Christ Figures

Even now my witness is in heaven; my advocate is on high. My intercessor is my friend, as my eyes pour out tears to God. (Job 16.20)

The Middleman

A number of years ago while re-watching The Sorrow and the Pity, Marcel Ophuls’ masterful documentary about Nazi-occupied France, I bumped into a character that’s become an obsession for me. Through details too convoluted to summarize here, Denis Rake—a 40-year-old openly gay cabaret performer—volunteered as a British agent in France, where he served as a go-between for the Resistance and the Allied forces. He was perfectly suited for the job, being fluent in French and an expert radio operator. But Rake’s intrepid nature was his greatest asset. Even though homosexuality was illegal in England until 1967, at a very early age he summoned the courage to live honestly by honing skills to elude arrest. The brief interview in Ophuls’ four-hour film reveals a soft-spoken man as docile as the purring cat he holds. Yet a follow-up interview with his commander remembers him as a tenacious lion. As an American, I was stunned the Secret Intelligence Service trusted Denis Rake in large part because he was gay—precisely the sort of “irregular” the agency sought out to navigate dicey situations with a cool head.

Delving into Rake’s past, I learned of two other qualities that recommended him. He was no stranger to playing the middleman. At 13, after Belgium fell in the First War, he got arrested for hand-delivering encrypted letters for anti-German agents in Brussels. Even at that age, he outfoxed his captors and joined his parents to relocate in London for the war’s duration. The second attribute, though, is more compelling. While he asserts in the film that he volunteered with the SIS to prove his masculinity—and certainly that was part of it—Rake’s compassion for his friends living under German oppression drove him to risk his life for them. He was fearless, going so far as to enter a potentially fatal affair with a Nazi officer to remain in Paris after his SIS-provided papers were confiscated. His commitment to a free France enabled him to play a critical role preparing Resistance fighters to lay the groundwork for the Normandy invasion. In the end, despite England’s dim view of gay people, it welcomed Denis Rake home as a decorated war hero.

Called to Intercede

While I blanch at labeling Rake a “Christ figure,” he comes very close to fitting the bill. He was an outsider and an outlaw who would not be thwarted by social norms and prejudices. He avidly identified with beleaguered people and willingly endangered himself for them. He knew oppression and spoke the language of the oppressed. He risked his life to free them and, in the end, opened the minds of many who accepted injustice and hatred without blinking. Everything about his life verified his purpose as a go-between. And when we look back on our lives and consider our talents, could it be we’re also Denis Rakes? Are we chosen for our “irregularities?” Are we called to intercede for those without means or courage to break free? Are we Christ figures? I’m convinced we are.

In Job we find a vivid picture of why our intercessory roles are so vital. Job’s conformist friends not only prove useless—they compound his misery by insisting his woes are self-inflicted. (Today we call this “blaming the victim.”) Chapter 16 starts with Job railing at them in frustration: “Will your long-winded speeches never end? What ails you that you keep on arguing? I also could speak like you, if you were in my place; I could make fine speeches against you and shake my head at you.” (v3-4) Unable to find one friend who understands his pain and rallies to his defense, Job looks above. “Even now my witness is in heaven; my advocate is on high. My intercessor is my friend as my eyes pour out tears to God.” (v19-20) In a fit of prophetic pique, Job envisions the Risen Christ described in 1 Timothy 2.5: “For there is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.” This compares nicely with verse 21, where Job says, “On behalf of a man he pleads with God as a man pleads for his friend.” While we’re bedazzled by Job’s prescient grasp of Jesus’s ultimate role in redemption’s plan, we can’t overlook his need to conjure a Christ figure because he can’t find one among his friends. Not one relates to his dilemma. Not one offers to intercede to the God he claims to know in Job’s stead.

An Intercessory Chain of Command

Jesus erases all doubt He ordains us as Christ figures in John 14.12-13: “Anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father. And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father.” He activates an intercessory chain of command. We assume Christ’s identity as an outsider and outlaw to identify with those bound by oppressive forces. We volunteer as their go-betweens, becoming the critical link between them and Christ, Who mediates their case with God the Father. In this sense, we are Denis Rakes—fluent conversationalists and radio operators who keep the lines open between the presently defeated and their triumphant Ally. We are their friends.

Those around us beset by pernicious forces must know we’re true and faithful friends. Their problems most likely will exceed our ability to correct. Still, we lift their hopes and anchor their spirits by bringing all we have to bear on their case. Our compassion testifies we understand oppression first-hand. Our language is real, spoken as natives who know, not smug observers who rationalize and accuse. We intercede for them to Christ just as He does to the Father, as seasoned outsiders with established credentials. We say, “I’m praying for you” with conviction, and they believe in our prayers. That’s how the intercessory chain of command works. People in trouble place faith in us. We have faith in Christ. Anything we ask of Him will be done to the Father’s glory. God wins the war. God liberates the oppressed. We serve as His agents. We are go-betweens, radio operators, and interventionists. Though we may be docile in nature, to the hopeless, voiceless, and powerless, we are lions of love—Christ figures.

As Christ figures, we are lions of love to people in trouble. We defy norms and prejudices on their behalf, following an intercessory chain of command that brings their cases to God.

The Only Thing

You who are trying to be justified by law have been alienated from Christ; you have fallen away from grace…. The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love. (Galatians 5.4,6)

Rules and Roles

I recently caught one of those “lost books of the Bible” shows that pop up on the History Channel. These programs don’t hold my interest long, as they’re riddled with speculation. We have fewer facts about these texts—their origins, authors, dates, and purposes—than the 66 accepted volumes, which is to say next to nil. Yet if I could get my hands on any lost manuscript, it would be a reliable biography of Paul. The little we know of him before conversion is self-reported. He was a Jew raised abroad. He was a bright young man, an exemplary student of religious law. His hubris fostered intense hatred of Jews who didn’t subscribe to his indoctrination. His trade as a tent-maker funded his anti-Christian activism and the atrocities he committed against believers.

These fragments can't fully explain how Paul's past ignited his great passion to pry first-century Christianity from Judaism’s legalistic roots. No matter the topic at hand, he inevitably returns to this: “You’re no longer bound by rules. Fulfill your roles as free believers.” If only there were a document to shed more light on his obsession with rules and roles. What sparked his naïve enthusiasm for legal compliance? What in his encounter with Christ changed his mind so decidedly? Paul doesn’t gradually lose his ardor for the Law. It’s a violent, instantaneous reversal. His ministry is as much about pushing believers from legalism as leading them to grace. We’ll never know why this is. It's fairly obvious in his formative years Paul fell hopelessly in love with the complexity of the Law. He was brilliant at deconstructing its content and relished being a recognized legal expert. But all it took was a brief glimpse of Jesus to cure his arrogance. In that moment, he learned the one fact that eluded him: obedience is a simple thing.

Simplicity

Though it’s not hard to understand what God asks of us, like Paul, our distrust of simplicity pushes us to make it hard. We create impossible, often impenetrable rules. Even the work of making rules becomes hard, since we have to agree what they should be before agreeing to abide by them. This calls for committees, hearings, and votes. Consensus invariably ends in compromise. Then there’s enforcement, which introduces status and judgment that foster imbalance and prejudice. We settle for compliance to code rather than obedience to principle. Having embraced this process as a young man, Paul is intimately aware how easily we’re duped by its deceits. He reviles legalism with such vehemence because his conscience is seared with the faces of believers who suffered crimes he committed at the Law’s behest. The first sign of legalism creeping into the Church is Paul’s cue to shut it down. Every stroke of his pen is a personal strike against injustice.

The Galatians letter is a manifesto seething with hatred for legalism. Paul writes to a cluster of congregations in present-day Turkey, which tells us his readers are largely converted pagans. They’ve fallen under the influence of teachers who advocate “a different gospel—which is really no gospel at all.” (Galatians 1.6-7) The destructive doctrine calls for Gentiles to convert to Judaism before joining Christian ranks. This reduces Christianity to a Jewish schism, an idea Paul will not tolerate. It burdens believers with a moribund code that confounds the Gospel’s simplicity and defeats its purpose. He writes, “You who are trying to be justified by law have been alienated from Christ; you have fallen away from grace.” (5.4) Or, you’re making it too hard for yourselves. The Gospel is so simple, Paul says, the ridiculously complex Law becomes obsolete. None of its restrictions and demands bears relevance now. “The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.” (v6)

Divinely Reliant

The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love. The statement alerts us that we possess a living faith—a confidence that can only be conveyed by action. Pardon the bluntness, but dumb compliance to ancient codes steals our means to articulate faith in word and deed. That’s why we can’t be coerced to comply with rules. We’re called to communicate our faith in the roles we’re given. It can’t get any simpler. Stubborn commitment to love at all costs, all times, and in every situation witnesses our faith. No one’s impressed by how well we heed religious ordinances. Club membership of any kind implies accordance with its rules. It’s a conventionally human response, which is why Paul says legalism alienates us from Christ and His grace. Living faith is told in the doing, not doing as it’s told. When expressed through love, it reveals godly traits alive in us—compassion, justice, creativity, kindness, patience, and other mercies we adore in our Maker. These qualities cause people to take notice. What they see isn’t how “devoutly religious” we are; they see how divinely reliant we strive to be. Without God, we could never look beyond inescapable reasons not to love and find every excuse to love.

Living faith expressed through love not only frees us from dumb compliance, it protects us from doubt and criticism. It builds more faith. In 1 John 3.18-20, we read: “Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. This then is how we know that we belong to the truth, and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence whenever our hearts condemn us. For God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything.” Living faith often casts us in roles that ignore accepted rules. Courage to obey Christ’s principles tests our comfort with non-compliance to social and religious codes. Unease raises uncertainties. Doubt surges when we’re hit with harsh criticism within and without our religious traditions. But God is greater than any doubt or critic. He knows everything. What anyone, including us, thinks or says isn’t our worry. The only thing that counts is faith expressed through love.

Though I’m not quite seeing it, the figure in this graphic is a lion—which I like very much, since expressing faith through love is simply fierce and courageous obedience to Christ's principles.

Established

The LORD reigns, let the nations tremble… The King is mighty, he loves justice—you have established equity. (Psalm 99.1,4)

Time Changes

I’m reeling as I write this. Last night, I had dinner with a dear brother of whose faith and witness I have no doubt. I have loved this man my entire life and can say without pause he has loved me just as long. We would give our lives for one another. For decades, our politics have been diametrically opposed. He’s a black-and-white kind of guy. I’m convinced I know so little of the realities our world faces I look out on fields of gray. Our discussions on social and economic issues get pretty heated, but we always stop before they boil over. Protecting one another from injury—or causing injury—is paramount.

Healthcare reform came up. He held his party’s line: it’s a disaster in the making. I held my position: as long as people can’t access healthcare, we are guilty, as believers and citizens, of moral neglect. His answer stole my breath. “I’ll tell you what’s moral,” he said. “Quit waiting for the mailman to drop an envelope at your door and get a job.” After we parted, my mind couldn’t release his mischaracterizing people on unemployment as “immoral.” Why couldn’t I shake that? The ton of bricks thundered down on me. Not six months ago, he’d spent a year waiting on the mailman. How was he “moral” then, while millions now in similar circumstances are not? Time changes everything, they say. This change was heartbreaking. How could he forget his recent past so easily?

Not Everything

Not everything changes with time. There are principles and expectations set down thousands of years ago that remain constant and in effect today. They will never change, because they are divine edicts issued from God’s throne. They are cast in ironclad language that leaves no wiggle room for circumstantial shifts or interpretation. They are true. They are clear. They are timeless. And nothing we bump up against in life gives us liberty to disregard them. The slightest inclination to set them aside for a moment should shake us until the very notion falls from our minds.

“The LORD reigns,” Psalm 99.1 says. “Let the nations tremble.” It reminds us again in verse 4: “The King is mighty.” We must be very careful about allowing changes over time to alter our sense of accountability to One Who does not change. Petitioning His power to rescue us when we’re in dire straits and then ignoring what pleases Him when times get better puts us in a perilous place. “He loves justice—you have established equity,” the psalmist declares. Justice. Equity. These are established principles. There is no “moral” us and “immoral” them. Our situation is weighed no differently than theirs. And we can delude ourselves with any rationale that suits our fancy or fits our politics. Yet any time our beliefs and behaviors flout the justice and equity God loves we can expect repercussions. Galatians 6.7 says, “Do not be deceived. God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows.”

Before the Grace of God

When we observe someone whose hardships are comfortably removed from our reality, we say, “There but for the grace of God go I.” Indeed, the further outside our realm of possibility they are, the more quickly we say it. To cite a personal example, I’ve never felt the least temptation to seek solace in alcohol. When I see or hear of someone who’s thrown his/her life away in a bottle, I have no difficulty recognizing God’s grace in sparing me from that impulse. But how many of us ever say, “There before the grace of God went I?” Why are we so intensely judgmental—to the point of dismissal—of those struggling with frailties God has blessed us to overcome? That’s for each of us to ponder, because our reasons are a complex knot of extremely personal emotions, circumstances, and memory. Still, no matter how rational our reasons for discounting anyone else may seem, this we must know: we’re wrong to do it. It displeases our King and warps His reflection in our lives.

The first stanza of “Amazing Grace” concludes “Twas blind, but now I see.” On the bright side of God’s grace, everything becomes clear. We see how easy our problems were for Him, and without the utmost care, we’re apt to assume the solutions came easily to us. We forget how murky those days before God made His grace known were. We slide into delusions that God delivered us because we proved we’re worth delivering. If that’s what we see when we look back at His goodness toward us, we’re blinder than we were in our troubles. God’s grace reaches us because it reached countless millions before us. It doesn’t prove anything about us; it proves everything about Him. He loves justice. He has established equity. He saves us to show us those He saved before us were no better than we. His grace proves we’re no better—no more “moral”—than those coming behind us, struggling in the same snares He graciously enabled us to escape. (Not avoid—escape.) There before the grace of God went we. Condemning those who’ve yet to know God’s grace condemns us.

If, on the bright side of God’s grace, we consider ourselves better than those who’ve yet to experience it, we’re blinder than we were in our troubles.

Abundance

To those who have been called, who are loved by God the Father and kept by Jesus Christ: Mercy, peace and love be yours in abundance. (Jude 1.1-2)

Too Much

Walt and I were in Paris when Spider Man opened, and we thought it might be interesting to watch the French watch an American blockbuster. If you’ve been to the movies there, you know Parisians respect film as high art. They’ll talk through the previews without a glance at the screen. When the feature starts, however, they go silent and remain so to soak up every minute. Although we experienced this before, we couldn’t believe Spider Man was getting the kind of attention Americans reserve for “serious” films. Obviously, its sarcasm and wit didn’t translate. (I whispered to Walt, “The subtitles are fine. The jokes are too American.” On every side, I felt lasers of disapproving stares.) Then, about halfway along, four characters gathered for Thanksgiving. They brought out a golden-brown, colossal turkey, sitting it in the center of a table groaning with side dishes. The audience roared. It wasn’t an intentional joke, but the response turned it into one. Cooking enough for a small army looked ridiculous with only four skinny actors to feed.

A few days later we mentioned this to our friend, Ludivine, a movie actress we’d met a few years earlier. We said we got how it could be mistaken as a sight gag if the audience didn’t know about Thanksgiving. She said, “I don’t think they were laughing because there was so much food. It was a love-laugh at Americans. You have such a hard time distinguishing plenty from too much.” We had no clue what she meant. “We have feasts, too,” she went on. “We’re famous for them. We make sure there’s plenty, so everyone has his fill of all he wants. But too much is… too much. All of that work—the planning, shopping, and cooking—only to have most of it shoved into the refrigerator or thrown away. It’s too much.” “But, but, but,” we replied, stressing that Thanksgiving is a feast of abundance. “What good is abundance if it’s wasted?” she asked.

The Pleasures of Plenty

When the topic of abundance surfaces among believers, our thoughts focus on “abundant living,” based on Christ’s statement in John 10.10: “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.” (NKJV) And we accept that at face value without considering there may be more to it than meets the eye. On its surface, it’s pretty simple. Jesus came to give us life, not only new life, but also plenty of life—more than we’ve ever known, more than was possible before He came. Yet misinterpreting abundance to mean "excess" ruins our response to this great promise. It’s too much for us to conceive, let alone digest. So many of us react to Christ’s abundance as though it were a table laden with overstocked offerings and oversized portions. Either we push back because we’re too concerned about overeating or we stuff ourselves into a stupor. Both reactions prevent us from enjoying the life Christ gives.

There’s no need to go hungry, nor is there any use in making ourselves sick from overindulgence. Christ gives abundant life so we can experience the pleasures of plenty. Unlike our feasts, which we slate for special occasions, His table is continuously spread for everyone to savor life to the full. Every day’s a feast day. Abundant living is a privilege we practice. Every day, we’re drawn to the feast to satisfy the needs and appetites of that day. Some days we go to the feast craving love. There’s plenty of love on the table. Some days we go in search of peace. There’s no shortage of peace. We may have forgot what joy tastes like. So we go that day wanting nothing more than a big helping of joy. Whatever craving draws us to Christ’s table of life we eat our fill without hesitation, because there’s always enough of everything for everyone. Thus, abundant life isn’t a mystery. It’s not a lofty goal. It’s not a higher spiritual plane or state of consciousness. It’s the daily discipline of getting to the feast, knowing what we require and desire for that day, and believing there’s plenty for us and everyone else. Our presence at Christ’s table day after day ensures none of His abundance is wasted.

Come and Dine

When I was young, we sang a hymn whose chorus said:

"Come and dine," the Master calleth, "Come and dine."

You may feast at Jesus' table all the time

He Who fed the multitudes, turned the water into wine

To the hungry calleth now, "Come and dine!"

That’s abundant living in a nutshell. Jude opens his epistle with a glorious salutation: “To those who have been called, who are loved by God the Father and kept by Jesus Christ: Mercy, peace, and love be yours in abundance.” We’ve been called to dine on Christ’s abundance, and each day brings a new call. God does love us. Christ does keep us by providing plenty of everything we need to remain in Him. There’s plenty of mercy and peace and love and everything else we will ever need or desire in order to live abundantly.

What do you need today? What do you hope to discover? What will drive your thoughts and behavior closer to God? Whatever that may be, it’s in ready supply. The table is spread. There’s plenty of room for you. Don’t worry about who is or isn’t there. You’re welcome to sit wherever you like. Abundance awaits you. It must not be wasted. Christ is calling you to new life, more life than you’ve ever known, more than was or will be possible without Him. Come and dine.

Whatever you need or desire in life, there’s plenty awaiting you at Christ’s table.

Postscript: Off to Celebrate

I’ll be away from my desk while I travel to Oakland, California to celebrate Bishop Walter Hawkins’ life and triumph over death. I don’t anticipate having time to post anything new mid-week, but I’ll make time to monitor comments. Please keep me in your prayers as I travel, and pray added strength for Bishop’s family and congregation as they go through the days and months ahead. God bless all of you. I look forward to getting back home and here soon.

Flirtations and Affairs

Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one. Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. (Deuteronomy 6.4-5)

The Way I Always Heard It Should Be

A lot of us read the phrase above and instantly heard Carly Simon’s hit. In the song, she’s considering a marriage proposal—working her way through the issues, assessing its merits based on her parents’ experience, and deciding if she’s agreeing to marry because she truly wants to or because she feels pressured to say yes. In the end, she accepts. But all of her doubts haven’t been resolved, and one gets the sense they may remain with her always. That’s the beauty of the song—its sense of stepping out on faith despite all of the visible evidence and internal questions that recommend turning down her suitor.

Our commitment to God is no less difficult. When He calls to us—declaring His undying love, and vowing to be our sole companion, provider, and protector—there’s a lot to work through. We’ve always heard it should be this way. Yet before we commit, there are issues to weigh. We’ve observed how lifelong relationships with God can flourish. We’ve also seen how often they lapse into doldrums, with one party going through the motions while the Other competes with distractions to make His love known. We’ve witnessed many who committed their lives to God, simply to conform to outside pressures. Relationships of this last kind seldom endure. At best, they devolve into a “name-only” arrangement. More likely, they end in estrangement.

We’re right to evaluate these possibilities before we accept God’s offer. We’re also wise to reckon with the reality that doubts causing us to hesitate may never be allayed. There will be days we may wish we hadn’t committed—moments when the sacrifices and confinements of monogamy will overshadow its benefits and comforts. Those days will require conscious discipline to stay true. We’ll need to fall back on faith this thing will work, because everything we see and sense will urge us to let go. In these moments of doubt we exchange “The Way I Always Heard It Should Be” for another Carly Simon song: “(Loving You Is) The Right Thing to Do.”

The One

We open Deuteronomy 6 and hear Moses declare: “Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one.” (v4) As Christians burdened with our complex—some would say, problematic—Trinitarian doctrine, we’re apt to assume he’s referring to God the Parent, God the Child, and God the Spirit. But no such doctrine exists for Israel. In a culture dominated by three monotheist faiths, we’re equally prone to believe the “one God” concept is a similarly easy purchase for Israel. It is not. They’ve always heard that’s the way it should be. But they’re surrounded by a lion’s share of evidence to the contrary. They’ve witnessed lapses—flirtations and affairs with idolatry—in their ranks. They’ve opened their community to polytheist fellow travelers, whose alternative faith approaches seem to work fine for them. So Israel has doubts. Moses strives to change their tune from “The Way We Always Heard It Should Be” to “The Right Thing to Do.” That’s why he follows his declaration with this: “Love the LORD your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your strength.” (v6)

In telling Israel its God is “one,” Moses says, “He’s the One”—the Perfect Partner. He urges Israel to accept God’s proposal, because there can be no better offer. Then he urges them to commit to the relationship. “Love God with all your heart,” he says. In ancient terminology, the heart governs existence. Loving another with all your heart removes all boundaries, making the two of you inseparable. Loving someone with all one’s soul demands a bottomless emotional commitment, a passion for the other that can’t be shaken by third-party promises or seduction. That’s why a durable and fulfilling relationship with God takes all of one’s strength. Temptations to flirt with other gods, literally and figuratively, has enormous appeal. Our fascination with new ideas and experiences makes us easy prey for enticements. But when we focus our entire strength on staying faithful to God, we remain true in our hearts and souls. We can’t be dissuaded He’s the One. Our conviction that loving Him is the right thing to do will not wane, despite inner doubts and contradictory evidence.

30 Words

In two sentences—30 words—Moses explains the difference between loving God and entering a monogamous relationship with Him. It’s easy to love God, since He loves us, whether we love Him or not. But He will never have us and we will never be His until we say yes to His proposal and totally commit to our union with Him. While we weigh issues involved with committing to this relationship, we should be realistic. No offer will ever be better. He’s the One.

Ironically, awareness of God’s unconditional love often beguiles us to believe flirtations and affairs with other suitors are harmless—innocent, even. God will always forgive our silliness and welcome us home. And that’s true. When we come to our senses and run back to Him, no love will be lost between us. But what have we lost in the process? We’ve given our hearts to false notions and gods. We’ve surrendered our emotions. We’ve compromised our strength. It is we, not He, who suffer. The damage to the relationship rests with us.

When Pharisees taunted Jesus with an impossible test, asking Him to select the most important commandment, He quoted Deuteronomy 6.5, calling it “the first and great commandment.” First—the best. Great—all-encompassing. God is the One. Loving Him is the right, the only, the best thing to do.

There’s a difference between loving God and entering a monogamous relationship with Him.

Postscript: Comment Challenge

In trying to convey what Moses means by “God is [the] One,” I turned to the phrase “Perfect Partner.” Now I turn to you. What makes God your Perfect Partner? What aspects of your relationship seal your commitment? This is a chance to share in a glorious, communal God lovefest. Take a moment to share your thoughts or experiences… Thanks.

Way Over Yonder—A Personal Reflection

If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. (1 Corinthians 15.19)

Bishop Walter Hawkins

May 18, 1949 – July 11, 2010

Shelter

Last weekend started one way and ended another. Both events jettisoned me back to my teens. On Friday night, Walt and I attended Carole King and James Taylor’s “Troubadour Reunion” concert. On Sunday evening, I opened my Facebook page to see a link posted by my good friend, Calvin Bernard Rhone. It took me to a Washington Post article: Walter Hawkins dead: award-winning gospel singer was 61. Since the early 70's, if anyone asked, “Who are your greatest musical influences?” without a second’s thought, I’d reply, “Carole King and Walter Hawkins.” As a burgeoning church musician, both drew me with their keyboard and songwriting genius. I spent hours listening to their breakthrough albums, Carole’s Tapestry (1971) and Walter’s Love Alive (1975, recorded with the choir of the church he founded, Love Center), followed by countless hours at the piano, trying to replicate their sound.

With music playing such a forceful role in my life and my faith, their influence exceeded its impact on my tastes and musicianship, however. Their lyrics shared many similarities that moved me profoundly. Admittedly, Carole’s songs were secular and often directed to friends and lovers, while Walter’s spoke of or to God. Yet it’s irrefutable both came from comparable places in their hearts. For example, Carole sang:

Way over yonder is a place that I know

Where I can find shelter from the hunger and cold

And the sweet-tasting good life is so easily found

Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound

Walter’s choir sang:

If you want to know where I'm going

Where I'm going soon

If anybody asks you where I'm going

Where I'm going soon

I'm going up yonder to be with my Lord

Carole sang:

Winter, spring, summer, or fall

All you have to do is call

And I'll be there

You've got a friend

And, on Love Alive II (1978), Walter’s choir sang:

He will never forsake you

Even though He knows everything

There is to know about you

He's that kind of Friend

These were potent messages of hope for a teenager struggling to reconcile his faith and sexual orientation. Knitted together, Carole’s compassion and Walter’s confidence became the shelter in my storms—the place where I could steal away to hear angels sing hope and acceptance. It was where I heard Walter’s music say:

God has not promised me sunshine

That's not the way it's going to be

But a little rain mixed with God's sunshine

A little pain helps me appreciate the good times

Be grateful, and it will be all right

While Carole told me:

You've got to get up every morning

And show the world all the love in your heart

Then people will treat you better

You're gonna find, yes you will

That you're beautiful as you feel

The Far Shore

So I wept with joy on Friday, as Carole performed her life-giving songs, and again Sunday, on learning Walter was gone—up yonder, way over yonder. Yet in my tears, sorrow would not come. What I felt was no less than insurmountable joy. In song after song, sermon after sermon, he insisted he was bound way over yonder. I couldn’t have been happier for him. And in my happiness, I realized the depth of his impact on me. All along, he’d been my living example of 1 Corinthians 15.19: “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men.” I understood why I felt no alarm when I heard he was battling pancreatic cancer. I knew hope for him surpassed healing and longevity. He’d lived his life looking to the far shore.

Walter Hawkins taught me—and hundreds of thousands he graced with his music—to live in hope. Through him we grasped there’s no such thing as hopelessness when we place total faith in Christ’s word: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” (John 14.1-3) Walter compelled us always to remember we’re going up yonder. Setting our sights on the far shore keeps life’s trials in perspective. Here’s how Carole framed it:

I know when I get there the first thing I'll see

Is the sun shining golden, shining right down on me

And trouble's gonna lose me, worry leave me behind

And I'll stand up proudly, in true peace of mind

When the Battle’s Over

While playing Walter’s records as a kid, I never imagined I'd personally know him. I lived in Chicago. He was in Oakland. He was world-famous. I was nobody. I moved to Los Angeles after college and a series of coincidences landed me in the heart of L.A.’s gospel community. A good friend was recording his choir’s first major album, which Walter offered to produce. We’d briefly met a few times in passing, mostly when I visited his church in Oakland. When he came to L.A. to record my friend’s album, I somehow ended up driving him around town. He talked excitedly about his upcoming project, Love Alive III, and when we happened to pass my church, West Angeles, he asked to stop so he could say hello to my pastor.

After he and Bishop Blake visited, Walter said, “Let’s go to the sanctuary. I want to play some of the new album for you.” I can’t describe the emotions rushing over me as I sat beside him, watching his hands glide over the keys, listening to songs the general public had yet to hear. I wanted to explain what this moment meant to me, yet I knew I wouldn’t do it justice. So I sat in silent awe. We’d been there a while when Walter said, “One more, then we need to go. You’re really going to like this one.” He sailed into a classic Walter Hawkins toe-tapper, “When the Battle is Over.” Here’s the second verse:

With tears streaming down, when there's no one around

And you feel like all hope is gone

Don't despair, God is right there

When the battle's over, when the battle's over

We're going home.

Walter’s passing compels me to encourage all of us to live in the bright hope of God’s promises. We will cry sometimes. At times, family and friends we look to won’t be there. We’ll feel like hope is lost. But we must never forget the hope we possess will ultimately triumph. We must always keep the far shore in sight. Way over yonder—that’s where we’re bound.

When the battle’s over, we’re going home.

"One of these mornings, it won’t be long, you’re gonna look for me and I’ll be gone on home!” Bishop Walter Hawkins sings, “When the Battle is Over.” (Choir conducted by his brother, Edwin Hawkins.)

Careful

Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them slip from your heart as long as you live. (Deuteronomy 4.9)

Mindfulness

The moment you close the window, this post becomes a thing of the past. Stepping into the present is a matter of perpetually zeroing out, leaving the prior minute go to make room for the next. Time doesn’t permit us to carry forward experience and knowledge. That’s memory’s function. In the moment, we rely on memory for insight. We consciously bring the past into the present. The Latin root of “memory”—memor—literally means “mindfulness.” To remember is to be mindful again. In contrast, to forget is derived from the Old English gietan (“to grasp”) and modified by for (“to pass by”), i.e., to let pass without grasping. Like remembering, forgetting is also a conscious act, a momentary decision to let things go. There is truth to the idea if we can’t remember it, it wasn’t important.

In the strictest sense, remembering and forgetting are not opposites, as they’re not matters of picking and choosing from the past. They’re dual functions of mindfulness, which means we sift through the present as we go. Initially, it’s instinctive. As infants, we’re unconsciously mindful that crying gets us fed or changed. But very soon, we develop conscious mindfulness driven by instincts. We choose to remember what helps and harms our chances for survival, while we let non-essential information go. We learn cooing and laughing delights the parents we depend on, while climbing out of the bassinette hurts us and scares them. We retain very few, if any, infant memories because our underdeveloped mental capacity has no space for useless information. By necessity, we forget as we go. Then, as we grow more independent, the need for mindfulness increases. We become more aware of what we should remember.

Failure to Grasp

Issues with mindfulness don’t emerge until much later, when we’d prefer to remember the good and forget the bad. But opportunity for forgetting passes with the moment. Rather than struggle in vain to undo the past, perhaps we should consider why we were mindful to retain certain experiences and not others. The answer may be simpler than we think. We were mindful in the moment to enable us to be mindful again. Still, we ask, why would we elect to remember hurtful, even harrowing events? I believe the answer is two-fold: to overcome them by becoming mindful they are things of the past, as well as remaining mindful we’re no less capable of inflicting harm on others than those who harmed us. Bad memories come to mind to awaken awareness of health and security at present—or to quicken awareness of dangerous threats to our wellbeing we’ve yet to disarm. Mindfulness prompts us to say, “I know better now.”

This is the nub of Deuteronomy 4.9: “Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them slip from your heart as long as you live.” Moses has spent the previous three chapters meticulously recounting Israel’s history under his leadership. Since his goal is inspiring them to go forward in his absence, he’s mindful to emphasize positive moments in the past. But he doesn’t shrink from discussing truly terrible ones—including the most harrowing of his own life, when a careless act nullified his possibility of living to see Israel take possession of Canaan. By human measure, the penalty seems too severe. Israel was thirsty. God told Moses to speak to a rock and water would pour forth. Instead, he struck the rock. It was a mindless act indicating Moses hadn’t been mindful of God’s power in the past. Acting on his own proved his failure to grasp the meaning in previous moments, when God provided for Israel. Moses’s mindlessness made very real the potential it might be said he, not God, led Israel into Canaan. He had to be absent to prevent this.

Leaving the Moment

When we read Deuteronomy 4.9, it’s vital to realize Moses isn’t simply telling Israel to recall God’s past goodness and judgment. He’s also urging them to remain mindful in the present. “Be careful, and watch yourselves closely,” he stresses. Living in the moment—a philosophy whose soundness can’t be overstated—goes beyond what we do and think in that instant. It also encompasses what we choose to retain or pass by when leaving the moment. Mindfulness is how we see what’s important now so we’ll understand future situations better. It’s what enables us to forgive and forget—to focus on mercy’s power without pausing to grasp sin’s pain. It’s what discerns between giving and lending, offering our best without expectation of repayment or reward. It’s what brings us ever closer to holiness, to the know God of the present as the God of the future—and the God of the past. The more mindful we are in the moment, the more quickly we’ll disable terrors of the past by recognizing the good we intended to grasp from them. Instead of recalling they diminished or nearly destroyed us, we’ll see them as moments we refused to be diminished or destroyed. That’s what we should be mindful of. That’s really what we kept when we left the moment. We need always to remember that.

Moses teaches us knowing why we remember is no less important than what we remember. In retrospect, we wish we didn’t remember many things, losing sight that we had sound reasons why we did. Mindfulness steers us from becoming prisoners of our past by alerting us to how it informs our present. What we recall while living in the moment determines how we leave it. Past good we remember spurs us on to greater good. The bad we chose not to forget strengthens us to withstand current harm. Understanding why we remember certain moments certain ways teaches us how to be more careful with this one.

When living in the moment, it’s essential to be mindful of how we leave it. Understanding why we remember is no less important than what we remember.