On the Job

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving. (Colossians 3.23-24)

Higher Standards

As a freelancer who works from home, I’ll occasionally rifle through daytime TV programs during breaks. The simulated courtroom shows especially interest me. Since their purview is limited to small claims, the suits usually amount to tempests in teacups: unpaid loans, overdue rent, minor property damage, etc. The plaintiffs and defendants intrigue me, though. In stating their cases, a great deal about their lives and values comes to light. I’m often amazed—as well as distressed—by how little worth many of them place on virtues like honesty, fidelity, and honor. Indeed, most of the dust-ups could be settled without adjudication if it weren’t for the parties’ mutual disrespect and distrust.

The worst of the worst—instances that vex my spirit no end—involve self-proclaimed “Christians.” Case in point: I recently saw a pastor, frocked in collar and crucifix, who boasted of leading her neighbor to Christ, only to sue the lady’s elderly mother when the $75 purchase of used appliances went sour! After the minister’s third or fourth mention of her clerical integrity, I shouted, “Madame, read your Bible! Saints don’t sue!” Having heard me say this before, Walt asked, “Why don’t saints sue?” I told him Scripture emphatically forbids it, citing Jesus’s instruction to settle disputes out of court (Matthew 5.25-26) and Paul’s outrage at lawsuits within the Church (1 Corinthians 6). That didn’t answer his question. “But why?” he asked. I explained, “With God as our Judge, we believe justice supersedes redress and penalty. Forgiveness, given or received, is also needed for true justice to prevail. So we avoid court, as human reparations fall short of pleasing God. We hold higher standards.” All Walt said to that was, “Huh.”

The Believer’s Work Ethic

Today, opening Day 4 of the 40-Day Journey with Dietrich Bonhoeffer—which my local church has taken as its Lenten study guide—I too said, “Huh.” The editor, Rick Klug, mines the great theologian and martyr’s writing for the basics of practical Christian living. Day 1 is discipleship, Day 2 Bible-reading, and Day 3 morning prayer. But I wasn’t prepared for today’s topic: the believer’s work ethic. Bonhoeffer’s preface to the day’s scripture concludes:

Every day [but Sunday] should be marked for the Christian both by prayer and work. Prayer also requires its own time. But the longest part of the day belongs to work. The inseparable unity of both will become clear when work and prayer each receives its own undivided due.

I confess amusement at reading this. How Germanic of Bonhoeffer to remind us Christians should be industrious and responsible on the job! Then, as I followed on to read Colossians 3.23-24, I realized this is simply another case of higher standards. Paul writes, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.” It takes a while to get our heads around this, I think. Particularly in these days of economic uncertainty and workplace turmoil, we tend to divorce practicing our faith from professional obligations. Yet this text says they’re inextricably linked. While our “human masters” reward our productivity, Paul teaches God will ultimately reward our performance. Everything we do—from the most menial tasks to the most ambitious assignments—we approach as godly work. “It is the Lord Christ you are serving,” Paul insists.

This principle resounds through Jesus’s teaching and Paul’s epistles. In numerous lessons, Jesus talks about wise servants and faithful laborers. Paul repeatedly discusses the importance of personal and professional ethics that eliminate potential for shame to besmirch our witness. How we are on the job speaks volumes about our commitment to Christ. When we’re industrious and responsible in our earthly pursuits, we favorably reflect the fervor and faithfulness of our discipleship. In contrast, if we do the minimum of what’s expected of us and render anything less than exemplary results, we evidence a lack of discipline that discredits our faith. It yields the kind of incredulity I feel when—quote-unquote—Christians take petty grievances to the airwaves.

The Lent Connection

Authentic discipleship sets higher standards in every area of our lives. And that’s where Bonhoeffer’s canny reminder of the believer’s work ethic intersects with Lent. This season is provided for us to confirm anew our desire and determination to follow Christ. We pledge ourselves to disciplined fasts and times of prayer, meditation, and study with the intention of overcoming selfish impulses and desires. We accept Lent’s higher calling and embrace its sacrificial demands. Yet these requirements aren’t supposed to be diminished or abandoned once our journey ends. They’re meant to transform us in enduring ways that witness the power of resurrection in all we do. Lent is godly work that teaches us every obligation and opportunity is Christian service. Prior to stressing an exemplary work ethic, Paul says, “Whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” (Colossians 3.17)

Furthermore, we who fall into the category of “unorthodox Christians”—as LGBT, progressive, or disenfranchised believers—are all the more compelled to maintain higher standards. We must view every thought and behavior as an either/or decision. Our attitudes and actions either validate our faith in God’s love and acceptance or call it into question. Either we witness the mind and nature of Christ or we deny it. Paul challenges us about careless behavior in Romans 6.1-2: “Shall we go on sinning that grace may increase? By no means! We are those who have died to sin; how can we live in it any longer?” And Hebrews 6.7 dramatizes the implications of inconsistent witness, saying those who don’t subscribe to God’s higher standards “are crucifying the Son of God all over again and subjecting him to public disgrace.” Who we are on our knees should be who we are on the job. That’s the Lent connection, plain and simple.

Our work ethic speaks volumes about our discipleship.

Postscript: “Take My Life”

I can’t locate the name of the artist who performs this sublime arrangement of the classic hymn. But her sterling vocals and the visuals fit perfectly with today’s post. A consecrated life is witnessed all day long.

To Start the Day

Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Simon and his companions went to look for him, and when they found him, they exclaimed: “Everyone is looking for you!” (Mark 1.35-37)

Awakening to Holiness

For a number of years I attended the Edwin Hawkins Music & Arts Seminar, a weeklong convention of the nation’s finest gospel singers, songwriters, and musicians. Although my meager musical abilities could never compare to their genius, they welcomed me with open arms, and I was grateful for the chance to soak up everything the experience offered. Now there are a couple of things you should know about gospel artists before I get to the nub of my story. They are, by nature, an extremely friendly, high-spirited bunch that honors the sacredness of their calling by not taking themselves too seriously. If you weren’t clued into who they are, you’d never guess the people laughing and joking together wrote and recorded countless songs that changed millions of lives. The second thing to know is gospel musicians are late-night folks. Next to making music, they love nothing more than hanging out into the wee hours, swapping stories. Having been to similar events, I expected long nights of table-hopping in jammed coffee shops, oversleeping the next day, and dragging into afternoon workshops and rehearsals. But the usual M.O. didn’t fly at the Seminar. On my first night, I was surprised that everyone made hasty business of the post-concert “afterglow” and scooted off to bed. When I asked what the rush was, they said, “You don’t want to miss Walter. If you’re late, you won’t get a seat.”

“Walter” was Edwin’s brother and pastor, Rev. Walter Hawkins, the most prolific songwriter—and by far the most progressive Bible teacher—in the gospel sphere. At the top of each morning, he hosted “To Start the Day,” a brief session during which he gave seminar attendees a portion of Scripture, a few comments on the text, and led them into a time of prayer. It was simple, pure, and inspiring. It set the tone for everything that followed—and set the Seminar apart from others like it by awakening us to the holiness of what we would accomplish as the day progressed. “To Start the Day” subsumed the musical aspect of the event with a higher purpose. Classes, rehearsals, and performances became the day’s tasks. Its mission, however, was seeing them as windows for holiness, open and alert to God’s voice and Spirit—invitations to obey rather than do, to create rather than complete. Beginning each day with a few moments to settle our minds with a guiding thought and prayer made all the difference, such a difference “To Start the Day” was not to be missed.

Habits and Disciplines

It’s remarkable how so many will rally for Church-prescribed undertakings like Lent or training for sacramental milestones, while paying little heed to habits and disciplines that Jesus practiced in daily life. In Mark’s opening chapter, which reads like a breathless dispatch filed under deadline pressure, our first glimpse of Jesus’s personal faith regimen occurs in verse 35: “Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.” With all that transpires in the preceding 34 verses—Jesus’s baptism, wilderness temptation, declaration that the Good News is near, calling the disciples, and numerous healings and exorcisms—Mark gives the impression that everything happens so swiftly Jesus hardly has a moment to breathe, let alone ponder what He should do next or take time to pray about it. And what follows seems to back this up.

After waking to discover Jesus is gone, Simon Peter and his buddies scout Him out. “Everyone’s looking for You!” they say. Jesus knows who “everyone” is. The night before, after an exhausting day of preaching and healing Peter’s mother-in-law, Jesus is met by townspeople—“the whole town,” Mark says—crowding his door with sick and disturbed people they want Him to cure. Apparently those He wasn’t able to reach have returned. Had He not got up early to pray, He’d have been obliged to help them. Yet starting His day with prayer not only releases Him from being inundated with demands, it gives Jesus directional clarity. He replies, “Let’s go somewhere else—to the nearby villages—so I can preach there also. That is why I have come.” (v38) And this is the first time Mark shows us Jesus taking charge of His ministry. Before this, He avails Himself to opportunities to preach and work miracles. Is it a coincidence that we see Jesus begin His day with prayer and then turn from doing what’s expected so He can obey God's higher purpose? While Mark doesn’t call out the connection, it’s there. Otherwise, why even mention Jesus’s morning prayer? If it didn’t influence His decision and reorient His thoughts on His mission rather than His tasks, why not skip the episode entirely and simply report Jesus and the disciples moved on? “That is why I have come,” Jesus says.

At This Hour, In This Place, With These Gifts

To start the day with prayer is to reorient our thoughts from what’s expected of us to consider why we’ve come to this day. The same sense of consecration, gravity, and duty that brings us to Lent’s desert, sacramental moments, and high holy days should greet us with every sunrise. Just as we’re able to set aside the previous day’s chaos and sequester our thoughts from mundane tasks on these “special” occasions, can we not also discipline ourselves to begin each day spending a few moments alone with God? It’s then we can focus on the purpose God has for us today—to contemplate why we are present at this hour, in this place, with the unique gifts God places in us. Rising to pray before we’re inundated with demands awakens us to holiness. It sets the tone for all that follows, enabling us to obey rather than do, create rather than complete. It provides clarity that guides us to people and places that need us. It reminds us why we’ve come to this day. If Jesus found disciplined, habitual morning prayer necessary, can we possibly question its importance and value?

Morning prayer turns our thoughts to why we’re present at this hour, in this place, with the unique gifts God places in us.

Postscript: “What Shall I Do?”

And when we rise to pray, what do we say? The late Walter Hawkins gave the world a masterpiece that, if spoken, would constitute the perfect prayer to start the day. Here is his wife, Tramaine, singing “What Shall I Do?”

Sweet Words

How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth! I gain understanding from your precepts; therefore I hate every wrong path. Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path. (Psalm 119.103-105)

New Tastes

One of the earliest lessons pastors’ kids learn is proper behavior when dining in parishioners’ homes. As it was, good table manners were drilled into my brother and me from the day we left our high chairs. But a home-cooked meal with church people raised my parents' expectations several notches. They impressed on us that we were honored guests and our hosts—many less fortunate than we—deserved our utmost gratitude for their hospitality. Dinners they served us represented their finest efforts, which called for our most gracious behavior however unappetizing or irregular the fare might be. (I could tell you stories…)

Before we went, we reviewed the standard protocol. Take some of everything that’s offered; our hosts must never feel they prepared a dish we don’t care for. Don’t ask what anything is; if you don’t recognize it, we’ll tell you what it was later. If you don’t like how something tastes, move it around to seem as though you ate more than you did. But—and this was imperative—try it first; you may find it’s much tastier than it looks. On this my parents couldn’t have been more right. I owe my adventurous palate to those days of learning to appreciate new tastes no matter how off-putting food sometimes appears.

Unfortunately, it’s taken a lot longer to learn the same rule applies to Scripture. For years, if I came on passages that looked hard to swallow, seemed half-baked, or smelled funky, I’d either skip them entirely or push them around a bit to pretend I did more with them than I had. Hearing believers rave about relishing the tougher portions of God’s Word, I’d think, “If that’s what you like, knock yourself out. But some of that stuff is just nasty and indigestible.” To be sure, parts are nasty and indigestible. Written to primitive cultures in situations that no longer exist, they’re rotten and deadly, and believing we must choke them down because they’re in the Bible risks scriptural food poisoning. (Indeed, most nausea in today’s Church can be traced to texts that have outlasted their expiration dates.) Yet as I mature, I’m amazed how much of what I avoided is truly delicious. Psalm 119’s poet exclaims, “How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!” (v103) and I get it. The Word is sweet.

The Vibrant Force

To say the psalmist loves Scripture would be like saying fish love to swim. It goes beyond love. God’s Word is his natural habitat. It permeates his every thought. He hides it in his heart. He knows it better than all his teachers. He keeps it top of mind, present in memory, never to be forgotten. He relies on the Word to strengthen him when he fears he’ll faint. He loves the sweetness of its taste. He looks to it to light his path. He doesn’t depart from its direction. He can’t exhaust its boundless truth. He takes solace in its permanence. His understanding of the world is rooted in God’s precepts. He goes on and on, waxing rhapsodic about Scripture until he ends up composing the Bible’s lengthiest chapter—176 verses in all, running longer than nearly half (30/66) of the Bible’s books in their entirety.

Without exploring the psalm, the obvious question is, “Why does he love the Bible so passionately?” The answer is his poem’s raison d’être. Verse upon verse, line upon line, he exults in the wealth of God’s Word and how it enriches his life. A more fascinating question, perhaps, is, “How did he come to love Scripture with such fervor?” The psalm is abundantly clear he’s been obsessed with the Bible most, if not all, of his life. By not providing details about where his passion originated and its development over time, however, he whets our curiosity about his leaps from casual reader to devoted student to besotted lover of God’s laws, precepts, and commands. “Oh, how I love your law!” he exclaims in verse 97—and we want to grab him by the lapels and ask, “How did you do it?” His ecstasy is contagious. By the time we’re this far into the poem, we sense tinges of jealousy creeping into our response. Whatever he found that made Scripture the vibrant force it is in his life we want it, too.

Wonderful Things

So how did he do it? The riddle’s solution hides in plain sight in verse 18: “Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law.” The psalmist has stopped reading God’s Word and started discovering it. He no longer listens to it; he expects it to speak. In other words, he makes himself available to the text. For him, the Bible isn’t an objective, impersonal library of knowledge and wisdom. It's God’s channel to communicate directly, specifically to him. The more he learns about it the more clearly he finds his place in it. When he turns to a page, he uncovers wonderful things that immediately resonate with who he is, where he’s at, and what he needs at this precise moment in his life. Thus he prays for open eyes to see what God wants him to know. It may the first time he’s explored a certain passage. It may the hundredth. Either way, he eagerly anticipates seeing what God desires to show him now.

I love the way Hebrews 4.12 captures this phenomenon: “For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” The Bible is a living thing. It’s actively engaged in our lives. When we open it with open eyes, we discover wonderful things that God wants us to see now. It’s the medium through which God speaks—to you, others, and me, collectively and personally. It penetrates gray areas between our soul’s emotions and our spirit’s longings. It takes us apart and puts us back together. It pierces the marrow of our beings and assesses our thoughts and opinions. If we read it passively—passing on the tougher portions and moving what doesn’t appeal to us around our plates—we miss much of its sweetness. We’ll never fully tap into its incandescence. Our paths will remain dim. But if we approach it, passionately and eagerly expecting to find what we need at this point in our lives, we discover wonderful things. The more frequently that happens, the more like the psalmist we’ll be. God’s Word will become our natural habitat. As we undertake our Lenten journey, I pray we’ll make ourselves available to God’s Word in new and wonderful ways, finding many new and wonderful things.

The Bible is God’s channel to communicate directly, specifically to us now. We pray for open eyes to discover new and wonderful things each time we open it.

Postscript: “Open My Eyes”

My church closed our Ash Wednesday service with this hymn—albeit at a more meditative pace. A longtime personal favorite, it distills the essence of praying for discovery and expecting God’s Word to speak. I trust the song will speak to you as well.

Open My Eyes, That I May See

Open my eyes, that I may see

Glimpses of truth Thou hast for me

Place in my hands the wonderful key

That shall unclasp and set me free

Silently now I wait for Thee

Ready my God, Thy will to see

Open my eyes, illumine me

Spirit divine!

Open my ears, that I may hear

Voices of truth Thou sendest clear

And while the wave notes fall on my ear

Everything false will disappear

Silently now I wait for Thee

Ready my God, Thy will to see

Open my ears, illumine me

Spirit divine!

Open my mouth, and let me bear

Gladly the warm truth everywhere

Open my heart and let me prepare

Love with Thy children thus to share

Silently now I wait for Thee

Ready my God, Thy will to see

Open my heart, illumine me

Spirit divine!

Who's Calling?

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. (Matthew 11.28-30)

Our Journey Begins

Today is that Wednesday, when triumphant hosannas crumble into ashen humility and billions of Christians around the world set out on a virtual pilgrimage. We travel a route established nearly 20 centuries ago; by the Council of Nicea (325 AD), most Lenten customs we currently practice were in place. Church leaders combined emulating Jesus’s 40-day wilderness exile—the crucible of consecration He obediently entered to prepare for ministry—with a parallel path tracking His last weeks of human life.

Although the route remains unchanged, we pursue it knowing no two experiences are ever the same, because we are not the same. Following Christ is an adventure that changes us as we grow. Each year, we stand at the desert’s edge, surveying its terrain, with greater experience, higher awareness, and deeper longing to learn more about ourselves by discovering more about Christ. We prayerfully consider what to leave behind as well as what to carry on this Lenten odyssey that will open our eyes and hearts to the Savior's beckoning.

As always, Straight-Friendly will observe Lent with daily posts. Yet the uniqueness of this year’s experience will emerge (after much thought and prayer) by merging the paths of this, our online faith community, and my local one, which is using the 40-Day Journey with Dietrich Bonhoeffer—a devotional and journaling guide drawn from the works of the renowned German theologian and anti-Nazi martyr—as its compass. I invite those of you seeking fresh perspectives on discipleship and obedience to come along. And, of course, one need not actively engage with the book’s daily readings to join discussions here; the book will focus our thoughts without dictating scope of each day’s reflections. (See the postscript for more information about the book.)

Resistance

Before we take our first step, it’s good for us to orient our thoughts to Lent’s purpose by asking, “Who’s calling?” We aren’t simply practicing a religious tradition. We aren’t honoring Christian obligation. We don’t do this at the institutional church’s insistence. We follow Jesus through the desert, to Calvary and the Empty Tomb, in response to His invitation and promise: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11.28-30) We obediently subject ourselves to temptation and hardship in a sacred quest to find rest for our souls.

Everything about Lent—what we experience and discover along the way—is designed to submerge us in the counterintuitive, unnatural lifestyle common to all followers of Christ. We enter this wilderness weary from struggle and burdened with weaknesses. Daily encounters with temptation deplete our stamina all the more. Constant reminders of our lack of discipline and commitment further weaken us. Lent steadily drives to the place where, like Jesus in Gethsemane, we surrender our human desires and fears to God’s perfect will. Right now, we can’t see what that place is. Nor can we envision what will be required to break our pride and disobedience. All we know is if we sincerely, diligently stick to this path, we reach a point where we’re too tired and beleaguered to resist Christ’s call to authentic discipleship. Over time, we become increasingly cognizant of attitudes and behaviors we’ve yet to exchange for the mind and nature of Christ.

In theory, this should be an easy purchase from the start. But we’re stubbornly self-reliant, vain creatures. We’d rather wander aimlessly on our own, stumbling beneath our burdens, instead of humbling ourselves to accept Christ’s offer. As Lent’s journey wears on, we become intensely aware of needless weights we carry and the relentless drag they inflict on us. Only when we’re too weary to continue will we fully embrace Jesus’s invitation. Once our fatigue grows palpably real, we shed self-imposed resistance to His yoke’s gentle pressure and His humble heart’s lightness. Christ calls us into the desert to discover true reality is the polar opposite of reality fabricated by logical fears and doubts. He teaches us human reality is a fantasy. It makes no sense. It generates nothing but fatigue and frustration.

The Yoke of Discipleship

After our resistance to Christ’s call is disarmed, we discover another astounding truth: following Christ in obedience isn’t a burden. Nor is it a harness. Jesus invites us to wear His yoke. It weds us to Him, to walk alongside Him, and secures us to go where He leads. Our reasoning and intentions lose their importance. Being yoked to Christ removes our fears and cancels our doubts. The only way we can diverge from His path is by consciously removing His yoke. Thus, we walk into the desert of our own volition. But we exit it in total submission to Christ’s will and way. The rest we sought in taking on His yoke becomes our natural state. Thoughts and actions that exhausted us are things of the past—relics abandoned in the desert, never to be retrieved. This is precisely what Paul’s splendid description of discipleship emphasizes: “If anyone is in Christ, that person is a new creation. The old has gone, the new is here!”

Lest we misperceive Jesus’s invitation as the spiritual equivalent of riding shotgun while He does the driving and work, we must be very frank about how readily and frequently we chafe at the yoke of discipleship. Complete surrender to Christ’s will inevitably provokes stubborn determination to follow our own path. When we sense Christ turning us away from burdensome people, situations, and mindsets we cling to, we balk. Newness makes us nervous. What’s the old adage? Better the devil you know than the one you don’t? But such thinking reverts to human logic, which we’ve learned is irreparably flawed and misleading. We approach Lent seeking a better way. The desert breaks down our resistance. We yield to Christ’s authority. Once we take on discipleship’s yoke, we redirect our stubborn determination from pursuing a life of fear and doubt to embracing one of courage and trust. Christ is gentle and humble of heart. His yoke is easy. His burden is light. His promise is true. We will find rest for our souls.

We enter Lent’s wilderness of our own volition, responding to Christ’s invitation. We exit it wearing the yoke of discipleship, which guides us away from burdens to find rest for our souls.

Postscript: Dietrich Bonhoeffer and a Hymn

For those interested in tracking the daily reflections here with the 40-Day Journey with Dietrich Bonhoeffer, you can get a closer look at the book and order it here. I can’t endorse it highly enough.

And finally, while working on today’s post (based on the book’s first entry), I kept hearing the old invitational hymn, “Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling.” As you listen to Cynthia Clawson’s lovely rendition, hear Jesus calling us to renew and strengthen our discipleship—to exchange our burdens of willful pride and logic for His gentle yoke.

Sacred Love

Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces. (Matthew 7.6)

Love Junkies

Compassion, or actively expressed love, is a noble thing—the noblest thing, according Jesus, Who teaches us that, concomitant with wholly loving God, loving our neighbors as ourselves fulfills the Law. It’s also a sacred thing to be handled with utmost respect and care. To love unconditionally should not be misinterpreted to mean indiscriminately, without first considering whether our compassion will be welcomed and appreciated. Repeatedly, Jesus moots any question of whom we should love. The answer is always, “Everyone—including enemies—equally.” At first, the enormity of this takes us aback. But, with much prayer and persistence, love becomes our defining ideal. We feel its weight in every decision. Am I thinking love? Expressing love? Speaking love? We see the wisdom of Proverbs 10.12 borne out in matters great and small: “Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs.” Wondrous as this is, though, we should also be mindful of downsides that come if enthusiasm for compassion dulls our sense of its sacredness. We can never love too much. But we can love too freely.

The more we find we’re governed by love, the more we’re prone to a sort of euphoric fervor. It’s “Love! Love!” all the time, everywhere we go, with everyone we meet. If they want to hear it or not, we make sure they know we love them without condition. Some of us get so caught up in loving others we go out of our way to tell them, “Hate me as much as you like, I still love you.” Others of us lose our minds to love. We slip from tolerance and compassion into indulgence and carelessness. “To prove I love you, I’ll never disagree with you or prevent you from harming yourself, another, or me.” Stances like these have a very potent—almost narcotic—effect; they trigger compassion highs that leave us feeling happy and powerful. But true compassion’s purpose focuses entirely on the recipient; benefits to the giver are afterthoughts, secondary at best.

If we love for the sensation, our motives are screwed up. We abuse love’s sacredness for pleasure, like idealistic love junkies who write poems, draw posters, and sing songs about how good love feels. Remember: while Jesus advocates ideals, He’s indubitably a Realist. There’s a real purpose in teaching us to love unconditionally—and hence we must love on purpose. That entails serious consideration of how we love. And before we do anything else with compassion, we must honor and protect its sacredness.

Say What?

I’m a child of the late 60s-early 70s who doodled bubble-lettered LOVE icons on any surface amenable to fluorescent markers. “Make Love, Not War” was our motto and every tune in the air—from “All You Need is Love” to “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” theme—seemed to trumpet love’s grooviness. So when I open The Sermon on the Mount and hear Jesus sound compassion’s drumbeat in verse after verse, it’s mother’s milk. I’m trucking through Matthew 5 and 6, higher than a kite. I turn to chapter 7, read the injunction against judging, and I say, “Right on, Jesus!” Then, verse 6 slaps me in the face: “Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.” Say what? What happened to all the love and forgive and go beyond business? Why is Jesus suddenly saying, “Don’t give,” and calling people dogs and pigs? Everything about it feels wrong—especially after we’re told not to judge others.

What brings this on? The commentaries net little help. The writers—most being stiff-collared, male defenders of the faith—pounce on the chance to talk some God-smack. Wesley’s Notes reflect the general tone: “Talk not of the deep things of God to those whom you know to be wallowing in sin, neither declare the great things God hath done for your soul to the profane, furious, persecuting wretches.” Wow. No love lost there. To be fair, Jesus makes similar statements elsewhere. In Matthew 10.14, He tells the disciples not to bother with people who won’t listen. He even practices what He preaches. In Nazareth, when His hometown rejects His teaching, He walks off and, as far as we know, never returns. (Luke 4)

But why introduce such a volatile topic in this context? Why use such corrosive imagery—ungrateful dogs and ravenous pigs? It seems (in my inexpert opinion, anyway) Jesus intentionally raises a reality check for people like me, who get a little woozy from all the heady love talk. He splashes cold water in our faces, reminding us love is precious, a rare treasure not to be handled cheaply or showered indiscriminately on those who will neither receive nor respect it. Basically, then, Wesley and his buddies are correct. But I think their skew is off. It’s less about not giving to ungrateful dogs and ravenous pigs than reminding us our compassion is too sacred and dear to squander on them. Must we love them? Absolutely. Must we make them pet projects, relentlessly striving to love the ambivalence, hatred, and violence out of them? No. Jesus says it’s a futile, filthy, and even potentially dangerous endeavor.

Compassion is Contractual

If we’re to make the most of God’s love in our lives, it’s essential we detach Christ’s principle of love from its practice. Obedience to principle is a personal decision each of us confirms individually: “I will love everyone equally, without condition.” We remove hatred and animosity from our hearts to give love full sway. We resist resentful and rancorous impulses to regard anyone as less than us, less worthy of love than us. Yet we can’t forget compassion—love’s practice—is contractual. It transpires between others and us, and therefore involves mutual consent: we agree to love; they agree to be loved. We can honor our end of the deal sincerely and diligently. Without their participation, however, our compassion has no real value.

That’s where the principle’s practical underpinnings rear up. Our love is forever sacred because it’s wholly self-contained, born of personal desire and sustained by self-determination. While our compassion is also sacred, it’s subject to dismissal, mistreatment, and dishonor by others. We must safeguard it. That’s why Jesus paints such an alarming picture of misguided compassion. Mongrels sniffing at sacred love as if it were garbage, pigs crushing priceless compassion and devouring the eager soul who offered it should repulse and terrify us. Therein lies the lesson. We can never love too much. We can love too freely.

Compassion is too sacred to be devalued by dismissal, mistreatment, or dishonor.

We All Have Thorns

In order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. (2 Corinthians 12.7)

In the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. (Matthew 7.2)

“They’re Like Me!”

Bette Midler told a story at a 1976 concert I attended. If I’ve told it here before, I beg your indulgence, since it bears repeating in light of today’s texts. “Walking down the street,” she said, “I met a lady with a fried egg stuck to her forehead. I prayed, ‘Dear God, don’t let me end up like her, wandering around with a fried egg on my forehead.’ I thought some more and prayed, ‘If I do end up like her, please don’t let people notice.’ I walked on and changed my prayer again. 'If they notice, please don’t let them laugh at me.' Finally, I prayed, ‘Dear God, if I do end up with an egg on my head and people do see and laugh, please don’t let me know they’re mocking me.’” After the laughter faded and the room grew still, Bette said, “Because, when you think about it, we all have eggs stuck to our heads.” The audience sat in silence a moment before bursting into applause.

The parable collapses the polite (and convenient) distance we put between people we don’t understand and us by saying, “There but for the grace of God go I.” Such charitable regard implies we’re less troubled or more blessed than they. Either way, we come out ahead, don’t we? Intentionally or not, a strand of pride twists into our gratitude. When we encounter people crippled by addictions and attitudes we’d never tangle with, it’s easy to focus on what torments them, not the frailty spawning their defeat. We forget we’re all weak. We’re all vulnerable. We all wear eggs. The type of egg isn’t the thing. Be it addiction, selfishness, intolerance, and on and on, it’s still an egg.

That changes the detached empathy of “but for God’s grace” to an immediately honest—and unsettling—“They’re like me!” I may not be an alcoholic scratching out existence on the street. But he’s like me. I may not be an enraged driver cursing at traffic. Still, she’s like me. I may not be society’s worst—a killer, pedophile, embezzler, et al. But seeing them paraded on TV in jail jumpers and handcuffs, I see they’re like me. Once I get this truth instilled in my heart, then I can say, “But for God’s grace…” My egg is no better or worse than another’s. Nor is my need for grace any less. That’s why knowing God’s grace is so vital to each of us. It’s why extending God’s grace is what we do. Today’s readings—which brilliantly couple Jesus’s edict against judging with Paul’s confession of frailty—make this vividly clear.

The Self-Honesty Filter

Paul’s metaphor is much less benign than an egg signaling his weakness. He speaks of a “thorn in the flesh” as his source of torment. It’s something in him that makes him think, look, sound, and act crazy. Since he doesn’t say what it is, theories abound. Is it an actual physical infirmity? Oblique mentions elsewhere of Paul’s eye problems support this idea. Yet he also discloses other frailties he fights to overcome. Then, we detect a few on our own that emerge inadvertently in his tone and topics. We know Paul battles intellectual pride and impatience with those who dispute him. He’s ferociously protective of churches he leads and unleashes diatribes against anyone who usurps his authority. Whatever the thorn may be, apparently it’s so overt he needn’t spell it out to his readers. His point isn’t focused on what the thorn is, anyway. He’s more interested in why he’s tormented. “To keep me from being conceited,” he writes in 2 Corinthians 12.7, “I was given a thorn in my flesh to torment me.” The weakness Paul aches to be rid of persists to keep him humble. Physical or not, it alerts him to his blind spots. When seeing others battle frailties that make them think, look, sound, and act crazy, it enables him say, “They’re like me!”

Using self-honesty as the filter through which we regard others is the rudiment in Jesus’s command that we judge no one. He couldn’t be more explicit: “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.” (Matthew 7.1-2) Jesus’s metaphor of choice is wood. “Why do you look at a speck of sawdust in someone else’s eye and ignore the plank in yours? How can you correct someone else’s vision when you obviously can’t see yourself?” (v3-4) Should I detect blindness in you, before I rush to judge your inability to see, I need to do a quick mirror-check. Hopefully, what’s blinding me isn’t so enormous I won’t see I’ve got sight issues, too. My condemnation of you condemns me. As soon as I see that, my response no longer is “How can you be so blind?” It’s “You’re like me!”

Kept by Grace

Jesus’s metaphor leads to a different result than Bette’s egg and Paul’s thorn, however. He instructs us to “take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” (v5) It’s an invaluable solution to our fondness for knee-jerk opinions and stereotyping. It quickly gets us to admit, “I’m no one to judge”—exactly where Jesus wants us be. The egg and thorn push us to confess some weaknesses vex us for life. We haven’t strength to defeat them. When Paul gets this, he pleads with God to remove his thorn. God refuses. Why would God do that? Doesn’t God know Paul’s thorn impedes his ministry and growth? Isn’t God concerned about Paul’s suffering? Here’s God’s answer: “My grace is sufficient for you, because my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12.9)

Absence of weakness removes our need for grace that loves, forgives, and abides with us unconditionally. Thorn-free life deprives us of awareness we’re kept by grace. Grace is provided before we realize we need it. It remains whether or not we recognize it’s there. It’s given beyond measure, endlessly, repeatedly, extravagantly. Others’ weaknesses cause us to say, “Because of God’s grace go I—just as God’s grace keeps him, her, or them.” We all have thorns. We all rely on God’s grace. Once this reality permeates our beings, compulsions to judge become humbling invitations to witness grace, forgiveness, and tolerance. People we want to judge are like us. They wear eggs like ours. They ache with thorns like ours. But they’ve also been given what we’ve received. Why would we judge them, when we can turn their thorns into reminders of God’s grace for them and us?

Weakness is the great leveler. Our struggles may not look as extreme as another’s, but they’re there. That’s why we judge no one and see everyone as worthy of grace.

Back to Nature

So do not worry, saying, “What shall we eat?” or “What shall we drink?” or “What shall we wear?” Your heavenly Father knows that you need them. (Matthew 6.31-32)

Fascinating Lesson

For the moment, let’s set afterlife theology aside for an ersatz reincarnation scenario in which we choose our next lives. I can say without hesitation I’d return as a pet—not any pet, but my pet or your pet. (Having heard many of your stories, life in your care would be a swell thing indeed.) The bond between master and pet is unique because the terms of the relationship are clearly defined up front. When we adopt animals, we realize they’ll totally depend on us for everything they need: food, shelter, health, discipline, companionship, love, and so on. We commit to cleaning up their messes, forgiving their sins, tolerating their stubbornness, and accepting their quirks. We assume these duties voluntarily and soberly. In exchange, they repay us in loyalty, affection, and endless surprise. Who wouldn’t want to be our pets?

It’s said pets teach us a great deal about life. I believe that. We learn one fascinating lesson in how quickly and unabashedly they trust us. Once they grasp our roles in their lives, they have no reticence about expecting us to perform them. We feed our cats, Cody and Maxwell, every morning at six a.m. Whether we got to bed late, want to sleep in, or could use more rest, they expect to be fed at six. “Not today” means nothing. Nor do “I did it yesterday” or “I’ll do it tomorrow.” Yesterday was yesterday. Tomorrow will be tomorrow. This is today. Confident we won’t let them go hungry, they’re waiting bedside to escort us to the kitchen when the alarm goes off. If there’s no alarm, they wake us. Of course we get up. Because we love them, we’re true to them. And since Max and Cody trust us to stay true, they don’t worry. We all know how it works. Why should today be different? It’s a terrific way to live. And in Matthew 6 we hear Jesus insist it's precisely how we should live.

Stealing from Ourselves

Today’s Gospel stands pretty tall among the most beloved of Jesus’s teachings. Few of His statements compare to its poetry and simplicity. But Jesus has more serious reasons than eloquence for framing this message as He does. He uses imagery and accessible comparisons so His audience can see what He’s talking about and internalize what it means. The central theme is “Don’t worry. God will take care of you.” That sounds straightforward. And it is. Yet difficulty accepting it at face value today helps us relate to how much tougher it must be for His original listeners. Our worst nightmares—irrevocable loss, catastrophic disease, financial ruin, legal disasters, family crises, and so on—are identical to theirs with one exception. Those gathered for Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount live in a nexus of uncertainty. Regimes topple overnight. Common people are crushed. Healthcare is a luxury. Property is often a greater liability than asset; if people want what you’ve got, there’s little to prevent them from taking it. Life can be glorious one day and wretched the next. These people have a lot to worry about. Merely assuring them God will see to their needs won’t ease their anxiety. Jesus presses them to see we don’t work the same as God works. With no convincing example of this in human affairs, He goes back to nature.

Jesus urges them to “look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” (Matthew 6.26-27) He asks why they worry about clothes. “See how the flowers of the field grow,” He says. “They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.” (v28-29) Does Jesus really mean we should trust God much like pets rely on us? That we should grasp God’s’ role in our lives, expect God to perform it, and not panic if we can’t predict how things will turn out? That’s exactly what He means. Anxiety is contrary to nature, He says. It’s counterproductive to life. The clock starts ticking the moment we allow anxiety to overtake us. Every second we worry we’re stealing from ourselves. The only thing that worry changes is us, and not once has it done us any favors. Jesus wonders, “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” Of course we can’t. And since we can’t, perhaps the only concern worth worrying about is wasting time on worry.

Now is All We’ve Got

So, we ask, what’s the alternative to worry? Well, let’s consider what worries us. Either we fret over something we did or may have to do, what’s lost or may be lost, what happened or may happen. Even if we find satisfying reasons for past mistakes and miseries, we can’t rewrite the record. Lessons learned remain timely; tests don’t. What if tomorrow unfolds as we worry it will? Tying ourselves in knots about inevitabilities won’t alter them. Anxiety about the future is like hiding in a cellar on a gorgeous day because a storm’s due to hit the next morning. What we’ve been given now is all we’ve got. Worry destroys that and promises nothing better.

How do our pets understand time better than we? Watching Cody and Max move through their day is a wonder. When it’s time to eat, they look to us to feed them. When it’s time to play, they drop their toys at our feet. When it’s time to exercise, they expect full run of the house. When it’s time to sleep, we let them sleep. Every day follows the same pattern. Every day we provide what they need when they need it. And when new needs arise—if one of them is sick or wants extra attention or stumbles onto mischief—we’re there. Does Cody stress about not eating? Does Max dread the possibility we won’t play with him? Perhaps, but not likely. Our natural impulse is to care for them, just as God cares for us. So what are we so worked up about? Why can’t we understand how it works?

“Stop worrying,” Jesus says in verse 31. “God knows what you need.” Then, in verse 33, He says, “Seek God’s kingdom and righteousness first, and all these things will be given to you as well.” That’s how we discover God is present now. God meets our needs now. God gives answers we need now. Now comes when tomorrow turns into today, and not a minute sooner. “Therefore don’t worry about tomorrow,” Jesus tells us. “Tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (v34) That’s the nature of things. And all the worry in the world won’t change it.

Cody (l) and Max (r)—without a worry in the world. If they get it, why don’t we?