Of Love and Body Fluids

(Warning: What you are about to read will likely either A) gross you out beyond measure, or B) give you a nice dose of transcendent inspiration. Perhaps it will do both. If after reading this, you do find it's both, you might want to ask yourself whether that's actually a coincidence.)

I remember sitting in my English class back in high school when our teacher invited us to close our eyes and entertain a romantic fantasy. He asked us to draw a picture in our minds of the perfect man or woman--a person with whom we were in love, or had a crush on, or for whom we simply had a strong infatuation. We were to sketch in our minds every last detail: their hair, their eyes, their shape, everything about them we found beautiful or attractive. He asked us to focus on how wonderful they were and to celebrate our love or emotion for them.

Done. I imagined this girl in my mind, and felt a searing pulse of warm affection, as I assume, was intended.

Then he said, "Now imagine the object of your affection...naked. Without clothes."

Done! The temperature in the room must have risen several degrees among the students. It couldn't get any better than this.

Finally, he said, "Now, I want you to picture this love of your life, in your mind's eye, naked and beautiful..."

"...on the toilet. I want you to picture them picking their nose and wiping the snot in an unseemly place. I want you to see them mining for earwax and looking at its texture. I want you to picture them urinating, listening to the pee as it tinkles, I want you to smell them passing gas in the most pungent sense, I want you to listen to them grunt, defecating in the loudest manner possible, dropping feces into the water below..."

I can't vouch for anyone else in the room...but my perfect fantasy just turned to nightmare.

Then, pausing for effect, he concluded his experiment by saying, "Now, if you can still tell me you love them...then I believe you."

His point was well-taken. When we consider love, beauty, what is attractive in a person, it usually begins on the surface--how they look, whether clothed or even naked. Then, as we mature, we realize that the object of our affection must go beyond the superficial to what's inside: their intelligence, personality, their emotional maturity and spirituality. But are these the only things that lie inside a person? Should these ethereal qualities be the only reason for our love and intimacy? As my teacher helped us ponder: what about the physical-internal, both the pleasant and the not so pleasant? Can we love that too?

I was reminded of this question recently due to an unusual introduction into the world of nursing and home care. Our dog was hit by a car a few weeks ago and while we're optimistic about her progress, she is currently for all practical purposes paralyzed from the "waist" down and therefore has no control over her urination or bowel movements. So, as the primary caregiver (I'm unemployed), I've had a crash course in changing bed sheets and cleaning up all sorts of bodily messes on an almost hourly basis. The most recent highlight was when she vomitted several gallons of bile all over her bedding and the living room. I'm certain the projectile must still be moving outward as we speak, perhaps even crossing state lines. It was monumental.

But in anticipation of her care, as much as I once feared her pee and poo, as much as I may have dreaded the idea of her exorcist-like vomit, my concern since has miraculously turned far more to her well-being than to my own discomfort. This is hardly a news bulletin to the billions of mothers, fathers, family caregivers, or the number of dedicated nurses in the world, but my love and care for our dog makes this intimate acquaintance with her body fluids seem negligible at best. Rather than repelling me, it bonds.

So, again I ask: is superficial appearance or even the exchange of internal thought and emotion the only medium for love and intimacy?

Why don't you ask the man and woman falling in love, who, during an intimate kiss, exchange each other's saliva for the first time? Ask the husband and wife who, in a sea of sweat, exchange their sexual fluid to become one flesh and perhaps produce a new life. Ask the mother who feels this new life inside, floating securely in her amniotic fluid, sustaining the child with her own liquid nutrients. Ask that same mother as she nourishes her child with breast milk. Ask the new parents on 24-hour diaper duty. Or when they wipe their child's nose. Or, dry their tears. Or clean and dress a wound to protect the flowing blood and plasma beneath their child's skin.

Depending our age, size, or weight, our bodies are from 55 to 78% fluid. So, if you really want to love someone, you must be intimately acquainted with their fluid makeup as much as anything else. And, this fluid, this internal part of us, is messy, it offends our senses. By the very definition of love, it forces us to reach beyond our comfort zone to truly know a person inside and out and accept them for who they are. This is the stuff we so often keep underneath that can only come to the surface in any genuine relationship. It seals our commitment and makes the connection real.

And in the theological sense, I don't think our messy body fluids are necessarily some aberration of fallen, sinful man. Didn't God in fact ordain before the fall that man and woman would become one flesh, joined from the beginning, we presume, through this messy exchange of body fluid? Do you imagine, had man NOT fallen, that he would have never gone to the bathroom? Developed earwax? That he would have never sweated or emitted any BO? I just see no evidence of this. Certainly, it was after the fall when humanity became ashamed of their nakedness, and likewise, it would follow, ashamed of all that flows beneath.

Our most inward parts, no matter how scary, I think, are a good thing. They are God-ordained.* They serve a purpose. Even the waste that we produce can often be good for life-producing soil. It all has a purpose. As vile and base as it can appear, there must be something to it that incites our mercy, and certainly, our transcendence.

The first transcendence, as said above, forces us outside ourselves into the world of true relationship and otherness. But, the ultimate relational transcendence akin to fluidity is the true love and intimacy we can have with our Maker.

Ultimately, while it is attached to different metaphors in Scripture, the very essence of the Spirit of God--the source of true life, love and intimacy--is also spoken of as a "fluid" entering the body and coming out to produce fruit that leads to eternal life. Jesus said, "If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me...from his innermost being will flow rivers of living water."**

Love, while it may begin as fantasy, becomes true and meaningful when we dare to delve beneath the surface of the deep and see what treasures might emerge.

So, jump on in. The water's fine.

* Psalm 139:13-14: "You formed my inward parts...I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made."
** See John 7:37-38.

Minding Your Ps...

No need to tell you where I was, but it was wonderful.

It was high summer and I was on vacation, visiting a location I had been many times before. The sun was setting, I was alone, standing on a quiet country road at the head of an expansive bean field. The crop was low and plush, and you could see all the way to the end. The fading sunlight had been replaced by a host of fireflies, pulsing their glow over the field with a soft, glorious caress. I could barely catch my breath for the reverence of the moment.

It was a pocket of earth that had the strongest sense of peace, of innocence, a place where you could smell the organic fruit of pure and unadulterated life. For me, there was no other place like it on earth.

Now, there are many sunsets, bean fields, and fireflies to experience, so why was this place so special? It was because there was more there for me than just the physical environment. It wasn't just a place. In my past history there, it was where I'd found a sense of place. it was also where I, long ago, had my first glimpse of true purpose in the world. And too, it was where I found a community of people who have changed who I am today. In that high summer evening, I was awed by the effect of more than just some natural environment. A sense of Place. People. Purpose. That's what made it special.

This experience reminded me that, while we're told to mind our Ps & Qs (an old idiom that calls us to always be on our best manners), perhaps our decorum would be better informed by spending time just on our Ps: Our sense of people, place, and purpose. Our Qs, whatever those may be, can come later.

Very often we get to enjoy just one or two of these Ps at any one time, and we float adrift through life, wondering what's missing. Have you ever had a strong sense of people or community--i.e., a great marriage, kids, church, friends, etc.--but hated the place where you lived? Have you ever had a strong sense of people, maybe even loved where you lived, but then had no sense of purpose in life? We can go through all the combinations, but you get the picture. Life is at its best when we experience all three.

However, one obvious question is, if you can't find all three, what do you do? Just live in discontent and anguish? Well, I think there are different ways to approach this:

A sense of people, place, and purpose can exist objectively for us. I.e., we could "stumble" upon it in our journey as I did once in the instance above. But, I had to visit the place on vacation to be reminded of it. I think very few of us experience all three Ps throughout our whole lives.

I do believe they can be pursued. You can search for a people who fit you, a place you adore, you can discover and refine your sense of purpose. Some of us may be missing them simply because we haven't searched hard enough. But the search for all three, too, may be fleeting, always just around the corner, and we're missing the life we were intended to live while on this endless search.

It's possible sometimes to realize that they have in some sense been there all along, and we simply need to shift our perspective to see it. For instance, at the time of this writing, while I'm fairly happy, I'm a little disgruntled about living out my life's purpose and wondering if I'm in the right place. But then I remember that I love my wife and she loves me. Our marriage is the most important sense of "people" or community I could ever have. Wherever we are, she always gives me a strong sense of place. In many ways, living with and loving her is my best sense of purpose. I'm sure those of you with kids, grandchildren, or good friends could say the same thing. So often we pursue the three Ps outside of those who love us, and we're emptier for it.

In light of that, I think the most important place I need to focus my search and perspective concerning the three Ps is on God. I love God and he loves me. No matter where I hang my hat, he is with me. The three Ps aren't fleeting with him. They are sustained first and foremost in my relationship with him. He is my truest sense of place. My dependence on him and his community of followers gives me a sense of people no matter where I am or what I'm doing. Serving him and those in need should always be my most enduring purpose. I can often lose focus of this and try to mind my Ps apart from God. But then, life makes no sense.

And, I know I need to infuse his divine nature into the people, place, and purpose of this world. Ultimately, that's what made the three Ps I experienced above so special for me. Long ago, it was amidst that place of twilight, bean fields, and fireflies where I first had a sense that God was inviting me to be part of his people, where he'd called me to a spiritual purpose that was beyond my nearsighted view of life. It was there where his touch on creation was an overwhelming reminder of his security and significance over my life. There, like no other place on earth, I felt truly at home and had a glimpse of my eternal home.

Where are you? Who are you with? Why are you here? I hope you are on a journey to answering these questions with some sense of satisfaction. If not, start your search for all three. Pursue them. Pray for them. Step back and look for the ways they may have been there all along. Adjust your perspective. Pursue the most organic source of your people, place, and purpose in God, and in Jesus, his Son.

Are you minding your Ps? It's not just about good manners. Life doesn't mean much without them.

The Pain Now Is Part Of The Happiness Then

Today, I'm in mourning. There's a weight on me that feels like the dense pressure in your chest they say is common with a heart attack. I've cried more in the last few days than I have in years. My emotions go from disorientation to shock, from guilt to a sense of peace. I'm in mourning because sometime last night, I lost one of the best friends I've ever had.

This friend was my cat, Figaro. Now, before you roll your eyes and go off in search of something less melodramatic, let me first tell you a few things. I too was floored at how deep my reaction was to Fig's diagnosis a few days ago and his passing early this morning. Why was I so impacted by the thought of his death? Then, I reminded myself that, as a combination animal-lover and introvert, I have very few close friends, especially ones with whom I've had intimate, daily contact for over 11 years. And, Zolla and I have no children, so our connection to Fig was definitely, parent-child. Among all the pets we've ever owned, Fig has always been the most special. I won't bore you with why, but just believe me when I say it's true. And so, out of the blue, the idea of his passing struck me at least as hard as any other human death I've ever witnessed.

At one point after the vet told me he'd die very soon, I even began emulating his physical symptoms, almost like E.T. and Elliot. Like Fig, my throat had swollen, I was very lethargic and rigid. At the end of the day last night, I was even working on a fever and other severe symptoms. While I didn't sleep much, it was at some point just before dawn when my symptoms subsided. And, I knew he was probably gone.

I know there are many people who are losing or have lost human loved-ones to cancer, etc., and I would never claim you should place this on the same level. The point is, you shouldn't, but for whatever reason, I have. So, whether you've lost a pet like this, or a human loved-one, perhaps you'll find some helpful parallels here. So, call me silly, but this event has simply given me pause to consider the implications of the life and death of any loved-one.

The question that hit me with the shock and speed of Fig's death was how it was possible to reconcile the immense joy I've felt with him in my life and the vile pain of watching him fade away. It feels so offensive, almost incomprehensible that such extremes should be part of the same relationship. The feelings written down in art and experienced by others was finally hitting home for me. 'What was the point,' I thought, 'of experiencing such joy with another (even an animal), if that person was just going to be ripped away by sickness and death?' It just didn't make sense.

One thought, of course, is that it's not supposed to. You can call it one of life's great mysteries. Or, you could get more specific and say that God never intended death and suffering. All that was the result of man (and subsequently, all those under man), separating himself from his Creator. So, if I'm to focus on godly comfort and faith, maybe I should just pray for a pet heaven, or buck up and rejoice that God has it all in control.

Well, I do believe that such thoughts can be helpful, but I don't think mourning itself is meant to be that simple. One of my favorite movies is "Shadowlands," the story about how the writer, C.S. Lewis, meets and marries a woman, only to lose her to cancer. At one point before her death, his wife wants to speak to him about her illness and passing, and Lewis, of course, objects. But, she tells him, "We can't have the happiness of yesterday without the pain of today. That's the deal." And, later, after he has lost his wife, Lewis repeats the sentiment in this way: "Why love, if losing hurts so much? I have no answers anymore: only the life I have lived...The pain now is part of the happiness then. That's the deal."

While I don't believe that God caused the pain and suffering that comes with this fallen world, he has decided to enter into both the joy and the pain of our life and relationships, and that somehow, sanctifies both. Sure, there will be a day without sorrow and pain, but that day isn't today. And so, while I'll never call sickness and death "good" (it is vile and evil), I will call it part of the hand we're dealt when we choose to enter into relationship, to love another and to be loved. In this sense, we should embrace mourning with as much devotion as we embrace joy.

Part of being human in this fallen world is that we're a mixed bag of life and death, love and hate, joy and pain. Just as they conclude in the movie above, the quality of joy we have with one another in life would perhaps seem a little less precious if there were no cost, if there were no limitation or end to it. Life, love, relationship, then becomes a frail and wondrous thing to be valued above all other things. And, we must experience pain and death, I think, to catch a better glimpse of that.

I woke up at one point early this morning to see that the bathroom light was on, the door closed. My wife, Zolla, who loved Figaro as much as I did, was in there penning a poem for him. Later, we placed him in his box, wrapped him in a towel, and set near him a small teddy bear, some play-string, a jingly ball, and some cat treats. And, before also placing the poem in the box, Zolla read it to him aloud:

********

Here lies Figarodeo,
Coolest cat I've ever known.
You loved singing along to "Strangers in the Night"
Elevator rides, staying in the garden all night.

The finger game,
Making the bed,
Following us on walks,
Sleeping on the edge.

The "spot of the week" was your
Favorite place to nap,
Except when cuddle emergencies would strike,
Then it was sprint...tackle - straight to a lap.

The only cat I know who would
Always come around
To greet you for his nap pickup,
To get carried upside down.

A force to be reckoned with
10 pounds of fluff.
We learned to respect when you
Had to be tough.

"Don't touch me" kitty
We dared not embrace.
Big stray dogs
Out of the yard you would chase.

You were not just a cat.
You were our very best friend.
If animals go to heaven,
Surely we will see you again.

No more "Figgage."
No more fluffy kitty
With the beautiful face
And gray tipped hair that made you so pretty.

I didn't think we would have to say goodbye so soon.
An enormous chunk of our hearts is going with you.

********

The pain and the happiness. That's the deal.

Three Questions To Ask Yourself Before Speaking

If you're like me, you get in trouble for opening your mouth a lot. It's part of being human. But, there are lessons we can learn on how to filter our speech, whether it's with our family, our friends, co-workers, or with the stranger on the street. The following is one of the most effective lessons on this I've ever heard.

Some call it the "three golden arches of communication." These are three filters we should pass our words through before speaking up about something. As with anything, they don't always apply, but I bet you'll find that they could be used more often than not in conversation.

So, here are three questions you should ask:

Is what I'm about to say...

1) TRUE? Many times we take truth for granted, when people really need to hear it. We withhold truth for fear of hurting someone, or being rejected ourselves. But, it's often not a kindness to withhold truth from someone.

However, truth in isolation can be very abusive. So we must also ask...

2) Is it LOVING? Lots of us are truthful without being kind. For instance, how would you husbands answer your wife when she asks, "Do I look fat in this dress?" We shouldn't lie, but we must balance truth with love, discretion, and empathy. It requires translating truth into a "language" or vocabulary that is most helpful to the hearer.

Finally, we should ask...

3) Is it PROFITABLE? This is often about timing. For instance, it might be both true & loving to confront a friend about his drug addiction, but if he's not ready to hear it, it may be worth waiting for the right time. There are times, of course, when a spoken word will show profit down the road. I.e., they may not respond to what you have to say right now, but it may kick in later on. But, we shouldn't always assume this is the case. We can get impatient when we want to make a point or advise someone. But, why speak if it has no chance of being heard and received?

None of this is rocket science, but I'm guilty of applying only one or none of these in daily conversation, and my communication can be worthless or even worse, hurtful. If my words don't pass these tests, silence is usually the best choice.

This all falls back on another basic question: "When I speak, am I treating the person in the way I'd want to be treated?" It requires thinking before speaking--another habit we all could stand to apply more in our relationships.

So, probably nothing you haven't heard before, but I thought it might be a good reminder. I need to be reminded of it daily! :)

Life Is Relationship

Have you ever heard of Viktor Frankl? He was an author and psychotherapist who died about 9 years ago at the age of 92. Among his other accomplishments, he wrote a great book called Man's Search For Meaning. This book begins by showing the way Dr. Frankl would start out his therapy sessions with a new patient. Many of these patients would come to him at the end of their rope, wallowing in despair, and Frankl would start out by asking a simple question: "Tell me, why don't you just commit suicide?" Seems like a pretty counterproductive way to begin therapy, wouldn't you say? But, faced with such a stark question, these people, no matter how far gone in their hopelessness, were forced to come up with a credible answer. Why were they still alive? What sense of meaning made life worth living?

Frankl felt entitled to ask such a question because he himself had discovered the answer. His answer came in the concentration camps of Nazi occupied Europe. A Jewish Austrian, he was thrown into the camps for most of the war and, of course, barely survived (most around him didn't). He was stripped of every layer of humanity left him, and survived on what is most basic to life--at least, what he discovered was most basic.

You see, he was sent to the camps with his beloved wife, but they were immediately separated, and he never saw her again. But, there was one thing that kept him going while in the camps--he could never actually be sure what happened to her. And his faith in that little uncertainty gave him hope. At the depth of his despair, he knew that he had to stay alive and live on. Why? Because, no matter how faint the odds, if it was even possible that there was someone out there who loved him and who he loved in return, he had a reason to live. Just this prospect alone gave his life meaning.

The idea that he learned and passed onto his patients was that Life is Relationship. If life has any merit, any meaning, it's that we have the opportunity to love and be loved. Sometimes we need to be asked a startling question or endure a crisis to realize this, but this understanding exists within all of us. As goes the cliche, 'no one on their deathbed ever wished they spent more time at the office.' But, it's not a guarantee, it's an opportunity, and it becomes something like a gift. For Frankl, it was his wife. For us, it could be a friend, a father, our spouse, our children. The sum of our worth or accomplishment in life is measured, not by how much money we have, how beautiful we are, how famous we are, but by the richness in our personal relationships.

But even in these relationships, we're often faced with the sickly reality that we're all pretty messed up as human beings. We often hurt and are hurt by the ones we're closest to, often as much as we help, and being human, we're also subject to another relational hurt--the pain of sickness and death--the pain of seeing a loved one suffer or even die. So, as much significance as we can get from our human relationships, they too can often fail us, and we're left hungering for something more.

To me, that's why God is the ultimate necessity for life and meaning. But, perhaps you're one who asks the question, 'how can I have a relationship with someone I haven't even seen? How can that give me meaning?' Well, it's a bit like Dr. Frankl. He had faith in even the remote possibility of his wife's existence, and that gave him hope. And, if we really search inside, even when we're feeling the most hopeless or cynical about life, we'll know that there is a God out there who loves us. Think about it. If in the deepest parts of our soul we realize that the only thing that gives life meaning, the only thing that makes life worth living, is our personal relationships, then doesn't it make sense that the source of that life would also be personal, and relational?

In the face of our despair, we can have faith in this "little uncertainty," that there is someone out there who won't ever leave me, who won't let me down, who deeply loves every stitch of my existence. Even when all my human relationships seem to be falling away, I know there is one out there who can be the father, the sister, mother, brother, the spouse or loved one I may have never had. And, on top of that, there's a bonus. As I get to know this loving God, I can also see my human relationships more infused with the integrity and love I always wanted from them.

Do you know when God first noticed something was wrong with the world he'd created? It wasn't Eve and the apple. It was Adam, standing by himself in the garden. In the face of his glorious creation, God saw that something was still incomplete: He said, "It is not good that man should be alone." And, still today, we all feel this in our deepest heart. It is not good for us to be alone. We are not complete as human beings until we are in relationship. With others. With our Creator. And he is out there, loving us right now, and waiting to be loved by us. In my highs and in my lows, that's what keeps me going, and makes life worth living.

Character and Wonder

I love movies. For good or ill, they have had a major impact on my life. I'm a fan of most genres—comedy, romance, drama, action.

As a fairly analytical human, I was thinking a while back on what makes a great movie…great. Certainly there are many ingredients—good writing, talented actors, a visionary director, striking cinematography, etc. But, I asked myself—are there more intangible qualities in the greatest movies that go even deeper, that elevate a movie to a higher level, leaving us somehow changed?

Two qualities came to the surface—Character and Wonder. The most impacting movies (whether the impact is pure entertainment or something deeper) tend to excel in both of these areas.

Indiana Jones in Raiders Of The Lost Ark comes to mind. Indy's character was larger than life. He was a brilliant archeologist, handy with a whip, a hard-luck romantic, relentless to a fault. And also, none of the characters around him, no matter how minor, were wasted. Even if they just helped to paint the backdrop of a smelly bar in Tibet or a marketplace in Cairo, they all had an energy and color. And the world Indy encountered was also full of wonder—menacing Nazis, exotic locations, mystic and holy dangers. The more recent epic, Lord Of The Rings, is of course another classic example of this—a cast of unforgettable characters against a vast and complex world of wonder.

In some movies, it's not so much about the character amidst his or her world, but rather the wonder we find in the character himself. In As Good As It Gets, Jack Nicholson's character is a wonder to behold, a man whose neurotic peccadilloes alienate him from the one thing he wants most—someone to love. And, Helen Hunt, the eventual object of his love is more of a wondrous character in the simplest sense, that even in her own loneliness, as Jack tells her, "you say what you mean, and you almost always mean something that's all about being straight and good." We see in this film how the character of the human spirit is a wonder in itself—we're complex, we're simple, we're full of mysterious emotion, and we're all crying out for generally the same things.

In one of my favorite movies, To Kill A Mockingbird we see the innocent character in the little girl, Scout, and the wonder of childhood as she explores and seeks to understand the joys and the evils of her small town in Alabama. Her father Atticus is a towering wonder of a character—resolute, wise, compassionate. Boo Radley (my cat is named after him) represents all that is fearful in childhood—he is unknown, his reputation is built far more on shadow and suggestion than anything real. And yet, he turns out, as a grown man, to have the heart and purity of a child. We find that Boo also has the strength, like Atticus, to protect the weak and stand up for what is right. I could go on and on about the character and wonder to be found in virtually every frame of this film.

Some of you will remind me that Mockingbird is actually based on Harper Lee's brilliant novel, and that these qualities are just as relevant to great literature as they are to movies. And, I'd agree. I actually began this blog with the medium of film as more people tend to watch movies than read books nowadays. But, character and wonder have long been, I think, the supreme ingredient in great literature as well.

And, that leads me (my regular readers knew I'd go here eventually), to what I believe is the greatest storytelling of all time, the ancient story of the Old and New Testaments. The Bible is a fascinating book in that while its ultimate purpose is relational, i.e., it's meant to draw us into a closer encounter with our Creator, the medium God often uses toward this end is fantastic storytelling. And, again, character and wonder are to be found everywhere in its pages.

Moses, for instance, is quite a character, to say the least. He's this bag of massive neuroses—he's terribly insecure about his ability to accomplish anything for God, and is seen in a fairly comedic scene arguing with the Almighty ad nauseum about this fact. He asks, "Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and that I should bring the sons of Israel out of Egypt?"1

Like so many of us, Moses knew that his character simply wasn't up to the task. But, God doesn't then give him a pep talk to build his self-esteem. What he does is ask Moses to focus on something else—the character and wonder of his Creator. God tells him, "I will be with you… I will stretch out my hand and strike the Egyptians with all the wonders that I will perform among them."2

God wanted Moses to live in a state of wonder as he trusted in the character of his Maker. And, in the cinematic fashion that we've marveled at in such movies as The Ten Commandments and The Prince of Egypt, God then imbued insecure, little Moses with the character of someone who could stand up to one of the most powerful men on Earth. Moses delivered over a million people from the hopeless bondage of slavery by demonstrating the wonderful miracles of God. He became the hero of God's amazing story.

We often go to movies and read books merely to escape from the hopeless drudgery of our daily life. We would love to imagine that we could live the life of that hero we find on the silver screen or in that epic novel, where life is full of meaning and color, where we're clear about the quest at hand, and determined to see it to the end. But, then we leave the theater, or close the book, and return to what Thoreau called "lives of quiet desperation".

But, do you realize that God, the author of the greatest story ever told, has included you as a character in His wonderful quest? An ancient poet said that from your innermost parts, you "are fearfully and wonderfully made,"3 that you are a part of God's wonderful, creative works. And that, for you to play the character that God has given you to play, you must simply live your life in wonder about Him and the character of His Son, this "Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace"4—this Jesus.

God has created us for this quest. You, the actor in God's story…Are you ready to play the part?

1 Exodus 3:11
2 Exodus 3:12, 20
3 Psalm 139:13-14
4 Isaiah 9:6

Humility and Gratitude

(Originally written June 2007)

A beautiful woman died the other day. And, for my own life, I have no reason at all to complain.

Jacqui was to turn 28 in a month or so. She was a gorgeous, petite girl with striking eyes and auburn hair. She was filled with love and with an amazing energy for life. She was married just under 2 years to a wonderful man. But, she died. Of cancer.

I went to her funeral with that sick feeling in my stomach. Why this tragedy? Why would God allow such a wonderful young woman to be taken so soon? The scale of this injustice seemed almost too high to fathom. It was so absurd, so cruel, that amidst the anger, all I could do is laugh.

So, I prepared myself for my internal role at this service. To remember her, yes, to mourn her, but what I perhaps most anticipated was to join in with all the others in an angry cry to God. "How could you do this?!!" I imagined perhaps we'd all be shaking our fists at heaven and condemning God for his rank stupidity and carelessness.

But what awaited me there was something altogether different. What I found wasn't some paltry jury full of vindictive, bitter God-haters, but a group of family and friends who had come to celebrate a miracle. Through personal stories and the pastor's eulogy, I was reminded that Jacqui's life, although way too short, was one of victory. And that nothing so simple as death could stifle that.

By her own public admission, Jacqui had been delivered from a past of hopelessness, where in a sense, though still living and breathing, she was already dead to anything that mattered. She had a baby daughter while still in her teens. Her life was devoted to the numb pleasure of drugs and recklessness, falling in and out of selfish, superficial relationships. Her behavior became so bad, that the powers-that-be removed her daughter, and so the one good thing she had produced in life was also taken from her.

But, then, in her early 20s, she started attending church and the miracle, although slowly, began to happen. Within a few years, she began to see that there was more to life than her own self-destructive desires, that God had a plan for her to rise out of the pit of her own making, and that no matter who she had been, God wanted to breathe into her a new life and a fresh start. She became free of the drugs, met and married a man who didn't run when things got tough, and after everything, achieved a goal she once may not have thought possible--she was given her daughter back.

Sitting at her funeral, I was reminded that amidst her past failures and future triumphs, Jacqui embodied two characteristics that I have found to be crucial to knowing true happiness--humility and gratitude. Jacqui was humble. After committing herself to God and seeing the changes he was working in her life, she knew that any value or worth that she had came solely from him. She once offered to help out around the church, but felt so unworthy at the time that she asked if she could serve in a capacity where she would "remain unseen." The process of change was long and tedious, but when she made a particular commitment to alter her behavior, she stuck to it. At one point, feeling she was perhaps falling back into the overwhelming desire to do drugs again, she independently entered rehab to make sure the change would stick. Her humility strengthened her resolve to rise above who she had once been.

And, Jacqui was grateful. She saw that she'd been given a precious gift, and that, no matter what future lay before her, she would never take it for granted. So, when she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin Lymphoma and was progressively given news that her body was failing her, her sense of humility and gratitude never left her. In the latter stages of her sickness when all physical hope was lost, she wrote a friend a letter in which she referenced a passage of Scripture that had encouraged her deeply:

We have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed...All this is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God. Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.*

Freed from her own self-indulgence, Jacqui was able to see that 1) we should be humbled by the fact that none of us are guaranteed our next breath, and that, 2) we should be grateful for the life we have been given. And because of her commitment to God and his Son, Jacqui knew that the life she'd been given would go on forever. And that her miraculous transformation of character, her new husband, the return of her daughter, were just a small taste of what that new life would be like. Jacqui was humble. She was grateful.

So, I look to my own life and see that it's not about what's happening around me, or even what's happening inside me, i.e., my health, etc., but how I choose to respond to it all. Believe me, I can often find myself griping about the smallest offense, or the silliest disappointment, but for my own life, I just have no reason to complain.

You see, I often don't have control over what will happen to me when I step out of bed each day, but I do have control over my perspective. When I'm feeling down about my life, about the people who've hurt me, about how I'm not getting my just due, or even about how God could allow people like Jacqui to suffer and die, there are specific traits that are missing from my psyche. I'm not truly humble. And, I'm not grateful. When I really get honest with myself, I have far more reasons to be humble and grateful than I have reasons to complain.

But, the hurts and disappointments of life keep coming at us, don't they? So, amidst my own self-indulgence, this true perspective of life must be renewed each day. My perspective must ultimately be about who I am before God in the context of eternity, more than who I am in this relatively short visit to planet Earth.

If you find yourself in the pit of depression, despair or bitterness, I know that this might seem like a tall order. But it is possible. Sometimes, it needs to just begin with a single area of focus, and we can grow from there. So, I'll start with Jacqui. I am humbled by her amazing life and am most grateful to have known her. And now, not surprisingly, my life is a whole lot brighter for having entertained that thought.

* 2 Corinthians 4:7-9,15-18

Awakening From The American Dream

I hate to admit this, but there’s a side of me that sometimes enjoys the idea of oncoming disaster.

Maybe I’m too detached and numbed by the virtual world of movies and television, where a 10.5 earthquake sends California into the ocean or an ice age suddenly covers all of North America.

It’s not that I welcome the human suffering that disasters bring. The death, distress and turmoil that have resulted in such events as 9/11, Katrina, or most recently, Gustav, are in no way to be celebrated or made light of.

So, perhaps my fascination with disaster is just immature fancy and should be subdued. But, one thing that excites me about any larger than normal upheaval is it feels revolutionary—it often serves as a type of wakeup call for humanity to get its priorities back in order.

That’s one of my thoughts as I observe the onset of potential disaster in our country’s economy. I see people writhing in pain and gnashing their teeth at the gas pump and on the floor of the U.S. Stock Exchange. Some of their anxiety is genuine, in my view. Some of it isn’t.

Where is our fear really based? What if we took our fears to their extremes? What if we did lose our whole 401k? What if we lost our house to foreclosure? What if all the gas stations closed and we couldn’t drive to work anymore? What if we had to file for bankruptcy? What if all the banks failed?

Would there be suffering? Sure. And, some of that suffering would in no way be welcome—no money for healthcare, babies without necessary food, sickness, perhaps death. But, I wonder if for most people, the fear and the suffering wouldn’t necessarily be as bad as we want to make it out to be.

I think the nightmare many fear is sourced in some corrupt mutation of what was once a good dream. The American Dream. The American Dream grew out of the foundation that anyone has the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. All Americans should be afforded the opportunity to make a life for themselves, to pursue that which brings contentment and, dare I say, meaning and purpose.

But, what is it that truly brings life and happiness? Is it the freedom to use our credit card for daily expenses and make only the minimum payment every month? Is it the liberty to pursue the latest fashions, the latest IPhone, the largest high definition TV? Is it the opportunity to build equity in a home only so we can buy an even bigger home? Is it the pursuit of so much material good that both husband and wife must work full-time and rarely see each other or their kids?

Certainly, I could go on and on. And, I don’t claim to be above the attractions of materialism. I do consider myself, however, to be a “recovering addict”. Over the last 4 years or so, I have moved from holding a nice corporate job that I felt was devoid of meaning, to pursuing a life in service to others. My wife and I now work part-time, took the equity in our previous home and bought a more modest house out in the country at half the price, and are seeking to prioritize our lives as best we can.

Our first year in this experiment was one of the happiest in our marriage. We were already seeing a payoff from running away from the flow of a material-obsessed culture. For instance, more than just living from paycheck to paycheck, we often had no money for the mortgage with just a few days before it was due. But, every month, without fail, the money somehow came in. Every month. Right on time. We were truly happy in one sense because money wasn’t something to argue about. We didn’t have any!

Again, I don’t claim everyone would have this experience, but I do wonder what we really need to be happy and to survive. If, as I said above, we live in constant fear of losing everything, is it possible that our definition of “everything” is a little out of whack? As is often said, people who lose their house in a fire instinctively cling to what’s really important—each other. The absence of money or material possessions can wake us up to what’s important.

The American Dream, in its purest ideal, is worth pursuing. But, left to its own devices, without any deeper foundation, I think the American Dream can lead to the American nightmare such as we’re getting a taste of today.

In my view, there’s a deeper dream, a truer happiness that’s worth pursuing. A “Kingdom” dream, if you will. As fan of Jesus and what he did when he walked our soil so long ago, I see a man who lived a dream. He was King who had a Kingdom dream. But, it wasn’t a dream of riches, or comfort, of retirement, etc..

He was, in the most practical sense, a homeless man. He had no large home, nor did he have a large mortgage. He traveled from place to place in service to others. He had little to no money. What he did have, he shared with his community and those he traveled with.

He had no technology, no internet, no television, no MP3 player to distract him from the real world. He had no car, so he didn’t need to fill his gas tank. He walked everywhere. His pace was slower. He could truly notice and embrace the world around him. Sure, he paid his taxes to Caesar, but I don't think he was overly-obsessed with how his taxes were spent. He made his most important investment in the Kingdom of God.

Today, we debate whether a bunch of rich, greedy corporate hounds should be bailed-out by our government (and our tax dollars) with the hope that our economy won’t go under. I go back and forth on this issue and will let better minds debate it among themselves.

But, what gives me the most peace is that this King living his Kingdom dream offered me—a rich, greedy, materialism-obsessed human—a bail-out that goes much deeper than any temporary band-aid for our economy. He lost everything, so I could have Him, who truly is everything.

And, he didn’t just give me the opportunity to pursue some future happiness in Heaven. He offered me life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in a Kingdom that is present today, “at hand” in the here and now. He offered a Kingdom that exists in the eyes of the poor in spirit, in the humble of heart, in the peacemaker, in the ones who love God and others more than themselves.

That’s a dream worth “waking up” to. That is, as long as we choose to wake up from the nightmare. As scary as the nightmare can be, upon waking, it soon seems brief, fleeting, and is soon forgotten.

The Greatest Of These

(This is a feature I wrote for Good News Magazine back in 2000)

THE GREATEST OF THESE

How Alzheimer’s other victims have loved, persevered and come to terms with one of life’s most dehumanizing diseases.

Love never fails. But . . . whether there is knowledge, it will vanish away. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known. And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love. (1 Corinthians 13:8,12—NKJV)

The greatest of these is love. When knowledge vanishes, or faith and hope are tested, love can fill the depths of our need, coloring our perspective with the hue of what’s important, what is lasting. And certainly, love can give us reason to live when all else falls away.

Alzheimer’s disease is a vile falling away. It strips a person of their personhood: their sense of knowing, of connecting with their world and with other human beings through words, communication, deliberate emotion, and awareness.

But, equally tragic, it plays the sadistic trick of torturing not just the victims of the disease, but those who love them as well. Of course, all serious illnesses have this effect. But, unlike other diseases which attack the body, taking a loved one far too soon, Alzheimer’s assault on the mind often lingers, ever slowly robbing families of a loved one’s essence while typically keeping the rest of the body in tact for years.

So, the story of Alzheimer’s must certainly include the families, the caregivers, as well as the victim. And, understandably, the conclusions drawn by loved ones in the face of such tragedies are most passionately held, and often differ, depending on the effects of the disease and the personalities, backgrounds and beliefs of all those involved. But the one constant, at least in the following distinct testimonies, is the greatest of these. Here are three stories:

BETTY

“My whole life, I’ve called her Mama. Now, I just call her Mom,” my wife, Zolla, realized recently. Her own mother, Betty Wadsworth, 76, was only a few years ago diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

Zolla’s sister, Joyce Striclyn, living close to her parents, is one of their mother’s primary caregivers, along with another sister, Noretta, with various other family members pitching in, eight children in all.

Joyce describes the day her mom was diagnosed: “[The doctor] asked her if she had any children. She hummed around a little bit, then decided, yes, she had some children. And, that day, she was married. He asked her to name her children, and she looked over at me and said, ‘There’s one. Ask her.’”

Sweet, playful remarks have been a trademark of Betty’s life long before they were mixed with such a bittersweet irony. Sometimes Alzheimer’s can alter someone’s personality as well as their intellectual prowess. In Betty’s case, however, while the disease has increasingly diminished her mental confidence to articulate or define what’s important to her, her endearing, gentle personality to this point has remained untouched.

“We’ve learned things from Mom,” says Joyce. “We have learned that, even when she doesn’t have her mind, she is still sweet and kind and loving. I don’t know that I’d pass that test.”

And yet her children increasingly mourn the loss of a woman who is still very much alive. Not having the closest emotional bond with their mother, Joyce describes how she bonded with her children rather through mutual experiences, and how they are sorely missed:

“She would always do fun things with us: projects, quilting, cooking,” she says. “I grieve her loss of ability to cook and to be artistic, her love of gardening, her creativity as an expression of herself.”

One talent that does remain, however, is Betty’s devotional adoration for God. Where her vocabulary has diminished in most other areas of life, Betty can still sing the words to the older church hymns from beginning to end with only occasional difficulty.

“She likes being in church,” remarks Joyce. “Although, it makes her nervous when people come up to her and say, ‘Hi, Betty,’ because she doesn’t know who they are. And, then she gets real close and sticks real close to me. But, when she sees her sister, Nora Belle, she’ll literally run across the room and give her a kiss.”

As with the hymns of God are Betty’s childhood memories. Forgetting the names of most everyone else around her, Betty can still name her brothers and sisters. Like many stricken with Alzheimer’s, Betty’s short-term memory has been replaced by an awareness of long ago, when she was perhaps bursting with the potential of youth, and life was more simple and secure.

Her only remaining and closest sister, Nora Belle, describes a time a few years ago when she sat down and tried to read the Bible with Betty, and felt a painful difference. “It was terribly difficult. I recall [in childhood] that I would sit next to her in Sunday School because I was afraid that I wouldn’t know a word when they called on me to read out of the Bible. So, I would sit next to her because she would always tell me the word.”

“And I thought when we were sitting there trying to read at the table that day—‘this is strange. I’m telling her.’ And, that never, never occurred. She was always the one helping me.”

Alzheimer’s is frequently shown to be a genetic disease, so Nora Belle is relieved not to have yet seen any sign of it in her own life. But Betty’s illness has been the next in line of many past such cases in their family, including their mother, aunt and grandfather. So, for Betty’s own children, my wife included, there is the added burden of not only seeing the mother they knew fading away, but perhaps fearing for their own futures as well.

“We are so fragile and we don’t realize it,” muses Joyce. “We think God has given us this brain and the power to think and the power to create and the power to choose and we often think we’re God. But, we still are fragile people and we are totally dependent on God. And our ability to reason, to choose, to think is all a gift from Him.”

And yet with my wife’s mother, despite the stark symbolism of her illness, much of the core of what has made her so lovable still holds fast. Not all families with Alzheimer’s are allowed this reprieve, so understandably, not all will draw the same spiritual solace. But, in the midst of their loss, God’s redeeming hand hasn’t been hard to find.

Says Joyce: “I think that having mom in my home helped me to conclude that you can’t determine when it’s time for somebody else to die. God can use people in all sorts of physical situations. He can use those people to teach the lessons to his children that he wants to teach. So, mom can still teach us things in her state of mind. Although, I would not want to be her, I can learn from her. She’s good all the way through.”

FRANCES

“I think our reflex as Christians is to look for the good in all things, but in so doing we often miss the point,” says Daniel Dickerson. “The point of suffering is not to find the beauty in it—the point of suffering is to learn to put your trust in, and rely completely on God. God is more important than our pain, and he is infinitely more able to take care of us during difficult situations than we can imagine.”

In her 9th year since showing the first signs of Alzheimer’s, Daniel’s mother, Frances Dickerson, was home alone with her husband in Tucson, Arizona when a powerful storm blew through town. Once described as a pleasant, upbeat, even bubbly woman, Alzheimer’s had beaten her kind demeanor into submission, leaving her far more anxious and fearful of the unknown, which for her had become nearly everything.

The storm came hard that night and sent her into a panic. What was worse, it had been some time since she either knew or trusted her husband of 35 years—he had become “that man” who would seemingly badger her, invade her privacy and make her do things she simply didn’t want to do.

Physically still a powerful woman, Frances took a kitchen knife, pacing around the house as she was often prone to do, assuming various defensive postures. “She didn’t recognize my dad, and she felt threatened,” says Daniel. “It was then that we realized we wouldn’t be able to take care of her for much longer. We were beginning to be at risk.”

In a few days, says Daniel, they were forced to place her in the local hospital’s secure wing. “We walked in the door and she knew full well where we were and why. She clung to my arm fiercely and trembled as people walked by. We made our way back to the secure area, and when the door locked behind us she cried and clung to me and begged us with what little words she could speak. It was the most horrible thing I have ever done. I wanted to die that day.”

Frances was only in her early 50s when she was released from her position as an intensive care nurse for what was then called ‘mental incompetence.’ It’s extremely rare that Alzheimer’s would strike so early in life—most who fall victim start showing signs in their early to mid-60s or later. So often, the physical frailty of age coincides with the mental decay.

However, Frances’ physical appearance and ability remained strong for many years from the start of her mental decline, which frequently made her difficult to handle. As the dementia progressed, she would often escape from her family’s grasp, later forcing them to place an ID bracelet on her wrist so they could track her.

“Her vocabulary was almost completely gone at this point,” remembers Daniel, “and she no longer sang in the mornings. Instead, she whistled a constant, aimless melody. She whistled constantly. Whenever you didn’t hear the airy, aimless tune of her whistle, you knew something was up—she had probably just escaped.”

In a later incident, Frances turned up missing for days, only to be found with blisters on her feet almost 30 miles away from where she started. Still hoping to care for her themselves, her family had to place deadbolts on the doors to keep her from fleeing.

Then, after the incident with the knife, they were finally forced to give up on a 9-year commitment to keep her at home with the people who loved her most. In the cold halls of the secure nursing home, she paced and paced, often to the point of collapsing, like so many in her state, simply trying to find her way home. Her physical health final succumbing, Frances died 5 years later, only a few days after her 40th wedding anniversary.

The early attack of the disease and the painful change in Frances’ demeanor made the 14-year journey especially tragic for Daniel, his father, and other siblings. To them, they’d been cheated of knowing and loving a mother who had so much life and potential, and whose time had just not yet come.

Says Daniel: “One of the more troubling parts of Alzheimer’s for me is the idea that our minds are made up of chemicals. . . I usually think of my personality and my mind as being something fundamental and unchanging about me. It’s who I am, I would say, and they can’t take that away from me. Well, in this world, they can. . . I can only hope [my mother] wasn’t even here during the last 5 years of her incarceration on earth.”

“But, when I reflect on my experiences taking care of my mother for 9 years, I realize how much of God’s strength and grace I experienced. I should have been crushed, but I came through fine. More than fine, even. I look back, and I am amazed at the strength I felt, and the peace of mind, even during some of the tough times.”

“Alzheimer’s is a horrible, dehumanizing illness, and I may never understand why my mother was struck with it, but I can say with certainty that God is a powerful refuge, and he can bear all of my burdens with ease. And I’ve learned to trust in him.”

MURIEL

In 1990, Robertson McQuilkin retired from his 22-year presidency at a prominent Bible College to care for his wife, Muriel, who had been stricken with Alzheimer’s several years before.

Although Muriel suffered from most of the typical symptoms of the disease, she somehow still knew and was fiercely dependent on the man she married. So, McQuilkin gave up his career to devote his life to caring for his progressively fading love. Today, along with his daughter, he cares for her still, 23 years now from the onset of her illness.

In his 1998 book, A Promise Kept, McQuilkin writes: “It was no great effort to do the loving thing for one who was altogether lovable. My imprisonment turned out to be a delightful liberation to love more fully than I have ever known…Twenty summers ago, Muriel and I began our journey into the twilight. It’s midnight now, at least for her. Sometimes I wonder when dawn will break. Even the dread Alzheimer’s disease isn’t supposed to attack so early and torment so long. Yet, in her silent world Muriel is so content, so lovable, I sometimes pray, ‘Please Lord, could you let me keep her a little longer?’”*

*****

The human tragedies that come from living in a fallen world are countless. In the face of a tragedy such as Alzheimer’s, a loved one’s faith in what is just, what is good, is often stretched beyond the frame of what a loving God could ever allow.

The disease is never kind, but sometimes in the midst of its wretchedness there are sparks of redemptive light, teaching us lessons about God’s provision in spite of such worldly darkness.

Perhaps the greatest lessons learned are how so few things in this life are incorruptible, and how God is their only source. And through all the suffering, we pray for those who have left us, whether still in the body or not, and we survive, knowing that we have loved them well with the love of God—the greatest of these.

* Excerpt used with permission from Tyndale Publishing.

Throwing In The Towel

Here's another life lesson I had as a kid that has left a significant mark on who I am today. In my early teens and at various other periods growing up, I was the victim of a lot of "persecution" by my peers...teasing. The persecution came in a lot of forms, some physical with bullies, but I guess most of it was verbal--name-calling, etc.

Middle school is a really tough age. If I thought I'd get anywhere, I'd go door-to-door with a petition to send kids straight from grade school to high school, but I guess that won't happen.

The teasing led to what has so far been the most stressful time in my life, and I was eventually ready to just quit school altogether and hide in my bedroom till I was eighteen. So, at one point, my parents sent me to see a counselor. The lesson that stuck with me was when the counselor was addressing my responsibility in the situation, in other words, how I reacted to the teasing.

He brings out this bath-towel and asks me to grab onto one end. He takes the other end, and starts to pull, and asks me to start pulling back. So we enter into this tug-of-war, and he tells me that on his side, he'll play the part of my peers, and so he starts calling me names "stupid, idiot, geek," etc. He then asks me to respond the best way I can--to defend myself: "I'm not an idiot!, I'm smart!, I'm not a geek!"

The tension rises, we're both struggling in this battle over this bath-towel...Im pulling with all my might, but he's much bigger than me, and its all I can do to hold on. Then, in the midst of the struggle, he throws me for a loop with this odd request:

He tells me, "Let go."

Now, here am I, doing what he asked me to, pulling with all my might, and he wants me to let go! And boy, did that strike some fear into my heart. The emotions surged inside me: 'I can't let go, Ill lose! Ill be giving in!. If I let go, I'll become what they say I am!'

"Let go," he says again. Something in me just wouldn't let me do it. It was like my very survival was at stake. Letting go meant falling backward into... who knows what? Maybe I thought it would kill me, I don't know.

Then finally he yells it at the top of his lungs: "Let go!!!!!"

So, I let go. And, as I remember, stumbled back nearly falling onto the floor. I was startled, to say the least. I can imagine we were both breathing heavily and sweating from this struggle. Now, I don't remember exactly what he said next. But, the gist was something like this:

"Where is the problem now? By letting go of the struggle, not defending yourself so stridently, you've left no fuel for their fire. But, by continuing to hold on, it is you who contributes to your own demise."

Once I entered high school, I eventually became a pretty self-confident person, realizing my gifts, building my self-esteem. Yet, I've never become completely free of the effects of that teasing. One time just a few years back, I was sitting in a minivan with my 11 year-old nephew in the back seat right behind me. He starts messing with me, kicking the seat, pulling at my hair, laughing at me. I did my best to behave like the "adult uncle" in asking him nicely to stop. But, you know what came up in me? All these emotions of helplessness that I hadn't felt in years...I felt like I was in the 7th grade all over again.

And, I still struggle with defensiveness today. I can fall into this pattern of spending way too much time concerned with how others perceive me. And oh, how I hate being accused of something I didn't do! Just ask my wife. :) A lot of our marital arguments are sourced in that little insecurity.

But, I realize that while I'm most definitely responsible to respond to the needs of others in following the great commandment, "love God, and love your neighbor as yourself," I don't always have to defend my honor so aggressively when someone offends me or when I think I'm being labeled unjustly. The most important source for my self-esteem and worth is God--what others think of me really doesn't mean a whole lot in the greater scheme of things.

Can you identify? When someone opposes us, we pull and pull on our towel, stressed out by the struggle, but fearing that to let go would perhaps be the end of us somehow. But, you know what? I think God wants our relationships to be proactive rather than reactive. In hindsight, perhaps if I was more mature back when I was a kid, I would have focused less on what my peers were doing to me, than what I could do for them.

Whether it's during an argument in our marriage, whether we're secretly hurt by a friend's comments, or whether we're weighed down by the burden of unrealistic expectations---when we give up our need be to always be right, when we "turn the other cheek" and "lay down our lives" for the person we're in conflict with, we can actually become a little bit more like Jesus, who suffered way more "persecution" than most of us can fathom. When we let it all go, we can benefit from the unity and peace God wants for our relationships. We actually end up getting the peace we wanted all along, but just didn't know how to find.

There's a line I remember from the movie What Dreams May Come where it's said, "sometimes when you lose....you win." I guess another way to say that is, 'Sometimes, you need to throw in the towel...but that's how you'll win the fight.'"

Fingal's Cave

There are certain works of art that have a lifetime impact on you. At least for me. They literally shape who you are. Reading Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Madeline L'Engle as a kid could qualify. Reading Plato in high school was significant for me (if that qualifies as art). One of the most epic encounters with a work of art occurred for me back in 1986, in my freshman year as an undergrad. I was taking a class on "aesthetics," which refers to the principles of beauty. But the focus of the class was really the philosophy of art. This class had a far greater impact on me than most in my undergrad years, but on top of that, there was this one musical composition in that class that will be with me forever.

My zealous professor stands before us one day and says he's going to let us experience the power of variation, the power of musical narrative. He takes this vinyl album from its sleeve (remember those?) places it on his record player, and I heard for the first time Felix Mendelssohn's "Hebrides Overture," or as it is also known, "Fingal's Cave."

To understand this music, you must first understand its inspiration. It was 1829, and Mendelssohn was with a friend touring by boat the Scottish Islands known as the Hebrides. The British Isles are often stormy, and this day was no exception. People aboard the paddle steamer were vomiting left and right, including Mendelssohn himself. But the main attraction of this tour was Fingal's Cave, and despite the storm, he and his friend got into a much smaller boat to enter and explore it.

Fingal's Cave is a 227-foot basalt sea cavern on the Hebrides island of Staffa. This sea cave has a color and geological symmetry unmatched in any other natural phenomena. Sir Walter Scott described it as, "one of the most extraordinary places I ever beheld. It exceeded, in my mind, every description I had heard of it--composed entirely of basaltic pillars as high as the roof of a cathedral, and running deep into the rock, eternally swept by a deep and swelling sea, and paved, as it were, with ruddy marble--it baffles all description."

This is the natural wonder Mendelssohn, sick as a dog, entered with his little boat on that stormy day. And, amidst the visual wonder, he also experienced the wonder of its sounds. The acoustics of this cathedral with the violent waves crashing up and down and in and out of the cavern were, as Scott found, beyond logical description. But, as sick as he was, and as terrified as he was, Mendelssohn was able to describe it--in music.

So, here am I, hearing my professor tell me this tale, and then I heard the notes of Mendelssohn's musical description. The orchestral strings were at once ominous, relentless, and later soared into the echo of seagulls. The force of the orchestra rose and fell like a wave, rolling, fierce, reaching a terrifying height, then at once subsiding into a deep calm. The incessant crescendo and decrescendo were beyond marvelous. Then, there was a still in the waters. And finally, it ended with a musical climax I have never heard duplicated. I was fully immersed by the wonder of it all. I was exhausted. I was in that little boat myself, carried by the power of nature, left for dead by its terrible beauty.

In the hindsight of years of Scriptural study, the metaphor for God and his sovereign power in nature have not been lost on me through that aesthetic experience. One thinker we studied in that class was Edmund Burke. He spoke about an experience in nature, like standing before a vast mountain range, where you encounter something so simultaneously beautiful and yet so beyond you that you are left in complete astonishment and awe. Burke said that "the passion caused by the great and sublime in nature is astonishment; and astonishment is that state of the soul in which all its motions are suspended with some degree of horror. In this case the mind is so entirely filled with its object, that it cannot entertain any other." You are so overwhelmed that you literally feel a dread for your own existence, but so exhilarated that you are also fully alive, and your focus can find no other object to behold.

This is the experience I want to have with our Almighty God. In nature. In art. In prayer. In worship. He should terrify me with his beauty, with his utter glory. I should be transfixed by his omnipresent love, in awe of his sublime power. Since experiencing that one work of art, I now see God in nature in a profound, new way. And, if I'm lucky, I hope to further experience (and by God's grace, produce) works of art that, like Mendelssohn's, carry me beyond my visceral sense of self into the presence of this Almighty Creator.

(Note: if you want to hear the piece for yourself, it's out there for only 99 cents. I couldn't find a decent rendition on Itunes that wasn't attached to a whole album, but I did find a few on Rhapsody, and I'm sure it's to be found elsewhere. The full title is "The Hebrides Overture, 'Fingal's Cave' Op. 26" by Felix Mendelssohn.)

Freedom In Relationship

(Originally written just prior to the 4th of July, 2006)

Jean Valjean was "a very dangerous man."

That was the description written about him on the yellow passport he carried. After nineteen years of horrible imprisonment for the small crime of stealing a loaf of bread, he was set free. But, although now outside the prison walls, he knew he was still a prisoner, and the paper he carried proved that to all he encountered.

Upon his arrival at a certain French village, he stopped at an inn and was rejected--the innkeeper was alerted that he was an ex-convict. He left the inn, and children followed, throwing stones at him. Even the local jailer rejected him, saying he'd need to be arrested again to find any lodging there. Finally, to his astonishment, he was received by the local Bishop, the Monseigneur Bienvenu. The Bishop gave him hot food on silver plates and a warm place to sleep.

But, even after this kindness Valjean was no less hardened. His long imprisonment had sealed his hatred for this society, this world, and he trusted no one. So, in the middle of the night, he left, after stealing the Bishop's precious silver plates.

In the morning, the Bishop answered a knock at his door to find Valjean, bound in chains, in the custody of the local police who had caught him with the stolen silver. Breaking his parole, he would certainly be taken back to prison. This time, for life.

"Ah, there you are!" said the Bishop, looking toward Jean Valjean. "I am glad to see you. But I gave you the candlesticks also, which are silver like the rest, and would bring two hundred francs. Why did you not take them along with your plates?"

Jean Valjean opened his eyes and looked at the Bishop with an expression which no human tongue could describe. As the police released him and left, he felt like a man who is just about to faint.

The Bishop approached him, and said, in a low voice, "Forget not, never forget that you have promised me to use this silver to become an honest man." Jean Valjean, who had no recollection of this promise stood confounded. The Bishop had laid much stress upon these words as he uttered them. He continued solemnly:

"Jean Valjean, my brother, you belong no longer to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God!" *

***************

The story of Jean Valjean is about human bondage and freedom, which those of us in the United States are reminded of as we celebrate our Independence Day. But, this story goes beyond the important ideas of the civil freedoms we enjoy in our Constitution. We are right to celebrate our civil freedoms. We are indeed privileged to live in a society where we are generally free from the tyranny of Kim Jong-il's North Korea, Stalin's U.S.S.R., or Hitler's Germany.

We are free to worship, we have freedom to speak our minds, to live where we like, etc. But, there are other tyrannies that can imprison us, aren't there?--prejudice, hatred, selfishness, guilt, depression, recklessness, etc. To the eyes of others, we may seem to be perfectly free human beings, but still, like Valjean, we may walk in hopeless bondage.

But, if we are free to do what we like, why do we still walk in chains? Well, sometimes these chains are placed on us by others. A young child might be unmercifully teased in the school yard, a woman may spend years verbally and physically abused by her husband, an accomplished man may be passed over time and time again for a promotion because of the color of his skin. Our world can be most cruel, and often, due to circumstances beyond our control, we find ourselves trapped in prisons from which we cannot escape.

Sometimes our bondage is of our own making. Jean Valjean certainly understood that his initial imprisonment was of his own doing. And, originally, his sentence was only 5 years. It was only after multiple escape attempts that it was lengthened to 19 years. In these cases we understand that freedom isn't just about what we choose to do, it is also about what consequences result from our actions. A man may be free to drink as much alcohol as he desires, but if his drinking leads to addiction, divorce, a lost and lonely life and perhaps even death, is he really free in his freedom?

We are only free when our choices lead to a freedom that transcends human choice. I think this goes back to the premise I mentioned in a previous blog, that Life is Relationship. If life is relationship, then the ultimate freedom we could ever hope for is to be found when our choices move beyond our right to our own autonomy, to a life bound by the mandates of true relationship. To a life of freedom that comes from divine grace.

Jean Valjean was a hard man, rejected and forgotten by most of society. This Bishop not only welcomed him with food and rest, but purchased his soul for God with the gift of reprieve from a return to prison, and with the wealth of silver to start his life anew. With this kindness, Valjean was now compelled to live his life for others, not out of harsh condemnation, but because of a freedom received that he in no way deserved.

As a follower of Jesus Christ, I find myself compelled to live according to this same freedom. It is said that "there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and of death." **

Did you know that, in a nutshell, freedom was the main thrust of Jesus' mission here on Earth? He came to "proclaim freedom for the prisoners...to release the oppressed." He provided a release for people from the bondage of their own circumstances, self-inflicted or otherwise--he restored relationships, he fed the hungry, he healed the sick. He taught people how to live a life beyond their own selfish choices so they could enjoy life to the full.

This is the freedom God wants for us all. Yes, he wants us to be free from all that binds us. But, he ultimately wants us to be free for one another. So, like the moment you commit yourself to your spouse in marriage, forsaking all others, only to find the freedom that comes from love and family, God wants us to bind ourselves up in his love, and commit our lives to following him.

Some have said that none of us are truly free unless we have been liberated. The Bishop had been liberated by Christ's example and therefore liberated Valjean, and Valjean liberated many in return. Valjean left the Bishop that morning and devoted his life to seeking all that was good and to helping his fellow man. He was still pursued by those who would condemn and imprison him, but he lived for the sake of the poor and the oppressed, and was forever free of his slavery to hopelessness and hatred by that one small act of grace. Freely he received. Freely he gave.

Have you been liberated by grace? What will you choose to do with it?

Is this not the fast which I choose, to loosen the bonds of wickedness, to undo the bands of the yoke, And to let the oppressed go free and break every yoke? Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into the house; When you see the naked, to cover him; And not to hide yourself from your own flesh?...If you remove the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger and speaking wickedness--then your light will rise in darkness and your gloom will become like midday. And the LORD will continually guide you, and satisfy your desire in scorched places, and give strength to your bones; You will be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water whose waters do not fail. ***

On this Independence Day, I am proud to be an American. But, most of all, I am humbled to be free to live for God...and for you.

* This combination of paraphrase and direct quotation is taken from the novel, "Les Miserables" by Victor Hugo.
** Romans 8:1-2
*** Isaiah 58:6-7,9b,10b-11

Vengeance Is Mine: An analysis of the spiritual origins of violence and murder

(Note: This may seem a departure from the typical theme of this blog, but given the recent rash of mass shootings, I though it appropriate to re-print an article I wrote several years ago on the subject. Specifically my analysis considers the spiritual origins and causes of such violence. The context of the article is the Columbine school shootings, but I think it's still relevant to what's happening today. Also, this was originally written for a Christian magazine and audience, so you'll notice such a worldview predominates throughout. Not the only way to approach the issue, of course, but perhaps you'll find it helpful.)

VENGEANCE IS MINE:

Columbine, Cain and the rising culture of violence in our schools

Imagine how our modern culture might assess history’s first murder.

Brother Cain kills brother Abel. We ask, what could have led him to do such a thing? Was he neglected, perhaps even abused by his parents, Adam and Eve? Were rocks and sharp objects too accessible? Perhaps it was the resentment of being forced to eat food by the sweat of his brow among the thorns and thistles of his father’s curse before God? A smug brother? An overbearing mother? Most importantly, our society might ask, what conditions could have been changed to prevent this first of human tragedies?

Perhaps none. In fact, according to Scripture, although Cain and Abel were born after the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, there is every reason to believe that the residual benefits of living in Paradise still had a strong hold on their quality of life. In other words, their character, their health, if not the conditions of their environment, still had many generations to go before real corruption would have its hand.

So, it’s doubtful that Cain had it so bad as to justify his “temporary insanity,” as so many in our culture might press if he were on trial for his crimes today. In truth, he had things almost perfect. So, why did Cain kill his younger brother?

Vengeance.

Cain wanted justice for his loss of favor before God, so he adopted for himself God’s exclusive prerogative to exact either condemnation or mercy in killing Abel. He was simply obeying the enticement first whispered by Eden’s deceptive serpent: “You will be like God, knowing good and evil.” Deciding that the ultimate sense of good and evil was his to measure, Cain carried out his crime.

The Modern Cain

The foundations of sin laid in Eden are no different, of course, from the fundamental cause of sin today. And, just as Cain would play judge, jury and executioner upon his innocent brother, our culture is seeing its youth strike out against their own “brothers” and “sisters” in much the same way.

Only now, over the last few years especially, it’s happening in our schools. And our children’s secular caretakers are scrambling to discover why and, more importantly, what secular conditions they can change in hopes of preventing this “new” phenomena from ever happening again.

But, despite their desires, it is happening over and over, and our schools have become places of fear as much as they are places of learning. In the last five years alone, the country has seen more than 15 separate school shooting incidents, and while statistics show that homicide in the general population has decreased, the massacre of groups, especially on school campuses, has risen dramatically.

Do access to guns, exposure to violent movies, videos, music, and persecution at the hand of bullies serve as a cause for this seemingly novel trend of youth violence? Certainly. But, the fact that these exact cultural conditions may be unique to past generations does not naturally dictate that by removing them, we necessarily remove this new brand of violence they are blamed for.

These cultural influences that have enticed our children to kill their peers are part of the problem to be sure, but they are merely symptoms of the much deeper, age-old sickness of Cain.

Judgment Day

Just two years ago this April, this sickness revealed itself most notoriously in the hearts and actions of Columbine’s Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. In a 46-minute killing spree in Littleton, Colorado that they would call their “own little judgment day,” these two boys committed the coldest, most calculated and bloody school massacre the nation has ever seen.

While there have been numerous school shootings before and after Columbine (most recently in two communities near San Diego, California), none have matched it for its vile ferocity, or for its spiritual implications about a culture that produces children where God has become increasingly irrelevant.

While the other shootings certainly contributed a part to understanding these implications, Columbine’s complex and chilling story offers us a more comprehensive whole. In other words, to understand the motives for other school shootings past and future, we could do well to begin with the lessons of Littleton.

In its aftermath, as with every school shooting before, investigators and members of the media again went on their typical search for answers, for how these “normal” kids from such an affluent white suburb could do such a thing.

One such member of the media was Wendy Murray Zoba, a writer for Christianity Today. Mrs. Zoba went searching too, but, unlike many of her contemporaries who missed the point on Columbine entirely, Zoba’s investigation of the these shootings produced some more than notable conclusions on what the story of Columbine should awaken us to culturally, morally and spiritually.

In her superbly insightful book, Day of Reckoning: Columbine and the Search for America’s Soul*, Zoba approaches the story of the Littleton shootings on many levels and from numerous perspectives. But, in particular, she shows the heart of two violent young men who reflected their culture and followed the way of Cain, borrowing the prerogatives of God and his right to pass judgment on mankind.

Pursuing the recurring questions about what motivated these killers, she and others found the following philosophy on Eric Harris’ personal web site:

My belief is that if I say something, it goes, I am the law, if you don’t like it, you die. If I don’t like you or I don’t like what you want me to do, you die. . . Dead people can’t do many things, like argue, whine, b—, complain, narc, rat out, criticize, or even . . . talk. . . God I can’t wait till I can kill you people. I’ll just go to some downtown area in some big-a—city and blow up and shoot everything I can. Feel no remorse, no sense of shame.

They entered the school library the day of April 20th, 1999 (reportedly chosen because it fell on Adolph Hitler’s birthday), Harris in his t-shirt with the words “Natural Selection” and Klebold’s t-shirt reading “WRATH” in tall, red, block letters. It was there that they would commit by far the worst bloodshed, killing 10, seriously injuring dozens.

Zoba recounts the words of one witness in the library who survived to tell what he’d seen: “‘There were a few times girls would ask [them], “What are you doing? Why are you doing this?” They answered, “We’ve always wanted to do this. This is payback. We’ve dreamed of doing this for four years. This is what you deserve.”’”

Zoba later documents that these boys considered themselves “evolved”—beyond humanity, beyond good and evil itself—which might explain the troubling ease with which they carried out their deeds. Unlike many school shooters who fired their guns out of visible pain and desperation, these young men killed with a determined calm and satisfied glee.

The Fear of God

“There was a corner of their hearts that whispered to Harris and Klebold: You are your own masters; you don’t have to serve anybody but yourselves,” writes Zoba. “They were convinced, as Dylan Klebold noted on one of [his home] videos, ‘We’re gonna have followers because we’re so . . . god-like.’”

The violent fantasy life these two boys entered into wasn’t just about allusions to video games like Doom, or simply emulating Arnold Schwarzenegger. Ironically, although they are documented as loathing all things Christian, they often imbued their quest for revenge with numerous spiritual themes about the wrath of God, assuming it was theirs to dispense. Zoba writes:

Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold . . . brought “God” into this event at almost every turn. In the planning stages Harris documented the rampage in the blue spiral notebook he called ‘the book of God.’ . . . Harris said, ‘We have a religious war.’ [Their home] videotapes abound with biblical imagery and ravings against God and Christianity. Harris said, ‘The apocalypse is coming and it’s starting in eight days.’

Caught up in their delusions of deity, and devoid of any healthy reverence for His name, it was only natural that they’d come to resent the One, True God, and especially, the obedient servants God favored and adored. Just like Cain:

The LORD looked with favor on Abel and his offering, but on Cain and his offering he did not look with favor. So Cain was very angry, and his face was downcast. Then the Lord said to Cain, “Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must master it.” . . . [then] Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him (Genesis 4:4b-7,9b NIV).

The Columbine shooters were further unique from most other school shooters in that they showed a premeditated pattern of striking out specifically against well-known Christians at their school, arrogantly mocking their belief in God before murdering them at point-blank range.

One of these Christian Martyrs was a girl named Rachel Scott. Recounts Zoba: “‘They came back up to where Rachel was crying,’ said [Rachel’s sister,] Dana Scott. And lifting her head by her ponytail, ‘one of them confronted her with the question, “Do you believe in God?” She said, “Yes” and he took a gun to her temple and killed her.’”

While the veracity of some of the accounts were questioned, particularly the martyrdom of Cassie Bernall, Zoba writes that most witnesses confirmed that at least three of Harris and Klebold’s victims were well-known Christians, all uniquely and deliberately being shot in the head.

According to accounts collected by investigators, Harris and Klebold, at least implicitly, felt slighted by God for the way they grew up, for how they were treated by their peers, for how life appeared more absurd and meaningless than it did livable.

In truth, they were suicidal, and eventually took their own lives at the end of their rampage, but they were determined not to leave this world without taking with them as many of those they hated as possible. Justice would be served and while they would probably be remembered in infamy, it was their destiny, they believed, to nevertheless long be remembered. Writes Zoba:

Feeling victimized and exacting revenge arises from the sense of being empowered to act upon one’s own version of truth as the master of one’s destiny. It gets messy, however, when one person, in mastering his personal destiny, cuts short the destiny of someone else.

The Death of Vengeance

Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold committed a vile act of murder and rage that will likely haunt schoolyards and classrooms for years to come. Yet, however notorious their actions might seem to our tabloid culture, what they did has been done from the beginning of man.

Man cries out in pain for the injustices of this world, and often seeks his own murderous justice in return. But, just as history’s first son exacted the price of his own pain on his brother, God’s only begotten-son paid the ultimate price of pain for us all through his death on the cross. God’s righteous wrath on mankind was rendered on the only man who deserved none, rendering vengeance’s ultimate demise.

“There is so much that is wrong in this world, so much that is unjust and unavenged,” Zoba writes. “These unanswered injustices, and the judgment due them, come together on the cross.”

She later writes:

The cross was necessitated before the first shot was fired, in fact before the first murder in human history registered. The cross was necessitated because of the part of the human heart, theirs and ours, that inclines to go the wrong way, to become like God. The impulse is the same, only in lesser degrees, in us all when we convince ourselves that we don’t have to serve anyone or answer to anybody as we live our own God-likeness and assume his prerogatives.

Life on this earth is so fleeting, and often so painful, so evil, that in the smallest ways to the most destructive, we all tend to believe the Edenic lie that in “knowing good and evil,” we can somehow hold fast against our own mortality and corruption, and “not surely die.” But, we all will die someday short of Christ’s return, whether in the quiet sleep of old age or, God forbid, as the victims of our violent culture. No one is immune—not even our children.

But, in the face of evil, we can turn to the One who is good, whose Lordship over our lives can supercede our urgings to try to master the chaos that surrounds us, and whose resurrection from the dead has conquered death itself, giving us hope for a life eternal—free of pain, and full of everlasting justice.

Theologian, N.T. Wright: “To pray ‘deliver us from evil’ or ‘from the evil one’ is to inhale the victory of the cross, and thereby to hold the line for another moment, another hour, another day, against the forces of destruction within ourselves and the world.”*

So, by the power of the cross, we hold the line.

* All the following excerpts from Mrs. Zoba’s book are used by permission of Baker Books Publishing.
* From The Lord & His Prayer. Used by permission of Eerdman’s Publishing.