The following was written in June, 2006, after I had read The DaVinci Code, by Dan Brown. Whether you saw the movie or read the book, what I have written is still very relevant....
There was a time when truth seemed not hard to find—if you were determined, and asked the right questions.
1950s America was one such time. Truth was important in our culture. Even television served up weekly images of truth in black and white. One enduring image: Lucy was always in trouble for not telling Ricky the truth. Another was Dragnet, true stories from the files of the LAPD. Every week, detective Sgt. Joe Friday and his partner Frank Smith put the bad guy behind bars. In those days before CSI and DNA, much of the story revolved around these everyday heroes driving the then-uncrowded streets of Los Angeles to interview witnesses and gather evidence. Frequently, people launched into some irrelevant opinion-sharing. Joe Friday, determined to get the truth, would invariably interrupt (albeit politely): “Just the facts, ma’am.”
What happened to our history?
That time was not really so simple. Yet there was something different about the way we looked at life, (at least, for the majority). For some 20 years after World War II, we saw ourselves as the good guys, and we believed our leaders when they talked to us about important things. But Vietnam changed that. Those enduring images in black and white gave way to living—and dying—color in the mid-60s. Half-known names took on horrible new meaning: Dallas, Tet, My Lai, Kent State. Presidents couldn’t be trusted, our soldiers were called “baby killers” (and some were), National Guardsmen shot college students. Civil rights and civil unrest—people dying on the 6 o’clock news. A generation turned off to patriotism, Boy Scouts, and church on Sunday, and turned on to free speech, free love, Sgt. Pepper, and public angst. The loss of direction speeded up in the 70s: our President resigned, our embassy workers were held hostage in a puzzling Islamic revolution. The 80s granted some reprieve (Reagan made us proud to be Americans again, the Wall came down and the Soviet Union came apart), but the 90s witnessed our soldiers dragged through tiny Mogadishu—and that White House Intern. After Y2K failed to materialize, there was 9/11, binLaden, Sadaam, Baghdad. Parish priests did unspeakable things—and the church didn’t tell. No wonder that Americans are skeptical about traditional answers. Puzzle not at the runaway success of a novel that proclaims, “almost everything that the fathers taught us about Christ is false.” (character “Leigh Teabing,” pg. 235)
Why The Da Vinci Code matters: Robert Langdon has replaced Joe Friday
Why make a big deal about Da Vinci? Americans have already made the book and movie a big deal. Thinking readers—Christian and non-Christian—recognize “it just gets crazier and crazier.” Scholars, even non-Christian ones, have thoroughly debunked Dan Brown’s so-called “research.” However, the book/movie cannot be dismissed by resorting to “just the facts.” There is a place for presenting the facts if someone is honestly interested.
We make a big deal because the book raises troubling questions. It troubles both Christians and non-Christians. It troubles some Christians because they don’t know enough about the supposed “historical” background material (i.e., the “Priory of Sion,” the Knights Templar, the history of ancient biblical manuscripts, etc.,) so as to make an honest judgment on its credibility. It troubles some because they know that, if any of this “history” is true, it would destroy true Christianity.
The central fact of Christianity is the resurrection. If Jesus really rose from the dead, then Christianity is true: God really did intervene in history, Jesus is the divine Son of God, and his death was a substitution for our sin—that we might be forgiven and reconciled to God and given an eternal inheritance. If he did not rise from the dead, then the testimony of those who saw him is a lie, and there is no hope for any of us nor meaning to the universe.
The central documents that testify to this history (the New Testament) were written by eye-witnesses or those who spent much time gathering evidence and wrote under the direction and authority of Jesus’ first Apostles. These documents were completed by the end of the first century. The four Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John) were collected and extensively quoted as authoritative by the early church fathers (as early as 150-200 A.D.). Paul the Apostle had been an inveterate enemy of Christ and his church—but met Christ on the Damascus Road. He preached the resurrection and wrote many of the letters that make up the New Testament along with the Gospels.
Da Vinci troubles many non-Christians because it adds one more nail in the coffin of “truth.” Dan Brown’s demonstrably false history doesn’t seem so far out to recent generations of Americans. Da Vinci has struck a cord that resonates with millions who have come to discount anyone’s absolute truth claims, who wonder if anyone can know the truth. We Christians must be patient and wise, not assuming that everyone who questions the Bible is trying to avoid accountability to God. This is why I gave so much valuable space above to listing some major events of the last half-century. These events have fallen like hammer-blows, crushing our ideals and leaving us open to a “no truth” mentality. Many who lived though those events have left their children “free to choose” what to believe. Having no confidence themselves that truth can still be known, for the sake of “truth” allowed their children to drift like a ship, leaving them without a secure mooring, without the power to find the land, and without a lighthouse to point them away from danger.
We make a big deal because the book and the movie typify so much of what is going on in American culture today. Fifty years ago, “Joe Friday” was seeking “just the facts.” Today, “Robert Langdon,” the main character in The Da Vinci Code, is so used to a way of thinking that sees truth as not absolute that he defines faith as “acceptance of that which we imagine to be true…” (pg. 341) Two destructive philosophies are taking advantage of the openness to this “no truth” mentality: one is post-modernism (i.e., “there are no absolutes”) and a “new” Gnosticism (i.e., “find the truth within yourself”). We will look at these in a subsequent article.
Those of us who understand the faithfulness of a sovereign God and the trustworthiness of his word (the Bible) are always to be ready, as Peter reminds us (1 Peter 3:15-16), to give a reason for the hope that is within us, and to do so with gentleness and respect. The hope that we have is eternal life, which is defined by Jesus as knowing God, and this, in personal relationship. The hope that we have is an assured hope, based on the promises of God and evidenced by the resurrection. Our hope is that we will share that resurrection, that we will gain the prize—who is Christ himself. “Robert Langdon” may have replaced “Joe Friday” in being representative of the way Americans think. But God remains unchanged. He is the “I Am,” the “self-existent One” (the true meaning of the name Yahweh). We who have placed our faith in Christ have experienced the truth of the promise Jesus made to all who trust him and the facts of his gospel and keep his word: “…and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32).
Do you know the truth? Are you free?
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Monday, December 20, 2010
Thinking about "To Kill a Mockingbird": Trusting a 'good' father
This year marks the 50th anniversary of Harper Lee's epic novel. I read it along with the middle school students I work with and wrote the following.....
“You just hold your head high and keep those fists down.”
--Atticus Finch to daughter Scout, pg. 87
It’s difficult to hold your head high if you don’t know why you’re supposed to be holding it up. When Atticus Finch told his inquiring daughter Scout to hold her head high and fists down, she had little idea of why he would tell her that. Atticus didn’t give a detailed reason: all she knew was that her father was asking her to do something difficult, and that was enough. She trusted her father. She likely had never heard the word “integrity.” But her father's integrity was precisely why she could trust him. Scout had implicit trust in his understanding of things and the goodness and rightness of anything he had to tell her. Besides that, Atticus never asked anything for himself. He was unselfish and trustworthy and good. Scout did not want to let that man down. She knew, when other kids ridiculed her father for defending a black man--and they surely would--why she could hold her head high.
It struck me while reading this interaction that Atticus modeled two character qualities that one might wish to see in every father. These qualities are often lacking in people—but it does more damage when it’s lacking in fathers. Atticus had great integrity, and he was what some call a “good man.” If a man has integrity, it means he stands for what is right, that he has the moral fiber to do what he knows to be the right thing: He will remain true to his word. (We used to say about a person like this, "The man's word is his bond").
“Good” is a more nebulous word, especially in this day and age when everyone has their own idea of what constitutes right and wrong. The list of meanings for the word “good” is quite extensive; however, they boil down to a few key ideas: moral excellence, high quality; a person who does what is proper and right, a person who is kind and serves others above themselves; a person who, in relationships, is honest, genuine, responsible, and dependable.
Because of the qualities that Atticus displayed, one could say he was a “real man.” Most boys wonder often whether they will be a “real man” or not--including yours truly. Girls grow up wondering what it is that would make them a genuine, feminine woman. Men and women are different in fundamental ways, but there is something that needs to be part of their life if they are to be the “real man” or the “real woman” that they dream about. That thing is modeled by the Atticus Finch who counseled his daughter Scout to “hold your head high and keep your fists down.”
It's tempting to say that Atticus Finch was a man of courage. He was; however, people are mistaken if they think that courage means that a person is not afraid. Atticus was plenty afraid of what he knew might--or would--happen. Rather, true courage is demonstrated when people do what they know is right in spite of being deathly afraid of what could happen to themselves. It was a lesson I learned first on the battlefield and have since seen demonstrated in people seeking to live a life of integrity and service to others. Such was what made Atticus Finch a real man.
My prayer is that I would be a real man like he was: that I, my children and those I might touch in this life, would be just like him.
“You just hold your head high and keep those fists down.”
--Atticus Finch to daughter Scout, pg. 87
It’s difficult to hold your head high if you don’t know why you’re supposed to be holding it up. When Atticus Finch told his inquiring daughter Scout to hold her head high and fists down, she had little idea of why he would tell her that. Atticus didn’t give a detailed reason: all she knew was that her father was asking her to do something difficult, and that was enough. She trusted her father. She likely had never heard the word “integrity.” But her father's integrity was precisely why she could trust him. Scout had implicit trust in his understanding of things and the goodness and rightness of anything he had to tell her. Besides that, Atticus never asked anything for himself. He was unselfish and trustworthy and good. Scout did not want to let that man down. She knew, when other kids ridiculed her father for defending a black man--and they surely would--why she could hold her head high.
It struck me while reading this interaction that Atticus modeled two character qualities that one might wish to see in every father. These qualities are often lacking in people—but it does more damage when it’s lacking in fathers. Atticus had great integrity, and he was what some call a “good man.” If a man has integrity, it means he stands for what is right, that he has the moral fiber to do what he knows to be the right thing: He will remain true to his word. (We used to say about a person like this, "The man's word is his bond").
“Good” is a more nebulous word, especially in this day and age when everyone has their own idea of what constitutes right and wrong. The list of meanings for the word “good” is quite extensive; however, they boil down to a few key ideas: moral excellence, high quality; a person who does what is proper and right, a person who is kind and serves others above themselves; a person who, in relationships, is honest, genuine, responsible, and dependable.
Because of the qualities that Atticus displayed, one could say he was a “real man.” Most boys wonder often whether they will be a “real man” or not--including yours truly. Girls grow up wondering what it is that would make them a genuine, feminine woman. Men and women are different in fundamental ways, but there is something that needs to be part of their life if they are to be the “real man” or the “real woman” that they dream about. That thing is modeled by the Atticus Finch who counseled his daughter Scout to “hold your head high and keep your fists down.”
It's tempting to say that Atticus Finch was a man of courage. He was; however, people are mistaken if they think that courage means that a person is not afraid. Atticus was plenty afraid of what he knew might--or would--happen. Rather, true courage is demonstrated when people do what they know is right in spite of being deathly afraid of what could happen to themselves. It was a lesson I learned first on the battlefield and have since seen demonstrated in people seeking to live a life of integrity and service to others. Such was what made Atticus Finch a real man.
My prayer is that I would be a real man like he was: that I, my children and those I might touch in this life, would be just like him.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
June 10, 1969: Chaplain Max Sullivan saved my life
June, 1969 was a time of horrific combat action for us, the men of Alpha Company. Our C.O., Captain David Walsh, was leading us as part of a battalion-sized operation against the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) in Quang Ngai Province, northern South Vietnam. (Alpha Company was part of the 1st Battalion, 20th Regiment, in the 11th Light Infantry Brigade, part of the Americal Division).
We’d been in a number of fire-fights during the first days of June. We were on the move, and the enemy knew we were in the area. By the afternoon of the ninth, we had been cut up pretty badly. We had lost a number of men, including all of our medics except one; even he had been wounded in the arm, but refused to be taken out on a med-evac helicopter. He stayed with us and walked with us through the pitch-black darkness for most of the night, supported by two men walking on either side. We were hoping to avoid contact, if possible. We needed to rest, regroup, and resupply, if we were to be effective in any kind of operation. We were exhausted and discouraged. No one was telling even bad jokes about our situation.
There was no moon, and it was impossible to see: we moved in single-file, one arm extended to hold on to the man in front so as not to get lost. We still managed to fall into an occasional muddy hole, (including yours truly). Late that night we finally stopped, setting up perimeter around a hill, trying to sleep sitting up, hoping to be ready for anything. When it was my turn to pull guard, I crept into place a few yards from where I had been trying to sleep. It was still pitch-black. We had no starlight scope. My gut was tight. I remember holding my breath occasionally, trying to hear better, fearful that even my breathing would give me away. That night’s foreboding was hard to shake off. There was deep shit out there, waiting for us—somewhere.
I don’t know what happened after I got off guard. The rest of the night just disappeared, and there was light. My eyes felt so swollen and I felt like I had a hangover—so I must’ve slept. Some of the guys were already preparing to move out. I looked at my M -16: it seemed fine, and I debated about trying to clean it at the last minute. I broke it open anyway, which I’m sure was a God-thing: the chamber inside was packed with mud from the hole I had fallen into the night before… visions of my 16 blowing up in my face started dancing in my head….
We packed up and moved out, seeming to walk forever, until mid-morning. We saw no enemy.
Max Sullivan, the chaplain, had joined us at some point. He had been with us on other occasions, holding services and giving out communion to the men. It was always encouraging to see him, and to hear his ever-friendly voice.
Once we stopped, on the morning of June 10th, we established a perimeter. We were in a dry rice-growing area, dikes surrounded by hedgerows everywhere. You couldn’t see very far—perhaps twenty meters.
The mortar platoon took up one side of the perimeter. I planted myself between a dike and a grain storage “hootch,” a mudded brown half-sphere, rising up out of the field about six feet high. I had been standing there for a few minutes when it occurred to me that I was seeing a face looking back at me from the bush about 40-50 meters away. We just stood looking at one another, neither of us moving. (I remember having this stupid impulse to wave or call out to the other—but that thought was gone in a second). I told my sergeant, Gary Owens, and he said we had to go and check it out….sick…about four of us went out: perhaps 25 meters of the distance to the spot was open, with no cover.
We got out there to find—nothing. So we started back. We got about 10 meters when all kinds of small arms fire cut loose on the other side of the perimeter—AK 47s, M-16s, M-60 machine guns….I don’t know what all. It was hot and heavy, with rounds coming our way. (I later learned that the initial burst of gunfire occurred when Sgt. Gene Holland walked through a hedgerow into an NVA machine gun. He got six rounds in the gut and frags from a Chi-Com grenade). We got in the dirt, but realized we had to get back to the others no matter what, and the Sarge said to boogie. It took forever, but we all made it back….just in time to get pinned down by AKs and a 30-caliber machine gun. I was crouching in the same spot between the hootch and a dike. The enemy didn’t seem very close, but I wasn’t certain. Just then, James Hopper, who was right behind me, lifted his head above the dike. I don’t know if he was trying to get a shot off, but he took a 30-caliber round in the neck. He couldn’t call out—but I’ll never forget the sounds. He was gone. (Gene Holland recently told me that Hopper had told him he was going to die….a premonition?)
It was strangely quiet right after that. I don’t know whether it was just me or there was an actual lull in the battle. There was a shape moving through the tree line toward us from behind. I fired my 16, and the shape disappeared. The 30-caliber machine gun was no longer firing. In its place the NVA put a 60 mm mortar. Unlike our 81s, the 60s were highly mobile. One man could crouch on the ground and fire it. I heard the call to pull back—we were getting decimated. I wasn’t aware right then, but two others had been badly wounded by the machine gun fire—Royce Lowman, our ace gunner, took it in the jaw. Gene Holland’s belly wounds left everyone thinking he would never make it. It just “happened” (another God thing) that a resupply chopper was taking off just as the firing started. The pilot heard (or saw) it and decided to stick around a little…just in case.
I was kneeling or crouching very close to the ground between the dike and the hootch. I heard a loud whistling sound; then I was suddenly inside a gigantic bell as the gonger clanged—or so it seemed. I was lifted off the ground, being carried to one side and watching the tree line moving past me in slow mo.
I was conscious and tried to sit up, but just couldn’t move. I tried but couldn’t reach my M-16. I remember seeing the sky, and the hootch, and everything was quiet again. I looked at my hands; there was blood spurting out of my left thumb. There was blood all over my legs and stomach, and the clothing was torn up. But I didn’t feel any pain. I just couldn’t seem to move anything but my arms.
There was no one else around—everyone had already pulled back. I knew I had to yell out for help, not knowing whether our guys or bad guys would get to me first. I lay there forever, it seemed, but was probably only a couple three or four minutes. I heard a voice and an American soldier emerged through the bushes and trees and I recognized—Max Sullivan, the chaplain! I don’t remember my exact thoughts on seeing him, but I remember being impressed that here was this minister coming out to get me—the angel of God!
He leaned over me, checked me and asked me how badly I was hit. He looked at poor James Hopper, but he was long gone. Max mentioned that we had to get out of there right away—the NVA were all over the place. Just then, another American—I don’t remember his name, but he was from one of the line platoons—came up. Max picked up my M-16, and began spraying the bushes. I distinctly remember wondering how a minister of God could be firing an M-16! But I didn’t have long to think on that: He and the other man got under my arms and pulled me up onto my good leg. It must have been a strange sight to see the three us with a gimp in the center, maneuvering through and around the dikes, trees, and other things. I was aware of what was happening around me, but didn’t have a clue how the battle was going. I do remember Joe Dietler walking by, looking downcast and close to tears, saying something about how many of our guys were getting shot up. He paused for a moment and then hurried on.
We got to the “dust-off” area, and Max and the other man laid me down on the ground. Max began examining my wounds. I don’t remember his words, but he was encouraging the whole time. I knew I had gotten hit in the belly and the upper legs: he assured me I could still have children.
I showed him my Buck knife, which I carried on my web-belt. I gave it to him, asking for him to pass it on to someone who could use it. He said he’d take care of it.
It seemed to take forever waiting for the chopper, but probably not more than a half-hour, if that. Max was not with me the whole time, but he came back to help load me and others on the chopper when it landed. I remember watching the pilot looking around to make sure we were all in and ready for take-off. I lay there for a moment with my left hand up. The thumb was bleeding profusely where a piece of shrapnel was sticking out close to the nail. Then the pilot looked down at me, and I gave him a thumbs-up with probably the biggest smile I ever felt. Then we were airborne.
I’ve thought a lot about Max since that day in June of ‘69 when much of our world fell apart. At one point, I couldn’t remember his exact name, but I’ll never forget what he did. He put his life on the line for me—there was no way he could even see me or what else might be in the area. I heard years later that he did a lot of that sort of thing. On that same day, our beloved Captain, David Walsh, was killed. Capt. Walsh was deeply loved and admired by the men of Alpha Company. He was a man’s man and a leader of men, and he cared for us deeply—he refused to put our lives at risk unless absolutely necessary. There was no confusion about that, at least, during our time in that confusing war. And he put his men before his own life. On the day he died, he rushed in more than once and killed NVA snipers, charging in the face of small arms fire. He was finally picked off by another sniper, and lay in a field alone, clutching his rifle, for a long time before our men were able to retrieve his body. Max Sullivan, I believe, was one of those men. Max remembers firing Capt. Walsh’s M-16 (although he didn’t remember firing mine).
Max, as a man, was greatly respected for the days he spent with our unit. He laid it all on the line for the soldiers he came to serve with more than religious words. As a minister, he lived out the words of Jesus, who said, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:13)
And we thank him for it.
We’d been in a number of fire-fights during the first days of June. We were on the move, and the enemy knew we were in the area. By the afternoon of the ninth, we had been cut up pretty badly. We had lost a number of men, including all of our medics except one; even he had been wounded in the arm, but refused to be taken out on a med-evac helicopter. He stayed with us and walked with us through the pitch-black darkness for most of the night, supported by two men walking on either side. We were hoping to avoid contact, if possible. We needed to rest, regroup, and resupply, if we were to be effective in any kind of operation. We were exhausted and discouraged. No one was telling even bad jokes about our situation.
There was no moon, and it was impossible to see: we moved in single-file, one arm extended to hold on to the man in front so as not to get lost. We still managed to fall into an occasional muddy hole, (including yours truly). Late that night we finally stopped, setting up perimeter around a hill, trying to sleep sitting up, hoping to be ready for anything. When it was my turn to pull guard, I crept into place a few yards from where I had been trying to sleep. It was still pitch-black. We had no starlight scope. My gut was tight. I remember holding my breath occasionally, trying to hear better, fearful that even my breathing would give me away. That night’s foreboding was hard to shake off. There was deep shit out there, waiting for us—somewhere.
I don’t know what happened after I got off guard. The rest of the night just disappeared, and there was light. My eyes felt so swollen and I felt like I had a hangover—so I must’ve slept. Some of the guys were already preparing to move out. I looked at my M -16: it seemed fine, and I debated about trying to clean it at the last minute. I broke it open anyway, which I’m sure was a God-thing: the chamber inside was packed with mud from the hole I had fallen into the night before… visions of my 16 blowing up in my face started dancing in my head….
We packed up and moved out, seeming to walk forever, until mid-morning. We saw no enemy.
Max Sullivan, the chaplain, had joined us at some point. He had been with us on other occasions, holding services and giving out communion to the men. It was always encouraging to see him, and to hear his ever-friendly voice.
Once we stopped, on the morning of June 10th, we established a perimeter. We were in a dry rice-growing area, dikes surrounded by hedgerows everywhere. You couldn’t see very far—perhaps twenty meters.
The mortar platoon took up one side of the perimeter. I planted myself between a dike and a grain storage “hootch,” a mudded brown half-sphere, rising up out of the field about six feet high. I had been standing there for a few minutes when it occurred to me that I was seeing a face looking back at me from the bush about 40-50 meters away. We just stood looking at one another, neither of us moving. (I remember having this stupid impulse to wave or call out to the other—but that thought was gone in a second). I told my sergeant, Gary Owens, and he said we had to go and check it out….sick…about four of us went out: perhaps 25 meters of the distance to the spot was open, with no cover.
We got out there to find—nothing. So we started back. We got about 10 meters when all kinds of small arms fire cut loose on the other side of the perimeter—AK 47s, M-16s, M-60 machine guns….I don’t know what all. It was hot and heavy, with rounds coming our way. (I later learned that the initial burst of gunfire occurred when Sgt. Gene Holland walked through a hedgerow into an NVA machine gun. He got six rounds in the gut and frags from a Chi-Com grenade). We got in the dirt, but realized we had to get back to the others no matter what, and the Sarge said to boogie. It took forever, but we all made it back….just in time to get pinned down by AKs and a 30-caliber machine gun. I was crouching in the same spot between the hootch and a dike. The enemy didn’t seem very close, but I wasn’t certain. Just then, James Hopper, who was right behind me, lifted his head above the dike. I don’t know if he was trying to get a shot off, but he took a 30-caliber round in the neck. He couldn’t call out—but I’ll never forget the sounds. He was gone. (Gene Holland recently told me that Hopper had told him he was going to die….a premonition?)
It was strangely quiet right after that. I don’t know whether it was just me or there was an actual lull in the battle. There was a shape moving through the tree line toward us from behind. I fired my 16, and the shape disappeared. The 30-caliber machine gun was no longer firing. In its place the NVA put a 60 mm mortar. Unlike our 81s, the 60s were highly mobile. One man could crouch on the ground and fire it. I heard the call to pull back—we were getting decimated. I wasn’t aware right then, but two others had been badly wounded by the machine gun fire—Royce Lowman, our ace gunner, took it in the jaw. Gene Holland’s belly wounds left everyone thinking he would never make it. It just “happened” (another God thing) that a resupply chopper was taking off just as the firing started. The pilot heard (or saw) it and decided to stick around a little…just in case.
I was kneeling or crouching very close to the ground between the dike and the hootch. I heard a loud whistling sound; then I was suddenly inside a gigantic bell as the gonger clanged—or so it seemed. I was lifted off the ground, being carried to one side and watching the tree line moving past me in slow mo.
I was conscious and tried to sit up, but just couldn’t move. I tried but couldn’t reach my M-16. I remember seeing the sky, and the hootch, and everything was quiet again. I looked at my hands; there was blood spurting out of my left thumb. There was blood all over my legs and stomach, and the clothing was torn up. But I didn’t feel any pain. I just couldn’t seem to move anything but my arms.
There was no one else around—everyone had already pulled back. I knew I had to yell out for help, not knowing whether our guys or bad guys would get to me first. I lay there forever, it seemed, but was probably only a couple three or four minutes. I heard a voice and an American soldier emerged through the bushes and trees and I recognized—Max Sullivan, the chaplain! I don’t remember my exact thoughts on seeing him, but I remember being impressed that here was this minister coming out to get me—the angel of God!
He leaned over me, checked me and asked me how badly I was hit. He looked at poor James Hopper, but he was long gone. Max mentioned that we had to get out of there right away—the NVA were all over the place. Just then, another American—I don’t remember his name, but he was from one of the line platoons—came up. Max picked up my M-16, and began spraying the bushes. I distinctly remember wondering how a minister of God could be firing an M-16! But I didn’t have long to think on that: He and the other man got under my arms and pulled me up onto my good leg. It must have been a strange sight to see the three us with a gimp in the center, maneuvering through and around the dikes, trees, and other things. I was aware of what was happening around me, but didn’t have a clue how the battle was going. I do remember Joe Dietler walking by, looking downcast and close to tears, saying something about how many of our guys were getting shot up. He paused for a moment and then hurried on.
We got to the “dust-off” area, and Max and the other man laid me down on the ground. Max began examining my wounds. I don’t remember his words, but he was encouraging the whole time. I knew I had gotten hit in the belly and the upper legs: he assured me I could still have children.
I showed him my Buck knife, which I carried on my web-belt. I gave it to him, asking for him to pass it on to someone who could use it. He said he’d take care of it.
It seemed to take forever waiting for the chopper, but probably not more than a half-hour, if that. Max was not with me the whole time, but he came back to help load me and others on the chopper when it landed. I remember watching the pilot looking around to make sure we were all in and ready for take-off. I lay there for a moment with my left hand up. The thumb was bleeding profusely where a piece of shrapnel was sticking out close to the nail. Then the pilot looked down at me, and I gave him a thumbs-up with probably the biggest smile I ever felt. Then we were airborne.
I’ve thought a lot about Max since that day in June of ‘69 when much of our world fell apart. At one point, I couldn’t remember his exact name, but I’ll never forget what he did. He put his life on the line for me—there was no way he could even see me or what else might be in the area. I heard years later that he did a lot of that sort of thing. On that same day, our beloved Captain, David Walsh, was killed. Capt. Walsh was deeply loved and admired by the men of Alpha Company. He was a man’s man and a leader of men, and he cared for us deeply—he refused to put our lives at risk unless absolutely necessary. There was no confusion about that, at least, during our time in that confusing war. And he put his men before his own life. On the day he died, he rushed in more than once and killed NVA snipers, charging in the face of small arms fire. He was finally picked off by another sniper, and lay in a field alone, clutching his rifle, for a long time before our men were able to retrieve his body. Max Sullivan, I believe, was one of those men. Max remembers firing Capt. Walsh’s M-16 (although he didn’t remember firing mine).
Max, as a man, was greatly respected for the days he spent with our unit. He laid it all on the line for the soldiers he came to serve with more than religious words. As a minister, he lived out the words of Jesus, who said, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:13)
And we thank him for it.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Tasting Resurrection: how I went through a "Well, duh!" moment on Mars Hill
I have tasted resurrection. Oh, I know that, being "in Christ," I am raised with him, I have passed from death to life (John 5:24). But what I'm talking about here is experiencing something of what God says, what it means to feel alive.
If you read my story about the "missing picture" (below), you may wonder, what's the point of going back to my six-year-old little boy. After all, we as adults are now responsible for how we live, right? And we, as Christians, are responsible to accept God's evaluation of us as his children and live in light of that, right? Absolutely right! Well, then?
Well, this: I discovered recently, in the course of attending a writer's workshop in Seattle, that I no longer have to justify my existence. I am my dad's child.
In reflecting on the story I wrote, I realized that there may have been a bit of ambiguity about whose child I understood myself to be. While I have been a Christian since 1971, I've really only come to understand my heavenly Father's delight in me as his child in the past few years. I not only understand the "doctrine," but now I know it in my soul. I am alive with him, I am "in the picture" with him.
What happened at the workshop was that the truth of my adoption in Christ so caught hold of my soul that I realized the lie I had bought into as a child was totally invalid, not true.
The workshop lasted for four days at Mars Hill Graduate School in August. In preparation for going, I was asked to write down five significant, tragic or traumatic events from my childhood...for the simple reason that it is these sorts of events that are formative in our lives. Then I was asked to write on one of them. I decided to write a story about my father dying when I was thirteen, and the non-relationship that we had.
The first evening I was there, I was faced with the question of why I thought my dad favored my older brother over me, and how I felt about that. The counselor who read my original story wrote on it: "You write of abandonment, loneliness, bullying, neglect, and fear. Yet you write of these traumas from 50,000 feet away." Right after my comment about my dad favoring my brother, she wrote: "What did you feel? What did you dream it would be like with your father?" By the time I read that, it was after 11 p.m., and I was already exhausted. Her query kept me from going to sleep for a long while. I could not think of an answer. When I awoke early the next morning, my mind felt like a rock...heavy...nothing moving inside! I reread her question, and something hit me that I had ignored in writing that first story: I remembered the drawer full of pictures, and I remembered my growing realization that there was no picture of just me and my dad. That was, I realized, my dream: to be with my dad, to be close to him like my brother had been when sitting on his lap, having those obviously adoring eyes of my dad delighting in me and whatever I was doing.
Before leaving for the workshop that morning, I wrote a page or two on my laptop about that drawer. As I was writing, details of that experience kept coming back: the look and feel of the pictures, a growing sense of desperation looking for a "missing picture." What I wrote was pretty rough. But at least my mind (an amazing machine, even at my age) had much to work with.
During the workshop that day, we met in a group of six. We presented our stories, and talked and asked each other about what was going on in our hearts and feelings during the incidents we described. I read my original story, still in shock from the counselor's comments on it. The group reaffirmed her judgment--I was uninvolved in my story at a gut level. I then began to relate what I had been writing earlier that morning, and one of the young ladies asked: "What did you want from your dad?" At that moment I knew the answer, and I said it almost crying: "I wanted to know that I mattered to him!" That was the unanswered question in my life that began to eat into my being when I was six (or seven or eight) and was left unanswered when he died.
Thinking about what happened at that innocent age was important for me precisely because that's where I bought into a lie from the Enemy of our souls. The lie: I didn't matter. While my original longing had been to matter to my dad, I eventually lost track of that and generalized it into the question of whether or not I mattered at all. Even when I became a Christian, while I believed that God loves me, in my heart I didn't trust him that I actually meant anything to him or mattered at all.
As we continued to talk in the group, and later, as I began rethinking and rewriting what I had done that morning, I was looking back at the little boy. It was almost like he was someone else. And it hit me: "Well, duh! Of course he matters!" And then: "Well, duh! Of course I matter!" At the point where my false thinking should have been nipped in the bud, it wasn't. That lie just about eliminated my capacity to dream. But now...
Something changed a few years back when I began to understand that, because of what it means that I am adopted by my Father and I am privileged to call him "Abba," he really does delight in me as his child. One of the things that happened to me last month in Seattle was that I understood that that little boy needed the same message, and now he has received it--over and over again. I have begun the struggle aginst the lie of the Enemy.
I know that God gives life--it is his perogative, after all. He has shown me a bit more of what it means that I am redeemed, and that I am fully alive to him, and that I matter to him. That is a taste of resurrection. And it is sweet.
If you read my story about the "missing picture" (below), you may wonder, what's the point of going back to my six-year-old little boy. After all, we as adults are now responsible for how we live, right? And we, as Christians, are responsible to accept God's evaluation of us as his children and live in light of that, right? Absolutely right! Well, then?
Well, this: I discovered recently, in the course of attending a writer's workshop in Seattle, that I no longer have to justify my existence. I am my dad's child.
In reflecting on the story I wrote, I realized that there may have been a bit of ambiguity about whose child I understood myself to be. While I have been a Christian since 1971, I've really only come to understand my heavenly Father's delight in me as his child in the past few years. I not only understand the "doctrine," but now I know it in my soul. I am alive with him, I am "in the picture" with him.
What happened at the workshop was that the truth of my adoption in Christ so caught hold of my soul that I realized the lie I had bought into as a child was totally invalid, not true.
The workshop lasted for four days at Mars Hill Graduate School in August. In preparation for going, I was asked to write down five significant, tragic or traumatic events from my childhood...for the simple reason that it is these sorts of events that are formative in our lives. Then I was asked to write on one of them. I decided to write a story about my father dying when I was thirteen, and the non-relationship that we had.
The first evening I was there, I was faced with the question of why I thought my dad favored my older brother over me, and how I felt about that. The counselor who read my original story wrote on it: "You write of abandonment, loneliness, bullying, neglect, and fear. Yet you write of these traumas from 50,000 feet away." Right after my comment about my dad favoring my brother, she wrote: "What did you feel? What did you dream it would be like with your father?" By the time I read that, it was after 11 p.m., and I was already exhausted. Her query kept me from going to sleep for a long while. I could not think of an answer. When I awoke early the next morning, my mind felt like a rock...heavy...nothing moving inside! I reread her question, and something hit me that I had ignored in writing that first story: I remembered the drawer full of pictures, and I remembered my growing realization that there was no picture of just me and my dad. That was, I realized, my dream: to be with my dad, to be close to him like my brother had been when sitting on his lap, having those obviously adoring eyes of my dad delighting in me and whatever I was doing.
Before leaving for the workshop that morning, I wrote a page or two on my laptop about that drawer. As I was writing, details of that experience kept coming back: the look and feel of the pictures, a growing sense of desperation looking for a "missing picture." What I wrote was pretty rough. But at least my mind (an amazing machine, even at my age) had much to work with.
During the workshop that day, we met in a group of six. We presented our stories, and talked and asked each other about what was going on in our hearts and feelings during the incidents we described. I read my original story, still in shock from the counselor's comments on it. The group reaffirmed her judgment--I was uninvolved in my story at a gut level. I then began to relate what I had been writing earlier that morning, and one of the young ladies asked: "What did you want from your dad?" At that moment I knew the answer, and I said it almost crying: "I wanted to know that I mattered to him!" That was the unanswered question in my life that began to eat into my being when I was six (or seven or eight) and was left unanswered when he died.
Thinking about what happened at that innocent age was important for me precisely because that's where I bought into a lie from the Enemy of our souls. The lie: I didn't matter. While my original longing had been to matter to my dad, I eventually lost track of that and generalized it into the question of whether or not I mattered at all. Even when I became a Christian, while I believed that God loves me, in my heart I didn't trust him that I actually meant anything to him or mattered at all.
As we continued to talk in the group, and later, as I began rethinking and rewriting what I had done that morning, I was looking back at the little boy. It was almost like he was someone else. And it hit me: "Well, duh! Of course he matters!" And then: "Well, duh! Of course I matter!" At the point where my false thinking should have been nipped in the bud, it wasn't. That lie just about eliminated my capacity to dream. But now...
Something changed a few years back when I began to understand that, because of what it means that I am adopted by my Father and I am privileged to call him "Abba," he really does delight in me as his child. One of the things that happened to me last month in Seattle was that I understood that that little boy needed the same message, and now he has received it--over and over again. I have begun the struggle aginst the lie of the Enemy.
I know that God gives life--it is his perogative, after all. He has shown me a bit more of what it means that I am redeemed, and that I am fully alive to him, and that I matter to him. That is a taste of resurrection. And it is sweet.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
To my comment-ators
If you are trying to leave a comment, you may be puzzled by the "select profile" drop-down. If you have a google (or gmail) account, just put in your regular user name and password. Otherwise, look to the far right, under "Followers." You will see a link that says, "Already a member? Sign in." Click on the "sign in" link. There you will see a place to create a Google account--which you can use to access the comment portion." In the meantime, I will check to see if we can't get something a bit more user friendly. Thanks for your patience!!
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Missing Picture: Listening to the voice of my six-year-old
Introduction:
The following was written August 21 while I was attending a story writing workshop conducted by Dan Allender at Mars Hill Graduate School in Seattle. While there, I began to learn that, as I honestly listen and engage the stories of my life, I will see the themes that the Author of my life has written there. We see the same thing in Scripture where God has revealed himself in unique ways in the unique stories of individuals. I have slightly edited it from the original.
The Missing Picture
I've never known until this very weekend how something that didn't exist could cause so much havoc in a life--my life. It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. But a missing picutre can destroy a life. When I came to this weekend, I was thinking that the death of my dad was the central event around which much of life revolved. That was only partly right. It has actually revolved around a picture that never existed. That non-existent picture has led to a life of self-contempt that is still the scene of the war that I desire to engage, a war against the seduction and lies of the evil one.
My parents kept our family pictures in the top drawer of a secretary. I remember discovering the drawer and its treasures, probably when I was five or six. Because the drawer was heavy, it took time to pull it out. But once I saw what wonders were inside, I returned to it often. I spent many leisurely hours over the years going through the pictures, looking at each one, feeling the serrated edges, comparing the old sepia-toned ones and the newer black and white ones. If I didn't know who someone was, I would ask my mom. There were unexpected discoveries, like meeting the man I was named for, Walt Blake, dressed in naval uniform. There were aunts and uncles, a stunningly beautiful and mysterious painted photograph of my Aunt Juanita. There were pictures of both Mom and Dad when they were much younger (childhood into their thirties), including pictures of my dad working. There were pictures of my brother, Fred and me and a few of our whole family. There were also pictures of Sis and her first husband. Of particular interest were photos of Dad working in his office and pictures of my brother when he was one and older. One picture of Fred showed him standing next to a coffee table with a cake with a single, large candle in the middle. Another picture showed Fred, somewhere between one and two, sitting on my dad's lap, pecking away on a typewriter, the delighted expression on Dad's face revealing his obvious pleasure at having his first-born son with him.
The more I sat pouring through the pictures in that drawer, the more I became aware of a gnawing question: Where am I? I remember going back to the drawer a number of times, looking through every picture to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I could not find any pictures that remotely resembled the ones of my brother on his first birthday or the one sitting on the lap of my beaming dad. I remember feeling a sense of panic, perhaps desperation, as I searched for pictures that must somehow be there, somewhere.
I remember eventually becoming conscious of questions like, "Why wasn't I there?" "If they took pictures of my brother, why not me?" "What was wrong with me, anyway?" I have a vague memory of asking my mom about them, but don't honestly remember the answer. I also distinctly remember (now, after reconstructing this vignette) the feeling of wanting to cry a number of times--but can't say I actually remember crying. The undeniable conclusion from the evidence in the missing photos overwhelmed my thinking: my dad loved my brother, but my dad had no use for me. I did not exist for him.
Did my dad really feel that way? I can never know. I'm sure he did at some level, but the point for me was: if he loved and valued me, why didn't he show it? Why were't there pictures of him showing delight in me? Why didn't he (or even my mom, for that matter) sit with me to tell me about them? Why did they leave me to my own screwed-up self-interpretation? In the years leading up to his death when I was thirteen, Dad and I didn't talk very much, didn't spend time alone, didn't have deep conversation about important things in life. That missing involvement reinforced the message of the missing photos: to my dad, I was not there, I didn't matter, I had no identity, I was not anywhere.
Now, as I listen to that six-year-old boy ask "Where am I?" and look at his tousled brown hair and rosy cheeks and watering, desperate eyes crying that question, I cannot help but want for him someone to come cuddle him and say: you are more important than anything on earth to me. You're my child and you matter. I want for that child (me) to know who he is, that he is, in reality, his dad's child. Instead, the question has lingered for some fifty years, so that child still says: "Who am I?" And the answer still screams back: "You are nobody!"
I'm only now just barely beginning to grieve the loss in that little boy. I've realized, at least intellectually, that in order to grieve, I must be honest with what happened. Before now, I felt sad for the boy, I felt self-pity and loneliness--but I didn't face honestly that my dad did not take steps to help him know that he was cherished just because he was his dad's son. That little boy was killed off by that neglect.
How can I be kind to that little boy at this late date? First by listening to him (me) and recognizing the evil that seduced him to think that way and live the rest of his life right up to the present day in light of it. Second, by grieving. I now see how truly that little boy (me) was wounded by living a lie that he should not have been allowed to. I do grieve now. I grieve because I didn't hear the truth and what I did see I ran away from. I accepted the lie that I didn't matter, I didn't know who I was, and so I didn't dream of who I could be. I sought to believe in the goodness of God, but lived out a functional theology of thinking that the dream would always end by him pulling the rug out from under me. I know, now, thirdly, that I want to tell the boy, "You are indelibly grafted to my soul as my child." Long ago, the little boy was seduced by evil into believing the lie that he is not loved, and therefore worthless, a nothing. Because the adult me still lives in the "reality" long ago accepted by that little boy, I want to help the boy (me) live in the reality that he is loved, how much he is very present "in the picture" with me--just because he is a child of his father. There is no longer any ground for self-contempt, just as, in Christ, there is no longer any condemnation. And I will, fourthly, continue to listen to this little boy, see this little boy. I know too much of his goodness, innocence, and preciousness to walk away and leave him behind and forget that the redemption by Jesus on the cross reaches back into my entire life. Finally, I now see the boy through different eyes, eyes that see clearly how wronged he was. Now I will repeat to him the same message my Father in heaven has been repeating to me: "I wanted you so much that I adopted you. I made you my own. I am surrounding you with my love. You call me Abba and you are my child, and I will never leave you. You will always be in the picture with me."
The following was written August 21 while I was attending a story writing workshop conducted by Dan Allender at Mars Hill Graduate School in Seattle. While there, I began to learn that, as I honestly listen and engage the stories of my life, I will see the themes that the Author of my life has written there. We see the same thing in Scripture where God has revealed himself in unique ways in the unique stories of individuals. I have slightly edited it from the original.
The Missing Picture
I've never known until this very weekend how something that didn't exist could cause so much havoc in a life--my life. It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. But a missing picutre can destroy a life. When I came to this weekend, I was thinking that the death of my dad was the central event around which much of life revolved. That was only partly right. It has actually revolved around a picture that never existed. That non-existent picture has led to a life of self-contempt that is still the scene of the war that I desire to engage, a war against the seduction and lies of the evil one.
My parents kept our family pictures in the top drawer of a secretary. I remember discovering the drawer and its treasures, probably when I was five or six. Because the drawer was heavy, it took time to pull it out. But once I saw what wonders were inside, I returned to it often. I spent many leisurely hours over the years going through the pictures, looking at each one, feeling the serrated edges, comparing the old sepia-toned ones and the newer black and white ones. If I didn't know who someone was, I would ask my mom. There were unexpected discoveries, like meeting the man I was named for, Walt Blake, dressed in naval uniform. There were aunts and uncles, a stunningly beautiful and mysterious painted photograph of my Aunt Juanita. There were pictures of both Mom and Dad when they were much younger (childhood into their thirties), including pictures of my dad working. There were pictures of my brother, Fred and me and a few of our whole family. There were also pictures of Sis and her first husband. Of particular interest were photos of Dad working in his office and pictures of my brother when he was one and older. One picture of Fred showed him standing next to a coffee table with a cake with a single, large candle in the middle. Another picture showed Fred, somewhere between one and two, sitting on my dad's lap, pecking away on a typewriter, the delighted expression on Dad's face revealing his obvious pleasure at having his first-born son with him.
The more I sat pouring through the pictures in that drawer, the more I became aware of a gnawing question: Where am I? I remember going back to the drawer a number of times, looking through every picture to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I could not find any pictures that remotely resembled the ones of my brother on his first birthday or the one sitting on the lap of my beaming dad. I remember feeling a sense of panic, perhaps desperation, as I searched for pictures that must somehow be there, somewhere.
I remember eventually becoming conscious of questions like, "Why wasn't I there?" "If they took pictures of my brother, why not me?" "What was wrong with me, anyway?" I have a vague memory of asking my mom about them, but don't honestly remember the answer. I also distinctly remember (now, after reconstructing this vignette) the feeling of wanting to cry a number of times--but can't say I actually remember crying. The undeniable conclusion from the evidence in the missing photos overwhelmed my thinking: my dad loved my brother, but my dad had no use for me. I did not exist for him.
Did my dad really feel that way? I can never know. I'm sure he did at some level, but the point for me was: if he loved and valued me, why didn't he show it? Why were't there pictures of him showing delight in me? Why didn't he (or even my mom, for that matter) sit with me to tell me about them? Why did they leave me to my own screwed-up self-interpretation? In the years leading up to his death when I was thirteen, Dad and I didn't talk very much, didn't spend time alone, didn't have deep conversation about important things in life. That missing involvement reinforced the message of the missing photos: to my dad, I was not there, I didn't matter, I had no identity, I was not anywhere.
Now, as I listen to that six-year-old boy ask "Where am I?" and look at his tousled brown hair and rosy cheeks and watering, desperate eyes crying that question, I cannot help but want for him someone to come cuddle him and say: you are more important than anything on earth to me. You're my child and you matter. I want for that child (me) to know who he is, that he is, in reality, his dad's child. Instead, the question has lingered for some fifty years, so that child still says: "Who am I?" And the answer still screams back: "You are nobody!"
I'm only now just barely beginning to grieve the loss in that little boy. I've realized, at least intellectually, that in order to grieve, I must be honest with what happened. Before now, I felt sad for the boy, I felt self-pity and loneliness--but I didn't face honestly that my dad did not take steps to help him know that he was cherished just because he was his dad's son. That little boy was killed off by that neglect.
How can I be kind to that little boy at this late date? First by listening to him (me) and recognizing the evil that seduced him to think that way and live the rest of his life right up to the present day in light of it. Second, by grieving. I now see how truly that little boy (me) was wounded by living a lie that he should not have been allowed to. I do grieve now. I grieve because I didn't hear the truth and what I did see I ran away from. I accepted the lie that I didn't matter, I didn't know who I was, and so I didn't dream of who I could be. I sought to believe in the goodness of God, but lived out a functional theology of thinking that the dream would always end by him pulling the rug out from under me. I know, now, thirdly, that I want to tell the boy, "You are indelibly grafted to my soul as my child." Long ago, the little boy was seduced by evil into believing the lie that he is not loved, and therefore worthless, a nothing. Because the adult me still lives in the "reality" long ago accepted by that little boy, I want to help the boy (me) live in the reality that he is loved, how much he is very present "in the picture" with me--just because he is a child of his father. There is no longer any ground for self-contempt, just as, in Christ, there is no longer any condemnation. And I will, fourthly, continue to listen to this little boy, see this little boy. I know too much of his goodness, innocence, and preciousness to walk away and leave him behind and forget that the redemption by Jesus on the cross reaches back into my entire life. Finally, I now see the boy through different eyes, eyes that see clearly how wronged he was. Now I will repeat to him the same message my Father in heaven has been repeating to me: "I wanted you so much that I adopted you. I made you my own. I am surrounding you with my love. You call me Abba and you are my child, and I will never leave you. You will always be in the picture with me."
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
WHAT DOES REAL LOVE LOOK LIKE?
Love Focused: Living Life to the Fullest, by Bob and Judy Hughes. Laguna Hills, CA: Crossroads Publishing, 2008, 223 pages. (Available at lovefocused.com)
Bob Hughes saved our marriage.
That’s not strictly true, but it’s close to how I feel. Bob is certainly God’s instrument who helped us understand why our marriage was falling apart and how we could establish it on a foundation of love. That explains the sense of gratitude and anticipation I felt as I began reading this book, and why my review may appear less than objective. Of course God used others, notably our family, to show us that our marriage had bottomed out. But it was Bob who helped us understand that the bottoming out occurred on a mountain of self-absorption. We met him in 1989 after returning from Africa. We had been married nearly twenty years, (most of them in missionary service). Now we were disheartened and bewildered, our life in turmoil, with one son in open rebellion and our love for one another surely over. Divorce was no option for us: instead, we were quietly ready to live together—separately.
Michelle and I spent many weeks counseling with Bob. In the years since, one thing has remained clear as crystal: A man wants to fix things, but relationships can’t be fixed like a broken chair. There was nothing I could do—or Bob could say—that would make Michelle love me. All I could control was my own decision to love Michelle as Christ loves the church—and depend on God to do that. He told Michelle that she also needed to love rather than hold out for me to change. This is the basic command, the basic doctrine of all Scripture—to love God and others. Bob took pains to help my donkey brain grasp this. At the same time, he warned me that there was no guaranteeing the outcome: I could not control her response—I couldn’t really control anything in the world around me, not even God. Perhaps God would see fit to rekindle our love, and he did—not because I could obligate him, but because the Father delights to bless his children, and his love is gratuitous and free, not conditional.
It’s been twenty years since the dark went to light in our marriage. Bob has now been a Christian counselor for some thirty years, and has written Love Focused with his wife Judy. Those additional years of trench warfare (i.e., counseling) have surely crystallized what God taught them about what it means to love and what prevents us from living out John Lennon’s simple solution (“All we need is….”). Loving God and loving others is still the message of the Scriptures, how to make it real is the message that Bob and Judy are seeking to communicate. The effective Christian life is what they call “the love-focused life.” That message is as simple as the idealistic Beatle’s song; however the getting there and the living there are not quite so evident. Living Love Focused is really possible, achievable by grace—and more necessary than ever. Unfortunately, its importance has been obscured, like so much else in “mere Christianity,” by internecine struggle and little attention to God’s call to justice, mercy, and humility.
Learning to live the love-focused life, the Hughes write, is about undergoing a “dramatic shift in our understanding…. exposing a fundamental flaw in our thinking about life that keeps us living on a treadmill of pressure and fear….” This thinking must change. The reward is great: “A life of love leaves no regrets….” (pp 3-4).
Those who honestly seek to love will intuitively realize how miserably we fail at it: the more honest the look, the more self-focus we recognize. So what does real love look like? How do we get there?
The “getting there” is one of the great strengths of this book. Using simple language, the Hughes help us to discover what drives us, what’s behind our behavior and emotions. One foundational fact to know is that our behavior and emotions are a direct result of what we think and believe. Our beliefs drive our goals and purposes, which in turn drive what we do. We each try to live in a way that ensures that we achieve the goal of getting our needs met. However, what we think of as “needs” are often only desires, however legitimate. Some examples are: gaining love, approval, and respect, being valued and having purpose, coping with the pain in our world. None of us can truly control that these will be met—but we still try, often apart from any real dependence on God. The long-term outcome is that we invariably hurt others (and ourselves) in the effort.
You may not like what I’m about to say. Remember that Bob is a “Christian counselor,” ergo those who have sat in his office for thirty years with failed lives are mostly professing Christians. Ouch! Bob and Judy explain that the hidden goals even Christians pursue are what they call “outcome-focused goals” (i.e., getting others to meet the needs we think we have). We do this generally without even being conscious of it. These outcome-focused goals include: keeping others happy, getting our spouse to change, getting our kids to turn out okay. Outcome-focused goals—over which we have no control—keep us focused on ourselves. “Love-focused goals,” by contrast, are things we do have a measure of control over. Some of these are: loving others as best we can, being a good husband/wife, teaching our children God’s way. (He also calls these “process-focused” goals). Bob and Judy provide clear and illuminating—and convicting—discussions of strategies we use to get our “needs” met, to meet self-focused goals. These include: self-protection (e.g., fear, avoidance, addictions), seeking our own fulfillment (e.g., status-seeking), control (e.g., anger), perfectionism, and others. Bob’s abundant experience in dealing with individuals, couples, and “grown-up kids” lends authority to describe how we insidiously manipulate and ignore Scripture. By the time you read through these pages, you should be able to identify some of these in your life and be shaken enough to seek the Lord in overcoming them.
It may seem trite to suggest that the answer to these is to trust God, love him and love others. Bob and Judy are a bit more specific than that. They first point out that, if we are to be love-focused, it’s our thinking that has to change (since it’s our thinking that drives what we do). The bottom-line of our failure to love is that we don’t really think God’s love and grace are enough. This lack is endemic in the church. It shows up in legalism and perfectionism—a performance mindset that tragically afflicts all those who live their lives in the “conditional love” of God. Jerry Bridges recently noted that the most dedicated Christians are more afflicted with this than others. The Hughes point out that trusting God’s love and grace often comes down to a conscious decision: His love and grace are enough.
If there is anything missing here, it would be—in my opinion—a discussion on why Christians can know that God’s love is not conditional and why we can be confident in his love and grace as our Father, (something like what Paul wrote in Ephesians 1-3).
This is, in any case, a timely book. Its simple message is needed and overdue for the church—indeed, for all (even disillusioned 60s “love children”). Bob and Judy Hughes have provided practical help for Christians to understand their self-focus, begin to put it off, and live love focused.
Bob Hughes saved our marriage.
That’s not strictly true, but it’s close to how I feel. Bob is certainly God’s instrument who helped us understand why our marriage was falling apart and how we could establish it on a foundation of love. That explains the sense of gratitude and anticipation I felt as I began reading this book, and why my review may appear less than objective. Of course God used others, notably our family, to show us that our marriage had bottomed out. But it was Bob who helped us understand that the bottoming out occurred on a mountain of self-absorption. We met him in 1989 after returning from Africa. We had been married nearly twenty years, (most of them in missionary service). Now we were disheartened and bewildered, our life in turmoil, with one son in open rebellion and our love for one another surely over. Divorce was no option for us: instead, we were quietly ready to live together—separately.
Michelle and I spent many weeks counseling with Bob. In the years since, one thing has remained clear as crystal: A man wants to fix things, but relationships can’t be fixed like a broken chair. There was nothing I could do—or Bob could say—that would make Michelle love me. All I could control was my own decision to love Michelle as Christ loves the church—and depend on God to do that. He told Michelle that she also needed to love rather than hold out for me to change. This is the basic command, the basic doctrine of all Scripture—to love God and others. Bob took pains to help my donkey brain grasp this. At the same time, he warned me that there was no guaranteeing the outcome: I could not control her response—I couldn’t really control anything in the world around me, not even God. Perhaps God would see fit to rekindle our love, and he did—not because I could obligate him, but because the Father delights to bless his children, and his love is gratuitous and free, not conditional.
It’s been twenty years since the dark went to light in our marriage. Bob has now been a Christian counselor for some thirty years, and has written Love Focused with his wife Judy. Those additional years of trench warfare (i.e., counseling) have surely crystallized what God taught them about what it means to love and what prevents us from living out John Lennon’s simple solution (“All we need is….”). Loving God and loving others is still the message of the Scriptures, how to make it real is the message that Bob and Judy are seeking to communicate. The effective Christian life is what they call “the love-focused life.” That message is as simple as the idealistic Beatle’s song; however the getting there and the living there are not quite so evident. Living Love Focused is really possible, achievable by grace—and more necessary than ever. Unfortunately, its importance has been obscured, like so much else in “mere Christianity,” by internecine struggle and little attention to God’s call to justice, mercy, and humility.
Learning to live the love-focused life, the Hughes write, is about undergoing a “dramatic shift in our understanding…. exposing a fundamental flaw in our thinking about life that keeps us living on a treadmill of pressure and fear….” This thinking must change. The reward is great: “A life of love leaves no regrets….” (pp 3-4).
Those who honestly seek to love will intuitively realize how miserably we fail at it: the more honest the look, the more self-focus we recognize. So what does real love look like? How do we get there?
The “getting there” is one of the great strengths of this book. Using simple language, the Hughes help us to discover what drives us, what’s behind our behavior and emotions. One foundational fact to know is that our behavior and emotions are a direct result of what we think and believe. Our beliefs drive our goals and purposes, which in turn drive what we do. We each try to live in a way that ensures that we achieve the goal of getting our needs met. However, what we think of as “needs” are often only desires, however legitimate. Some examples are: gaining love, approval, and respect, being valued and having purpose, coping with the pain in our world. None of us can truly control that these will be met—but we still try, often apart from any real dependence on God. The long-term outcome is that we invariably hurt others (and ourselves) in the effort.
You may not like what I’m about to say. Remember that Bob is a “Christian counselor,” ergo those who have sat in his office for thirty years with failed lives are mostly professing Christians. Ouch! Bob and Judy explain that the hidden goals even Christians pursue are what they call “outcome-focused goals” (i.e., getting others to meet the needs we think we have). We do this generally without even being conscious of it. These outcome-focused goals include: keeping others happy, getting our spouse to change, getting our kids to turn out okay. Outcome-focused goals—over which we have no control—keep us focused on ourselves. “Love-focused goals,” by contrast, are things we do have a measure of control over. Some of these are: loving others as best we can, being a good husband/wife, teaching our children God’s way. (He also calls these “process-focused” goals). Bob and Judy provide clear and illuminating—and convicting—discussions of strategies we use to get our “needs” met, to meet self-focused goals. These include: self-protection (e.g., fear, avoidance, addictions), seeking our own fulfillment (e.g., status-seeking), control (e.g., anger), perfectionism, and others. Bob’s abundant experience in dealing with individuals, couples, and “grown-up kids” lends authority to describe how we insidiously manipulate and ignore Scripture. By the time you read through these pages, you should be able to identify some of these in your life and be shaken enough to seek the Lord in overcoming them.
It may seem trite to suggest that the answer to these is to trust God, love him and love others. Bob and Judy are a bit more specific than that. They first point out that, if we are to be love-focused, it’s our thinking that has to change (since it’s our thinking that drives what we do). The bottom-line of our failure to love is that we don’t really think God’s love and grace are enough. This lack is endemic in the church. It shows up in legalism and perfectionism—a performance mindset that tragically afflicts all those who live their lives in the “conditional love” of God. Jerry Bridges recently noted that the most dedicated Christians are more afflicted with this than others. The Hughes point out that trusting God’s love and grace often comes down to a conscious decision: His love and grace are enough.
If there is anything missing here, it would be—in my opinion—a discussion on why Christians can know that God’s love is not conditional and why we can be confident in his love and grace as our Father, (something like what Paul wrote in Ephesians 1-3).
This is, in any case, a timely book. Its simple message is needed and overdue for the church—indeed, for all (even disillusioned 60s “love children”). Bob and Judy Hughes have provided practical help for Christians to understand their self-focus, begin to put it off, and live love focused.
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