Under the Sun

Last day of 2011. I'm in Houston, TX to attend the Generation of Youth for Christ 2011 convention. Somehow, in all the bustle from hotels to meetings, from meetings to meals, from meals to more meetings, it occurs to me that I haven't updated my blog in months and in a couple days...tomorrow...today...this is the last day I can do it this year.

2011. I've never been so glad to see a year end. There is no way to over-emphasize how drastically I have come to loathe the year 2011. Many times I've said I would trade this year in on any other year in the book and not look back; there is nothing to make this year worth the time.

Yet here we are at last; having survived 2011, now we face 2012. I'm bringing it in at a Christian youth conference that stimulates a lot of thought and reflection, and I'm sure, no matter where you are, the realization that one chapter in time is closing and another is opening will give you pause to contemplate as well. We all like to think of it that way--an ending and a beginning; wrapping up the previous and starting fresh. Really, though, no year stands completely alone, unattached on either end, with a stark beginning and finish. It invariably borrows from the previous year some jagged attachments and loans its successor the remnants that remain.

What are you carrying from the old year into the next 365 days that lie ahead? Have you thought about where this year has taken you, what it has changed about you, and what of it 2012 cannot change? That's the thing about this world--old things never quite go away even if you want them to, and new things are never essentially new even if they are new to you. Solomon knew what he was saying when he wrote that there is nothing new under the sun.

So here we dwell, under the sun, the land of repetitious life, where one year blends into the next seamlessly. Despite all our fresh starts, the new leaf we attempt to turn, and the disappointments, pain, and hurt we try to put behind us, life reminds us that each unwanted reminder always hides there in the shadows of this land under the sun. Move on? It will follow. Embrace the new? Don't be surprised if it feels a lot like the old. There is nothing new under the sun.

Before you find this as depressing as I do, look beyond life under the sun. There is One who isn't trapped in this land under the sun, and He holds the power to make all things new. Above the sun He reigns supreme, He holds the past and the future, and He holds the sun and the shadows. Someday soon, maybe before 2012 threads itself into yet another new year, He will visit our land under the sun just to pull us out of this old life and give us a new one.

He promises, "For behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: And the former shall not be remembered or come to mind" (Is. 65:17). A newness that finally eradicates the old; a fresh start without a hint of the pain left behind. Aside from the new heart God promises to give us, the only thing absolutely and totally new we can expect while living here under the sun is the promise that one day, someday soon, our existence under the sun will give way to a new life, in a new land, where there is "no need of the sun...to shine in it, for glory of God illuminated it. The Lamb is its light" (Rev. 21:23).

What are you looking forward to in the New Year? I'm looking forward to a new year, knowing it takes us one year closer to life with the Son, no longer under the sun. Only God can create anything anew, and it is my prayer that the coming year brings you and me both of the only truly new things we can hope for--a new heart, and a new life in a new land not blighted by the curse of the land under the sun. I want to see the first real end--the end of sorrow, sin, and suffering; I want to see an absolutely new beginning.

It will come, if not this year perhaps the next. If not that one, perhaps the one following. But it will come. We will hear with John the long waited for announcement, "It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End" (Rev. 21:6)

Red-Light Syndrome

Some people text at red lights. Others mutter impatiently under their breath, look for something under the passenger seat, or pass along ageless wisdom to the kids in the back seat, such as “The more you ask ‘Are we there yet,’ the longer it will take us to get there.” The list of possibilities is endless.

My own personal stop light pastime is watching the other vehicles and their drivers around me. This, which I have discovered is also a common pastime for others at red lights, has yielded other observations of dubious relevance and led me to believe that one could learn a great deal about humans simply by analyzing our driving habits (and I am not solely referencing their ability to reveal those with anger issues).

I was spending a blazing hot summer day in Springfield behind a red light. Actually, not the whole day, but clearly everyone else wasn’t as at peace with the A/C blasting and music flowing while they waited for the light to change. I watched the lane of traffic stopped to my right as the car behind the first car in line rolled forward, closer to the other’s bumper. Looking up at the light, I noted that it was nowhere near our turn; I glanced back at the right lane. Behind the second car, the third car rolled up a few feet as well. Not to be outdone, the car behind it immediately moved up as well.

The car in front of me rolled forward. I almost let off the brake. By this time it had occurred to me that this rolling-forward-at-stop-lights phenomenon had never occurred to me before. Somehow I never really paid attention to it—I just tended to roll forward too. Now I was puzzled as to why, since it struck me as completely illogical.

Why roll forward? It won’t get you through the light any faster. In fact, closing the distance between your car and the one in front could be a really bad idea if a car coming up to the light happened to rear-end you…and there goes the bumper of the car ahead of you. I really can’t think of any good reason to roll forward at a red light, and yet most of us do it. Consistently.

Apparently there is a good reason that Jesus is called the Good Shepherd, making those following Him His "sheep," like the woolly little creatures that follow almost unquestioningly. We have some nagging, innate need to follow after what we see. Whether that means following the example of the cars around us at a red light, getting an iPhone, pretending to hate Justin Bieber, or whatever else is currently the popular thing to do. Even a group of the most anti-conventional rebels might as well be carrying a banner declaring, "Let's be different--together!" The urge to follow something or something is almost impossible to resist, and while many are eager to stand out, most are reluctant to stand alone.

The question, then, isn't so much if you will be a follower. The question is what will you follow. You can follow what you see, what is popular, or what is familiar. You can follow what is wrong, what is right, what you're unsure of. You can follow the world or Christ.

Whatever you follow, remember the Red-Light Syndrome--when you follow something, the ripple of your influence makes you as much a leader as a follower. If you move forward, chances are that others will follow your example as well...and that doesn't just apply to red lights.

Our Deepest Fear

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,
gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine, as children do.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us.
It is not just in some; it is in everyone.

And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give
other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our fear,
our presence automatically liberates others.

~Marianne Williamson

I like this quote; it's very poetic. That’s not what I like about it though, since I don’t enjoy most poetry. I like this quote because it’s one of those sappy, inspirational quotes that begs for mutilation, which I am happy to provide. Really, I mean no disrespect to the author, or anyone getting warm fuzzies from reading her quote, but the premise is flawed at the most basic level and then a few decent ideas get thrown in the mix on top for a cheap finish.

From a religious standpoint, however, I have an issue with it for more than just its lack of logic. The illogical premise of the poem by itself should render the quote nonsense, but the way it’s twisted with seemingly wholesome, motivational Christian sentiment makes it downright dangerous. The underlying fallacy is a sinister one because it is shrouded in more warm fuzzies than a Johnson & Johnson cotton swab factory. After all, who didn’t find it inspirational when film writers included in the script for Akeelah and the Bee?

First, though, think about the opening line: Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Just think about it for two minutes and define for yourself what makes you afraid of anything. To find that root of your fear, it might help to consider what, if it were changed, could eliminate that fear.

The bottom line is: our deepest fear is inadequacy. A fear of inadequacy is at the root of every fear, without exception; it underlies any phobia you can think of. Seriously, is it even possible for you to be afraid of something if you feel competent to handle it? Without being at all presumptuous, I think I can say that you can’t find a single instance where you were afraid of something without feeling inadequate in some way. The fear of inadequacy in coping with any given situation is fundamental to every fear, making it our deepest fear.

If we fear being powerful beyond measure, it is because we fear being inadequate to control our own strength. If we are afraid of our light, it is because we feel inadequate to know how to use it. If we are afraid to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented or fabulous, it is because we doubt our ability to manage it. If we are afraid of anything positive, it is just as much because there is an underlying inadequacy as when we fear failure. There is never a need to fear unless one feels an inadequacy of some sort.

So what could remove your fear? Anything you think of that even theoretically could remove the fear is probably something to compensate for an inadequacy: a gun to protect against those more powerful than you are physically, a photographic memory to retain everything you studied for a test, social skills to keep you from making enemies among those envious of your abilities…the list goes on. I don’t know what world Marianne Williamson lives in, but on Planet Earth, fear means being filled with apprehension, intimidated by something you don’t have the ability to control. Inadequacy.

This, I think, is why the Bible says "Perfect love casts out all fear..." and "God is love." Therefore God, being omnipotent and without any inadequacies, is the only One who can displace fear. While He, love personified, lives in our hearts, His strength defies our inadequacies.

Ms. Williamson says that “We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us. It is not just in some; it is in everyone.”  She goes on to say that this glory, “our own light,” then liberates ourselves and others from our fear.

If God, being love, is what casts out all fear, there is something amiss in the notion that this “glory of God…is not just in some; it is in everyone.” Does God—His perfect love—abide in everyone? Or is she saying there is something God-like in everyone, the innate compensation for any inadequacy, which means we have no inadequacy to fear? I hope I don’t have to point out the New Age leanings of this idea.

The sentiment certainly tends toward some feel-good, motivational, “the light is within you” philosophy; but the premise is bogus because we are inadequate. We are human, not divine. We are weak, lacking, insufficient in more aspects than most of us want to admit, and therefore we fear. To pretend that we have no fear of inadequacy is a farce, and more likely to get us into dangerous or embarrassing situations than actually empower us.

I’m not preaching defeatism, don’t misunderstand. We can conquer fear, but not through “our own light.” When Jesus said, “In your weakness, My strength is made perfect,” He made a statement that may not sound as appealing as “Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure,” but it contains a lot more truth and reality.

There isn’t anything wrong with fearing our inadequacy because we are, in fact, weak. The real inspirational, motivational actuality, though, is that we don’t have to be crippled by it if we allow Christ to compensate for our inadequacies.

Perfect love casts out all fear…and God is love.

Under a Rock

"You don’t know what the Muppets are?! Have you been living under a rock?”

“P!NK, you know, like…‘Glitter in the Air?’ No?! Have you been living under a rock?”

“Jim Carrey, you know, from ‘Dumb and Dumber’…Oh, right, you’ve been living under a rock.”

“You know there’s this Family Guy episode where…Never mind, you wouldn’t—I forgot you live under a rock.”

Sometimes I hear that phrase about living “under a rock” several times in the same week. I find it amusing, and sometimes I just answer “No, I don’t know…I’ve been living under a rock. It's okay, you can call me an ingénue.” Then I smile while I wait for them to decide whether or not to ask what ingénue means.

It’s true, I still can’t quite remember what Muppets are, in spite of the fact that I’m sure at least three different astonished people have described them to me. I couldn’t name a single song by the Backstreet Boys, haven’t seen Grease, and never did get fractured fairytales since I’m not sure how Cinderella let her long hair down so some handsome prince (who was a frog before she kissed him and Princess Aurora) could climb up and bring her back her slipper, which the Seven Dwarves returned after it was found by Little Red Riding Hood…or whatever happened. Those stories never made it into our library of books or videos when I was growing up. If any of that suggests that I have been living under a rock, then yes, I guess I have.

Granted, I’ve picked up a lot more pop culture in the last few years—in fact, I’m pretty sure I could sing along with the radio at least once every half hour if you put it on scan. These days I’ve seen a lot more modern media than I even care to, but none of it has convinced me that I missed out on anything growing up “under a rock.” Occasionally I just wonder if kids today are aware that rock can actually reference a hard object found outdoors as well as a music genre…let alone know how to spell genre.

I don’t mean to criticize all the kids raised with all the knowledge that I freely admit is foreign to me; I fault them for nothing except perhaps faulting me for not knowing the same things they do. Really, I simply want to reassure concerned parents that their kids won’t necessarily grow up hating them for having raised them under a rock. In fact, they might even be grateful for it. I am.

See, my parents didn’t raise my brother and me watching Barney. We watched Janice’s Attic, where I learned what caused condensation, what a kimono was, and that if Jesus made even the elephants to be kind to each other then I could be more thoughtful too. We didn’t read Cinderella, but I still know the names of dozens of missionaries and great men and women—Mary Slessor, John Paton, David Livingstone, Josephine Cunnington Edwards, Moses, Narcissa Prentiss, F.A. Stahl,  Joseph, William Booth, Wycliffe, Roger Williams, Corrie Ten Boom, Uriah Smith, Eric B. Hare, Martin Luther, Esther, Daniel Boone, John Bunyan, Joan of Arc, the Wesley brothers, Ellen G. White, Abraham Lincoln, Adoniram Judson, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Jesus Christ—because I read their stories or listened to their dramatized biographies on Your Story Hour. We didn’t sing along with Britney Spears, but we did sing this song at church called “The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Rock.”

So when people ask me if I’ve been living “under a rock” I have to smile at the irony. My parents weren’t raising me to be living “under a rock;” they raised me to live on the Rock. Sure, they made plenty of mistakes and didn’t raise my brother and me in some blissfully picture-perfect family that could probably find its simile in some TV sitcom I’ve never seen, but I can’t regret for a minute the many things from which they sheltered me, all in an attempt to build the house of my character firmly on the Rock of Ages. Every positive aspect of my life I can trace back to the foundations laid in my upbringing, foundations that could have been built on the world’s shifting sand, but instead were painstakingly grounded by my parents on the unmoving Rock, the Cornerstone many builders are still rejecting (Acts 4:10-12).

If you’re a parent, I want to reassure you that building your children on the Rock is worth it; at least, I’m so grateful that my parents took the effort. If your parents raised you in such a way that you occasionally get asked if you’ve been living “under a rock,” I hope you smile and aren’t at all embarrassed by it. After all, someday—when the Rock cut out without hands returns to bring this world to an end—no one is going to ask you how many episodes of The Simpsons you missed out on growing up.

Living under a rock? No. Living on the Rock? I pray it will always be so.

Circumstantial Evidence

I stood at the register desk and examined the breakfast vouchers. They were obviously photocopied, the writing traced a second and third time to the point of distraction, and cut jaggedly like a first-grader’s end-of-the-day craft project. The two waitresses waiting for my reply glared at the specimens skeptically.

The restaurant within a hotel where I supervise attracts most of its customers from the voucher system; that is to say, the hotel provides free breakfast passes to regular guests, groups, and so forth. Usually these are on pre-printed cards that the front desk personnel simply fill out with the group code, guest name, room number, etc., however on the rare occasions when they run low on the cards they sometimes neatly copy a blank voucher.

These were different.

I was working Sunday after a couple days off, and my staff had already regaled me with tales of the family of vandals that had descended on our restaurant in my absence. With so many kids of all ages and so few manners to go around, the family had single-handedly decimated the buffet room and left their tables in a state of chaos to rival the combined force of Katrina and Rita. According to the waitress who had their section, they had exited a side door without even leaving enough vouchers for everyone. Having been amply warned, I waited for the demolition team to arrive.

And they had, presenting me with the suspicious vouchers. As they filtered through with to-go boxes to carry out their spoils of war, I stood analyzing the vouchers while the waitresses looked on, justifiably critical of the jagged vouchers’ validity.

Julie* shook her blond head, hands on hips. “These are photocopies…”

I agreed, “Yes, but occasionally we do get photocopied vouchers from front desk. It happens.”

“But they never look like this!” she protested.

Again, I had to agree. Both girls adamantly pointed out that the vouchers always were cut with the guillotine paper cutter in the office, never jaggedly with scissors; they weren’t scrawled all over multiple times, and the account codes usually matched on each voucher within a group or family—these didn’t. I couldn’t deny a word of it.

Turning to one of the voucher-wielding conquerors, I asked who at the front desk had given them the vouchers and when. “The girl with the long dark hair in the ponytail…on Thursday.” Conveniently, Hannah* wasn’t on duty Sunday to vouch for the vouchers.

Julie shook her head again and declared that Hannah never would have given out vouchers that looked like that, she was much too careful and precise.

I handed the vouchers back to the waitresses. “We have to accept them. Yes, they look for all the world like phonies, but we can’t prove that they are. Maybe front desk did photocopy them, and the guillotine paper cutter was missing or dull so they had to use scissors, and for some unknown reason Hannah scrawled over the writing a couple times.”

My staff stared at me doubtfully, conveying the clear message that they would sooner believe Casey Anthony was innocent.

“No matter how unlikely that sounds, it is possible…” I finished in a whisper, “Even though they look guilty as sin, the evidence is all circumstantial, and we can’t know for sure that they aren’t authentic.”

Neither of the waitresses appeared even slightly convinced, and, honestly, I wasn’t either.

The next morning Hannah came breezing through for some coffee, and I stopped her with the incriminating vouchers in hand and the staff listening on the side: “Do you remember if you guys gave these out at the front desk Thursday?”

Hannah glanced at them quickly. “Oh yeah, they just had so many of them that I copied some instead of handwriting everything out again. Some of it was in red pen, though, so I went over it again with a black one since I wasn’t sure it would copy.”

Ever since that incident I’ve thought how often we jump to conclusions about people, especially when we think they are just the sort of people to do whatever we assume they did. When Jesus said, “Judge not, that ye be not judged” it was clearly not because humans have a great track record for open-mindedness. For some reason we have a natural tendency to critique, categorize, and convict everyone around us. And, not surprisingly, we are often completely wrong in our conclusions.

Christians certainly aren’t exempt. It might sound like I’m beating a dead horse, but seriously…what’s with all of us judgmental Christians? I’m including myself because I know better than to think I haven’t ever done it too, and I hope you think carefully before assuming that you aren’t guilty of it. What makes any of us so holy that we feel adequate to pass judgment on anyone else?  Maybe it’s just that much easier to see a mote in our brother’s eye than to deal with the beam in our own.  

Cliché? No doubt. You already knew all of that, and so did I. For some reason, though, it just hit home when I realized how something that looked so clearly guilty wasn’t what it seemed at all…and how easily in our finite wisdom we can be very wrong. Jumping to conclusions and passing judgment have far-reaching consequences, and I’ve resolved that I would rather err on the side of caution.

“Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Let’s leave the judging up to the all-knowing God who never errs.

*Names changed.

"My Christianity Sucks!"

“My Christianity sucks!”

It was a moment of supreme transparency, and I couldn't help but feel a kinship with my friend's sentiments. Several years have passed since that conversation, and that’s the only sentence I recall from it, but those words sunk down deep. Though I'm reasonably sure I've never expressed it quite that way, there have many days when translating my soul’s spirituality into electric impulses would have transmitted the weakest of vital signs. If there had been some device to electronically connect my heart to the keyboard of my laptop, Microsoft Word would have received very little communication. In fact, it probably would have typed just one sentence: My Christianity sucks!

Perhaps you've never felt that way, but I would be bold enough to guess that at some point, during some spiritual dry spell in your life, you were tempted to doubt the validity of your whole experience as a Christian. You know the time. Maybe you put on your church face and no one was the wiser, but when you peeled it off in the mirror at home after the sermon there was that vacuous stare from the eyes on your soul. You didn’t think your prayers would get past the ceiling, even if you could think of anything else to say. You didn’t voice, “My Christianity sucks.” But you felt it.

If you’re hoping for some cushy, feel-good , “this too shall pass” dénouement for the “My Christianity sucks” crisis, you will have to look farther than my blog. I don’t have that kind of solution to write for you because, when you are in that valley, some glib, poetic, philosophical resolution is almost entirely useless. “My Christianity sucks” rarely resolves with beautiful, dramatic closure.

One thing kept coming back to me, though, as I pondered my friend’s exclamation: “My Christianity sucks!” The word my. Is it your Christianity? Could that be the problem? My brand of Christianity could be lacking if I acquired, designed, and fitted it on my own. No wonder it sucks—I suck at creating beautiful things out of the unlovely. But wouldn’t you know…God doesn’t. He’s a master at that.

Does your Christianity suck? Maybe it’s time to exchange it for Christ’s brand of Christianity. Throw out all your failures to attain, all your notions of what you must do, and be an empty vessel for Christ to fill. After all, that’s what He is waiting on anyway.

Yes, it’s harder to do than it sounds. It’s humbling to plead with David through the darkness “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from Thy presence; and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me.” (Psalm 51:10) But it’s certainly better than wearing the façade of your Christianity, hiding behind some past spiritual high and hoping you can revitalize it before it withers. Just let go of it, and ask Christ to give you a new Christianity—His version of Christianity. It may actually be more demanding than yours was, but it will also be more rewarding and less fickle. Take His yoke upon you…and you will find rest for your soul.

Pages!

In a brief departure from my usual blog posts, I wanted to point out that I now have pages listed across the top of the blog to link you to pages including About Me, Quotes, Recipes, Contact Me, Fainting Robins, and Know the Song. "Recipes" has been recently updated with a recipe for Blackberry Cream Cheese Coffee Cake (and a picture ;-) Please check them out at your leisure...Hope you enjoy!

The Way...sans maps or GPS

In general, I have a distinct aversion to using a GPS. The invention was possibly the summit of brilliance and annoyance all rolled into one fantastic and pricey package that offers the opportunity to get given incorrect directions in a voice that conveys less personality than the slam of my car door. Personally, I'd much rather just go the old fashioned way and use a map when necessary.

Bad directions aren't unique to using a GPS, however. In fact, there are times when I might prefer to capitulate to popular choice and use a GPS rather than attempt to follow people's directions. Case in point...

Scenario: Meeting a friend at the Battlefield Mall. Texting upon arrival.

Me: Hey, where are you?

Friend: The mall.

I shook my head and tried to quell the responses coming to mind.

Me: Yeah, you're also in Springfield, MO, but I could use something a bit more specific.

Friend: Macy's

In my experience, department stores like Macy’s on the mall have only slightly fewer entrances than the catacombs. There are dozens of departments, entrances in the mall, out of the mall, upstairs, downstairs.

Macy’s. Really?!

I finally got enough clues in the hunt to locate my friend, and by the time we were going to meet to leave I got a text asking where to pick me up. The golden opportunity to reply "outside the mall" fleetingly danced around in my brain, but I resisted the urge and answered, "Could you just pick me up on the east side at the north end by Hu Hot restaurant? I will be outside on the sidewalk."

Am I asking too much to request reasonable, detailed directions? Probably so. It’s probably why I can identify with Thomas’ question to Jesus in John 14. Right after one of Jesus’ most beautiful promises of going to prepare mansions, a place for each us, Thomas has to pipe up. Listen to the dialogue:

“And where I go you know, and the way you know,” Jesus tells the disciples.

“Thomas said to Him, ‘Lord, we do not know where You are going, and how can we know the way?’” 

“Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.’”

The sad part—I can just hear myself asking the same question Thomas did. I want to know exactly where we are going and how we are getting there; is that so unreasonable? Do you have a map, Lord? I’d really like to know the ETA…What about a GPS? I know you know the latitude and longitude coordinates, so just plug those in and I’ll be ready to go.

I can see Jesus smiling sadly. They missed it. He had been showing them The Way and telling them where He was going for three and a half years, ever since His initial command “Follow Me,” recorded in eleven different places throughout the Gospels.

You see, if there is one thing better than detailed directions, it’s having someone lead you directly to your destination. No worries about taking a wrong turn, confusing one exit for another, or accidently entering the wrong end of a mall’s department store. Just follow the one who knows the way already.

When Jesus asked anyone to follow Him, it wasn’t merely “Let’s go this way today and see what we can find to do.” It was a calling that went far deeper. As they followed Him literally and figuratively He was showing them The Way; they saw it each day, like a map written in the dust of Capernaum or Nazareth or Jerusalem, and so, as Christ’s ministry drew to a close, He knew they had seen where He was going…and they knew The Way. It was simple—all they had to do was keep following Him.

So long after the days of the Apostles, I have a little Thomas inside me persistently wanting further directions. Lord, don’t you know I could get lost if I don’t have step by step instructions? Where are you going, and what is the way? Maybe you, like me, find yourself demanding detailed directions from God for your life.

I can just see Jesus smiling sadly. You missed it. Where I go you know, and the way you know. Remember that I said to follow Me? Just follow the One Who knows the way already.

Remember Me

I pulled into a parking space at Springfield's botanical gardens Sabbath afternoon, and Daniel roared his motorcycle into a spot a couple spaces over. Since we had both driven into church that morning and were planning to attend the evening program, we decided to save the gas expense of a trip home and back again. The somewhat less gas efficient alternative to simply waiting at the church was my idea--spending the afternoon at an awesome park.

We wandered down the paths toward the lake which separated us from a couple in wedding attire being posed and photographed by two zealous photographers. The paths divided trees and carefully chosen plant life until they led into a clearing centered with a figure on a bench. At first glance I thought it was a woman watching the geese at the edge of the lake, but the plaque on the back of her bench revealed that it was a statue, a memorial to a lady I had never heard of before.

Photo Credit to M. Daniel W. Wilson

For a while we sat on the bench with her, took a few pictures, and moved on. Down the path was a spread of plants and flowers framing another bench with the inscription, "Sit Awhile With John and Mary." I was beginning to understand why the botanical gardens were also collectively referred to as the Memorial Park. It was an odd sight, all the life humming and growing around silent memorials to individuals who had passed away, all of them complete strangers to me.

The lesson I have been discussing for the last couple weeks with the youth class that I lead at church has been about the Lord's Supper, and somehow I found Christ's choice of words oddly striking--"This do in remembrance of Me." (Luke 22:19) Never was there a life of more significance than Jesus' life, and the same is true of His death, so it makes perfect sense that there should be a memorial to Him of equivalent significance. So I wondered how it was that He chose the memorial that He did...the observance of His final supper, from the foot washing before to the exact meal that followed.

It's not the typical memorial, to be sure. Lincoln has his memorial, Washington his monument, and Sojourner Truth has a statue to commemorate her as well. I've seen them all. Historically, even the Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar, chose a massive golden statue as a tribute to his achievements. When Jesus chose a memorial He might have had any kind of monument He wished; if He wanted a statue of Himself calming the waves, or a crucifix, a nativity scene--perhaps made of gold or marble or pearls--He could have commanded it to be. But instead He gave us something alive: an experience. It's an experience involving emblems of sacrifice, a living testimony to His undying love. Every time we observe the Lord's Supper we can experience His love and forgiveness in a new way, which is infinitely more moving than a statue and far more meaningful than a plaque, picture, or commemorative phrase.

"This do in remembrance of Me," Jesus said. And then He led His disciples from the upper room to a garden...If it had been the botanical gardens instead of Gethsemane perhaps there would be a bench under some trees inscribed with the Savior's plea, "Tarry ye here, and watch with me." (Matthew 26:38)

False Advertising

I get so annoyed by things that are advertised as something they are not.

My scotch tape dispenser proclaims “invisible” tape...and I always thought invisible meant “not able to be seen.”  I would suggest they try terming it translucent, but they are probably still working on making it invisible so renaming it might put a damper on progress.

Then there is the beauty parlor that offers a permanent for my hair. Oddly, I've had close to ten of those permanents and none of them were. Seriously, isn't that false advertising?

I must be the only one who has stared at a wrinkle in a purportedly “wrinkle-free” shirt and said, “Okay, what are we going to name you since you're not supposed to be a wrinkle?” Actually, I haven't said that, but it seems like a fair question for a wrinkle-free shirt that has more wrinkles than a pug.

While we're talking about calling things what they're not I am not going into Taco Bell's “Mexican” food offerings, but only out of respect to my friends who oddly enjoy its...er, hmm...fine cuisine. Or Chinese restaurants that serve French fries and play country music (yes, I have had the misfortune of encountering numerous such establishments). The list of false advertising that I’m not going to address could go on and on. And on.

I wonder if God has the same annoyance. Does it bother Him to see things and people stamped with the description of “Christian” when, in reality, they don't merit the title? If the performance doesn't validate the claims, it sounds suspiciously like false advertising to me. And I think I might be guilty at times—sometimes I might be more of an invisible Christian than Scotch can make their tape. And hair permanents are really no worse than I am about maintaining a lasting transformation. As for Taco Bell's scrumptious “Mexican” food...well, can I complain if it's not authentic? After all, I call myself a Christian—but there are times when I am sadly unlike Christ.

This seems to be a primary complaint of many who object to Christianity—it’s the hypocrisy, our religious word for “false advertising.” I’ve heard many people say, with some sort of accomplishment, that they are bad—but at least they don’t hide it under some veneer. In fact, there seems to be a lot of virtue associated with accepting your inadequacies instead of trying to alter them.

I beg to differ. That makes about as much sense as applauding those clothing companies for shifting their advertising to “We Will Not Lie—Our Shirts Wrinkle Stupendously!” or “Wrinkle-Free is for Wimps—Get the Ones That Wrinkle!”

Instead of renaming wrinkles maybe it would be better to just actually be “wrinkle-free.” The solution isn't to call myself what I am, but to become what I call myself. In life we can either pretend to be something we’re not, just accept what we are and demand accolades for the virtue of being transparent, or start producing products to match the description, so that the advertisement is justified. Sadly, too many of us, Christians included, find the first two options more appealing because they seem to require less effort.

Let’s not forget, though, that we don’t have to do the work alone. It is Christ working through us to transform us, and He promises that “He who has begun a good work in you will complete it” (Philippians 1:6). I’m glad to know that not only do I not have to settle for my weaknesses, but Christ doesn’t leave you or I to do the work alone. He will transform our characters into authentically wrinkle-free Christianity. 

He Saved Others

In honor of Mother's Day, just around the corner, and Easter Sunday that is just behind us, I thought this story would be appropriate. Quotes that I have italicized are verses directly from the Bible, but all other references in the story are accurate to the Biblical location and time frame, though I've put my own imaginative spin on it...Hope you enjoy.

The woman stood on Calvary’s hill, transfixed by the scene before her. It was not the first time she had witnessed a crucifixion, but it was the first time someone she loved had been the victim of this brutal punishment.  She more than loved the dying man—she had given life to him, and in all his growing up years she had believed in his potential. He had a good heart and she cherished the thought that he would be a great leader.

            However, his life did not meet the plans a fond mother’s heart had laid out. Despite her attention and concern, he drifted with the wrong crowd, slowly losing respect for Jehovah, the religious ceremonies and traditions, and at last even ignoring the civil laws imposed by the Romans.

            As reports filtered back to her of debauchery, thievery, and riotous living, her heart ached for her son. Often she searched herself for some explanation, some mistake that she could attribute his actions to. Where in his upbringing had she failed?

In spite of the accounts of his wickedness, she who knew him best could not believe that the boy, who even now occasionally displayed affection for his aging mother, was entirely beyond hope. Her discerning heart saw in him opportunity for reform.

But all reflections on the past seemed meaningless now—this was the end. Her son had been condemned to death in the most degrading and cruel fashion of the day by the civil authorities who were anxious to crush all lawlessness and rebelliousness in their subjects.

What could she tell them? That her sweet boy was merely a misguided youth? That he had fallen in with the wrong company, but was not beyond hope? Never could she persuade them that an apparently hardened criminal was not as callous as they supposed. It was true that he had stolen, murdered, and committed a host of other hideous crimes that left her aghast. Nevertheless, she felt he needed a second chance—if he were given a clean slate, surely her boy would never again sully it with another wrong act.

 That was purely wishful thinking, she realized bitterly, for it was obvious that even God had rejected her son. The Pharisees’ and Sadducee’s teachings offered no hope for one who led a life apart from Jewish beliefs and customs, and even she could not defend his lack of interest in the synagogue. The lack of Divine intervention in this case could only mean that her son’s conduct had pushed him beyond the limits of God’s mercy. Her son was doomed, and she had no recourse but to resign herself to his fate—and her own. For what could she blame his decisions on, but the upbringing he had received in her home? The mother knew that the dark cloud already weighing on her soul would stay with her until her grieving heart was stilled by death.

Her thoughts were interrupted by an outburst of jeers by the priests and rulers nearby. “He saved others; let Him save Himself, if He be Christ, the chosen of God.”

The mother turned her eyes for a moment from her son to the Man beside him, the object of the priests’ and rulers’ mockery. With a start, she recognized Him as the Galilean teacher—purported healer and miracle worker. Many had even said Jesus might be the Messiah, and in spite of His hopeless circumstances, some onlookers were even now whispering His deeds and words among themselves as if unwilling to accept the finality of His situation. Was He not being murdered in the same ruthless fashion as her son? What made His condition any different from that of her son?

Watching Jesus, however, the mother knew immediately that there was something different about Him. He was not angry or rebellious; He did not curse the guards, priests or rulers that were taunting Him. His face expressed pity and concern for…could it be for those who were tormenting Him?

“Does Jesus truly not hate these people who so obviously are reveling in their brutality?” She asked almost unconsciously.

“No, he doesn’t,” a tense voice beside her spoke. It trailed off thoughtfully, “Did you hear Him say, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do…’”

She turned to see the speaker, an older woman who was obviously agonized by the scene. Forgetting her own grief for a moment, the mother put her arm around the other woman in an attempt to console her.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be here, watching this spectacle,” the thief’s mother whispered. “I can see it is upsetting you.”

“Why is life so harsh?” Tears formed little rivulets down the older woman’s wrinkled cheek.

As her own pain rose to the forefront, the mother sobbed, “My son is the young man dying on the right, and my heart breaks to watch him suffering. Is your anguish even a portion of mine? I cannot expect you to sympathize, but if you only understood…”

She fell silent, her tears flowing unchecked. The older woman at last replied, “I do understand. You see, my son hangs in the middle. His sign reads “The King of the Jews” in mockery, but I believed with all my heart that He is the king, the Messiah we have been seeking.”

Mary’s dim eyes glazed over with a thousand question marks as she looked up at the other mother. “Why then is He on the cross? If only I knew the explanation. I do not know why He is being crucified. What I do know is that He has given sight to the blind, healed the broken hearted, brought the dead to life and preached deliverance from sin. He does not deserve to die this death, but somehow it is as if He knew all the time that this day would come.”

She looked away from her son’s tortured face, and gestured toward the temple gleaming in the light of the setting sun. “Thirty-three years ago I stood in that temple to give an offering for my newborn son, and a holy prophet gave a blessing, spoke of my son’s great destiny, yet warned that a sword would pierce my heart. When Jesus stood in that same temple twenty-one years ago and said that He must be about His Father’s business, I never would have thought this would be part of it.”

The old woman tearfully looked back at the thief’s mother and reached for her hand. “I wish I could be back in the temple with Him, watching Him preach and heal…but Jesus has done nothing except be about His Father’s business. I believe somehow this is a part of the plan…though I do not understand it at all.”

The mother looked in amazement at the Man on the center cross. Could it be that Jesus’ mother was right—or was she only a biased, grieving mother? Was He the promised Savior, or only another false Messiah?

Her thoughts were again interrupted by another taunt, this time by the thief hanging on the left. “If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.”

She ached for Jesus' mother beside her. The jest seemed so cruel to a dying man.

Suddenly she was astonished to see her son struggle to speak, “Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss.”

Her heart leapt at his words. He was the same soft hearted son she knew and loved, but more than that, he recognized the folly of his ways and was repentant. If only she had the power to offer him another chance!

She also wondered at his statement, “…this man hath done nothing amiss.” Even her son recognized that this Man, this Jesus of Nazareth, was a good and just man. Perhaps the woman beside her was right…

Her boy was speaking again, “Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”

A dying Man to return with a kingdom? Hope burned in her heart as the ancient prophecies came to mind. This gentle, calm Man might truly be divine—the Son of God.

Now Jesus was responding to her dying son’s request, “Verily I say unto thee today, thou shalt be with me in paradise.”

Suddenly, darkness enveloped the throng on Golgotha as an earthquake shook the scene of execution, but a light brighter than any she had ever known glowed in the mother’s heart. A beam from heaven itself had shone from the cross into her despairing soul to say that her son was not lost. He had strayed, but God had never forgotten him. In his darkest hour, her son had received the promise of eternal life from a Man who was dying, but still was divine.

Tears of relief mingled with the tears of sorrow as the mother looked at the older woman beside her. Even in the gloom, she could see the other mother’s face glow with the light of peace. Her Jesus had come for this purpose, not to save Himself, but to save others in darkness.

The Insurance Policy

The promised second installment to the Theodicy post...

During my time as a Bible worker I spent a considerable amount of time giving surveys to gauge the religious interest in different communities. Among the questions I routinely asked was: "Have you ever wondered, if God is so good, why does He allow so much suffering?" That one in particular generated a plethora of engaging responses, and I often found myself choking back the urge to respond too adamantly.

That temptation came most strongly when the person answering my survey would stare off blankly toward some distant horizon and say, "No, I think we really just bring it on ourselves, you know. I mean, it's the choices we make." Or perhaps, "It's just part of life--it's how we appreciate what is good."

It's a fairly common sentiment, the idea that some sort of bad is a good thing--that it keeps things in balance. I never did really see much value in that concept. I don't have to have food poisoning in order to know how delicious cake and ice cream are. It isn't necessary to have the bad before you can enjoy the good.

Newsflash: There is bad evil in this world. By bad, I mean that you can't always define some cause and then isolate the effect to the perpetrator alone. I completely agree that humanity has brought evil upon itself, but don't pretend that you can take every instance of evil and tell those involved that they brought it on themselves. There are children starving in Africa who are no more at fault for being born into famine than your child in America, England, or Australia was prudent for choosing to be born in a more developed nation.

So deal with the question. Why does God allow bad bad? The kind of bad that doesn't invoke some good moral lesson. The kind of bad that won't be dismissed with "just give it time." The kind of bad that leaves damaged people and damaged places. The kind of bad that demands to be called evil and nothing else. It does exist. But why?

I've asked that question, though I know I haven't seen a fraction of the bad bad in existence on Planet Earth. I've seen enough to know I don't need to see the rest. Somewhere along the line I discovered that bad is really bad. There is nothing good about it.

That's when I realized why God allows bad bad. When He pressed that long term plan "stop evil button," He knew it would never be effective if He filtered out all the serious evil that comes along with sin. Giving us the watered down version would merely teach us that the devil's alternative wasn't so bad after all. If He sheltered us from all the consequences of living in a world where sin permitted evil to mar perfection, we might have some mistaken illusion that bad wasn't really so bad.

However, that can never be the case with Solution X's insurance policy. After thousands of years with unabashed evil acting out in the worst of its nature, humans finally have the knowledge of good and evil that Adam and Eve so unfortunately bestowed upon our race. And that is the only thing that ensures that when God finally eradicates evil forever...it will be forever. There will be no resurgence because humans have known bad bad. Sin will finally have no attraction for them because they were, mercifully, not shielded from its very worst effects.

It's a very expensive insurance policy, but at least it will never expire. Besides, what price can you really put on a perfect eternity?

Danger Or Rescue

A fat, little frog squatted on the asphalt, enjoying the summer night. There was nothing to disrupt his evening hop across the countryside except the occasional lowing of cattle grazing in the field on the other side of those odd, evenly spaced iron rails that dissected the asphalt trail the fat, little frog was traveling. It was such a peaceful evening that he almost forgot to break the stillness with croaking calls to other frogs that might be taking their evening jaunts.

From the distant lengths of the iron rails, a rattling rumble came tumbling into the fat little frog’s quiet evening. He held tightly to his spot on the asphalt as the rumbling intensified, and in a moment a massive, thunderous machine pounded past him, just 10 feet away, in an eternal procession. The vibrations reverberated in the poor creatures lungs, but couldn’t make the fat little frog quake any more than he already was from sheer fright. If he could think, he was probably wondering if he would live long enough to hatch a plan of escape from the monster machine.

Alas, his evening took a worse turn, if that were possible. Another metal machine with glaring, blinding lights in front was approaching on the asphalt, hissing as it ground to a stop. The fat, little frog blinked as a living creature many times his size left the machine and—horror of horrors—walked toward him. It seemed intent on driving him from his little refuge on the asphalt where he still had not concocted an escape plan, so, in desperation, he fled before the oncoming feet of the advancing creature.

As the fat, little frog disappeared into the grass on the side of the asphalt road, I watched the train blast off into the night; the cross arms blinked goodbye as I strolled back to the car. Listening to the croaking in the grass while I drove across the spot recently vacated by a particular fat, little frog as he had fled before my prodding, I could nearly have imagined his beady eyes bulging from the excitement of his recent escape as he regaled his fellow frogs with the tale of his night of terror.

It amused me that the fat, little frog couldn’t tell danger from rescue. For all he knew, I was just as dangerous as the thunderous train and the hissing, glaring car—in fact, I must have been more frightful, since he held his ground in the presence of those monsters. In his mind, he had narrowly escaped death; and he had. His frantic hopping away from those approaching feet took him out of the path of all the cars waiting to pile over the railroad tracks as soon as the train rumbled into the distance once again.

Some days I feel like thundering monsters are flying by, much too close for comfort; in every other direction it seems like other monsters hiss and glare, while, worst of all, mysterious feet advance, intent on driving me off the little plot of ground I still hold as my own. You know you’ve had those days too, when the obstacles just keep mounting to dizzying heights. Do you, like me, try to pull together some solution, only to find yourself running away from yet another terror?

The amusing part is…we can’t tell danger from rescue either. The most horrifying experiences, the most terrifying of obstacles, might be our safety net from something worse—but, in our finite vision, we never even recognize it. God stands near us, directing us out of the way of pain, difficulty, or sorrow, and our hearts pound with fright because His instrumentalities are lost on our perception. Later we squeak out the tale of our narrow escape from utter ruin and breathe a sigh of relief for having survived the day.

And I think He must smile a bit sadly knowing that the peace we lost through our fear was unnecessarily sacrificed. Another day He may let the terrors fly by us again as He tries to give us faith’s vision that can perceive the difference between danger and rescue.

Your Local Garbage Dump

While picking over the remnants of some ancient writings of mine, I found this story and thought it might be of interest...       

          I picked my way gingerly past mounds of fly-infested garbage towards something that could only be called a house in purest flattery. Actually I would call it a dump in the form of a trailer-house. The odor greeting my nose confirmed that my eyes and ears had correctly reported dogs and cats in abundance. Honestly, the aroma was about to knock me over. The “door” of the “house”, which I suspected might formerly have been capable of latching decades before I was born, was pushed open to reveal a happy colony of roaches going about their business in the door frame.

            A stained and wrinkled face greeted me in the doorway. Dirty hair hung around a little old woman’s face as she stared at me behind cloudy glasses. A dog lunged past her and through the screen-less screen door. Betty * and her retinue made quite the welcome party.

            Smiling, I held up a bag of food.

            “Hi, Betty,” I said as she took the bag. “I was just bringing you some lunch. Is there anything else you need?”

            This was not my first visit to Betty’s hovel. Ever since the week before, when a customer in my mom’s restaurant where I worked had told me about this poor woman’s living conditions, I had been delivering whatever I could to supplement her diet of bologna and coke.  The sights I had seen (and odors I’d smelled) on these daily deliveries defied any level of poverty I could have imagined in all my 17 years. I was amazed that anyone could live in the sort of filth and squalor I had seen only on TV before this.

            This particular day Betty needed to contact a lady who stopped by to run errands for her sometimes. She hadn’t been by in several days, and I wasn’t surprised to find that Betty didn’t have a phone. Cringing, I handed her my cell phone. One grimy hand pulled her hair aside as my phone was pressed to her equally grimy ear. For a fleeting moment I wondered when she had bathed last, and then recalled that she didn’t have running water.

            Betty handed me back my phone. Gazing off absently, she said, “She didn’t answer.”

            “What did you need her to do? Can I help?” I inquired, mentally scouring my cell phone with disinfectant.

            “I was going to have her bring my dog food into the house. The delivery man was scared of the dog and left it out there,” she said, pointing.

            I looked in dismay at the 40 lb. bag of Beneful near the road on the opposite side of her small “yard.” It had endured the morning’s rain shower—and unlike everything else about this place, it didn’t actually need the bath.

            “Oh, I’ll bring that in for you. It’s not a big deal. Where do you want it?” I volunteered. And carrying it in wasn’t a big deal; the bag wasn’t that heavy. Setting foot in a veritable garbage dump wearing tan jeans was my greater concern.

            After the dog food was relocated (miraculously, without thoroughly staining my jeans), I ran to the local gas station for a few items Betty needed. I had serious suspicions that the money she gave me with which to purchase those items was probably coated with more germs than would be needed for germ warfare on three continents.

            With a final check to see if there was anything else she needed, I waved goodbye to Betty and climbed back in my car. As I pulled out of the driveway, savoring a fresh, clean environment once more, I felt the same incredulous feeling that I always did after a visit to this poor woman’s “house:” How could anyone live, and be satisfied to live, in a place like that?

            From talking to the woman who first told me about Betty, I knew that the poor old woman had lived like this for years. There were people who might have helped her, but she was so accustomed to her way of life that the places that she might have moved she thought were “too good for her.” She was content to live in a run-down dump, leading a filthy, miserable existence with her mangy pets. It wasn’t such a bad place, she seemed to think. After all, this trailer was better than some of the other places she had lived.

            Pulling back into the driveway at my mom’s restaurant, I hurried in the back door and went immediately to wash my hands. I was still mulling over how a person could live in conditions like that, when suddenly I understood. Betty was satisfied with her living standards because to her they were normal. I couldn’t comprehend living that way because I saw those conditions as totally unacceptable—it just wasn’t normal!

            It was right about then that I saw a picture much larger than poor Betty and her filthy little dump. I realized that the whole world was made up people like her, just in a different way. And you and I, more than likely, are living in a worse garbage dump than she is. The problem is that, just like Betty, we don’t know it.

            Our garbage dump is sin in our lives. Before you stop reading because you think I’m referring to non-Christians, wait. I mean you—and me—all of us wonderful Christians who think we’re doing just fine. That is exactly where our problem lies, in the same place as does Betty’s—we believe our life is just fine, normal in fact. Somehow because the world is permeated with this kind of filth, we just don’t notice that it isn’t normal.

            King Solomon knew our biggest problem isn't choosing to do something blatantly horrible and filthy; usually it's just something that seems perfectly normal to our sin-blinded eyes. He say in Proverbs 14:12, “There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death.”

            Our mind is the “house” we live in all the time, but do we really know just how dirty and full of germs it is? Like Betty’s house, I think we leave the door to our mental house wide open for all kinds of diseasing elements to enter by what we listen to and watch. We just let the cobwebs build by dwelling on thoughts we know are wrong or savoring feelings of envy, anger and prejudice.

            We have a lot of mangy pets running around like pride, dishonesty and selfishness, but we don’t see how filthy they make our lives. Instead we spend energy feeding these habits until they are healthier than we are. When I am critical of how Betty spends much of her stipend on food for all the little varmints crawling around her place, instead of putting it into some basic necessities like food, clothing and shelter for herself, I have to look at myself and realize how often I am willing to waste the gift of my energies on things that tend to feed those nasty habits.

            Did you ever notice how easy it is to give a few minutes to hunting down some piece of juicy gossip to pass along? Or maybe you tend to use energy carrying a grudge against someone who has wronged you. Perhaps a quick temper likes to raise its head frequently in your life. There are so many of these favorite little “pets” in our lives, and we like to justify them, thinking we have them so well chained up or fenced in that they won’t affect us, but we keep them around because we’ve become quite attached to these pet habits.

            The diet we like to feed our spiritual life is totally unbalanced, just as I know Betty’s diet was not very nourishing, but so long as we aren’t hungry we don’t notice that we have dined on “fillers” that aren’t going to make us spiritually healthy. As Christians, sometimes we are content to make our spiritual menu consist of whatever we learn at church, perhaps what we have been told in school or been taught by our parents; yet our diet is lacking the essential nutrients we can only get from daily personal study.

            I thought about Betty’s life compared to some other conditions…It could be worse. There are people with only a grass hut or no roof over their heads, and many people wouldn’t even have the money to get the bologna and coke. At least she has friends who will run her errands and help her if she wants it. That sort of reasoning makes her situation look better, and that is exactly what we like to do in our lives spiritually. If we can compare ourselves to someone with a worse “garbage dump,” we can even make our situation looks superior, not just a normal, average dump—Why no, ours is a Christian…dump. Yes, it is still a dump.

            At last I had finished disinfecting my cell phone, my purse, the steering wheel of my car, and, of course, my hands. But I still felt dirty, just in a different way. I realized that we all need much more than disinfectant. We need to realize that we live in a garbage dump, not a house. We need to see that our filthy animals, in the form of habits, are diseasing our lives. We need to discover that spiritual food must be nourishing, not just something to fill us. We need to recognize that flies and garbage are not supposed to be normal in our lives, and that spiritually we can be clean. We need to see that no matter how average we think we are, we might have the wrong idea of what is right.

            Only God can show us the true condition that we are in, and make us truly horrified to imagine that we could be satisfied with such a filthy situation. When we see the true standard of living, the way Jesus was, we realize how terrible our garbage dump really is. And our garbage dump may look like a normal Christian life to us, but does it meet up with the standard?

            So that day I began to see a little bit of Betty in me, and if you look hard you might find her hiding inside of you. She might make you think you’re doing just fine, but don’t be fooled by that mentality. You have a garbage dump too, and disinfectant won’t do any good as long as you think you are living in a normal house. Maybe it’s time we asked Jesus to compare our living standards to His and see how they add up.

*Not her real name

The Stop Evil Button or Solution X

David looked at his class studying the issue of a good God and a bad world and added another point to the theodicy: If there was a "stop evil button" that you could walk up and push, making all the bad in the world cease instantly, would you do it?

I was watching Theodicy, a Scripture mysteries documentary by Anchorpoint Films. Among the interviews, David Asscherick and Clifford Goldstein's comments took me back to seminars of theirs that I had been in and books of theirs I had read that discussed this issue of the problem of evil. The "stop evil button" illustration particularly intrigued me. More than likely, any of us would do it. Yet, ironically, God--the only One who could push the button--hasn't. Why?

As David Hume so succinctly formulated the problem of a good God and a bad world, "Is he willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then is he impotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then is he malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Whence then is evil?" (Hume). The youth class I teach at church discussed this question last week. We talked about the Biblical accounts, especially in Isaiah 14 and Ezekiel 28, of the perfect angel who chose to rebel and wreak havoc on the universe with his accusations against God and his thirst for power. All of that explained how evil originated, but it still didn't answer the question of why God didn't stop it.

Many people I have spoken with have used this as an impenetrable obstacle to any argument that God is good, fair, and just. There seems no intellectually honest avoidance of the question of what possible good reason could exist for why God has allowed horrific things to occur on this planet. Is there any way of justifying it?

Whether it is entirely new or valid theologically, the question and answer I put to the youth class was similar to the "stop evil button" illustration: Think of all the horrors and atrocities on Earth that you abhor, and imagine that there was one penalty that could be paid to end it all--forever. Nothing bad could ever resurface on the radar screen of human existence if you gave the "okay" to this one solution. But there is only the one solution. The solution, whatever it is, likely won't be pleasant in the performance, however it will be permanent. We'll call it Solution X.

Now try to calculate the cost of Solution X. You don't know what it is, so make it as terrible as you can possibly imagine it to be. Can you think of anything that would be too costly an exchange for the permanent eradication of evil? Philosophically I think the question is fairly easy to answer; selfishly, perhaps not. I'm not under the illusion that all, or even most, would honestly be willing to say "yes" to whatever Solution X might be because there are those who would not take a personal sacrifice for the ultimate good. However, many have done so and most, I hope, can appreciate that, logically, there could not be anything worse than eternal evil. Anything less to pay for a permanent solution would probably be better.

So the punchline is...that God did hit the "stop evil button." When He looked at the rebellion the devil had started and knew that destroying him would only eliminate the instigator, but not his rebellion and the issue of evil, the omnipotent and omniscient Creator already understood Solution X. The price was high--it meant letting evil mature so it could be destroyed completely. It meant allowing every horrific thing to happen in the great controversy that would forever convince the universe that the devil was wrong. It meant permitting a part of Himself, His own son, to leave heaven to live, suffer, and die on Earth to redeem humanity from sin. It meant allowing evil its day of power so that it could be eternally terminated. It was Solution X, the only remedy that wouldn't just treat the symptoms but would heal the underlying problem.

God said Solution X was worth it. He hit the "stop evil button," but sometimes, because Solution X requires more time than any individual lifetime, it's hard to appreciate the delayed effect. Someday we will, though, and I'm reminded of this when I read what John wrote in Revelation 21:4 of the end of sin and suffering: "And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away."

Note: This is the first part of a two-part post on the topic of theodicy.


Hume, David. Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. Project Gutenberg. Web. 22 Jan. 2011. .