You Say It

If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, “Move from here to there,” and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you. (Matthew 17.20)

All of this Lenten off-loading and sorting-out has me surrounded by tall piles of junk. Here’s my short temper, and over there is my pride, and next to that, my knee-jerk negativity toward people who—in my unqualified estimation—have no clue about what’s going on in the world. Night before last I was at they gym, going through my treadmill paces, as one of those “Real Housewives” shows played on the overhead TV. I was listening to gospel music on my iPod and couldn’t hear a word they said. But just from the look of them, I decided I didn’t like these people. I automatically assumed they were silly and gauche and I thought, “If our paths crossed, I’d get away from them as fast as I could.” Just that quick, a voice in the recesses of my brain challenged me. “Really?” it asked. “You’ll go out of your way to talk to a homeless person, but you’re okay with sneering at nouveau riche folks? How can that be right?”

Lent will do that. It has a way of pulling us up short and highlighting idle assumptions that evidence how much further we have to go to be like the Lord. Jesus spent a lot of time with poor people. But He showed kindness and hospitality to wealthy and grandiose types, too. If the Samaritan woman at the well had been a Real Housewife (and she may have been), He wouldn’t have turned her away. Where do I get off imagining I can do differently? So there you go. Add unjust attitudes about the privileged few to my heaps.

After a while, it starts to feel like our shortcomings are closing in on us. Wherever we turn, there’s another mountain. Our Lenten progress reaches a standstill, because we can no longer scale the foolishness we pile up. Our first instinct is to appeal to God’s mercy (the right thing) and expect God to move our mountains for us (the wrong thing). We want God to serve our interests as a single-handed demolition crew, blow our weaknesses sky-high, and clear the way so we can get on with our lives. That’s not going to happen.

No sooner had I been chastened for my condescension than my iPod shuffled up a tune that spoke to my problem. It was a song I’d never really paid attention to, “That’s How the Lord Works,” by The Thomas Whitfield Singers. The soloist sang, “I asked God to move my mountains, but instead God increased my faith.” The choir answered, “That’s how the Lord works; that’s just like God.” I had to think about that for a minute.

The allusion, of course, is Jesus’s promise in Matthew 17.20 (repeated almost verbatim in Matthew 21.21): “If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you.” We get all excited about the dramatic proportions of His imagery—a teeny tiny seed of faith can move impossibly huge mountains. But if we look at enormous piles of our junk, and then ask God to move them for us, are we truly following the principle Jesus lays out? “You”—not “God”—“will say to this mountain, ‘Move,’” He says.

Moving our mountains is our responsibility. God makes it possible the instant we confess belief they can be moved. The size of our faith doesn’t have to equal the scope of our problems. It just needs to plant confidence that moving mountains is not impossible. Speaking to them acknowledges that we see them for what they are. We can no longer cloak them in language of denial and justification. They are mountains. They need to move. “You say it,” Jesus promises, “and nothing will be impossible for you.”

Use Protection

Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His power. Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. (Ephesians 6.10-11)

Different Dynamics

Early in the rollerblading craze, Walt and I rushed out to our local Sport Mart and spent a small fortune on gear: skates, helmets, elbow and kneepads. We got home and suited up, laughing at how we looked like gladiators. Then we stored our fancy equipment on a closet shelf, where it sat for several months, waiting for us to get the nerve to take to the streets. One spring afternoon, I came home to find Walt in a terrible state. His arms and legs were bruised and scraped up and covered in Band-Aids. I spotted his rollerblades and said, “You didn’t wear protection, did you?” “Only the helmet,” he replied. “I didn’t like how that other stuff looked on me.” My response: “And just look at you now!”

In Walt’s defense, he’s an amazing four-wheeled skater—a real hotshot on a rink floor. It seemed logical that he’d adapt to inline skating with such ease that the likelihood of falling would be practically nil. But, as he learned, that wasn’t the case. The dynamics of rollerblading aren’t the same as those of old-fashioned skates. In many ways, they’re the opposite, as they require a different sense of balance to maneuver stops and turns. What’s more, the uneven surfaces of city streets require a heightened awareness of the ground one travels. Dodging and darting through traffic and other bikers and skaters complicates things. Until you develop a proper sense of equilibrium to react quickly, rollerblading can be a treacherous endeavor. And—as Walt learned on his maiden voyage—once you figure out you’re improperly equipped, you still have to make your way back. The worst of his spills happened during his retreat, he told me. Finally, he gave up, removed his skates, and walked home in sock feet. “I felt like a fool,” he said. It took some time for him to give rollerblading another try and eventually he got the hang of it. But after that first debacle, I’ve never seen him head out for a leisurely cruise along the lakefront without his full armor. When I read Ephesians’ admonition to use all the protection available to us, I think of Walt.

Danger in the Air

“Be strong in the Lord and the strength of His power,” the Ephesians writer says, urging us to “put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” (Ephesians 6.10-11) It’s an inside-outside strategy. Our strength and power come from within, in our confidence that God is at work in us, daily renewing our faith in new mercies and understanding. Meanwhile, we live in a world of uncertainty, where ground we travel is uneven and navigating our way through life requires a great deal of agility. This hard for us to learn, particularly when we leave ready-made Christianity—where faith is expressed in the polished confines of church sanctuaries—for the mean streets of real life. Following Christ in true discipleship is to calling oneself a “Christian” what inline skating in urban environments is to easily gliding in circles on a roller rink. The dynamics and demands are totally different. The risks are not the same. And if we’re to pursue the freedoms and joys that accompany discipleship, we must use protection—no matter how silly we may look when we’re geared up in the whole armor of God. Trying to skate along without it ultimately results in injuries that cause real pain and make us look worse than we would if we’d taken proper precautions. Undertaking this endeavor without protection is why so many of us falter and end up walking home in sock feet, feeling foolish and smarting wounds we could have avoided.

We need protection not because of any deficiency within ourselves, but because of the atmosphere we live in. The writer reminds us, “Our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.” Danger is in the air. And one must wonder at the prophetic import of this observation for our day and time, when poisonous hatred and lies literally fill the air, borne on the wings of digital hysteria and fear. More than ever, we must protect ourselves against free-flying evil, taking Ephesians’ prescriptive armor to heart. If we’re to stand—if we’re to maintain our balance and make progress against the onslaught of deceit and negativity whirling about us—we must be properly equipped. In verses 14-17 we read, “Fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness. As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace. With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”

As genuine disciples, we never travel without first doing an equipment check: truth to defend against lies, righteousness against injustice, peace against violence and confusion, faith against cynicism, salvation against surrender, and the Spirit revealed in God’s promises against human reasoning and hopelessness. Danger is in the air. We must guard against its treachery. And as we travel, we’re vividly aware that God’s armor is meant for our protection. It is not weaponry designed to wound or intimidate those around us. When we misuse spiritual protection to inflict pain we join ranks with powers that pollute the atmosphere. We make ourselves vulnerable to the very evils Ephesians teaches us to guard against.

Stand

In Galatians 5.7-8, Paul chides believers actively engaged in conflicts with combative forces attempting to denigrate their faith. “You were running well,” he writes. “Who prevented you from obeying the truth? Such persuasion does not come from the One Who calls you.” Discipleship is an arduous quest to bring truth to light—or light to truth. The strength within us is evidenced in our ability to withstand the dangers and evil in the air, to keep our balance at all times, and journey ahead, undaunted by uneven ground and conflicts we encounter. When those around us succumb to airborne forces attempting to defeat our faith, we remember the Gospel needs no defense. It is we who must be protected. We are equipped with truth, righteousness, peace, faith, salvation, and the Spirit made alive and known to us in God’s Word. Be strong in the Lord and the strength of God’s power. Stand. We’ve been given all the protection we need. Use it.

We travel in an atmosphere of airborne dangers; Ephesians teaches us how to protect ourselves against lies, insults, and injuries.

In Flux

The earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. (Genesis 1.2)

Stagecraft

No other Bible story matches Genesis’s first creation narrative for sheer theatricality. The curtains part on what appears to be a barren stage cloaked in impenetrable, silent night. As our eyes adjust, we detect something is there, yet we’re not quite sure what it is. We sit in the darkness for what seems like an eternity—actually, for what is an eternity—staring into the blackness, feeling the gravitational pull of a shapeless void at center stage.

Going in, we know that this is a one-Person performance piece. We’ve read the reviews, seen pictures based on the drama, and many of us can quote much of the script from memory. So suspense is high as we await God’s spectacular entrance on the scene. The theater buffs among us are pitched with excitement, speculating what sort of stagecraft will accompany God’s arrival. Will there be a blinding bolt of light at God’s command, after which the Creator comes into full view? Will a tremulous rumble swell beneath our feet, followed by the Maker’s revealed presence? Will God’s voice roar out of the night, setting off a rapid chain of events that summons everything that is into being?

In what will become God’s chief characteristic, this drama opens by subverting every expectation. Before the Creator arrives, a wind sweeps over the stage. We hear the ripple and slap of water rising and curling into waves. Still unable to see, we perceive the stage is engulfed in an endless sea. It’s the pregnant medium out of which the entirety of Creation will rise in obedience to God’s voice. Then we hear the Creator call for light. The inky vacuum splits in two and once our eyes adjust to the bright blaze of day, we surmise that we’re watching the dawn of time. Thereafter, the drama unfolds, as God aptly and adroitly assumes an off-stage role via the narrative device ancient dramatists called deus ex machina: the introduction of divine, supernatural power to shape and propel our story.

Movement

Regardless how we view Genesis’s creation accounts—as myth, metaphor, miracle, or all of the above—we should own them as the first act in our dramas, not only on the impersonal, epic scale of time and space, but also as the origin of our highly personal, individualized, and intimate relationships with God. As such, we’re compelled to note how God initiates the sacred communion we share. Before God speaks, appears, or commences creation, God moves. God exhales divine breath across the empty waters, brushing their surface with movement. From there on, God is constantly in flux—walking with us in mutual fellowship, seeking us out of our shame and disarray, going before us to light our way, meeting us at our point of need, and rising above us to lead us to higher summits of existence. Movement is how God maintains our equilibrium and that of the world we inhabit. As individuals and communities, we are in constant flux. The human condition is in flux. All of Nature is in flux. And God is in flux.

We often ask God to move on our behalf, as though God were a sedentary monarch who must be pried from his/her throne. Yet that image has no reality in Scripture. Psalm 46.1-3 tells us, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult.” While we move through lives of perpetual change and upheaval, God is very present, moving with us. It is in God’s nature to keep moving; that’s the first thing we discover about God and, alas, it’s often the first thing we forget. Thus, when we’re tossed about, when the ground beneath us gives way, when life’s seas threaten to swallow us alive, we have no cause to fear. God is moving in the midst of our uncertainty and terror, because God moves with us. We remain in flux together.

An Altar in the World

Barbara Brown Taylor, one of America’s most highly esteemed preachers, speaks of making “an altar in the world,” i.e., heightening our sensitivity to God’s movement around us. Where do we see God move? The big answer, of course, is “everywhere.” But I don’t think that gets us very close to appreciating the extent of God’s movement. Sure, God moves in Nature—in seasonal transitions, in thunderheads gathering on the horizon, in the majestic eagle soaring overhead and the annoying housefly that lights on our table. Yet human ego and self-sufficiency habitually weaken our ability to see and feel God’s movement in others and ourselves.

God moves in the friendly smiles of strangers, in the surprising embraces of people we presume to hold us in low regard, in the sorrow that washes over us when witnessing another's suffering, in mundane touches and voices and exchanged glances that fill our days. God arrives on the scene in flux. God shapes Nature, our world, and us to be in flux. “God is not far from each one of us,” Paul declares to the Athenians, quoting one of their own poets to remind them, “For ‘In God we live and move and have our being.’” (Acts 17.27-28) We live and move in God because God lives and moves in, around, and through us. Next time, just before asking God to move for us, perhaps we should pause long enough to see God is already, constantly moving wherever we look.

God arrives on the scene in flux and remains in constant movement wherever we look.