foolishness

This series will journal my exploration of the Corinthian church and how its corruption relates to our personal need for reformation. As much as we enjoy heralding the early church for their Spirit-led state and long to model their behaviors, Paul’s epistles remind us that Satan will plot deception wherever we allow the world to determine our values, practices, and attitudes about God.

During childhood I was regularly exposed to the advertising slogan of the United Negro College Fund: “The mind is a terrible thing to waste.” As with many first-generation, college-bound students, I lived with an expectation for excellence. While other kids were receiving money for honor roll grades, my dad was calling the teacher that had given me a “B+” to discover what I lacked. Better communication may have revealed my parents’ motivation. They did not want me sentenced to a life of factory work or military servitude.

Thus I developed the mind. My imagination had always been active; somewhere between ages 11 and 12, my greatest asset became a social deterrent. The growing machine turned itself to poetry, the one “listener” that understood my constant analysis. Less intelligent people than I have never succumbed to regular bouts of depression. Given a steady roof, three square meals, and parents that loved each other, I hadn’t any credibility to complain. I learned to suck it up. Page upon page was marked with rudimentary patterns, together expressing the complexity of my thoughts.

If this was wisdom, I wanted no part of it.

Like a pot of coffee already brewed, I couldn’t simply filter the black from my brain. I found it exponentially more difficult to re-stupefy. Lingering experiences left a hanging cloud of fog. I prided myself as a “realist,” the guy willing to identify evil that others seemed content to ignore. Why wouldn’t they? They were happy.

I’ve referred to my time in Kansas City as a walk through the wilderness; more so, it was an introduction to foolishness. My community was not aware that I was 28-years-old, working on my master’s degree in the privacy of my apartment. Within their context, I was a worker, a friend, a compassionate listener… a lover of Jesus. I had never felt more free.

That spring, a district camp of the Missionary Church asked me to speak. Diligently prepared with my sermon series, I met a series of audio-visual nightmares.

[BTW: How many moves of the Spirit have you witnessed that began with a plan gone “wrong?” Within a traditional church setting, this is almost always step one. I implore you to consider it grace and respond accordingly.]

As the camp director scrambled to fix the media disarray, I told him to forget it and began teaching from this passage:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. (Hebrews 12-1-3)

The rest of the evening was a blur -- a 5-year-old could have communicated the truth better than I had. But something broke in that room. (If you have never witnessed a group of preteens initiating heartfelt prayer, I pray you have that experience.) The minute my mouth closed, God told me to get out of the way. I left the room and the Spirit poured out for another two hours.

Foolishness. Yet another quandary that my flesh cannot reconcile: Christ crucified can be a nuisance to the sharpest minds.

Jews demand miraculous signs and Greeks look for wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those whom God has called, both Jews and Gentiles, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than man’s wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man’s strength. (1 Cor. 1:22-25)

Corruption assumes contrary forms within the institution. One sect awaits a grand external display to give credence to the Gospel; the other desires to ascertain the knowledge of God through human facilities.

Jesus offers neither, but willingly employs something better. At the heart of the Gospel is this foolish notion of grace: that God would meet us in our filth and overcome us with His love. Oh, that the Holy Spirit would choose to make His mysteries known to the humble-hearted! How disturbingly wonderful that the God of creation would reconcile us not through reason, but through romance! My heart leaps from my chest, disrupting my analysis.

closing time

Doleful eyes stared forward on my account. Rachel pontificated between us, blissfully ignorant of the physical tension she divided. Kansas City was dreadfully scorching in late July, forcing us to adorn a modest minimum. Suzanne was Irish to a fault, particularly in such garb: blazing red locks that seemed to carry the sun's heat with her, soft skin without a hint of color. She was beautiful. The pale shoulders that peaked from her white tank implored me to console her position. My conscience, as usual, got the best of me.

We left the bar and Rachel suggested that we continue at my place. A half-bottle of Pinot Noir later, she was passed out on my couch. Suzanne and I had lost our distraction; we shyly transferred smiles for one another over our friend's incapacity. I grabbed my treasure box to fill the uneasy void: a tote filled with old newspaper clippings, report cards, pictures, and programs -- the story of my young life. Suzanne mused over snail mail sent by 11-year-old camp admirers. She gazed at me knowingly as she parsed the words Heather had once written.

It was inexcusably insensitive. So quick I was to guard our physical purity, but Suzanne could not have loved me more had I placed my lips upon her own. She was being allowed to know me. Somehow I felt I owed her this much.

We walked Rachel back to her place in union, opposing attempts to scream at innocent neighbors amidst her drunken stupor. (Ignorance, indeed!) I taxied Suzanne to the airport in silence, the two of us aware that I would not be present for her return. Outside the terminal gates, I extended a gentle squeeze upon those shoulders. I chose correctly -- righteously. I chose to be alone.

tonight i'll sing my songs again; i'll play the game and pretend

I attempted to write this post last evening, but found it difficult to place my thoughts into words. This picture may capture them better.

After twelve summers of camp ministry, I've learned a few things about homesickness. For the sake of this discussion, I will not be referring to those twisted co-dependencies in which a mother drops her child off at camp and spends the next five days destroying the child's opportunity for fun, pre-sending daily letters sharing how depressed the family dog is without him, or harassing the camp staff with hourly calls concerning her daughter's past bouts with homesickness... and how we're welcome to send her home at any time should she miss her mother.

[Yes, this happens.]

I, for one, never understood homesickness. Camp was my favorite place in the world, and a couple staff would regularly joke about getting "campsick" during the offseason. It made me feel alive. There was never a shortage of activities for the chronically spinning mind, and camp was my one opportunity to make a million first impressions with people NOT from Bremen :) So I did the only reasonable thing an avid camper could do once he was too old: run the darn thing myself!

Homesickees took on a variety of forms: from the bookworm that never ventured outdoors to the momma's boy that had never picked out his own clothes. But most homesickees were average kids that had intended to have a good time. For whatever reason, idleness would turn to thought, thought to silence, silence to sniffles, and sniffles to sobs. In fairness to the 17-year-old camp counselor, too much is happening to pay notice to the silence before it becomes a sob. Once the waterworks turn on, the camp must eradicate the concern before it reaches epidemic status... WARNING: homesickness is contagious!!!

The best counselors could sniff it out in the early stages and reach from their experience toolbox. One-on-one time. Continual reminders of the awesome activity happening TOMORROW. Bribe another kid to "make a new friend." (I think I made up that last one.)

But often the symptoms are worst at times when nothing can be done, particularly at wakeup and bedtime. Attempting to convince a nine-year-old that tomorrow will be awesome does little when the eight hours of darkness frightens him most. My former boss taught me a trick that I later utilized myself: 1-on-1 cereal with the camp director after the other kids are asleep. It didn't work as effectively for me as it had for him, but perhaps I used the wrong sedative. Just kidding!!! I did enjoy a bowl of cinnamon life with the little ones, and it gave me an early introduction to the field that would eventually employ me. You can't replace a real dad, but you can sure as hell fake it long enough to get through the week.

I had my first taste of homesickness eight years ago. A couple friends and I attended a youth worker conference in Dallas, and it just so happened to fall on my birthday weekend. I was ecstatic that David Crowder was leading worship, and we were also treated to impromptu visits by Jars, Bebo, and downhere. As a guy with a lot of negative things to say about the Christian music industry, I was unexpectedly pleased with the cross section.

That Saturday, I was beginning to run short on funds, and a friend asked if I planned to go out for my birthday. I shared my predicament, and she said that it shouldn't be difficult to cover me with a party of twelve. Plus, HELLO -- IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!! The weekend happened to coincide with the Texas / Oklahoma football game in Dallas, and there were Sooners fans EVERYWHERE. Every restaurant was packed to the gills, and it didn't take long for the well-organized pastors to get pissy. By the time we found a place, ate an exhausted meal, and received the bill, nearly everyone was in a foul mood. They made me feel selfish for "dragging" them into the busy streets when we could've ordered pizza at the restaurant.

I went into retreat. I couldn't understand the point of being there. God was revealing all of these amazing truths, and all I wanted was to go home... not back to Indiana, but to my Father's arms. For the first time, I recognized how out of place I felt in this world, and I desperately wanted out of it. I wasn't feeling depressed, discouraged, or suicidal; I just wanted Dad. I knew that He understood pain, abandonment, and stupid fights. He would make things better.

While the first episode was triggered by earthly insensitivity, homesickness finds me when I'm not looking for it, usually at a time of sabbath rest. When I lie before the Father, I become aware how much more of Him I want -- I'm like an infant that can never rest outside His arms. I want His touch and His physical proximity. I want to hear His heartbeat against my head.

The world does its best to distract me. I am reminded how great tomorrow promises to be, and I am sustained for a time. Another meal, another ministry, another friendship awaits. But it can never replace, and I'd be surprised if I don't feel a little homesick for the rest of this life. Like the kids that were made to persevere, I understand my place in this tent, and I recognize the service that He has for me. My Father wants His children cared for -- all of them are as important to Him as me. But I can't wait to get home, and I want to share that with you.

Even if it requires a late night cereal date to console me.

cause the long fall back to earth is the hardest part

Dearest Jesus, when do I get to go home? I want to be done here. I'm not depressed or discouraged, and I know you've provided everything necessary to do Your work. I just want to be with You. The sooner, the better... however, not my will, but Yours be done :-/

For indeed in this house we groan, longing to be clothed with our dwelling from heaven, inasmuch as we, having put it on, will not be found. For indeed while we are in this tent, we groan, being burdened, because we do not want to be unclothed but to be clothed, so that what is mortal will be swallowed up by life. Now He who prepared us for this very purpose is God, who gave to us the Spirit as a pledge. Therefore, being always of good courage, and knowing that while we are at home in the body we are absent from the Lord -- for we walk by faith, not by sight -- we are of good courage, I say, and prefer rather to be absent from the body and to be at home with the Lord. Therefore we also have as our ambition, whether at home or absent, to be pleasing to Him. (2 Corinthians 5:2-9)

Seriously, Lord -- whenever You're ready for me.

take the time cause the lights are shining bright

Ten minutes before his youngest daughter Amy walked down the aisle, Terry engaged me with a passing comment about marriage. He said, “I have a feeling I will cry the hardest at yours and Mark’s (his lone single child) weddings because you’ve been so patient.” I found the statement bizarre, not in the timing of the conversation, but because I feel anything but patient. My heart is full of burning desire: for companionship, for comfort, for a ministry partner, and for one to share the beautiful intimacy of sex. Growing up in the church, I have been instructed that wanting these things without a relationship “just happening” demonstrates a lack of patience and a discontent with God. After all, a man can only discover true love when he’s not looking! Right?

[We should always investigate the source of Christian cliché.]

This inspired a mental wikipedia jog about patience. I readily identify the other “fruit” mentioned in Galatians 5:22-23 as the Spirit manifests Himself in me. I did not learn love, joy, and peace. Not by trying harder did I attain an attitude of kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, or self-control. Outside of His work in my life, there would be no transformation.

If patience is also a product of the Spirit as opposed to a trained work of the flesh, why do I condemn myself while the Spirit is present? Why do many believers chastise themselves for lacking this seemingly elusive characteristic? Who deemed a pleading for patience the most dangerous prayer?

What if that word doesn’t mean what we think it means?

That word (MAKROTHYMIA in the Greek) is found fourteen times in the New Testament, along with another ten in its verb or predicate nominative form. Of these twenty-four occurrences:

• Nine deal with God offering grace when He has every right to crush us.
• Four instruct us to offer the same grace and kindness to others.
• Five encourage us to persevere hardship.
• Three ask us to await the coming of the Lord.

Clearly, none of these condemn my desires. The aforementioned passage about “fruit” makes twenty-two. I‘d like to focus on the two that remain:

Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things…” (1 Corinthians 13:4-7)

For when God made the promise to Abraham, since He could swear by no one greater, He swore by Himself, saying, “I will surely bless you and I will surely multiply you.” And so, having patiently waited, he obtained the promise. (Hebrews 6:13-15)

Paul’s definition of selfless love describes patience for the benefit of the beloved. If we purely love others through the overflow of Christ’s love, we will submit a selfless grace upon their lives that does not expect a reward. And while this practice of patience might stretch my flesh to the furthest limits of my comfort zone, even now I can humbly come before the Father with a clear conscience. Given the opportunity to receive a selfish prize by taking what was available, I have repeatedly considered the needs of others ahead of my wants… particularly the needs of women, which is germane to my questionably “impatient” desires.

As for the second passage… WHAT?!?!?!?!?

The writer recognizes the same Abraham that accepted his wife’s suggestion to expedite God’s promise by sleeping with her servant, initiating millenniums of strife between that offspring and His people. Patiently waiting? Are you serious?

Perhaps God’s expectation for us is less about suppressing unmet desires and more about enduring the trials within His truth. In this regard, my faith has been unshakable and my perseverance has only blossomed the intimacy between myself and my Creator. Despite my spiritual diligence in singlehood, I will never be the guy that stops seeking. I’ll never excuse my inactive sexuality as a frustrating nuisance to be extinguished. I will continue to desire a wife, a child, and the blessings that such a life would offer.

I’ve finally come to realize that this doesn’t make me impatient.

if i fall fast asleep, it's just because i feel so safe in you

I feel like I’m learning a little about women and God‘s heart for pursuit.

A little.

Each step forward leaves a reminder of how clueless I am. And still, I believe that discovering my misunderstandings about the opposite sex can serve as a catalyst for understanding the character of God. When the daily (and I mean DAILY) roller coaster of life casts doubt upon my discernment, I take refuge in His unchanging nature and trust that His commands hold precedence over life-acquired knowledge. I’ve learned that even in doing the right thing (by “right” I mean “obedient”), Satan is quick to disguise his opposition through justification, as if to say that disobedience would have turned out okay. Even if I cannot go back and undo the obedience, Satan would have me live in regret.

Regret over having missed out on sin… isn’t that twisted?

A friend of mine was once challenged about an inappropriate relationship with a girl under his authority. One of the disciplinary expectations was to cut off relations with her completely during the healing process. From my perspective, I thought it was pretty gracious that God stepped in before Satan had further opportunity. My friend had this to say behind closed doors:

Part of me wishes I had just had sex and she had become pregnant, then marriage would have been considered the honorable thing.

Regret. Satan was planting the seed. My friend so desperately wanted the comfort of a wife, that the enemy’s bargain sounded like a win-win. Ultimately, my friend would find the sin that he “lost.”

Again I’m reminded of the poignant excerpt in Prince Caspian where Lucy chooses to settle with her brother and sister along the wrong path, rather than going alone in obedience. During her first meeting with Aslan in the book, he questions her disobedience and Lucy considers whether she would've been okay following Him alone. In her heart she already knows the answer, so she asks Him how it could have worked out had she gone alone. Aslan’s reply:

To know what would have happened, child? No. Nobody is ever told that. But anyone can find out what will happen.

I find it telling that God doesn’t share the full consequence of our sin. We should consider this His grace. To know exactly what we missed in disobedience would probably shatter our hearts -- the known consequence of our sin can be awful enough. But God never deals consequence in such a way to leave a lingering regret or shame. Rather, we are asked to make the obedient choice in the future. This is how we know that regret -- whether in obedience or disobedience -- is based upon lies of our enemy.

*************************

Now for the good stuff.

I’ve been deeply moved by reading the book of Ruth the past couple weeks. The position of Boaz has captured my attention for the first time, and I can’t help but meditate on his honor and his pursuit. While I had initially read the book under the misguided assumption that Ruth was the sole aggressor (not true), I began longing for Boaz’s heart by the end of this study (i.e. God’s heart of pursuit). A number of noble characteristics spoke to my heart:

1. Boaz protected Ruth’s honor and blessed her, even when he had nothing to gain. (2:9)
2. Boaz was attracted to the kindness he saw in Ruth’s service towards Naomi. (2:11)
3. Boaz respected Ruth enough to provide for her without drawing attention to her need. (2:15-16)
4. Boaz was overjoyed and considered it a privilege to be chosen by a woman of honor and to serve her. (3:10-11)
5. Boaz deferred to the Lord’s will rather than taking what was made available to him. (3:12-13)
6. Boaz honored Ruth‘s unconventional approach and trust (and spoke of the purity of their hearts) by allowing her to rest at his feet, yet still valued her reputation among his people. (3:13-14)
7. Boaz made his intentions known and handled the matter quickly. (3:13,18; 4:1-2)
8. Whereas the other kinsman was interested in Elimelech’s estate, Boaz was blessed to receive the treasure that God had laid on his heart. (4:4-10)

How rare is the man in this age that pursues with joy and verbalized motive, yet honors his beloved enough to defer to the Lord’s wisdom and purity? I want this so much! (Pray this for me.) Even as God has entrusted beautiful hearts under my protection, I am reminded how far I must come to place selfishness behind me. Grading on a curve, I may present myself as one of honor, but I don’t want it to be said that “Anthony was a good man.” I want it to be said that “Anthony was God’s man.”

The beauty of the marriage covenant is in the parallel between Christ and the bridegroom, and I long to honor my wife (and for now, the potential wives of others) in a manner consistent with the glory woman is intended to reveal. I cannot take that which isn’t mine or harbor envy for a woman that has not responded to my pursuit. It doesn’t make me any less responsible to pursue -- my desire is to be obedient to anyone the Lord places under my care and protection. The building of my faith and preparation as a man come in awaiting the privilege: the moment she [the undetermined] accepts that I’m honorable and trustworthy enough to lead her in ministry for Christ. I will continue to honor and bless her with purity and kindness until such a time would occur.

makes every other embrace seem pale and shallow

I lied. I've lied on this blog and I've lied to my friends. The lie was not intentional nor extensive. However, upon recognizing areas in which I've misrepresented myself on account of our enemy, a compelling force drives me to reveal my Lord's disguised glory, even when that glory brings me great discomfort.

Touch.

Touch is the only physical element that provokes immediate anxiety and gratification... simultaneously.

Touch began with a text yesterday. A friend reminded me how poorly I hug. It's not the first time she's brought this to my attention; it will not be the last.

Touch trailed to the many conversations I've had with friends about love languages. I exercise love through my quality time and verbally covet the same in return. We're I to be emotionally honest with myself, touch is exponentially better. If for no greater reason than its foreign nature, touch shatters my heart into a million pieces.

I hate it. I love it.

I hate that touch transforms me into a malleable state of goo. I hate that touch is such a common component for everyone else that they cannot possibly understand why I refuse to take it lightly. I hate that I suck at hugging. I despise that you know it.

I love that I enjoy a simpler expression of touch. I love that an intentional pairing of dissimilar hands can keep me smiling for days. I love that I reserve touch for positions of cosmic importance.

Which doesn't matter a lick if you aren't aware. It may be just another kiss to you.

Consider it the ongoing parental issue that refuses to dissipate. I cannot give away my touch primitively, as to exalt the common companion above those who presumably love me most.

But I crave it... more than anything aside from the spiritual. Don't forget this and PLEASE do not abuse it.

Understand that my willingness to accept touch means more to me than it does to you. I require that you earn it. Should I refrain from shying away, you've earned my trust -- my acceptance does not indicate a natural response. It means that I welcome your varying demonstrations of love.

"Congratulations" or "I'm sorry"... whichever applies.

'cause i'm coming home if these wheels touch down

It’s really happening, isn’t it?

The seared longing in my heart to minister to the poor in spirit does not manifest itself from craziness or a zealous act of selfishness. God is making this happen, and He’s asking me to jump on board.

But praise the Lord -- like the anxiety relieved upon Elijah at first sight of His remnant, He’s not asking me to do this alone. Again, praise the Lord!

Within the fear that drives me to the brink of depression, amidst a community operating upon the fragile guise of health and composure, there remain a people bent on giving God the firstfruits of their lives. It’s beautiful enough to break my heart. He is releasing the army I never conceived in my doubt. Through the duration of my toil -- training, arming, inspiring… always inspiring -- God effortlessly pronounces the day of the LORD with a single call. A generation too removed from the comfort afforded by Egyptian slavery, they stomp about the Jericho perimeter with an unshakable fervor. This is not the rah-rah consummation of the 20th century worship service; rudimentary walls cannot enclose the uncommon act of obedience. The only sound is the perfectly designed work of the Holy Spirit.

All along I’d been the bridge and had not owned it. I spotted the great chasm of the valley of death, and considered how I’d leap to the other side. God began strengthening my back. Even then, I attempted to vault the massive lug across the divide. But what should await me on the other side? If I were to go this alone, wouldn’t I take sullen refuge beneath the juniper, waiting for my demise?

God asks me to lie down. Stretching out the untapped length of my arms, I reach the lump of rock on the other side and His people climb upon me. He wouldn’t have me bear the burden of carrying them to the other side. No. He directs the troop to piggyback my struggle for privileged access to the Promised Land.

Once they have passed, I realize my work is done. It was never for me. His blessed eternal kingdom reverberates in my bones. A renewed Body glances behind the construction zone, just enough to see the chariot of fire take me away.

I rest.