A friend suggested that I write a few words about graciousness, and I will try to oblige. It is one of my favorite virtues. When I see somebody being gracious I feel like Salieri listening to the music of Mozart, because I think, "Oh, that's good, very good - I wish I could do that!"
One thing I have seen gracious people do is put guests and strangers at ease. Jerks of course do the opposite - they make them uncomfortable. In The Voyage of the Dawn Treader C. S. Lewis writes that the bully Eustace Scrubb was glad to hear that his cousins were coming, because "he knew that there are dozens of ways to give people a bad time if you are in your own home and they are only visitors." This is true. When you are on your own turf - home, school, church, basketball court - you get to set all the terms and guests can't do anything about it, which makes it easy to be mean to them. Like at the University of Iowa stadium, where school officials painted everything in the visitors' locker room - walls, carpet, shower stalls, urinals, everything - an unmanly shade of pink just to annoy visiting teams.
But ungracious people find that they do not need to be actively hostile when simple negligence will do the job. Some churches are masters of this. I like to tell the story of the time I visited a church in North Dakota 25 years ago. I arrived early, went to Sunday School and the worship service, stayed afterwards, and literally not one person said hello to me. Shortly before I left, a man greeted me and we spoke briefly - and he turned out to be a first-time visitor like myself! So I never went back. By contrast, I recall the thoughtful practice of a gracious pastor I knew in college. He said that at church events he always went to the bulletin board to see if anyone was hanging out there. He explained that when new people couldn't find anyone to talk to, they tended to go read notices and missionary letters on the bulletin board because it was so awkward to stand around doing nothing when everyone else was talking to people they already knew.
A new friend helped me like that once. Shortly before my wedding in 1985 I was taken out to dinner by friends of my wife who had all known each other for years. At the restaurant they spoke, at length, and exclusively to each other, about friends of theirs from high school. I sat silently of course with nothing to contribute. But when Clark Hawley arrived he started talking to me and deliberately turned the conversation toward mutual interests. (Afterward he mentioned how displeased he was that his friends would invite me to dinner and do nothing but talk about people I had never heard of!) Clark's technique was flawless, and I have tried to imitate it and teach it to my sons. A gracious man at dinner tailors his conversation to include everyone - especially the guest who lacks the common experience of old friends.
In The Last Battle C. S. Lewis illustrates the graciousness of Jewel the Unicorn by the way the kind creature treats Puzzle, a slow-witted donkey: "Jewel, being a Unicorn and therefore one of the noblest and most delicate of beasts, had been very kind to [Puzzle], talking to him about things of the sort they could both understand like grass and sugar and the care of one's hoofs."
God grant us all that graciousness of spirit that welcomes the stranger, seeks common ground with him, and does everything possible to put him at ease.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
March 17, 2009: Anger With God
When my father passed away suddenly my mother was asked if she was angry with God, and she said no. She wasn't denying her inner feelings, or giving some pious answer for fear of being thought wicked. She was simply stating a fact. Though distraught and grief-stricken and inconsolable, she wasn't angry. Sadness is not anger.
I can't remember her words - this was 29 years ago - but I do remember the gist of her reply concerning those who thought she was "holding something back," that it would be healthier if she "let it out" and told God what she thought about what he had done to her. She explained, "Billions of women have been widowed, many tragically. Who am I to say it should never happen to me? Everyone dies. How dare I celebrate God's goodness while others suffer, but challenge him as soon as it's my turn?"
Somehow, over the years, it became "authentic" to rail against God - like when the preacher played by Robert Duvall in The Apostle shouted, "I love you Lord, I love you, but I'm mad at you!" If you type "angry with God" into a search engine you will find advice like this: "We can be completely honest toward God with our thoughts and feelings. And God is big enough to take it all. God won't punish us for being hurt and angry, even hurt and angry at God." I found a pastor graciously trying to answer a letter that read: "Back in April I got a little basset hound pup, that pup became my life, my only friend. He got sick June the fifth and died June the twelfth. Night and day I prayed and prayed believing and knowing that Christ could have saved him, but he didn't...I tried to make the death a sweet smell to the Lord, but as the hours pass I grow more and more angry. I feel horrible saying this, but I am angry at God." The pastor did not respond (nor would I, though I'd be tempted): "You jackass. Repent. Have you never contemplated other people's grief? Between April when you got your puppy and June when it passed away, do you know how many children died of starvation and cancer? Your grief over your loss is perfectly understandable; your anger is not. How is it that you were perfectly ok with God while all those children were dying, but now that your puppy is gone, you think you got a raw deal? Oh - you say you never thought of that. Well think about it, you self-absorbed wretch."
Anger with God often results from frustrated expectations - expectations we never had a right to cherish in the first place. We thought (assumed? demanded?) that our children would not die before us, that our spouses would remain faithful, that we would not succumb to degenerative disease, that God would certainly not plant some desire in our heart (say, to have children, or make homosexual love, or grow a church) and then actively frustrate it through infertility, his law, or life's contrary circumstances. In the play Amadeus, Antonio Salieri explains to a priest how he came to rage against the Almighty: "All I wanted was to sing to God. He gave me that longing - and then made me mute! Why? Tell me that. If he didn't want me to praise him with music, why implant the desire (like a lust in my body!), and then deny me the talent?"
I do not claim to be able to answer that, but I do know enough to say that anger with God is always senseless and wrong. It is senseless because, whenever I am inclined to think that God has been unfair, I always come back to the question, "Where did I get this idea of fairness? Who taught my mind to distinguish between fair and unfair?" The answer is God himself - through the means of conscience and tradition and law. In railing against him I'd be railing against the very source of the moral instinct within me that despises injustice! I'd be sawing away at the trunk of the branch I'm sitting on. Even if we think of the issue merely in organic terms, a complaint against God can only be formulated by using the brain cells he gives us, with the lungs and larynx and tongue he provides, through the air he supplies for breath. We are not independent of him. He made us and everything else. Therefore, the only thing with which we could strike at him would be a weapon that he himself placed in our hands. And he made the hands!
So anger with God seems senseless to me for philosophical reasons; it is also morally wrong for reasons articulated by John Piper: "Anger at a person always implies strong disapproval. If you are angry at me, you think I have done something I should not have done. This is why being angry at God is never right. It is wrong - always wrong – to disapprove of God for what he does and permits...We may weep over the pain. We may be angry at sin and Satan. But God does only what is right." Correct. Just as the truly Honorable must never provoke our contempt, and the truly Pure must never provoke our disdain, so also the truly Good must never call forth our wrath. It isn't right.
When my father passed away suddenly my mother was asked if she was angry with God, and she said no. She wasn't denying her inner feelings, or giving some pious answer for fear of being thought wicked. She was simply stating a fact. Though distraught and grief-stricken and inconsolable, she wasn't angry. Sadness is not anger.
I can't remember her words - this was 29 years ago - but I do remember the gist of her reply concerning those who thought she was "holding something back," that it would be healthier if she "let it out" and told God what she thought about what he had done to her. She explained, "Billions of women have been widowed, many tragically. Who am I to say it should never happen to me? Everyone dies. How dare I celebrate God's goodness while others suffer, but challenge him as soon as it's my turn?"
Somehow, over the years, it became "authentic" to rail against God - like when the preacher played by Robert Duvall in The Apostle shouted, "I love you Lord, I love you, but I'm mad at you!" If you type "angry with God" into a search engine you will find advice like this: "We can be completely honest toward God with our thoughts and feelings. And God is big enough to take it all. God won't punish us for being hurt and angry, even hurt and angry at God." I found a pastor graciously trying to answer a letter that read: "Back in April I got a little basset hound pup, that pup became my life, my only friend. He got sick June the fifth and died June the twelfth. Night and day I prayed and prayed believing and knowing that Christ could have saved him, but he didn't...I tried to make the death a sweet smell to the Lord, but as the hours pass I grow more and more angry. I feel horrible saying this, but I am angry at God." The pastor did not respond (nor would I, though I'd be tempted): "You jackass. Repent. Have you never contemplated other people's grief? Between April when you got your puppy and June when it passed away, do you know how many children died of starvation and cancer? Your grief over your loss is perfectly understandable; your anger is not. How is it that you were perfectly ok with God while all those children were dying, but now that your puppy is gone, you think you got a raw deal? Oh - you say you never thought of that. Well think about it, you self-absorbed wretch."
Anger with God often results from frustrated expectations - expectations we never had a right to cherish in the first place. We thought (assumed? demanded?) that our children would not die before us, that our spouses would remain faithful, that we would not succumb to degenerative disease, that God would certainly not plant some desire in our heart (say, to have children, or make homosexual love, or grow a church) and then actively frustrate it through infertility, his law, or life's contrary circumstances. In the play Amadeus, Antonio Salieri explains to a priest how he came to rage against the Almighty: "All I wanted was to sing to God. He gave me that longing - and then made me mute! Why? Tell me that. If he didn't want me to praise him with music, why implant the desire (like a lust in my body!), and then deny me the talent?"
I do not claim to be able to answer that, but I do know enough to say that anger with God is always senseless and wrong. It is senseless because, whenever I am inclined to think that God has been unfair, I always come back to the question, "Where did I get this idea of fairness? Who taught my mind to distinguish between fair and unfair?" The answer is God himself - through the means of conscience and tradition and law. In railing against him I'd be railing against the very source of the moral instinct within me that despises injustice! I'd be sawing away at the trunk of the branch I'm sitting on. Even if we think of the issue merely in organic terms, a complaint against God can only be formulated by using the brain cells he gives us, with the lungs and larynx and tongue he provides, through the air he supplies for breath. We are not independent of him. He made us and everything else. Therefore, the only thing with which we could strike at him would be a weapon that he himself placed in our hands. And he made the hands!
So anger with God seems senseless to me for philosophical reasons; it is also morally wrong for reasons articulated by John Piper: "Anger at a person always implies strong disapproval. If you are angry at me, you think I have done something I should not have done. This is why being angry at God is never right. It is wrong - always wrong – to disapprove of God for what he does and permits...We may weep over the pain. We may be angry at sin and Satan. But God does only what is right." Correct. Just as the truly Honorable must never provoke our contempt, and the truly Pure must never provoke our disdain, so also the truly Good must never call forth our wrath. It isn't right.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
March 10, 2009: In Praise Of Duty
The other day I was listening to a radio program that played hits from the 30s and 40s, and heard an interesting song where "Jazz Singer" Al Jolson extolled his beloved's good looks. At one point he croons,
You know I care and I'll be faithful to you
Not through a sense of duty
You are too beautiful
And I am too drunk with beauty
I told my son Ben, "Listen to this! He thinks he's paying her a compliment by telling her it's her beauty that inspires his faithfulness. He's not being true to her because he has to, because it's his duty, because there is something inside him that forces him to be faithful no matter who she is or how she behaves or what she looks like - but because she's so beautiful!" And Ben answered, smartly of course, "What happens then when she is no longer beautiful?" Exactly. Maybe then she would appreciate it if his motivation had been duty all along.
Duty is a good thing, and there is no shame in being motivated by it. Duty stands strong when other motivations weaken and fall. But there are reasons why we are suspicious of it and would prefer not to reveal that it is the efficient cause of our behavior. It seems so prosaic and unromantic. We even feel insulted (certainly not complimented!) when we learn that someone did right by us not because we inspired it but because he was simply "doing his job". He would have done the same even if we weren't worthy or handsome or smart or kind. "Oh. I thought I was special. I guess whether I am or not is beside the point - that's just the kind of man he is."
About six weeks ago (see the January 27 essay, "Wait, Seriously?") I argued with a respondent who seemed to object to the holy status I gave to duty. He (She?) wrote that while many of us are tempted to promiscuity, "we choose not to pursue that not out of some religiously ascetic sense of self-denial, but because we've found something better." I find danger lurking in those innocuous words. If we can give to "duty" the pejorative label "religiously ascetic sense of self-denial", and persuade ourselves that there is a higher motive to be embraced while this lower one is dismissed, we may find that that exalted "something better" (say a warm, loving, mutually respectful give-and-take relationship) is quite unable to sustain a man's ability to care for his wife when she is suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's.
Monday I heard a WMBI preacher tell us, "'The Word of the Lord is living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword' - but be honest, is it like that for you when you read it? Don't you sometimes just read it out of duty? Well today we'll tell you how to change that..." and I started shouting at the radio "No! No! Not that stupid line of rhetoric again! Stop it!" Never make people feel sheepish or guilty or inadequate about submitting to the call of duty. Without it, lots of Christians would never read their Bibles at all. Duty is a good thing. Like the weird guy in that viral internet video who lamented the public abuse of poor Brittany Spears, I say, "LEAVE DUTY ALONE!"
The other day I was listening to a radio program that played hits from the 30s and 40s, and heard an interesting song where "Jazz Singer" Al Jolson extolled his beloved's good looks. At one point he croons,
You know I care and I'll be faithful to you
Not through a sense of duty
You are too beautiful
And I am too drunk with beauty
I told my son Ben, "Listen to this! He thinks he's paying her a compliment by telling her it's her beauty that inspires his faithfulness. He's not being true to her because he has to, because it's his duty, because there is something inside him that forces him to be faithful no matter who she is or how she behaves or what she looks like - but because she's so beautiful!" And Ben answered, smartly of course, "What happens then when she is no longer beautiful?" Exactly. Maybe then she would appreciate it if his motivation had been duty all along.
Duty is a good thing, and there is no shame in being motivated by it. Duty stands strong when other motivations weaken and fall. But there are reasons why we are suspicious of it and would prefer not to reveal that it is the efficient cause of our behavior. It seems so prosaic and unromantic. We even feel insulted (certainly not complimented!) when we learn that someone did right by us not because we inspired it but because he was simply "doing his job". He would have done the same even if we weren't worthy or handsome or smart or kind. "Oh. I thought I was special. I guess whether I am or not is beside the point - that's just the kind of man he is."
About six weeks ago (see the January 27 essay, "Wait, Seriously?") I argued with a respondent who seemed to object to the holy status I gave to duty. He (She?) wrote that while many of us are tempted to promiscuity, "we choose not to pursue that not out of some religiously ascetic sense of self-denial, but because we've found something better." I find danger lurking in those innocuous words. If we can give to "duty" the pejorative label "religiously ascetic sense of self-denial", and persuade ourselves that there is a higher motive to be embraced while this lower one is dismissed, we may find that that exalted "something better" (say a warm, loving, mutually respectful give-and-take relationship) is quite unable to sustain a man's ability to care for his wife when she is suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's.
Monday I heard a WMBI preacher tell us, "'The Word of the Lord is living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword' - but be honest, is it like that for you when you read it? Don't you sometimes just read it out of duty? Well today we'll tell you how to change that..." and I started shouting at the radio "No! No! Not that stupid line of rhetoric again! Stop it!" Never make people feel sheepish or guilty or inadequate about submitting to the call of duty. Without it, lots of Christians would never read their Bibles at all. Duty is a good thing. Like the weird guy in that viral internet video who lamented the public abuse of poor Brittany Spears, I say, "LEAVE DUTY ALONE!"
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
March 3, 2009: Now It Means Something To Me
My son Ben once asked me if I had ever changed my mind about anything big. He knew I was mystified by people who managed to dismiss convictions they once held dear even though they could not be bothered to articulate reasons for the change. I think he also perceived me as one who did not move easily from one spot to another.
But I have changed, everyone has, and though I had no good answer for him then I have been able to think of one now. Over the years I have done a U-turn on the value of participating in the Lord's Supper. Once it meant nothing to me; now it has become the centerpiece for my worship of God.
When I was very young, Communion annoyed me. In the church our family attended we celebrated it once a month after the service. When the sermon ended, I just wanted to go home and eat lunch and watch a game on TV. Communion stretched out the time spent sitting in that pew a whole 15 minutes as we waited for the plates to be passed: "Come on, let's chew the cracker and drink the thimble of grape juice so we can go already." Then we moved to a church where Communion was served just four times a year, and that seemed like an improvement.
But then in college I was blessed to attend a Brethren fellowship where we partook of the bread and the cup every Sunday. Communion there was not "tacked on" to the worship hour: it was part of a separate 45-minute service before Sunday School. We prayed quietly, sang a few hymns a cappella, listened to Scripture, confessed our faults, contemplated Christ, and ate and drank the symbols of him.
That was the start of my change in attitude. Now more than 25 years later I'm positively thankful for regular opportunities to partake of the Lord's Supper. Some reasons:
(1) It is an act of obedience that I can actually do without too much difficulty. I am one who finds the Christian life hard, who wishes it were easier to submit to God, whose conscience rightly reprimands both active iniquities and countless sins of omission. It is a relief for someone like me to see a commandment like "Do this in remembrance of me" and realize that it is an absolute piece of cake, a walk in the park, a fat pitch down the middle. Even I can obey this one! All I have to do is show up on Sunday and thank Jesus as I take the bread and drink the cup. Given that so many commandments are hard, isn't it a joy to have one that's a gimme, a two-inch putt?
(2) The Lord's Supper is a time when I am compelled to think of Jesus and honor him and thank him. Do I do that with appropriate regularity and discipline on my own? Probably not. Every day my head fills with thoughts that I know are vapid, mundane and insignificant. But by regularly participating in the Lord's Supper I guarantee that, at least once a month, a worthy thought will hold my attention: "Jesus Christ, righteous Son of God, died for me, unrighteous sinner. Praise be to him."
(3) It connects me to other believers like nothing else. Perhaps the most meaningful times of Communion I ever celebrated were in the home of an elderly Rumanian couple. The wife was blind, wheelchair-bound, diseased and soon to die. But how her face lit up when she heard my voice! And what an honor to share with her and her husband the tangible reminders of Christ! Outside of Christ it is hard to see how we would ever meet or have any connection at all. But in Holy Communion, when we directed our hearts not toward each other but toward Jesus, we found the Lord creating between us a mystic bond of fellowship that no earthly tie could mimic. I have also been privileged to find and revel in that same oneness of spirit in larger settings ranging from "High Church" Episcopal to "Low Church" Brethren to "Loud Church" Pentecostal.
If you are a Christian believer but somehow lack (as I once did) a "taste" for the Lord's Supper, then work to acquire it. May the Lord grant you grace to know the joy of remembering him in the bread and the cup.
My son Ben once asked me if I had ever changed my mind about anything big. He knew I was mystified by people who managed to dismiss convictions they once held dear even though they could not be bothered to articulate reasons for the change. I think he also perceived me as one who did not move easily from one spot to another.
But I have changed, everyone has, and though I had no good answer for him then I have been able to think of one now. Over the years I have done a U-turn on the value of participating in the Lord's Supper. Once it meant nothing to me; now it has become the centerpiece for my worship of God.
When I was very young, Communion annoyed me. In the church our family attended we celebrated it once a month after the service. When the sermon ended, I just wanted to go home and eat lunch and watch a game on TV. Communion stretched out the time spent sitting in that pew a whole 15 minutes as we waited for the plates to be passed: "Come on, let's chew the cracker and drink the thimble of grape juice so we can go already." Then we moved to a church where Communion was served just four times a year, and that seemed like an improvement.
But then in college I was blessed to attend a Brethren fellowship where we partook of the bread and the cup every Sunday. Communion there was not "tacked on" to the worship hour: it was part of a separate 45-minute service before Sunday School. We prayed quietly, sang a few hymns a cappella, listened to Scripture, confessed our faults, contemplated Christ, and ate and drank the symbols of him.
That was the start of my change in attitude. Now more than 25 years later I'm positively thankful for regular opportunities to partake of the Lord's Supper. Some reasons:
(1) It is an act of obedience that I can actually do without too much difficulty. I am one who finds the Christian life hard, who wishes it were easier to submit to God, whose conscience rightly reprimands both active iniquities and countless sins of omission. It is a relief for someone like me to see a commandment like "Do this in remembrance of me" and realize that it is an absolute piece of cake, a walk in the park, a fat pitch down the middle. Even I can obey this one! All I have to do is show up on Sunday and thank Jesus as I take the bread and drink the cup. Given that so many commandments are hard, isn't it a joy to have one that's a gimme, a two-inch putt?
(2) The Lord's Supper is a time when I am compelled to think of Jesus and honor him and thank him. Do I do that with appropriate regularity and discipline on my own? Probably not. Every day my head fills with thoughts that I know are vapid, mundane and insignificant. But by regularly participating in the Lord's Supper I guarantee that, at least once a month, a worthy thought will hold my attention: "Jesus Christ, righteous Son of God, died for me, unrighteous sinner. Praise be to him."
(3) It connects me to other believers like nothing else. Perhaps the most meaningful times of Communion I ever celebrated were in the home of an elderly Rumanian couple. The wife was blind, wheelchair-bound, diseased and soon to die. But how her face lit up when she heard my voice! And what an honor to share with her and her husband the tangible reminders of Christ! Outside of Christ it is hard to see how we would ever meet or have any connection at all. But in Holy Communion, when we directed our hearts not toward each other but toward Jesus, we found the Lord creating between us a mystic bond of fellowship that no earthly tie could mimic. I have also been privileged to find and revel in that same oneness of spirit in larger settings ranging from "High Church" Episcopal to "Low Church" Brethren to "Loud Church" Pentecostal.
If you are a Christian believer but somehow lack (as I once did) a "taste" for the Lord's Supper, then work to acquire it. May the Lord grant you grace to know the joy of remembering him in the bread and the cup.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
February 24, 2009: "God Told Me..."
Christians ought not to say that God has spoken to them when what they really mean is that they have a strong gut feeling. This common evangelical practice of interpreting an emotional tug as the voice of God is sinful and shameful and must stop.
Case in point: the resignation four weeks ago of Willow Creek's Chicago Campus pastor, Steve Wu. Wu came to WC Chicago in 2006 after being tabbed by WC's Senior Pastor Bill Hybels. As reported in a church press release at the time, "As soon as Hybels met Wu, he said he knew God had spoken." Interim pastor Jeff Small concurred: "There's this huge confirmation in my spirit that not only is he the right guy, he's God's man for the job." Wu himself agreed: "Wu said he felt the tap of the Holy Spirit and knew God was calling him to Chicago."
Now that Wu has resigned because of sexual sin, joining that foul host of disgraced clergymen who have devastated their churches and brought shame on the name of Christ, what are we to make of Hybel's, Small's and Wu's statements just three years ago to the effect that "God had spoken"? Simply this: they were all wrong. God had not spoken. Wu was not God's man for the job. There was no tap of the Holy Spirit.
Years ago a church that I attended hired an associate pastor, and there was plenty of "God-talk" at his installation. God had directed the church to call him, God had moved in his heart to accept the call, God had brought him to the church to accomplish good things. Then he got fired 18 months later. I was never particularly fond of this minister, and for all I know his firing was just - but I recall wondering at the time, "What in the world happened to all those things God assured us of when we hired him?"
Our problem in the evangelical sub-culture is that we have a sinful, scandalous, seldom-acknowledged habit of speaking presumptuously in the name of the Lord. This is an abomination that many sincere believers fall into, in part because they have been trained to think (in unbiblical terms) of "having a relationship with Jesus Christ," and have learned the simple trick of crafting a dialogue in their heads and labeling one of the voices "God." When such people tell us what God has told them, I believe it becomes our duty to remember it, and apply when applicable the test of Deuteronomy 18:21-22: "You may say to yourselves, 'How can we know when a message has not been spoken by the Lord?' If what a prophet proclaims in the name of the Lord does not take place or come true, that is a message the Lord has not spoken. That prophet has spoken presumptuously. Do not be afraid of him." Not only ought we not fear those whose God-talk proves false, we probably should not waste a lot of time listening to them either.
Back in 2003 a sincere fellow pastor wrote some God-talk into my installation vows, and I respectfully insisted that he take it out. I can't remember exactly what the words were - something about knowing that God was going to use me to serve the church. I explained to him that I didn't even know for sure that I would be alive, or that Jesus wouldn't return, 10 minutes from now! Since God hadn't told me that much, how could I dare say confident things about a future he had not seen fit to reveal?
Something very instructive may be learned from the tragic case of pastor and author Gordon MacDonald. In 1984 MacDonald was contacted by an international Christian organization and asked if he would be willing to be a candidate for its presidency. He agreed, and soon both he and his wife Gail were feeling the call of God. Years later he wrote, "The books we read, the conversations we held, the prayers we prayed, the voice of God we heard in our souls - everything pointed to my getting this position. We felt God was saying, 'This is going to happen.'"
Then it didn't happen. MacDonald didn't get the job, and the ground came out from under his feet. He wrote, "At a subterranean level, I told God, 'You've made a perfect fool out of me. You drew me to the finish line and said, 'I'm sorry.' I no longer know your language. You speak a different language than I've been trained to understand.' I was questioning God, something I had never really done. I doubted whether it was possible to hear God speak."
In the aftermath of his meltdown MacDonald cheated on his wife, likewise joining that foul host of disgraced clergymen who have devastated their churches and brought shame on the name of Christ.
Though MacDonald came to doubt whether it was possible to hear God speak, in fact that is something none of us should ever doubt. God does speak. He says things like "Do not commit adultery," and "Be not drunk with wine" and "Rejoice evermore" and "Love the Lord your God." It's all there at our finger-tips in our readily accessible Bibles. As for whether God might also speak to us directly, outside the Bible, well, I don't deny that it is possible. I think it even happened to me once. Just once. But people who think it happens to them all the time, every day, might do well to consider the fact that the Bible records God giving a direct message to the Apostle Paul only four times in his whole life! (Acts 9:4-6; 18:9-10; 22:17-21; and 27:23-26.) Elsewhere Paul speaks humbly, saying for example to Philemon: "Perhaps the reason he [Onesimus] was separated from you for a little while was that you might have him back for good" (Philemon 15). Note the "perhaps" in that sentence - not "God has said" or "God told me" – but very quietly, tentatively, "perhaps". Only God knows for sure.
Many Christians need to learn to start saying "perhaps" when their gut and their training and their evangelical culture are all tempting them to say, "Listen to what God told me."
Christians ought not to say that God has spoken to them when what they really mean is that they have a strong gut feeling. This common evangelical practice of interpreting an emotional tug as the voice of God is sinful and shameful and must stop.
Case in point: the resignation four weeks ago of Willow Creek's Chicago Campus pastor, Steve Wu. Wu came to WC Chicago in 2006 after being tabbed by WC's Senior Pastor Bill Hybels. As reported in a church press release at the time, "As soon as Hybels met Wu, he said he knew God had spoken." Interim pastor Jeff Small concurred: "There's this huge confirmation in my spirit that not only is he the right guy, he's God's man for the job." Wu himself agreed: "Wu said he felt the tap of the Holy Spirit and knew God was calling him to Chicago."
Now that Wu has resigned because of sexual sin, joining that foul host of disgraced clergymen who have devastated their churches and brought shame on the name of Christ, what are we to make of Hybel's, Small's and Wu's statements just three years ago to the effect that "God had spoken"? Simply this: they were all wrong. God had not spoken. Wu was not God's man for the job. There was no tap of the Holy Spirit.
Years ago a church that I attended hired an associate pastor, and there was plenty of "God-talk" at his installation. God had directed the church to call him, God had moved in his heart to accept the call, God had brought him to the church to accomplish good things. Then he got fired 18 months later. I was never particularly fond of this minister, and for all I know his firing was just - but I recall wondering at the time, "What in the world happened to all those things God assured us of when we hired him?"
Our problem in the evangelical sub-culture is that we have a sinful, scandalous, seldom-acknowledged habit of speaking presumptuously in the name of the Lord. This is an abomination that many sincere believers fall into, in part because they have been trained to think (in unbiblical terms) of "having a relationship with Jesus Christ," and have learned the simple trick of crafting a dialogue in their heads and labeling one of the voices "God." When such people tell us what God has told them, I believe it becomes our duty to remember it, and apply when applicable the test of Deuteronomy 18:21-22: "You may say to yourselves, 'How can we know when a message has not been spoken by the Lord?' If what a prophet proclaims in the name of the Lord does not take place or come true, that is a message the Lord has not spoken. That prophet has spoken presumptuously. Do not be afraid of him." Not only ought we not fear those whose God-talk proves false, we probably should not waste a lot of time listening to them either.
Back in 2003 a sincere fellow pastor wrote some God-talk into my installation vows, and I respectfully insisted that he take it out. I can't remember exactly what the words were - something about knowing that God was going to use me to serve the church. I explained to him that I didn't even know for sure that I would be alive, or that Jesus wouldn't return, 10 minutes from now! Since God hadn't told me that much, how could I dare say confident things about a future he had not seen fit to reveal?
Something very instructive may be learned from the tragic case of pastor and author Gordon MacDonald. In 1984 MacDonald was contacted by an international Christian organization and asked if he would be willing to be a candidate for its presidency. He agreed, and soon both he and his wife Gail were feeling the call of God. Years later he wrote, "The books we read, the conversations we held, the prayers we prayed, the voice of God we heard in our souls - everything pointed to my getting this position. We felt God was saying, 'This is going to happen.'"
Then it didn't happen. MacDonald didn't get the job, and the ground came out from under his feet. He wrote, "At a subterranean level, I told God, 'You've made a perfect fool out of me. You drew me to the finish line and said, 'I'm sorry.' I no longer know your language. You speak a different language than I've been trained to understand.' I was questioning God, something I had never really done. I doubted whether it was possible to hear God speak."
In the aftermath of his meltdown MacDonald cheated on his wife, likewise joining that foul host of disgraced clergymen who have devastated their churches and brought shame on the name of Christ.
Though MacDonald came to doubt whether it was possible to hear God speak, in fact that is something none of us should ever doubt. God does speak. He says things like "Do not commit adultery," and "Be not drunk with wine" and "Rejoice evermore" and "Love the Lord your God." It's all there at our finger-tips in our readily accessible Bibles. As for whether God might also speak to us directly, outside the Bible, well, I don't deny that it is possible. I think it even happened to me once. Just once. But people who think it happens to them all the time, every day, might do well to consider the fact that the Bible records God giving a direct message to the Apostle Paul only four times in his whole life! (Acts 9:4-6; 18:9-10; 22:17-21; and 27:23-26.) Elsewhere Paul speaks humbly, saying for example to Philemon: "Perhaps the reason he [Onesimus] was separated from you for a little while was that you might have him back for good" (Philemon 15). Note the "perhaps" in that sentence - not "God has said" or "God told me" – but very quietly, tentatively, "perhaps". Only God knows for sure.
Many Christians need to learn to start saying "perhaps" when their gut and their training and their evangelical culture are all tempting them to say, "Listen to what God told me."
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
February 17, 2009: "Men Are Jerks!" And Other Valid Complaints And How To Deal With Them
As I fretted last week about what to say in a seminar for single parents, a friend sent me an encouraging note. He said that in the Divorce Recovery class he leads he saw two unlikely women help out a third. The two were dumped by their alcoholic husbands after more than 25 years of marriage. "Of course, they're mad and complain about a lot of things," my friend said. But when a quiet newcomer, also in her 50s - also abandoned by a drunken beast - spoke up, floundering, saying she was not certain what she should do or how she should feel, the two veterans went into action. They comforted her, assuring her that things would get better, that her emotions would stabilize, that the group would be there for her.
My friend noted, "These two 'once-complainers' now saw someone experiencing a pain similar to their own, and suddenly they're jolted out of their self-pity, and began to reach out to another."
I enjoyed hearing that. It prompted me to think that even if what I had to say at the upcoming seminar was not all that compelling or helpful, it would still be worthwhile if it could just serve to bring together people who might help each other.
It also prompted me to consider a prayer request that I think I'll recommend now to people who complain. It's this: "Lord, give me somebody to minister to." That might be better than asking the Lord to resolve whatever problem is causing the complaint. Because even if God removed the source of our trouble, all that would do is bring us back to zero. If the Lord had taken the "thorn" out of St. Paul's side (2 Corinthians 12:7-9), Paul would simply have been thornlessly normal. But his thorny aggravation (about which he complained to the Lord just three times!) became a source of great ministry.
May the Lord do the same for all those thorns of ours that he refuses to take out. If the only thing they're accomplishing now is making us complain, they're not doing their job.
King Lemuel wrote, "Give...wine to those who are in anguish" (Proverbs 31:6). I've got another idea. Give to those who are in anguish other people who are also in anguish. Maybe they'll stop groaning long enough to help out. That would be nice for everybody.
As I fretted last week about what to say in a seminar for single parents, a friend sent me an encouraging note. He said that in the Divorce Recovery class he leads he saw two unlikely women help out a third. The two were dumped by their alcoholic husbands after more than 25 years of marriage. "Of course, they're mad and complain about a lot of things," my friend said. But when a quiet newcomer, also in her 50s - also abandoned by a drunken beast - spoke up, floundering, saying she was not certain what she should do or how she should feel, the two veterans went into action. They comforted her, assuring her that things would get better, that her emotions would stabilize, that the group would be there for her.
My friend noted, "These two 'once-complainers' now saw someone experiencing a pain similar to their own, and suddenly they're jolted out of their self-pity, and began to reach out to another."
I enjoyed hearing that. It prompted me to think that even if what I had to say at the upcoming seminar was not all that compelling or helpful, it would still be worthwhile if it could just serve to bring together people who might help each other.
It also prompted me to consider a prayer request that I think I'll recommend now to people who complain. It's this: "Lord, give me somebody to minister to." That might be better than asking the Lord to resolve whatever problem is causing the complaint. Because even if God removed the source of our trouble, all that would do is bring us back to zero. If the Lord had taken the "thorn" out of St. Paul's side (2 Corinthians 12:7-9), Paul would simply have been thornlessly normal. But his thorny aggravation (about which he complained to the Lord just three times!) became a source of great ministry.
May the Lord do the same for all those thorns of ours that he refuses to take out. If the only thing they're accomplishing now is making us complain, they're not doing their job.
King Lemuel wrote, "Give...wine to those who are in anguish" (Proverbs 31:6). I've got another idea. Give to those who are in anguish other people who are also in anguish. Maybe they'll stop groaning long enough to help out. That would be nice for everybody.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
February 3, 2009: "I Need Somebody To Thank"
The other day I read of a most intriguing ritual practiced by a nonreligious person. A parent wrote, "We are an atheist family, but having grown up with a prayer before each meal, I started to miss the ritual, especially once we had kids. It felt as if there was something missing, and I wanted to commence the meal with something, so now we do 'thankfuls.' Everyone (including children) states something for which they are thankful. This custom is very well received and enjoyed by all types of guests, and seems to satisfy the need to begin a meal giving 'thanks.'"
Remarkable! It seems that even a professing atheist can't stifle the urge to thank somebody. I wonder what will happen in that home when some small child finally asks, "Just who are we thanking here?", because true thankfulness always demands a personal object. When you thank, you are not merely expressing a delight, but honoring someone for having given it to you. "Thanking" is the mirror image of "forgiving" in this regard: when you forgive, you release someone from a grievance; when you thank, you credit someone for a joy.
When the child in the nonreligious home dares to ask who is being thanked, maybe there will be an awkward pause before the parent explains, "Uh, well, no one in particular, dear - but we are still very appreciative of the blessings of Nonentity. It is altogether fitting and proper that we show gratitude to the Nothingness that provided this meal and all other joys."
We have to thank Somebody. It is in our nature, and it will even bubble out of us when we forget to suppress it. Remember what Augustine said about our hearts being "restless" until they find their rest in God? It is also the case that our hearts are grateful, and feel uneasy until they can release heavenward some expression of thanksgiving.
Charles Colson found that out in 1966, seven full years before he became a Christian. In his book Born Again he tells the story of taking his sons out on a sailboat he had just bought. He writes,
As [my son] realized that he was controlling the boat, the most marvelous look came over his cherubic face, the joy of new discovery in his eyes, the thrill of feeling the wind's power in his hands. I found myself in that one unforgettable moment quietly talking to God. I could even recall the precise words: "Thank You, God, for giving me this son, for giving us this one wonderful moment. Just looking now into this boy's eyes fulfills my life. Whatever happens in the future, even if I die tomorrow, my life is complete and full. Thank You." Afterwards, I had been startled when I realized that I had spoken to God, since my mind did not assent to His existence as a Person. It had been a spontaneous expression of gratitude that simply bypassed the mind and took for granted what reason had never shown me.
I know I've had plenty of those Colsonic moments of gratitude, and suppose everyone gets them. Don't you? So, so many times as a young man, enjoying the company of my wife, I said in my heart, "Oh thank you God." Or now, when the house is cold and I'm exhausted and I slip under the cover a thick sleeping-bag and know that slumber is moments away, I say, "Thank you God for this warm bed." (What a delight is simple sleep!). Or a big pile of chocolate cake and ice cream. "Mmmm. Thanks, God."
I feel sorry for appreciative atheists, because it seems to me that they are like an athlete with no sport to play, a reader with no books, a lover with no partner. When I want to give thanks, I know exactly where to send it: I thank the Creator of all things, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the Father of Jesus Christ, the Giver of the Holy Spirit, the One for whom, through whom and to whom are all things, blessed be he forever.
I hope the thankful atheist family keep up their habit of saying ironic grace before every meal. Someday, to their shock and joy, they may come to believe that all along there had been Someone listening to their thanks, and responding, "Oh, you're welcome."
The other day I read of a most intriguing ritual practiced by a nonreligious person. A parent wrote, "We are an atheist family, but having grown up with a prayer before each meal, I started to miss the ritual, especially once we had kids. It felt as if there was something missing, and I wanted to commence the meal with something, so now we do 'thankfuls.' Everyone (including children) states something for which they are thankful. This custom is very well received and enjoyed by all types of guests, and seems to satisfy the need to begin a meal giving 'thanks.'"
Remarkable! It seems that even a professing atheist can't stifle the urge to thank somebody. I wonder what will happen in that home when some small child finally asks, "Just who are we thanking here?", because true thankfulness always demands a personal object. When you thank, you are not merely expressing a delight, but honoring someone for having given it to you. "Thanking" is the mirror image of "forgiving" in this regard: when you forgive, you release someone from a grievance; when you thank, you credit someone for a joy.
When the child in the nonreligious home dares to ask who is being thanked, maybe there will be an awkward pause before the parent explains, "Uh, well, no one in particular, dear - but we are still very appreciative of the blessings of Nonentity. It is altogether fitting and proper that we show gratitude to the Nothingness that provided this meal and all other joys."
We have to thank Somebody. It is in our nature, and it will even bubble out of us when we forget to suppress it. Remember what Augustine said about our hearts being "restless" until they find their rest in God? It is also the case that our hearts are grateful, and feel uneasy until they can release heavenward some expression of thanksgiving.
Charles Colson found that out in 1966, seven full years before he became a Christian. In his book Born Again he tells the story of taking his sons out on a sailboat he had just bought. He writes,
As [my son] realized that he was controlling the boat, the most marvelous look came over his cherubic face, the joy of new discovery in his eyes, the thrill of feeling the wind's power in his hands. I found myself in that one unforgettable moment quietly talking to God. I could even recall the precise words: "Thank You, God, for giving me this son, for giving us this one wonderful moment. Just looking now into this boy's eyes fulfills my life. Whatever happens in the future, even if I die tomorrow, my life is complete and full. Thank You." Afterwards, I had been startled when I realized that I had spoken to God, since my mind did not assent to His existence as a Person. It had been a spontaneous expression of gratitude that simply bypassed the mind and took for granted what reason had never shown me.
I know I've had plenty of those Colsonic moments of gratitude, and suppose everyone gets them. Don't you? So, so many times as a young man, enjoying the company of my wife, I said in my heart, "Oh thank you God." Or now, when the house is cold and I'm exhausted and I slip under the cover a thick sleeping-bag and know that slumber is moments away, I say, "Thank you God for this warm bed." (What a delight is simple sleep!). Or a big pile of chocolate cake and ice cream. "Mmmm. Thanks, God."
I feel sorry for appreciative atheists, because it seems to me that they are like an athlete with no sport to play, a reader with no books, a lover with no partner. When I want to give thanks, I know exactly where to send it: I thank the Creator of all things, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the Father of Jesus Christ, the Giver of the Holy Spirit, the One for whom, through whom and to whom are all things, blessed be he forever.
I hope the thankful atheist family keep up their habit of saying ironic grace before every meal. Someday, to their shock and joy, they may come to believe that all along there had been Someone listening to their thanks, and responding, "Oh, you're welcome."
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