Always Content, Never Complacent

I have learned to be content with whatever I have. (Philippians 4.11)

“I don’t like Paul.” I’ve heard several people say this lately. My response is always the same—a sympathetic nod—because Paul isn’t easy to like. On one page, he takes our breath away with eloquent dissertations on God’s grace. On the next, he trips all over himself, snarling at his detractors, belittling women, and mistaking swagger for certainty. But while I too quarrel with Paul’s personality and more than a few of his ideas, I like him very much. I like him because he’s difficult to like. I like him because he’s never reluctant to admit to his messiness. Most of all, I like him because he’s our finest example of a sincere Christian trying to figure out how all of this is supposed to work and what it all means.

I see Paul as a sort of lead investigator in the faith lab. He’s constantly at work, observing new phenomena, combining ancestral beliefs with novel approaches, debunking outdated myths, replacing them with fresh paradigms, and always—always—struggling unlock the Gospel’s revolutionary truths. Paul insists on publishing his findings as he goes, a daring proposition for anyone carving out new territory, let alone someone tasked with establishing the principles and practices of a radical faith movement. As a result, we’re privy to his blunders as well as his breakthroughs. It’s why we see him barrel down a dead-end alley one place—for instance, in his condescension toward women’s roles in the home and church—and then reverse his direction elsewhere, as he does by declaring, “there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus,” in Galatians 3. These flaws attest to Paul’s obsession with figuring things out. Despite his irksome vanity, he’s not interested in proving how smart he is. He’s doing his best to put everything together for the sake of the Gospel. He may not be likeable. But he’s always sincere.

We can get closer to Paul by recalling that, like many of us, he’s the product of a highly prescriptive faith environment. Before Christ charges him to be an Apostle, he already knows the Hebrew Bible by heart and has gained respect as a model seminarian. On top of that, he’s a Roman citizen, a foreign-born Jew of the merchant class, a person of privilege. So he comes from an entirely different place than the other disciples. By the time he’s stopped by a vision of Jesus on the Damascus Road, he’s sure he’s got a handle on how things work. Now he has to start all over again. And one of the key shifts in Paul’s life occurs when he learns to differentiate between complacency and contentment.

In Philippians 4.11-13, we find Paul’s magnificent contentment confession: “I have learned to be content with whatever I have… In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need.” And what is his secret? “I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me.” We can assume Paul’s talking only about his physical and material needs. Yet I’m of the mind it runs deeper than that. I believe he would also add, “I know what it’s like to be religiously complacent and how to be content with unanswered questions. I can remain committed to trying to figure it all out, while conceding it’s more than I can ever comprehend.” Now his famous “I can do all things” statement becomes an epic declaration of faith in the making.

I’m thoroughly convinced that every Lenten desert contains a Damascus Road of some kind—a bracing encounter with Christ that calls us away from shallow lives of religious complacency and leads to the deeper mysteries of faith. We won’t figure it all out. We’ll make blunders and find ourselves backtracking from ideas we’ve embraced in the past. Not everyone will be happy with us. But in our pursuit of right relationship with God we can find contentment. Paul told Timothy, “There is great gain in godliness combined with contentment.” (1 Timothy 6.6) Pursuing God’s will and way inevitably requires us to start over, clearing away ready-made answers to make room for questions we can’t possibly resolve. But when we combine that with contentment, we will gain strength for our journey and discover lives of faith that are anything but complacent.

Not Ours

Godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. (1 Timothy 6.6-7)

The Myth of Ownership

Great movie lines are hard to come by these days—so much so I can think of only one in the past 15 years that measures up to the old Hollywood standard. It’s from 1995’s The Usual Suspects: “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” The paradox lands like a ton of bricks. By morphing into an allegedly imaginary figment, the Evil One turned into a superstition not to be taken seriously. It was true genius. And though two films could hardly be more dissimilar, the Suspects line popped in my head when I recently re-watched the Frank Capra classic, You Can’t Take It With You (1938), an uproarious comedy about a family of iconoclasts who live like “lilies of the field… except we toil a little, spin a little, [and] have a barrel of fun.” They know all too well that the Devil exists and devote their time to flouting his greedy, fearful ways. The picture climaxes when the grandfather delivers a much-needed lecture to a Wall Street fat cat:

You may be a high mogul to yourself, Mr. Kirby, but to me you’re a failure—failure as a man, failure as a human being, even a failure as a father. When your time comes, I doubt if a single tear will be shed over you. The world will probably cry, “Good riddance!” That’s a nice prospect, Mr. Kirby. I hope you’ll enjoy it. I hope you’ll get some comfort out of all this coin you’ve been sweating over then!

I thought to myself, “That’s another great diabolical lie—the myth of ownership.”

Pause for a second and look around you. Linger momentarily on your most prized possessions. Here in my study, I’m surrounded by essentials and mementoes: my desk, computer, and far too many books and photographs; a straw Fedora that belonged to Walt’s dad; a painting of a lone wolf that hung in my grandparents’ den; a few awards; a pine cone from FDR’s birthplace; an armchair Walt rescued from the trash and painted bright green, covering its seat in leopard print (it’s quite lovely, actually); and, oh yes, our feline terror, Cody, presently curled up on the loveseat. Then there are the gifts: a leather-bound NIV translation of the Bible; a Lladro of the Holy Family; an antique map of Paris; a wall plaque reading, “Slow! Fairy Crossing;” a red apple paperweight. All of these things, each invaluably dear to me, and not one of them is mine. The same is true of everything you see and love around you. None of it's yours.

Getting and/or Keeping

If convincing us he doesn’t exist is the Enemy’s greatest trick, persuading us we can own anything places a close second. The myth of ownership is double-edged. First, it preys on the biological fear of danger and deprivation as well as the psychological need to prove our worth in achievements and assets. Although human acquisitiveness has never been more feverish than in today’s consumer culture, it’s always been our Achilles heel. I believe virtually every conflict that ever tormented us can be reduced to a struggle over getting and/or keeping “what’s mine.” Which leads to the ownership myth’s second deadly aspect. It reinforces the notion that holding on to whatever we’ve got is more important than giving up anything—or everything—we have.

Debunking the myth of ownership blunts both its edges. They make no sense. Since none of what I have was ever mine to begin with, the fact it’s been given to me proves I won’t be deprived of what I need. And since it’s given, I’m foolish to imagine it in any way depicts my abilities and worth. Finally, because it’s not mine, I have nothing to lose by giving it up, whether in duress, sacrificial kindness, or in obedience to God. Once we wrap our heads around the folderol of all this getting and/or keeping, we open our minds to what Paul says in 1 Timothy 6.6-7: “Godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it.”

Great Gain

The second verse is where “you can’t take it with you” originates. Yet without “godliness with contentment” and “we brought nothing into the world,” it’s an overly obvious cliché, part of that rueful bit about not escaping death and taxes. What Paul talks about is hardly a reason to mourn, however. Indeed, he’s teaching us how to be happy. The ownership myth is founded on the fallacy everything we pick up along the way is naturally ours due to qualities we possess—skills, fortitude, creativity, etc., on the plus side, and even negative traits like selfishness, insecurity, and dishonesty. But they're all learned behaviors we acquire in service to acquisition. While we may be born with certain capacities, we no more bring our capabilities into the world than the material things they enable us to amass. Thus, pushing ourselves to do more to have more activates a law of diminishing returns and exposes us to fear of failure. At some point, everyone’s capabilities run dry and the gravy train derails. Mistaking what we’re been given—talents or possessions—for our own is a recipe for hardship and misery.

Knowing all we have is God-given puts our lives in perspective. It seats our Maker in His rightful place, as David describes in Psalm 28.7: “The LORD is my strength and shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped..” This is the “godliness” Paul refers to—unabashed trust in God’s provision and protection. It’s contentment that brings great gain. In Philippians 4.12-13, the Apostle reveals how to be satisfied. “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.” What we have today wasn’t ours yesterday. It may no longer be ours tomorrow. Awareness of this is why we're happy with what we have and unworried by what we don’t. God is our Strength, our sole Source and Provider. In these closing weeks of Lent and throughout the year, it’s essential we realize our fasts and sacrifices don’t ask us to “give up” anything we have. They teach us the joy and peace we gain by giving back what’s not ours.

No matter how much or how little we possess, none of it’s actually ours.

Postscript: The Heart of Worship

We bring nothing into the world and take nothing from it because it’s not about us. Mark Redman’s “Heart of Worship.”

Taking Our Temperature

I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other!

                        Revelation 3.15 

Who’s Hot/Who’s Not

You may have seen this week’s news about the Forbes Celebrity 100. Like other star-struck lists, it always raises a blip of interest. This year’s got a bit more play because Oprah Winfrey, who (evidently) has roosted atop the magazine’s roster of powerful pop figures, slipped a notch. Per Forbes’ calculus, Angelina Jolie has more clout these days. I skimmed the story for all of 30 seconds—twice as much time as it was worth—and then, at the end of the piece, I actually felt a slight pang to read Justin Timberlake, Jennifer Lopez, Johnny Depp, and Tyra Banks fell from the list. While I’m aware these “Who’s Hot/Who’s Not” tallies hardly faze celebrities (if you’re famous enough to make the list, you’re too tough-skinned to take it seriously), it’s hard not to imagine JT and J-Lo, Johnny and Tyra weren’t a tiny bit stunned at being dropped. I certainly was. None of their careers is in trouble. In the last year all four have avoided public scandal and artistic embarrassment. Entertainers quip, “You’re only as good as your last show.” Evidently, that’s not enough for Forbes, because one way to lose your rank is not staying hot.

Self-Satisfied

The Revelation must knock believers at Laodicea for a loop when they read they’re on the brink of getting dropped. Christ has instructed John to write this to them: “You’re not hot, you’re not cold, and I wish you were one or the other.” And He adds this not-so-subtle warning: “Because you are lukewarm, I am about to spit you out of my mouth.” (Revelation 3.16) What in the world have the Laodiceans done to deserve such a reprimand? According to the next verse, they’re self-satisfied and content to rest on past laurels. “You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing,” Jesus says. “But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked.” The Laodiceans aren’t working hard to stay hot.

The church at Laodicea stands in the shadows of more famous ones for which Paul’s epistles are named. Outside of this rebuke, we have little to go on regarding its character and evolution. What we know of Laodicea lends credence to the criticism leveled at it, however. It's a river city in Asia Minor (Turkey) prominently placed on trade routes. Its merchant-class populace enjoys comforts other townspeople only dream of. It rises as an art and learning center boasting one of Europe’s largest Jewish communities. Thus, it’s possible the church may be comparatively stable from the first, given the city’s absence of cultural conflicts and likelihood a predominance of Jewish converts quickly establishes the church’s doctrine and liturgy. If this is correct, The Revelation makes sense. The Laodiceans, like all churches, read circulating epistles—in fact, Paul tells the Colossians to exchange letters with them—and it’s not hard to imagine learning of others’ problems instills a sense of smugness in them.

Through the Motions

When the going gets good, going through the motions gets easy. This is the Laodiceans’ problem. They pull back from God’s refining fire. Impurities filter into their worship. Their value decreases. Self-sufficiency blinds them to their unsightly appearance. In verse 18 they’re told, “I counsel you to buy from me gold refined in the fire, so you can become rich; and white clothes to wear so you can cover your shameful nakedness; and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see.” Christ’s tone rings with condemnation similar to the “shape-up-or-ship-out” warnings issued by Old Testament prophets. Surely this resonates with the Laodiceans, the majority of whom embrace Jesus as their Messiah. The rapid-fire metaphors remind them how far they’ve slid back to former lives of complacency. Once their eyes clear and they see themselves, they don’t look so hot after all.

We may not care about celebrities, but God most certainly cares who’s hot or not among His people. Resting on laurels and assessing progress relative to others are dangerous habits to fall into. Fervor and commitment don’t automatically carry over from one day to the next. They must be renewed every morning and maintained minute by minute. We say this over and over here because it can never slip from mind: following Jesus is an unnatural lifestyle. It demands constant thought and belief. It defies all human instinct and logic. The moment we presume we can love God and our neighbors on autopilot is the moment we step away from the fire. The cooling process begins and the longer we go through the motions, the cooler we get. Each day starts with taking our temperature—testing the intensity of our resolve to please our Maker. If we’re edging toward tepidness, we rush back to the fire, asking God to remove any impure thoughts and habits impeding His expression through us. Malachi 3.2 says, “He will be like a refiner’s fire or a launderer’s soap.” A pleasing temperature and appearance before God will keep us from dropping off His “Who’s Hot” list.

Celebrity hot lists don't carry much weight with stars or most of us. But how hot we are in our fervor and commitment matter a great deal to God. 

(Tomorrow: The Light of Day)

Postscript: Weekend Gospel

Just Wanna Say – Israel Houghton and New Breed

Israel Houghton and New Breed resist categorization. They blend rock-solid gospel grooves and high-power pop to generate some of the most rousing praise and worship sounds currently wafting through gospel churches. This fairly recent hit bursts with fun and excitement, but it’s not as fluffy as it initially seems—or the video’s cutesy intro leads one to expect. The song gets into your system and days later you find yourself humming its hook: “I just wanna say I’m not afraid. I know that You are with me.” Take a few minutes and let that sink in.

Taking Care of Business

At that time the kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom.

                        Matthew 25.1 

A Leadership Seminar

Jesus spends His last few days of freedom in preparation for the hour when He’ll no longer be able to speak at length with His followers. On balance, the Gospels record more public sermons and private conversations during these crucial moments than all of His previous messages combined. One might expect the bulk of His talks to center on explaining what’s about to happen, why, and how the disciples and others should respond. And His discussions do indeed feature some of this. Yet far and away the majority of what He says has a much broader, longer focus. Jesus uses these closing, precious hours to secure His followers’ commitment to continue His ministry after He's gone and their grasp of what His teaching truly means.

To this point, His messages have been fairly perfunctory—a back-to-basics evangelism designed to clear away centuries of needlessly complicated, self-defeating legalism and restore our awareness of God’s unconditional love for humanity. The Holy Week topics, however, are markedly more complex and advanced. These final days find Jesus convening a leadership seminar in graduate theology, eschatology, and ministerial ethics. He recognizes the momentary confusion created by end-of-the-week events will abate with His resurrection. He’ll return for a limited time to explain everything in greater detail. Of greater urgency to Him is instilling the whys and wherefores of His mission while He’s physically present. He’s laying a vital foundation to ground His followers’ thoughts not only for the approaching days, but years to come.

Ten Brides-to-Be

Matthew 24 transcribes a lengthy prophecy in which Jesus itemizes signs predicting the world’s end—global warfare, moral dissolution, natural catastrophes, and so on. He describes their culmination as the mysterious, sudden salvation of the Faithful from these mounting miseries. “Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding with a hand mill; one will be taken and the other left.” (Matthew 24.40-41) Since the precise moment of His return to gather true believers won’t be disclosed, he adds in verse 44: “So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”

Jesus builds on this prophecy in the next chapter with a parable about 10 brides-to-be. They’re each given a lamp to prepare for their groom’s nocturnal arrival. With no confirmed date, it’s important their lamps are filled and ready to meet the groom at any time. Five virgins take this to heart. The others grow lax, occupying their time with more trivial concerns. Without warning, news breaks the groom’s on his way. The prepared virgins light their lamps to greet him. The indifferent ones panic. Their dry lamps don’t stay lighted. They beg the wiser ones for oil, but they’re told, “There may not be enough for both us and you. Instead, go to those who sell oil and buy some for yourselves.” (Matthew 25.9) While the foolish virgins dash to the store, the groom escorts his prepared brides to the wedding banquet, closing the door behind him. When the unprepared virgins finally get their lamps in shape, they bang on the door and plead to get in. The groom goes to the door. “I don’t know you,” he says and sends them away.

Passing the Baton

Jesus follows this parable with two additional ones, both case studies of believers who slough off their responsibilities. In the second, a man entrusts money to three servants. Only two invest it profitably. The third—who holds on to it, but fails to increase its value—is dismissed. The last story describes the Final Judgment, where believers who served others without prejudice are welcomed into Heaven while those who limited their kindness to people they classified as “worthy” of it are rejected. Independently, each of these parables contains unique messages and merits. Taken together in light of when Jesus delivers them, however, also uncovers a binding truth to bring His ministry full circle.

Let’s think back Christ's very first mention of His mission at age 12. He and His family have come to Jerusalem for Passover and they leave the city unaware He’s stayed behind, astounding the temple leaders with His grasp of the Law. When Mary and Joseph finally locate Him, they scold Him for upsetting them so. Jesus replies, “Did you not know that I must be about My Father’s business?” (Luke 2.49; NKJV) When we consider the three parables as a whole—and when they’re told—an overarching message takes shape. Jesus is passing the baton to us.

Taking care of business is now our job. It’s our responsibility to keep our lamps filled with oil (a symbol of the Holy Spirit) to usher Christ’s presence into the world. It’s our task to take what He’s given us, spend it wisely, and return a profit by touching lives and fostering good. It’s our duty to love and care for everyone without partiality or condition, to serve “the least” among us and in so doing serve Christ. Titus 2.14 says Christ “gave himself for us to redeem us from all wickedness and to purify for himself a people that are his very own, eager to do what is good.” That Jesus spends much of His final week on the importance of continuing His work confirms He thinks of His imminent death and resurrection beyond their personal impact on our lives. The cross’s redemption realizes only half its purpose. Taking care of business—doing the work—is the other half. Without that, Christ’s supreme accomplishment on Calvary means nothing.

As different as each of us is, we share a common responsibility as believers to continue Christ’s work in the world. Failure to do so strips the cross of its meaning.

(Tomorrow: Stooping to Greatness)

Closer

Come near to God and he will come near to you.

                        James 4.8 

Getting Close

My mom recently mentioned an innocent question I once asked that taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. I was four and my younger brother and I were playing, waiting for Mom to wrap up her afternoon prayer time. Now, my mother is what Pentecostals call a “prayer warrior.” When she goes to God, she’s not leaving before she covers everything she wants to discuss with Him. She says what she feels and feels what she says. Psalm 34.18 epitomizes her prayer life: “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” It’s not at all unusual for her to weep while seeking God’s guidance for herself and those whose burdens she carries.

A four-year-old can’t understand this, which is why I asked Mom why she cried when she prayed. She replied, “I cry because it helps me get close to God.” What does “get close to God” mean? She led me to the kitchen, picked up an ice cube with a pair of tongs, and turned on our stove’s front burner. “Watch carefully,” she said. At first, she held the ice away from the fire. Nothing happened. Then she inched it forward. The closer the ice got to the flame, the quicker it melted and the less there was until it disappeared. “Getting close to God means we get smaller and smaller so He can get bigger and bigger and help us with problems we can’t fix on our own,” she explained. “Sometimes these problems make us cry. But that’s okay, because when God hears us, He pulls us closer to help us better.”

Less for More

John the Baptist explains the same principle after his disciples grumble about Jesus attracting larger crowds. In response, John compares himself to the best man at a wedding. “The friend who attends the bridegroom waits and listens for him, and is full of joy when he hears the bridegroom’s voice. That joy is mine, and it is now complete.” (John 3.29) John’s attitude shouldn’t surprise his disciples. When he baptized Jesus, he told them, “This is the one I meant when I said, ‘A man who comes after me has surpassed me because he was before me.” (John 1.30) Yet it apparently rankles them to see Jesus succeed so quickly and raises concerns about where they’ll land after John’s ministry fades. But, like it or not, John is eager to give Jesus full rein to fulfill His mission. “He must become greater; I must become less,” he says. Why didn’t his followers get this? Although the Bible doesn’t say, one suspects the closest they got to Jesus was witnessing His baptism from the riverbank. John looked God in the face and felt the warmth of His actual presence. With that, any preconceptions, ambitions, or expectations he had melted away. Having less of himself to contend with availed him to more of God’s wisdom and power.

A Reciprocal Arrangement

Our relationship with God is a reciprocal arrangement. In James’s words, when we come near to God, He comes near to us. How close He comes solely depends on how close we get to Him. If we want to narrow the distance between us, it’s up to us to step forward. On the other hand, if we’re content to remain where we are, we’ll remain as we are. He’ll most assuredly honor His promise to come to our aid when we need Him, but keeping God on call at a distance severely limits benefits we gain by establishing a close relationship with Him. We gain more from Him by losing more of us and we lose more of us by getting closer to Him.

It’s a mystery that’s not so hard to understand. God will always be with us. Psalm 46.1 says He’s an ever-present help in trouble. And Hebrews 13.5 reminds us He promised “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” We can leave it at that, stay aloof, and He’ll still take good care of us. In doing so, however, we take lousy care of ourselves. We all lug around more baggage than we can carry. Our backs ache. We lose things. We’d move ahead much faster if there weren’t so much of us to deal with. When we come near to God and He reciprocates, we start dropping what we don’t need and can’t use to free up space for Him. He must become greater, so we become less.

The closer we get to God, the less needless baggage we carry. 

(Tomorrow: Lifted to Draw)

The Refiner's Fire

But who can endure the day of his coming? Who can stand when he appears? For he will be like a refiner’s fire.

                        Malachi 3.2 

How Soon We Forget

Not much is certain about Malachi, the prophetic book that closes the Christian Old Testament. Working from a few slender references to past events, scholars place it roughly 250 years before the birth of Jesus. The Israelites have returned to their homeland after a 70-year exile in Babylon and reconstructed their nation. As they’ve prospered, they’ve grown lax in worship, giving, and daily commitment to the things of God. In fact, they’re so complacent, they’ve taken to grousing with Him about not working things in ways and in timeframes they prefer. Malachi reads something like a transcript of six discussions in which God takes His people to task for their vain ideas about who’s in charge, as well as their neglect of His house and those in need.

How soon we forget where God has brought us from and what He’s carried us through! Yes, it’s healthy for us to put past miseries behind us—but not to the point of discarding memories of the grace and mercy that soothed our doubts, calmed our fears, and restored our souls. When we’re engaged in great struggles, we plead for God’s intervention, often plying Him with big promises of ways we’ll repay Him for delivering us. These aren’t always idle or manipulative gestures, either. After He answers us, we start out strong. Over time, however, urgency fades from our promises. Conflicting interests arise and new issues surface. Losing all recall of God’s past provisions, we ask, “Where is He? Why doesn’t He do something already?” Demands of this sort became so common with Israel God finally responded through Malachi. The answer wasn’t pretty.

Suddenly

Chapter 3 begins with what sounds like a shiny promise: “Suddenly the Lord you are seeking will come to his temple; the messenger of the covenant, whom you desire, will come.” But a “but” immediately follows. “But who can endure the day of his coming? Who can stand when he appears? For he will be like a refiner’s fire or a launderer’s soap.” This surely surprised Israel. God told them He’d do as they asked. Yet, true to form, He’d do it in an unanticipated manner. “When your Redeemer arrives suddenly,” He says, “rather than fix the problem for you, He’ll to fix you for your problem.” The prophecy goes on to explain rectification would work top-down, beginning with the priests. “He will purify the Levites and refine them like gold and silver. Then the LORD will have men who will bring offerings in righteousness,” verse 3 says. Communication between God and His people had got so garbled with grumbling and chatter it needed cleaning up before anything else. Once Israel heard God’s voice clearly and approached Him in a more pleasing, humble fashion, the rest would fall in place.

Fix Me

One of my favorite spirituals is “Fix Me Jesus,” a plaintive, heart-melting appeal for Christ to do precisely what Malachi prophesied: refine me, clean me up, and purify me so I will stand righteously before You. The words are so basic they’re almost superfluous. The song’s meaning lives in its melody and tempo, which mysteriously pierce the mournful dirge of humble repentance with bright leaps of hope and faith. The whole of the refining process is there: sorrow for having forgotten God’s past goodness, shame in taking Him for granted, tremulousness while facing the discomforts of the refiner’s fire, and earnest desire to be cleansed. In its own way, “Fix Me Jesus” is as perfect as any Advent hymn can get by preparing us to submit to the purification that Christ’s coming brings.

Refinement and cleanliness are pretty. Refining and cleaning are not. They’re messy, laborious, and time-consuming. But we can’t bring God offerings of righteousness without passing through His refinery. We yield to harsh correction now to avoid far worse later. “So I will come near to you for judgment,” God tells Israel and lists offenses He will expel: sorcery, adultery, perjury, exploitative labor practices, oppression of the poor and homeless, and discrimination against outsiders. He ends this, saying, “Do not fear me.” The refiner’s fire is nothing to fear. The Refiner comes near to us to draw us nearer to Him.

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater: Fix Me Jesus

(Tomorrow: Roots)

Postscript: Last Call

A few days ago, I suggested we collect our favorite holiday songs or recordings for a Straight-Friendly Christmas Album I compile and post as a kind of shared gift for us all. So far, though, we’ve not had many takers. Maybe everyone’s too busy to add his/her personal faves to the list. Or maybe it’s just a lousy idea to begin with—all that pointing and clicking! But I’m staying optimistic that we’ll have a last-minute surge of suggestions. As I said earlier, we’re a lively, eclectic, terrific crowd and I believe the variety of songs/recordings we assemble together will be equally lively, eclectic, and terrific. So this is Last Call. Post your selections (one or two) by Friday and I’ll turn it around over the weekend. 

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

And lead us not into temptation…
Matthew 6.13

Discontent
I find this to be the toughest phrase in The Lord’s Prayer. It seems completely antithetical to God’s nature that He ever would lead us into temptation. Repeatedly, the Bible says what’s best for us is His top priority. Psalm 84.11, for example, says, “The LORD bestows favor and honor; no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless.” If that’s true—and it is—why would we even think to pray, “Lead us not into temptation?”

If we look at Scripture’s explanation of how temptation works, though, we get a clearer understanding of what we’re actually asking for. In warning against the love of wealth, Paul provides a vivid picture of temptation’s modus operandi. He writes: “Godliness with contentment is great gain… People who want to get rich fall into temptation and a trap and into many foolish and harmful desires that plunge men into ruin and destruction.” (1 Timothy 6.6, 9) When discontentment seizes control of our hearts and minds, temptation snares us. It plunges us into ruinous, destructive behaviors. Therefore, when we pray, “lead us not into temptation,” we’re actually asking to be steered away from discontentment.

Changing the Rules
Modern thinking places very little value on contentment—mostly because marketing, advertising, and self-help/success gurus have rerouted the concept’s meaning to coincide with complacency. At the heart of this, we find men and women whose personal discontentment tempts to them to stir up and promote our discontentment. The more they can convince us we’re unhappy, the happier they’ll be. Their success depends on a fact we may recognize but somehow fail to resist: they keep changing the rules. What’s “in” and “hot” only lasts as long as it takes to convince us to buy into it. Then, once we’re fully on-board with that, it becomes passé. But where exactly is all this leading? For some reason, it never gets us where it’s supposed to go: contentment and happiness. It invariably leads us into temptation.

Awake and Alert
In Gethsemane, Jesus’s life and ministry teetered on imminent disaster. He agonized over whether or not this was God’s will for Him. Not far from Him, His followers—who also would be forever changed by events of the next 72 hours—should also have been asking God’s will in their lives. But they were complacent; they snoozed. “Why are you sleeping?” Jesus asked them. “Get up and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.” (Luke 22.46) When we ask our Father not to lead us into temptation, we’re really praying He’ll help us stay awake and alert to snares set for us. As followers of Christ, we can’t complacently sleepwalk through life, getting trapped by manufactured mindsets and media-driven desires. We seek godly contentment—there’s great gain there. The rest of this stuff is just pipe dreams others try to project into our lives. Born of someone else’s desire for happiness, they breed unnecessary discontentment and temptation in us.

Asking our Father to guide us away from temptation is asking Him to keep us awake and alert to snares that we may fall into.

(Tomorrow: Deliver Us)