plain talk

I’ve heard it often before, and I heard it again recently: “If God wants me to believe in him, he should just show himself, give me a sign; then I would know he exists.”

This is a wish that’s centuries old. In fact, in the very presence of Jesus himself, people said something similar. Look at this, from John 10:24-30: 

“The Jews who were there gathered around him, saying, ‘How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.’

“Jesus answered, ‘I did tell you, but you do not believe. The works I do in my Father’s name testify about me, but you do not believe because you are not my sheep. My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father’s hand. I and the Father are one.’”

“Tell us plainly,” they said. “I have,” Jesus countered. And he had; he said the words and he did the miracles. But now Jesus takes the time to explain why they just don’t get it: they aren’t part of the group. They aren’t the ones God gifted to Jesus; they weren’t ever meant to be his followers. So no matter how glaringly obvious Jesus made it, they would always doubt.

That’s important to remember because we’re always going to run into people who tell us our religion is just superstitious nonsense. They’ll tell us God doesn’t exist, that church brainwashed us, that we’ve been indoctrinated. They’ll be really convincing, because they’re actually convinced. God seems ridiculous to them.

But the same things that seem foolish to the world, using Paul’s words, seem like plain talk to me. And that’s really reassuring, because that means I’m one of his sheep.

enough

One of the greatest blessings God provides is exactly that: His providence. This morning, I’m wondering if it might be the one I have the most trouble accepting. 

The very first part of Luke 11 tells of the time his disciples wanted to know how to talk to God. Here it is in verses1-4: 

“One day Jesus was praying in a certain place. When he finished, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Lord, teach us to pray, just as John taught his disciples.’

“He said to them, ‘When you pray, say:

“‘“Father,

hallowed be your name,

your kingdom come.

Give us each day our daily bread.

Forgive us our sins,

for we also forgive everyone who sins against us.

And lead us not into temptation.”’”

That’s a short version of the Lord’s Prayer, presumably condensed to three essentials: glorifying God, asking for daily bread, and confessing sin and asking for forgiveness. And the one that struck me was the request for daily bread.

Why not a week’s worth of bread? Why not steak and ice cream? Why this simple request for enough basic food to get through today? 

This morning I read this as guidance to live today in God’s presence, trusting him for whatever I need. And then, do the same tomorrow, and the day after that. One petition for daily bread at a time; child-like trust for each 24-hour period.

I take some pride in having provided (so I imagine) for myself. From a point well below the poverty line, Dawn and I have built a comfortable life, with a secure future that includes (so my financial guy tells me) a worry-free retirement. When I’m not thinking about it, I assume that I’ve secured my food (a lot better than just bread) myself, and way beyond one day.

That’s the danger of affluence; it dims my appreciation of God’s providence. More so, it can make me hostile to it. I remember living day to day and I didn’t like it. I don’t really want to do that anymore.

The problem is, this is devil-talk. Satan wants me to pile up money and stuff and persuades me that security comes from my treasure pile. Americans have completely lost the concept of enough; we want excess, plenty, too much. We’re not happy unless we have more than we can use. Every night we scrape extra food into the garbage (well, Dawn and I remember being poor so ours goes into Tupperware). Enough is for people who can’t compete.

But I think God calls us to aspire to exactly that, to know when enough is enough and not reach for more. Where he blesses us with more, it isn’t really for us, it’s for his people and his work. His providence, when it goes beyond enough, equips us for giving, not hoarding.

Can I really pray just for today’s bread? Can I be satisfied with enough? 

rejoice

The highest possible credibility goes to the ones who’ve been there and actually done things. In the Army there are many medals that can be given, but the most coveted decoration is the simple Combat Infantryman’s Badge, awarded to warriors who’ve actually had to fight. In the medical field, even the most senior practitioners will show up for a lecture by someone who, say, was in Africa fighting Ebola. And church members show up in droves to hear from missionaries.

This morning, I was reminded of these human examples when I read something kind of odd that Jesus said. Luke 10 tells of the time he sent out disciples to minister through healing and evangelizing. The aftermath is recorded in part in 17-20: 

“The seventy-two returned with joy and said, ‘Lord, even the demons submit to us in your name.’

“He replied, ‘I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven. I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you. However, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.’”

“I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.” Isn’t that kind of an interesting response? Yet I was immediately awed. It was almost chilling to think that Jesus was there in that moment when God cast Satan down; of course I knew it intellectually but reading this I could almost see it.

This is the ultimate in credibility. This, it seems to me, is Jesus saying that he knows demons and their master, and that his authority is greater. All this is interesting to me because, having established himself as the highest possible expert, he then lets them down gently, telling them something that I think is important for me. Jesus reminded them he had given them something more amazing than the authority to cast out demons; he had given them salvation.

I’m sometimes proud of my achievements. On occasion I’m even proud of ministry accomplishments. Jesus reminds me today, in these verses, that he enabled every accomplishment I have, including the one I could never have done for myself. 

It’s a reminder not to be proud, but instead to be grateful.

blind

It’s easy to feel superior, especially as a long-term Christian. After all, there’s only one right way, the way of Jesus, and I’ve been following that way all my life. Surely that gives me better judgment than people who haven’t put in that much time, or have done so haphazardly.

Maybe. But maybe that actually puts me at more risk.

In John 9 you can read the story of one of my favorite miracles done by Jesus, a time when he healed a man of blindness. This man was then examined by the Jewish religious leaders and that quasi-trial descended into farce, with the leaders resorting to insults and name-calling. Then Jesus, who heard about it, found the man and revealed himself as the Son of God, come to take away the blindness of the world.

That’s pertinent to the question of my superiority because of what’s in verses 40-41: “Some Pharisees who were with him heard him say this and asked, ‘What? Are we blind too?’

“Jesus said, ‘If you were blind, you would not be guilty of sin; but now that you claim you can see, your guilt remains.’”

The first question this raises is whether I truly do understand life or whether, like the Pharisees, I’m only claiming I can see. That seems directly related to whether I look at life, and especially people, the way Jesus does. I don’t always, at least not the times when I feel hateful or judgmental or . . . superior.

The next question flows naturally: while claiming to see clearly, do I act the same way blind people do? If so, Jesus says to the Pharisees and all of us with Pharisaical tendencies, then we’re more guilty than they are. It’s one thing for someone to, say, ignore the means of grace (scripture, prayer, good preaching, etc.) if they never thought you could find grace that way. It’s a completely different thing when I opt out of church and never have my own devotions. One of us is guilty of ignoring God and living as if we don’t need him; is it the unbeliever or me?

I remember recently feeling like my boss was holding me to a different standard than everyone else. His reply? “Greg, you’ve been doing this a long time; you know better than they do.” In other words, he wasn’t going to hold the others to a standard they didn’t know about or couldn’t understand. He was, however, going to look for better from me.

Jesus knows that I know and understand what he expects. So is he more disappointed with the person I feel superior to, or with me?

liars

We call them fibs. I’m not sure we always realize how serious they are.

I’m a history buff, and I have a military history Masters. In most wars there have been over-reactions to people who seemed like the enemy, but World War II represents an extreme. During that war, our government put Japanese Americans in concentration camps and actively investigated thousands of people just because they spoke German in their homes.

Those cases were almost always abuses, but there’s some truth to the idea that to some degree loyalty can be detected by the language we speak. Look at this, from John 8:42-47: 

“Jesus said to them, ‘If God were your Father, you would love me, for I have come here from God. I have not come on my own; God sent me. Why is my language not clear to you? Because you are unable to hear what I say. You belong to your father, the devil, and you want to carry out your father’s desires. He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies. Yet because I tell the truth, you do not believe me! Can any of you prove me guilty of sin? If I am telling the truth, why don’t you believe me? Whoever belongs to God hears what God says. The reason you do not hear is that you do not belong to God.’”

Jesus is pretty clear here: the language of God’s kingdom is truth, and Satan’s native language is lies.

So what about those fibs? How serious are they?

Well, at a minimum they seem to me evidence that I have at least some familiarity with the language of the enemy. They might be evidence of more. They might point to disloyalty, or even subversion. Sometimes my lies might undercut the kingdom work Jesus is doing through other people, people I may not like very much.

I’m not one of those who thinks adherence to the truth means we can say any mean thing we want so long as it’s factually accurate. I think Jesus’ call to love means some things will go unsaid, at least by me. If they need to be said, God will send someone who’s already proved their love to say them.

I do think that Americans are casual with the truth, and that includes American Christians. We’re all far too fluent in the language of the enemy.

Are we too tolerant in the church, or are we intolerant?

I think the answer to that question depends on who we’re dealing with. We might, in my opinion, be too intolerant of people who aren’t believers; sometimes we’re pretty quick to judge them when they haven’t even accepted values we live by. For unbelievers, I think we should offer more latitude than we do; love seems a better course than judgment.

For church members, though, I wonder if we’re not too tolerant. I say this because of what I read in Matthew 18:15-17: 

“‘If your brother or sister sins, go and point out their fault, just between the two of you. If they listen to you, you have won them over. But if they will not listen, take one or two others along, so that “every matter may be established by the testimony of two or three witnesses.” If they still refuse to listen, tell it to the church; and if they refuse to listen even to the church, treat them as you would a pagan or a tax collector.’”

In my Bible, these verses are in red letters, meaning Jesus said this. And it makes me think of all the times I’ve pretended not to notice the sins of my fellow believers. In fact, I remember a time when I was an elder and we actually came to a decision not to talk to a member who had just gotten an OWI. I didn’t think it was right at the time, but he was a member of a long-standing church family that we didn’t want to embarrass; on top of that, it seemed like confronting him would require us to confront some other hard drinkers in our church, people we hadn’t had reason to talk to before.

It’s hard to hold each other accountable for our sin, but it’s a necessary feature of the church. The church is God’s provision to us in this world, and one of the best things it does is help us not to conform to the sinful patterns we see around us. 

I’m not sure that means I should be more judgmental of fellow believers; it probably means I should be more loving. I should love them enough to want to help them, in the same way I’d take car keys away from a drunk. 

I am sure that it means I should be more willing to let others judge me. 

ignorance

As much as I want to be like John or one of the more responsible disciples, I often relate most closely to Peter. This morning, as I read from Luke 9, I’m seeing myself in that impetuous follower. Look at this, from verses 28-33: 

“About eight days after Jesus said this, he took Peter, John and James with him and went up onto a mountain to pray. As he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became as bright as a flash of lightning. Two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared in glorious splendor, talking with Jesus. They spoke about his departure, which he was about to bring to fulfillment at Jerusalem. Peter and his companions were very sleepy, but when they became fully awake, they saw his glory and the two men standing with him. As the men were leaving Jesus, Peter said to him, “Master, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.” (He did not know what he was saying.)”

The first thing that connected with me personally was that final parenthetical comment. How often don’t I speak before I really understand what’s going on?

That just made me think at greater length about how often I may express myself about ministry without really getting what Jesus is up to. I may counsel conformity to tradition when God is moving in an entirely new way. I might defend an outdated idea when a newer Christian wants to try something different. I could, and often do, recommend patience and caution when boldness is what’s needed to advance the Gospel.

Peter looked at what was happening and misunderstood. He wanted to dwell in the moment. He thought Jesus’ transfiguration and the appearance of Moses and Elijah were the end, the purpose, instead of being a step. He didn’t realize that this amazing moment was meant to propel Jesus’ work forward. So he wanted to build shelters and stay.

In the same way, I can easily want to rest where we are instead of pushing for what could be. When that’s what I want, I have to acknowledge my ignorance of what Jesus is doing. Because Jesus isn’t resting, he’s working.

stumbling block

So here’s a hint: if you ever find yourself thinking, “Did Jesus really mean that?” then you’ve stumbled on an area of your life that needs more thought. I had that this morning, reading a very familiar verse, Mark 9:42: 

“‘If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them if a large millstone were hung around their neck and they were thrown into the sea.’”

In case you didn’t know, that’s Jesus talking. I have to admit, in the past when I’ve read this I’ve thought about things like neglect and abuse. I thought this verse applied to all the ways we either overtly sin against kids, or tempt them into sin.

This morning, though, I thought, “Did Jesus really mean that?” It seemed to me there are a lot of ways we can make children stumble. We can make them question their self-worth. We can visibly compromise our own witness toward God. We can model a life where devotions and prayer are completely absent. 

If I badmouth a person I’m mad at, maybe our pastor or elders, in a way that makes my grandkids think badly of them, do I cause my grandkids to stumble? What if I use words I shouldn’t, or lose my temper? What if I play a bloody video game while they watch? What if I demean my wife with short-tempered outbursts while they look on?

Children want to be like us, and they watch us closely and imitate what we do. They soak our behavior up like a sponge. All of a sudden, it seems like there are hundreds of ways I may have put stumbling blocks in the way of children. In fact, I’ve said many times that the only reason my kids turned out OK is Dawn’s sheer goodness as a mom outweighed what a bad dad I was.

This is definitely a thing to think about. If I don’t think kids should do it, I shouldn’t do it. That means if they shouldn’t think it, I shouldn’t think it either. 

Did Jesus really mean that if I cause a child to stumble it would be better for me to be drowned? I’m afraid he did. And that means I have to do better.

offense

American’s have their own unique stumbling block, a trait we have that Satan can readily exploit: our pride in independence. We think we don’t need anyone else; we can go our own way. It’s a short step from that to insisting on our own way, and an even shorter step to false pride that demands respect from others as an entitlement.

This morning, it helps me (at the same time it convicts) to know that Jesus thought the opposite way. Look at what he said about paying taxes, in Matthew 17:25-27: 

“When Peter came into the house, Jesus was the first to speak. ‘What do you think, Simon?’ he asked. ‘From whom do the kings of the earth collect duty and taxes —from their own children or from others?’

“‘From others,’ Peter answered.

“‘Then the children are exempt,’ Jesus said to him. ‘But so that we may not cause offense, go to the lake and throw out your line. Take the first fish you catch; open its mouth and you will find a four-drachma coin. Take it and give it to them for my tax and yours.’”

It’s almost a cliche in Christian circles to ask WWJD, what would Jesus do? From this passage it seems that Jesus would subordinate himself in order not to offend others. After acknowledging that he would be perfectly within his rights to refuse, Jesus instead goes to the length of performing a miracle in order to not cause offense.

Is that what I would do? Or would I call them snowflakes and tell them to suck it up? Or maybe tell them they can avoid me if they want, but I don’t have to change for them? Or just blow them off?

Jesus has expectations of me that are completely different than what I think is right, and he not only told me what they are, he showed me what they look like. One of the hardest might be to give up my own rights that I may not cause offense.

who is Jesus?

The world has a lot of messed-up ideas about who Jesus is. Some think he didn’t really exist, that he was made up by the church. Others say he was just a wise man and a great teacher. Some say he was kind of crazy, with delusions that he was God. 

This is a really important question, and Jesus’ disciples had to decide just like we do. I read this in Luke 9:18-20: “Once when Jesus was praying in private and his disciples were with him, he asked them, ‘Who do the crowds say I am?’

“They replied, ‘Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others, that one of the prophets of long ago has come back to life.’

“‘But what about you?’ he asked. ‘Who do you say I am?’

“Peter answered, ‘God’s Messiah.’”

It took a while for the disciples to go from following Jesus as a rabbi to seeing him as the promised savior, but they got there. And they help frame the same issue that every person since then has to resolve: who is Jesus, really?

Of course Peter was right; Jesus is the Messiah, sent by God and our only hope. But it isn’t enough to just say the words, or to acknowledge him intellectually. There’s a lot of emotion involved in recognizing Jesus for who he really is. There’s the guilt and hopelessness of realizing how prone we are to sin and how helpless we are to resist it. There’s the surprise and amazement when we realized that God loved us enough to help us. And there’s the overwhelming gratitude and life-changing joy of feeling truly free.

My Dutch family is one of those that thinks it’s ok to have feelings, as long as it’s one at a time and you don’t let anyone know. We’re more attracted to knowledge. But this is one of those cases where intellectual understanding isn’t much use.

The bottom line is, if we don’t feel all those emotions, we don’t really understand who Jesus is.

human concerns

Being part of something means changing your goals and adjusting your expectations. That’s true of marriage and ministry, jobs and joint ventures. A decision to join community of any kind always results in some compromise of self in order to be included in something bigger.

That’s a simple human concept, but it only hints at the truth of our faith journey. Peter found that out the hard way in Mark 8, specifically this passage in verses 31-33: 

“He then began to teach them that the Son of Man must suffer many things and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests and the teachers of the law, and that he must be killed and after three days rise again. He spoke plainly about this, and Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him.

“But when Jesus turned and looked at his disciples, he rebuked Peter. ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ he said. ‘You do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns.’”

Peter, it seems, got caught up in his own ideas of what the Messiah was supposed to be doing. His culture thought that the Messiah would run the Romans out of Jerusalem and return the Jews to political power. Peter was affected by what he’d been taught his whole life, and couldn’t accept what Jesus himself said about his future.

But the Jewish version was really an expression of human concerns, a desire for earthly power and influence. Jesus called it out for what it was.

And he called Peter “Satan.” Obviously Peter wasn’t really Satan, but part of Jesus’ brutal honesty here is pointing out that Satan wants us focused on human concerns rather than Jesus’ kingdom. That’s his way of making sure we work on the wrong things.

There’s a clear expectation here: instead of human concerns, I’m supposed to have in mind the concerns of God. My work and personal lives have to reflect that; my interactions with people should too. 

This is a challenge in a world that uses self-interest as the ultimate measurement of good and bad. Once again, what Jesus calls us to is completely counter-cultural.

disciplined disciple

How are you at saying no to yourself?

That’s always been my basic definition of discipline, that it’s the ability to say no to yourself. To do the things that you should but don’t want to, and to turn away from the things that won’t be good for you or bring you closer to your goals. And for most of my life I’ve considered myself more disciplined than most. 

This morning I’m thinking that I’m not disciplined enough. 

Look at this challenge Jesus gave in Matthew 16:24-27: “Then Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it. What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul? Or what can anyone give in exchange for their soul? For the Son of Man is going to come in his Father’s glory with his angels, and then he will reward each person according to what they have done.’”

The first thing I notice is this isn’t a choice. It’s not like deciding to join the gym or start a diet. Jesus uses the word “must.” No wiggle room there. And the thing I must do is to deny myself. 

Do I do that? Am I ready to? I have ideas about what I want retirement to look like; am I willing to let them go if God wants something different? I have savings goals each year, but should I be willing to give that money instead? There seem to be two linked questions here: am I working for the future God has called me to or the one I have planned; and, do I really trust that future to God and not my own ability to secure myself?

At it’s most basic, fundamental level, self-denial means not having hopes or dreams or goals of my own, and not holding any resource apart to serve myself. True self-denial would mean I have no wishes except to please Jesus. If I had really denied myself, I’d never argue to have my own way because I wouldn’t have a way other than Jesus’ way.

That’s not me, not right now. But every year I hold less back for myself, and give up more to God. So I may not be a disciplined disciple yet, but I’m more of one than I used to be.

be opened

There are things I know a lot about, and things I don’t know much about at all.

I know quite a bit about tactics and strategy - for example, that a wall or any other physical obstacle is useless without someone watching it (that’s Tactics 101, something even the greenest Second Lieutenant knows). I know a lot about military history; I have a Masters in Land Warfare. I know quite a bit about birds, after chasing them across a wide variety of landscapes for more than 40 years. And, having been responsible for a couple thousand men and women in various capacities over the years, I like to think I know a few things about leadership.

Even though I have opinions, I have to admit I know next to nothing about immigration, or health care, or any other topic of national politics - everything I know about those is second-hand, from people who want to sell me on their own opinions. I know just enough about how money works to be dangerous (fortunately I have a very smart and detail-oriented wife). And, after over five decades of reading scripture, I’ve learned just enough about God to wish I knew more.

In fact, this morning that longing made me see a metaphor in the miracle Jesus worked in Mark 7:33-35: “After he took him aside, away from the crowd, Jesus put his fingers into the man’s ears. Then he spit and touched the man’s tongue. He looked up to heaven and with a deep sigh said to him, “Ephphatha!” (which means ‘Be opened!’). At this, the man’s ears were opened, his tongue was loosened and he began to speak plainly.”

When I read of this man, so long unable to hear or speak, being healed, I was jealous. I immediately saw a spiritual analogy, and I longed to be opened myself. I wanted desperately for Jesus to open my eyes so that I could really see him at work and his kingdom here on earth. And I wanted just as badly for my tongue to be loosened so that I could more effectively tell people about what I see. 

Right now, in the words of Paul, I see as through a darkened glass; I want to see clearly. Right now, I struggle to put in words and sentences and paragraphs what I feel in an overflowing heart; I wish I could do better. 

In the end, I’m reminded that all of Jesus’ miracles had the dual purposes of revealing his own loving heart and showing us his divine power. And I’m convicted that more than any physical healing, his passion was to mend our broken relationship with God.

In the end, I think, this slow, disciplined working out of my sanctification in response to his command is my response to his command, “Be opened.”

leading indicators

I think often I’m like the Jews in Jesus’ time: I have such deeply embedded human notions of what Jesus must want that I have trouble understanding what he actually says.

In Matthew 15 I read of a time when Jesus taught parable that had a simple point. It’s not what you eat that makes you unclean, Jesus said. It’s what you say. The Jews, faithful followers of an encyclopedia of rules for the purity required to enter the temple, couldn’t believe it. There were all kinds of restrictions related to food. Even Jesus’ disciples didn’t get it. Look at verses 15-20: 

“Peter said, ‘Explain the parable to us.’

“‘Are you still so dull?’ Jesus asked them. ‘Don’t you see that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body? But the things that come out of a person’s mouth come from the heart, and these defile them. For out of the heart come evil thoughts—murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander. These are what defile a person; but eating with unwashed hands does not defile them.’”

To the extent we have wickedness in our hearts, we do wicked things with our mouths. Our jealousy becomes slander and back-biting. Our anger becomes lies and hateful innuendo. Our lusts are expressed in dirty jokes and inappropriate comments. In fact, it’s really hard to mask our evil thoughts because our motor mouths eventually betray us.

In business we talk about something called a leading indicator - it’s the first thing you’re likely to notice when your process isn’t functioning correctly. I gather from Jesus’ teaching here that what I say is a leading indicator of my spiritual health. My words will let me know if my heart isn’t right.

Kind, generous, encouraging words are evidence of the fruits of the spirit. Snark, gossip and story-telling point to something unhealthy in my heart. What I say is the most obvious kind of leading indicator. And decades in business have taught me to watch leading indicators pretty carefully.

simple and complex

I used to think age and wisdom were linked and linear, meaning the older we get, the wiser we get. I’ve learned that isn’t necessarily true; some people get wiser and some don’t. But one thing is true: the older we get, the more context we have because we’ve seen more iterations. We learn to recognize pattern and cycles, for one thing.

For example, one cycle I’ve come to recognize in my faith life is this: I get frustrated at my inability to make progress, so I try to simplify. Then, I feel underfed by my simplified faith and I delve into the complexity of God’s revelation. This morning, though, I had the weird feeling of experiencing this long-term cycle compressed into one single devotional session. 

I was reading in Luke 6, about Jesus teaching his disciples after he fed the 5,000. Jesus encourages them not to focus so much over the physical loaves that he gave people, but instead to realize that true life comes from doing God’s work. And then, this, from verses 28-29:

“Then they asked him, ‘What must we do to do the works God requires?’

“Jesus answered, ‘The work of God is this: to believe in the one he has sent.’”

What can be more simple than that? I’m here to do God’s work, and that work is to believe in Jesus. That’s a crystal-clear focus for me; I can reaffirm my belief in him as a historical figure, I can believe in him as my only hope, and I can then read scripture closely and believe all the revelations and promises Jesus made.

What could be more complicated than that? Because if I believe in Jesus, a whole bunch of stuff follows like falling dominoes. If I believe in Jesus then I believe that he owns and controls every square inch of this world and every ticking second of my life. If I believe that, then Jesus’ claim on my life covers each action and decision. And, as I try to make each action and decision accountable to the belief I have in Jesus, then a lot has to change.

All my relationships change; my friends become more precious and strangers become more valuable when I see them the way Jesus does. My money is spent on completely different things. Some movies and books and TV shows become off limits. The kinds of conversations I have change. And I have to wrestle with hard topics like what it means to be a church member and how do I engage our culture as a responsible citizen both of this country and God’s kingdom.

Following Jesus is both simple and complex; it’s easy at the same time that it’s really hard. In other words, he’s the perfect Lord for every turn of my normal faith cycle.

leftovers

Sometimes I believe I’m becoming more like Jesus, thinking more like him; sometimes I realize that I’ve only gone a few steps of a journey thousands of miles long.

This morning I realize that what I think of as helping people is too limited. The blessing I try to be to others is a very faint shadow of what Jesus intends; my concept of what is appropriate is far too cheap.

I realized that while reading of Jesus’ miraculous feeding of the 5,000, one of his signature miracles. Here’s the pertinent part, from Luke 9:16-17: “Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke them. Then he gave them to the disciples to distribute to the people. They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over.”

I’ve read this passage dozens of times, and have often marveled at exactly the same thing: Jesus’ lavishness in pouring out his blessing. Faced with a crowd of hungry people, he conjured food from nowhere. He turned a few loaves and fish into abundance. Not just enough to meet their caloric needs and keep them alive; not just enough to end the hunger pangs.

Jesus provided enough food that everyone was satisfied, everyone had as much as they wanted. And even more: for every doubting, wondering disciple, there was one extra basket of food. I used to wonder how big the baskets were, but it doesn’t matter. Jesus message seems pointed enough to me. They said, “Send them away, we can’t possibly help them.” Jesus, after helping every person there, seems to reply, “Here, guys, some leftovers for each of you. Take it home for tomorrow’s lunch.”

How much giving is enough? How much blessing should I try to provide? Enough to communicate the key truth that my God’s providence is abundant and never-ending; enough to seem more like an outpouring of love than a meeting of basic needs.

What I do is the first and best way to communicate who I serve. Do I really want people to think Jesus is as stingy as I am?