How to Find Freedom From Anger

A professor at the University of Texas once gave students an unusual assignment: if you have ever thought about killing someone, write an essay about it. 91 percent of the men and 84 percent of the women handed in detailed, vivid homicidal fantasies. Shootings are now so common that they receive little press unless multiple people are injured or killed. What’s going on in America?

Surely, people don’t want to be angry. Or do they? Is there something that people get, something they value, from being angry?

Certainly, there is. Anger brings a burst of adrenaline; it is energizing. It provides a counterbalance to the harm people have suffered, offering a peculiar kind of equilibrium. Anger serves as a shield to protect people from further hurt. In some cases, people’s identity is indivisible from their anger. They need their anger; without it, they would not know who they are.

Anyone who has been around the church for a while knows that anger is not just a problem “out there.” It’s in here too. It is in the church, disrupting relationships and injuring families. Parental anger has caused many young people to doubt, and eventually abandon, the faith mom and dad confess. Angry splits have brought the church into disrepute.

Doctors now prescribe medication to treat menopausal hot flashes, but is there any remedy for this other kind of hot flash, the kind that injures and disrupts? There is, and it has been around for a long time, but few people know about it and fewer still are willing to take the prescribed treatment.

Anger disorder was right at the top of issues that Jesus addressed. In his deservedly famous Sermon on the Mount, Jesus spoke about the beautiful kind of life that makes living worthwhile, then went on to address the most pernicious threats to that life. First on his list was anger. Anger is a headwaters from which flows a virtual cataract of evils that can destroy families and friendships, communities and even nations.

A newspaper column does not provide sufficient space to tease out Jesus’s brilliant teaching about anger, which can be found in Matthew 5:21-26, though readers would do well to pan out and read Matthew 5-7 in its entirety. I intend simply to point out a few conclusions I have formed from studying Jesus’s and the apostles’ teaching on the subject.

For someone who desires to be free of destructive anger, the first step is to decide to stop being an angry person. Perhaps that sounds ridiculous. If it were that easy, everyone would do it. But no one said it would be easy. And even if it were, some – and perhaps even most – people would still hesitate to give up their anger.

The biblical writers repeatedly say things like, “Put away anger. Lay it aside. Get rid of it.” It is natural to think (perhaps with a flare of anger), “I would if I knew how.” But how is not the first concern. Knowing how to put aside anger no more guarantees that a person will do so than knowing how to diet guarantees a person will lose weight. The first step is to firmly decide to stop being an angry person.

It is important to understand that anger is a natural response to a blocked desire. It is even more important to understand that we are more than our desires. That is confusing in a culture where people so identify with their desires that they have no identity apart from them. It is possible to acknowledge desires without always acting on them. It is more than possible. It is necessary for even a tolerable life.

It is not enough to try to stop anger; it must be replaced. This is an intentional process that requires serious thought. A person needs a replacement for their anger. If they don’t have one, they will fall right back into it. Scripture offers plenty of help in finding a replacement.

Fear is an obstacle to overcoming anger. People will only lay down their shield of anger when they have a replacement for it: a shield of faith. For that they need God.

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Antinomianism in America: Adrift on a Perilous Sea

We have a problem. Americans have been infected by antinomianism, and it is modifying their behavior, impacting their relationships, and weakening social bonds.

If antinomianism is a disease, it is not a physical one. If it is contagious, it is not spread by touch nor is it airborne – unless by that one means it is disseminated through the airwaves. Antinomianism is an old word which, broken down etymologically, means “against law.” An antinomian is a person who believes that laws, whether divinely sourced or socially sanctioned, do not apply to them. They think of themselves as above, or at least outside, the law.

There are various strains of antinomianism. The theological version was rampant in England and America in the seventeenth century. Our forefathers tried to stamp it out when it spread rapidly through the Boston area in the mid-1600s, but they failed to eradicate it.

Politics has its own variety of antinomianism. When the former president boasted, “I could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose voters,” it was a very antinomian thing to say. Recent polls show a third of voters believe it might be necessary to break the law to obtain a desired outcome. That bespeaks antinomianism.

Theological antinomianism is spreading once again. There are teachers who claim it is unnecessary and even counterproductive to obey “the law,” which for some includes even the commands of Jesus. But what do they mean by unnecessary? Unnecessary for getting into heaven? Unnecessary for leading a productive life? Unnecessary for spiritual health?

The antinomian tendencies in society do not bode well for the future of our nation, but it is antinomianism in the church that concerns me most. Something is wrong when Jesus’s followers, in the distressing words of St. James, “speak against the law.” Teachers who consider God’s law a barrier to spiritual health are out of step with both Jesus and the Apostle Paul.

My wife and I once spent a few days with friends aboard their boat in the Florida keys. One day we left the marina and motored through a long channel and out to a reef to go snorkeling. The channel was narrow but deep enough for large boats to navigate. However, if even a pleasure craft were to wander outside the channel, it was liable to run aground. We saw numerous derelict boats on our way to the reef.

The vast expanse of water outside the channel looked safe and inviting. And it clearly offered the shortest route to our destination. Why not take it?

Is that, I wonder, what religious people are thinking who espouse an antinomian position? “Staying within the rules is fine if that’s what you want. But we will get to heaven anyway, so why would anyone, except a religious legalist – who only half trusts Christ – insist on staying within the rules?

But the “rules” were never about getting into heaven. Jesus did not give his disciples commands so they would get an A on the final exam. The commands were given to guide them into a life of joy.

At the heart of the universe – which is to say, at the heart of God – one does not find endless rules but endless joy. God, who is the most joyous being in the universe, did not give commands to make people miserable but to fill them with joy. His commands enable us to move unimpeded through life and reach our goal with joy.

The sailor who has left the channel only to bury his keel in the mucky bottom is not having a good time. Neither is the person who has run aground in the muck of greed, resentment, and hypocrisy. The commands are channel markers that guide people on their way to joy.

If the commands are channel markers, the channel itself is love. While we are loving God and loving others, we never need to worry about running aground, which is why St. Augustine said, “Love God and do what you will.” When we are loving God, whatever we do will be just fine, for “love,” as St. Paul insisted, is nothing less than “the fulfillment of the law.”

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Ascension Day: It Matters More Than You Know

In 1925, Pope Pious XI introduced “The Feast of Christ the King” into the liturgical calendar. It came on the last Sunday of October which, metaphorically speaking, is the no-man’s land of the church calendar. In 1970, Pope Paul VI moved the feast to the final Sunday before Advent. Catholics, of course, recognized the new holy day, but so did many other Christians around the world.

The problem, as N. T. Wright points out, is that the church already had a feast day of Christ the King. It is called Ascension Day, which is being celebrated as I write this column. The new feast divests the ancient one of some of its meaning, relegating Ascension Day to a kind of going away party for Jesus.

That is not how Christians should think of the ascension of Christ. It was not the departure of the world’s helper but the installation of the world’s king. At the ascension, Christians ought to celebrate the fact that Jesus is already enthroned as the world’s king. The children’s Sunday School pictures that show Jesus hovering in the air ought to go on to depict him sitting on a throne.

The story of the ascension is told in the Book of Acts, which is a history of the church’s first few decades. It was written by St. Luke, who was a friend and coworker of the Apostle Paul. For Luke, the ascension was not a forlorn occasion when the church said goodbye to Jesus. It was the exciting time when the church was sent on a mission by its king.

This is something the church has often missed, and perhaps even more so since its recent juggling of feast days. Jesus Christ is not waiting to be king. He has already been installed on the throne and as king he has already sent his people on a mission.

If we do not recognize this truth, we will never understand the Book of Acts, nor the biblical story of which it is a part, nor the role that twenty-first century Christians are expected to play. To grasp the message of the Bible, we much appreciate the crucial concepts of king and kingdom.

In the first paragraph of the Book of Acts, St. Luke writes that the risen Jesus spoke to his apostles, the church leaders he had chosen, about the kingdom of God. The biblical hope of a good kingdom, of God’s kingdom, did not become irrelevant with Jesus’s death and resurrection. It was the primary subject of Jesus’s conversation with his leaders even after the resurrection.

In the last sentence of the Book of Acts, we find the Apostle Paul still talking about the kingdom of God decades after the church was founded. The technique of raising a topic at the beginning and again at the end of a section of literature, whether a short passage or an entire book, is known as an inclusio. It implies that the text is about that topic. Luke wanted readers to know that his book is about the kingdom of God and its king.

The kingdom theme is writ large across the pages of the Bible. It begins with God taking his throne and assigning his noble stewards – human beings – the responsibility to rule over the earth. But this kingdom is thrown into anarchy in Genesis 3 and the rest of the Old Testament explores the hope that the good kingdom will be restored. By the end of the Old Testament, however, it still seems far away.

The New Testament opens with the stirring announcement that “the kingdom of God is near!” Jesus declares, “The Kingdom of God has come upon you!” and he sends out his emissaries to proclaim its arrival to everyone who will listen.

The ascension of Jesus means the long-awaited kingdom has been established. Nevertheless, as Jesus himself taught, the kingdom awaits a still greater fulfillment upon his return and the elevation of his people. On Ascension Day, the church celebrates what happened when Christ ascended to the throne, what is happening now through his reign, and what will happen when he returns for his people.

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Churches: Go Small to Get Big Results

My wife and I have worshiped in some very large churches over the past six months. Thousands of people flood their campuses each Sunday. Their worship leaders are professional musicians. Their pastors are great communicators and exceptional leaders. I enjoyed my time in these churches and came away having heard some helpful sermons.

Many pastors I know work in towns that have smaller populations than the Sunday attendance of some of these churches. On the American religious scene, the megachurch is the epitome of ecclesial success. Nevertheless, if churches want to become more effective, they should consider going smaller.

By “going smaller” I don’t mean they need to reduce their Sunday morning on-site attendance or their online participation – hardly that; the more the merrier. I mean they need to see beyond big productions to transformative personal encounters. A church is not effective because many people attend Sunday worship gatherings but because the people who do attend stay engaged all week long.

This engagement requires rich community within the church, which is more than a “just Jesus and me” affair. A church with ten thousand people and a multimillion dollar budget is a failure if its people don’t spend meaningful time together.

In a successful church, the ministry is not done for attendees but by attendees. The minister is not the guy who stands on the stage – or at least the minister is not only that guy. Everyone who is part of the church is a minister. This doesn’t mean that everyone preaches or officiates at weddings, funerals, and baptisms. It means that everyone uses their God-given gifts to serve others.

The successful church functions to “equip the saints for the work of the ministry.” The ministerial staff is not hired to do the ministry for people, but to equip them to do the work themselves. The nature of this ministry work varies depending on the giftedness of the person doing it. One person might teach, another helps people in need, a third leads, a fourth evangelizes.

Likewise, in the successful church, the pastor is not the only person who engages the Scriptures in a regular and life-changing way. The janitor does too. So does the first-grade Sunday School teacher and the person serving coffee. People are not only told what the Bible says but are instructed to study it for themselves.

The Bible itself emphasizes this one-on-one kind of connection in the church. St. Paul, in one of his earliest letters, tells the Thessalonian church members to encourage and build each other up “one to one,” or as we would say, “one-on-one.” Paul is thinking small here, but he knows that the results will be big.

In another letter, the apostle is positively gleeful because in the church “the love of each and every one of you towards one another grows ever greater.” Such love is not primarily expressed at large group events but in one-on-one friendships.

St. Paul was a big picture thinker if ever there was one, yet he was regularly engaged in these one-on-one relationships. He can say that he encouraged church members like a father encourages a child, and that he did this with “each one of you.”

Churches often measure their success by how many people come to their large group events. A different metric would be more helpful: the percentage of people who are engaged in loving one-on-one friendships that encourage church members and build them up in the faith.

This would require a different way of thinking from the one that is ingrained in church leaders’ minds by their education and denominational culture. We have all heard the story of the shepherd who left ninety-nine sheep to go and search for the one sheep that is lost. We naturally appropriately see in it a picture of Jesus, yet we fail to apply its lesson to our ecclesial practices.

But we should. These one-on-one relationships are part of the church’s critical infrastructure. If they deteriorate or are absent, the resulting structural damage will place future growth at risk and may even lead to a catastrophic collapse.

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The Dehumanizing Sin of Greed

In the fifteenth century, the Spanish monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella financially backed Christopher Columbus’ expedition, provided him ships to sail, and paid crews to man them. They were motivated, at least in part, by profits. Columbus’s voyage across the Atlantic was a business trip.

The Americas were settled through a partnership that linked European governments with the most powerful business leaders of the day. For example, eleven of the thirteen English colonies were founded as proprietorships. Proprietors ran the colonies on a business model, often sharing profits with their company’s stockholders. The “land of opportunity” was an investment opportunity.

The rediscovery of America in 1492 and its settlement over the next couple of centuries was motivated by economic drivers. Joint-stock companies like the Plymouth Company, the Newfoundland Company, the Virginia Company, and the Massachusetts Bay Company came to the Americas to earn profits for their shareholders.

The British government under Queen Anne sent thousands of impoverished Germans to America in 1709. It was an act of mercy but there were economic strings attached. The plan was to employ the Germans in making tar and pitch for English ships, which was something that could not be done in England. This was promoted as a financial boon to England.

The economic motives for settling America were not wrong in themselves. My own ancestors, as is true of many others, came to America for economic reasons. But the greed that was displayed, whether from individuals or companies or governments, was wrong. The Dutch built ships designed to hold as many African slaves as possible. The conditions were inhuman. They knew that a high percentage of the men and women they shipped to America would die along the way, but that, they thought, was just the price of doing business.

Greed is not limited to Western Europeans and Americans. It is a world sin that feeds on fear and insecurity. Greed goes beyond saying, “I must have.” It says, “I must have more.” Greed is a hunger that cannot be filled, an itch that knows no relief.

The human body has been designed in such a way that the gut signals the brain through hormones and along a newly discovered neuron circuit that sufficient food has been received. But in some people, the signaling process is defective. Their stomach does not say, “Enough.”

The soul’s version of this disorder is called “greed.” The greedy person’s soul does not receive the message that the person has had enough. A person may have millions of dollars, but they do not – cannot feel – that it is enough. They are driven to obtain more.

Greed blinds a person to the needs of others. “It will pursue its own interests,” as William Barclay wrote, “with complete disregard for the rights of others, and even for the considerations of common humanity.” Hence, the Dutch indifference to the deaths of the human beings they traded.

St. Paul calls greed “idolatry,” for it involves the worship of the god “More.” The greedy person must have more and is willing to sacrifice to get it, though it is usually other people – including family and friends – that are offered up in this unholy worship.

After mentioning human greed along with other sins, the apostle writes: “On account of these the wrath of God is coming.” It is possible to take the preposition translated “on account of” as instrumental and translate it, “through these the wrath of God is coming.” In other words, human greed and the other sins mentioned may not only be the cause of God’s wrath, but the conduit through which that wrath is expressed.

This puts a different spin on things. God’s wrath is not stored up anger that spills over in brutal retaliation. God’s wrath – his settled hostility against injustice, hatred, and sin – comes to human beings through their own choices. Sin, and the miseries it invariably brings, is the inescapable punishment of sin.

Greed, for example, treats people as objects; it dehumanizes them. No one can dehumanize another without being dehumanized themselves. It is a punishment that fits the crime. Hell itself is but the final result of the dehumanizing process of all sin, which includes greed.

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Talking About the Problem of Prayer Is a Problem

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Pastors and Christian authors frequently speak and write about “the problem of prayer,” as if its problem was singular and well-defined. Prayer has many problems. It is not just the problem of unanswered prayer, but of answered prayer: why was this prayer answered when so many others, seemingly more worthy, were not? Why was her prayer answered and his prayer not?

Another problem is that people cannot even agree on what prayer is. Some say prayer is a means of developing intimacy with God. These people are not too bothered by unanswered prayers; they think the only thing that matters is getting closer to God.

They don’t pray so that they can have things but so they can have God, and he can have them. They engage in contemplative prayer, centering prayer, and the prayer of silence. For these people, prayer is about intimacy with their Creator. I have various books on this kind of prayer by Thomas Merton and others.

Others want nothing to do with contemplative prayer, and even claim it is dangerous and unbiblical. For them prayer is about asking. If contemplative prayer is about peace, this kind of prayer is about struggle. These people wrestle in prayer. They agonize. They ask. They ask God to put an end to evil (like sickness and death) and to bring good (like peace and health) for the sake of his kingdom. I have books on my shelf on this kind of prayer by Donald Bloesch and others.

We don’t just have a problem of prayer; we have a problem of talking about prayer. One of the difficulties is that prayer is relation-dependent. The type of prayer we engage in depends on the nature of our relationship with God, and that relationship is not a static thing. It is multidimensional.

One can imagine a son who is an officer in the military and whose father is the Supreme Allied Commander Europe. Sometimes when he talks to his father it is as a son. They reminisce about the past or make plans for the future. They talk about fishing. They share a joke. These conversations are close and intimate, the kind a son has with his dad.

But there are other times when he speaks to his father as the Supreme Commander. At those times, he does not call his father “Dad” but “Sir.” They don’t talk over old times but current battle plans. The son receives orders, not advice. He asks the Supreme Commander to send his company supplies, not to pass the potatoes.

As a son, he might ask his dad for the potatoes or for anything else in his power to give. “Dad, I’ve got myself in a mess and could use some money.” Or “Dad, I’m not sure what to do in this situation. What do you think?” But as a soldier, he might ask for very different things, like reinforcements, tactical support, or the latest intelligence reports. The relationship between us and the heavenly Father is more complex still, for we are at once creatures of the Creator, servants of the Lord, priests of the most high God, and children of the heavenly Father.

Because our relationship with God is not one-dimensional, neither are our prayers. We see examples of this throughout the psalms. The psalmist sometimes talks things over with God in intimate conversation: “This is what is going on. I hate this.” “Thanks for that!” “I’m worried.” “I’m weak.” “Are you paying attention?” At other times, he asks God for things. “Break my enemy’s teeth.” “Let him fall into the trap he has made.” “Preserve me. Provide for me. Guide me. Help me!”

If prayer was only for getting things, there would not be much intimacy. If prayer was only making conversation, there would not be much change. But prayer is both—and much more. It facilitates the relationships we have with God as Father, as Master, and as King. No wonder the nineteenth century’s greatest preacher, Charles Spurgeon, said that he would rather teach one man to pray than ten men to preach.

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Faith Enables People to Embrace Change

Many of the churches in our community have participated in an initiative that we called “Bold Faith.” The churches, which come from various denominational perspectives, focused on the same biblical texts during their sermon time each week for a month. Congregants were encouraged to integrate what they were learning on Sunday into their daily life.

Everyone who took part in the initiative was asked to wear a brightly colored “Bold Faith” wristband throughout the month. Whenever they saw someone else wearing the same wristband, they were asked to talk with them, find out what church they were from, and encourage them. It was not uncommon to see people wearing our colorful wristbands in the bank, the grocery store, or the restaurant.

My wife and I were in the checkout line at Walmart when I spotted a wristband on the arm of the young woman working the register. I asked her where she went to church, and she told me. I said, “Your pastor is a friend of mine. He is a great guy!”

She smiled and said something to affirm my comment. That was when a mischievous idea struck me, and I acted on it immediately—to my wife’s chagrin. I said to the cashier, “And I so admire the changes your pastor has made in his life since he got out of prison.”

Of course, her pastor had never been in prison. He was raised in Sunday School and church and went off to Bible College after high school to prepare for ministry. He was the white sheep in a family of white sheep. But the cashier did not know that. She gaped at me open-mouthed, apparently in astonishment.

I quickly said, “I am just joking. He was never in prison.” She seemed relieved but, like my wife, was unamused. But when I told my pastor friend what I had said to his parishioner, he got a kick out of it.

I have since wondered if the woman I joked with was surprised because she knew her pastor’s history and was sure he had never been in prison or if she was surprised at the idea that her pastor could ever have done anything bad. Did she think that her pastor, or pastors in general, have always lived morally blameless lives?

One of the foundational beliefs of Christianity is that people can change. But this does not go far enough. One of the foundational beliefs of Christianity is that people will change. An encounter with God is necessarily transformational. In a normal Christian life, wherever it begins – in prison or in church, when one is fifty years old or five – people experience change, growth, renovation.

It should not surprise us that converts need to change. Change is not only normative; it is necessary. Whether a person is just starting out or has been at this discipleship to Jesus thing for decades, he or she will need to overcome selfishness, fear, anger, and a hundred other faults. To be happy, to be whole, requires change.

The biblical writers took for granted that change would be ongoing in the lives of their readers. They assumed that they would “grow,” “mature,” and even “put to death the misdeeds of the body.” Church members were expected to increase “in the knowledge of God” and “grow up into [their] salvation.”

But what happens when a church holds no expectation for growth, when its people act as if all their changes and growth have already taken place? This kind of church looks good on the outside for no one acknowledges failure – to do so would amount to ecclesial suicide. But people remain stuck in destructive habits, and the relational fallout is continual.

Church members’ unhappiness and failure cannot be seen; it is too well hidden. Outsiders think, “I could never be a part of that church. They would not want me; my life is too messed up.” And so, people miss out on the change they so desire because they assume that they must be perfect before they can enter the church.

The church needs leaders who expect church members to change, who talk about it openly, and model it in their own lives.

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Hope Wins in the Battle of Worldviews

The battle for worldviews – religious, atheistic, and materialistic – is nothing new. Today, it is dominated by monotheistic religions like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, along with materialistic atheism, and the postmodern rejection of absolute truth. In the first century, the big players were Epicureanism, Stoicism, and the newcomer Christianity.

Epicureanism’s influence was already faltering by the time Christianity emerged. Its proponents were religious skeptics who believed, like Carl Sagan, that “the Cosmos is all that is or ever was or ever will be.” Based on this foundation, Epicureans believed that pleasure or happiness should be the goal of life, and that required the absence of fear and pain.

The Stoics’ worldview was ascendent in the first century. Like some scientists in our day, they believed in an inflexibly deterministic universe. But unlike some scientists in our day, they believed that people could choose how to respond to predetermined events. They taught that virtue was the highest good, and that virtue depended on reason. Score one for Mr. Spock.

There is much to be admired in both Epicurean and Stoic philosophy. Epicureans, unlike the modern caricature of them, believed that a life of moderation, not wild indulgence, would lead to the greatest happiness. The Stoics chose not to be governed by unruly passions, but to seek good feelings like joy, goodwill, and moral integrity. People who adopted either of these ancient worldviews would make good neighbors and friends.

Why did Christianity, rooted as it is in a thoroughly Jewish worldview, displace these long-established philosophical systems? What was it about Christianity that gave it an advantage over Stoicism and Epicureanism in the battle of worldviews?

The answer to that question requires, and has frequently received, a book-length treatment to do it justice. The Christian understanding of life and reality prevailed in part because of its belief in a creator who remained actively engaged with his creation, something that both Epicurus and Zeno, the founder of Stoicism, denied.

Further, Stoicism relied on a person’s ability to reason in order to achieve virtue and experience the good life. But those denied an education or shackled by a poor upbringing were simply excluded. Zeno’s good news was only good for the educationally and culturally advantaged, while Christianity, with its promise of supernatural aid, offered the good life in God’s kingdom to all.

Epicureanism taught people not to fear god or worry about dying and assured them that even terrible things are easy to endure. But people found these instructions not only unnatural but impossible. For example, enduring terrible things has never been easy for anyone, not even Epicurus.

Perhaps the biggest advantage Christianity had over its competition in the worldview ring had to do with hope. People, whether Epicureans, Stoics, or Christians, lived in a world filled with injustice. They experienced tragedy. They lost children, lost fortunes, lost their health. They lived through wars and famines. It was in this setting, in the real world as opposed to the ivory tower world of the intellectual, that Christianity shone brightest.

The Epicurean, faced with sorrow and tragedy – the death of a child, for example – would say that it was all meaningless. The Stoic would tell a parent that their emotional response was unreasonable. But the Christian, steeped in Judaism’s view of creation, would lament the tragedy, trust God to destroy death itself, and raise the child in the resurrection. The Christian would, in a word, have hope.

That hope extended beyond what would happen in the world to what would happen in the Christian himself or herself. The virtue which the Stoic sought through reason alone would be granted to the Christian through grace-enabled effort. Christians, unlike Stoics, were not left to achieve this on their own.

The hope of a world set right and peopled with men and women made new and complete was one that neither Epicureanism or Stoicism – or any of today’s ideologies – could dream. The life others sought was being experienced by the freshly spirited people of Jesus. Christians saw the pain of the world, which Epicureans and Stoics must ignore or deny, as the birth pains of a new, just, and beautiful cosmos. It was hope that won the day.

It still does.

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A Child Shall Lead Them: Lesson in Patience and Grace

My wife and I have been nomads since last November. After thirty-five years, I left my position as senior pastor of the church we love and, though I was open to new employment opportunities, it seemed that we were retired. We spent two months in Texas, living near our oldest son and his family, then returned to Michigan, where we stayed at our friends’ lake home for six weeks.

While we were in Texas, a denominational official called to ask if I would be interested in pastoring his home church. My wife and I talked about it, and I told him that we were open to exploring the possibility. Since then, we have met with various committees and groups, and I have preached at the church. They recently extended an invitation to me to become their lead pastor and we will be moving there in a few weeks.

In the interim, we have been staying with our youngest son and his family. He and his wife have three children, a nine-year-old boy, and two girls, one seven and one five. Our grandchildren are, like most grandchildren, the smartest, cutest, most wonderful grandchildren in the world. Nearly every day they say or do something that surprises, impresses, or delights us.

Every day they also do or say something that reveals that these smart, cute, wonderful little people are still immature children. They quarrel with each other. They whine about doing some task. They leave their things lying all over the house – the floor is sometimes a minefield of Legos, dolls, stuffed animals, and other toys.

I exhort them to stop bickering. I tell them to pick up their things. I remind them that their mom or dad asked them to finish some task. I probably do this more than I should since I am not their parent and since it has been a long time since our own children were this age. I have forgotten how young children think, how they react, and what kinds of things they do to find their place in the world.

It is not that I expect my grandchildren to act like adults—but perhaps I do not expect them to act like children either. I want them to turn off the lights when they leave a room. I inwardly groan when they spill their milk. I get impatient when they whine, or scream, or fail to show consideration to their siblings.

It is a good thing my son and daughter-in-law are their parents. They are patient and kind. They are understanding. They treat their children as children and not miniature adults. They clearly expect the kids to grow and mature, but they keep in mind that growth and maturity are part of a process that takes time. I do not always remember that.

It is significant that the Bible uses the parent-child relationship as a metaphor for God’s relationship with his people. Indeed, the image of a father with his children is one of the most important ways the Bible represents the relationship between God and humans. The image is rich in meaning. The fact that God thinks of his own as children is full of hope. He does not think of us as grown-ups—not yet anyway.

When we bicker with our brothers and sisters in the faith, God is not surprised. When we whine, he does not throw up his hands in despair over our immaturity. When we are inconsiderate of our fellow believers’ feelings and needs, God knows what to do. He will certainly instruct us. He might possibly correct us. But he never forgets that the growth and maturity he expects are part of a long process.

The Bible speaks of this process in many places. It is called “discipline” and “training” and is linked with “instruction.” God himself formulates our training program. It is not something that happens in isolation from real life; it is our real life.

The Scottish novelist and poet George Macdonald was right: “The refusal to look up to God as our Father is the one central wrong in the whole human affair; the inability, the one central misery.” But if God is our Father, all will be well.

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Holy Saturday: Waiting in the Shadow of Uncertainty

In his song “Maranatha,” Michael Card sings that “waiting is the most bitter lesson a believing heart has to learn.” I understand the sentiment, but doesn’t it depend on what kind of waiting we are doing? Waiting for the birth of a child, a much-needed vacation, or retirement is one kind of waiting. Waiting for the divorce to be finalized, the foot to be amputated, or a terminally ill spouse to die is altogether different.

In either case, though, we know what we’re waiting for. Whether we are longing for it or dreading it, we know what’s coming. But there is a third kind of waiting, which may be the most bitter of all. The thing for which we are waiting is uncertain. We don’t know what is going to happen or if it will happen at all. We sense that a storm is approaching, but we don’t know how bad it will be. We are waiting in the dark.

Some years ago, social scientists in the Netherlands conducted an experiment in which they told one group of subjects that they would receive 20 strong shocks at routine intervals, over a short period of time. They gave a second group similar information, with these changes: 17 of the shocks would be mild and only three would be strong, but they would not know when the strong shocks were coming. The result? Subjects in the second group sweated more and experienced faster heart rates. They suffered less physical pain but more emotional pain.

Waiting in the dark is hard. We’re not sure we can handle what is coming. People who have been through trauma often suffer in this way. The pain they’ve already experienced is compounded by the pain of not knowing what is coming next.

It must have been this way for Jesus’s first disciples. Five days before the crucifixion, they were exultant. Everything was coming together just as they had hoped. And then Thursday night came, and the world turned upside down. One of their own was a traitor. Jesus was arrested. He was tried that very night. The next day, in a rushed execution, he was put to death.

It was a nightmare. The unthinkable had happened. And now what? The disciples had so aligned themselves and their future with Jesus that, when he died, their identity died with him. Who were they now? They didn’t know. What would happen next? They had no idea.

When the authorities arrested Jesus and, later, when they tried him, they questioned him about his followers. That was ominous. The disciples locked themselves into the upper room, not knowing what was coming. They jumped at every noise. They were so traumatized they could hardly think.

Besides the immediate danger, there was long-term uncertainty. Just days earlier, they had known who they were and what to expect. But who were they now without Jesus? And what would happen next? Would a crack team of soldiers break in the door and kill them all? Would their lives end in one terrifying moment? Or would they return to their villages and the ridicule that awaited them? Would they go back to what would forevermore seem like a hollow existence?

We call the day after the crucifixion, “Holy Saturday.” They would have called it something else. It was a day of grief and dread. In that dark, upstairs room, they could almost feel something surrounding them, nearing them, coming for them.

They did not know it, but it was God who surrounded them, was near them, and was coming for them. They did not see him, but he saw them. And he sees us.

Barbara Brown Taylor wrote: “Between the great dramas of life, there is almost always a time of empty waiting…” Waiting? Yes, indeed. But empty? No. Such waiting is filled with possibilities.

Imagine standing outside the garden tomb on the evening of the first Holy Saturday. The dreams you cherished lie buried. But though you cannot see it, that tomb is filled with indescribable and glorious possibilities that are about to burst into life and change the world forever.

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