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.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Walter Cronkite died yesterday. That’s the way it was, July 17, 2009.
A piece of my heart was torn out yesterday. A piece of my life is gone. The piece was labeled “Walter Cronkite.”
I wish I could put myself into the minds of our young people, who never knew this iconic newsman. They will scratch their heads, I’m sure, and wonder at those who quote his notable closing line to the “CBS Evening News” as though it were really true. For those familiar with Walter Cronkite, when he closed the broadcast each evening saying, “and that’s the way it was….” we knew that that’s the way it was. His name was synonymous with integrity.
My first memories of Walter (it seems disrespectful to just call him “Cronkite”) were his early television shows, not the CBS Evening News. He was an energetic and brave reporter during World War II, famously flying with American bombers on their missions….but even I am not old enough to remember that! What I remember of those programs in the 1950s and 60s was that he apparently wanted to make what was happening in the world come alive and be pictureable. The two shows were, “You Are There” and “The 20th Century.” In “You Are There,” Walter Cronkite was an on-the-scene reporter presenting breaking news, interviewing people as they were just about to participate in great events of history: the Lincoln assassination, the death of Socrates, and…whatever. Walter had a memorable lead-in line on that program as well. Just before going to the action, he would say, “All things are as they were except…” and then you’d hear a ghostly, deep, echo-y voice chime in dramatically, “…you are there…..”
“The 20th Century” was a more conventional documentary program about important events of the time. He had Americans glued to their TV sets to watch these programs, many of which Cronkite himself had reported on as they unfolded before us, such as the space program, the Kennedy assassinations, the Apollo missions, Watergate, etc.).
I don’t know how long he was the anchor for the “CBS Evening News.” He just seems to have been there forever, because many of us grew up with him there. Americans who were watching TV when President Kennedy died won’t forget the event nor Walter Cronkite’s manner in announcing the fact—you knew it had shaken him to the core, and you watched as he looked up at a clock to tell us just how many minutes had passed since he died...meanwhile fighting back a tear.
He was a great promoter of the space program, and he could not hide his excitement in reporting what was going on there. His curiosity about all things and his exuberance communicated the pride we all felt at what was happening before our eyes, and we relied on Walter to report what was happening and what those brave young astronauts were doing.
This “star” may have been, to more than one generation, simply “Uncle Walter.” His appearance was always reassuring, no matter how bad the news he reported on. In this jaded, spin-promoting age when it’s hard to tell whether “Fox News” refers to the network name or the people reporting—it’s not easy to fathom that a reporter, Walter Cronkite, became “the most trusted man in America.” He sought, by his own and his colleagues’ testimony, to report the facts, to tell what was really happening as far as he could determine, and to do so in a simple way understandable to all. Except for the moon landings, he pretty much left himself out of the picture.
Walter Cronkite’s integrity as a reporter was regarded as so high, that when he finally had something he really wanted to comment on, all America listened. He visited Vietnam after the Tet offensive in January 1968, when American forces were caught off guard. He came back to the states, and gave a commentary after the regular news report. He told us—clearly labeled as his own opinion—that America did not seem to be winning the war. It had a marked impact on President Johnson, and helped to shift mainstream opinion away from supporting the war and our post-WW II certainty about what America was doing in Southeast Asia and elsewhere. I did not hear his commentary directly, but remember thinking about what he said when I went to Vietnam right before the next Tet. His integrity gave him influence.
Walter Cronkite was not perfect. Many might laugh to hear the tag “most trusted man in America” attached to a reporter—but it was true. I think he took pride in that—not just for himself, but on behalf of his profession.
His face and voice will always be associated with certain events that happened here. But what stands out the most—in sterling letters—is the word “integrity.” His closing line to the evening news was taken, then, at face value and accepted. Now, it is sorely missed: “That’s the way it was….”
Goodbye, Walter.
I wish I could put myself into the minds of our young people, who never knew this iconic newsman. They will scratch their heads, I’m sure, and wonder at those who quote his notable closing line to the “CBS Evening News” as though it were really true. For those familiar with Walter Cronkite, when he closed the broadcast each evening saying, “and that’s the way it was….” we knew that that’s the way it was. His name was synonymous with integrity.
My first memories of Walter (it seems disrespectful to just call him “Cronkite”) were his early television shows, not the CBS Evening News. He was an energetic and brave reporter during World War II, famously flying with American bombers on their missions….but even I am not old enough to remember that! What I remember of those programs in the 1950s and 60s was that he apparently wanted to make what was happening in the world come alive and be pictureable. The two shows were, “You Are There” and “The 20th Century.” In “You Are There,” Walter Cronkite was an on-the-scene reporter presenting breaking news, interviewing people as they were just about to participate in great events of history: the Lincoln assassination, the death of Socrates, and…whatever. Walter had a memorable lead-in line on that program as well. Just before going to the action, he would say, “All things are as they were except…” and then you’d hear a ghostly, deep, echo-y voice chime in dramatically, “…you are there…..”
“The 20th Century” was a more conventional documentary program about important events of the time. He had Americans glued to their TV sets to watch these programs, many of which Cronkite himself had reported on as they unfolded before us, such as the space program, the Kennedy assassinations, the Apollo missions, Watergate, etc.).
I don’t know how long he was the anchor for the “CBS Evening News.” He just seems to have been there forever, because many of us grew up with him there. Americans who were watching TV when President Kennedy died won’t forget the event nor Walter Cronkite’s manner in announcing the fact—you knew it had shaken him to the core, and you watched as he looked up at a clock to tell us just how many minutes had passed since he died...meanwhile fighting back a tear.
He was a great promoter of the space program, and he could not hide his excitement in reporting what was going on there. His curiosity about all things and his exuberance communicated the pride we all felt at what was happening before our eyes, and we relied on Walter to report what was happening and what those brave young astronauts were doing.
This “star” may have been, to more than one generation, simply “Uncle Walter.” His appearance was always reassuring, no matter how bad the news he reported on. In this jaded, spin-promoting age when it’s hard to tell whether “Fox News” refers to the network name or the people reporting—it’s not easy to fathom that a reporter, Walter Cronkite, became “the most trusted man in America.” He sought, by his own and his colleagues’ testimony, to report the facts, to tell what was really happening as far as he could determine, and to do so in a simple way understandable to all. Except for the moon landings, he pretty much left himself out of the picture.
Walter Cronkite’s integrity as a reporter was regarded as so high, that when he finally had something he really wanted to comment on, all America listened. He visited Vietnam after the Tet offensive in January 1968, when American forces were caught off guard. He came back to the states, and gave a commentary after the regular news report. He told us—clearly labeled as his own opinion—that America did not seem to be winning the war. It had a marked impact on President Johnson, and helped to shift mainstream opinion away from supporting the war and our post-WW II certainty about what America was doing in Southeast Asia and elsewhere. I did not hear his commentary directly, but remember thinking about what he said when I went to Vietnam right before the next Tet. His integrity gave him influence.
Walter Cronkite was not perfect. Many might laugh to hear the tag “most trusted man in America” attached to a reporter—but it was true. I think he took pride in that—not just for himself, but on behalf of his profession.
His face and voice will always be associated with certain events that happened here. But what stands out the most—in sterling letters—is the word “integrity.” His closing line to the evening news was taken, then, at face value and accepted. Now, it is sorely missed: “That’s the way it was….”
Goodbye, Walter.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
A Real-Life Mr. Chips: Choosing to say goodbye to comfort
The novel, Good-Bye, Mr. Chips, was published in the 1930s. It is set in pre-World War II England, a place and a time that seems far remote and foreign to young people today. But at its core is a romantic theme, a story as old as time itself, and a recurring, real-life drama for anyone who has experienced both deep love and loss.
I was reminded recently of a striking parallel between Chips and what happened in the life of a world-renowned author, C.S. Lewis, famous today as the author of the "Chronicles of Narnia" series, many books defending the Christian faith, and one of the clearest creative thinkers and scholars of the mid-20th Century. Lewis was nearly 60 when he married a young woman, Joy Gresham. They lived and loved a brief four years of marriage when she died of bone cancer.
Gresham, like the young Kathie in Chips, was a fearless woman of great intellect, strong conviction, and deep emotion. Gresham grew up in America, an atheist and a communist in an era when communism seemed to hold the promise of helping all the down-trodden of the world. She was also a writer and a poet who once shared an award with the great poet, Robert Frost. She converted to Christianity in the 1940s, and started reading Lewis' books. He had traveled the same road from atheism to faith. At that time, Gresham was married to an abusive drunk. They divorced, and she took her two small boys to England, where she met Lewis.
Lewis was captivated by this young woman who, while sharing similar intellect, rocked his world by her radical thinking. As with Mr. Chips, Lewis was comfortable in the safe circles of the academic, debating great ideas, writing and teaching in the secure setting of the Oxford classroom. But her very being challenged Lewis to the core. Their friendship grew deep.
His sense of Christian charity led him to marry her in a civil ceremony so she could remain in England, but they did not live together as husband and wife. Then Joy was diagnosed with bone cancer. Lewis faced the reality, both of his deep love for her and the nearly paralyzing fear of losing the one person in the world that mattered most. He still suffered the pain of losing his mother when he was ten, and never wanted such anguish again. Love conquered, and they were married while she was in hospital. Her cancer briefly went into remission, and they enjoyed four years together of the deepest devotion and happiness before she died.
Chips' marriage with Kathie lasted two short years, but the mark of her life continued to work a wondrful change, a change that she seemed to foresee when she said, on the eve of their wedding, "Goodbye, Mr. Chips." In contrast, Lewis knew that he would lose Joy when they married. For him, the change came when he faced the certainty of unbearable pain and married her anyway, knowing that he was saying "goodbye" to comfort and "hello" to real life.
I was reminded recently of a striking parallel between Chips and what happened in the life of a world-renowned author, C.S. Lewis, famous today as the author of the "Chronicles of Narnia" series, many books defending the Christian faith, and one of the clearest creative thinkers and scholars of the mid-20th Century. Lewis was nearly 60 when he married a young woman, Joy Gresham. They lived and loved a brief four years of marriage when she died of bone cancer.
Gresham, like the young Kathie in Chips, was a fearless woman of great intellect, strong conviction, and deep emotion. Gresham grew up in America, an atheist and a communist in an era when communism seemed to hold the promise of helping all the down-trodden of the world. She was also a writer and a poet who once shared an award with the great poet, Robert Frost. She converted to Christianity in the 1940s, and started reading Lewis' books. He had traveled the same road from atheism to faith. At that time, Gresham was married to an abusive drunk. They divorced, and she took her two small boys to England, where she met Lewis.
Lewis was captivated by this young woman who, while sharing similar intellect, rocked his world by her radical thinking. As with Mr. Chips, Lewis was comfortable in the safe circles of the academic, debating great ideas, writing and teaching in the secure setting of the Oxford classroom. But her very being challenged Lewis to the core. Their friendship grew deep.
His sense of Christian charity led him to marry her in a civil ceremony so she could remain in England, but they did not live together as husband and wife. Then Joy was diagnosed with bone cancer. Lewis faced the reality, both of his deep love for her and the nearly paralyzing fear of losing the one person in the world that mattered most. He still suffered the pain of losing his mother when he was ten, and never wanted such anguish again. Love conquered, and they were married while she was in hospital. Her cancer briefly went into remission, and they enjoyed four years together of the deepest devotion and happiness before she died.
Chips' marriage with Kathie lasted two short years, but the mark of her life continued to work a wondrful change, a change that she seemed to foresee when she said, on the eve of their wedding, "Goodbye, Mr. Chips." In contrast, Lewis knew that he would lose Joy when they married. For him, the change came when he faced the certainty of unbearable pain and married her anyway, knowing that he was saying "goodbye" to comfort and "hello" to real life.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Leaving people with a hole in the heart
There’s a reason the command “Thou shalt not lie” made God’s Top Ten list. Breaking this command, among other things, leaves a hole in people’s hearts. Let me explain.
I recently read a review of the book by former L.A. Times religion reporter William Lobdell, How I Lost My Faith in Reporting on Religion in America—and Found Unexpected Peace, (Collins, 2009). Lobdell had become an active Christian. In the course of his work, he came across priests who had “boys on the side.” The cover-up added to his disenchantment, and Lobdell came to the conclusion that “Christians, as a group, acted no differently than anyone else, including atheists.” He had once been deeply impressed by Christians. Now, all he could ask was, “Where are the holy people?” Lobdell’s disappointed expectations compounded his doubts about the goodness of a God who would allow horrendous suffering. He was now left with a gaping hole in his heart. (I have not read the book. The review is at http://www.latimes.com/features/books/la-ca-william-lobdell8-2009mar08,0,729096.story).
William Lobdell’s pained conclusion lends a wearied exclamation to writer G.K. Chesterton’s observation: “By far the most powerful argument against the truth of Christianity are Christians.”
It is commonly said that Christians are “just a bunch of hypocrites.” There is more truth to that than the average believer dare concede. Lobdell found massive hypocrisy; he allowed it to destroy his faith. I’m guessing that his discovery was the capstone of an ongoing realization of the human condition—reported everyday in every newspaper everywhere—a condition that produced a steady acid drip into the heart of a man who could not reconcile that with his understanding of the way Christians should be.
There is no defense for the evil that Lobdell found. The heart condition of humankind is undeniable. What I would offer is a critique of Lobdell’s expectations (assuming the reviewer had it right). Granted, the people he thought were “holy” let him down big time. They violated even the common atheist’s morality. (Whether or not these people were genuine Christians is therefore almost beside the point). Lobdell’s error was in placing holy expectations (i.e., faith) in people rather than in God.
I’d like to comment on two things in offering this critique. First, something about this word “holy.” Secondly, something about how Lobdell (and the rest of us) might have kept faith intact.
Regarding the word “holy” (related words include holiness, saint, sanctify, sacred): We use it of God and people and things. We speak of people’s good, moral, or sacred actions, or we speak of those whom we think genuinely “better” than most (e.g., a Mother Teresa). We talk about holy “things” like the “holy grail” (Indiana Jones’ quest), a sacred object imbued with mystery and magic. When applied to God in Scripture, the word “holy” does not primarily refer to his moral qualities. Rather, “holy” focuses on his transcendence, his “otherness,” the fact that he is different, set apart from us. In Scripture believers are also referred to as “holy” or “sanctified” because they—being redeemed by Jesus on the cross and forgiven by faith—are now set apart for God. A simple analogy is the pen I bought at Staples: it belongs to me, and I use it for myself. It is now “holy” or “sacred” to me. Scripture teaches that believers are to live in light of who they are: holy to God. The moral qualities of this life should be evident to outsiders. Unfortunately, they are often not. It’s difficult (even to insiders) to sort out genuine believers from mere professors. Some of these assuredly are not. In any case, the resultant damage is evident in too many hearts. Hence Chesteron’s observation and Lobdell’s plaint.
What might have neutralized the acid and kept faith intact? Here’s where one of the Top Ten list comes into play. Jesus nailed it when he said to the religious leaders ready to stone the woman taken in adultery (John 8): “Whoever among you is guiltless may be the first to throw a stone at her.” Jesus wasn’t excusing the woman’s adultery—he told her, “Sin no more.” He was, rather, pointing out their eagerness to judge one they considered a great sinner, while, in their self-righteousness, they were unwilling to face the fact that they were just as capable and culpable. When Jesus quietly pinned them to the wall, they dropped their stones and slipped away. Had they faced the truth, they might have helped the woman.
Augustine wrote of a God-shaped void in the heart that can only be filled by the one who created it. William Lobdell has a hole torn larger by those who should have pointed him to the “void-filler.” People (including ourselves) can’t fill the hole, they seem to make it bigger—and the agony is worse when those we look to are thought to be “holy.” My guess is that they were either pretenders (lying to others) or greatly deceived (lying to themselves). In my own battle for faith, I have realized a couple things: one, that faith can fully rest solely in the one who put the void there; second, that it is safe there (whether he is predictable or not). From that safety, I am now free to help others, to live for something and someone other than myself. I don’t do that always—my own self-centeredness testifies to the reality. I am no different than those who have left the holes: facing the truth and letting others know is near impossible. Being truly known is indeed risky, but it can help heal the holes by pointing to the one who only can fill the void. And so I keep taking this baby step: stop lying to myself and others, drop the stone, help the woman to her feet.
I recently read a review of the book by former L.A. Times religion reporter William Lobdell, How I Lost My Faith in Reporting on Religion in America—and Found Unexpected Peace, (Collins, 2009). Lobdell had become an active Christian. In the course of his work, he came across priests who had “boys on the side.” The cover-up added to his disenchantment, and Lobdell came to the conclusion that “Christians, as a group, acted no differently than anyone else, including atheists.” He had once been deeply impressed by Christians. Now, all he could ask was, “Where are the holy people?” Lobdell’s disappointed expectations compounded his doubts about the goodness of a God who would allow horrendous suffering. He was now left with a gaping hole in his heart. (I have not read the book. The review is at http://www.latimes.com/features/books/la-ca-william-lobdell8-2009mar08,0,729096.story).
William Lobdell’s pained conclusion lends a wearied exclamation to writer G.K. Chesterton’s observation: “By far the most powerful argument against the truth of Christianity are Christians.”
It is commonly said that Christians are “just a bunch of hypocrites.” There is more truth to that than the average believer dare concede. Lobdell found massive hypocrisy; he allowed it to destroy his faith. I’m guessing that his discovery was the capstone of an ongoing realization of the human condition—reported everyday in every newspaper everywhere—a condition that produced a steady acid drip into the heart of a man who could not reconcile that with his understanding of the way Christians should be.
There is no defense for the evil that Lobdell found. The heart condition of humankind is undeniable. What I would offer is a critique of Lobdell’s expectations (assuming the reviewer had it right). Granted, the people he thought were “holy” let him down big time. They violated even the common atheist’s morality. (Whether or not these people were genuine Christians is therefore almost beside the point). Lobdell’s error was in placing holy expectations (i.e., faith) in people rather than in God.
I’d like to comment on two things in offering this critique. First, something about this word “holy.” Secondly, something about how Lobdell (and the rest of us) might have kept faith intact.
Regarding the word “holy” (related words include holiness, saint, sanctify, sacred): We use it of God and people and things. We speak of people’s good, moral, or sacred actions, or we speak of those whom we think genuinely “better” than most (e.g., a Mother Teresa). We talk about holy “things” like the “holy grail” (Indiana Jones’ quest), a sacred object imbued with mystery and magic. When applied to God in Scripture, the word “holy” does not primarily refer to his moral qualities. Rather, “holy” focuses on his transcendence, his “otherness,” the fact that he is different, set apart from us. In Scripture believers are also referred to as “holy” or “sanctified” because they—being redeemed by Jesus on the cross and forgiven by faith—are now set apart for God. A simple analogy is the pen I bought at Staples: it belongs to me, and I use it for myself. It is now “holy” or “sacred” to me. Scripture teaches that believers are to live in light of who they are: holy to God. The moral qualities of this life should be evident to outsiders. Unfortunately, they are often not. It’s difficult (even to insiders) to sort out genuine believers from mere professors. Some of these assuredly are not. In any case, the resultant damage is evident in too many hearts. Hence Chesteron’s observation and Lobdell’s plaint.
What might have neutralized the acid and kept faith intact? Here’s where one of the Top Ten list comes into play. Jesus nailed it when he said to the religious leaders ready to stone the woman taken in adultery (John 8): “Whoever among you is guiltless may be the first to throw a stone at her.” Jesus wasn’t excusing the woman’s adultery—he told her, “Sin no more.” He was, rather, pointing out their eagerness to judge one they considered a great sinner, while, in their self-righteousness, they were unwilling to face the fact that they were just as capable and culpable. When Jesus quietly pinned them to the wall, they dropped their stones and slipped away. Had they faced the truth, they might have helped the woman.
Augustine wrote of a God-shaped void in the heart that can only be filled by the one who created it. William Lobdell has a hole torn larger by those who should have pointed him to the “void-filler.” People (including ourselves) can’t fill the hole, they seem to make it bigger—and the agony is worse when those we look to are thought to be “holy.” My guess is that they were either pretenders (lying to others) or greatly deceived (lying to themselves). In my own battle for faith, I have realized a couple things: one, that faith can fully rest solely in the one who put the void there; second, that it is safe there (whether he is predictable or not). From that safety, I am now free to help others, to live for something and someone other than myself. I don’t do that always—my own self-centeredness testifies to the reality. I am no different than those who have left the holes: facing the truth and letting others know is near impossible. Being truly known is indeed risky, but it can help heal the holes by pointing to the one who only can fill the void. And so I keep taking this baby step: stop lying to myself and others, drop the stone, help the woman to her feet.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
"Life sucks....and then you die!"
Young people have a habit of saying brutally honest things about life. They may not be so honest about themselves, but what they say about life can tell you a lot about them and what they think.
One of my sons was quite the philosopher in high school. He could frequently be heard repeating the line quoted in the title above. It often came out as a punch line to the events of the day. I assumed then that it was just his way of dealing with teenage angst about life. I think now it reflected the deep discrepancy he sensed between the pat answers served up to him by adults (often, his parents) and his own unfolding reality. Our answers, I’m sure, seemed to him not relevant, likely confirmed that we were idiots; or worse, that we didn’t care enough to help him sort out his honest questions.
I recount this snippet of our life because parenting provides a ready analogy for a lot of human communication problems. When we want to communicate something important, like parents talking with teens about sex, we often feel inadequate and don’t say much, or we pass on easy formulas. Christians are often faulted, with some justification, for nervously presenting a canned, one-size-fits-all gospel. God knows I deserve such criticism. I remember some of these encounters. When finished, I was relieved, glad that I did my duty and gave someone “the gospel.” But did I? Theological correctness is no substitute for communicating care. Did I really care about their sucky life, or them?
If Jesus is the answer, what’s the question?
Jesus didn’t approach people this way. If you met him on the street, you would discover that people were his priority: you really did matter to him. Since that option is not available today, we’re left with reading the gospel accounts of his life. Even there, a cursory read shows that Jesus approached people with both tenderness and strength, sometimes brutally so. He spoke with tenderness to people whose painful awareness of their needs and failures left them with the anguished knowledge that something was wrong in their life. He reserved strong language for the religious, for those who thought themselves better than others, for the leeches of society, especially the religious leaders who were saddling the people with heavy demands to maintain religious “duty.” Jesus spoke to hurting people with respect and tenderness, with reason and relevance to each individual situation. He was real. It was he who said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light” (Matthew 11:28-30, NLT).
All, except those whose glasses have some permanent rose tint, recognize that “life sucks.” There is just too much pain and brutality, too much apathy to deny it. Most would acknowledge that there really is some evil within the human race that we just cannot seem to shake off, no matter our attempts at reform, how many “world peace” organizations we establish, how well refined our psychology may be. Its evidence appears on the front page of our nation every day. Such evil has left people living under a burden. The burden can be imposed from without, but more often from within. Most likely could identify with Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in the movie Blood Diamonds, who, seeing the human fallout of his involvement in illegal African diamond smuggling, cried out: “How can God ever forgive us?” Even when we know our culpability has not been so dramatically obvious, we do know that we have fallen short of any standard of good we seek to live by—whether imposed by ourselves, others, or God. There is no way out. Our performance mentality (our need for acceptance based on how well we do) leads us to try to work off the guilt of our conscience by doing good. But the question remains—even though we may seek to make atonement, just as DiCaprio’s character did. It can’t be done.
The message of forgiveness…and more
Philosophers throughout history have made the case that all people at some level have a deep longing for intimate connection with God, a desire for ultimate meaning in life. Those who sincerely seek often come to realize that nothing on this earth really satisfies that longing. The fact that the human race shares this longing indicates that there must be some other reality, some existence apart from this life that does satisfy. Augustine (354-430 AD) referred to this longing as a “God-shaped void.”
Those who say that nature is all there is must know their world view leads to the conclusion that the only reality is what we see; there is nothing else. If so, then there is no meaning or purpose or hope, no basis for moral standards of any kind. We may as well live the reverse golden rule: “Do unto others before they do unto you.” My son’s plaint would then surely be true: Life does suck, and then you die.
Why does God—if he is out there—seem so elusive, so difficult to understand? Maybe he is just the hopeless figment of our own imagination. Yet the fact that most thoughtful people have concluded that there is a God indicates there is more to the universe than a fear of the unknown: the “dread Presence” is not imaginary. In 1969, I was lying in a hospital bed in Vietnam, realizing that I had nearly died on the battlefield. Did I believe what I’d learned in Sunday School? Was Jesus real or a cosmic Santa? I returned to the States feeling a new invincibility (since I had “survived” Vietnam). But the questions kept knocking on my brain. The patient God began leading me on a long journey to satisfy the longing.
The God-shaped void is evidence that people want a relationship with God, not constrained by condemnation but by genuine love and “grace.” Grace is simply the attitude of God’s heart, from which he gratuitously enables us to have an intimate relationship with him. This is a relationship in which God delights to accept me—not on the basis of how well I can jump through his hoops and perform “good” works, but in spite of all that I have done. It is based upon the performance of another.
For years I struggled with this idea of grace. I struggled with the consciousness of my continual failure to do the things I knew God expected of me. How could he accept me? I knew the Bible speaks of God’s “love,” but I could not get away from a sense that God was really just waiting for me to fail. If you ever had a grampa (or parents) who let you get by with anything you wanted, you eventually knew that that was not real love. Love is not measured by what it lets you get away with, rather by the extent of the sacrifice it makes to give you the best.
I eventually realized that I could not know how much God truly loved me unless I knew the extent to which he suffered to make me his child. I knew “Jesus died on the cross for my sins.” But, historian that I am, I had a vivid understanding of what it meant that Jesus was crucified, and it was more brutal than even Mel Gibson could portray. The measure of God’s love for me could not be just the death. Others had died more horrible deaths.
At one point I knew that Jesus the Son suffered my ultimate punishment—separation from God. He suffered God’s wrath. My sin was counted against Jesus, and he was forsaken by his Father. When Jesus called out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” he was not just quoting Scripture (Psalm 22). He was calling out in anguish at being separated from the one with whom he had shared eternal oneness, beyond mortal comprehension. A transaction took place on the old rugged cross, and its end result was that God counted my sin against Jesus, and transferred his perfection and life to me.
On the cross, God was not elusive. He took my place. Why would he do such a thing?
What God wants
I don’t pretend to know all that God wants. I do know that Christianity is not about sitting in a pew, (playing church). It is not about trying to live up to an impossible standard.
Christianity is about having a personal, intimate relationship with the Creator of the universe who truly loved so much that he gave…. It is about God taking my place. That is the nature of grace, and it is the nature of God’s heart. That Jesus died on the cross to restore and reconcile people to God not only reveals his love, but also that God is indeed just, that he does not simply overlook or wink at evil. When Paul was writing to the church in Rome, he pointed out that the cross took place, not simply because of love, but to show the justice and justness of God.
"But now apart from the law the righteousness of God (which is attested by the law and the prophets) has been disclosed – namely, the righteousness of God through the faithfulness of Jesus Christ for all who believe. For there is no distinction, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. But they are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus. God publicly displayed him at his death as the mercy seat accessible through faith. This was to demonstrate his righteousness, because God in his forbearance had passed over the sins previously committed. This was also to demonstrate his righteousness in the present time, so that he would be just and the justifier of the one who lives because of Jesus’ faithfulness." (Paul, in Romans 3:21-26, NET Bible)
Because he is just, God must pour out his wrath on sin. But today, the “gospel” (which means “good news”) is that God the Father has already poured it out on the Son and has been satisfied by it. Because he did that, God is now free to forgive you completely.
Christianity is also about having a relationship with God as our Father. All human beings can rightfully call God “Father” in the sense that he gave us life. Only the Christian has the right to call him “Father” in the sense that the believer is now his child. Most people’s idea of a father has been distorted by the reality of imperfect, even abusive, relationships with parents and authority figures. God is not like that. God is like the father in Jesus’ story of the “prodigal son.” Though grievously sinned against, he waited anxiously with loving arms, ready to welcome the son and restore him to his original relationship. Because of Jesus alone, we are now forgiven from the penalty and released from the power of sin, and we now have an open, honest relationship with God which entitles us to free access and he treats us as sons and daughters with the full rights and privileges of being in his family (as adopted children). It is a relationship described in the Bible as characterized by love, grace, and peace. Jesus bought us peace with God, (Romans 5:8). “Peace” translates the Hebrew word “shalom,” which means much more than the absence of conflict: it includes health, wholeness, goodness, blessing.
Why would God do all this? It’s his nature to love. Jesus’ life and death show that people do matter to him and what he was willing to do in order to have that relationship. If you don’t believe it, you will not receive it. If you want nothing to do with God, he will give you what you want for eternity. But I learned that I didn’t need to be stuck with, “Life sucks and then—you die!” Jesus said: “I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty.” (John 6:35).
One of my sons was quite the philosopher in high school. He could frequently be heard repeating the line quoted in the title above. It often came out as a punch line to the events of the day. I assumed then that it was just his way of dealing with teenage angst about life. I think now it reflected the deep discrepancy he sensed between the pat answers served up to him by adults (often, his parents) and his own unfolding reality. Our answers, I’m sure, seemed to him not relevant, likely confirmed that we were idiots; or worse, that we didn’t care enough to help him sort out his honest questions.
I recount this snippet of our life because parenting provides a ready analogy for a lot of human communication problems. When we want to communicate something important, like parents talking with teens about sex, we often feel inadequate and don’t say much, or we pass on easy formulas. Christians are often faulted, with some justification, for nervously presenting a canned, one-size-fits-all gospel. God knows I deserve such criticism. I remember some of these encounters. When finished, I was relieved, glad that I did my duty and gave someone “the gospel.” But did I? Theological correctness is no substitute for communicating care. Did I really care about their sucky life, or them?
If Jesus is the answer, what’s the question?
Jesus didn’t approach people this way. If you met him on the street, you would discover that people were his priority: you really did matter to him. Since that option is not available today, we’re left with reading the gospel accounts of his life. Even there, a cursory read shows that Jesus approached people with both tenderness and strength, sometimes brutally so. He spoke with tenderness to people whose painful awareness of their needs and failures left them with the anguished knowledge that something was wrong in their life. He reserved strong language for the religious, for those who thought themselves better than others, for the leeches of society, especially the religious leaders who were saddling the people with heavy demands to maintain religious “duty.” Jesus spoke to hurting people with respect and tenderness, with reason and relevance to each individual situation. He was real. It was he who said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light” (Matthew 11:28-30, NLT).
All, except those whose glasses have some permanent rose tint, recognize that “life sucks.” There is just too much pain and brutality, too much apathy to deny it. Most would acknowledge that there really is some evil within the human race that we just cannot seem to shake off, no matter our attempts at reform, how many “world peace” organizations we establish, how well refined our psychology may be. Its evidence appears on the front page of our nation every day. Such evil has left people living under a burden. The burden can be imposed from without, but more often from within. Most likely could identify with Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in the movie Blood Diamonds, who, seeing the human fallout of his involvement in illegal African diamond smuggling, cried out: “How can God ever forgive us?” Even when we know our culpability has not been so dramatically obvious, we do know that we have fallen short of any standard of good we seek to live by—whether imposed by ourselves, others, or God. There is no way out. Our performance mentality (our need for acceptance based on how well we do) leads us to try to work off the guilt of our conscience by doing good. But the question remains—even though we may seek to make atonement, just as DiCaprio’s character did. It can’t be done.
The message of forgiveness…and more
Philosophers throughout history have made the case that all people at some level have a deep longing for intimate connection with God, a desire for ultimate meaning in life. Those who sincerely seek often come to realize that nothing on this earth really satisfies that longing. The fact that the human race shares this longing indicates that there must be some other reality, some existence apart from this life that does satisfy. Augustine (354-430 AD) referred to this longing as a “God-shaped void.”
Those who say that nature is all there is must know their world view leads to the conclusion that the only reality is what we see; there is nothing else. If so, then there is no meaning or purpose or hope, no basis for moral standards of any kind. We may as well live the reverse golden rule: “Do unto others before they do unto you.” My son’s plaint would then surely be true: Life does suck, and then you die.
Why does God—if he is out there—seem so elusive, so difficult to understand? Maybe he is just the hopeless figment of our own imagination. Yet the fact that most thoughtful people have concluded that there is a God indicates there is more to the universe than a fear of the unknown: the “dread Presence” is not imaginary. In 1969, I was lying in a hospital bed in Vietnam, realizing that I had nearly died on the battlefield. Did I believe what I’d learned in Sunday School? Was Jesus real or a cosmic Santa? I returned to the States feeling a new invincibility (since I had “survived” Vietnam). But the questions kept knocking on my brain. The patient God began leading me on a long journey to satisfy the longing.
The God-shaped void is evidence that people want a relationship with God, not constrained by condemnation but by genuine love and “grace.” Grace is simply the attitude of God’s heart, from which he gratuitously enables us to have an intimate relationship with him. This is a relationship in which God delights to accept me—not on the basis of how well I can jump through his hoops and perform “good” works, but in spite of all that I have done. It is based upon the performance of another.
For years I struggled with this idea of grace. I struggled with the consciousness of my continual failure to do the things I knew God expected of me. How could he accept me? I knew the Bible speaks of God’s “love,” but I could not get away from a sense that God was really just waiting for me to fail. If you ever had a grampa (or parents) who let you get by with anything you wanted, you eventually knew that that was not real love. Love is not measured by what it lets you get away with, rather by the extent of the sacrifice it makes to give you the best.
I eventually realized that I could not know how much God truly loved me unless I knew the extent to which he suffered to make me his child. I knew “Jesus died on the cross for my sins.” But, historian that I am, I had a vivid understanding of what it meant that Jesus was crucified, and it was more brutal than even Mel Gibson could portray. The measure of God’s love for me could not be just the death. Others had died more horrible deaths.
At one point I knew that Jesus the Son suffered my ultimate punishment—separation from God. He suffered God’s wrath. My sin was counted against Jesus, and he was forsaken by his Father. When Jesus called out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” he was not just quoting Scripture (Psalm 22). He was calling out in anguish at being separated from the one with whom he had shared eternal oneness, beyond mortal comprehension. A transaction took place on the old rugged cross, and its end result was that God counted my sin against Jesus, and transferred his perfection and life to me.
On the cross, God was not elusive. He took my place. Why would he do such a thing?
What God wants
I don’t pretend to know all that God wants. I do know that Christianity is not about sitting in a pew, (playing church). It is not about trying to live up to an impossible standard.
Christianity is about having a personal, intimate relationship with the Creator of the universe who truly loved so much that he gave…. It is about God taking my place. That is the nature of grace, and it is the nature of God’s heart. That Jesus died on the cross to restore and reconcile people to God not only reveals his love, but also that God is indeed just, that he does not simply overlook or wink at evil. When Paul was writing to the church in Rome, he pointed out that the cross took place, not simply because of love, but to show the justice and justness of God.
"But now apart from the law the righteousness of God (which is attested by the law and the prophets) has been disclosed – namely, the righteousness of God through the faithfulness of Jesus Christ for all who believe. For there is no distinction, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. But they are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus. God publicly displayed him at his death as the mercy seat accessible through faith. This was to demonstrate his righteousness, because God in his forbearance had passed over the sins previously committed. This was also to demonstrate his righteousness in the present time, so that he would be just and the justifier of the one who lives because of Jesus’ faithfulness." (Paul, in Romans 3:21-26, NET Bible)
Because he is just, God must pour out his wrath on sin. But today, the “gospel” (which means “good news”) is that God the Father has already poured it out on the Son and has been satisfied by it. Because he did that, God is now free to forgive you completely.
Christianity is also about having a relationship with God as our Father. All human beings can rightfully call God “Father” in the sense that he gave us life. Only the Christian has the right to call him “Father” in the sense that the believer is now his child. Most people’s idea of a father has been distorted by the reality of imperfect, even abusive, relationships with parents and authority figures. God is not like that. God is like the father in Jesus’ story of the “prodigal son.” Though grievously sinned against, he waited anxiously with loving arms, ready to welcome the son and restore him to his original relationship. Because of Jesus alone, we are now forgiven from the penalty and released from the power of sin, and we now have an open, honest relationship with God which entitles us to free access and he treats us as sons and daughters with the full rights and privileges of being in his family (as adopted children). It is a relationship described in the Bible as characterized by love, grace, and peace. Jesus bought us peace with God, (Romans 5:8). “Peace” translates the Hebrew word “shalom,” which means much more than the absence of conflict: it includes health, wholeness, goodness, blessing.
Why would God do all this? It’s his nature to love. Jesus’ life and death show that people do matter to him and what he was willing to do in order to have that relationship. If you don’t believe it, you will not receive it. If you want nothing to do with God, he will give you what you want for eternity. But I learned that I didn’t need to be stuck with, “Life sucks and then—you die!” Jesus said: “I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty.” (John 6:35).
Where am I going and how will I get there?
In the Summer of 1975, I got lost in the woods of Central Wisconsin….
Michelle and I were in the “jungle camp” phase of our missionary training. We had set off in the morning with the objective of finding a tent pitched in a clearing. We had two backpacks: one for food, the other for our nearly two-year-old son, Paul. The tent was about three miles away. We had to find it using only a compass.
The task seemed simple enough, especially for me. After all, I was a proficient combat infantryman in Vietnam who could find anything and hit anything. Find a tent? No problem!
But I couldn’t find that tent.
We wandered for hours, Michelle seeking to follow the lead of her head, (who was clueless). As the sun began to fade in the Wisconsin summer sky, I finally did what every man absolutely hates—I went back and asked directions. Reeking with pride? Of course. That morning, I failed to do two things before setting off. First, I assumed I knew just how to use the compass and didn’t need someone else to tell me what I already knew—so, of course, I didn’t ask. The second (and related to the first) was that I didn’t consciously walk in dependence upon the Lord to guide our steps.
Did I learn the lesson? Here’s a clue: five years later, I was taken under the wing of the son of the Manjack chief (while we lived as missionaries in Senegal, West Africa). He gave me their family name: Donky. That proud family name was to be my Father’s not always subtle reminder of who I am—in myself. In the ensuing years, God allowed me the same lesson many more times. I just didn’t get it; the “it” an essential life truth, a truth that the Lord sought to teach his people right from the beginning: He created man to need counsel.
The Genesis account teaches more than the creation and fall. It teaches us much about the nature of our Creator and about man (male and female) created in His image. In the on-going relationship they had before the serpent entered, God had already given counsel to Adam. And Adam, on the way to being lost, did not seek to elicit additional counsel—he didn’t ask directions.
I have learned in the ensuing years that I cannot undo that, nor can I change my own past. I only have this moment and whatever else God chooses to give me. But I am learning to do the two things that I failed to do on that long-ago summer day: I can continue to seek direction on the proper use of the “compass” that we have been given (I mean, of course, the Scripture). Secondly, I can walk in dependence upon the Lord, the Spirit who illuminates the Compass.
Here are four things I must never forget: I need the compass. I must use the compass. I must keep learning how to use the compass. I must live in dependence on the Maker of the compass.
I need the compass (God’s Word). I said above, “God created man to need counsel.” If you ask me for a proof-text, I’ll simply place a whole Bible into your hand! God’s Word is not a strung-together series of stories and disconnected commands through which we learn how to jump through hoops for God. It is, rather, a purposeful, embroidered whole, designed by the Creator in such a way that I might know the LORD, who alone is God, and to know His directions (Col 1:9; 2 Pet 1:3). It is real answers for real life. Jesus Christ, who was certainly a man’s Man, asked directions continually (prayer). And, He used the Compass.
For instruction on its use, that same Compass points to Christ’s Body, the Church, where I can keep learning to use the Compass and not be tossed by every wind of doctrine (Eph 4:13,14), and so grow into a mature man (the image of Christ). I must depend on His Spirit to illuminate the Compass, then follow Him. Authentic humans (that is, people who have been reconciled to God and become children of the Father) need directions. It is (sorry, ladies) not only men who need direction. Where are we going? How will we get there?
Take it from this Donky, you don't have to live life led around with a bit and bridle.
(The substance of this essay was published in The Calvary Review of Calvary Bible Church, Burbank, California, in May, 2006)
Michelle and I were in the “jungle camp” phase of our missionary training. We had set off in the morning with the objective of finding a tent pitched in a clearing. We had two backpacks: one for food, the other for our nearly two-year-old son, Paul. The tent was about three miles away. We had to find it using only a compass.
The task seemed simple enough, especially for me. After all, I was a proficient combat infantryman in Vietnam who could find anything and hit anything. Find a tent? No problem!
But I couldn’t find that tent.
We wandered for hours, Michelle seeking to follow the lead of her head, (who was clueless). As the sun began to fade in the Wisconsin summer sky, I finally did what every man absolutely hates—I went back and asked directions. Reeking with pride? Of course. That morning, I failed to do two things before setting off. First, I assumed I knew just how to use the compass and didn’t need someone else to tell me what I already knew—so, of course, I didn’t ask. The second (and related to the first) was that I didn’t consciously walk in dependence upon the Lord to guide our steps.
Did I learn the lesson? Here’s a clue: five years later, I was taken under the wing of the son of the Manjack chief (while we lived as missionaries in Senegal, West Africa). He gave me their family name: Donky. That proud family name was to be my Father’s not always subtle reminder of who I am—in myself. In the ensuing years, God allowed me the same lesson many more times. I just didn’t get it; the “it” an essential life truth, a truth that the Lord sought to teach his people right from the beginning: He created man to need counsel.
The Genesis account teaches more than the creation and fall. It teaches us much about the nature of our Creator and about man (male and female) created in His image. In the on-going relationship they had before the serpent entered, God had already given counsel to Adam. And Adam, on the way to being lost, did not seek to elicit additional counsel—he didn’t ask directions.
I have learned in the ensuing years that I cannot undo that, nor can I change my own past. I only have this moment and whatever else God chooses to give me. But I am learning to do the two things that I failed to do on that long-ago summer day: I can continue to seek direction on the proper use of the “compass” that we have been given (I mean, of course, the Scripture). Secondly, I can walk in dependence upon the Lord, the Spirit who illuminates the Compass.
Here are four things I must never forget: I need the compass. I must use the compass. I must keep learning how to use the compass. I must live in dependence on the Maker of the compass.
I need the compass (God’s Word). I said above, “God created man to need counsel.” If you ask me for a proof-text, I’ll simply place a whole Bible into your hand! God’s Word is not a strung-together series of stories and disconnected commands through which we learn how to jump through hoops for God. It is, rather, a purposeful, embroidered whole, designed by the Creator in such a way that I might know the LORD, who alone is God, and to know His directions (Col 1:9; 2 Pet 1:3). It is real answers for real life. Jesus Christ, who was certainly a man’s Man, asked directions continually (prayer). And, He used the Compass.
For instruction on its use, that same Compass points to Christ’s Body, the Church, where I can keep learning to use the Compass and not be tossed by every wind of doctrine (Eph 4:13,14), and so grow into a mature man (the image of Christ). I must depend on His Spirit to illuminate the Compass, then follow Him. Authentic humans (that is, people who have been reconciled to God and become children of the Father) need directions. It is (sorry, ladies) not only men who need direction. Where are we going? How will we get there?
Take it from this Donky, you don't have to live life led around with a bit and bridle.
(The substance of this essay was published in The Calvary Review of Calvary Bible Church, Burbank, California, in May, 2006)
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