Sized to Fit

Great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised in the city of our God, in the mountain of his holiness… God is known in her palaces for a refuge. (Psalm 48.1,3; KJV)

Among Giants

This week I walked among giants: cancer specialists, researchers, social workers, clinicians, and survivors. At first glance, it looked like a commercial venture. And it was that—the annual sales and marketing meeting of the nation’s top provider of biologic cancer therapies. But the spirit of the thing surpassed sales goals and marketing objectives to celebrate the determination of patients, compassion of caregivers, and commitment of scientists to defy the death and destruction of nefarious disease. My work in pharmaceutical marketing routinely places me in gatherings where breakthrough therapies are extolled for their life-giving powers, where patient successes are recounted to inspire those tasked with purveying these products to the clinical community. Yet very rarely is the environment as saturated with unity of purpose as the one I just left. While it’s always been true with this particular group, I felt more keenly attuned to the fervor coursing through this week’s program.

Flying home yesterday, I turned on my iPod, letting it randomly select from a gospel playlist. The second number was Andraé Crouch’s “Bless the Lord,” a simple song that says, “He has done great things; bless His holy name.” The song is so old I was marginally surprised when the progressive congregation I visited on Sunday opened worship with it. The leader segued into a newer chorus: “How great is our God! How great, how great is our God!” It seemed as though every believer there reclined into God’s greatness as his/her refuge. Then they reached way back to a hymn I learned at my grandmother’s knee—a majestic anthem that nearly raised the roof: “Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee: How great Thou art!” As my reflection on the service and the meeting coalesced, it made perfect sense. This meeting was different because I’d come to it from a markedly differently place. Submersion in God’s greatness opened my eyes. Consciously or not, the giants I walked among witnessed it. The line between His work and their mission vanished. Every testimonial, progress report, and projection sang, “How great is our God!” When I put it together, I reached a thrilling realization. Our greatness resides entirely in His greatness. The more we’re aware of how great He is, the greater we become. Praise sized to fit His greatness is how that awareness increases.

High and Low

Psalm 48 strikes this note straightaway, saying, “Great is the LORD and greatly to be praised.” Yes, of course. No power or presence in heaven and earth is greater than He. He obviously deserves the greatest praise—no revelation there. Still, praise we ascribe to God is revelatory. Though it proves nothing new about Him, it reveals much about our concept and understanding of Him. Limited praise expresses limitations in how we view and relate to Him. Perfunctory praise exposes the confinement of our relationship with God to polite obligation. In contrast, expansive praise—hungry praise, lavish praise, enraptured praise—conveys unbridled awe at how great He is. It tears down barricades of doubt and unhinges gates of logic that try to contain Him. The Lord is great and greatly to be praised. Confidence in this compels us to remove all hindrances to our adoration and recognition of Who He is, what He does, and the infinite reach of His love and power. Great praise is faith praise.

The psalmist says the Lord is to be greatly praised “in the city of our God, in the mountain of His holiness.” He expounds on his geographic allusions in verse 2: “Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is mount Zion, on the sides of the north, the city of the great King.” This isn’t poetry for poetry’s sake, lovely though it may be. At the time of Psalm 48’s writing, the Hebrews were more or less divided into two groups: townspeople and hill people. While city life was notably more prosperous and sophisticated than mountain life, those who lived in towns were also far more vulnerable to surprise attacks and sudden losses. On the other hand, hilltop dwellers led a far more arduous existence at the mercy of seasonal changes and natural disaster. “High and low, up and down,” the psalmist says, our great God is worthy of great praise. Our worship removes us from our weaknesses. It displaces concerns about victimization and situations beyond our control. It turns our thoughts from our fragility and tenuous existence to His supremacy. Unleashing great praise befitting our great God enlarges us. We become giants in environments plagued by hostility and uncertainty. What appears too great for us would be, were it not for the increase we experience when we increase our praise to accommodate all that God is. Great praise lifts our eyes to see cities of depression and vulnerability as “the city of the great King;” we view mountains of deprivation and misfortune as “the mountain of His holiness.” Where we are is not where we live, because we live where He lives.

A Refuge

“God is known in her palaces for a refuge,” verse 3 tells us. If praise reveals our concept of God—and if increased praise increases our faith—then praise indeed will determine how thoroughly and intimately we know Him as a refuge. When trouble comes to our “city”—when forces intent on stealing our joy and jeopardizing our security besiege us—praise transports us to the mountain of His holiness. When unforeseen disasters befall us in the mountains, praise becomes our passport to the city of our God. Unlike thanksgiving, which conveys gratitude for specific blessings and interventions, praise remains constant and needs no reason other than ravishing God with exultation in the wonder of Him. It’s impervious to circumstances, complications, and timelines. It focuses exclusively on God’s greatness, which cannot be denied or diminished by any force, scheme, or coincidence. Praise is a refuge that cannot be penetrated, a safe place that will not fail. How great is your God? Size your praise to fit His greatness. Then watch the size of His greatness explode. The Lord is great and greatly to be praised.

The expansiveness of our praise reveals how great our God is.

Postscript: How Great Is Our God

The full song, “How Great is Our God” by Chris Tomlin.

Choose Life

I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the LORD has done. (Psalm 118.17)

The Living Dead

Has anyone else noticed while we in our generation brawl mightily against one another, waging wars of words and violence, the next generation has become obsessed with the living dead? If, like me, you have very little interest in zombies and vampires, your reading and entertainment options are sharply curtailed. While one could argue every generation goes through a phase of dark, magical thinking, the sudden surge of interest in the past couple years suggests something more than intrigue with otherworldly lore may be involved here. The armchair sociologist in me wants to read deeper implications into this. Do our youth embrace this universe because there one needs only a thermometer to discern genuine humanity? Perhaps they’re responding to contradictions littered through fantasies where the non-living are often most alive to compassion, tolerance, justice, and fidelity. Both notions seem valid, particularly when one puts down the latest Twilight Saga volume for a newspaper, or turns off Zombieland to catch the latest melodrama unfolding on FOX News. Is it any wonder moral urgency thrumming in the land of the undead beckons young people desperately clinging to ideals taught by adults who’ve abandoned all pretense of honoring them?

Our constant tearing at one another overwhelms us with walking wounded. Healing virtues hold so little value they’re scantly felt. Calls for righteousness and reason are dead on arrival, their advocates marginalized as dreamers and radicals. With each torrent of cruelty and injustice, we who follow Christ find it increasingly difficult to fix our place in this world—in part, because much of the poison appears to originate in our house. The name of Jesus has been commoditized as an imprimatur of hatred, prejudice, and criminality, inflicting defeatism and shame on His true believers. Given the wrongs committed by usurping Christ’s authority, it’s understandable we may feel it best to withdraw into our little sphere, where people play nice and love prevails. Yet if not we, then who will summon courage to bind broken hearts? To bring light to darkness? To speak justice and compassion? To prove faith, hope, and love truly abide? Who will help today’s youth choose life?

The Name of the Lord

Biology ensures our perpetuity. But the life of our species and planet must be nurtured tenderly, tenaciously. When we observe those falling prey to greed and power-lust—when these evils become prerequisites for prominence and leadership in our society—we must move quickly, decisively to answer with unflinching resolve. We accomplish this not in our strength for our sake. We emulate the example in Psalm 118, whose author is surrounded by broken mindsets, institutions, and leadership. Confidence he can’t be defeated resounds so strongly, the repetitive style obtains oratorical force. He’s preaching. “The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?” he declares once and again. “The LORD is with me; he is my helper. I will look in triumph on my enemies.” (v6-7) Another one-two punch instantly follows: “It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to trust in man. [Again.] It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to trust in princes.” (v8-9) And he caps both doubles off with a triplet: “All the nations surrounded me, but in the name of the LORD I cut them off. They surrounded me on every side, but [again] in the name of the LORD I cut them off. They swarmed around me like bees, but they died out as quickly as burning thorns; [again] in the name of the LORD I cut them off.”

The name of the Lord—so grossly brutalized by zealots and strivers—belongs to us. We are given authority to act under its aegis in Mark 16.17-18, where Jesus says, “These signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons; they will speak with new tongues; they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well.” By ourselves, we’re nothing. But the name of the Lord transforms us into a force to be reckoned with. Just look at what Jesus says we can do in His name. We confront evil and send it packing. We change the conversation. We disarm slippery, cold-blooded sneaks before they strike. Poisonous attitudes and behaviors pose no threat to us. We heal. Using the psalmist’s paradigm, when deadly evil, talk, deceit, and agents envelop us, in the name of the Lord, we cut them off. We don’t tolerate them. We don’t reason with them. We don’t acknowledge their authority, respect their privileges, indulge their behavior, or clean up after them. We cut them off.

The Life Inside

The decisiveness of our actions is based on a decision that defines and binds us together: we choose life. Each of us comes to Christ and commits to His way because He is Life—the Bread of Life, the Water of Life, Life to the Full, and Eternal Life. Life before or without Christ no longer compels us. The Life inside us is the life we live. Galatians 2.20 splendidly conveys this truth: “I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” In light of this, when we see where the psalmist’s courage and tenacity lead, we join him, saying, “I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the LORD has done.” (v17)

Being alive in Christ means being alive in this world, refuting powers of sin and death, defying fatal influences, and opposing destructive ideologies. We are brave, articulate beings placed in every corner to answer defeat with triumph, hatred with compassion, cruelty with kindness, and selfishness with sacrifice. We recognize every issue troubling our society is a matter of life and death. In reality, our world is actually more like the alternative universe of pop fiction than we presume, clearer and more balanced than it often appears—with one exception. We’re not the living dead; we are gloriously, vibrantly, powerfully alive. We choose life to proclaim life in the name of Life.

We have been given authority to proclaim Life in a world overtaken by deadly ideologies and practices.

Blessed Every Which Way

All these blessings will come upon you and accompany you if you obey the LORD your God: You will be blessed in the city and blessed in the country… You will be blessed when you come in and blessed when you go out. (Deuteronomy 28.2-3,6)

The Puzzle of His Providence

Over the years, many have encouraged my mother to write her memoirs as a girl who grew up in rural poverty, defied convention by answering the call to ministry, and ended up shepherding big-city congregations in underprivileged areas. She recently completed the rough draft and we’ve spent hours on the phone editing it before she sends it to her editor. (She’s the type who cleans up before the housekeeper arrives.) I’ve heard these stories before, some of them many times. Yet compiling them into one narrative moves me in profound ways.

Mom was the eighth of 11 children whose father deserted them soon after the youngest was born. The family subsisted on odd jobs it could find and neighborly charity. Eventually, it was blessed to squeeze into a tiny house paid for by sharecropping the owner’s land. As you might imagine, being the poorest folk in a poor community added hardship. Even their church, which they faithfully attended, walking three miles in each direction, looked down on them. The parishioners felt no compunction about assigning less desirable tasks like cleaning the sanctuary or washing dishes to my grandmother and her brood. Very seldom did anyone offer to drive them to or from church. On one occasion my mom vividly recalls her Sunday school teacher ridiculed the walked-down shoes she and her sister wore in front their classmates.

The psychic toll, coupled with a series of illnesses and near-tragic mishaps, gave rise to a severely wounded, withdrawn little girl. A Bible storybook became her constant companion. Her fertile imagination opened her heart to the reality of God’s love and mercy; at an early age, she began piecing the puzzle of His providence together. Though she couldn’t discern the purpose of her suffering, she sensed something taking shape in her life. In retrospect, she’s able to sort out the rhymes and reasons of it all. Each trial—whether harrowing trauma or stabbing slight—prepped her response to struggles encountered many years later in the lives of her people. That’s the beauty in her story. Knowing God’s intentions would have frightened the faith out of her. Not knowing allowed her to connect obedience with providence. When time came to minister in Chicago, there was no question obeying the call would bring blessings.

Rewards and Incentives

The link between obedience and blessings fascinates me, because the Bible frankly admits submission to God—serving at His pleasure—isn’t compulsory for His favor. Jesus says God scatters blessings on an equal-opportunity basis: “He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” (Matthew 5.45) Paul wades into the thick of this when he suggests blessings also come from disobedience. “For God’s gifts and his call are irrevocable,” he writes in Romans 11.29. Mercies and roles God chose for us open the possibility we'll accept His gifts without heeding His call. This makes no sense—until we read verse 32: “For God has bound all men over to disobedience so that he may have mercy on them all.” God uses blessings as rewards and incentives. When we reflect on this, we find times when obedience brought great blessings. But we also find times we were chastened to realize God blessed us despite our behavior. He extended His mercy to draw us back to obedience.

Before we write off blessings as arbitrary phenomena, we should note a codicil attached to God’s will. While disobedience doesn’t block the flow of mercy and kindness, obedience substantially increases it. Again and again, God promises to shower us with goodness when we make His pleasure our priority. Very few of His pledges match Deuteronomy 28’s eloquence. It’s too delicious for excerpts.

If you fully obey the LORD your God and carefully follow all his commands I give you today, the LORD your God will set you high above all the nations on earth. All these blessings will come upon you and accompany you if you obey the LORD your God:

You will be blessed in the city and blessed in the country. The fruit of your womb will be blessed, and the crops of your land and the young of your livestock—the calves of your herds and the lambs of your flocks. Your basket and your kneading trough will be blessed. You will be blessed when you come in and blessed when you go out.

The LORD will grant that the enemies who rise up against you will be defeated before you. They will come at you from one direction but flee from you in seven.

The LORD will send a blessing on your barns and on everything you put your hand to. The LORD your God will bless you in the land he is giving you.

The LORD will establish you as his holy people, as he promised you on oath, if you keep the commands of the LORD your God and walk in his ways. (v1-9)

The more we submit to God’s Word, His will, and His way, the more we experience His blessings—experience being the operative word. Obedience sharpens our perception of blessings that rise out of hardship and deprivation. They come upon us and accompany us, germinating within us until we’re able to recognize and accept them. Obedience primes us to experience blessings every which way, when and however they come—including those wrapped in struggle and dismay.

The Lifting

“If you obey Him, God will lift you,” Moses assures us. The lifting doesn’t exalt us to boast of deserving God’s goodness. Adherence to God’s principles raises us above turmoil and sorrow to perceive His providence at work in us. We become certain pleasing Him invariably ends in what’s best for us. His precepts of compassion, sacrifice, and service often create short-term hardships and uncommon demands. Yet obedience opens eyes of faith to see our predicaments through the lens of God’s infallible mercy and goodness. Doing what’s right steers us from actions and attitudes we’ll regret later. Difficulties we wrestle with now strengthen us for more rewarding challenges ahead. We count every piece in God’s providential puzzle as its own blessing. Obedience holds the key to remaining confident no matter where we are. In the city or country, coming in or going out—we’re blessed every which way.

Obedience sharpens our awareness that every piece in God’s providential puzzle is its own blessing.

Our Friend at the Table

Is not the cup of thanksgiving for which we give thanks a participation in the blood of Christ? And is not the bread that we break a participation in the body of Christ? Because there is one loaf, we, who are many, are one body, for all partake of the one loaf. (1 Corinthians 10.16-17)

The People of God

My faith community celebrates the Lord’s Supper on the first Sunday of each month, as has every congregation I’ve joined down through the years. So First Sunday always holds special meaning for me. Entering the worship space on that day promises a sensory return to the Cross. Even when the liturgy focuses elsewhere—like today, when the service centered on Psalm 139 (“Search me, O God”)—the service’s progression toward that climactic moment steadily draws my thoughts to the awful sacrifice and awesome victory that Calvary represents. Ordinarily, my inner vision lifts its sight to the Man of Sorrows. Perhaps because each new month finds me a little older and better acquainted with grief, appreciation for His boundless love runs deeper with every pilgrimage to the table laid in commemoration of His death.

Today was a little different. The minister raised the loaf of bread and chalice and said (like always), “These are the gifts of God for the people of God.” The people of God—the words pierced my heart. My usual seat put me in the first wave of communicants. As we quietly filed toward the altar, all I could think was, “I am one of the people of God.” In our church, the loaf is broken in two with each half given to a lay-member who offers it to the rest of us. We pull a morsel from the loaf as we pass, followed by a tiny glass of non-alcoholic wine presented by another lay-member. Today, taking my portion from the bread refreshed my understanding: I come from this. The brutalized body of my Savior and the living, breathing Body that witnesses His triumph over death merged in my brain. The moment was as much about arising out of this Body as entering into It. Back at my seat, I looked at the extraordinarily diverse group waiting to reaffirm its faith and membership in Christ—young and old, straight and gay, partnered and single, brown, black, yellow, and white, prosperous and secure, struggling and anxious. The people of God. Mist filled my eyes, verging on tears when the pianist broke the silence with a reverent, subtly jazz and country-infused variation of the old hymn:

There is a fountain filled with blood

Drawn from Immanuel's veins

And sinners plunged beneath the flood

Lose all their guilty stains

Friends of a Friend

The table beckons us to remember Who joins us together. Physically gathering there destroys our differences by demonstrating one incontrovertible truth we share. We are all friends of a Friend. Our love and concern for one another began with His love and concern for us. The table guards our mindfulness He befriended us long before we confirmed our friendship with Him. As Romans 5.8 so beautifully puts it, “God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” The taste of bread and wine replenishes our conviction no friend ever can or ever will offer friendship in a more radically trusting and inclusive fashion than Jesus—to the point He had no reluctance saying so: “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15.13) He goes on to say, “I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you.”

Our Friend at the table invites us to remember Him—to recollect His insuperable, a priori offering of friendship, an act of courage and faith greater than any other—to reestablish Him as our common bond. The magnitude of His selflessness withers our small-minded selfishness to imagine He would go to such extremes for us (and people like us), yet deny anyone we find disagreeably unlike us. What have we done to deserve such kindness? How could we possibly think who or what we are entitles us more than others to Christ’s friendship? Jesus scaled Calvary’s peak to create a mesa, a level place where all stand equally tall to see the world from the same height. For this reason, the flat table couldn’t be more appropriate as the place where we commune as friends of a Friend. Knowing one another’s business—scrutinizing one another’s affairs for approval—is wildly inappropriate there because His business, everything He has told us in confidence, is all we need to know.

Participation

“Sinners plunged beneath the flood lose all their guilty stains,” the hymn says. We are not spattered with droplets or lightly brushed with Christ’s love and friendship. We are plunged beneath the flood. We go in looking different and thinking differently. We come out looking and believing the same. In 1 Corinthians 10, Paul calls this “participation in the blood of Christ,” saying the cup our Friend offers at the table equalizes us. He says the same of the bread: “Is not the bread that we break a participation in the body of Christ? Because there is one loaf, we, who are many, are one body, for all partake of the one loaf.” What’s on the table and the table itself defines everything we believe and do. Its contents and construction purposefully encourage participation by all. Nothing on or about it suggests limited accessibility to a select few. The table, the cup, and the bread are the gifts of God for the people of God. This is so fundamental to our faith any other presumptions regarding it are to be discounted, no matter how deeply they’re inculcated in our respective traditions. Some of us may feel constrained to indulge them in order to retain our faith heritages. But we must never accept them. To say you or I cannot meet at the table—or we’re unworthy to serve there—is as ludicrous as saying we’re not fit to breathe. That’s how basic it is, and that’s why the table is what it is.

The cup and bread are the gifts of God for the people God offered at a level table accessible to all. We meet there as friends of a Friend.

Dirt

So the LORD God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken. (Genesis 3.23)

What We’re Made Of

“Get out there and show ‘em what you’re made of” is one of those chewed-up pep phrases with no meat left on them. It’s what the hamstrung producer says to the terrified understudy about to face the footlights, what the pug-faced coach uses to rally his team of underdogs before the big game. It’s a movie cliché as old as the movies. Since it never fails on the silver screen, it’s laughable in real life, where no writers can engineer an improbable triumph. Still, the phrase came to mind when digging around for a Labor Day topic led me to Genesis 3.23: “So the LORD God banished him [Adam] from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken.” The connection between what we’re made of and the living we make is new to me, even though it’s always been there, explicitly spelled out. The verse puts fresh meat on the cliché, giving us plenty to sink our teeth into.

I landed on Genesis 3.23 by starting at verse 19, a Labor Day gem: “By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken.” Next comes the ominous suggestion labor we undertake to survive, i.e., “making a living,” is futile: “For dust you are and to dust you will return.” This, of course, is the curse we inherited from Adam—our compulsion to do everything we can to live well and long, all the while knowing human life is fragile and finite. Gripped by mortality’s grim irony, it’s easy to glide by verse 23 as a recap of 19, never catching the huge implication in its syntactical shift. God banishes Adam from Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken. Groundwork is what’s missing in 19. To escape life’s dust-to-dust futility, we must ask, “What’s in the dirt?” Or, better yet, “What’s in our dirt?” Once we answer that, “show ‘em what you’re made of” is no cliché. It’s a calling.

Replete with Goodness

Whether we view the Bible’s account of our creation literally or metaphorically, the dirt at its center proves remarkably rich. By itself it’s useless—which is not to say worthless. Dirt is replete with goodness: vitamins and minerals, substance and malleability. Pressure and heat solidify its surface, yet it never gets so hard it can’t absorb fresh water, break open, and fulfill its purpose. Because its meaning and worth derive from what’s planted and rooted in it, no medium could be more perfect for our making. That’s why—after speaking all other plants and animals into existence—God uses a different method for us. He scoops up inert soil, molds it to His pleasure, and endows it with purpose by breathing life into it. Yet if His breath of life transfixes us to the point we ignore our origins in the soil, we glimpse only half the miracle. Being taken from the ground signifies goodness is elemental to us. We’re replete with it.

Suddenly “working the ground” transcends dragging ourselves out of bed day after day to work for our survival. Our primary occupation turns into identifying the inherent goodness in us and allowing it to nurture talents and opportunities God seeds into our lives. It’s important to remember although soil serves the same purpose wherever it’s found, its composition varies greatly from place to place. So it is with us. The ground God formed into you contains a unique blend of goodness that enables your gifts to thrive where you are. My blend of goodness is unique to me so what grows out of me fits my circumstances and environment. Nonetheless, the world is full of believers who think all Christians are made of the same stuff to grow the same seed and thrive in the same environment. Not so. Just as God makes cacti grow in Arizona and redwoods rise in California, the gifts He wants to spring up and take root where we are determines what's in our soil. The ground we're taken from is the ground we work.

All We Need

Once God makes us from ground that best suits His intentions, He provides all we need to flourish. As 2 Corinthians 9.8-10 points out, what blossoms from one seed generates many more seeds. The living we make by working the goodness in us yields a harvest that sustains not only us. It also enriches the people and communities we serve. “God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work,” Paul writes before referencing Psalm 112.9: “As it is written, ‘He has scattered abroad his gifts to the poor; his righteousness endures forever.’ Now he who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will also supply and increase your store of seed and will enlarge the harvest of your righteousness.”

The goodness in our dirt comes alive in the living we make from the life God seeds into us. This weekend, wherever you are—whether in the States, celebrating Labor Day, or elsewhere—make time to recognize your unique goodness. Identify the gifts that grow out of it. Recommit to working the ground you’re taken from. Then get out there and show ‘em what you’re made of!

The dirt from which God shapes each of us contains a unique blend of goodness that enables the gifts He seeds in us to flourish where we are.

Postscript: Show Them What You’re Made Of

Here’s a song for those who might like a little accompaniment while contemplating the goodness in our dirt. Nik Kershaw sings “Show Them What You’re Made Of.”

After reading this post, Grant directed me to Steve Bell's "These Are the Ones"--a beautiful song that echoes the thoughts above in a particularly vivid way. Take a look--you'll be glad you did!

Valid Testimony

The Pharisees challenged him, “Here you are, appearing as your own witness; your testimony is not valid.” Jesus answered, “Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is valid, for I know where I came from and where I am going.” (John 8.13-14)

Obviously Not What It Seems

Lately we’ve been hooked on “Perry Mason” reruns. Viewed a half-century after it was “must-see” TV in America, a veneer of camp attaches to its somber tone. Part of it comes from observing the writers shy away from romantic subplots for the debonair attorney. We initially assumed this was a concession to the star, Raymond Burr, who avoided onscreen affairs to dampen interest in his private life as a gay man in a committed relationship. As it turns out, the Erle Stanley Gardner novels on which the series is drawn allude to Mason’s ongoing affair with his longtime associate, Paul Drake—which adds fizz to their exchanges and explains how one always knows what the other is thinking. It also helps explain why Mason invariably believes in his clients’ innocence, all evidence to the contrary. He approaches every case on the premise nothing is ever what it seems.

If you’ve not seen the show or it’s been a while, here’s the formula. A fairly elaborate set-up puts a number of characters in motion, one of whom has the bad luck of being spotted at the scene of an un-witnessed crime just before or after it occurs. The suspect always has an apparent motive for murder, forcing Mason to unravel the prosecution’s timeline placing the defendant on the scene at the precise moment of the crime. He probes his client for every detail reconstructing the day in question. Where were you coming from? What time did you leave that place and how long did it take you arrive at the crime scene? Why were you there? What was so urgent that you felt it necessary to go there at that time? How long did you stay? Where did you go after you left? Did anyone else know of your plans? Mason shrewdly validates his defendant’s testimony by restoring proper context to the case. What looks obvious at first is obviously not what it seems. In John 8, we see Jesus using the same strategy to answer Pharisees’ charges that His teaching is baseless and indefensible without a corroborating witness. From this, we learn why our witness as Christians requires no objective validation when it’s called into question.

Itching for a Showdown

The Pharisees are itching for a showdown. Jesus recently humiliated them and their lawyer friends in public when their latest scheme to entrap Him backfired. It’s perhaps the definitive episode in their ongoing antagonism toward Him. They bring Him a woman caught in the act of adultery, removing any question of her guilt, and challenge Him to officiate at her stoning, as Mosaic Law directs. But in an act that presages His offering on Calvary, Jesus stands with the woman as a sinner among sinners. He invites the person without sin to throw the first stone, which excludes everyone but Him. When the troublemakers wander off—most unhappy with their failed strategy—Jesus lifts the accused woman to her feet and, even though He alone is qualified to condemn her, He refuses. One can only imagine how it infuriates Christ’s adversaries to see this woman walking unashamedly through the streets. How it must enrage them to hear that her encounter with Christ changed her life for the better. This is not what they hoped for. This is not the way they were taught. This does not fit with traditional doctrine that brings them comfort and confidence.

So the air pulses with tension, as everyone anticipates the Pharisees’ next move. Before they can remobilize, however, Jesus graciously accommodates their desire for another confrontation. In John 8.12, He says, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” The Pharisees hear His implication they’ve led their followers into darkness. They pounce. Referring to Deuteronomy 19.15’s demands for two witnesses to establish testimony, they object to His statement. “Here you are, appearing as your own witness; your testimony is not valid,” they declare. (v13) Jesus isn’t shaken. He answers, “My testimony is valid, for I know where I came from and where I am going. But you have no idea where I come from or where I am going. You judge by human standards; I pass judgment on no one.” (v14-15) In a nutshell, it’s the Mason defense. Without proper context, the charge carries no weight. Since only Jesus knows whence He came and where He’s going, only His testimony is valid. The Pharisees’ prosecution fails because what seems so obvious to them obviously is not what it seems.

Only We Know

Whenever I say I’m a gay Christian, those who question my testimony fall into one of two groups: devout believers fixated on Mosaic Law and/or Paul’s condemnation of same-sex idolatry rituals; or gay advocates fixated on organized religion's infamous hostility toward same-sex orientation. Either way, both groups demand objective, third-party proof my witness is valid. They ask me to judge myself as they judge me—by human standards. Whatever your personal circumstances, you’ve probably met similar confrontations. People who can’t release themselves from traditional views feel compelled to challenge anyone whose faith doesn’t fit the mold they’re most comfortable and confident with. But Christ’s precedent in John 8 overturns tradition and ideology.

Only we know where we come from and where we’re going. We know the battles we’ve fought and miles we’ve traveled to seize God’s promise of grace and acceptance. We’ve heard God’s call to our wayward spirits, bringing us back to Him to reside in each of us as temples He created. We understand our compulsion to heed Hebrews 12.1-2: “Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith.” We recognize what seems so obvious to our critics—whether in the Christian or secular community—obviously isn’t what it seems. Like the once-adulterous woman, only we know how our encounter with Christ forever freed us from condemnation. Following Jesus means abiding by His precedents. John 8 assures us our testimony is valid.

Knowing where we’ve come from and where we’re going validates our testimony. Our witness speaks for itself.

Pride and Pretense

Judge nothing before the appointed time; wait till the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of men’s hearts. (1 Corinthians 4.5)

With gratitude to Bishop Yvette Flunder, for her sermon of 8/29/10.

What Happens in the Wait

Last Sunday I worshiped with congregations I admire beyond measure: Love Center Ministries in Oakland and San Francisco’s City of Refuge. Love Center’s founder, Walter Hawkins, was one of my most influential role models, and I was eager to see how the church was faring since his passing a month ago. Last Sunday was the final service in its time of mourning, and hence, a pivotal moment. I’m thrilled to report its fervor and commitment have not diminished in the least. The message, “Go Forward,” urged the people to rise up in courage and cross into a new era of service, confident of God’s guidance and provision. A profound spirit of submission—no, make that, desire—overtook the people as they joined together in a Taizé-style chorus that prayed, “Lord, whatever you’re doing in this season, don’t do it without me.” It entered the marrow of this great people and witnessed their longing to participate in God’s future. The song won’t let me go.

It was also apt, as I scurried over to City of Refuge, a radically inclusive flock shepherded by Yvette Flunder (formerly an associate pastor at Love Center). As its name implies, City of Refuge is a stubbornly safe place where race, gender, and orientation are irrelevant. Everyone belongs and I’ve yet to worship at COR without the service erupting into a no-holds-barred love-fest as worshipers embrace one another, pray together, and rejoice in the beauty of their Maker. COR is also a place of deep-seated cognizance that self-honesty and humility are the mainstays of a community consecrated to the worth of every individual. This theme rang out of Bishop Flunder’s sermon, as she focused on the disciples’ 10-day wait for the manifestation of the Holy Spirit in Acts 1-2. “A lot happens in 10 days,” she said. “You run out of what you want to say and end up disclosing what you don’t want to reveal. Over time, you look less like how you want to be seen and more like how you really are. The make-up wears off. ‘Cute’ doesn’t last very long. And when you don’t know what else to say, there you sit—waiting for something, with no idea what that is.” The “something” I witnessed struck me as what God is “doing in this season” and City of Refuge tenaciously refuses to be excluded. With the Love Center song hovering in my heart, I can’t stop reflecting on Bishop Flunder’s teaching about “what happens in the wait.”

Waiting is Doing

The revelation in the sermon came when she remarked how so many of us ask, “What am I supposed to do while I wait?” Waiting is doing, she reminded us. It’s during this period that our pride and pretense fall away, enabling us to be 100% real with our God, others, and ourselves. “The patina—the façade—the mask comes off during the wait,” she said. Waiting makes us uncomfortable to the point we’re willing to change so we can receive what God desires to give us. The gift isn’t what takes time. Readiness to receive it is what requires us to wait.

Bishop Flunder pointed out the miserable group of people gathered in the Upper Room had no choice but to work through their issues—within themselves and among each other—while they waited. There were Peter, who denied Jesus, Thomas, who questioned Christ’s resurrection, and James and John, who jockeyed for favor. There were Nicodemus, the Pharisee who went to Jesus in secret, and Joseph of Arimathea, who was rich and a latecomer to this group. There were Mary, whose story of the Virgin Birth some probably viewed with skepticism, and Jesus’s blood relatives, who no doubt expected preferential treatment among His followers. All of them had to come to grips with unpleasant questions about each other and themselves. Until they shed their pride and pretenses, they couldn’t be free to appreciate the mighty thing that was about to take place when the Holy Spirit came. Once they had done the waiting, Acts 2.1 tells us “they were all with one accord in one place.” (KJV) That’s what happens in the wait.

The Appointed Time

“Judge nothing before the appointed time,” Paul counsels in 1 Corinthians 4.5. “Wait till the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of men’s hearts.” Strictly speaking, he’s admonishing us to withhold judgment entirely, leaving the job to God, Who alone is qualified to assess what people do since He alone knows why they do it. Yet I think we can also apply this principle to our own lives in terms of waiting. Time we spend doing the waiting brings us to moments of realization. Our make-up wears off. Our prayers progress from reverent requests to candid confessions. We bare our souls. When we reach that place, the Lord comes.

Attitudes and behaviors we’ve hidden in dark recesses move front and center. Our proud façade crumbles. There’s no use pretending these issues don’t exist, because they’re right in front of us. This is the appointed time to admit we’re struggling with habits and thoughts we can ignore no longer. And the beauty of the wait is found in how it defeats our will. It saps the obstinacy causing us to justify our weaknesses. It confronts us with the realization until we acknowledge the harm we do to others and ourselves we won’t be ready to receive all that God has for us. The wait exposes the true motives behind our pride and pretense. We suddenly face the fact that inability to forgive is actually unwillingness. Frustration is really impatience. Reasons are only excuses. And since we’ve waited this long, it’s time we deal with what surfaces in the wait. The assurance, healing, peace, joy, and strength we ask for are there, waiting for us. They will be ours when we’re ready to receive them. God is doing great things in us, in this season of our lives. Waiting brings us to a place of complete surrender, when we’re willing to do whatever it takes to be a part of whatever He’s doing in us.

Waiting is doing—dealing with pride and pretenses we’ve ignored. What we pray for is already there, waiting for us to reach the point where we’re ready to receive them.