It's What You Make or It's Up to Fate

First things first, credit where it's due:  Like most of my supposedly clever or original thoughts, the title of this article is not even my own.  Maybe I just have an ear for life's bumper stickers.  The phrase is from a song by Imagine Dragons, but I couldn't find a better way to introduce the thought than with these words.  And it's not really a grounded thought so much as a question, the answer to which continually eludes me.  So I guess these musings will have to serve.

Please pardon my ramblings as I wax philosophical for just a minute.  When a child is at play and something doesn't go his way, he is likely to complain.  "Mommy, I can't go outside and play because it's raining."  "Daddy, I don't want to go over to Sam's house because he doesn't have many toys."  In response to these, a typical parental response would be to tell the child that he can't have everything his way, and that it's up to him to make the best of the situation.  "You can't decide what happens in life, but you CAN choose how to respond to it."  Sound advice, right?  I'd agree. 

Now consider this.  A woman is going through a dark season of struggle.  Possibly she's lost a loved one or her family is being torn apart for reasons she cannot even begin to understand.  Life seems to be spiraling downward, out of control, and no matter how hard she prays or how closely she clings to her faith, she can do nothing to change her circumstances.  She is being strengthened and refined through this fire, and the central theme most commonly taught is to "Let Go and Let God."  He is the one in control as she learns to trust in His perfect plan for her life.

  

Let me be clear:  I'm not attempting to advocate either of these particular viewpoints; I'm simply stating what I have observed.  And what I've come to see is that these truths, taught to us from such an early age and so seamlessly intertwined, are fundamentally very DIFFERENT.  You'll notice I didn't say MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE.  In the first case the main thrust is that I am the one responsible, and in the second case it is God.  So which is it?  Barring opening up Pandora's Box to a full-fledged debate on free will (my goal is not to stoke that fire), I think it is important for us to recognize the subtleties of the messages we sometimes send without questioning their sources.  This is especially the case when the messages, as well-intentioned as they may be, contradict one another.

I realize that I’m tip-toeing across some pretty hallowed ground, and to mine its greatest treasures would require more tools than my own rusty shovel and pick-axe.  God seems to illuminate just enough for me to take the next step (hardly even that, sometimes), so to scratch the surface of how exactly those steps are governed is enough to send the mind reeling.  Yet not all ground must be shaky.  God's hand is guiding, and He is much more than an abstract force reigning thunder for some remote corner of the universe.  He is living, loving, and active in the lives of each of His creatures, and joyful obedience is my natural response to such undeserved affection.  On this truth, at least, I can rest.      

Hopefully that is enough of the nuts and bolts—for now.

Cotton Candy for My Ears

I'm sitting in a car on the side of the road near Hebron, North Dakota.  The temperature is slowly creeping towards the record 105 heat index predicted for today.  The asphalt trucks have stopped for now, so I get a quick break from the heat.  They're paving highway 139 in Morton County, and I drew the short straw landing a two-week stint in the prairielands of western North Dakota.  But that's not important right now.

I'm tuned in to 92.9, “Y93 the Hits,” letting the hooks that blare across the airwaves sink deeper into my cerebral places.  I know they're deep because they stay even after the radio is off, cooing and crooning those irresistibly catchy melodies until I'm reduced to pre-pubescensce, singing along with Justin Bieber at the top of my lungs about how I would treat you if I was your boyfriend, babe’.  And you know what? I love it.

Here's the thing... I like to think of myself as a somewhat level-headed, rational, well-educated human being with a penchant for life's deeper mysteries.  And everything about these tunes seems to feed the superficiality and instant gratification of the insatiable masses.  How shallow does that make me?

Not to plumb the depths of the treasures hidden within the deepest recesses of pop music, but at least hear me out.  There is a reason that people--en masse--react so similarly in such great numbers to particular voices.  In essence, there is a reason that things become popular.  Though these reasons are many and the sea of intangibles vast, there is a universality hidden (you don't have to dig too deep) beneath the surface that makes these shared experiences--so often at the heart of pop culture--cry out to us.  Is there truth here?  Absolutely.

We all want to be loved, and we all feel anger and pain when that love is lost.  We are all trying to find our identity; our purpose...and our very bones scream for meaning.  It's an uphill battle; two steps forward and one step back; life knocks you down, and you get back up again; love hurts... and all of those other laughable bumper sticker cliches that we come to find weren't actually too far off.

In the immortal words of Miley Cyrus: 

"Every step I'm taking
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking

But I gotta keep trying
Gotta keep my head held high."

There is truly unspeakable comfort in knowing that we are not alone on our journey.

Now don't get me wrong. There is art and there is trash, and opening our minds to a full-frontal sensory assault of hedonism is deadly.  Life does have levels...or maybe it would be better to think of them as layers; unfounded hierarchy really has no legitimate king.  Believe it or not, though, I agree:  There are better things to be concerned with than trying to determine who let the dogs out.

I'm just saying, the human experience is universal, and none the less real because it comes from common, sometimes inarticulate lips.

Shoot the Wounded

In Francis Schaeffer’s “The Mark of a Christian,” he puts forth one of those novel ideas that at once seems so profound yet simple; something I’ve known but never put into words.  The thought is that Christians, more so than members of other religious groups, have a pattern of shooting their wounded. 

This is a difficult pill to swallow, and most feel their defenses rising against such a contention. I number myself among this group. How many brothers and sisters in the faith do I interact with on a regular basis, encouraging, lifting up, and praying for in their battles?  The members of my Bible Study and Church are people I’ve known for years, always ready with a smile and firm, assuring handshake as they ask sincere and caring questions about my life, its direction, and even the deepest longings of my soul.  Many have laid hands upon one another in times of crisis, bonding over the shared vulnerability that such a tumultuous season creates.  How is it, then, that loving members of the Body are said to kick one another when they’re down, so to speak?  It is possible, even likely, that the experiences of others have differed greatly from mine…but I think one would be hard-pressed to find a brother who doesn’t believe he has an attitude of loving-kindness toward fellow believers.

As with most sin, the twist is subtle; distorted monstrosities are not usually effective means of deception.  Pride, that leprous appendage of self, burrows its way in and leeches the truth from my mind.  On the most practical, daily home front of my existence—because that is where the real war is waged—when I see a fellow believer struggling, particularly in a capacity I know they have been warned against, there is a haughtiness that tends to arise.  Even as I see and commit to pray, the words that pour forth and the attitude conveyed are not often those of a heart broken for a fellow sufferer.  And here’s the thing:  Even when I recognize the ugliness within myself for what it is, I don’t always rush to crush it.  I cling to it.  I cleave.  Sometimes I even revel in it.  All the while one of God’s precious lambs is bleeding, and Heaven weeps. 

My carnal need to feel superior trumps any desire to reach out a hand, or at least a healing hand.  How perilous a path we tread when the first place we run to is our tinted glass perches.  Life is too short and much too precious for that.

“By this all people will know that you are my disciples, IF YOU HAVE LOVE FOR ONE ANOTHER.”  (John 12:35, emphasis mine).

Father forgive us.

Grazing the Infinite

Mundane. How does such a word sneak into the English dictionary? Does it have any true meaning? Every theory needs a hypothesis. I'm going to argue the negative on this one.

Maybe I'm stepping out on a limb, but I don't think I could lead my life in a way that allows and even calls for many of my words and actions to go forth void. What I mean is that every turn I take and every exchange I have has the potential for something eternal. I have to believe this. Not because I need some sort of emotional security blanket or because of some groundless idealistic belief in the altruistic spirit of humanity. No. From time to time I do deliberately look around, and sometimes I even glance up. Just a glimpse through the keyhole of the life of another makes it abundantly clear that what I do matters on a scale that I cannot begin to comprehend. Those connections and relationships are all important, but what is even more important is believing that the dots are somehow connected. Not just to the point that taking a genuine interest in my neighbor will bring light to unexpected places, possibly triggering some cosmic domino effect. It is rather a sincere trust that, whatever I do and whomever I do it to, the ramifications and cause-and-effect chains that are triggered go beyond the temporal and into realms that cannot be seen. That sounds pretty important.

So when I hear (more often than not in the timbre of my own voice) of the routine and monotony of the daily grind, I wrestle within myself. There are mountaintops and there are valleys; but roller coasters that go up eventually come back down, usually at an alarming rate. It is such a simple truth, though so slippery, that I am inherently valuable, loved, and worthy to hold the hands of another as dirty as mine.

I will not go for glamour. I do not think that I am supposed to. But that doesn't mean the screenplay of my life needs to be devoid of the dramatic, important, and amazing aspects of the simple human experience.

Even I am a fan of PBS.

Home

The iron gate slammed home as we made our way into the holding cells on death row at Angola State Penitentiary.  The echo through the hall was the only sound as we each wrestled within our own prison of thoughts and trepidations.  Thousands of miles from the comforts of suburbia and a week into the adventure I’d so earnestly sought, second thoughts quickly turned to thirds and fourths.  How different, how utterly contrasting were these base and stark surroundings from the bedazzled posters advertising a trip to Louisiana for spring break.  As with any new experience, anxieties over new relationships and transitioning to a different, though short-lived, way of life (e.g. waking up in a supposed prison safehouse to find a life-sentence inmate sweeping the floor next to your bunk) stretched and twisted each in uncomfortable new directions.  As with any.  But this, what was this?  No, no, I’m not going to just stretch and twist…I’m going yank and snap you in two.  Those sound like the words of an all-loving, personal, sovereign God, right?  But it wasn’t about me.

The ice-breakers I’d memorized and the briefing we’d just been given turned to soup in my mind as a buzzer ushered us into the passageway.  Reluctantly, my feet began to move forward as I gazed timidly through the bars and into the eyes of the outcasts of this world.  I moved slowly, not wanting to be alone but joining in here and there as those with more proficient tongues than I made their way into the lives of these prisoners.  A friendly smile, perhaps a word or two of encouragement as I grappled for some common ground were the best I could offer most of these men.  I continued on my own, finding a cell that had eluded the attention of the others.  As I peered into the darkness a strong, set black face looked fiercely back at mine.  I cannot remember his name.  I cannot remember what we said.  What I recall without hesitation was the way his weathered hands reached through the bars and found mine as he asked if he could pray for me.  The sincerity in the eyes of one condemned to death is not something that can be spoken or justified; it does not need to be.  And true faith in one of the darkest places imaginable has things written all over it that I cannot begin to touch. 

How beautiful the mystery, and how loudly does Heaven sing.                         

A Hawk and Two Eagles

I saw two eagles and a hawk in the field.

Driving home past evergreens and snow-crusted fields of the wild Northlands I stumbled into a Terry Redlin painting. As my car broke through a sentry of pine trees lining MN Highway 200 in Norman County, I did a double -take at the scene unfolding before me. There were two bald eagles, of that I am sure, working on some recent road kill a few hundred feet off of the highway. The third seemed to most-closely resemble a hawk of sorts. As I hit my brakes and came to a halt on the otherwise-deserted stretch of road, the creatures took flight and began to circle overhead. Anyone with even a little exposure to the birds in this area knows how rare it is to even catch a glimpse of one. So to encounter two bald eagles within a stone's throw in the same place on the same day is truly something amazing.

The view was only mine for a few precious minutes, quickly fleeting at my feeble attempts to turn it into something tangible. Yet it was there. And it was beautiful. I'm never really sure what to do with moments like this, even as answers to prayers. Is it supposed to be some profound metaphor for my life, where I am at, or where I am going? Am I to someday soar as an eagle? Or maybe it was intended to reveal God's character through the majesty of nature?

I don't know...and I don't know. But I do know I am thankful. And I do think that it is OK just to trust. Even if for now that means simply reveling in the mysterious beauty of His creation.

The HOW

Passion. Love. Fulfillment. Strong words, but words people use on a daily basis to describe their lives and what they’re going after.

“I love my job.”

“I really can’t see myself doing anything else.”

“This is just my passion.”

“I am so grateful that I get to spend time doing this. God has laid it on my heart and I am just so lucky to be able to find some element of fulfillment in what I do.”

These are all about the WHAT and not the HOW. They directly describe WHAT is being done and how this is able to bring about some degree of peace. Yet this is different, in a sense, from what we (or at least I) was raised to believe.

Isn’t it possible to be truly satisfied in life as a Christian no matter your field or profession? Isn’t Christ’s sacrifice and the continual intercession of the Holy Spirit on my behalf enough to bring about that “peace that surpasses all understanding”? Isn’t it about HOW my steps are ordered as I immerse myself in the Word, trusting that He will open doors and work through me to plant the seeds…WHOEVER I come into contact with and WHATEVER my circumstances. Or did Gandalf speak in vain: “But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

This isn’t Sunday School. Answers like “Well, I guess it’s probably a little of both” or “God knows the heart” are unhelpful and superficial here. There has to be firmer ground. It might be possible that something has been overlooked. Maybe it isn’t just about the HOW. Maybe there is a deeper calling to which I am accountable and which utilizes my gifts, talents, and passions in a way that not only brings glory to my Father but leads to fulfillment in my life as well. I’m not talking about some single, mystical path that I need to tread carefully lest I slip and and somehow thwart God’s plan. I’m not that arrogant. What I am speaking of, though, is a specific lot in life in which I am able to thrive and for which it is OK to hope.

CALLING might be too strong of a word, but not by much. Would the Apostle Paul have touched people if he had been a merchant or a weaver? Without a doubt. Would he have been as passionate and fulfilled as he clearly was in living his life as a zealous ambassador of the Gospel (granted, you can be this anywhere but he lived SPECIFICALLY as a missionary)? I tend to think not.

There is hope and pregnant potential right there within all of us. For some it’s just below the surface and for others it may be buried. Wounds cut deep and we tear off the scabs again and again before we allow any real healing to take place. But our God is relentless. And I know he wants more for us.

He’s just got to.