get in my way. As though through a tunnel, I was focused only on the light at the end. I zeroed in and let loose. Amidst the ecstasy of flowing adrenaline, I awoke from my pleasure on top of the ball carrier. My first tackle. My first season. My first game. I looked up to the stands, hoping I did good by him. Hoping I did real good. But was it enough? I surveyed the stands, looking, looking. But he was nowhere to be found.
Even here in Africa, far from the high school football field, I make the tackle only to look up and wonder, is it enough? Sitting with my good friend, Joe, at a local coffee shop I talk about some weekly struggles. Everything from culture shock to frustrations with my team and roommate to let-downs in myself. I am tempted to think, is this enough? I respect Joe as a mentor and love him as a brother, one who cares enough about my walk with the Lord to meet every other week. Yet, my temptation is always to ask, OK, is this enough? I learned some great lessons this week, is this enough? Have I earned respect, praise, love?
There are so many influences in this world that teach me to ask this question of God. Is it enough? Have I studied enough this week? Did you count my prayers as I walked the city? Did I do enough to feed the kids on the street? J.D. Greer has this to say about my search of enough: “The simple truth is this: the Gospel eschews the word “enough” in any context, except in describing Christ’s work on our behalf. “Enough” will almost always become a form of compulsion…”
I know Joe wants me to see him not so much as a mentor, but as a brother, as a colleague. Life isn't about what is enough. What I have to offer is not enough. What Joe has to offer is not enough. Christ has already accomplished enough for both of us. The less I work to try to please Joe, my team, and my Savior, the freer I will be to live my life in loving obedience to the Savior who has already said, “It is finished”, or, perhaps, “It is enough.”
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The Scenic Route
In college the late Dr. Jerry Fawell stressed to me the importance of getting married. Well I didn't and was disappointed. When I graduated and my friends began to marry, I thought maybe I was doing it wrong. I was given the same message in a different way upon my arrival to seminary. For the first time, I was the minority. A single 22-year-old guy in a sea of married, established seminary students. The pressure seemed somewhat overwhelming. Now the message was not just get married, but get married so you can do ministry.
Despite this pressure to find that one special someone who possessed the key to the rest of my life, I decided to leave. Maybe I was running. Maybe not. But I began the process of going to Africa. And along the way I disobediently thought that maybe my obedience would provoke God to change His mind about my singleness. As this process progressed, I became entrenched in my decision to go live in Africa. And find her there.
Three months ago I sat on a beach in Spain and gazed at the moonlight shimmering across rolling waves. On a clear, calm night the tranquil ebb and flow of seawater lulled me into peacefulness. I enjoyed nature's beauty until one single thought ruined it all. Would I always have to enjoy these moments alone? I feared I might.
As I have waited for the last month and a half, my life has changed. Adventures have marked my path with even more promised. Twice the Lord seemed to speak to me. The first time He spoke, my course was reset for Mexico. The second time He spoke was just for me.
But as I think about living in Mexico, I start to wonder why I must return to seminary. At least, why right away for the Spring 2o12 semester? There is so much the world has to offer someone like me. I still want to live in California, Washington, or Florida. I want to hike the Appalachian Trail, even if it is by myself. I want to meet people from other cultures. I want to learn their language, their culture, and their dreams. No, before I return home to North Carolina, I have every intention of finally exploiting my singleness. Exploit it and enjoy it for as long as I can. But above all else, I am going to exploit it to the glory of my Savior. I have worked hard in my hermeneutics to overlook this, but I think Paul once said something similar.
Despite this pressure to find that one special someone who possessed the key to the rest of my life, I decided to leave. Maybe I was running. Maybe not. But I began the process of going to Africa. And along the way I disobediently thought that maybe my obedience would provoke God to change His mind about my singleness. As this process progressed, I became entrenched in my decision to go live in Africa. And find her there.
Three months ago I sat on a beach in Spain and gazed at the moonlight shimmering across rolling waves. On a clear, calm night the tranquil ebb and flow of seawater lulled me into peacefulness. I enjoyed nature's beauty until one single thought ruined it all. Would I always have to enjoy these moments alone? I feared I might.
As I have waited for the last month and a half, my life has changed. Adventures have marked my path with even more promised. Twice the Lord seemed to speak to me. The first time He spoke, my course was reset for Mexico. The second time He spoke was just for me.
But as I think about living in Mexico, I start to wonder why I must return to seminary. At least, why right away for the Spring 2o12 semester? There is so much the world has to offer someone like me. I still want to live in California, Washington, or Florida. I want to hike the Appalachian Trail, even if it is by myself. I want to meet people from other cultures. I want to learn their language, their culture, and their dreams. No, before I return home to North Carolina, I have every intention of finally exploiting my singleness. Exploit it and enjoy it for as long as I can. But above all else, I am going to exploit it to the glory of my Savior. I have worked hard in my hermeneutics to overlook this, but I think Paul once said something similar.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Nowhere To Run
Running from the border. Running out of time. And finally, running home. So just what was running through my mind as I fled the British-controlled border of Gibraltar? I can do this. On my own. And then I’ll tell everyone the story. So I ran and ran. And when I thought I was done, I ran some more. Running to pride. Running to my own glory.
We were two travelers, weary from the journey, who were ready to just sit for a few hours and watch a movie in our own language. Leaving the movie theater, we were both shocked to discover the time was 10:40. The last bus to Algeciras, Spain was scheduled to leave at 11:15, yet here we were on the other side of Gibraltar. So what did we do? We ran, of course. We ran through the downtown tourist area. We ran the length of Main Street. We ran across the airport. And we ran to the border.
Jogging across the border we flashed our passports and continued on to the bus station. We arrived at 11:07, but there was no bus. And everything was closed and locked. The sole occupant sat entrenched in the doorway with her belongings including some cigarettes, a pillow, and a coat. “Esta cerrado” she said. With this confirmation, my mind moved to our other options. Option #1: Sleep on the street. No thank you. Option #2: Find a hotel. At this hour of night? Option #3 struck me in a flash. “Cuantos kilos a Algeciras?” “25.” Algeciras was only 25 kilomters away. As I did the math I realized that was only 14 miles! Now the most I’ve ever run is 11 miles and that took a little more than 90-95 minutes. And here, I had all night! What a great challenge! Here was a real chance to show our mettle!
Luke was not so optimistic, but with some convincing he joined me and we soon found ourselves running down the interstate. Several kilometers later, as we jogged along the highway, Luke began to hold up the international hitchhiker sign. In the states this sign could be confused with a "good job," but we went with it.
Some kilometers later, Luke began to pray out loud. He asked God to provide a ride. But above all, he asked God to be glorified in us whether we got a ride or not. Around 12 kilometers from where we had begun in Gibraltar it finally struck me that my heart was wrong in all of this! While Luke had been far less optimistic than I about running home, my attitude had inwardly become haughty and prideful. While Luke was praying for God’s glory to come through provision, I was working hard to create my own adventure.
I jogged through the silence pondering my revelation. And it wasn’t even my revelation! It was God who had provided the conviction of sin. By the light of the moon and stars, God had illuminated my dark heart. My pride. My foolishness. “Lord, I did it again,” I repented, “be glorified in my attitude.” Immediately, the starlight that illuminated the ground we ran turned red. Brake lights came to a halt just ahead of me. Forgetting where I was, I greeted the driver in Arabic. Taken aback, he returned my greeting and continued to speak in Arabic.
For the final ten minutes of our journey I sat in the back seat and relaxed to the sweet sounds of Luke sharing the good news of Jesus in a mixture of Spanish, English, and Arabic. It is not for me to worry myself with what this man decides. But whatever he takes from the conversation, God was glorified through our attitudes. Attitudes of thanksgiving crediting every good and perfect gift to the Savior before our new friend, Hamid.
There is nowhere to run when I run for my glory. I can try to promote my own glory, but He always catches up with me. And as long as my strength, my will, and my endurance are sourced by my own pride I am doomed for a fall. With every step, humbling is just around the next bend. And repentance is the path to win the race, the marathon of His glory.
We were two travelers, weary from the journey, who were ready to just sit for a few hours and watch a movie in our own language. Leaving the movie theater, we were both shocked to discover the time was 10:40. The last bus to Algeciras, Spain was scheduled to leave at 11:15, yet here we were on the other side of Gibraltar. So what did we do? We ran, of course. We ran through the downtown tourist area. We ran the length of Main Street. We ran across the airport. And we ran to the border.
Jogging across the border we flashed our passports and continued on to the bus station. We arrived at 11:07, but there was no bus. And everything was closed and locked. The sole occupant sat entrenched in the doorway with her belongings including some cigarettes, a pillow, and a coat. “Esta cerrado” she said. With this confirmation, my mind moved to our other options. Option #1: Sleep on the street. No thank you. Option #2: Find a hotel. At this hour of night? Option #3 struck me in a flash. “Cuantos kilos a Algeciras?” “25.” Algeciras was only 25 kilomters away. As I did the math I realized that was only 14 miles! Now the most I’ve ever run is 11 miles and that took a little more than 90-95 minutes. And here, I had all night! What a great challenge! Here was a real chance to show our mettle!
Luke was not so optimistic, but with some convincing he joined me and we soon found ourselves running down the interstate. Several kilometers later, as we jogged along the highway, Luke began to hold up the international hitchhiker sign. In the states this sign could be confused with a "good job," but we went with it.
Some kilometers later, Luke began to pray out loud. He asked God to provide a ride. But above all, he asked God to be glorified in us whether we got a ride or not. Around 12 kilometers from where we had begun in Gibraltar it finally struck me that my heart was wrong in all of this! While Luke had been far less optimistic than I about running home, my attitude had inwardly become haughty and prideful. While Luke was praying for God’s glory to come through provision, I was working hard to create my own adventure.
I jogged through the silence pondering my revelation. And it wasn’t even my revelation! It was God who had provided the conviction of sin. By the light of the moon and stars, God had illuminated my dark heart. My pride. My foolishness. “Lord, I did it again,” I repented, “be glorified in my attitude.” Immediately, the starlight that illuminated the ground we ran turned red. Brake lights came to a halt just ahead of me. Forgetting where I was, I greeted the driver in Arabic. Taken aback, he returned my greeting and continued to speak in Arabic.
For the final ten minutes of our journey I sat in the back seat and relaxed to the sweet sounds of Luke sharing the good news of Jesus in a mixture of Spanish, English, and Arabic. It is not for me to worry myself with what this man decides. But whatever he takes from the conversation, God was glorified through our attitudes. Attitudes of thanksgiving crediting every good and perfect gift to the Savior before our new friend, Hamid.
There is nowhere to run when I run for my glory. I can try to promote my own glory, but He always catches up with me. And as long as my strength, my will, and my endurance are sourced by my own pride I am doomed for a fall. With every step, humbling is just around the next bend. And repentance is the path to win the race, the marathon of His glory.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Fragile
Through my hand the rope slides little by little. In complete control, confidence pumps through my veins like adrenaline. The cliff edge now far out of reach, his words echo in my head, "don't mess up, no one can stop your fall." Throughout our training, I have made it my custom to always lead the way. I am the first to repel. The first to climb. The first to take a chance. I go first to take the pressure off my companions, some of whom have never climbed. Whatever the circumstance, at the very least I can fake the confidence necessary to get the job done. Like today. I alone am aware of this smokescreen of trumped up confidence blurring my view to the ground far below.
Other days my confidence is more real, but today, like a sprain, it is functional yet raw after the week's first incident. Returning to bat after striking out, this is my opportunity to re-establish myself. As I lower steadily, the thought remains. The harder I work to forget, the clearer the picture becomes. Upside down. Back against the wall. Feet to the sky. Arm painfully caught between the rock and a rope bearing all my weight. As I had been positioning myself to repel, my feet slipped unexpectedly. Alertly, I had held the rope tight preventing a longer fall. Crashing hard against the rock wall, I was completely disoriented. And still, even now my confidence remains disoriented.
A full 15 feet from the cliff edge, the image burns into my mind. Fear begins to prevail. Is this my worst fear? Confidence, or sweat, perhaps both, empties out through my pores in a continuous flow. The rope slowly feeding, feeding, feeding. I look down. The hot African sun has beaten down all day, but almost in an instant my body begins to boil. As I pant for breath, the wall bears down, mocking my fear. At 80 feet to go, I stop. Blocking the rope off the Grigri with my right hand, I attempt to collect myself. This is nothing new. I am in full control. All my gear is in proper order and...
But it's not. This is my worst fear.
Hanging 80 feet in the air I discovered the fragility of life on this earth. "The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord," said Job upon losing everything from here to the edge of his own life. Job recognized that his Redeemer lives, but the redemption He gives is not from pain and trials in this life. Jesus conquered sin and death which transcends even equipment malfunctions.
Carefully pulling myself to the wall, I climbed onto a small ledge and breathed deeply. Breathed like I never would again. I held tight to the rock face and unhooked my gear from the rope. Properly tying into the rope again, I tenderly finished my decent.
On the rock I realized I am not promised one more breath on this earth. Though I perish, I am His. But until then, there is work to do. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Other days my confidence is more real, but today, like a sprain, it is functional yet raw after the week's first incident. Returning to bat after striking out, this is my opportunity to re-establish myself. As I lower steadily, the thought remains. The harder I work to forget, the clearer the picture becomes. Upside down. Back against the wall. Feet to the sky. Arm painfully caught between the rock and a rope bearing all my weight. As I had been positioning myself to repel, my feet slipped unexpectedly. Alertly, I had held the rope tight preventing a longer fall. Crashing hard against the rock wall, I was completely disoriented. And still, even now my confidence remains disoriented.
A full 15 feet from the cliff edge, the image burns into my mind. Fear begins to prevail. Is this my worst fear? Confidence, or sweat, perhaps both, empties out through my pores in a continuous flow. The rope slowly feeding, feeding, feeding. I look down. The hot African sun has beaten down all day, but almost in an instant my body begins to boil. As I pant for breath, the wall bears down, mocking my fear. At 80 feet to go, I stop. Blocking the rope off the Grigri with my right hand, I attempt to collect myself. This is nothing new. I am in full control. All my gear is in proper order and...
But it's not. This is my worst fear.
Hanging 80 feet in the air I discovered the fragility of life on this earth. "The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord," said Job upon losing everything from here to the edge of his own life. Job recognized that his Redeemer lives, but the redemption He gives is not from pain and trials in this life. Jesus conquered sin and death which transcends even equipment malfunctions.
Carefully pulling myself to the wall, I climbed onto a small ledge and breathed deeply. Breathed like I never would again. I held tight to the rock face and unhooked my gear from the rope. Properly tying into the rope again, I tenderly finished my decent.
On the rock I realized I am not promised one more breath on this earth. Though I perish, I am His. But until then, there is work to do. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
White For The Harvest
From my sanctuary in the clouds, a sea of gold ebbed and flowed in the world far below. Leaning against my pack, I watched wave after wave rise and fall driven by the rushing wind. Each flowed the full length of the valley before crashing upon the far mountainside and returning in a thousand trickling streams to the main body.
From this opposing mountain I had made my way, pulled along by the current. All day I had drifted through an endless ocean of wheat fields. In the cool of the morning, countless others had waded into this same ocean. Using a single tool, these were bent over everywhere cutting at the outer edges of the fields. White heads marked the harvest season as they floated upon the golden stalks rustling in the wind.
Now, as darkness descended over the valley, thousands of tiny lights began to appear. Some stood alone, others banded together in small communities. Thousands of white lights caught in the deep current of the night. A multitude carried about with the wind and the waves. Like white heads in a sea of gold, they wait.
Long ago, Luke stood on these very rocks. He looked out over these very people. He saw the very same white heads ready for harvest. Back then, reality seemed bleak; there was not one light in the entire region. As I stand here four years later, the light is bright. A single light. Yet it shines brightly from this peak over all the valley. Even the parallel mountainside is caught up in its illumination. It has started with one man. And the fields are white for the harvest.
From this opposing mountain I had made my way, pulled along by the current. All day I had drifted through an endless ocean of wheat fields. In the cool of the morning, countless others had waded into this same ocean. Using a single tool, these were bent over everywhere cutting at the outer edges of the fields. White heads marked the harvest season as they floated upon the golden stalks rustling in the wind.
Now, as darkness descended over the valley, thousands of tiny lights began to appear. Some stood alone, others banded together in small communities. Thousands of white lights caught in the deep current of the night. A multitude carried about with the wind and the waves. Like white heads in a sea of gold, they wait.
Long ago, Luke stood on these very rocks. He looked out over these very people. He saw the very same white heads ready for harvest. Back then, reality seemed bleak; there was not one light in the entire region. As I stand here four years later, the light is bright. A single light. Yet it shines brightly from this peak over all the valley. Even the parallel mountainside is caught up in its illumination. It has started with one man. And the fields are white for the harvest.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Reading Between The Lines
The quick rise of loud music provoked me to seek its source. Three teenage boys quickly passed through and entered the next car. As the door closed behind them and their large boom box, the various other noises returned to compete for dominance. Continually rising above the drone of normal conversation were the children. One seated somewhere behind cried loudly for attention. Another, head bobbing from side to side, curiously asked his mother about everything he was observing. While some cried and some talked endlessly, others bounced around darting through the aisle of the train car. Young men carrying large plastic bags stepped around these children as they passed through calling out their products: cookies, snacks, and tissues.
The cabin was almost entirely Africans. Darker skinned Africans likely from the Sahara. Lighter skinned Africans going south from the Mediterranean. And in the middle of the car, four white Americans. The commotion of the train car was steady and continuous, loud stereos, restless children, and a constant stream of venders. Everyone was busy with something or someone. But in the entire cabin I counted four books. Four Americans and four books. And where were the four Americans going? A conference on orality, of course.
I love to read. I read philosophy, theology, fiction, sermons, anything I can. And I read the Bible. The inerrant, inspired Word of God. But what is inerrant and inspired? The words or the meaning? Does inspiration flow through the pen of the apostle? Does inspiration flow as the words are read by each individual reader as Karl Barth would say? Or does inspiration flow through the meaning ordained by God from the foundation of the world? Is it enough to get the stories from the Bible into people's hearts and minds, or must we also get the actual words into their hands?
No decent scholar can claim the Bible is divinely perfect in every jot and tittle, but neither can any decent scholar deny that the Bible is the most accurate, well-documented ancient text we know. The book I carry right now has about a .5-1% difference from the original. Now none of this error changes meaning, but it is enough for the book I carry to not be 100% perfect, inerrant.
So is inspiration found in the actual written words or in the meaning? What is the meaning? A savior, Jesus Christ, was promised, lived a perfect life, laid it down, and picked it back up. What then is perfect and inerrant? Scripture tells us the Word of God. John tells us that is Jesus. He is the divine Word. He is the perfection, the fulfillment of the law. He is the very meaning behind the words which may only be as good, in the end, as faith and hope.
Faith leads to a point of trusting, loving, and obeying Christ. But it falls short of perfection as our imperfect takes on the perfect. Hope, in the same way, leads to a point of stability and surety giving the believer confidence as he expects the reward to come. As mortality is swallowed up in the immortal, faith and hope fall short and are no longer necessary. Being imperfect in themselves, faith and hope get us to the perfect where love and Jesus takes over. Perhaps the Holy Book to which we cling is the same. It takes us as far as perfection where it cedes to the actual presence, words, and love of Christ in perfection.
Is it possible that God, to protect us from even more idolatry (Calvin said the human heart is an idol factory), disallowed Christians to have a completely perfect, in the jots and tittles, Book? Jesus' words are immortal, but what we have left behind, like everything on earth, is corrupted. It groans and waits for the return when glory reigns. Yet between the lines is the message God wants the world to know. It is the message we must get to them by whatever means necessary. Through orality and literacy alike.
The cabin was almost entirely Africans. Darker skinned Africans likely from the Sahara. Lighter skinned Africans going south from the Mediterranean. And in the middle of the car, four white Americans. The commotion of the train car was steady and continuous, loud stereos, restless children, and a constant stream of venders. Everyone was busy with something or someone. But in the entire cabin I counted four books. Four Americans and four books. And where were the four Americans going? A conference on orality, of course.
I love to read. I read philosophy, theology, fiction, sermons, anything I can. And I read the Bible. The inerrant, inspired Word of God. But what is inerrant and inspired? The words or the meaning? Does inspiration flow through the pen of the apostle? Does inspiration flow as the words are read by each individual reader as Karl Barth would say? Or does inspiration flow through the meaning ordained by God from the foundation of the world? Is it enough to get the stories from the Bible into people's hearts and minds, or must we also get the actual words into their hands?
No decent scholar can claim the Bible is divinely perfect in every jot and tittle, but neither can any decent scholar deny that the Bible is the most accurate, well-documented ancient text we know. The book I carry right now has about a .5-1% difference from the original. Now none of this error changes meaning, but it is enough for the book I carry to not be 100% perfect, inerrant.
So is inspiration found in the actual written words or in the meaning? What is the meaning? A savior, Jesus Christ, was promised, lived a perfect life, laid it down, and picked it back up. What then is perfect and inerrant? Scripture tells us the Word of God. John tells us that is Jesus. He is the divine Word. He is the perfection, the fulfillment of the law. He is the very meaning behind the words which may only be as good, in the end, as faith and hope.
Faith leads to a point of trusting, loving, and obeying Christ. But it falls short of perfection as our imperfect takes on the perfect. Hope, in the same way, leads to a point of stability and surety giving the believer confidence as he expects the reward to come. As mortality is swallowed up in the immortal, faith and hope fall short and are no longer necessary. Being imperfect in themselves, faith and hope get us to the perfect where love and Jesus takes over. Perhaps the Holy Book to which we cling is the same. It takes us as far as perfection where it cedes to the actual presence, words, and love of Christ in perfection.
Is it possible that God, to protect us from even more idolatry (Calvin said the human heart is an idol factory), disallowed Christians to have a completely perfect, in the jots and tittles, Book? Jesus' words are immortal, but what we have left behind, like everything on earth, is corrupted. It groans and waits for the return when glory reigns. Yet between the lines is the message God wants the world to know. It is the message we must get to them by whatever means necessary. Through orality and literacy alike.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
I Surrender
Dear agent,
I surrender. I am turning myself in. Perhaps you have discovered me. Perhaps you have discovered where I live. My identity. My purpose. My activities. I have broken no law, officer, but you can probably dig up enough dirt on me to make your accusation. I have not disturbed the peace of your country, sir, but I have seen that your constitution is not enough to provide me freedom of religion.
The following story is everything you need to indict me. I humbly request that you read on to understand my true purpose in your country. As you read, please know that I pray for you. I hope that you will treat me fairly, but I am not counting on it. Do your worst. I surrender.
The greatest story ever told.
I surrender. I am turning myself in. Perhaps you have discovered me. Perhaps you have discovered where I live. My identity. My purpose. My activities. I have broken no law, officer, but you can probably dig up enough dirt on me to make your accusation. I have not disturbed the peace of your country, sir, but I have seen that your constitution is not enough to provide me freedom of religion.
The following story is everything you need to indict me. I humbly request that you read on to understand my true purpose in your country. As you read, please know that I pray for you. I hope that you will treat me fairly, but I am not counting on it. Do your worst. I surrender.
The greatest story ever told.
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