Second Chances

The LORD passed before Moses, and proclaimed, “The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.” (Exodus 34.6)

In Exodus 34, Moses is in the worst imaginable predicament. Not long before, God met him on Mt. Sinai, set down some basic rules for Israel, and affixed promises of longevity and a new land as incentives for obedience. Coming off the mountain, Moses discovered Israel had succumbed to idolatry in his absence. In a rage, he smashed the tablets inscribed with God’s laws—and hence literally broke God's contract God with Israel. By all rights, God could say, “That’s that,” and leave Moses to manage Israel on his own. But God calls him back to the mountain and reissues the contract. Rather than dwell on Moses’s anger—rather than turn against Israel for its false worship—when God meets Moses again, the first thing God does is remind him Whom he’s dealing with: a merciful and gracious God, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithful.

When we confront evidence that something’s gone haywire in our society, we must know that God is faithful. Idolatry—of a golden calf, a cartoon villain (as we’ve just seen), or anything else that supplants our love for God—will inevitably result in destruction. Yet God faithfulness is manifested in second chances. Whether on a scale that rivets global attention or in tiny ways that go unnoticed, harms we visit on others and ourselves are not cause for God to abandon us. We will suffer for our wrongs. But we’ll never be left alone. God calls us back to the mountain and reminds us we’re dealing with the LORD, the merciful, gracious, patient, loving, and faithful God of second chances.

Regression Lesson

When Jesus saw this, He was indignant and said to them, “Let the little children come to Me; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.” (Mark 10.14)

Alive and Aware

Alison Gopnik is an Oxford-trained psychologist, philosopher, and self-avowed materialist—meaning she subscribes to “the theory that physical matter is the only reality and that everything, including thought, feeling, mind, and will, can be explained in terms of matter and physical phenomena” (American Heritage Dictionary). Although we risk over-simplifying both her psychological research and philosophy of life, it’s not inaccurate to say Dr. Gopnik views the more ephemeral aspects of faith—its transcendence, the sense of God’s presence in our lives, the need to reconcile one’s being with divine will, and so on—with a healthy dose of skepticism. Yet her findings nonetheless open to us a profoundly moving window that can illuminate how we approach faith.

Dr. Gopnik’s primary field of study focuses on child learning and development. And what she’s discovered is riveting. Immediately upon entering the world, infants and youngsters exist in a perpetual state of newness and wonder. Every moment is like “first love in Paris,” she says. “Every step is sky-diving; every game of peek-a-boo is like discovering Einstein’s theory.” Brain scans of babies and toddlers reveal constant incandescence, as their neurons blaze with curiosity and eagerness to apprehend the world around them. In contrast, adult scans evidence long stretches during which thought and perception register nothing new. As we age, it appears we increasingly lapse into autopilot, leading Dr. Gopnik to suggest grown-ups spend large portions of their waking lives in a state of relative unconsciousness. It turns out our assumption that little ones are oblivious to life’s joys and challenges couldn’t be more wrong. Our children are supremely alive and aware.

Such as These

In Mark 10, people bring their children to Jesus, asking Him to bless them. The disciples reproach them, just as we would expect, since youngsters in ancient times are discounted as society’s least. They have nothing to contribute—no wisdom or experience, no means of productivity, and no way to help ensure a family’s stability. Indeed, they’re seen as liabilities. They may be loved. They may not. Either way, they're not worth much to anyone until they reach adolescence. And in the hardscrabble daily existence of first-century Palestine, survival is hardly a given. So while we bristle at the disciples’ dismissal, they neither mean no harm nor are they out of line. If anything, they’re showing Jesus respect as an eminent Rabbi. Which is why He surprises them by welcoming the very young.

And we should be highly cognizant of what’s going here; because there’s more to it than the “Jesus-loves-the-little-children-of-the-world” photo op that many paint it to be. This is not a campaign stop, with Jesus kissing babies and patting tykes on the head. It’s not a polite gesture meant to flatter their parents. Jesus turns the situation into a teaching moment to say something vital about us. Read His response carefully: “Let the little children come to Me; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.” (v14) The kingdom of God belongs to childlike believers. Jesus is so emphatic about the required state of mind of “such as these” that He spells it out in the next verse: “Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” Now we can settle for the broad strokes of His message to us, saying, “Yeah, yeah, we get it: we should be humble, innocent, trusting, etc.” But Dr. Gopnik might encourage us to reconsider. In light of her research, when Jesus instructs us to approach faith in a childlike fashion, He’s telling us to become alive to everything around us—to remove the scales from our eyes, unstop our ears, unblock our emotions, and enter God’s kingdom as if we’re discovering the world God has given us for the first time. In essence, Jesus turns a socially unpleasant situation into a regression lesson.

Natives of God’s Kingdom

The power of newness is not news. It resounds throughout Scripture, starting with the Creation and continuing throughout Jesus and the Apostles’ linkage of faith with re-Creation. Numerous times we hear God speak through psalmists and prophets, saying, “I’m doing something new!” Jesus defines a faith-led life as new birth. In 2 Corinthians 5.17 we find Paul’s famous proclamation, “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation; everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” And since these words are spoken to us, we’re apt to apply them only to us. But I think we miss a huge part of the message by not expanding its principle to the world at large. Re-Creation invites us to respond anew to the world and people around us—to allow the film of old ideas and perceptions to dissolve so that we may reenter our lives with fresh insights and curiosities. Foregone conclusions are gone. Prejudices and presumptions are preempted. Jaded attitudes and reactions lose their luster.

We are, first and foremost, natives of God’s kingdom, born with a glorious aptitude for grace that enables us to wonder at all we encounter, never pausing to get hung up about where it comes from. For children, beauty is beautiful. Joy is joyous. Meanness is mean. Sadness is sad. They don’t linger to attribute their wonder to others’ largesse or cruelty. They don’t shape their world to meet expectations. And they most certainly don’t take the burden of its hardships upon themselves. That’s why children are so extraordinarily resilient. Their incandescence happens within, as they light up by viewing every experience as something altogether new. Dr. Gopnik says while we work our way through life, children create their lives with play and openness to what they’re given. The kingdom of God belongs to such as these, Jesus says. Regressing is an act of faith that releases new, re-creative faith.

As children of God’s kingdom, we view the world through wide-eyed wonder.


Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/04/27/regression-lesson/. 

Snakebit

The people grew impatient on the way. The people spoke against God and against Moses, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no food and water, and we detest this miserable food.” (Numbers 21.4-5)

The Wee Hours

In John 3, a prominent Pharisee named Nicodemus pays Jesus a late-night visit. It’s painfully obvious why he chooses this time of day to seek out the Rabbi Who’s making waves. Jesus has just outraged the religious establishment by driving profiteers from Jerusalem’s temple. When challenged to explain His actions, His cryptic reply heightens suspicion that He’s big trouble. Still, something about Jesus resonates with Nicodemus. He goes to Him after hours, when neither man is likely to be spotted, looking for answers to questions that trouble him.

While artists traditionally place their meeting in a moonlit courtyard, I like to picture it in a modern setting—an all-night diner, perhaps, where two people who’ve heard about each other finally get to hunker down in a back booth and talk into the wee hours over bottomless coffee cups. Nicodemus jumps right in, assuring Jesus, “We know You’re a teacher come from God, because You couldn’t do what You do if God hadn’t sent You.” His statement of faith enables Jesus to reveal what’s really going on. Since Nicodemus is a noted theologian, Jesus dives into the deep end, using rebirth as a metaphor for spiritual insight, informing the man that he’ll need new eyes to see Jesus is doing the work of God’s kingdom. Nicodemus doesn’t get it. “How can anyone be reborn?” he asks. Jesus explains He’s talking about spiritual rebirth—awakening to a truth that transcends natural law. Nicodemus still doesn’t get it. Somewhat frustrated, Jesus asks, “Aren’t you a teacher? How can this be so hard to understand?” And then, in verse 12, He says, “If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things?”

Here to Die

One imagines Nicodemus staring at his coffee, feeling smaller by the minute. In verse 13, Jesus tactfully apologizes for talking over his head: “No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man,” He confides. (Translated: “Of course you can’t understand what I’m talking about. We come from different worlds.”) So Jesus reaches into Hebrew Scripture to explain Himself in terms Nicodemus can grasp. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,” He says, “so must the Son of Man be lifted up that whoever believes in Him may have eternal life.” (v14-15)

Nicodemus perks up. It’s all coming together. This Rabbi Who talks in riddles is exactly Who many say He is: Israel’s Savior. He provoked Jerusalem’s temple officials on purpose to fulfill His mission. No doubt, Nicodemus has heard rumblings that Jesus must be got out of the way. Indeed, concern for Jesus’s safety may be what prompted his visit. Now he realizes that Jesus knows what’s going on and why He’s unfazed by the brewing conspiracy to get rid of Him. In effect, Jesus tells Nicodemus, “I’m here to die.”

New Life and Healing

Jesus's allusion to the Old Testament’s infamous snake episode is both tasty and timely. It’s the kind of horror tale that glues teenaged boys to their seats, and it’s probable that Jesus and Nicodemus associate it with their youth. As told in Numbers 21, the story finds the Israelites grumbling once again about roaming the desert. You’d think they’d have adjusted to wilderness life by now, as they’ve been at it for 40 years. What’s more, with God’s help, they’ve just pulled off an amazing coup, destroying a Canaanite tribe that attacked them and took some of their people hostage. Spirits should be very high. But verses 4 and 5 read, “The people grew impatient on the way. The people spoke against God and against Moses, ‘Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no food and water, and we detest this miserable food.’” Their impertinence turns into self-fulfilling prophecy. Venomous snakes infest their camp and many die. That wakes them up. They run to Moses and beg him to beseech God’s mercy. God instructs Moses to craft a facsimile of a snake and hoist it on a pole. “Everyone who is bitten shall look at it and live,” God declares. (v9)

The timeliness of Jesus’s mentioning the story to Nicodemus reveals how finely attuned both men are to scriptural nuance. The story transpires when Israel is on the cusp of major transition. Aaron, their chief priest, died just prior to the victory over their enemies. They’re due for a changing of the guard, as Moses transfers leadership to a new generation that will usher Israel into the Land of Promise. Yet here they are, as impatient, ungrateful, and shortsighted as ever. It’s been four decades since they walked away from Egypt. But they won’t let it go. If anything, they’ve romanticized it to the point of absurdity—to the point that it still enslaves them. Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? It’s a dangerous question to put to God and the prophet. Asking it almost kills them off and very well might have, but for one critical factor. God promised Israel a land of its own and God’s promises hold true, whether or not we accept them. Thus, to honor the promise, God raises an improbable symbol of new life and healing in the desert, instructing Israel to look and live.

Toward the Lifting

The subtleties of Jesus’s metaphor aren’t lost on Nicodemus this time. He sees the religious climate of his day is also polluted with impertinence, impatience, ingratitude, and shortsightedness. He senses the world is on the cusp of major transition. Jesus has come to usher in a New Order, to lead us into a new Land of Promise. His gruesome execution will become God’s improbable symbol of new life and healing, an unconditional offering of love to all who look and live.

And so it is that Lent’s desert—where 40 short days can feel like 40 long years—finds us headed toward the lifting of God’s Son on a crude cross. There He will hang as God’s promise of healing and new life. And make no mistake: we are snakebit with venom that flows out of our impatience, ingratitude, and myopia. We cling to Egyptian reveries and wax nostalgic about enslavement. Sentimentality for old regimes blinds us to new opportunities. Major victories evaporate from memory. Yet in the midst of our discontent and impertinence God raises a Savior Who invites us to look and live. May we honor that invitation and find new healing and life at Calvary’s cross.

Look and live.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/25/snakebit/.

Postscript: Question 4

In John 3.3, Jesus tells Nicodemus unless we’re born anew, we can’t see the kingdom of God. And in Numbers, God raises a symbol of pain and death to open Israel’s eyes to new healing and life.

When we look at the cross, what do we see? How does it reveal God’s kingdom to us? I can’t help but think we all see the same thing. Yet given our personal histories and perspectives, we view the cross in marvelously unique ways. I’ve shared some of what I see in the comments. What do you see?

Breaking Down

The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (Psalm 51.17)

The Great Artist

An artist friend called me breathless with excitement. “I just leased this great loft near you and you’ve got to come see it right now!” As she’s normally a slow-and-steady type and few things are more disheartening than having no one to share your joy with, I instantly headed over. I walked into a massive raw space that looked as though its tenant had fled in the night. It was a mess. Apparently the previous renter was a potter of some sort, because my friend—who worked in a variety of media—had already swept up three piles of derelict projects and clay shards. I would have been furious that the landlord hadn’t cleaned up before renting it. But she couldn’t have been more thrilled. “Just look at all of this!” she said. “Think of what I can do with it!”

Frankly, I didn’t know what to think. It looked like useless junk to me. When I offered to help, she suggested, “Let’s get it all in one place so I can sort everything out and decide how I’m going to use it.” I picked up a half-finished piece and asked, “You don’t want to keep this kind of stuff, do you? You’re just talking about the smaller bits.” She replied, “Are you kidding? Drop it.” Huh? She repeated her order. I let the piece fall to the ground and shatter. Smiling wryly, she said, “That, my friend, is called ‘breaking down.’ Now I can use it.” A few months later, when she brought me a serving tray inlaid with a magnificent pattern made of its pieces, she asked, “Remember this?”

Unfortunately, I lost the platter (another story for another time). But the memory remains fresh and resurfaces whenever I read scriptures like Psalm 51.17: “The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” And it especially comes to mind during this time of year, as I envision Lent’s metaphorical desert strewn with shattered pieces that we drop along the way. There they wait, seemingly forgotten and useless, until the Great Artist sweeps them up, sorts through them, and reorders them into something magnificently—serviceably—new.

A Shattering of Self

We tend to imagine broken-hearted people as sufferers. Something has disappointed them. Someone has wounded them. In other words, we see them as passive. Yet the Hebrew word Psalm 51’s poet uses (nisbarah) is neither definitively active nor passive. The breaking can result from another’s cruelty or arbitrary misfortune; but it can also be a sacrificial act—a shattering of self in pursuit of wholeness. We break down the contents of our hearts to inventory what we’ve stored in them—to examine their pieces and allow the Creator Who heals and restores to reassemble them in remarkable ways. We do this in response to God’s call in Joel 2.12-13: “Yet even now, says the LORD, return to Me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing. Return to the LORD, your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing.”

The poet Jan Richardson taps into this sensibility in her Ash Wednesday blessing, “Rend Your Hearts”:

Let your heart break

Let it crack open

Let it fall apart

so that you can see

its secret chambers,

the hidden spaces

where you have hesitated

to go.

She concludes:

And so let this be

a season for wandering

for trusting the breaking

for tracing the tear

that will return you

to the One who waits

who watches

who works within

the rending to make your heart

whole.

The loveliness of Richardson’s poetry raises gnarly questions, though. Once we’ve broken down our hearts, what are we looking at? Which of our pieces glimmer with radiance and beauty? Which of them are deeply scarred with dark doubts and unsightly faults? Which are ready-made for the Great Artist’s use? Which must be reworked to allow God’s vision to come forth in us? Which will fall into place? Which must be reshaped to fit into a new, magnificent, and serviceable whole?

Naming Parts

The process involves more than falling apart so God can reassemble us. After we do the breaking, it asks us to name our parts—to call the components of our hearts for what they are. This is by far the most challenging aspect of Lent’s work, because we are all exceptionally gifted at turning blind eyes to our weaknesses. When we speak their names, however, we force their recognition. Here are my misgivings. Here are my resentments. Here are my vanities. Here are my prejudices. Thankfully, there are other parts we’re honored to claim. Here are my certainties… my mercies… my humility… my openness.

When we look at our pieces, we don’t know what to make of them. Suddenly the beauty of breaking down rises before of us, because the making—actually, the remaking—of our broken hearts belongs to a God Who, by Self-admission, is gracious, merciful, patient, unfailing in love, and fiercely forgiving. Like my artist friend, our Maker surveys the heap of shards we’ve created and exclaims, “Just look at all of this! Think of what I can do with it!”

We do the breaking; God does the remaking.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/24/breaking-down/

Postscript: Question 3

Predictably, most commentators on Psalm 51.17 immediately link its brokenness and contrition with guilt for past sins. And, to be sure, harmful thoughts and actions produce shattering consequences in our lives. Yet, more appropriate to Lent’s purpose, I’d like us to think of broken-heartedness as a self-induced, sacrificial act. And this raises a huge question I believe we must ponder while we undertake the breaking: what is faith’s role in our sacrifice?

I’m not sure there’s a definitive answer to that. In fact, each of our responses may be very different. I’ve added my thoughts to the comments and invite you do the same. This breaking business isn’t easy by any stretch and sharing our perspectives will no doubt encourage all of us to rend our hearts.

Getting Through

If a man die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come. (Job 14; KJV)

Until Change Comes

I guess it was weird. I didn’t realize it, but when I pull back and watch myself, I can see why it might have struck others as, oh, I don’t know, unusual. I was 12, a bit of a nerd, a little sissified, inching ever closer to my snob phase, acting older than my years and thinking I was older than I acted—in other words, that kid who finds other kids too annoying to spend time with, who’s happiest by himself. I’d recently undergone a major sea change. In a preemptive strike against rock-and roll, a family friend gave me Aretha Franklin’s Amazing Grace for my birthday. I’d grown up with gospel music. But I’d never heard anything like this. I played it constantly, full-blast, in my room. (I was in heaven; the rest of the house wasn’t.) Soon I was cajoling anyone with a car to drive me around Chicago, to mom-and-pop record shops and churches where I could hear live performances of this music I’d rapidly come to love. Since no kid I knew was pursuing my obsession—or chasing another with comparable single-mindedness—I suppose it was weird. But, oh my, was it wonderful.

My connection with the music was forged with hymns and songs I knew. As I immersed myself in the worship experience, however, I grew increasingly aware that many of the semantics, which spilled out of the music into the liturgy and preaching, held less resonance for me than other worshipers. Unlike the expansive melodies and rhythms they float on, black gospel lyrics are tightly packed. They draw on a narrow lexicon of key words and phrases, most originating in spirituals that lift texts and imagery from the King James Bible and reset them, unadorned, in the context of slavery and freedom. Having been deeply imbedded into African-American faith culture, they retained their currency and spoke for themselves, often in emotions that defied explanation.

A lot of lyrics, for obvious reasons, alluded to Israel’s liberation from Egypt. But Job was also well represented, frequently in the phrase, “wait until my change come,” taken from Job 14.14: “If a man die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.” (KJV) Whenever the phrase surfaced—in song, sermon, or testimony—the church surged. People shouted, “Amen!” and “Go ahead!” Some leapt to their feet, arms stretched to heaven, faces upturned, as if to soak in life-giving rain. Tears of joy often streaked their cheeks. Their unfiltered emotions removed any barriers to feeling what they felt. Still, I couldn’t wrap my head around the phrase’s effect. There were dozens of songs about waiting. The impact plainly lived in “my change,” and not for the life of me could I figure what it meant—not in a sense that would trigger so profound a reaction, that is. There had to be something to it. And there was.

Faith Expressed in Uncertainty

Because of what I experienced, Advent’s invitation to wait—to contemplate waiting as a spiritual principle and discipline—always leads back to Job. The wonder of Job, for me, is his ease with wondering. To be the Bible’s oldest book, its eagerness to question and grapple with big ideas feels very modern. The story’s tensions play out vertically, as Job searches for insight into God’s purpose for tragedies that inexplicably ruin him, and laterally, as he resists the simplistic counsel of friends hoping to clarify his predicament. After losing his family, wealth, and health—on a whimsical bet between God and Satan, no less—his buddies come around to explain what God meant by doing this to him. While each has his own theory about Job’s reversal of fortune, all three are certain God has spoken. Job’s not so sure about that. He won’t rule out the possibility God is speaking, and his sudden plunge into hardship isn’t the end for him, but the pivotal transition to a new beginning. The longer his friends rattle on the surer Job is that he’s right, and the more intense his conversations with God become.

Grief, homelessness, poverty, and painful affliction—their grip on Job weakens until they’re no more than irritants distracting him from what’s really going on. It’s apparent to him he’s locked in a holding pattern, and why that is concerns him less than what it means. He even ponders the idea that waiting is all there is. Perhaps the promise of newness is a red herring, a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow hidden behind his storms. “If it takes the rest of my days,” he says. “I’ll wait until my change comes.” The faith expressed in his uncertainty is a thing of beauty. He submits to what he doesn’t know and can’t understand, confessing, “Who knows what I’m waiting for? Maybe it will come. Maybe it won’t. There’s only so much time left for me to wait on whatever it is. Since that’s all I know, all I know to do is wait until my change comes.”

An Evolution Occurring Within

As it turns out, I’m not the only one puzzled about what Job means by “change.” Indeed, Job’s so hazy about what he’s trying to convey he describes a process rather than a result. This is one of the rare times when the King James Version comes closer to the original than its successors. More recent translations opt for “renewal,” “release,” and “resurrection.” But Job uses a derivative of chalaph, a Hebrew word meaning, “to pass through, move past, pierce, sprout, or sweep.” It’s a forward-looking term often associated with growing up or leaving behind—letting go. Thus, Job isn’t holding out for a life-altering moment, an epiphany of some sort, or another sudden change to undo the previous one’s damage. He’s not waiting for a revolution. He’s getting through his doubt and despair, fully aware of an evolution occurring within him, even while he waits to discover where it will lead. He’s growing up, letting go. If that’s as far as his wait takes him, that’s enough. He may die before his change breaks through in sprigs of newness. Yet Job senses newness already happening inside him. If waiting is all there is, getting through it will change him, regardless if he can prove he’s been changed.

So it also turns out I misread the reactions that piqued my curiosity about this passage. The intense rejoicing it sparks arises from knowing that to wait is to change, from sensing God is already at work in us below the surface, from confidence we’re growing up and letting go while getting through the wait. Another phrase I hear when worshiping with my African-American faith family goes, “I’m not what I should be. But, thank God, I’m not what I used to be.” That’s waiting in a nutshell. Who we are today is not who we’ll be tomorrow. Who we are tomorrow won’t be the same the day after that. Getting through. Letting go. Sprouting. Changing. Waiting. We may not be what we should be. But if we learn to wait, we will never be what we were. Thank God for the wait.

God of perpetual change and constant motion, please remind us that waiting is changing, that You move constantly in us, even though we think we’re stuck in holding patterns and standing still. Teach us the fine art of knowing what we can’t feel and feeling what we can’t see. We’re waiting—and we thank You for the wait. Amen.

To wait for change is to experience change. It’s a forward-looking process that begins below the surface long before any visible signs emerge.

Postscript: “Lord, Help Me To Hold Out”

Just one of many uplifting gospel songs resounding with Job’s faith in uncertainty—this one performed by a virtual constellation of gospel greats, all of them intimately acquainted with profound changes we undergo during the wait.

The Tender Time

From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that He is near, at the very gates. (Mark 13.28-29)

The Most Impossible Ways

The other night Walt and I fell asleep to a local channel that airs “The 700 Club” each morning. When we awoke to the pseudo-news program hosted by far-right zealot and doomsayer, Pat Robertson, my first impulse was to grab the remote and punch in random numbers; anything would be less toxic. But his opening froze me solid. “It looks like Israel’s set to launch air strikes against Iran’s nuclear facilities,” he said—or something to that effect. I stared at video cobbled from file footage and nebulous sound bites (with nary a word from high-ranking Israeli, Iranian, US, or European officials), while an ominous voiceover indicated Israeli bombers were queued up, ready to go at any moment. Visions of World War III erupted in my head as I raced for the American networks, BBC, and France’s Canal 5: not a whisper about imminent Israeli air strikes anywhere, not even in the news crawls. “What a boogey man!” I sighed, feeling like a dunce. But was I?

It’s no secret that Israel has plans in place to disable Iran’s nuclear capabilities, nor that its penchant for self-serving acts of aggression has become a constant source of regional grief and worldwide angst. Robertson’s sky-is-falling scenario wasn’t beyond the pale. It just wasn’t true—yet. That it starred two loose cannons (Ahmadinejad and Netanyahu) on opposing sides of humanity’s longest-running race war certainly leant it credibility. Once again, threatening disaster confirmed we live in perilous times, when monomaniacal powers and people exhibit no concern about shipping the rest of us to Hell in a hand basket for the sake of their obsessions.

A nearly identical atmosphere hung thick with jitters and gloomy prospects hovers above Mark 13. It's there that Jesus warns the disciples not to be alarmed by global instability and religious hysteria, but to remain watchful in their work for the Kingdom’s sake. We’ve heard this a lot lately: “I will return. Be ready.” Though theories abound regarding the Second Coming, the essence of His message is lost on no one. We approach each moment as if it’s our last before The Big Moment. And while slating this passage as Sunday's Gospel seems a bizarre choice to kick off Advent's anticipation of Christ's birth, its overtones of wakefulness couldn’t be timelier. In an age when the worst of all possible worlds seems all too possible, Advent reassures us that God reaches us in the most impossible ways.

A Longer View

Scholars call Mark 13 (and its mirror passages in Matthew 24 and Luke 21) “The Little Apocalypse,” citing it as a miniature precursor to The Revelation’s epic nightmare. An innocent—rather sweet—comment prompts its litany of dark predictions. A disciple, perhaps visiting Jerusalem for the first time, looks at its magnificent Temple and architecture and says, “Wow!” To which Jesus replies: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” (v2) After the group leaves the city to relax on Mt. Olivet, Peter, James, John, and Andrew—the first disciples—ask Jesus privately, “When will Jerusalem be destroyed? Will there be signs that it’s soon to happen?” Before we get to His response, we should note their lack of curiosity about why or how the city will fall infers widespread assumption it’s only a matter of time. (As it turns out, the Romans raze the Temple and much of the city in 70 CE.) Thus, Jesus’s answer in verses 3-23 is a short-range forecast not to be misconstrued as end-time prophecy. Regarding Jerusalem's demise, He tells the disciples to expect an upsurge in religious chicanery, warfare, earthquakes, and famines. They will be unjustly tried, persecuted, and hated because of Him. When these events start to materialize, Jesus says, “Head for the hills, because it’s going to get crazier by the minute.” Bogus messiahs will pop up everywhere, performing signs and wonders that might even fool them. “Be alert. You've been warned.” He says. (v23)

Then Jesus offers the disciples a longer view—and the pending chaos He just described sounds like a picnic. “After that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken,” He says. (v24-25) The Son of Man will come in the clouds, dispatching angels “to gather His elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of the heaven.” (v26) Jesus cautions, “When you see these things, know that He is near" (v29), adding in verse 32 that only God knows the day or hour when they’ll transpire. He closes in verse 37: “And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”

Watching, Waiting, and Ready

Realizing Jesus gave them more information than they need—but not much they can actually use—might lead the disciples to think, “Thanks for nothing.” On further reflection, however, they’d find the inconspicuous gem tucked inside His end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it preview. In verse 28, He advises, “From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near.” And that’s where this highly problematic text's Advent message coalesces.

Advent is the tender time, when bleak realities of our wintry world give way to revived hope and first signs of renewal. What we perceive as grim likelihoods and inevitabilities are simply the dying gasps of an overlong season. Whatever happens in the world at large and in our own lives will happen. We accept that by admitting very little of what affects us rests in our control. Yet none of it possesses sufficient power to halt time. Without fail, fragile rigidity brought on by anxieties pass with their passing. Sooner than we imagine, persistent fatalism yields to resurgent faith. As we reacquaint ourselves with the organic flow of God’s calendar, we rediscover how supple and resilient we truly are.

The Christ Child appears at the height of global chaos, when new technologies give rise to corruptive wealth, militaristic overkill, unprecedented oppression, and fabricated myth. The Incarnate God enters the worst of all possible worlds at the least likely moment to reach us in the most impossible ways. Nobody sees it coming, yet there it is, and very soon it's apparent the harshest human condition cannot prevail against the tenderness of divine spring. It occurs so suddenly we’ll miss it if we’re not watching, waiting, and ready to receive it when it comes. That's what Advent wants us to remember most of all.

O God, we come to another Advent, praying You’ll steer our attention from the bleak winter pounding at our doors so we may rediscover the tenderness blossoming within. We watch, wait, and stand ready for You to rid us of fearful rigidity. Make us supple and resilient once again. Amen.

Advent teaches us the bleakest circumstances can’t prevent the resurgent tenderness of divine spring.

Postscript: Advent at S-F

As in previous years, Straight-Friendly will observe Advent by resuming daily posts on Monday—most being reposts of earlier reflections (and labeled as such). Sunday and occasional midweek posts will be new. Whether revisiting a familiar entry or exploring a fresh one, I trust you’ll drop by often and enrich this tender time we share with your personal thoughts and invaluable insights. Praying a blessed, tender Advent for one and all, I can think of no finer jump-start to the season than R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the Word As We Know It”.

That's great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane - Lenny Bruce is not afraid. Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn - world serves its own needs, regardless of your own needs. Feed it up a knock, speed, grunt no, strength no. Ladder structure clatter with fear of height, down height. Wire in a fire, represent the seven games in a government for hire and a combat site. Left her, wasn't coming in a hurry with the furies breathing down your neck. Team by team reporters baffled, trump, tethered crop. Look at that low plane! Fine then. Uh oh, overflow, population, common group, but it'll do. Save yourself, serve yourself. World serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed. Tell me with the rapture and the reverent in the right - right. You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light, feeling pretty psyched.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Six o'clock - TV hour. Don't get caught in foreign tower. Slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn. Lock him in uniform and book burning, blood letting. Every motive escalate. Automotive incinerate. Light a candle, light a motive. Step down, step down. Watch a heel crush, crush. Uh oh, this means no fear - cavalier. Renegade and steer clear! A tournament, a tournament, a tournament of lies. Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

The other night I tripped a nice continental drift divide. Mount St. Edelite. Leonard Bernstein. Leonid Breshnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester Bangs. Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom! You symbiotic, patriotic, slam, but neck, right? Right.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine...fine...

Falling

I was pushed so hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me. The LORD is my strength and my might; God has become my salvation… I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD. (Psalm 118.13-14,17)

Today is a turning point, a chance to recalibrate our heading. The dastardly violence visited on the US and world at large on 9/11/01 came so unexpectedly we had no time to consider how best to respond. But we’ve been given 10 years—3,652 days—to wrestle with all the justified emotions and irrational behaviors the tragedy unleashed. While its memory will forever be stamped in our hearts and minds, it’s time to let go the fear and ugliness it produced.

We’ve spent the last decade dying a slow death, knotted up in worst-case scenarios, shrinking in terror every time a lunatic whispers, “Boo!” and blaming whoever's handy for all that’s gone wrong since that horrible day. We’ve turned from a hated people into a hateful one, and we insist on pretending we don’t notice or care how far we’ve fallen. Plummeting in 9/11's spectral shadows has robbed us of the joy, hope, and trust in one another that warmed our days and stilled our nights.

We would do well to use this moment to embrace the Psalmist’s declaration: “I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD.” (Psalm 118.17)

It's a stunning vow, given the circumstances. The writer’s rise to an enviable position of authority enraged his adversaries. He doesn’t speculate what stoked their hostility. It may have been jealousy, ethnic hostility, or a strategically devised preemptive strike. The nature of the conflict is secondary. It's most important we understand the poet's been blind-sided. He tells us his foes engulfed him, swarmed him like bees, and blazed like burning thorns. Things got real ugly real fast. He countered the attack with decisive force. “In the name of the LORD, I cut them off!” he says—not once, but three times, as though he can’t believe it. Then we discover why his reaction and success seem incredible to him.

“I was pushed so hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me,” the psalmist confesses. (v13) Falling. The pressure sends him spiraling. He’s losing his grip. Yet God mercifully catches him before he tumbles over the precipice. And rather than depend on his own abilities, he puts his trust in his Maker. “The LORD is my strength and my might; God has become my salvation,” he exclaims in verse 14. [So convinced is he that God’s faithfulness is the deciding factor that earlier in the poem he states, “With the LORD on my side I do not fear. What can mortals do to me?” (v6)] The psalmist’s steadiness is not of his doing. God saves him. Acute awareness of God’s mercy turns him around. While the people rejoice in his triumph, he triumphs in the realization he won’t die. He will live. And he embraces a very specific reason for living: to “recount the deeds of the LORD.”

Instead of falling, the poet soars.

*****

The terrorists who conceived and executed 9/11 were a cunning, barbaric lot. Thugs they were—naïvely heartless people seduced by a jury-rigged promise of immortality. They brooked no concern about the unjust hatred and prejudice their deeds would heap on millions of upright people who shared their ethnic and faith heritage. They deluded themselves with the fantasy they were courageous avengers waging an undeclared holy war with no place or purpose in the modern world. They were simpletons.

I can’t accept one of them was bright enough to say, “You know, when all is said and done, we will have bruised the American character past all recognition.” Their medieval mindset proves they lacked the sophistication to foresee the impact their evil would have on our culture and politics. They wanted to make us afraid of them. But somehow, through none of their doing, we turned their malevolence inside out. We became afraid and suspicious of each other.

Nine-eleven launched a cold civil war with both sides rising up in alarm at every turn, convinced anyone unlike them was scheming to overthrow the nation. We’ve devoted an entire decade to calling one another Fascists, Anarchists, Socialists, Communists, Luddites, Militants, Opportunists, Racists, Misogynists, Homophobes, Atheists, Fanatics, Hypocrites—and, yes, Terrorists—as well as only God knows how many other vicious names, including many unfit for a faith-forward blog.

Not since Pearl Harbor had Americans united in such defiance of evil and selfless compassion for our wounded. Indeed, the extraordinary solidarity spilled from our shores and overflowed the world. From every corner of the planet cries went up: “We are all Americans!” Our venal enemies placed that magnificent gift right there, in the palm of our hand.

And we let it go.

*****

Nobody says, “We’re Americans!” these days—nobody who means it in the broadest sense, that is. “Extremists,” another label frequently heard in the wake of 9/11, has also faded from use. And little wonder why. We’re now a land overrun with extremists. The priceless middle ground on which our country rose has imploded. Moderates are wastes of space, unworthy of attention. Even the middle-class—the backbone of our economy and culture—is dwindling to dust. In an atmosphere that literally banks on overkill, anything less than reckless and ridiculous has no value. We’ll defend blatant stupidity to the death if it’s extreme. We’ll tune in and listen to anyone, as long as what he says and how she says it are extreme.

We’ve got fat to the point of stupor on a non-stop diet of flagrant animosity and ignorance. The post-9/11 gallery of pop and political icons resembles a nuthouse run amok: haters, conspiracy theorists, ne’er-do-wells, self-aggrandizing analysts, and shameless enablers in every arena have captivated our attention. Flip from ““The Real Housewives” to cable news to a conspiracy theory “documentary.” The subject and style vary, but the underlying message is the same: somebody wants to hurt me!

Just once, wouldn’t it be refreshing for someone say, “Squabbling makes no sense. Let’s compromise.” Such a statement would open fascinating dialogue. But we’re not interested in dialogue. We want to be entertained—provoked by and dragged into contrived dramas that invariably manifest themselves in emotional (in some cases, physical) violence. If it’s not extreme, we’re not buying.

And that’s the problem with compromise and common sense. Neither is ever extreme. They don’t hurt anyone beyond reason, nor do they help anyone beyond measure. In short, they neutralize the victim-and-villain charade—and that’s what we’re all about these days, feeling hurt and hurting feelings.

*****

Is it remotely possible the terrorists foresaw we’d take a liking to victim mentality? If we went back to September 10, 2001, stopped any American on any street, and told him/her, “After tomorrow, you’ll view yourself as a victim,” we’d get cussed out.

In the immediate wake of 9/11, we ponied up like true American cowboys, vowing to hunt down the villains and bring them to justice. “Nobody messes with us and gets by with it!” Then it slowly dawned on us that we were dealing with something we didn’t understand. “Where is Osama bin Laden?” turned into a punch line. And once we rounded up those we suspected of abetting his cause, justice became a joke. Retribution and punishment were the names of the game—one that permitted us to change the rules and invent new ones as we went.

Meanwhile, voluntary victimization surfaced in the Blame Game, the domestic version of our preoccupation with nefarious conspirators abroad. More things gone wrong gave us more people to blame. When the richest among us started whining about their mistreatment, the Blame Game ballooned into absurdist farce. In grand titan fashion, they deployed media henchmen to waft their high-end Eau de Victim through the media and—sure enough—tens of thousands struggling from paycheck to paycheck picked up the scent. The truly put-upon avidly defended the hardly put-upon for one reason: they both blamed the same people for their unhappiness. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, they say.

*****

No nation backslides from its hard-won reputation as an industrious, prodigiously capable people to become a multitude of mewlers and malingerers without its consent.

There was a time Americans had to be warned, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." We were innovators, tinkerers, and renovators who couldn’t leave well enough alone. We sauntered next door when we saw a neighbor working on his car, skipped an afternoon at the beach to make cupcakes for a charity bake sale, and knocked on a needy family’s door with a bag of groceries to tide them over. We turned barn raising and harvests into festivals, moving days into parties. Offering help before you were asked was the American way.

We witnessed that spirit at its highest after 9/11. People quit their jobs to clean up the ruins and get New Yorkers and Washingtonians back on their feet. We've caught glimpses of it after devastating natural disasters. But it's rarely sighted in our political and community lives. Now we distance ourselves from opportunities to help until the needs grow too big to handle and we blame everyone else for not doing what we wouldn't be bothered with.

But how can you blame someone else for your sad estate when you’ve done nothing to prevent it? What convinced us that 9/11 freed us of all responsibilities for our actions? Why do we think blaming somebody else gets us off the hook and magically mitigates problems we actively or passively—mostly passively—allowed to escalate?

My partner, Walt, insists there are no victims, only volunteers. While I don’t agree that’s true across-the-board, the post-9/11 American character certainly fits the profile.

*****

A few weeks ago, I turned on a local midday newscast just as the anchor tossed to commercial. The story slated after the break was about power outages due to a storm earlier that week. Residents were naturally frustrated that their lights weren’t back on. “We’ll tell you all about it,” the anchor said, “and who’s to blame.”

And she smiled—not maliciously, as if she relished pinning down the slackers who left families in the dark. No, she smiled in that annoying, news anchor way, suggesting she didn’t give the Blame Game a second thought. She might as well have said, “We’ll tell you all about it, and then we’ll play Duck-Duck-Goose.” She was just that oblivious to how blaming anyone for the situation didn’t remedy it. And who could blame her? She looked no older than 25. All she’s known her entire adult life is confusing blame with justice and, worse yet, progress. I would have been furious had I not been thoroughly chilled.

That’s the biggest calamity of 9/11’s aftermath. We’ve invested ten years nurturing a woe-is-me, be-very-afraid culture with not the slightest concern an entire generation has come of age believing that self-pity, paranoia, and helplessness are the American way of life. If the 1980s were the “Me” Decade, the 2000s will be remembered as the “Them” Decade—as in, “It’s their fault,” “It’s their duty,” and “It’s their neglect.”

Whose fault is that?

*****

In America, we pledge allegiance to “one nation under God.” We tender currency emblazoned with our trust in God. Whether or not we’re comfortable with how these and other legislated mentions of faith blur the lines between church and state, this is who we say we are and what we say we do. Yet we’ve permitted 9/11’s impact to divide us and we’ve exploited God’s name as a wedge that incites fear, the enemy of trust. God’s mercy and goodness to us—the strength and might God placed in us, without which our greatness as a people seems unlikely at best—have no prominence in the national dialogue, neither overtly nor implicitly. As believers, however, we know God has been unduly merciful and good to us, before and after 9/11. To acknowledge that would require us to shut down the Blame Game. It would mean living, not dying—praising, not accusing.

We let one awful morning rewire our minds. We decided there’s nothing good to say about or to one another. Consequently God’s deeds have gone unreported. And as we’ve gone down this path of retaliation and rudeness, we’ve created fewer opportunities for gratitude. What you say is what you get.

*****

Psalm 118 is a thanksgiving processional sung as priests approach the altar to offer sacrifices of praise. Its opening line invokes gratitude: “O give thanks to the LORD, for God is good; God’s steadfast love endures forever!” (v1) All the angst and violence the poet recounts comes in the next two stanzas to remind worshipers how close to falling he came and how God’s mercy caught him before he let go. The psalm peaks in verses 23-24: “This is the LORD’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

What do we make of this day? Will it end like the last 3,652, with fear’s putrid tang on our tongues and blind suspicion terrorizing our hearts? Or will we redeem the lives lost on 9/11/01 by joining a long overdue thanksgiving procession, offering sacrifices of praise for God’s goodness to us? Can we quit pointing fingers and recognize the marvelous things God has done? Will this be the day we finally open our eyes to see trust in God and one another is what transforms falling into soaring? Can we summon the clarity and courage to declare, “We shall not die. We shall live”?

This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Lord, open our eyes. Amen.

Trusting God and one another transforms falling into soaring.

Refresh

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect. (Romans 12.2)

“At Least”

So I’ve spent the past few weeks battling with my Internet service provider—a battle ending this week, when I switch to a new ISPN. For reasons no one will explain (leading me to suspect behind-the-scene cutbacks), service has been maddeningly sporadic, with prolonged outages and turtle-slow speeds that require frequently clicking the refresh arrow. Sometimes a site freezes. I have to close the browser and start over. Since I’m not the most patient person when things don’t function as smoothly as I expect, I’ve spent a lot of time grunting and fussing at my screen, as if that will magically persuade the ISPN server to get a move on. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if I limited my Web activity to leisurely pursuits. Nothing on youtube, Facebook, or amazon is so urgent it can’t wait. For a freelance writer, though, a sputtering modem makes all the difference between a fine and not-so-fine job, meeting and missing deadlines, annoyance and agony.

When working on projects that entail online research, one supposes I could forego digging into the material and rely on how much—or, more likely, how little—I already know. That would eliminate the hassle and still get the job done. It won’t be as thorough and strong without the added time and stress of repeated refreshing, but at least it’s something. And therein lies the rub, because one of few things that drive me crazier than subpar technology is being forced to compromise. It goes back to being raised by parents who, when seeing I’d fallen short, always asked why I’d not done better. “At least it’s something” didn’t fly with them. It took several aborted attempts down that runway to convince me “at least” is a de facto admission that no matter how good the “something” may be, it’s still no good because it’s less than my best. My father put it like this: "Simply getting by simply guarantees you'll never get ahead."

That’s exactly what Paul says to us in Romans 12. “At least” may work for us and what comes of it may look fine to others. But it still won’t fly, because it’s not our best. Getting by on what we already know will never help us know all that we can be. Yes, the time and hassle of constantly refreshing our attitudes and perceptions can be unnerving. We’ll grunt and fuss a lot. But is “at least” really an option—especially since God sees and knows we’ve fallen short?

True Life

The passage begins with one of Paul’s most quoted—and least understood—admonitions: “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” (Romans 12.1) On hearing “bodies,” “sacrifice,” and “holy and acceptable to God” in close proximity, we reply, “Got it!” and dash off a long list of no-no’s we’re fairly sure prevent us from meeting God’s purity standards. Without attending to the whole statement, it’s logical to assume Paul’s comparing us to livestock that Jews and pagans alike painstakingly bred and raised to be free of any disease or flaw disqualifying it for ritual slaughter.

A closer reading urges us to rethink such assumptions. What Paul describes has nothing in common with animal sacrifice. Nor, for that matter, is he speaking to us as individuals. The pivotal phrases here are “the mercies of God,” “a living sacrifice,” and “spiritual worship.” God’s mercy unites all believers as a single entity, a living sacrifice, and purifies us for spiritual service. It’s the polar opposite of what so many misinterpret as a call for surface holiness—a return to Mosaic legalism’s obsession with hygiene and conformity. Yet this makes no sense coming from Paul, particularly in the letter advancing his most eloquent argument that Jesus’s bodily atonement forever frees us from the Law’s rituals and demands. Equating holiness and acceptability to God with physical appearances and behaviors replaces spiritual freedom with carnal compliance. It mistakes cookie-cutter mentality for Christian solidarity. But we’re not assembly-line cattle being prepped for death. By God’s grace we’re one body, a singular organism spiritually transformed to witness life.

Now we’d be remiss not to stress that nearly all the Apostles’ letters, including Paul’s, caution against physically detrimental excesses and habits. Yet they take extra care to be clear they’re not advocating behavioral modification as a means of earning God’s mercy and acceptance. Again, it’s the complete opposite. Abandoning harmful pursuits is one of many changes that result from faith in God’s grace. Spiritual transformation occurs and manifests itself continuously. As participants in one living sacrifice, we shouldn’t look, act, and talk like each other. Neither should we look, act, and talk today like we did yesterday. True life produces unending change and growth. It’s not like Web access. It doesn’t slow down. It doesn’t freeze. It keeps loading us with new information, experiences, and insights. And if we’re frustrated because our lives have lost momentum or got stuck or feel incomplete, it’s time to refresh our screens and re-launch our browsers. While relying on what we already know may work for us and get us by in the world, it won’t fly with God, Who sees and knows it’s less than our best.

Taking Risks

“Do not be conformed to this world,” Paul writes in verse 2, “but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” How marvelous it would be if Paul were actually describing what many take him to mean—a once-in-a-lifetime epiphany that whips us into a U-turn, cleans up our acts, changes how we think, and sends us barreling headlong into eternal bliss! That might work if we were no more than sacrificial cattle being groomed for the day we die. And unfortunately that’s how many believers approach their faith and view themselves. All the goodness and wonder showered on us, all the life we’re blessed to experience and enjoy, boils down to getting ready to die. But, thanks be to God, we are a living sacrifice. God’s grace liberates us from the confines of the stall and trough, opening before us a meadow of mercy on which we feast, mature, and thrive. Some of us are young and wobbly. Some of us are seasoned and sure. While it's important that the weak among us grow strong and the strong among us don't grow self-confident in their own strength, it's most important that each of us understands we all belong to one living sacrifice.

Every day, every moment, provides nourishment that renews our minds so we’re ever aware of what God desires of us that day, in that moment. Conformity is of no benefit to transformation's perpetual process, as it always lags behind new growth. God’s abundance provides an endless supply of knowledge and experience that renews our minds, challenging us to digest concepts and beliefs that were once intolerable and made us afraid. Willingness to refresh our minds is the only way we discover God’s will for us. It’s a risky way to live, because it calls us away from conformity and getting by on what we know so we can be transformed by what God wants us to know. Writ large between the lines, Paul insists taking risks, defying uncertainty, enduring criticism, and patiently waiting for God’s will to unfold is what we must do if we’re to participate in spiritual worship as a living, holy, acceptable sacrifice. Besides, considering the alternative, can we doubt embracing newness of mind and welcoming change is the only way to live? Of course not, because living to die isn’t living at all.

Dear God, we know no better way to live than participating in spiritual worship as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to You. Awaken us to each day’s abundant newness. Free us from intolerance and fear so that we’ll risk learning all that life offers. Quicken us to refresh our minds to welcome new ideas and discover Your will for us. Amen.

When we’re frustrated because our lives seem to have lost momentum, got stuck, or feel incomplete, it’s time to click the refresh button and renew our minds.