So Little, So Much

Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on. (Mark12.43-44)

How We Give

The mention of money is all it takes for many Christians to break out in a cold sweat. And they have just cause for feeling squeamish. From the start, the Church has been a lucrative venue for charlatans and scam artists to exploit the faithful’s confidence that God rewards sacrificial giving. The teachings of Christ and the Apostles—which consistently emphasize the virtues of generosity—get twisted into all sorts of outlandish promises that have no basis in scriptural truth. Enormous cathedrals have arisen on the backs of poor people told they can buy their way into heaven. Vast televangelist empires have emerged from a steady flow of donations from people with little to spare. Purveyors of “prosperity gospel”—many of them every bit as criminal as the craftiest Ponzi schemers—point to their mansions and Mercedes and minks as proof positive that God makes people rich. (For the record, it is true that, as 2 Corinthians 9.7 says, “God loves a cheerful giver.” But when we read the statement in context, there’s no escaping its basic premise: God blesses givers so they have more to give. Verse 8: “God is able to provide every blessing in abundance, so that by always having enough of everything, you may share abundantly in every good work.”)

So we are justified in approaching Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 12.38-44) with caution. In this episode, Jesus favorably compares a poor widow who contributes all that she has with wealthier types who make a great show of their gifts—and there’s no mistaking the story is about money. As a result, this text has been a perennial favorite of get-rich-quick preachers and religious rainbow-riders down through the ages. “Be like the widow!” they say. “Give everything you have—even if it’s just a couple of coins, like she did. Jesus says you’ll be better than rich people if you do!” But this passage is about a great deal more than money and status. When we read it carefully, we realize the issue isn’t how much we give at all. It’s how we give. The questions it raises have nothing to do with the amount, but rather where our desire to give comes from.

A Sincere Heart

We don’t know what prompts the widow to give all she has. What’s most intriguing about her is that she comes and goes completely unaware that Jesus notices of her. There’s not a shred of ostentation in her giving, and its size is so insignificant that it’s unlikely to make a real difference. But that’s Jesus’s point: her unconcern about being seen is why He calls her to our attention. Before the widow shows up, Jesus also points out another group—although his assessment of them is hardly flattering. In verses 38-40, He says, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearances say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

It is against this background of self-aggrandizing religiosity that Jesus sets the widow in sharp relief. And Jesus makes very clear where both parties’ desire to give comes from. The widow gives from a sincere heart. Her sacrifice is worthy because its extent is not apparent. Meanwhile, the religious leaders’ gifts and piety are unacceptable because they’re offered hypocritically; every act comes with a “what’s in it for me” clause attached. What’s more, Jesus indicates that ill-gotten gains make their impressive contributions possible. “They devour widows’ houses,” He says, referring to their ruthless greed for wealth and status. These people aren’t givers at all. They’re takers. That’s why Jesus says, “This poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed to their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” (v43-44) This woman with so little gives so much that her gift is greater than all the others combined. It is she who deserves to be seen—and Jesus makes sure we recognize that.

Presentation Isn’t “Everything”

In terms of our giving—whether of finances, time, or compassion—size really doesn’t matter. Our contributions to God’s kingdom are measured with two criteria: degree of sincerity and unwillingness to exploit the honor of giving for selfish gain. When it comes to generosity of spirit, we quickly discover presentation most definitely isn’t “everything.” Regardless of one’s resources, anyone with sufficient cunning can put on a show. Regardless of one’s spiritual depth, anyone can learn how to recite eloquent prayers and stitch together long-flowing robes of self-righteousness. The instant we design acts of worship to impress onlookers is the instant our hypocrisy is revealed. What’s more, our need to impress often provokes speculation about the source of our largesse. Chances are—like the scribes and so many prosperity preachers—the wealth and status we try to flaunt has been obtained at someone else’s expense. We’re a far cry from blessings that God showers on cheerful givers. If we give with expectations of glory or recognition, we’re not giving at all. We’re taking.

So where does our desire to give come from? When we find that place and align it with Christ’s teaching, we’ll understand the amount and nature of what we give is irrelevant. Humility of gesture is the thing, as we seize every opportunity to give our all, despite how little that may seem in comparison to others. It tickles and amazes me that a poor lady passes through this story with no idea she’ll be remembered centuries later for the significance of her sacrifice. That’s the real lesson in this passage. How we give—not how much or the attention our gifts may receive—determines the true value of our offerings.

It’s not the size of the gift, but the sincerity that prompts our sacrifice.

Asking for It

He said to them, “What is it you want Me to do for you?” And they said to Him, “Grant us to sit, one at Your right hand and one at Your left, in Your glory.” But Jesus said to them, “You do not know what you are asking.” (Mark 10.36-37)

Are You New?

My favorite moment in the entire “Roseanne” series came when DJ, the financially strapped homemaker’s son asked his mother for some extra spending money. With classic sarcasm, she replied, “Are you new?” The laugh comes out of everything Roseanne’s answer telegraphed. Before he asked, the boy knew it was a long shot, at best—so much so that it sounded as if he had no idea how things worked in his family.

The scene instantly came to mind when looking at Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 10.35-45). James and John step forward to ask Jesus for a most unusual favor. They want Him to reserve places beside Him in God’s kingdom. From our vantage, it’s such a ridiculous, self-serving request—an idea so antithetical to discipleship—that we almost see Jesus roll His eyes as He fires back, “Are you new?” At every opportunity in Mark’s gospel, Jesus preaches self-imposed lowliness and service to others. There is simply no room in the kingdom for ambition and seeking status. Yet here are two of His closest disciples trying to secure positions of honor in advance of the events that will bring Christ into His glory. And we need to be very clear about the error of their intentions. Three times Jesus has explained He’ll be arrested, executed, and brought back to life. Getting to glory will be a gruesome, humiliating task and anyone who expects to arrive there with Jesus will have to go through the ordeal alongside Him. That’s why Jesus constantly emphasizes the importance of lowering oneself, of focusing on intentional service that embraces crushing demands. The right request would ask Jesus’s help in summoning courage to sacrifice one’s life and strength to endure unbearable pain. James and John, clinging to the fantasy of triumphal glory, discount what it requires. All they care about is landing the best seats in house after the worst of it is over. If Jesus decided to play it for laughs, perhaps giving the so-called “sons of thunder”—as He somewhat sarcastically calls James and John—a foretaste of the meanness that awaits, He would dismiss them with ever-so-dry incredulity. Are you new?

Personal Costs

But the trials and presumptive defeat that will bring about Christ’s glory are no laughing matter. Jesus sternly tells the Thunder Boys, “You don’t know what you are asking.” He turns their request into a question for them: “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?” (v38) Now comes the passage’s real shocker. James and John immediately reply, “We are able.” (v39) The question changes from “Are you new?” to “Are you nuts?” Strangely, Jesus goes a different route. He seems to find their confidence reassuring and reinforces the fact that they will most definitely join Him in the fear, suffering, and death that must be conquered to bring about God’s kingdom. Yet, even then, He withholds any guarantee of greatness. “To sit at My right hand or My left is not Mine to grant,” He tells them in verse 40. “But it is for those for whom it has been prepared.” And let’s look closely at this: Jesus refuses to pre-judge James and John either way, good or bad. Their place in the kingdom depends on them. If they honor its principles and endure its hardships, they will achieve the prominence they seek. What they want isn’t Christ's to give. It’s up to them.

Obviously this outbreak of status craving infuriates the rest of the disciples. Who do James and John think they are? Instead of trying to explain the sincerity of their motives—essentially apologizing for the Thunder Boys—Jesus returns to the same lesson He’s been teaching all of His followers: “Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.” (v43) The New Order He’s come to institute is all about giving, not getting. He makes Himself the prime example, explaining, “The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give His life a ransom for many.” (v45) Jesus is upholding the principle of selfless exchange: our sacrifice for others’ redemption, our loss for others’ restoration. It is a radically new idea that, to this day, is nearly impossible to comprehend. It is an ideal that carries tremendous personal costs that we must assess and accept if we are ever to gain access to the kingdom of God.

Ready to Serve

It’s been said the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Sunday’s Gospel tells us the path to glory is a rocky one that can only be navigated by intentional goodness. There is no express lane, no shortcut that gets us into God’s kingdom ahead of the rest—no means of arriving early to snag the best seats in the house. Nearly every step we make presents us with decisions that ask more of us than we’d ordinarily give. Every day confronts us with choices that put our comforts and desires in direct opposition to those of others. And those choices would be easy if they merely boiled down to being nice and agreeable—to acting polite.

But it’s not that simple. To be servants of all, we must seek what is right for those we serve. That means we are often called to humble ourselves in pursuit of justice and demonstrate compassion with boldness that reflects God’s righteousness. We must be willing to endure the hardships and criticism that accompany swimming against popular trends and tides—not for the sake of self-aggrandizement, but because it is our calling. As it turns out, we are new. We are new creatures in Christ. Old thinking about success and prominence doesn’t work for us. Old ideas about getting ahead don’t sway us. And whatever glory we may receive for our commitment to Christ is irrelevant. Like our Savior, we are ready to serve, not to be served. We give our lives in exchange for the lives of others. If we ask more of our faith than that, we have no idea what we’re asking for.

The path to glory is a service road—and a rocky one, at that.

De-luxing

I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For His sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish. (Philippians 3.8)

Defining Essentials

Today is Ash Wednesday, and with it comes many questions we must ponder if we’re to make a good start on our Lenten journey. Questions like, “Whom and what do I love?” “Which, if any, of those loves strengthen my love for God and others; which, if any, do not?” “What do I love immodestly and what do I love inadequately?” “What do I truly need and what do I merely want?” “What can’t I live with and what can’t I live without?” The variations are endless. Yet they all boil down to the same dilemma: defining essentials. And the reason why we begin Lent’s expedition by taking stock is pretty simple. It’s a long and demanding trip from Ash Wednesday’s altar to Easter’s empty tomb. Getting from here to there will go much better for us if we can let go what we don’t need.

The wilderness metaphor associated with Lent has stuck all these centuries because it works. Yet for those of us who aren’t back-to-nature aficionados, an example from my own life may help. Several times a year my work requires me to spend weeklong stretches away from home. When I first began taking these trips, I packed everything I thought I might need: outfits for every conceivable occasion, all sorts of sundries, a stack of books and magazines, music and videos—a ridiculous assortment of goods I hoped would replicate the comforts of home. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t at home. I was at work. And when I’m working out-of-town, that’s pretty much all I do. I don’t take time to change clothes. I don’t read at leisure. I live on basics because luxuries of home get in the way of the work. They distract. They encumber. They serve no purpose.

So Much Better with So Much Less

Although I realized this quickly, over-packing was imbedded in my just-in-case nature. What if clients invited me to dinner and I didn’t have proper clothes? What if a chunk of free time opened up and I could spend it with a good book? What if I caught cold or got a toothache? Anything was possible and I crammed my cases full of options and remedies just in case. It took years to figure out I simply didn’t need this stuff. No one cared what I wore. Any extra sundries could be had at the hotel shop. I returned from my trips with most of what I packed untouched. Instead of helping, it just slowed me down and added to the fatigue of getting the real work done. Not until I tired of dragging pointless junk around did I accept that I could manage so much better with so much less.

And so the kinds of questions I alluded to above come to assist us with what I call “de-luxing”—letting go burdensome luxuries, comforts, and contingencies that slow us down. What’s essential to our journey? Once we define that, that’s all we need. Paul, the consummate traveler, got so good at de-luxing he was able to write, “I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For His sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish.” (Philippians 3.8) Over time, he learned how to empty himself out completely—and thus to open himself totally to his journey’s ups and downs, the rewards and rigors of knowing Christ. I’m not there yet. I doubt few of us are. But if we make a practice of de-luxing we’ll get there.

Traveling with too much leaves us too burdened to experience the fresh discoveries that await us in Lent's wilderness.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/22/de-luxing/

Postscript: 40 Questions

In contemplating how to approach Lent’s journey at Straight-Friendly, I'm led to encourage more than usual interaction. Each day’s post will revolve around a question that I hope we'll find a moment to contemplate and comment on. None of us travels this road alone. In fact, the beauty of the wilderness is that we find our own way in the company of other pilgrims. While we are in conversation with God, we also converse with one another, encouraging and enlightening each other along the way. Being in community as we travel will bring us to the cross united in strength and purpose.

Let’s begin our journey with this question: when you consider the concept of de-luxing, what comes to mind? What should you leave at the desert’s edge? What should you not forget to bring with you?

I’ve put my answer in the comments. I look forward to finding yours there, too!

Come and See

Philip found Nathanael and said to him, “We have found Him Whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.” Nathanael said to him, “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” Philip said to him, “Come and see.” (John 1.45-46)

Out of Nowhere

How we Americans love yarns about people who rise to greatness from lowly beginnings! Indeed, when it comes to winning our hearts and respect, privilege can be a curse—a phenomenon sure to play out in sharp relief when GOP nominee apparent, Mitt Romney, goes head-to-head with Barack Obama. Deservedly or not, Romney epitomizes the rich kid whose cushy upbringing and lifestyle thwart his ability to identify with ordinary citizens. Meanwhile, President Obama is the postmodern Lincoln, the unlikely hero who surmounted impossible odds to clear our nation’s highest hurdle. And while this isn’t the year for a character referendum, for many, it will come down to a classic American dilemma: Go with a guy who had everything handed to him—or one who fought hard to get where he is? Should the candidates’ backgrounds become a decisive factor, Romney hasn’t a chance.

First-century residents of Palestine would predict differently. They couldn’t imagine a scenario ending in Romney’s defeat. Where they live, nobody comes out of nowhere and rises to greatness. Case in point: in Sunday’s Gospel (John 1.43-51), after Philip first encounters Jesus of Nazareth and tells Nathanael that he’s found the Messiah, Nathanael’s asks, “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” It’s a baffled, maybe even scornful, reaction—a polite way of saying, “That’s crazy talk!”

Red Flags

Nathanael can’t conceive any good coming from Nazareth because there’s nothing good about it. It’s an out-of-the-way town without distinction. Having found nothing more than a cluster of simple homes where ancient Nazareth stood, archaeologists estimate its population at less than 400. It’s a farming community comprised of a few close-knit families who—based on discovery of a large pit comparable to a fall-out shelter—seem mainly concerned with surviving unstable times. And it appears they aren’t overly optimistic, as we find no signs of public architecture built to last—no marketplace, synagogue, or other common space. Instead, they rely on nearby Sepphoris for their social, consumer, and religious needs. About an hour’s walk from Nazareth, the city is a booming metropolis steeped in Greco-Roman culture and reputed to be a hotbed of social activism. Nathanael’s low opinion of Nazareth probably reflects its insignificance as a rural outpost, as well as its close proximity to an urban center that welcomes diversity and harbors non-conformists. And he may be shocked that none of this raises red flags to Philip.

Apart from concerns specific to Nazareth, Nathanael’s dismissal would be the same if Jesus hailed from any nondescript village—even his and Philip’s hometown of Bethsaida, a fishing hamlet near Capernaum, another alleged cauldron of dissent. Nothing substantial comes out of these places, because no one of substance lives there. Hearing Jesus is a Nazarene tells Nathanael He’s gravely unsuited for Messianic office. His family obviously has no major wealth or connections. If He’s had any formal education, it can’t be very good. Other than joining holiday caravans to Jerusalem, it’s likely He’s traveled no farther than Sepphoris; so He’s got no experience or sophistication to speak of.

Then, add to Jesus’s personal deficits the toll of small-town life. Spots like Nazareth are notoriously insular, intolerant, and often in-bred. Living where everybody’s your uncle never turns out good. What are backwater villages known for? Rushing to judgment about issues they don’t understand and attacking anyone who bucks a system they hate, but don’t have the nerve to change. Naturally, Nathanael shrugs Philip off. In their world, nobody important—least of all, the Messiah—comes from out of nowhere, especially a great big nowhere like Nazareth. But Philip doesn’t take offense at his friend’s cynicism. He doesn’t defend his convictions or dispute Nathanael’s reasoning. All Philip says is, “Come and see.”

Christ’s Offer

What we witness in Philip happens repeatedly in the Gospels. People meet Jesus and rush to tell friends and family, “Come and see!” Have we not felt the same impulse? A true encounter with Christ is unlike any other. In finding Jesus, we are found. When we follow His ways, lesser paths lose their appeal. We become aware of our place in the world and our fit in God’s plan. How can we not rush to tell those we love, “Come and see!” That’s when we find out how many Nathanaels we know. “What good can come from this?” they ask. Whether big-city skeptics or small-minded villagers, their assumptions about Jesus don’t jibe with the Savior we know. Lest their scorn twists us into knots, we avoid pointless bickering when we echo Philip’s gentle reply. Come and see.

With discipleship comes expectation we’ll spread the Word and make disciples—a dicey proposition if we’re enamored with competition and proving points. Christ’s offer of new life begs no defense and wins nothing from debate. We’re not called to recruit converts to our team; we’re privileged to invite others to discover what we’ve found. Nathanael agrees to check out Philip’s Messiah only to learn Jesus has already checked him out. As he approaches, Jesus says, “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!” (John 1.47) Nathanael’s stunned. Christ’s acknowledgement of Nathanael’s integrity turns him around. His doubts fall away, enabling him to discover that Jesus is God’s Son.

A marvelous epilogue turns up in Early Church chronicles. Nathanael (whom the other Gospels call Bartholomew) travels the farthest of any Apostle to extend Christ's offer of new life. In fact, he’s the only disciple known to cross Roman borders, when his calling ultimately lands him in India. Because of Philip’s modest reply, Nathanael achieves legendary status as Christianity’s first missionary to Asia—a feat he can’t possibly anticipate when he decides to go and see what Philip’s raving about. Inviting those who question our faith to meet Christ for themselves asks nothing of us. We don’t have to defend our belief. We don’t have to trump their reasons why following Jesus isn’t such a good idea. All we have to say is, “Come and see.” And if they take our offer to heart, they too will discover that following Jesus opens up amazing possibilities. You want to know what good can come from Nazareth? Ask Nathanael.

Gentle Savior, like Nathanael, we’re stunned that You saw worthiness in us—even when we doubted You were worth seeing. Stamp “come and see” in our hearts. Keep it in our mouths, so we may lead others to what we’ve found. Fix our eyes on far horizons and open our minds to amazing possibilities. Amen.

Christ’s offer of new life begs no defense and wins nothing from debate. We answer questions about our faith with a modest suggestion: Come and see.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/01/15/come-and-see/

Complete the Task

I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the gospel of God’s grace. (Acts 20.24)

Witnessing

Both Walt and I were reared in evangelically skewed traditions, his more so than mine. (Q: What sect gets the most grief from pundits and comedians for passing out literature door-to-door? A: The one he grew up in.) As kids, we were dragged out for regular “witnessing” excursions. Walt’s weekly forays happened on Saturday mornings, prime cartoon time for kids, explaining why our DVD collection is stocked to the gills with old “Flinstones” and “Jetsons” episodes. My church set aside one Saturday afternoon each month for similar activities. Being the pastor’s son made attendance compulsory, ruling out a lot of things I’d rather have done. Both of us resented being forced to “witness.” Now that we’re older, we laugh at the corkscrew logic in asking total strangers to stop what they’re doing so we could try to convert them. Witnessing in this paradigm disregarded others’ time and beliefs. On one hand, it didn’t reflect Christ’s gentle hospitality. On the other, impinging on people who believed in Jesus (just not “our way”) surely struck them as silly—selling ice to Eskimos, as they say.

There is no doubt we are called to witness. The Great Commission, Jesus’s final charge to His followers, comes down to “go and make disciples of all nations.” (Matthew 28.19) And in His salutary remarks before ascending into Heaven, He explicitly states the Holy Spirit enables our witness: “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (Acts 1.8) Yet neither of these statements—nor, for that matter, anything Jesus says about spreading the Gospel—implies witnessing should be reduced to one-on-one marketing campaigns or neighborhood canvasses. If only it were that easy, we’d gladly soak swollen knuckles after a hard day of door-knocking! There’s more to making disciples and being witnesses than pounding the pavement to distribute magazines or invite people to church. Witnessing is less about telling than showing. That re-centers our focus from what we say to who we are.

Unpredictable Circumstances

While anonymous evangelism sometimes proves successful, compared to exemplary witness, its effectiveness is markedly lower. Speaking as a stranger to strangers removes credibility from the equation. They don’t know if we live by our lines; we don’t know if what we say resonates. Thankfully, though, it’s also fairly harmless. At worst, it creates awkward situations. Witnessing by example, in contrast, often puts us in unpredictable circumstances—in places where actively portraying Christ’s principles subverts popular opinion, among people who read non-conformity as an overt threat. To obey Christ’s commission to enter and live in the world as His witnesses means we won’t avoid this. Nor should we try.

In Acts 20, we see Paul doing just as Jesus commanded: traveling far and wide, making disciples. Being a public figure whose reputation precedes him, he's well known by Christians, their antagonists, and many non-believers. The Apostle's itinerary is grueling. He darts about the Aegean by boat, docking in a new port nearly every day. He plans to travel inland to Ephesus, but it’s soon apparent he’s spread too thin. Hoping to return to Jerusalem for the Feast of Pentecost, he asks the Ephesians to meet him in Miletus, a coastal village. During his talk with them, Paul offers a most revealing comment about witnessing. He says he’s “compelled by the Spirit” (v22) to go to Jerusalem, uncertain what may happen there. All he knows is the Holy Spirit warns him he faces prison and hardships wherever he goes. This doesn’t deter him, though. His sole objective is to “finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the gospel of God’s grace.” (v24)

Lives We Lead

Paul’s ministry is extraordinary—unparalleled then and now. His task is not. It’s the same task Christ gives everyone who follows Him. He calls each of us to testify to the gospel of God’s grace. That’s how disciples make disciples. And our effectiveness rests completely how well we witness the miracle of grace in our own lives. In Paul’s case, the spark that sets his witness ablaze is his turnabout on the Damascus Road. His supernatural encounter with the Risen Christ irrevocably changes and redirects his life. Yet his testimony of the event meets with much skepticism, even causing some to question Paul’s apostolic bona fides. Intense awareness of God’s grace constantly fuels his witness. The flame never flickers. That establishes his credentials and accounts for his success. Paul cops to his weaknesses, admitting faults in almost every letter he writes. With outsized ego chief among them, it’s safely said his motives surpass polite self-deprecation. Paul can’t stop pointing out his shortcomings because He’s awestruck by grace.

Conversion experiences are important. But since they’re given to us specifically for us, it’s highly possible they’ll be viewed with reservation when we share them. Our word isn’t reliable. That’s why Jesus calls us to be His witnesses. We testify to His grace with open lives that passionately embrace God’s acceptance and mercy for everyone who believes. The Casting Crowns song posted here last Friday summarizes it beautifully: “It’s not because of who I am. It’s because of what You’ve done. It’s not because of what I’ve done. It’s because of Who You are.” Once that becomes the music of our souls, what it means will emerge in our attitudes and actions. Paul is right. Jerusalem is full of religious types to doubt our conversion. There will always be someone who challenges our faith. We can’t tell them any different, because we needn’t tell them anything. The gospel of grace isn’t imparted in what we say. It’s witnessed in lives we lead. The Lord Jesus entrusts each of us with this. We must complete the task.

Our witness isn’t in words; it’s in lives that reveal the grace God gives.

Wisdom's Ways

The wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. (James 3.17)

Educated Fools

My grandmother often warned to beware educated fools. “The person who brags about how much he knows doesn’t know anything,” she said. Her advice resurfaces every time I see “experts” toss out facts and figures like grenades to destroy one another's credibility instead of providing insights to the topic at hand. We aren’t interested in who’s smarter. We’re looking for wisdom. Whether with a gallery of pundits or a group of friends, when discussions escalate into arguments, wisdom’s door slams. Its pursuit is corrupted by conflict, rudeness, one-upmanship, intolerance, and vanity. None of these qualities conforms to wisdom’s ways.

One needn’t belong to MENSA to see using knowledge to belittle or alienate others is unwise. First, it assumes one’s knowledge forecloses another’s right to think and believe differently. If that were true, we could gladly defer to experts. But what seems empirically true from the ivory tower rarely resembles ground truth. Second, passions stirred by intellectual conflict only increase confusion. Ego tramples the soul of the issue, leaving no cause to continue the discussion. Finally, cuts and bruises obtained during clashes of minds inevitably affix to the issue. It becomes a sore spot that never heals. When Isaiah opens his prophecy, Israel is deeply scarred by differences. “From the soul of your foot to the top of your head there is no soundness—only wounds and welts and open sores, not cleansed or bandaged or soothed with oil,” he writes. (Isaiah 1.6) How can they remedy their condition? “’Come now, let us reason together,’ says the LORD. ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool.’” (v18) Wisdom seeks to heal and purify. Intellectual arrogance hopes to divide and demean.

Climates and Creatures

When Jesus dispatches the disciples, He says, “I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves,” adding, be “wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.” (Matthew 10.16; KJV) His parallels to the animal kingdom are most enlightening. He alerts the disciples they’re venturing into predatory climates where creatures instinctively pounce on new and unconventional ideas. The disciples should anticipate challenges and outright attacks. But rather than engage in conflicts, He instructs them to employ snake-like strategies while adopting dove-like behavior. This sounds contradictory until we consider how Scripture describes serpents and doves. Genesis 3.1 reads, “Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made,” Snakes are endowed with heightened sensitivities to their situation. They’re extremely focused on their objectives and their subtlety is why they’re so persuasive. Unlike wolves that frighten their prey with snarls and bared teeth, snakes steal into striking range.

We get what Jesus means—don’t resort to intimidating methods that characterize arguments. But He stops short of endorsing any reason to strike. “Harmless as doves” means we remain pure, staying above the conflict rather than being swept up by it. The Bible’s first sighting of a dove comes in Genesis 8, where Noah sends it out to see if the floodwaters have receded. Verse 9 says, “But the dove could find no place to set its feet because there was water over all the surface of the earth.” Like every Christian principle, this is counterintuitive. We rise above baseness of arrogant knowledge by humbling ourselves in service to wisdom. We’re aware of the climates and creatures around us, just as snakes are. Yet like doves we elude confrontation. We don’t light where danger and confusion exist.

“The wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere,” James 3.17 says. Purity calls for us to examine our motives closely. Are we trying to introduce wisdom to the discussion for the benefit of those seeking it? Or are we using wisdom we’ve received to prove how smart we are or how little someone else knows? Now, follow James’s line of reasoning from there. If our wisdom is pure, it promotes peace. It considers others’ limitations, i.e., it operates at their level. It submits where knowledge asserts, preferring “I don’t know for sure” to “you sure don’t know anything.” Wisdom takes this tack because it’s merciful. Its prime concern is planting and nurturing healthy ideas. Doing what’s right takes precedence over correcting what’s wrong, which is where self-aggrandizing knowledge always goes awry. Then, when we follow the aforementioned ways of wisdom, there can be no doubt that what we say and do isn’t about us. Accusations of partiality and egotistical phoniness won’t stick.

More to Know

Let’s be clear: knowledge is vital. Wisdom can’t exist without it. So we constantly crave knowledge to increase wisdom. But unlike fools who suffer delusions they know it all, we admit there’s always more to know. Above all, we know boasting in knowledge is unwise. Proverbs 17.27 insists, “A man of knowledge uses words with restraint, and a man of understanding is even-tempered.” The moment we sense we’re losing control is our wake-up call. We’ve left wisdom’s ways for knowledge’s ruts, forsaken peace for confusion. How is that wise? Paul writes, “We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves.” (Romans 15.1) This isn’t high-road idealism. It’s sound advice. If we engage in knowledge showdowns, we’ll never get anywhere. Proving we’re the sharpest minds in the room may bring momentary satisfaction. But it won’t change others’ hearts and minds. We’re not wolves and snakes. We’re doves, creatures of peace. Knowing that—being that—should please us more than anything, because it pleases God most.

When we use our knowledge wisely, we're harmless as doves. We foster peace and understanding, rather than create discord and confusion.

(Next: Every Step You Take)

Postscript: My Kind of Preacher

I've been keeping tabs on David Gillespie for a while now, looking in on his blog from time to time, staying casually acquainted via Facebook, etc. Lately, however, I've been following him more closely, soaking up as much as much as possible of what he has to say on his site, Southern Fried Faith, because David (aka Rev. Gillespie) is my kind of preacher. He's rooted and grounded in the Word and sufficiently confident in his faith to ask questions and derive answers that challenge us in very important ways.

Today, while reading his post of a sermon he preached nearly three years back, I was bowled over. And the cherry on the sundae came when his concluding paragraph cited the scripture we examine above. It just seemed like an augur of sorts--a gentle nudge from above to make sure each of you knows David's there and worth your time and attention. His posts read like silk, but I don't doubt they tie many conservatives, legalists, and traditionalists in knots--as well they should! Here's a sample to whet your appetite:

See, the stories we’ve constructed around Jesus are easy stories, when you get down to it. To paint a portrait of Jesus as friend or lover of our souls or life coach or even as personal Lord and Savior really doesn’t demand any change in our global framing story. Other than perhaps a few moral demands in terms of personal behavior, it doesn’t demand any newness, any genuine repentance (in the truest meaning of the word) on our parts. To see the essential core of Jesus’ message as saving us from our sins in order that we can go to heaven and escape hell doesn’t really require any major shifts in our own framing story. In fact, I’d argue that it allows us to not challenge the framing story.

But to see the message of Jesus as the now present Kingdom of God, a framing story of peace and love and creativity and equity and compassion — or to use the words of Micah the prophet, of doing justice and loving kindness and walking humbly — or to use the words of the author of James when he describes this alternative wisdom as pure, peaceable, gentle, reasonable, full of mercy and good fruits, unwavering without hypocrisy or when that author describes the essence of true religion to be found in acts like visiting orphans and widows in their distress — or to manifest this wisdom as described by the author of The Epistle to Galatians as: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, self-control — to live as those whose lives are framed, whose lives are transformed, by a different, alternative story... now that’s another thing.

That’s just the end. There’s plenty of equally amazing, provocative ideas floating through this piece from the beginning. Click over and (as us Southern-fried folks say) dig in!

Southern Fried Faith

Little Ones

I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven… See that you do not look down on one of these little ones. (Matthew 18.3, 10)

Big Promises in Tiny Hands

My first Bible was a “children’s” Bible with a cover pastel of Jesus talking to girls and boys, plus a few glossy inserts depicting Noah and the Flood, David and Goliath, and other favorite stories. Beyond that, it was identical to my parents' Bibles: a King James Version printed in two columns on tissue-thin stock. Mom and Dad weren’t averse to the Bible storybooks our friends’ parents were so crazy about. But neither did they encourage them. They wanted to expose us to the real thing right away. They believed we should learn to hold its big promises in our tiny hands, even though our minds weren’t yet old enough to grasp them. Thus, before we started school, we already knew how to clumsily sound out the King’s English to match scriptures we quoted by heart.

If memory serves, the first verse I learned to quote was Mathew 19.14: “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God”—Christ’s response after the disciples rebuke parents who ask Him to bless their children. Where Matthew (per Mark’s lead) places the incident is of interest, as it appears soon after Jesus talks about child-like faith in Matthew 18. He starts the lesson by calling a child to Him, leading us to interpret His interjections about “little ones” refer to actual children. Turning the page to find Him welcoming toddlers appears to reinforce this. Yet Jesus’s tone and approach confirm He’s speaking about adults—about us. He deftly endorses open-minded innocence while adding caution against condemning it. In essence, He says holding big promises in tiny hands isn’t easy. Those with experience and knowledge must not crush others who seem to reach beyond their grasp.

Jostling for Position

An ego crisis sets the stage. The disciples ask Jesus, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” (Matthew 19.1) It’s a silly question. Jesus has shown no preference among them. Asking if that will change in the future exposes their insecurities. It also ignores Christ’s law of inversion—the last come first, the least count most, and so on. The disciples either don’t get it or won’t accept it. In prior discussions, Jesus focused on the principle. Now He appears concerned the disciples’ competitive streak will harm other believers. Though they don’t realize it, they’re due to inherit Christ’s ministry in a matter of weeks. This obsession with status needs to be dismantled to prevent the future Church from becoming a hotbed of power politics. Jesus revises His teaching to include harsh warnings for anyone who leverages seniority and sophistication to intimidate newer, less knowledgeable Christians.

He stands a child before them, saying, “Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (v3) He reinforces His principle of inversion—“Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” (v4)—and drops a bombshell. Anyone who welcomes an innocent, inexperienced believer welcomes Me, He says. But anyone who wounds the faith “of these little ones” would be better off committing suicide. Jesus tells us to pinpoint and remove what compels us to condemn weaker-minded Christians. “If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away,” He says (v8), stressing it’s better to enter Heaven as an amputee than suffer eternal punishment. “See that you do not look down on one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father,” Jesus instructs. (v10) His point is made. Condescension has no place in God’s kingdom. Jostling for position over those who don’t grasp the faith as firmly as we do only defeats us. Their place in Heaven is already secure.

Equal, Not Identical

We are all equal in Christ, but none of us is identical. Some of us mature more quickly in our faith. Others grapple with the basics and never graduate to higher levels of learning. Many can only access faith by interpreting Scripture in its most concrete sense. For them, the truth must be immutably writ in stone. Just as many believers find faith by sorting it out, evincing solid truth from abstraction and granting inconsistencies to grasp inerrant principle. There are intellectually driven believers. There are emotionally driven ones. Some limit their confidence exclusively to what they find between the Bible’s covers. There are others whose confidence includes wide fields of scholarship, commentary, and thought. Finally, there are Christians—the vast majority, perhaps—who never outgrow the habit of being spoon-fed by priests, pastors, and teachers.

It’s peculiar how we find accepting our differences so hard, yet we use them so easily to undermine our equality. Instead of cherishing the faith we share, we’d rather fight about varying approaches and aptitudes that lead to faith. Everybody wants to prove he/she is more correct than the rest. Literalists deride rationalists as faith failures. Rationalists sneer at literalists as mental midgets. Seasoned believers think younger ones need to grow up. New believers think older ones have lost touch. And everyone is absolutely correct. We’re all challenged in some way. We’re all immature on some level. We’re all little ones.

Jesus finishes with the allegory of the shepherd who risks losing 99 sheep to rescue one that wanders off. Without the one, the herd is incomplete. “In the same way your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should be lost,” Jesus says. (v14) I can’t allow my urges to drive you away, because I need you to complete my community of faith. You can’t afford to alienate me, because when I’m lost, your faith community is incomplete. We are all little ones humbled by what we lack. We all hold big promises with tiny hands. We all need love, tolerance, and protection.

Condescension has no place in God’s kingdom. We are all “little ones.”

(Tomorrow: Trying God’s Patience)