. ian simkins .

The year was 1993. I was ten years old, cleaning up my filthy room when I spotted my younger in the backyard. He was doing something quite peculiar, so being the good big brother that I was – I went to investigate.

As I entered the backyard I realized that my initial assessment was indeed correct – standing in the middle of the yard, holding an old broomstick under his tookus, my 8 year-old brother was trying to lift himself –  off of the ground.

I chuckled and asked what he was doing, and with an assertive pre-teen grunt he proclaimed, “I’m going to lift myself – straight up off the ground!” As I tried to explain to my determined kin the basic principles of gravity, he only interrupted with more fervor than before and shouted, “But if I try hard enough – I could do it!” continuing to struggle with his broom.

Years later I was thinking about that story and how often I do that exact same thing to God. The empty tomb of Christ proclaims with blistering finality “it is finish” and yet I insist on spending countless hours trying to rack up enough point, clean myself off, and lift my own body off the ground, so to speak.

I think that misunderstanding is central to why I spent so many years distant from God. I knew a lot of things about God, but didn’t really know him personally at all. I was a God stalker – Jesus paparazzi – content to study God from a distance without any real intimacy or closeness.

I was like the church in Revelation 2 that was doing a lot of “good things” but doing them apart from my first love – a mistake that this church is told to repent of. Repent. Isn’t that wild? The only times I ever see the word “repent” used in Scripture is in reference to sin. Apparently God takes seriously when we simply do “good things” apart from communion with Him.

Because God never intended for us to do for Him without also doing with Him.

And at some point in my young adulthood this idea hit me like a ton of bricks – ministry is a terrible replacement for intimacy. And what the God of the universe desires more than any amount of service I can do for him, he longs to be in relationship with me.

This ultimately meant that I desperately needed the Holy Spirit to teach me to rethink what I thought to be true about God and how He pursues us. To understand God, not as one who is annoyed with me, waiting for me to grow up or get my act together – but one who invites me to share in His joy.

Isaiah 55:1-3 gives this beautiful picture of a Creator that says, “Are you jacked up, falling apart, weighed down? Get in here! I have so much to share with you.

What this means is that the purpose of prayer is not to become a better prayer – but to know the Father’s heart, to delight in His goodness, to confess and proclaiming that we’re opting out of the rat race of trying to be good enough and accepting the righteousness that is given to us in Jesus Christ.

The cross liberates us from the illusion that we’re responsible for our own righteousness.

When we understand the scandalous truth of the Gospel, we can move from mere discipline into delight – because we run to what we delight in, right? No one has to coerce us to do what we already love to do. And the beauty is that delight doesn’t replace discipline – it empowers it! As our affection for Christ deepens, as our awareness of just how much we’ve been forgiven of grows – we will find ourselves caught up in the song of the redeemed. And in prayer we retune our instruments to join in the chorus.

As one brilliant Franciscan friar once said,

“Prayer is not primarily saying words or thinking thoughts. It is, rather, a stance. It’s a way of living in the Presence.” – Richard Rohr

And like all relationships, sometimes prayer and intimacy are difficult – very difficult. But it’s in those moments that we can once again confess the frustrations that God already knows, ask for His help, and trust in the power of the Holy Spirit who interceded on our behalf – even when we don’t have the words to say (Romans 8:26).

When we breathe in the truth of His grace and say yes to the open tomb, we’ll awaken to a song – the song- that we simply cannot help but sing.

“Draw near to God and He will draw near to you” – James 4:8

My world shakes. Literally.

I was born with a neurological defect that causes my eyes to rapidly shake back and forth – all of the time.

From what I understand, doctors believe that this strange shaking is the result of trauma to my brain during birth. To the best of their knowledge, the culprit is a simple medical device known as “forceps.” When I explain to people what forceps are, I usually (and somewhat humorously) describe them simply as “baby tongs.” Google “birthing forceps” and you’ll know what I mean.

As the first kid in a family of nine, my parents had cautiously chosen a hospital and doctor that specifically publicized their policy against the use of forceps in delivery. But amidst the chaos of birthing a child with a cranium as large as mine, the thing they had tried to avoid happened anyway.

My little brain knocked against my skull with more intensity than it was prepared for, thus damaging my brain in such a way that it now sends continuous impulses that make my eyes shake back and forth constantly.

Growing up, I noticed that there were curious properties to this deficiency. For instance, my eyes would shake dramatically worse if I was dizzy, nervous, or tired. As I entered my rebellious years, I realized that my eyes were a built-in lie detector, so I would always look to the ground when offering my best fabrication.

One day, after articulating what I thought was one of my better lies, my mother demanded that I look at her as I answered. Of course, my eyes were doing the Shakira something fierce and I was immediately sent to my room.

Before that incident, I hadn’t really grasped that I was different in any way. 

Once I made the connection, however, the floodgates of struggle flung wide open. Friends made comments, some even asking me to look away because my eyes frightened them – a reality that still makes eye contact difficult. I developed a deep spirit of bitterness toward my circumstances, the doctors, my parents, and even God. We never spoke of it in our house due to the great pain my parents felt, but nevertheless, I slowly closed myself off from loved ones – unaware of the prison my unforgiveness was locking me in.

Fast forward to the summer of 2006, when I was given an amazing opportunity to serve an internship in northern India. During those 12 weeks, I visited a small village on the Nepali border where my friend’s parents ran a ministry called Mahima Niwas (House of Glory) – a project that houses and cares for 26 poverty-stricken young girls from all areas of northern India and Nepal.

While there I spent a lot of time loving on the girls from this shelter. Each day they would line up in their matching blue uniforms and march single-file to our yard. Once they crossed the garden threshold they would sprint to us, giggling and laughing, and we would scoop them up and spend the afternoon singing, dancing, and teaching them the Bible.

On my very first day, a flock of these adorable girls ran to me and began pantomiming the universal sign that we all know means, “Spin me.” Unable to deny their adorable request, I spun a few of them. And then a few more. And then a few more.  Eventually I collapsed on the ground, not simply from exhaustion, but because my eyes were now shaking so rapidly and with such force that I could no longer stand.

As I fell to my knees, two of the girls saw my eyes, gasped in shock, and ran off. My heart immediately broke at the thought that my shaking eyes had struck fear in the hearts of these hurting orphan girls I wanted so desperately to care for. As despair and anger rose up within me, I noticed that the two girls had returned and were dragging a third girl toward me.

“Well that’s just cruel,” I thought. “Now they’re forcing little Nepali orphan girls to come see this American freak show.”

They hauled this poor girl in my direction and it was clear that she did not want to go with them. Despite my discouragement and resistance, they plopped the exhausted child in front of me.  I started to offer an apology, but as I looked at her, I saw something that I wasn’t expecting:

Her eyes were shaking.

Instantly her countenance changed from fear to joy and she leapt into my arms. As she hugged me I felt my heart soften. Suddenly my bitterness, while still very real, lost its power. The anger I had grasped with white knuckles passed through my fingers like grains of sand.

Little Vipna never left my side after that. For the rest of my time there, she insisted on holding my hand every moment we were together.

Weeks later I received a message from the missionary family I stayed with:

“Brother Ian, you cannot understand the profound impact your few short days with us had, especially with Vipna. Before your visit she was always quiet and reserved, spending most of her time off playing by herself away from the other girls. We want you to know that now, she hurries to be at the front of the line, smiles constantly, and, walking with her head held high says over and over again, ‘My eyes are like Uncle Ian’s eyes.’”

I spent the rest of my time in India contemplating that pivotal moment. My years of heartache seemed more than worth it for the opportunity to show an orphan girl that she was not alone. God had not abandoned her, or me. He loves us more than either of us could understand.

Maybe that’s the point. When Christ surmounted death, it wasn’t just so that we could celebrate some ambiguous paradise in the future. It was a declaration that He has made freedom available to us now.

This doesn’t make our struggles and pain irrelevant.

In fact, I would argue that the “life abundant” Jesus spoke of in John 10 not only means the joy and pleasure of salvation, but that we must also enter more deeply into the agony and heartache of humanity. As our hearts align more intimately with the Father’s, we must know that while his joy becomes our song, his heartache also becomes our lament.

Our weaknesses are not only conquered, but redeemed. Our pain is not only to be overcome, but used to point to the One who has saved us – even if only to a small orphan girl with a broken heart.

This morning 85 year-old Pope Benedict announced his resignation – the first pope in over 600 years to do so. One main concern was his advancing age, and as the 5th oldest person to ever be elected (at the age of 78) – that is certainly understandable.

(You can read his official letter of resignation here)

Born Joseph Ratzinger, he spent much of his early years developing into a true academic theologian, serving as a professor of theology at several German universities and authoring 66 books to date – as recently as 2012.

Nicknamed “God’s Rottweiler” by many of his critics – Benedict’s legacy is certainly mixed. With speculated correlations between his resignation and the airing of HBO’s documentary “Mea Maxima Culpa” earlier this month, the blogosphere has been exploding with conjecture and supposition.

Despite these and other rumors, Benedict has been clear that his decision to resign was not made under duress, in accordance with the Cannon Law of the Catholic Church which states:

“If it should happen that the Roman Pontiff resigns his office (munus), it is required for validity that he makes the resignation freely and that it be duly manifested, but not that it be accepted by anyone.” (The Canon Law of the Catholic Church – Canon 332)

Truthfully – there are many details I am not privy to – and I’m pretty okay with that. Even if I somehow was aware of every aspect of this papacy – the decision making authority is not my own. Regardless of the rumored scandals and hearsay – I personally think that Pope Benedict XVI is one of the most significant religious thinkers of our era.

While it’s probably no surprise that I do not agree with every decision and position the pontiff has taken,  I believe there is much wisdom to be gleaned from his life and ministry.

For example – in taking a strong Augustinian stance on the issue of human personhood, Benedict has helped make enormous strides in the religious arena to better understand humankind as a union of flesh and spirit, not simply a machine made up of nerves and cells that function as a machine to carry out tasks.

He has deeply embraced the theology of Imago Dei and stood valiantly against nihilistic ideologies that reduce human worth to notions of power and usefulness – speaking out boldly for those that many would consider to be a burden on society.  He has many times articulated well that such people are not simply things but image bearers of a Creator God.

Benedict’s fervent efforts to live out a Gospel of grace has been evident in many, many ways .

Looking back on the last eight years of this papacy – it’s no surprise to me that years earlier Benedict would write these beautiful words:

 “Love without truth is blind – truth without love is empty.”

You may not support every (or any) decision that is executed by the Vatican. You may disagree with the merging of civil and ecclesial power. There may be great affection for or great heartache towards the very crux of the Petrine ministry – but that, for me, in no way releases me from my responsibility to pray for the important men and women in these highly scrutinized positions of authority and leadership and to do battle for those who fight for the dignity and liberty of the human person at any level. Whether I believe someone is getting it all or even mostly right or not is never an excuse for my lack of prayer for them. Ever.

I think that it is strangely poetic that the last thing Benedict tweeted before his resignation this morning was:

“We must trust in the mighty power of God’s mercy. We are all sinners, but His grace transforms us and makes us new.”

The beauty and scandal of the cross is that, wherever you stand, the invitation for new life beckons – it cries out. Whether pope or pauper the empty tomb proclaims to sin, death, scandal, and heartache that they do not have the last word – that in Christ Jesus, we are free. In Christ Jesus we are redeemed. His grace – this scandalous, unsettling grace truly does make us new.

So let’s pray for this pope as well as the next one – as we also pray that God continues to stir in us the mysteries of his restoration as well – and let us celebrate the divine invitation of a heavenly Father who loves us in our brokenness and poverty.

If you are thirsty, come here; come, there’s water for all. Whoever is poor and penniless can still come and buy the food I sell. There’s no cost—here, have some food, hearty and delicious, and beverages, pure and good.

I don’t understand why you spend your money for things that don’t nourish or work so hard for what leaves you empty. Attend to Me and eat what is good; enjoy the richest, most delectable of things.

Listen closely, and come even closer. My words will give life, for I will make a covenant with you that cannot be broken. – Isaiah 55:1-3 (The Voice)

This is not a post about gun control. It is not a post about policy. It is not even a post about violence.

“More than 25 Dead, Including 18 Children, in Connecticut Elementary School Shooting”

When I read the above headline, though, I simply could not contain my tears. I still can’t – but I want to at least try to organize my thoughts. However, before I do I want to say this:

“If you haven’t grieved yet – please stop reading this. Mourn. Call your loved ones. Hug your children. Pray for Newtown, CT. I believe that our hearts need to first feel the sting of agony before we can say or do anything else.”

Once you’ve grieved – please find a church in Newton, CT and send a message of hope, support and love. God is going to use that community in a profound way – and they will desperately need our encouragement and prayers.

http://local.search.yahoo.com/search?p=churches&addr=Newtown%2C+CT+06470&section=map

That said – I’m angry. Immeasurably angry. To be honest, an act of violence of this magnitude-  inflicted upon helpless children – does things to my heart that I can’t fully describe. Honestly, I’m having a hard time thinking straight.

I do take some solace reading words from men much wiser than myself:

“A man who does not know how to be angry does not know how to be good.  And a man that does not know how to be shaken to his heart’s core with indignation over things evil is either a fungus or a wicked man.” – Henry Ward Beecher

“The first thing to understand about anger is that it isn’t always a bad thing.  Many people, especially Christians, have the mistaken notion that anger is intrinsically evil.  As a result, they feel needless guilt.  The idea that a Christian is never allowed to be angry is a demonic myth that tends to produce neurotic anxiety.  I’ve had to struggle with this myth nearly all my life.” – R.C. Sproul

But even more than anger – I feel utterly, unreservedly heartbroken.

As a friend of mine wrote shortly after the news broke, “Something is tragically, unspeakably wrong.”

As images of parents running toward the school, screaming for some sort of clarity flashed all across my screen – as I observed panicked expressions of fear and distress worn heavily by mothers and fathers as they rushed to the scene – my heart absolutely broke. As I watched, one, single thought crossed my mind.

Evil is profoundly real.

I don’t think that anyone would have a hard time making that case – especially today. But in light of such tragedies, facing such obscene darkness – I can’t help but wonder what could possibly be expected of us in the aftermath.

Some will turn to hatred. But abolitionist Henry Beecher has some compelling thoughts to that end:

“There is no faculty of the human soul so persistent as that of hatred.  There are hatreds of race, sect and social and personal hatreds.  If thoughts of hatred were thunder and lightning, there would be a storm over the whole earth all the year round.” – Henry Ward Beecher

Some will turn to vengeance. Maybe vengeance towards the shooters family, policy makers, or school security. But I think professor Lour Priolo presents a convincing alternative.

“Ultimately, God is the One who will right all wrongs.  Vengeance is lawlessness because it does not recognize the lawful and righteousness execution of God’s judgment which He will bring about in His time.  In other words, vengeance amounts to being impatient with God.  You must remember that wrongs cannot always be righted immediately.” – Lou Priolo

Of the two evils – I propose we choose neither.

Priolo later writes:

“The ultimate weapon to use against those who do evil is to love them: to meet their needs.” – Lou Priolo

But what does that even mean? How on Earth could anyone possibly share in a theology that proclaims that we are to “Love our enemies. Pray for those who torment you.” (Matthew 5:43-44)?

Is such a way possible? And if so – is it even fitting? How could God ever expect us to love those who inflict unthinkable evil on the most innocent of victims? Is such a theology utter madness?

Truthfully – sometimes it feels like it. But then I wonder if perhaps that’s the point.

“Because we are the most forgiven people in the world, we should be the most forgiving people in the world.” - C.J Mahaney

The love that has been imparted to us through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ is unsettlingly scandalous and utterly outrageous. This is a truth that does us little good closed up behind church doors, tucked between well-polished pews. It absolutely must permeate our entire consciousness. Our formation must be effected – not just our liturgy.

Please hear me – I am not suggesting that we do not grieve. Quite the opposite, in fact. My challenge is that we think very carefully about how we proceed once the dust of anguished has settled. Consider:

“We are told that it is perfectly legitimate for believers to suffer grief. Our Lord Himself was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. Though grief may reach to the roots of our souls, it must not result in bitterness. Grief is a legitimate emotion, at times even a virtue, but there must be no place in the soul for bitterness.” - R.C. Sproul

And Dr. Erwin Lutzer offers:

“Grief [is] expected, but it is different from the grief of the world. There is a difference between tears of hope and tears of hopelessness.” – Erwin Lutzer

The Christian memorandum is that there is hope for a bankrupt humanity – hope of peace, hope of healing, hope of restoration – because Jesus stepped down from glory to clothe himself with humanity, weathering the agony of pain and sin – to hang on a cross for you and me. That by overcoming death – he might breathe new, eternal life into lungs of sorrow and separation.

We do not forgive, then, in order to earn God’s love, but because we’ve been loved in such a radical way – we are compelled to then forgive others, even our enemies. Even those who enact atrocious violence.

How can this hope not lead us to action – to a deeper conversation?  How can it not strengthen our very fibers to enact love, grace, mercy, and compassion to those around us – to grieve with those who grieve? We bear the very image of the Creator who “pitched his tent” among the people of suffering. He is near. He is present. He tastes the bitterness of our tears and holds our weary hearts.

The empty tomb may not always give us understanding, but it most certainly provides much needed hope. I do not understand all that happens – but I know that He is good. And I know that we have a mission.

Grieve. Love. Persevere.  

Rise up, Church. Pray. Shine the beacon of hope. May we have a better conversation. May we move to action.

Our battle is not against flesh and blood. We must not only know our enemy, but also our resources.

Long Live the Lamb. 

The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. -Psalm 34:18

I feel a bit like a political refugee.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I feel a bit like a legislative vagrant in a post-religious-right America, roving the dimly lit streets without a real home to lay my head. Most times it’s difficult to ignore the notion that under it all I might just be some sort of bureaucratic misfit wearing an outfit made for someone else’s frame – the seams just don’t seem right. Perhaps you know the feeling.

Now, please don’t misunderstand me. I love this country and am beyond grateful for the immense freedoms we enjoy here. I mean, where else in the world could someone like me still be gainfully employed? Amazing.

However, there is much that I have been simmering on during this election season and I’d like to share some of those humble (possibly idealistic) thoughts – if I may.

As I observe the political arena in America I cannot help but notice that it is sounding less and less like Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount as time passes and Christians in both camps appear to be relatively silent on the matter. I do not see significant dialogue about the things that seemed to occupy much of Christ’s mind – loving our enemies, serving the poor, and caring for the widows and orphans.

Frankly, I am having a hard time imagining a candidate with an ethos that is truly consistent from “womb to tomb” – that wrestles on a deeper theological level with what the implications of a “pro-life” stance truly are. In my opinion, the term “pro-life” must be shorthand for respect for the sanctity of life – one that does not begin at conception but end at birth, but all life.

But the truth is, the same Bible that charges us with the task of caring for the unborn also calls us to care for the imprisoned, the poor, the sick, and the marginalized.

This same scandalous Savior moves us from our comfort to seek justice, promote peace, condemn abusive practices, and express radical love in a world that is desperately in need of restoration and the hope of salvation. When it comes to politics then, I see it as no suitable place to put my true hope and confidence, and voting in many respects then becomes a sort of “damage control”, if you will – doing our best to keep things in line while we’re here.

Either way, some voted yesterday – many despite their profound frustration of the entire process. Some cast legitimate ballots while others wrote in their favorite Simpsons character. Or Nader – again. Some have opted out of the entire process all together asserting that any participation is an endorsement of a candidate they cannot fully support.  Wherever you fall on that spectrum – I still love you. These last 24 hours doesn’t change that in the slightest.

I am convinced however, that as Christ-followers, it is critical that we engage somehow – and do so with a broader perspective in mind. Jesus spent much of his time on Earth engaging society and talking about actual issue of culture – immigrants, abused women, oppressed laborers, widows, orphans, and yes – even corrupt politicians. These are things that concerned both Jesus and the early church a great deal. The looming question for me then becomes, “Exactly how can and should one engage in these areas in the modern world?”

As I scanned the various social platforms following last night’s election I couldn’t help but feel like many of us were missing the forest for the trees in a big way.  I read a lot of bigotry and insolence from many of my Christians friends on both sides of the coin – the types of behavior that Jesus seemed to reserved his most scathing criticisms for. This type of defamation has always and will always break my heart in a very strange way – but regardless, I believe it’s a conversation worth engaging in.

One blogger put it well:

“Political discourse is the Las Vegas of Christianity—the environment in which our sin is excused. Hate is winked at, fear is perpetuated and strife is applauded. Go wild, Christ-follower. Your words have no consequences here. Jesus doesn’t live in Vegas”

Numerous times I saw blatant slander explained away as righteous anger and hateful rhetoric dismissed as religious zeal.  After witnessing some of this incessant mudslinging, I can truthfully say that I understand why so many people have dropped out of the ordeal all together. Our political process is inoperative and in many respects, far, far from Jesus.

But I believe we are in desperate need of new civic artistry – a renewed political imagination.

Or, as another writer put it:

“We want a new dream. The old one is bankrupt.”

Christ pulled coins out of fish’s mouths (a curious commentary on his economic positioning) to show who really was king. It was if he was saying, “Caesar can have the trivial coins but you – you are branded with the image of the creator God – which Caesar could never own.” Once we’ve truly given to God what is his, other loyalties don’t tend to hold quite as much water. And then I think we begin to see with different eyes.

One author puts it this way:

“The primary task of the church is not to find better ways to engage the church more effectively in imperial politics, but rather to be a distinctive politics in the context of empire.”

Which is what I think freed Paul and Peter to write things about submitting to and honoring the authorities of their time – even amidst brutal persecution (1 Peter 2:13-14; 1 Tim 2:1-2).  They had a beautifully crystalized kingdom perspective that began to infect their communities with truth and grace. Christians, above all people, need to pray for and show respect to our President – regardless of who it is – because after all, unlike those who see politics as ultimate, we recognize that our political structures are important, but temporal, and our citizenship is rooted in a different kingdom.

We can rise above the impulse to attack opposing views and outcomes because we are given a perspective that recognizes God as sovereign over his entire universe – even our government.

On either side of our polarized political positioning are well though out plans, opinions, and perspectives. There is both rejoicing and mourning in the land today – but that is not my point. My point is that, as Christians – should we be engaging our communities on a more eternal level?

Rather than merely engaging in the political process, I believe Christians have a responsibility to elevate it. We are called to stand above the partisan dissension and demonstrate a better way. Should we have an opinion? Yes. Should we care about our country? Yes. Should we vote? Yes. But I think it’s time we talk politics in a way that models the teachings of Jesus rather than ignores them.

The early Christians collided with the empire of their day – crossing party lines and building profoundly subversive friendship. They were nonpartisan, but by no means were they nonpolitical.

A fundamental truth that I have to constantly remind myself of is that governments can develop good legislation, but they certainly cannot heal or change the human heart – only God can. It can provide a meal or housing, but it can’t create community. This sacred task of bringing reconciliation, restoration, healing, and love is something we cannot leave solely up to the government. This is the beautiful work that we are called to do.

As Christ followers – voting cannot be something that we do in a gymnasium every four years. We vote every day. We vote by how we spend our money, the products we buy, and the causes we support. We vote by the things we choose to speak up for and against. We vote with our lives.

As Neil Anderson once said:

“People may not always live what they profess, but they will always live what they believe.”

It was the early Christians you were imprisoned for their defiance, subordination, and civil disobedience – choosing not to declare “Caesar is Lord” – the major propaganda slogan of their time – but instead to proclaim that “Jesus is Lord.” They went toe to toe with the abusive empire surrounding them, opposing the notion that peace comes by why of military coercion and crushing force – but instead, true peace and freedom came through grace, forgiveness, and through a man named Jesus Christ. And for their insurrection, they were executed.

At the center of it all, these misfits of grace understood that their freedom did not come from the sword of Caesar, but by the blood of the Lamb. In my opinion, true Christian freedom makes governmental liberty look much less significant in comparison. So may the church rise up to be the church. May we stop trying to persuade government to legislate what we have been unable to inspire our congregations to live.

A new empire is breaking through the cracks of this anxious world. It isn’t ultimately about who sits at what desk, in what office – but the one who sits on the throne forevermore.

May we be conduits of that reality in a world that is desperately in need of redemption.

In the end, it’s not all about an elephant or a donkey. Glory to the Lamb.

Remember the good old days when you could eat a sleeve of Oreos or twelve chicken sandwiches and were simply called an unruly slob without the fear of being labeled a zealot, bigot, or extremist?

This one may get me into a bit of trouble.

I must first admit that I am (like many of you) growing increasingly enervated by the constant and excessive politicization of nearly everything around us – including the blogosphere. This, however, is not new nor is it news. Some might argue that it is inevitable.

Despite the weariness I feel, I cannot seem to help but weigh in on the Chick-Fil-A controversy just a little.  The truth is, there is already a veritable smorgasbord of well written and highly researched blogs and articles written regarding the details of this scandal (from both perspectives) so I won’t spend much time elaborating on the specific elements here. It is my desire, however, to present what I hope is a balanced, truthful, and loving perspective.

When I awoke this morning it wasn’t long before my newsfeed was flooded with posts and images surrounding the Huckabee inspired “Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day.” For a while it literally seemed as though every third post had something to do with the controversy surrounding today’s events – filled with passionate supporters and opponents.

Chick-Fil-A seems to be on everyone’s minds today. – and with good reason.

Bloggers everwhere are driving their philosophical stake in the ground regarding gay rights, freedom of speech, and corporate personhood – but I cannot help but wonder if each of those arguments is missing the bigger, more important issues just beneath the surface.

A lot of people disagree with Dan Cathy. A lot of people disagree with the mayors who decided to ban Chick-FIl-A from their cities. A lot of people disagree with Mike Huckabee. A lot of people disagree with the hundreds of thousands of people who flooded CFA’s doorstep sometime today. And one of the beauties of having the liberties we do – is that we are absolutely free to grab on to those disagreements and white-knuckle it until we die. The freedom to take a position is a beautiful and necessary one.

But just because you can do something doesn’t necessarily mean you should.

As the number of pictures posted by my Christians friends rose throughout the day, I was repeatedly struck with the same question:

“Is this about winning a culture war or is it about Jesus?”

Let me be very clear about something. A number of my dearest friends and family members are gay and disagree with me on a number of these matters. But I also love them deeply and have been so blessed to learn from their wisdom and experience. After seeing dozens upon dozens of friends posting pictures of Chick-Fil-A on Facebook today, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the most productive way of engaging an extremely important discussion. In a lot of cases, it felt more like political positioning than Kingdom ethics. Most of what I saw were different “sides” shouting past one another instead of engaging in a balanced, loving discussion. This scandal has exposed our inability to dialogue.

This isn’t meant as a criticism toward anyone who participated – merely a dialogue.

In the wake of the Aurora shootings, Colorado fires, Penn State abuse, Syrian massacres, Middle East chaos, and the Olympics, Christians have enormous opportunity to partner with God in bringing about restoration and reconciliation to these difficult places. Such opportunity, in fact, that it honestly makes it hard for me to sleep sometimes.

Now, I don’t want to downplay the backlash that Chick-Fil-A has sustained either. It has most certainly been vicious and my heart goes out to the families and employees that have been victimized as well. From being banned in cities to accusations of peddling “hate chicken” by the mayor of Washington, D.C. – both sides of this debacle most certainly have blood on their hands. And truthfully, Jesus does tell us quite bluntly that the world will hate those who take a stand for Him, even if that stance is executed less than perfectly – it’s simply inevitable. In an age of growing moral relativism, I do have to applaud the leadership of Chick-Fil-A for standing their ground even when backed into a corner.

Which raises all sorts of questions about is truly homophobic or discriminatory. What constitutes a hate-crime and who defines such terms. And even asks if we as Christians have perhaps confused “rightness” with “holiness.”

But I am interested in a larger discussion.

We vote with our wallets and for many the vote has been cast.

I would assert that the real issue is not homosexuality, gay rights, family values, or first amendment rights. The real issue for many of us – is us. We have long struggled to put flesh and blood on the words of Christ toward anyone who thinks, acts, or worships differently than we do. As one writer put it,

“Too often, we demand conformity prior to connection. When we approach one another as brothers and sisters—image bearers of the God we claim to serve—and celebrate what we have in common, we better position ourselves to helpful dialogue in the midst of disagreement. 

We carry divine potential for healing and restoration. We have an opportunity and responsibility to allow our words and actions to surge with the power and energy of a life of love.”

We even do this with fellow Christians who disagree with us on matters of heaven and hell, baptism, or divorce. For many of us this is a knee-jerk reaction, almost muscle-memory that we enact on anyone we see as the “other.”

So what is the response? I assert that, as Christ-followers we have got to move beyond boycotts, political positioning, and social media hype. As difficult as it is, we’re called to love those who ostracize us – not shun back. Jesus is for all kinds of people – all kinds of sinners; from the CEO of an explicitly Christian organization to the sex offender down the block. His forgiveness is not limited simply to those who look, act, write, or think as we do – as hard a pill as that may be to swallow. It is our responsibility to scrutinize and discern, yes – but not at the expense of a deep and abiding love for the other.

Whether it is homophobia or Christophobia – the need for a better conversation is crucial.

We have to realize that our friends and family are not going to consider the claims of the gospel simply because we chose to eat some waffle fries in support of traditional family values.

The truth is – some of the information surrounding this scandal is misleading. Some of it is downright untrue – even malicious.  On both sides.

For me, this is the question. “What would it look like for us to begin reaching out and loving the other, instead of slinging the same anger we accuse them of?” Or better yet, “What if we moved the dialogue from the computer screen to the coffee shop – looking each other in the eyes and learning to love both in grace and truth?”

I am a coward.

That might be a bit melodramatic, but the thought certainly crosses my mind from time to time. My cowardice isn’t uncovered in the ways you would traditionally think either. Jumping out of planes, off of bridges, or out of cars doesn’t really scare me – I don’t find heights or depths all that frightening. In fact, I’ve been told that I would probably benefit a greater dose of fear now and again.

No, my timidity manifests in a much different arena.

Binders full of songs I’ve never finished, shoeboxes brimming with half-written stories, and folders replete with ideas that have never been enacted. In fact, I even have a stack of gift cards I’ve never used as I wait patiently for the “perfect opportunity” to capitalize on the gift that is now likely expired.

I visit my blog just about every day, fully intending to allow the artistic tsunami of my creative synapsis to drown the screen before me.  I write for an hour – maybe two – then convince myself that my concept isn’t clever enough, my narrative isn’t compelling enough, or my comedic balance is desperately out of whack – and I stop. Now, I don’t delete my work, mind you. The fate of my efforts is much worse than obliteration. If deleted, there at least is finality. I, along with hundreds of other self-conscious writers seal our written fate with the click of one button:

“Save Draft”

It is there that the words I worked so hard to pen are doomed to a life of leftover-mimicking tupperware existence. Once there, I may revisit from time to time, smell the sweet aroma of wishful nostalgia, and snap the translucent plastic lid of deferment back into place once again.

It’s remarkably difficult to pinpoint the source of this crippling routine. There is no particular moment in my past where I felt derided – thus resulting in some paralyzing fear of failure. I have tremendously loving parents, supportive friends, and a deep desire to create. Why then, do I find myself in an endless cycle of uncertainty and hesitation?

The truth is if I try and fail, there is no more “one-day.”

The allure of “one-day” is the fuel to this machine of reservation – the cogs of which keep my boldness safely at bay in the gearwheel of vacillation. As long as that ambiguous moment in time remains just enough out of reach, I can convince myself that the issue is simply that of timing and I will “one-day” find the inspiration, drive, and creativity to complete my task, finish that thought, and subsequently change the world (obviously).

This got me thinking about a word I learned a while back. It’s an artistic term called “pentimento” and it is defined as:

An alteration in a painting, evidenced by traces of previous work, showing that the artist has changed his or her mind as to the composition during the process of painting.

It applies specifically to the subtle changes in a work (placement of a hand, location of a window) rather than a complete change in composition (i.e. Picasso’s “Old Guitarist”). Some of these changes have been done in the underdrawing of the painting, while others by simply applying new layers upon previous compositions. Artists like Caravaggio, Rembrandt, and Titian have a number of such pieces, typically due to the rare presence of preliminary drawings in their work.

In most cases these subtle details are only visible through the careful use of infra-red reflectograms and photographs. To the naked eye, most of these paintings appear changeless and unaltered – as if the artist never second-guessed his work in the slightest.

In pondering this word, I find myself relating in a number of ways.  As much as I love strategy and consider myself a tactician, I often dive right in without a “preliminary sketch” as a guideline. I frequently change my mind mid-process and relish the opportunity to make clutch decisions on the fly. I don’t change the composition entirely, mind you, but will (sometimes obsessively) tweak and adjust a project until my mind or body reaches utter exhaustion. I regularly work to cover up previous attempts as best I can so that the struggle and effort it took to get me there is not revealed.

The major difference I see between myself and these artists (besides the obvious) is that, at some point, they put the brush down and, in so doing, declare their work “finished.” They accept the truth that while there may still be changes that could be made – they don’t. With a breathe of relief they relinquish control of the fabric they so carefully guarded for so long and allow it to finally breathe.

And, for me – this is the junction.

As cheeseball as it sounds – I am learning to live in the tension that I am not who I will be, that God is not finished with this tattered canvas yet – and that within such a reality exists a tremendous freedom to fail. My identity is not entrenched first in my ability to succeed, create, or inspire – but in something and someone much beyond my aptitude – an identity rooted deeply in the soils of grace.

In my quest for excellence and my pursuit of growth I am working to remember that, while this narrative has been written, the journey is messy and far from over. That amidst the many drafts of composition, there is a place for inspection and scrutiny. There is a place for exposure. There is a place for shared burdens. There is a place for courage. And there is a place to let the paint dry in the public square – blurred lines and all – before we pick up the brush and try again.

“Anything worth doing is worth doing badly” -G.K. Chesterton

Interwebs – you’ve done it again.

The information super-highway is all a buzz with discussions about the organization Invisible Children and their most recent viral video phenomenon – KONY 2012.

With over 10 million views in less than two days, this video has sparked quite a bit of discussion. Actually, “sparked” probably isn’t even the best word to use –  “set flame to the centuries old thistle and brush of the arid Yosemite National Park” is probably more appropriate.

Here’s the argument – boiled down to a nice, coherent vapor.

Position A:

Joseph Kony is a Ugandan guerilla group leader and head of the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) – a group engaged in a violent campaign to establish a theocratic government throughout Uganda by use of extreme tactics such as killings, mutilation, rape, and cannibalism.

Essentially Kony ran out of fighters for his army so he began abducting children to be soldiers in his militia and women for his officers.  While the LRA is no longer active in Uganda, it continues in Congo and Sudan – having now abducted over 30,000 children and displacing 2.1 million people during their 26 years existence thus far.

On Monday an organization named Invisible Children launched a video campaign to raise awareness of this conflict as well as call for the immediate capture of Joseph Kony and his military.

Quite frankly, this data breaks my heart beyond description and stirs my soul to its core. It is stories like these that breathe passion into my bones, moving my heart to rest in the house of suffering, and inspire me to passionately and feverishly search to find solutions.

Here is that video:

http://kony2012.s3-website-us-east-1.amazonaws.com/

Position B:

Bloggers have hit the proverbial detonation button on this buckshot of a story by launching a slew of rebuttal statements – predominantly about Invisible Children and their particular use of funds.

To their credit, a deeper examination of the organization’s policies does reveal some alarming information – not the least of which is the fact that in 2011, only 32% of all the money raised actually went to direct services. The bulk of the remaining funds went towards staff salaries, travel expenses, and film production (a figure somewhere in the $1 million ballpark). This is likely what earned them a mere 2/4 stars rating from Charity Navigator and is at the core of much of the surrounding controversy.

The group apparently is also in favor of direct military intervention and a great deal of the money raised goes to support the Ugandan government’s army as well as other assorted military forces – forces riddled with accusations of rape and looting themselves.

You can read much more about the ins and outs of Invisible Children here:

http://tumblr.thedailywh.at/post/18909727859/on-kony-2012-i-honestly-wanted-to-stay-as-far

http://visiblechildren.tumblr.com/

Then, sometime earlier today, Invisible Children  posted this interesting response:

http://s3.amazonaws.com/www.invisiblechildren.com/critiques.html

Bottom line – Kony clearly needs to be stopped  – period (if, in fact, he is still alive). I think most of us can embrace that statement as a reasonable starting point. I think it’s also fair to assume that we can agree on the importance of raising awareness about such oppression – something that Invisible Children has become increasingly skilled at doing quite well.

Awareness is absolutely critical. However, we must also keep in perspective that these issues are most certainly multifaceted and highly complex. And it may surprise you, but the US has been involved in attempts to stop Kony for years, unsuccessfully – so perhaps there is more going on than many of us realize.

So let me be clear and say that I am absolutely thrilled so many people are watching this film and feeling compelled to make a difference in some way. When inspiration, creativity, and action are stirred – it can be a beautiful, beautiful thing.

But as a believer in Jesus Christ – I feel the need to respond.

This may be an enormously unpopular position to take but I think, as Christians, we need to be exceedingly careful about how we engage the language and atmosphere of hype. It is becoming increasingly important (and understandably so) for many Christians these days to “engage culture” and embrace a position of relevance as their first priority. We love titles, slogans, and movements – many of them with good reason.

The sad reality, however, is that the world of hype has an unavoidable capacity to water down the nuanced, intricate, manifold aspects of walking in Christian truth.

Farmer and author Wendell Berry writes of movements, stating that they “too easily become unable to mean their own language, as when a ‘peace movement’ becomes violent… They almost always fail to be radical enough, dealing finally in effects rather than causes. Or they deal with single issues or single solutions, as if to assure themselves that they will not be radical enough.” (Wendell Berry, Citizenship Papers 2003)

For Christians to relearn how to communicate beyond (or without) oversimplifications and slogans of the world will be a long, demanding, and tiresome journey. It cannot simply be some hobby or side project that we address in the social forum – our Kingdom language must emit from a place much deeper than that.

In the face of great injustice, both local and domestic, we most certainly must respond – but as Christians. We must intervene as ones set apart, to live and love in peculiar ways – in the power of the Holy Spirit, not our knowledge of the most recent refresh of our timelines.

As activist and author Shane Claiborne once said:

“One thing that’s clear from the Scriptures is that the nations do not lead people to peace, rather, people lead the nations to peace” (Shane Claiborne, Jesus for President 2008)

At the core, this is my concern – that rather than placing our hope in a transnational church that embodies God’s kingdom, we’ve come to assume that our activism and rallies are God’s hope for the world, even when they look nothing like Christ. These responses raise the question, “What has happened to our political imagination?”

The painful reality is that hell is not simply some vague, warm place some are met with after death – it is a reality that many, including the children of Kony’s army are living in this very moment. Thirty thousand children die of starvation every day, over a billion go without water, and nearly forty million are dying a miserable and painful death due to AIDS.

But when Jesus tells Peter in Matthew 16 that, “the gates of hell will not prevail against you”, he wasn’t speaking of the fiery attacks of the Devil as many of us grew up thinking. In fact, gates aren’t offensive weapons at all – they are defensive, built to keep people out. Jesus is not saying that the gates of hell will not prevail as they come against us in attack – he is saying that we are called to be a people who storm those gates, and hell will not prevail us as we crash through them in scandalous grace, penetrating truth, and explosive power.

It is certainly easier to build a monument than a movement – as Shane has said, “we’re always better at bronzing our saints then following them.” We desperately need movement, but movement that is rooted in Gospel truth, the love of Christ, and the power of the Holy Spirit.

I don’t have the answers. Not even close. But what would it look like if we became less quick to watch, post, share, and consume videos and began to pick up our Bibles and re-imagine the world? What if we became communities who spent our energy creating a culture of contrast rather than one of relevancy? What if…

“Laws enforced by the sword control behavior but cannot change hearts, no matter how sharp the sword is. The redemption of the cross does what laws and bullets and bombs can never do – bring transformation of evildoers and enemies” (Greg Boyd, Myth of a Christian Nation 2007)

I grew up in a corner house.

Now, this meant a lot of things for me as a child. Things a normal adult human might not think of.

For example, this meant that our cardio-minded neighbors spotted us during our sunrise kickboxing sessions atop our trampoline, as we were accustomed to doing after spending the night upon its springy goodness – usually with sleeping bags over our heads to make it interesting.

It also meant that local pedestrians were able to gaze with great ease upon the wasteland of a backyard my brother and I created after we spread the leveling sand from our broken above-ground pool throughout the entire yard to make our very own white trash mini-golf course.

But most importantly it meant that we had additional sidewalk for all of the antics our little homeschool minds could conjure – which usually involved ramps built with logs and rotting plywood, or strapping wheels to items that should never roll.

One such encounter of said conjuring occurred when I was the wise and discerning age of about 9 years of age; the pinnacle of cognitive development in a boy’s life.

Some friends were over using our magnificent trampoline as they were accustomed to doing, and I decided that this was my moment to really impress them. So I grabbed my off-brand Transformers BMX-wannabe bike, and headed to the front of the house. As I sped down the side of our house approaching the backyard, I took my hands off the handlebars. Just as my bouncing-buddies came into view, I shouted proudly, “Look guys – no hands!”

Somehow the fact that the gate to our fence was wide open had escaped my otherwise thorough calculations.

Blinded to my impending doom by the allure of impressing my trampoline-loving friends, I crashed into our old metal gate harder than Pauley Shore’s career. My left arms went through the chain-link, hurling me from my gloriously heroic bicycle, brutally dragging me along the concrete in a perfect half circle of doom.

As I tried to assess the situation, it became painfully clear that I had tore up my knee pretty badly. I’d like to think my reaction to this realization was stoic and valiant, but I’m sure I cried like a tweenie at a Bieber show. Judge me if you must.

Spellbound at my newly acquired flesh wound, I stared intently at many colors of blood as it poured from my leg until my mother, hearing the screams from our now entertained yet terrified guests, ran to my aid.

Being the loving, caring, and intuitive mother she was and is, my mother immediately brought me inside to clear the debris from my leg. Once we concluded that torture session, she brought a tube of some sorts up from the basement. “This will help keep the scab from becoming too hard”, she said. “It will make life a lot easier when we need to change the gauze.”

I’m convinced now that what my mother brought to me that day was not, in fact, a tube filled with the dreams and rainbows I was promised, but instead was a mislabeled canister of rubber cement mixed with concrete powder. I say this not to assert that my mother had always secretly hoped I would one day be immobile and stop breaking things around the house, but because just a mere twenty-four hours after this “magical” gloop was applied, my wound was as indurated as Dick Van Dyke’s jawline – and it was getting worse.

By the time a week had passed and it was time to change the bandage, my family was using this rocklike wound to open beer cans and bust down castle doors. It was bad. And there I sat, seven days from that infamous event, sitting terrified in the tub with the hopes that a good soaking would make the unwrapping process a little less painful. Once again, my calculations were just a hair off.

After a quick word of inspiration from my father, my mother then slowly peeled away layer one of thirteen away from my grotesque mummy of a kneecap. I gripped the side of the tub like it was a bobsled and shrieked as if someone had stabbed me in the spleen or forced me to watch “I Hate My Teenage Daughter.”

Picking up on the subtly of my discomfort, my mother grabbed a pair of scissors and cut all remaining 12 layers of the gauze on either side of my table-top scab. “This way we can take each layer off a little more easily” she said lovingly. “It will be a lot less trouble.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that my wise and loving mother was there, helping me along. I sat back, feeling much calmer now, working up the courage to give my mom the go-ahead with layer number twelve. However, as I looked off in the distance trying to muster all the boldness my little nine year-old mind could manage, my mother summoned the strength and speed of ten ninjas and quickly ripped off all 12 remaining tiers of wound-protecting cloth in one fell swoop.

I won’t even bother to explain to you my reaction – I’m sure your imagination has already pieced that together. I would simply start with the image of a banshee receiving a root canal and go from there. Not my proudest moment as an aspiring stuntman, that’s for sure.

I was thinking about this story yesterday and drew all of these connections to the years that followed this event. Countless moments where life was painful, embarrassing, or difficult and I wanted to take my sweet time unwrapping the bandage – cringing and squirming at each layer. And then someone or something comes along and rips off all 12 crippling layers and says, “It’s time to let this breathe.”

I’m so rarely ready for those moments. I think few of us ever are. Our lists grows longer and longer of the things we’d like to have “under our belt” before we make this decision or take that risk. We cling to the bandage of familiarity, even if that familiarity is steeped in pain and bitterness. We see the wounds, the memory is still very fresh in our minds, but we’re just not quite ready to take the necessary steps toward healing.

Often I think we desperately need those people in our life that are willing to rip the gauze from our skin when we ourselves perpetually assert that, “We’re not ready.”

The truth is, often we truly aren’t ready, but the greater reality is that we’ll never actually be completely prepared. “When I get this degree, make this much money, meet this person, or feel this feeling” are benchmarks that simply may never come. When we tether ourselves to a ideal that we’ve created, we often end up crippling ourselves – creating a paradigm that rests on the assuredness of our abilities instead of the provisions of a great and loving God. We place the crown upon our own heads and bemoan the kingdom.

If we are always waiting to feel ready, we may one day awake old men and women, crushed with the realization that “ready” never came. We will realize that the wrongs we have done and the wrongs done to us have identified us more than Christ. We will se bandages that needed to be removed long ago, keeping the wounds from the life giving air around us.

I for one need to be reminded that these wounds aren’t permanent, that the breathe of the Spirit brings deep healing, and that I am to boast in my weakness as it brings greater glory to the goodness of God.

May we be a people that do not simply amble recklessly throughout our lives, trying desperately to impress those in the backyards of our lives, but embrace an audacity that clings to the promises of God – even when we feel anything but ready.

Here’s to living sacrificially, loving unconditionally, and serving radically with all that we are.

I adore my grandmother.

I actually don’t ever call her that. My name for her ever since I was two years old has been “Fram-Fram”. In fact, that was the exact name I called my grandfather by as well. When I addressed letters to the both of them, I began them like this:

Dearest Fram Fram & Fram Fram,

A short, fiery Irishwoman at 5’ flat, she is the source of and inspiration for countless of my family’s funniest stories. From completely fabricated “foreign” words, to a bargaining spirit that could talk a corpse out of a casket – Fram Fram is one hilarious grandmother.

A story that I was pondering this past week is not my favorite story, nor is it even the funniest. It’s simply one that has me thinking today.

It was the summer of 1995 and my grandparents, as they always did, had driven in to Michigan from Arizona to spend time with family and friends during the warmer months of the Midwest. This was always such a cherished time because of the great distance that usually separated us. Fram Fram and Fram Fram would spend the summer staying from house to house for a couple of weeks at a time, ensuring that they got some quality time with each of the friends and families that they cared most about. We would spend time playing cards, running through the sprinkler, telling stories, and fetching the frosted mug that Grandma kept in the freezer of all her closest friend’s houses. An archetypal Irishwoman, to be sure – she sure loves her beer.

During one such visit to our humble abode, a few of us were packed into our tiny kitchen making a classic childhood lunch – hotdogs, mac and cheese, and lemonade.

After we had successfully mixed the gourmet cheese powder with the noodles, stirred the exquisite lemony grit in a pitcher of water, and boiled the hotdogs to saturated perfection, we prepared to dig in. Before heading to the dining room table I grabbed the pot with the leftover hotdog water, and shuffled carefully to the sink. Just as I was about to pour the clouded elixir down the drain, my grandmother burst into the room.

“What are you doing?!” she inquired excitedly.

A bit confused by the question, I timidly responded, “Um, I thought I was dumping the hotdog water down the drain…”

“Not on my watch!” she responded, and she took the pan full of hotdog nectar from my hands, and ran out the front door.

A bit curious about what had just transpired, we ran outside after her, only to find Fram Fram carefully watering the flowers in our front yard with this pan of foggy hotdog water. Once she had successfully watered the outside plant life, she then came back inside, poured the remaining water into a Ziploc bag, and place it in our refrigerator. She then said sternly, but lovingly “Don’t you ever waste water.”

I remember having a good laugh about this whole scenario years later as we recounted the presumably frenetic actions of my grandmother. My family has a lot of these types of stories, and none of us are exempt. But as I was thinking about this seemingly miniscule event from my past this week, it got my mental fluid flowing and, instead of pouring it down the drain, I thought I’d try watering some flowers instead.

As a child, I didn’t realize understand what it meant to live in a place like Arizona, but my grandparents did. The overwhelming heat and desolate stretches of land were not foreign to them. With this experience came a profound cognizance of and appreciate for water. In the suburbs of Detroit, water wasn’t ever anything I had to think of beyond having enough for my make-shift slip ‘n slide, but to them – water was precious, valued, and treasured – and it showed. Sure, it manifested in ways my pre-pubescent mind found to be comical, but for them, it was not a joke.

I began to think of the things, and more importantly, the people in my life that I consider precious, valued, and treasured. I thought of the scarcity of time I spend intentionally telling these people how cherished they really are. I pondered the infrequency of my relational deposits compared to my withdrawals.

I felt challenged to begin thinking past the “Hey, how are ya’s?” and the “What’s cracka-lackins?” to examine my own heart and how my actions affirm or negate it.

This train of thought reminded me of a scene in the movie, “The Book of Eli” where a nomad named Eli is talking to Solara, the daughter of a concubine forced to spend the night with him, about what the world was like before the apocalypse began.

http://www.movieweb.com/v/VIJg6JLSB1sbMS

“We had no idea what was precious, what wasn’t.”

I think that because of our great excess, whether that is monetary wealth, relational abundance, or what we perceive to be an endless amount of time, we frequently confuse what is precious, and what is not. Often in our lives the most urgent things take the place of the most important things – some of us completely unaware that it is happening. They are not necessarily the same thing.

I remember getting a really difficult letter from a friend of mine years ago. It was a long, honest, and loving letter with a lot of really difficult truths throughout. One line reads:

“Ian – you’re not Superman. You can’t save the whole world. You can’t even love the whole world. While you’re busy trying to love everyone, those who are closest to you have no idea that they are.”

I’ve read those words dozen of times over the years. I’ve even pulled out this letter from time to time to again face the burdensome truths found on these pages. I’m so grateful for friends who will speak the weighty words of admonition to me – and humbled at how far I still have to go.

I so long for the wisdom to see things as God sees them – to live in an Ecclesiastes 3 type of awareness. To look into the eyes of the hurting and for them to know that they are loved. To speak words of edification and grace, and to do so frequently. To say “I love you” and know that they know I mean it. Life is just simply too fleeting not to.

My dear Fram Fram was willing to snatch a pot from an 11 year-old’s hands to show how precious water truly was to her. Perhaps you can ask yourself, as I am -

“What am I willing to do for the cherished relationships in my own life?”

May we move beyond the wisdom of the bumper sticker and the Facebook status and begin to invest our lives in what truly matters.