A Work in Progress

I remember hearing my pastor in San Diego talk about the deaths of the apostles a while back. He said that except for John, they were all martyred. And since my memory is like swiss cheese, I had to look it up…Google is decidedly awesome…

“The Deaths of the Apostles

Matthew suffered martyrdom in Ethopia, killed by a sword wound.

Mark died in Alexandria, Egypt, dragged by horses through the streets until he was dead.

Luke was hanged in Greece as a result of his tremendous preaching to the lost.

John was boiled in a huge basin of boiling oil during a wave of persecution in Rome. However, he was miraculously delivered from death. John was then sentenced to the mines on the prison island of Patmos where he wrote his prophetic Book of Revelation. The Apostle John was later freed and returned to serve as a bishop in modern Turkey. He died an old man, the only Apostle to die peacefully.

Peter,was crucified upside down on an x-shaped cross, according to Church tradition, because he told his tormentors that he felt unworthy to die the same way that Jesus Christ had died.

James the Just, the leader of the Church in Jerusalem and brother of Jesus, was thrown down more than a hundred feet from the southeast pinnacle of the Temple when he refused to deny his faith in Christ. When they discovered that he survived the fall, his enemies beat James to death with a fuller’s club. This was the same pinnacle where Satan had taken Jesus during the Temptation.

James the Greater, a son of Zebedee, was a fisherman by trade when Jesus called him to a lifetime of ministry. As a strong leader of the Church, James was ultimately beheaded at Jerusalem. The Roman soldier who guarded James watched amazed as James defended his faith at his trial. Later, the officer walked beside James to the place of execution. Overcome by conviction, he declared his new faith to the judge and knelt beside James to accept beheading as a Christian.

Bartholomew, also known as Nathanael, was a missionary to Asia. He witnessed about our Lord in present day Turkey. He was whipped to death for his preaching in Armenia.

Thomas was speared and died on one of his missionary trips to establish the Church in India.

Jude, another brother of Jesus, was killed with arrows after refusing to deny his faith in Christ.

Matthias, the Apostle chosen to replace the traitor Judas Iscariot, was stoned and beheaded.

Barnabas, one of the group of seventy disciples, was stoned to death at Salonica.

Paul was tortured and then beheaded by the evil Emperor Nero at Rome in A.D. 67. Paul endured a lengthy imprisonment which allowed him to write his many epistles to the Churches he had formed throughout the Roman Empire. These letters, which taught many of the foundational doctrines of Christianity, from a large portion of the New Testament.”

It got me wondering. How far would I go to defend my faith? Would I take a sword to the belly rather than deny Jesus? Would I allow myself to be dragged along behind horses until I was battered and scraped to death? Would I suffer any of those fates for my faith?

The answer, of course, is “I don’t know.” Because I don’t. I’d like to say I would, but the truth is, there’s no way to tell unless something like that actually happens to me. I think of people like Cassie Bernall, hiding out in the library at Columbine, and when confronted by the killers, answered “Yes” to the killers when they asked if she believed in God. They shot her in the face at point blank range.

People say they probably would have killed her anyway, and that may even be true. But she didn’t know that.

My old pastor at Calvary Baptist once told me words to the effect that he hoped for the chance to be a martyr someday. So he would go on mission trips to places that gave him the best chance for that to happen. That seemed like some kind of crazy at the time, but now I wonder. Is it a bad thing to want the chance to pay the ultimate price for your faith?

Jesus did it for us.

No answers today, but the little gears in my head are turning. Just coming off a very long night of driving a truck around in the dark, following dogs. Just take a moment to think about what your faith means to you, and what you would do for Jesus.

How far would you go?

I have to admit something right now.

There are some people out there (and some of them might even know who they are) I just don’t like very much. I would not go so far as to say I hate anyone, but there are definitely people that really chap my hide. It’s probably like that for anyone—maybe even for everyone.

I never believed that Will Rogers crap for a second. He never met a man he didn’t like? Try driving in California traffic, Will. Or wait behind a snowbird at a green light for five minutes while they try and figure out which pedal is the accelerator.

Maybe there’s a person like that in your life.

Maybe the guy in the next cubicle is a really obnoxious, really profane fellow, and you’re tired of hearing him talk about his weekend activities in a voice loud enough to make sure everyone knows what a pimp he is. Or maybe your boss keeps skipping you for a promotion, and never recognizes what you bring to the table, and the office.

Or it could be something a little different. Maybe it’s not so much thinking that you don’t like someone, but the person in question just pushes your buttons in exactly the right (or wrong) way. Like the person who knocks on your door selling God in a convenient, pamphlet sized package to be read later, when you have the time. Or the homeless man that follows you down the street, begging for change, or food, or the shirt off your back.

It could be a million things, a ton of different scenarios. You know? People just suck sometimes. They’re rude, and annoying, and just need to go away.

Just because that might actually be true from time to time doesn’t change the fact that if I am the person I say I am, and if I’m really trying to be the person I want to be—the person God wants me to be, I have to behave differently.

I remember four or five years ago, a few friends and I went clubbing in downtown San Diego. We’d parked at Horton Plaza, and when we were done doing our thing, we would walk back to the car. On this particular occasion, it was January the 1st or 2nd, and it was pretty cold. I had on this leather jacket my roommate had given me, and on the way back to the parking structure, we saw a couple of homeless guys sleeping along the wall to this one building that looked like it was probably offices during the day. We had to step around them to pass, and as we did, I felt a very strong call from God to give one of the men my jacket. God was even specific about which one—but I didn’t do it. I was cold. I even remember thinking something like “that dirty bastard should just get a freaking job—then he wouldn’t need to be crashing in doorways.”

I don’t think I wore that jacket again after that night, and eventually it found its way to the trunk of my car. Back in 2007, another friend from church was going downtown around Christmas to hand out jackets, sweaters, and blankets to homeless people. I just so happened to have mine in the trunk of my car, and I immediately went out and got it for her to take. Of course, it’s almost impossible it got to the same person, but still…it should have the first time.

Anyway, I’m back from that tangent. Let me begin another. The other night, I was thinking of the following verse after a conversation with my wife and my older son (It made me think not just about how poorly I have treated people that got my large size panties in a bunch, but also about how I have been one of the “least of these” at several points in my life, and I was shown more grace from others than I have ever given):

40″The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’ –Matt 25:40 (in my NIV, the chapter heading mentions “The Sheep and The Goats.”)

And here’s the other thing that occurred to me. No matter how annoying someone is, no matter how much they piss me off, or inconvenience me, no matter how much I dislike them—even if for what seems like a really good reason

Jesus still died for that person, just as much as he died for me. And he also loves them, just like he loves me. So I can longer treat people the way most of the world would tell me to, or how I feel they should be treated.

Dang. The “golden rule” sucks sometimes.

I’ll leave you with another few verses, from Isaiah.

3 He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.
Like one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
4 Surely he took up our infirmities
and carried our sorrows,
yet we considered him stricken by God,
smitten by him, and afflicted.
5 But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” 2 Corinthians 5:17

I’ve read second Corinthians lots of times–next to Romans, I probably read it the most out of everything in the New Testament after the synoptics. It’s a beautiful book, and teaches volumes about healing. And every time I read it, I have to stop and think about the above passage for a good long while. The thing is, aware of my salvation as I am, most days I don’t feel like a new creation. Most days I feel all crudded up by life, and by my own inclination to sin.

For me, part of becoming a Christian–maybe even the largest part–was being made aware of my sin. Prior to that awareness, I thought I was golden because I was a pretty good guy. I was nice to old people and animals. I should be good, shouldn’t I? Nothing to worry about?

At the first church I attended I heard the testimony of a young man who’d been to Bosnia during the war there. He told of riding through a town in a Humvee and shooting at what he thought was a sniper. His shot was true, and he’d killed the person, only to find out it was a youth, with no gun. He’d been punishing himself for what he felt was murder ever since, even though the Army held him blameless. He put his body through all manner of badness before he surrendered his heart to God.

Another man told about how he’d stolen from his children to get money for drugs. He’d sold their toys for a few small rocks. He hadn’t come to Christ until he’d literally lost everything and had been living in a park. He’d then done nearly everything imaginable to get drug money, including burglary, robbery, and assault. He’d stopped short of killing, but not by much.

A woman had been a prostitute for nearly ten years, also a slave to drugs, and had come to Jesus in a detox center.

A man had beaten his 2 year old daughter, and had lost his family because of it. The child had recovered, but his marriage hadn’t. This man found Christ through the love and witness of the church’s pastor.

There were countless stories like this, and I didn’t feel like I could relate to any of them. Still, they made me feel better about myself because I never did anything even remotely like that stuff. I acknowledged my need for a savior, but felt that I had lots of time (and much less work to do to get one) because I was a good and decent guy. God would not condemn someone who was nice, now would he?

For years I thought along those lines….years.

But when I had that experience at the river, when I became aware that I had in fact been (and remained) a sinner, when I asked Jesus to take that burden from me, I was still aware of the person I had been before, even though I wasn’t entirely him anymore.

So even though I knew in my head that I was made new, I did not necessarily feel that way. I still don’t. How can I be new when I feel so old? How can I be clean when it takes steel wool to scrub off my sin?

Here’s the thing I’ve been trying to think about, and remember.

6You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. 7Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. 8But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5: 6-8

So even before I knew him, while I was still wallowing in my filth, while I consoled myself with huge quantities of food, or alcohol, or empty relationships, God loved me just as much in that state of disgrace as he does now in a state of grace, having been forgiven.

Before I existed, He died for me. He could have simply pardoned me, like a governor sparing a convict on death row. He didn’t do that. He assumed the punishment for my guilt, and paid it himself. He walked the green mile for me. And whether I like it or not, whether I accept it or not, I am a new creation.

The old has gone, the new has come.

I was listening to this Brennan Manning sermon the other day, and he had a really good point. He said that until we can accept acceptance, we aren’t really a believer. I think part of my problem is that very thing: it’s hard for me to be accepted. I would convince myself that either my friends did not really accept me as I was, or if they did, once they found out the real me, they would bail like everyone else did. I thought the same thing about Jenny, even after we’d shared our hearts with one another. I just could not get past those feelings for the longest time.

It was much the same with God. I have always had difficulty accepting His acceptance, and His love. No, I don’t deserve it.

The wages of sin is death.

I have it anyway–I have his acceptance. And even if I had not ever seen Him as he desires to be seen, and accepted Him as abba, I would still have his love.

8But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

He died for us.

He died for us.

He died for me.

I am not worthy of Him, nor would anything I could do on earth make me worthier.

Yet I am loved, and because of Jesus, have a place in his kingdom.

Imagine that.

Anyway, I plan to work on being a new creation….and trying to see myself the way God sees me. It’s a continuing mission, and it will never end.

I think of a pearl, lying in a freshly opened oyster, or whatever mollusk pearls come from. All crudded up with sediment, and filth, and layers of built up….junk.

Jesus removes the impure jewel from its shell, resplendent in its rough beauty, dripping with water, tendrils of slime leading back to the shell. He holds it in his hand, ignoring the slime, and layer by layer, peels away the filth, grime, and sediment, until the thing in his hand is no longer rough, but shining.

A pearl of great price.

I heard a question Friday night, and I’m still thinking about it. I was talking to my pastor, and he related part of a conversation he’d had with another pastor regarding ministry.

And the question was this:

“When was the last time you were inconvenienced for Jesus?”

I can’t think of a time when I’ve done something for someone, believer or otherwise, without first considering whether or not I had the time, or the money, or whether or not I liked the person who needed the favor.

I don’t think I’ve allowed myself to be inconvenienced for Jesus.

Why not?

Because even after all I’ve been through, and all the healing I’ve been blessed enough to receive, I’m still self-centered much of the time.

Because it’s all about me.

Not about Him, and not about serving in His name. It’s not about doing things sometimes just because they’re right things, and they need to be done.

It’s about what’s convenient to me, and about what I need.

I hope to have the chance to be inconvenienced again soon.

When was the last time you were inconvenienced for Jesus?

Jenny and I were talking to David on the way home after dinner Saturday night, and it occurred to me once again that I need to do a few things differently if I am to be an example to him of…anything, really. There are a ton of things a boy needs to know before he becomes a man. He will need to know how to treat a woman one day, and it’s my job to show him that. I can tell him all I want, but I also need to show him, and the way I do that is by loving his mother, and treating her (and honoring her) the way Jesus would.

He will need an example of how to be a believer in a fallen world, and it’s my job to show him that, too. He’ll need to know about handling struggle, and hardship, and blessings. If I am the leader of our family I hope to be, then these are all things he (and John) will be looking to me for answers about. And one of the more complex things I’ve been thinking about, and wondering how on earth to explain it to him, is what to do when we mess up. When we turn away from God, willfully. When we know what we should do, and do the exact opposite. It could be for lots of reasons. Maybe we feel we’re entitled to something because life has been a bitch, and we deserve _______. Or who knows why?

But we fall, and we sin, and one day we wonder what to do about it. We wonder if we can go back. We wonder if God will still listen to our entreaties.

I need to show my kids that we’re never so far from God that we can’t turn back toward Him. I need them to know that His love for us is so much greater than our mistakes. And silly as it sounds, I need them to know that I am not some perfect ideal of belief, of faith. I need them to know I’ve fallen, too. That I’ve been light years from God, and that even as far as I’ve been, when I turned back to Him, God was waiting for me.

Last night David and I were reading his bible, and we got to the parables in Luke. We read the parable of the Lost Coin, and the Lost Son. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve read Luke, or the Lost Son Parable in particular. And it still gets me every time.

In David’s bible, the lost son is depicted as a despondent-looking young man in filthy robes, approaching his father with his head down. The father is depicted as smiling, happy, with his arms held wide open to his filthy

17“When he came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! 18I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. 19I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired men.’ 20So he got up and went to his father.
”But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him…”

There are a few books in the bible I’ve read more than once. More that I’ve read several times—and many, unfortunately, that I haven’t read at all. But I keep coming back to Luke; especially, the parables found in Luke 15. I must have read Luke more than a dozen times in the past year. Particularly, the parable of the lost son.

Today, I remembered that I posted about it last year, and it occurred to me to go back and raid my own post. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been feeling like the lost son again of late—the lost son ready to return to my Father.

Lately, I’ve felt like I’ve been wasting away my inheritance. Wasting it with my feeble prayer life and inconsistent discipleship. Wasting it with my poor example to David. Wasting it by not being the strong leader my family needs me to be.

And now, I’m ready to come back to my Father. So again, I turned to my old friend Luke. But maybe it isn’t just me. Who among those who believe has not done the same? Who hasn’t been the lost son? Who hasn’t taken generosity and love for granted? I think of all the times I’ve responded to God in a like manner. Maybe that’s the point, though. At least for me.

Personal conviction. And awareness that I need to repent anew.

Something always strikes me about that parable. Not so much the son’s apparent repentance–to me that smacked of forced contrition, not true remorse. He’s broke, and hungry, and has nowhere else to go. He’s just relating what he’s going to do, not baring his heart, or even seeking forgiveness. He came to his senses, it says, but that’s all. The son could have just been talking about finding a meal at that point.

He’d wasted away his inheritance. There was a famine. Why not return to the source of the inheritance, where the servants fared better than he was at the time?

Certainly, all those things are important. Yet what impacted me most was the father.

His grace toward the son.

The passage mentions that he sees his son when he was still a long way off, so he had to be outside looking for him. Scanning the horizon. Desperate to see his son return. I can see him standing there, shading his eyes with a hand.

Looking.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Not seeing.

Yet every day, looking.

It does not say how long he looked for his son. Only that:

”But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him…”

It kind of makes you think about the shepherd looking for his ONE lost sheep, rather than writing it off because he still has 99. He will pursue the lost one, and he will be filled with Joy when he makes it back home with that one sheep across his shoulders.

That’s the same Joy God feels when we return to the fold.

How he felt when, like the prodigal, I came to my senses. When I stood, looking across the Colorado river with tears running down my face and holes in the knees of my jeans. Was it forced contrition with me? Perhaps in a sense it was. But God did not care how I came back to him—just that I returned.

He felt joy. And scripture also tells us that angels rejoice.

But look again at the father’s reaction upon seeing his son.

“his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him…”

He did not stand waiting with his arms crossed, brow furrowed with displeasure. He did not grudgingly accept a tentative and awkward apology.

He was filled with compassion for his son, and he ran to him.

He ran.

He ran, probably forgoing all semblance of dignity.

He ran, robes flying, probably with arms extended. Running across the field to his lost son.

He ran, and he was filled with compassion.

He ran, and when he got to him at last, he threw his arms around him, and kissed him.

No condemnation, no judgement.

Just love.

He threw him a party, and killed the fatted calf.

Yesterday, I read that passage again and I thought about Jesus scanning the horizon for me, desperate to see me. I thought of him running toward me with his arms outstretched, running across a field to get to me. He’d been waiting for me all the time I’d been holding out, waiting for me to come to him. Waiting for me to come burdened, and afraid, and encumbered by the world.

He waited for me, even though I was not ready. Me, in my dirty robes.
He waited for me with his shepherd’s arms outstretched. He waited for me, in my unclean and starving state—impure in both thought and action.

Me, covered in the filth of my journey home.

Me.

And when he saw me, he could wait no longer.

He ran. And when he finally reached me, he threw his arms around me
and kissed me.

And there was rejoicing in heaven.