Like There's No Tomorrow

Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for My sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life? (Matthew 16.25-26)

“If” and “Then”

Although some will shrug off Sunday’s Gospel (Matthew 16.21-28) with typical nonchalance, it’s hard to conceive anyone who listens to it not feeling like they’ve been socked in the gut. It’s one of the passages where Jesus couldn’t be clearer, where He leaves zero wiggle room for alternate readings that soften the blow. Jesus challenges us to forget everything—every instinct, behavior, belief, and opinion—so we can discover what life is really about. He’s not just urging us to correct our attitudes and ways. He’s not just promising rewards if we heed His word. He’s not just upholding a divine ideal. No, Jesus is telling us we don’t get it. What’s more, we never got it. Since the start, we’ve been so obsessed with staying alive we never bothered finding out what life can be. We’ve redefined the unsurpassed gift God breathed into us as “not dying.”

By nature, our days are governed by “if” and “then.” Long logical chains tether us to the notion we can escape unfavorable eventualities. We accept that logic as hard and fast—sacrosanct, even—never considering our way may not be the only way, let alone the best way. Here’s a classic example. Our parents, teachers, and culture assure us if we study hard and do the work, then we’ll make good grades. If we make good grades, then we’ll get into good colleges. If we do well in college, then we’ll qualify for good jobs. If we do well in our professions, then we’ll prosper. If we prosper, then we’ll be physically and fiscally sound. If we’re sound, then we’ll lead long and healthy lives. And we believe this, even though we’re inundated with evidence that every link in this chain is unreliable.

What seems sensible and just today may prove ridiculous and unfair tomorrow. Nothing is certain, including the preposterous idea that strength and fitness guarantee survival. Health can be protected, but never promised. Relationships will founder. Fortunes evaporate. Bad things happen to good people. Evildoers frequently prosper and outlive those they exploit. Death comes when it comes; regardless when it occurs—even when it ends prolonged suffering—it’s always too soon. None of this is news to us and still we cling to the if-then chain’s fallacy that life is about surviving, doing all we can to delay the inevitable as long as possible. Meanwhile, Jesus says life is all about embracing the illogical—instead of fearing a future we can't foresee, He urges us to live like there’s no tomorrow. This principle hangs high above His teachings, starting in the Sermon on the Mount: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” (Matthew 6.34) But we don’t get it. And as long as we cede any room in our lives to fear, we won’t.

Human Things

Fear swirls around the Matthew 16 passage, with Peter serving as our touchstone for entering the scene. Not long before this, confessing Jesus is the Messiah turns Peter’s life upside-down. Jesus rewards his faith and perception, changing his name from Simon to Peter (“the Rock”) and ordaining him as Christianity’s founding prelate. It’s a daunting task, yet Peter reacts no differently than we might if the Messiah honored us with such a prestigious promotion: he gets a little full of himself and jumps the gun, taking charge before Jesus releases the reins.

After announcing His successor, Jesus attends to mapping the leadership transition so His followers know what to expect. He’ll go to Jerusalem, where He’ll be arrested, tortured, and executed after which He’ll be resurrected. Such morbid talk scares Peter. Not only isn’t he ready to watch Jesus suffer and die, he’s nowhere near ready to hold things together in Jesus’s absence. If-then logic seizes him with panic, causing him to pull Jesus aside and rebuke Him! “I won’t hear of it!” he says. In a tongue-lashing unlike any in the Gospels, Jesus puts Peter in his place—calling him by a new, altogether humiliating name and chastising his lack of faith and perception. “Get behind me, Satan!” Jesus hisses. “You are a stumbling block to Me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” (Matthew 16.23)

Of the many impressions flooding Jesus’s mind, the most troubling is His realization Peter and the disciples just don’t get it. They’re still focused on human things—longevity and survival, status symbols and future security, how it all ends versus all it can be. Jesus breaks down His life principle in if-then language that mirrors their thought processes. “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves”—i.e., give up this nonsensical trust in human things—“and take up their cross and follow Me”—i.e., risk living His way, modeling His example, and focusing on divine things. (v24) After He sees restating His life principle in logical fashion gets the disciples no closer to internalizing it, Jesus puts it in terms any human can understand: losses and gains. “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for My sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?” (v25-26)

Unequivocal Surrender

Jesus calls for unequivocal surrender—not only from Peter and the rest of the crew, but also from you and me. To know the joy, peace, and fullness that can only be found by living like there’s no tomorrow, we divorce ourselves from human things. We discover all that life can be when, for Christ’s sake, we forget all of our nonsense about “Me! Me! Me!” Answering Jesus’s invitation to follow Him means saying yes to His word, His will, and His way. Common sense is too common. Survival is too basic. Investing trust and capital in human things is too shallow. Staying alive is superfluous if we forfeit being alive in the process. And once we’ve squandered our lives trying to preserve them, nothing we achieve or possess will buy back what we’ve lost.

Jesus presents two choices: waste the precious gift of life on trying to stay alive or discover its riches by living like there’s no tomorrow. He makes it so obvious why His way is our best option. So why don’t we get it? Because it's also obvious we’d be out of our minds to do as He says. Precisely.

O Christ, we confess You are the Christ. We say yes to Your word, yes to Your will, and yes to Your way. If losing our minds is how we learn to live like there’s no tomorrow, then we surrender them to You. We’re through with fear and its spawn, futile selfishness and reliance on human things. We want to live! Amen.

Following Christ and finding all that life can be is one and the same thing, and it can’t be accomplished with anything less than unequivocal surrender.

Comfort with Curiosity

David said, “What have I done now? It was only a question.” (1 Samuel 17.29)

Curious

The juxtaposition of today’s Old and New Testament readings borders on brilliance. The Old Testament passage (1 Samuel 17.17-30) sets up the famous story of David and Goliath, while the New Testament (Acts 10.34-48) concludes Peter’s celebrated epiphany of Christian inclusion. Both thrust their heroes into uncommon situations, where they do extraordinary things. How each responds to his challenge and the route each takes to accomplish it are markedly different, however. Contrasting the two is where our lesson comes to light.

The High Noon finale of the David-Goliath showdown throws the story off-kilter. Itching for the climax, we breeze by its explanation of how an underage shepherd ends up on a battlefield, as if kids are regular figures in biblical warfare. But David’s arrival in the Valley of Elah—site of the latest Israelite-Philistine skirmish—ruffles feathers. His father, Jesse, sends him to deliver rations to three older brothers (with 10 cheeses for the commander, a not-so-subtle request that the officer look out for his sons). The errand is a boon providing the youth a break from the tedium of tending sheep and, better still, a glimpse of military life. David reaches camp as Israel heads into battle. He drops his parcels and rushes to catch his brothers before the fighting begins. There will be no fighting, though, as today goes like the previous 40. Israel’s troops take the field, Goliath taunts them to send someone out to face him one-on-one, and the entire battalion hightails it back to camp.

This isn’t what David expected. Being a curious teen, he asks if King Saul’s put a price on Goliath’s head. He has—one of great wealth, marriage to his daughter (making the victor a prince), and freedom from debt and servitude for the victor’s family. Eliab, the first-born, overhears David and goes off in typical big-brother style. “Why are you here?” he rants. “Who’s looking after the sheep? You think I don’t know what you’re up to? You’re here to check out the battle!” You’ve got to love David’s reply, because it’s a classic adolescent comeback. “What have I done now?” he groans. “It was only a question.” He shrugs Eliab off and inquires again about the reward. Once it’s confirmed, David hatches a plan.

Lack of Curiosity

Peter’s story is the opposite of David’s. He receives a personal invitation from a military officer. Yet Peter must renounce lack of curiosity before he can fulfill God’s purpose for calling him there. Here’s the back-story. An Italian centurion named Cornelius stationed in Caesarea has embraced the Christian faith. As a Gentile and imperial officer, his exposure to teaching and fellowship is limited, since the Church still functions as a Jewish sect—a problem he’ll be instrumental in correcting. Based on what he sees from the disciples, Cornelius and his household devoutly imitate practices like prayer and charity. All the same, having no pastoral guidance severely stunts their spiritual growth. While praying one afternoon, an angel instructs Cornelius to send for Peter, who’s presently in Joppa (roughly 35 miles away). The centurion dispatches two servants and a soldier to invite the apostle to visit and escort him to Caesarea.

As the escort journeys to Joppa the next day, Peter too is praying. He too has a vision. But, unlike Cornelius, he resists the experience. It’s noon. While his host prepares lunch, Peter falls into a trance. A sheet falls from the sky with non-kosher animals inside it. A voice tells him to kill and eat them. Peter knows better. “Surely not, Lord!” he protests. “I have never eaten anything impure or unclean.” (Acts 10.14) The voice scolds him. “Do not call anything impure that God has made clean.” (v15) He gets a second chance, then a third, and each time it doesn’t occur to him to wonder why he should obey. He hangs onto his questions until the trance lifts, taking his answers with it.

Peter is still trying to figure things out when his escort arrives. Only when he hears Cornelius’s account of the angelic visitation does he start to understand. The centurion ends with, “So I sent for you immediately, and it was good of you to come. Now we are all here in the presence of God to listen to everything the Lord has commanded you to tell us.” (v33) Aha! Peter finally gets it. “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears Him and does what is right is acceptable to Him,” he exclaims. We’ll never know who’s more astonished by this revelation—Peter or Cornelius.

God-Given Faculty

Too many of us are led to think honest curiosity mars faith and obedience—that questioning what we see and hear will only upset people and hurt us. Rubbish! Look at the difference between David and Peter. When David's baffled by what he sees, he asks questions. Though he’s essentially told to shut up and get lost, he keeps asking. Comfort with curiosity results in a thing far more spectacular than a boy felling a giant. His triumph over Goliath launches David’s destiny and resets Israel’s course for greatness. In contrast, Peter’s reluctance to question puts him in a fog. Were it not for Cornelius’s curiosity about Christ and how discipleship works, Peter’s confusion nearly costs his opportunity to establish the Church as the all-inclusive Body of Christ. As Its leader, he alone can make that happen. And he comes perilously close to missing the message.

Questions aren’t doubts; they’re tools. Curiosity is our God-given faculty to expand our understanding and vision of what God wants us to do. It separates mighty children from measly warriors, fervent followers from religious robots. Had Adam and Eve asked questions instead of believing what they were told, their story would have ended on a happier note. (And we wouldn’t be in such a mess.) Had Noah’s neighbors been comfortable with curiosity, they would have boarded the ark. Had Sodom’s death squad inquired who Lot’s visitors were, they would have escaped their gruesome fate. Failure to question facilitates failure. It’s a tale as old as time, the inevitable outcome of being afraid to appear naïve or unorthodox—when in reality, only those who are curious can reap benefits that Christ promises in Matthew 7.7: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.”

O God of wonder, restore our comfort with curiosity. Teach us to save ourselves from failure to question so that we may live faithfully and obediently as You desire. Amen.

Curiosity is God's means of endowing us with courage to ask questions and find clarity to accomplish what we're called to do. Failure to question facilitates failure.

All or Nothing

All who rely on the works of the law are under a curse, as it is written: “Cursed is everyone who does not continue to do everything written in the Book of the Law.” Clearly no one who relies on the law is justified before God, because “the righteous will live by faith.” (Galatians 3.10-11)

The Slippery Slope

If find yourself in our fair city of Chicago, here are a few tidbits to stay clear of strict police officers steeped in civil code. Don’t dine in a burning building. Avoid sharing your whiskey with dogs. It’s OK to ride a giraffe as long as you refrain from fishing while doing so. Leave your kite at home; flying kites is illegal in Chicago. If you’re in the Pullman neighborhood, whatever you do, don’t sit on a curb and drink beer from a bucket. Go ahead and rip off all your clothes to protest whatever vexes you in front of City Hall—provided you’re 17 or younger and secure a permit. If you’re of age or haven’t filed the paperwork, nude protests aren’t such a good idea. Of course, you’re free to do any of these things and run for the border when the cops show up. But should you cross into the suburb of Cicero and it’s a Sunday, contain your glee at eluding arrest. Sunday humming on Cicero streets buys a ticket to the hoosegow.

I undertook my search for arcane Chicago edicts facetiously, thinking it might be a fun way to introduce today’s clobber text: “Do not have sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman; that is detestable.” (Leviticus 18.22) Yet given what I found, I confess a double-edged discomfort. First, some of the city’s blue laws are just too silly; comparing them to the goofier Mosaic ordinances (of which there are many) would demean Scripture, which is unacceptable. Additionally, a few ordinances raise concerns about my civic duty, as none of the crazy-law lists provides rationale for their enactment. Without this information, I’m uncertain of how to interpret them and my responsibility to assist in their enforcement.

For instance, I have a neighbor who, before driving with her dogs, spikes their water with a little beer to sedate them. Otherwise, she says, they jump around, endangering her and other motorists. Assuming the ban on serving dogs whiskey is a humane ordinance, does it strictly mean distilled liquor or all alcoholic beverages? Does it also apply to other pets? Should I warn her she’s headed for trouble if she keeps it up? We live across from Lake Michigan, where a warm day rarely passes without happy children flying kites. Obviously, they think it’s okay, and many would argue it’s natural for kids to fly kites. But the city forbids it. Am I careless to observe their lawlessness from my window without crossing the street to tell them they’re doing wrong? I know several adults who plan to protest global dependency on oil by joining the Chicago Naked Bike Ride two weeks from now. As with similar events around the world, the route is kept under wraps until the day-of. While the city promises not to interfere, shouldn’t they know they risk arrest if they cycle past City Hall?

Preferring not to upset well-meaning people with evidence they’ve gone astray, should I just ignore it and let the chips fall where they may? Perhaps I should alert proper authorities and let them deal with it. Yet that feels cowardly and dishonest. Maybe the best way to “help”—as a dutiful Chicago citizen—would be mounting or joining a campaign to raise awareness of overlooked laws. Once people hear these laws exist and read them for themselves, compliance is on their heads. More important, I can’t be blamed if they suffer the consequences of scoffing at them. Best of all, I don’t even have to worry with why the city put these laws on its books. The law is the law and must be kept—all of it. The minute we start choosing which ones we think are valid is the minute we slide down the slippery slope. Before you know it, we’ll have drunk dogs, kite flyers, and nude protesters everywhere. Who knows where it will end?

Achievers or Believers?

I’ve made my point—up to a point, that is, since comparing civil law with Biblical law only works up to a point. Proper integration of Old Testament wisdom with New Testament doctrine raises the concern level substantially higher than how we assess applicability of specific edicts, or our duty to obey and uphold them. When discussing Mosaic Law, the slippery slope’s gate opens much sooner than we think. Long before we slide into defending and disputing this law or that, how we define ourselves determines our course and positions we take. Based on Paul’s instruction in Galatians, we have a choice. Are we law-abiding or faith-driven—achievers or believers? Either we’re convinced it’s in our power and best interest to abide by the whole Law and conform to its demands, or we’re confident it’s in God’s power and best interest to free us from Law and reconcile us to God’s purpose. Paul says it’s an all-or-nothing proposition. And we’re foolish to imagine it’s not, because a law-abiding, achieving life shares nothing in common with a faith-driven, believing one.

The law-abiding life scrutinizes behavior and trusts what it sees. The faith-driven life looks beyond behavior to trust what it can’t see. The law-abiding life places primary importance on human achievement as proof of belief. The faith-driven life believes God achieves what we can’t when divine grace intersects with human frailty. The two ways of life could not be more opposite—so much so that Paul describes one as… Well, let’s let him say it: “All who rely on the works of the law are under a curse, as it is written: ‘Cursed is everyone who does not continue to do everything written in the Book of the Law.’ Clearly no one who relies on the law is justified before God, because ‘the righteous will live by faith.’” (Galatians 3.10-11) In a nutshell—with humble regrets to those who don’t agree with Paul and won’t like hearing this—achievers are cursed, believers justified.

The New Promise

Alluding to humanity’s struggles before God’s grace is revealed in Christ—i.e., life under the Law—Titus 3.3-6 explains: “At one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, whom he poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Savior.” God’s kindness and love, our rebirth and renewal are not obtainable by achievement. (Not by righteous things we had done, but because of God’s mercy…) We must believe.

As the Law evolved over centuries, piling up commands and remedies for every imaginable religious, social, and cultural dilemma, its vastness became a recipe for failure—which the Titus correspondent depicts as foolishness, disobedience, deception, and enslavement that became endemic to life, setting off malicious, envious conflicts among God’s people. Relying on their power of achievement set them on a collision course with self-defeating sin. Paul succinctly explains it like this: “The sting of death is sin, and power of sin is the law.” Before his readers give up, admitting they can’t possibly meet all of the Law’s demands, he hastens to add, “But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (1 Corinthians 15.56-57) These texts—and innumerable ones like them—form the cornerstone of Christian doctrine. They’re essential to the New Testament, the new promise that supersedes the Old Testament by reorienting our understanding of how we please God from what we achieve to Whom we believe. And ironically—though not unintentionally—freedom from the Law through faith in Christ ultimately frees the Law from the deadly, sin-inducing force it became. Therefore, to read, respect, respond or relent to its edicts as de facto commands is to revert to a cursed, grace-free existence, because obedience to one law presumes submission to all the Law expects.

An Inconvenient Obligation

This all-or-nothing perspective isn’t a freewheeling, liberal rationale to discredit conservative "Old Testament" values. Nor is it opinion Paul invents to neutralize legalism’s encroachment on Early Church doctrine. It’s the Law, explicitly decreed in Deuteronomy 27.26: “Cursed is anyone who does not uphold the words of this law by carrying them out.” (Emphasis added.) And that’s where law-abiding Christians who conveniently pull out Leviticus 18.22 crash into an inconvenient obligation—one I daresay no sane person could possibly consider keeping. The buck doesn’t stop with citing one sentence to prove God detests gay people. That little sentence in chapter 18 is inextricably linked to a literal sentence in Leviticus 20.13: “If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.”

By law, Christians who clobber gays with Leviticus 18.22 are obliged to execute them! While a few may fantasize about it, no sincere Christian would willingly kill for this cause—simply because murder is the ultimate Christian taboo. When the buck stops at execution, the flimsiness of Leviticus’s anti-gay edict gives way. More than that, the curse of the law-abiding achiever’s life becomes self-evident. It’s a troubled existence plagued by half-truths and irreconcilable contradictions. Sadly, it saddles many good-hearted, earnest, sorely misled Christians to the Titus profile: “foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures, [living] in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another.” It’s no way to live—certainly not how we want to live and, above all, not how Christ calls us to live. Through Christ, we place full trust in what we believe, giving no credence to human behavior as a reliable indicator of righteousness. In John 7.24, Jesus conclusively ends a legal debate with advice every Christian should bear in mind: “Stop judging by mere appearances, judge correctly.” (v24) Jesus says faith cannot be visibly observed, assessed, or confirmed. Hence, it can’t be legally proven. Case closed.

Jesus surrendered His life and triumphantly waged our war with sin and death so we might be free from sin’s mortal sting and the Law’s power. The resurrection and new life it brings cancel any need to revive decrepit statutes. There’s no reason to defend Calvary’s singular achievement against those who refute it with doctrine that reflects their fears and naïveté. Partial adherence to the Law negates the entire Law. No response we offer could speak more persuasively to the error of their ways than that. Leviticus fans need no help exposing their folly. Which is why they need our compassion and prayers.

By its own decree, Old Testament Law is not available for slicing and dicing to suit our purposes. Either we live by all of it—including its inconvenient obligations—or we escape its curse by faith through Christ.

Postscript: We’re Not Done Yet

With Leviticus 18.22 rapidly becoming the favorite sound bite opposing same-sex orientation, it’s not only important we understand why Mosaic Law is unavailable for use by anyone who doesn’t abide by its totality. It’s equally important we’re clear on what the Law says and whom it targets with purportedly anti-gay statutes. So we’re not done yet. A follow-up post will examine Levitical texts as a whole, as well as verses many (most unknowingly) abuse.

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.

Not Ours

Godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. (1 Timothy 6.6-7)

The Myth of Ownership

Great movie lines are hard to come by these days—so much so I can think of only one in the past 15 years that measures up to the old Hollywood standard. It’s from 1995’s The Usual Suspects: “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” The paradox lands like a ton of bricks. By morphing into an allegedly imaginary figment, the Evil One turned into a superstition not to be taken seriously. It was true genius. And though two films could hardly be more dissimilar, the Suspects line popped in my head when I recently re-watched the Frank Capra classic, You Can’t Take It With You (1938), an uproarious comedy about a family of iconoclasts who live like “lilies of the field… except we toil a little, spin a little, [and] have a barrel of fun.” They know all too well that the Devil exists and devote their time to flouting his greedy, fearful ways. The picture climaxes when the grandfather delivers a much-needed lecture to a Wall Street fat cat:

You may be a high mogul to yourself, Mr. Kirby, but to me you’re a failure—failure as a man, failure as a human being, even a failure as a father. When your time comes, I doubt if a single tear will be shed over you. The world will probably cry, “Good riddance!” That’s a nice prospect, Mr. Kirby. I hope you’ll enjoy it. I hope you’ll get some comfort out of all this coin you’ve been sweating over then!

I thought to myself, “That’s another great diabolical lie—the myth of ownership.”

Pause for a second and look around you. Linger momentarily on your most prized possessions. Here in my study, I’m surrounded by essentials and mementoes: my desk, computer, and far too many books and photographs; a straw Fedora that belonged to Walt’s dad; a painting of a lone wolf that hung in my grandparents’ den; a few awards; a pine cone from FDR’s birthplace; an armchair Walt rescued from the trash and painted bright green, covering its seat in leopard print (it’s quite lovely, actually); and, oh yes, our feline terror, Cody, presently curled up on the loveseat. Then there are the gifts: a leather-bound NIV translation of the Bible; a Lladro of the Holy Family; an antique map of Paris; a wall plaque reading, “Slow! Fairy Crossing;” a red apple paperweight. All of these things, each invaluably dear to me, and not one of them is mine. The same is true of everything you see and love around you. None of it's yours.

Getting and/or Keeping

If convincing us he doesn’t exist is the Enemy’s greatest trick, persuading us we can own anything places a close second. The myth of ownership is double-edged. First, it preys on the biological fear of danger and deprivation as well as the psychological need to prove our worth in achievements and assets. Although human acquisitiveness has never been more feverish than in today’s consumer culture, it’s always been our Achilles heel. I believe virtually every conflict that ever tormented us can be reduced to a struggle over getting and/or keeping “what’s mine.” Which leads to the ownership myth’s second deadly aspect. It reinforces the notion that holding on to whatever we’ve got is more important than giving up anything—or everything—we have.

Debunking the myth of ownership blunts both its edges. They make no sense. Since none of what I have was ever mine to begin with, the fact it’s been given to me proves I won’t be deprived of what I need. And since it’s given, I’m foolish to imagine it in any way depicts my abilities and worth. Finally, because it’s not mine, I have nothing to lose by giving it up, whether in duress, sacrificial kindness, or in obedience to God. Once we wrap our heads around the folderol of all this getting and/or keeping, we open our minds to what Paul says in 1 Timothy 6.6-7: “Godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it.”

Great Gain

The second verse is where “you can’t take it with you” originates. Yet without “godliness with contentment” and “we brought nothing into the world,” it’s an overly obvious cliché, part of that rueful bit about not escaping death and taxes. What Paul talks about is hardly a reason to mourn, however. Indeed, he’s teaching us how to be happy. The ownership myth is founded on the fallacy everything we pick up along the way is naturally ours due to qualities we possess—skills, fortitude, creativity, etc., on the plus side, and even negative traits like selfishness, insecurity, and dishonesty. But they're all learned behaviors we acquire in service to acquisition. While we may be born with certain capacities, we no more bring our capabilities into the world than the material things they enable us to amass. Thus, pushing ourselves to do more to have more activates a law of diminishing returns and exposes us to fear of failure. At some point, everyone’s capabilities run dry and the gravy train derails. Mistaking what we’re been given—talents or possessions—for our own is a recipe for hardship and misery.

Knowing all we have is God-given puts our lives in perspective. It seats our Maker in His rightful place, as David describes in Psalm 28.7: “The LORD is my strength and shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped..” This is the “godliness” Paul refers to—unabashed trust in God’s provision and protection. It’s contentment that brings great gain. In Philippians 4.12-13, the Apostle reveals how to be satisfied. “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.” What we have today wasn’t ours yesterday. It may no longer be ours tomorrow. Awareness of this is why we're happy with what we have and unworried by what we don’t. God is our Strength, our sole Source and Provider. In these closing weeks of Lent and throughout the year, it’s essential we realize our fasts and sacrifices don’t ask us to “give up” anything we have. They teach us the joy and peace we gain by giving back what’s not ours.

No matter how much or how little we possess, none of it’s actually ours.

Postscript: The Heart of Worship

We bring nothing into the world and take nothing from it because it’s not about us. Mark Redman’s “Heart of Worship.”

Travel Light

These were his instructions: “Take nothing for the journey except a staff—no bread, no bag, no money in your belts. Wear sandals but not an extra tunic.” (Mark 6.8-9) 

Too Many Things

Comparing suitcases is all it takes to separate seasoned travelers from neophytes. Experienced travelers appreciate the benefit of carrying as few necessities as possible. It lightens their load, minimizes distractions, and frees them to discover new things. Unseasoned travelers cram their bags with extra outfits, accessories, and commodities just in case this or that happens. They exhaust themselves lugging heavy loads of stuff they'll probably never use. It never occurs to them wherever they go, they’ll find help with their unanticipated needs. Fear of the unknown and distrust of the unfamiliar weighs novice travelers down.

People who travel light find those who travel heavy bemusing. Their inability to leave the comforts of home behind begs questioning why leave home at all. In contrast, many veterans purposefully skimp on what they carry because they've learned some of their greatest delights emerge when unforeseen needs take them off the beaten path, exposing them to local customs and solutions they’re able to integrate into their lives. They return with stories and knowledge they’ll always remember. Neophytes come home with pictures and souvenirs they eventually box up and forget until they move to a new place. Taking too many things on their travels ultimately burdens them with too many things at home.

How to Pack

In Mark 6, as Jesus sends His disciples out to minister, He instructs them how to pack. The specificity of His list is quite surprising. “Take nothing for the journey except a staff—no bread, no bag, no money in your belts. Wear sandals but not an extra tunic,” He says. Here is a veteran Traveler offering sound advice to novices. His instructions come fairly soon after His personal ordeal in the wilderness. He knows first-hand that the disciples won’t discover the benefits of trusting God to provide if they’re lugging a lot of stuff along just in case. They won’t learn invaluable lessons from people they meet, hardships they face, and answers they find.

Jesus whittles their packing list to two essentials—a staff and a pair of sandals—and we shouldn’t gloss over the relevance of these items. A staff equips each disciple to maintain balance on rugged terrain. It protects against predators and thieves. And it provides shelter if rain and dust storms catch them en route between villages; the staff serves as tent pole to support their cloaks and hide them from hostile elements. Sandals also protect them from rocky roads and hot sand. But they’re mainly preventative. Without them, the disciples might end up incapacitated by cuts and blisters. Jesus doesn’t want them to slow down to nurse their feet. To gain the most from their journey, they must keep going.

Staffs and Shoes

Jesus’s pragmatic reasons for limiting the disciples to staffs and shoes escape us today. Yet they also have important value in biblical iconography. Staffs attest to God’s power to rescue and provide for His people. Moses stretches his staff over the Red Sea and it parts. When Israel’s trek takes them out of range of fresh water, he taps a rock with his staff and refreshment gushes out. Meanwhile, shoes speak to God’s presence. We conclude this by noticing people remove their shoes any time they encounter the pure presence of God. When traveling through places where God’s holiness is compromised, however, the shoes on our feet signify He’s with us. Our safe passage is assured.

When we apply these lessons to Lent, we come away with one message: travel light. Much of what we’re tempted to bring with us is unnecessary. Indeed, it will only halt us from trusting God’s provision as we travel. We short our potential for unforgettable experiences and knowledge we can integrate into our daily lives. All we need are the staff of God’s power and shoes that shield us with His presence. Balance we seek is in our hand. Protection and shelter are, too. Walking in God’s Spirit keeps us from suffering undue injury and harm. We can keep traveling ahead, discovering fresh wonders along the way.

If we’ve entered Lent’s wilderness with too much, it’s not too late to eliminate just-in-case items that bog us down. We carry them because we’re afraid of the unknown and distrustful of the unfamiliar. But armed with God’s power and shod with His presence, there’s no cause for fear and apprehension. Hebrews 12.1 and 2 reads like the perfect Lent pilgrim’s prayer: Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith. In terms of wilderness travel, there’s no one better than He to teach us the best way to go. Travel light.

Entering Lent's wilderness with everything we think we’ll need bogs us down and keeps us from invaluable experiences we can use when we return home.

(Tomorrow: To Be Tempted)

Stillness: Standing Back

Moses answered the people, “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the LORD will bring you today.” (Exodus 14.13)

The Obvious Option

Anyone who’s seen The Ten Commandments and then reads this verse can’t help but flash on Charlton Heston’s clenched jaw and fierce glare while delivering the line. He throws his arms into the air with the pomposity of a conductor—which is all too perfect, as an orchestra surges and the Red Sea parts behind him. The instruction and gesture appear premeditated, as though Moses had waited for the perfect moment to use them. But, God bless Cecil B. de Mille’s efforts to mold Moses into an epic hero, nothing could be further from the truth. If we could talk to Moses, he’d tell us he had no idea what he was saying or what to anticipate.

Moses has uncannily managed to sneak tens of thousands of slaves out of Egypt while their owners grieve the sudden loss of their eldest sons. By the time the Jews reach the Red Sea, news of their flight reaches Pharaoh’s attention. He heads into the desert to stop them and when they see his army barreling toward them, the Israelites lose it. There’s nowhere to go. If they turn back, they’ll be massacred. The sea’s too wide to swim. “Did you bring us out here because there weren’t enough plots in Egypt to bury all of us? We were better off where we were!” they shout at Moses. Their panic is piffle next to his, though. He’s lost control of his people. He doesn’t know what to say. Then his mind fixes on the obvious option. Moses orders the people to get a grip. “Stand firm and see the deliverance of the LORD!” What that is he can’t say. But his faith prompts him to add, “The Egyptians you see today you will never see again. The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still.” (Exodus 14.13-14)

Now Isn’t the Time

The King James Version translates Moses’s command as “Stand still,” which gets closer to what he means. If he were speaking to a modern crowd, he’d probably say, “Stand back”—or in military parlance, “Stand down.” The message is emphatically clear: not knowing what they can do at this point means now isn’t the time to do anything. The Israelites need to stop worrying and arguing and moving and thinking. They need to stand back and watch God work everything out as He sees fit. What other choice do they have, anyway? There are no Plans B, C, and D. He’s the only hope they have, and they need to calm down, stand back, and trust Him to work wonders on their behalf. He hasn’t brought them all this way to abandon them to Pharaoh’s army. He’ll fight for them; that’s His job. Their job is only to be still.

One of the hardest skills for us to master is standing back—practicing complete stillness when trouble bears down on us. Our human instincts offer two choices, flight or fight. With neither a viable option, knowing there’s nowhere to run and our adversaries can overpower us, we lose it. We start asking crazy questions and wishing we’d never ventured from the life we knew, forgetting it cost our freedom and self-respect. The moment we realize there’s nothing we can do is the moment we ascertain now isn’t the time to do anything. It’s time to stand back, get out of God’s way, and watch Him take our situation in hand. He’ll fight for us. We need only be still.

But But But But But

“But but but but but,” we say, considering how impossible the situation seems and how simple this sounds. Yet if we pause to think it through, we see how utterly sensible it is. Since there’s nothing we can do, we really have no alternative except placing our entire trust in God and what He can do. At best, all Moses knows is the Israelites have to get across the Red Sea. And frankly, that was going to pose an impossible problem even if Pharaoh’s army hadn’t pursued them. Left on their own, they very well could have died of starvation trying to find enough materials in the desert to construct seaworthy vessels. What’s more, since not one of them has any boatbuilding expertise or sailing experience, it’s probable they’d drown in spite of themselves.

Generally, when standing still becomes our sole option, it’s because strategies we’d devise in less dire circumstances would end in certain disaster. So often we don’t learn how little we know and how incapable we are until we go too far. And even then, that lesson doesn’t prevent us from trying a similar maneuver the next time we’re in trouble. If what we’re challenged with seems too hard to handle on our own, odds are it is too hard for us. By saving the Israelites from Pharaoh, God also saved them from themselves. He made a way where there was no way. Reaching a place where we have to stand still can be terrifying—until we see what’s actually taking place. God brings us to stillness to draw our attention away from our self-reliance so we can stand back and watch Him do what only He can.

Please comment: Has God proven His power in your life in a situation(s) where your only option was standing still and allowing Him to work?

When we feel trapped with no way of escape, we need only be still.

(Tomorrow: Stillness: Always)

Pep Talk

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.

                        Joshua 1.9

The Substitute

I’m not a big fan of sports movies, but I love them. And why I’m not crazy about them is why I find them irresistible. They’re formulaic to a fault, yet the hokey set-up always ends with a thrilling finale that somehow rings true. They haul out one cliché after another as the team works its way to the Big Game. They take the field for the title they’ve dreamt of winning for years. With the game too close to call and the clock winding down, the star gets injured. The coach runs up to the substitute and says, “You’re going in, kid.” The sub panics. He’s played fewer games than anyone and now the team’s success falls on him. The coach launches into a pep talk as a 60-piece orchestra swells beneath. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Get out there and show ‘em!” The team rallies around and they run to the scrimmage line together. You know how it ends.

It’s a story as old as the hills, certainly as old Joshua’s story. He’s a bright lieutenant who’s loyal to Moses. He and his buddy Caleb have done a little reconnaissance work, but not much more. The Israelites end their four-decade journey on a promontory overlooking the Promised Land. It’s been a tough fight and the outcome still isn’t assured. Then Moses dies. The first half of Joshua 1 reads like a coach’s pep talk to a substitute: “You’re going in, kid.” After God goes over the playbook with Joshua, He says something very close to “You can do it. I’ve got you.” He tells Joshua to be strong and courageous, play by the rules, and remember his training. He wraps up by assuring Joshua He wouldn’t send him in if He weren’t confident he could do the job. “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” The Israelites rally around Joshua. “Be strong and courageous,” they say.

Not Much There

Every time I read this passage, I see Joshua listening with an absent stare as he searches inside for what he’ll need to lead Israel to victory. There’s not much there—no leadership experience, no familiarity with the plan, no military training, no history with the people. He’s not a prophet or deliverer or miracle worker like Moses. Having spent most of his life in the wilderness, he’s not acquainted with big towns like Jericho, the city he’s supposed to defeat. He’s taking charge of men twice his age with far more wisdom and exposure to God’s ways than he. There’s the matter of getting the people packed up and mobilized to cross a river that has no bridge. As he stares at his emptiness, his mind surely races with one question: “How am I going to do this?” That’s why it takes hearing the answer three times—twice from God and once from the people—before it sinks in. Be strong and courageous.

Strength and Courage

Honestly? If I were Joshua, the third time someone told me to be strong and courageous, I’d say, “You’re kidding, right?” Joshua listens closely to what God and the people are really saying. They know he doesn’t have it in him to pull this off. But he can be strong and courageous if he reaches out of his emptiness to embrace God’s surplus. Just before God first alerts him to this, He gives His solemn word to Joshua: “No one will be able to stand up against you all the days of your life. As I was with Moses, so will I be with you; I will never leave you or forsake you.” (Joshua 1.5) There’s a powerful little secret cached in the promise. Moses didn’t have what it takes either. He would have been powerless without God by his side.

Scripture repeatedly reminds us how little we’ll accomplish without God’s help. Jesus doesn’t mince words. In John 15.5, He says, “Apart from me you can do nothing.” Psalm 124.1-4 begins with David saying, “If the LORD had not been on our side…” and reaching this conclusion: “The flood would have engulfed us, the torrent would have swept over us.” In Psalm 27.1, he says, “The LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” (KJV) And Paul admonishes us, “Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.” (Ephesians 6.10-11)

Great things and great victories happen when, like Moses, Joshua, and every other titan of faith, we stop looking for what we don’t have and stand on what we need. It’s not God’s habit to choose people based on their strength and courage. He uses those who realize they need to be strong and courageous. When God says, “I’m putting you in,” protesting we’re not strong enough or brave enough won’t change His mind. If anything, it proves we’re perfect for the job.

Movie pep talks are clichés, but God’s encouragement is true.

(Tomorrow: Taking Care) 

When Push Comes to Shove

“Who touched me?” Jesus asked.

                        Luke 8.45

Too Many People, Too Little Time

Most every year, Walt and I try to be in Paris for the summer solstice, when the city hosts its magnificent fête de la musique, a dusk-to-dawn revel of dancing and music. It’s basically a do-it-yourself festival. If you can play an instrument, you find an open spot and go for it while the city reserves its famous landmarks for famous performers. One year Lenny Kravitz played at La place de la République and we wandered over for a look. Crowds (mostly American kids) jammed the square and streets around it. When he took the stage, the crowd surged with such force it lifted us off the ground, wringing us into a human riptide. “We gotta get out of here,” Walt shouted. “I’m not ready to die for Lenny Kravitz.” Somehow we broke free, vowing we’d never again put ourselves in similar danger.

All the same, I relive that experience every time I read about the hemorrhaging woman. She’s suffered for 12 years and spent her savings on doctors to no avail. She’s ashen, frail, and riddled with pain. News that Jesus is in town brings unexpected hope, driving her to muster what courage and strength she has left to get to Him. By the time she finds Him, according to Luke 8.42, the crowd is so dense it almost crushes Him. Most people in her condition would turn back in dismay, thinking there are too many people and too little time for Jesus to get to them. A lot of us would look at the hordes pressing Him and see a deathtrap. Not this lady. She’s come too far to turn back. Jesus is her only hope and she intends to reach Him—or die trying. She pushes her way through. Though she never gets close enough to be seen, she manages to reach out to Him. As the crowd surges and sways, she lunges forward and—for a glint of a second—grabs His cloak. Jesus instantly stops to ask, “Who touched me?”

Touching Jesus

Plainly, something serious just happened and nobody’s sure what Jesus means. Everyone in proximity denies jostling Him. Finally, Peter suggests, “Master, the whole crowd is brushing and pressing against You.” This is different, Jesus says. “Someone touched me; I know that power has gone out from me.” (Luke 8.46) The woman’s touch changed Jesus. Their contact wasn’t flesh-to-flesh, but spirit-to-spirit. This is serious, really serious. Someone’s taken power from Jesus without His consent. Everybody backs off. The woman realizes Jesus is talking about her. She falls at His feet, trembling as she confesses what drove her to touch Him and reporting she was healed the instant her hand grazed His garment. Jesus says what He habitually tells everyone who’s healed in His presence. “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.” (v48)

The King James Version translates Hebrews 4.15 thusly: “We have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities,” implying our suffering does in fact touch Jesus, our High Priest. The Hebrews writer goes on to say, like us, He’s completely familiar with human vulnerability and weakness. He feels our pain. And the hemorrhaging woman’s miracle teaches us touching Jesus is how we feel His power.

Plunge, Then Lunge

We can’t look at the crowds and turn back, thinking there are too many people pressing Jesus and too little time to receive what we need. We plunge, then lunge. The crowd may not welcome us. They may even pull more tightly together, citing Old Testament edicts to keep us out. The hemorrhaging woman sure isn’t welcome to join the crowd. According to Leviticus 15.25-27, she’s a health risk: “When a woman has a discharge of blood for many days other than her monthly period… she will be unclean as long as she has the discharge… Whoever touches [anything she’s touched] will be unclean.” Yet she ignores the Law to plunge into the crowd and then audaciously lunges toward Christ, knowing if she touches Him, He too will be unclean. That’s why she hesitates to identify herself. Her background convinces her she’s unworthy, untouchable, guilty. It pushes her so far from the crowd she has no choice but shove her way through it.

Instead of drawing Christ’s scorn, her touch draws His power and immediate attention. Twelve years of hearing she’s incurably sick and beyond human help vanish the instant she reaches Jesus. Notice, Jesus never touches her—not because He’s worried about breaking the Law, but because she’s already touched Him. Her faith heals her. When push comes to shove, we can’t permit others to push us aside for fear we’ll pollute them. Our need for Christ is bigger than outmoded laws and uninformed paranoia. It’s time to shove. In Matthew 11.12, Jesus says, “From the days of John the Baptist until now, the kingdom of heaven has been forcefully advancing, and forceful men lay hold of it.” The kingdom is advancing. A Force is at work. We can’t wait for current crowds to figure out what’s happening and catch up. We need Jesus now and if we have to force our way into the crowd to reach Him, now’s the time to do it.

We can’t allow crowds to intimidate us. We need to touch Jesus now.

(Tomorrow: Rock Talk)

Note: Two online Bible studies are happening THIS WEEK—one of them TONIGHT at 8 PM CDT. Click on the link at the top of the right column to find out more.

The God of Hope

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

                        Romans 15.13 

Gospel Truth Clichés

My Pentecostal upbringing—which I treasure with all my heart—was rich in phraseology due to its high-octane emphasis on spoken word, joyful music, and evangelistic fervor. Our best preachers were wizards at transposing scriptural principles into colorful sound bytes that quickly filtered into our song lyrics and testimony. For example, Paul’s statement that transformation in Christ does away with old things and makes everything new (2 Corinthians 5.17) was often expressed as, “He changed my walk; He changed my talk.” Faith in God’s healing and protection inspired us to say, “He’s a doctor in the sickroom and a lawyer in the courtroom.” Of course, overuse weakened their substance—so much so a great friend (like me, a preacher’s kid) often kidded our heavy reliance on “gospel clichés.” As one who cherished our vivid expressions, I took issue with his cynical view, reminding him they conveyed universal truth. While he continued to tease their usage, he avoided my challenges by referring to them as “gospel truth clichés”—always with a fond wink my way.

“He’s a Friend to the friendless and Hope for the hopeless” remains my favorite gospel truth cliché because it captures the foundation on which the whole of our faith rests. If stamina flags or rational thought triggers unanswerable questions, we stand on God’s unfailing love and ability to do more than we ask or imagine. When every sign indicates our prayers have got lost, probability appears nil that our trials will end in triumph, and patience feels pointless, we ground ourselves in confidence God is our Friend and Hope. We don’t accomplish this by force of will, however. According to Romans 15.13, the Holy Spirit comes to our rescue by flooding us with hope.

When the Spirit Comes

In His final week as a natural man, Jesus consumes nearly every waking moment on last-minute details, the most important being intensive preparation of the disciples for His death, resurrection, and ascension. The Holy Spirit figures prominently in His discussions, as He informs His followers a Force unlimited by time and space will fill the void left by His absence. In John 16, He eases their apprehension of being left alone. “It is for your good that I am going away,” He says in verse 7. “Unless I go away, the Counselor will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you.” As He explains the Holy Spirit’s role Jesus tells them, “He will guide you into all truth. He will not speak on his own; he will tell you what is yet to come.” (v13) Because the Spirit speaks for the God of hope Paul mentions, It guides us to look forward, steering our attention away from present problems to believe wholeheartedly in what’s to come—deliverance from trouble, healing from suffering, peace and joy to relieve anxiety and sorrow, and so forth.

Making Faith Possible

Hebrews 11.1 defines faith as “being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see,” i.e., trusting the God of hope. Yet expectancy short of natural reason and confidence without tangible proof fall beyond our capacity, which means authentically trusting the God of hope is humanly impossible. Merely on a biological level, we’re hard-wired to respond to our immediate environment relying solely on our senses. Intellectually, we base decisions on what we can plausibly predict. Thus, the Holy Spirit’s primary purpose is making faith possible in the absence of instinctive reasoning. Once the Spirit makes our faith possible, any and everything else becomes possible. Jesus clearly emphasizes this in Mark 9.23: “Everything is possible for him who believes.”

The power of the Holy Spirit causes our hope to overflow. It gives us more faith than we need. We run afoul by thinking of faith as something constructed out of our personal resources. We settle for less than we can have because hoping for more demands trust we can’t summon on our own. “I wish I had that kind of faith,” we say with sad resignation. But faith doesn’t originate with us; it’s given to us by the Holy Spirit. In Galatians 5.5 we learn, “By faith we eagerly await through the Spirit the righteousness for which we hope.” Faith comes through the Spirit. Without faith, extolling God as a Friend to the friendless and Hope for the hopeless retains its lovely sentiment while losing its veracity; it’s a hollow cliché. Once we appeal to the Spirit’s guidance to stir our belief and hope overflows us, it—and every other expression of faith—rings with vibrant, unassailable truth.

The Holy Spirit makes faith possible, causing our hope to overflow.

(Tomorrow: The Gift of Joy)

Postscript: A Gentle Reminder

If you’re interested in a monthly online Bible study but haven’t yet indicated your scheduling preference, please take a moment to respond to the poll in the upper right column or fire off a quick email. Currently we have 11 responses—seven in the poll and four emails—and the results are virtually tied. The poll will close at the end of the month and your input will be greatly appreciated.