Author: Jon Partlow

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Unveiled Hope

No moment showing such promise and potential turned so quickly leaving nothing but despair and despondency in its wake, then the golden calf story recorded in Exodus 32. Israel had gathered at the Mountain of God. They had been slaves in Egypt, now they were liberated, freed, and headed to the Promised Land. Oh, the sound of freedom is music to the ear. Like a cookout on Memorial Day with summer just around the corner, what could go wrong? In a word, everything.

Moses was engaged in deep negotiations with God, while Israel was encamped at the base of Mt. Sinai. With the Covenant established and the Testimony* engraved by God’s finger on two tablets of stone held by Moses, the prophet began his trek down the mountain. But something was wrong. Something was really wrong. The sound of freedom morphed into the cries of war. Except it wasn’t war, just the shattering of the very covenant God founded with his people. On the ground were the pieces of the tablets, fragmented, a poignant representation of what Israel did, not only to the Testimony,* but also to the Covenant established by God.

All was lost. Like mist burned off from the hot sun, hope had dissipated. Wanting to wipe out the entire nation, God was willing to start over, only this time with Moses (Ex. 32:9-10). Moses, on the other hand, pleaded with God for mercy. God relented as mercy prevailed. But things had changed. Trust was broken. And in the balance was a damaged relationship between God and Israel.

Something else happened too. Moses changed. Physically. His encounter with God made his face glow (Ex. 34:29-35). The radiance was bright and frightened the people who saw him. Each time he met with God, his face radiated like the sun on a bright blue cloudless day. After communicating with Israel what God revealed to him, he wore a veil, which he removed before meeting with God again (Ex. 34:33-35).

Paul picks up Moses’ veil image in 2 Corinthians 3:12-18 to restore the hope lost so many centuries earlier. Unfortunately, before hope is restored, Paul says the veil is still in play, blinding the hearts of those who wear it (v. 14-15). Two points of interest are worth highlighting before we pursue further. First, whatever Paul says in these verses, he is confronting the antagonists infiltrating Corinth to undermine his ministry. We know they are Judaizers, but they are not the same ones or kind that demanded the Galatians be circumcised. Circumcision is not mentioned in 2 Corinthians, but a love for the Covenant at Sinai seems important to the antagonists. Secondly, Paul may either be relying on a tradition or taking liberties with the Exodus 34 veil story. Exodus says nothing about the reason Moses wore the veil, only that he did (Ex. 34:33,35). He met with the Lord unveiled, then spoke to Israel unveiled. After speaking with Israel, he donned the veil until he met with the Lord again, and the cycle repeated itself. Paul, on the other hand, says the reason Moses donned the veil was to hide the fact that his radiant face was fading (v. 13), a foreshadow of the Sinai Covenant reality with Israel.

Paul tells us that the glory of the Sinai Covenant, or in this case ministry, is fading and fading fast. Moses donned a veil to hide how that glory is diminishing. In the meantime, Israel themselves wore their own veil blinding them from seeing the real glory. The more they wore the veil, the duller their minds became (v. 14). They stopped thinking. They quit processing. They ceased hoping. They discontinued dreaming. They were so blinded by their own theology and understanding of Scripture that they failed to see Christ holding it all together. While it’s true that “. . . when Moses is read, a veil covers their hearts” (v. 15), Paul is not only addressing Jews who reject Jesus, but he’s also addressing the antagonistic Jewish Christians bent against him and his gospel. They are either veiled to the Jesus they claim to follow, or they are veiled to conceal that Jesus is not in them. Remember, Paul is addressing this letter to people who are already Christians, who have given their lives to Christ. So, something is ironically wrong when Christians cannot see Christ because their own hearts are veiled.

I come from a tribe of believers who, probably like you, wear their own blinders preventing them from seeing or showing Jesus. We hold a high view of Scripture with clearly marked doctrinal lines. While I hold much of our doctrines close to the heart, I do so knowing the questionable approach we’ve taken Scripture to reach those doctrinal beliefs. Sometimes, those questionable approaches and conclusions have hurt the very people we are called to love and to serve. Those who have not walked the line have either been black-balled or given enough cold shoulders to show how much they are no longer welcomed. Others, who dared to remove the box holding God, found their character maligned and were shamed for “coloring” outside the doctrinal lines.

I share this because my tribe is just like your tribe, and my people are just like your people, and my story is probably your story, too. On our best days the blinders are removed and it’s like seeing Jesus in HD. On our worst days, our blinders keep us from seeing anything, trampling on the people we’re called to love the most. Or the veil is in play to hide the fact that we care nothing for Jesus only for ourselves.

So we fight every day to shed the blinders and remove the veil keeping us from being the very Jesus we proclaim to being. We have our theology lined out and our doctrine clean and simple. We tend to keep everything neat and clean to avoid messy conclusions, reading the Bible only to confirm what we already believe, forgetting that the very Bible we cherish is written by messy people engaging with messy people who are radically loved by a very un-messy God. We prefer clearly drawn lines of right and wrong, of left and right, of true and false, as it helps us know who is in and who is out, so that we know who is going to heaven and who isn’t. But when we do that, we have a veil over our hearts and we’re living with blinders on. Truth be known, if we were to remove our blinders, we’d see that we and our churches are far messier than we care to admit.

Along the way we’ve failed remove the veil to reveal that the transformation of unveiled faces is the goal of the gospel (v. 18). We’ve failed to remove the veil and to take a good long look in the mirror, while standing in finger-pointing judgment at those whose sin seems greater than ours. We’ve failed to remove the veil that distinguishes our culture of acceptability against the culture of being accepted by Jesus. We’ve failed to remove the veil to discern between our national politics and the politics of God’s Kingdom, assuming that they are one and the same. They’re not. We’ve failed to remove the veil showing the compassion of God extended to us to provide our comfort is intended for us to extend that compassion to others while comforting them. We’ve failed to remove the veil exposing the perceived enemy before us is clearly our neighbor. We’ve failed to remove the veil that feeds our selfish narcissism so that we can sacrifice for the good of others. We’ve failed to remove the veil that underscoring the needless point of suffering is how God is able to comfort his people. We’ve failed to remove the veil so that we can still clutch the stone held in our hands ignoring the voice saying, “he who is without sin, may cast the first stone.” We’ve failed to remove the veil, in part, because we like the darkness and have embraced the darkness while claiming to walk in light. We’ve failed to remove the veil because the hopelessness seems more familiar than offering hope.

I remember my sophomore year of college. I was in Bible class when the professor talked about his weekend. He mowed his lawn. Actually, he said he was in the middle of mowing his lawn when he noticed that his five-year-old son had retrieved his toy lawnmower and was “helping him” mow the lawn. Immediately, a veil was removed as he saw with clarity. His son was mimicking his every movement, following his father’s example. My professor said he thought he could be self-absorbed and continue to mow the lawn. Instead, he loaded his mower onto his truck and invited his son to do the same. With his son sitting next to him, he drove across town to an elderly widow’s home whose lawn was in extreme need of care. For the rest of the afternoon, he and his son served the widow.

By removing the veil, my professor saw a means by which to serve. By removing the veil, he not only saw Jesus clearly, but he was able to be Jesus to his son. When that happened, they experienced an unveiled hope.

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)

* See Exodus 32:15. While known as the Ten Commandments today, that phrase is a late development and was often known as Ten Words.

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We Are Not Home Yet!

In the wake of the 1997 Heath High School shooting in Paducah, Kentucky, Steven Curtis Chapman released a song entitled, Not Home Yet! How much the song was written in response to the mass shooting is unknown. Chapman himself was reflecting on the themes of heaven and aimed at writing a song for those facing difficult trials to provide hope for their journey. In the song Chapman describes life as a pilgrim on a journey. Sometimes the view is breathtakingly spectacular, and the steps are easy as your feet are light as a feather. Other times, the view is hidden from sight. Storms hit and hit hard. Your shoes feel like concrete blocks, inching forward is all but impossible. You cannot take another step, and each step feels closer to the storm that drives the hopeless fear in you. So Chapman writes, “So close your eyes with me • And hear the Father saying, ‘Welcome home’ • Let us find the strength in all his promises to carry on • He said, ‘I’ll go prepare a place for you’ • So let us not forget • We are not home yet.”*

Max Lucado believes that deep within us lies the tiny Whipporwill who sings of eternity. His songs remind us that we are not intended for the temporary but for one day to be joined by the everlasting. His beautiful and soft melodic voice resonates with our soul. Too many times, though, his voice is drowned out by the noise around us, while other songs focus on the present not the future. The songs clamor for our attention to be satisfied. They play for our egos to be stroked. They thirst for our power to be quenched. They woo us for our affection to be fulfilled. But their competing songs do not and will not endure. They fade away like that last echo in the mountains. The Whipporwill, in the words of Lucado, says that “Out of the gray he sings a golden song. Perched in time he chirps a timeless verse. Peering through pain’s shroud, he sees a painless place. Of that place he sings.”** When he sings, we are reminded that we are not home yet.

Sunday mornings is a time of renewal and refocus. For six days we journey through the “here and now” until we come to worship where the focus is on the “then and there.” We live in the temporary, but we long for the Eternal. Sunday morning is that reminder that the real world is not the one that unfolds throughout the week, but the one that engages us on Sunday morning, as we peer with faithful eyes to what will be, not to what is. We read, “In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go . . . I will come back and take you to be with me . . ..” (Jn. 14:2-3). When we’ve read those words, we sing, “Oh, the land of cloudless day • Oh, the land of an unclouded sky • Oh, they tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise • Oh, they tell of an unclouded day.” As we are renewed and refocused, then return to our houses, we are also reminded that we are not home yet.

Hidden beyond the message of 2 Corinthians 3:7-11 is this home, a theme Paul will explore further in chapter 5. For now, Paul takes the readers back to Sinai where Moses receives the Covenant while Israel, camping in Sinai’s shadow, is doing everything they can to shatter any hope for a covenant with God. By using the word “ministry” instead of “covenant” Paul contrasts the difference between what Moses mediated and what Christ provides, noting that both ministries bring their own glory. Paul drops the word “glory” eight times.

He says the ministry at Sinai came with glory (v. 7) and that Moses’ face shined with glory (v. 7). Contrastingly, he says the Spirit’s ministry is more glorious (v. 8). In a “how much more” question Paul shows that the ministry that condemns is glorious, but that the ministry that brings righteousness is more glorious (v. 9). What was then glorious, referring to Sinai, has no glory when compared to the surpassing glory of this ministry with Jesus (v. 10). And finally, with the glory of Moses’s ministry fading away or faded away, the new glory of Jesus will endure forever (v. 11).

All that “glory” may be a bit much to absorb without slowly working through verses 7-11. But it is verse 11 that drew my attention when Paul writes, “And if what was fading away came with glory, how much greater is the glory of that which lasts!” For fifteen hundred years the glory of Moses’ ministry permeated and sustained Israel. And one might say that it sustained Israel in spite of themselves. But Moses’ ministry was finally coming to an end. As glorious as Moses’ ministry was the clock had been ticking and what Moses was offering was soon running out.

On the other hand, the ministry brought by Jesus has an enduring quality about it. The glory of Jesus’ ministry is not only its power, but that it will endure. Whatever you do in the name of Jesus will not be in vain or ultimately leave one empty handed. Jesus’ ministry brings meaning and substance to life as people are changed and transformed into his likeness (v. 18). In essence, what Paul is saying is that the closest we find our home on this side of eternity is experienced through the glorious ministry of Jesus. And that home or ministry lasts, no matter what.

The tension between the ministry that occurs in the “here and now” and the ministry that takes root and grows into the “then and there” is present and felt. Too often, with limited vision, all we see is what happens in the “here and now” without clear sight on the “then and there.” It gets frustrating. It feels like we are always estranged from home. When that happens, we all wonder, “What’s the point? What good have I done? Who really cares?”

We care for our patients. STNA’s minister through bathing them. Nurses minister by checking on their vitals. Social Workers minister by calming their financial worries. Spiritual Care ministers by leading them closer to God. Visitation Coordinators minister by providing team support while they suffer. Patients come and go and sometimes the eternal gets lost in the daily grind, the temporary, day-to-day visits, as we check off who we’ve seen and who we need to see next. I get it. I do too.

For thirty years I gave my life to ministry. In the process, like most church ministers, I’ve worn a lot of hats. I welcomed babies at hospitals, taught the young, married couples, worked with the aging, and overseen funerals. Outside of caring for churches, I’ve volunteered for civic organizations. I led Cub Scouts, helped with Boy Scouts, coached baseball teams, was an ongoing presence the schools where my children attended. At the end of it all, what did it get me? If what I see in this temporary is all I see, then I’m not the only one to feel the weight of disillusionment. Others have felt it as well, including Samuel Morrison.

In the early days of the Twentieth Century, Samuel Morrison decided it was time to go home. For the past twenty-five years he had given his life as a missionary to the African people. At the end of his tenure, he had nothing to show for it. He was broken. His finances were broken as he had run out of support and barely had enough money to return Stateside. He had no retirement. His heart was broken as he had buried his wife in Africa. His spirit was broken and had nothing left to give. With no fanfare, he left the mission field behind and boarded an ocean liner for the United States.

By happenstance one of the passengers on that ship was the President Teddy Roosevelt who was returning from a successful hunting expedition in Africa. All the excitement and fanfare kept the ship a buzz during the journey. But it was when the ship docked in New York Harbor that Samuel Morrison saw that the entire city of New York came out to the harbor to catch a glimpse of the President. Banners were raised. People were cheering. Choirs of children were singing. Balloons were floating in the air, flashbulbs were popping, cameras were recording the President’s arrival. Bands were playing. As the president departed the ship confetti and ticker tape showered on him like summer rain.

Samuel Morrison watched the spectacle unfold as one more broken moment sank in. He quietly exited the ship. No one greeted him as he was a nobody, a ghost. Alone, he slipped through the crowd hoping, to no avail, to find a cab. As walked the streets of New York, he prayed to the only one listening, if he really was listening, “Lord, the president has been in Africa for three weeks killing animals, and the whole world turns out to welcome him home! I’ve given twenty-five years of my life in Africa, serving you, and no one has greeted me, or even knows I’m here!”

Samuel Morrison continued to walk in his own silence. But in the quietness of his heart, a gentle, loving voice whispered, “But my dear child, you are not home, yet!” You are not home, yet!

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)

* Steven Curtis Chapman, Not Home Yet, 1997.

** Max Lucado, “The Song of the Whipporwill” from When God Whispers Your Name, 1994.

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Who Is Equal to Such a Task?

The line between calling and competence is as thin as a sheet of ice. Being led to a ministry is one thing. Being able to complete a ministry is something entirely different. Most will tell you that God led them into ministry or to a particular ministry. At the same time, studies will reveal that most will also tell you that ministers lack experiencing the grace to pilot the ministry. They feel someone else is more qualified than they to lead the same ministry. It’s a struggle I faced many times.

During my early ministry days, I often wondered if someone else might be a better fit for the church I was pastoring. I had finished a solid education, was on the cusps of my thirties, and started a family. Preparing three lessons a week is a challenge in and of itself, but preachers figure out how to meet the challenge. Navigating church dynamics and personalities is another story. Conflict and conflict resolution is a tall order for someone lacking experience. Church politics is always a minefield. The need for building trust when one assumes that trust has already been built can be a fatal mistake. Extending grace when others refuse is not for the faint of heart, but for those who have already persevered under trial.

Introspectively, far more than I care to admit, I raised the question, “Who is equal to such a task?” knowing full well that it wasn’t me.

When Paul asked that very question, he was delving into the aroma of Christ imagery of 2 Corinthians 2:15-17. The gospel is not always popular; the gospel has never been intended to be a complete crowd pleaser. While to some we are the aroma of Christ – which is a pleasing smell – the aroma still comes from the carcass offered in sacrificial ritual worship. The dead body burns and those in the know believe its smell is a pleasing aroma. Those on the outside smell the odor of the decaying, burning body, and it is rank. Like that burning corps, our ministry is viewed by the people and society as either a pleasing aroma or the smell of death, though both images are about a carcass. The question remains, “Who is equal to such a task?”

When Moses met God at the burning bush, he was being called to lead Israel out of slavery and bondage from Egypt. Not surprisingly, Moses believed he wasn’t up to the challenge. The last time he played hero ended badly for him. After murdering an Egyptian to protect an Israelite, the move backfired. He ran with his tail between his legs to Moab to escape the reach of Pharoah and to live his life under the radar. Moving back to Egypt or to live with the Israelites was never in his plan. Nearing eighty years of age, he was enjoying his retirement. Five times Moses gave God reasons for passing him by. “Who am I to go to Pharoah” (Ex. 3:11), “I don’t know your name” (v. 14), “What if they don’t listen to me” (Ex. 4:1), “I’m not a good speaker” (v. 10), and a final desperation plea, “Just send someone else” (v. 14). Each of those reasons raised by Moses gets to the heart of Paul’s statement: who is equal to such a task? Moses readily admits, he’s not.

When Gideon was called to rescue Israel from the Midianites, God told him that he was a mighty warrior (Jud. 6:12). A mighty warrior, indeed. Something tells me Gideon had never fought in a battle, much less drawn swords. No, Gideon was anything but a warrior as he confessed that he was not only part of the weakest clan in Manasseh, but he was the least in his own family. Essentially, Gideon told God that he was a nobody. A nobody. In his rationalization Gideon struggled with Paul’s question, “Who is equal to such a task,” Gideon knew he wasn’t.

In the same year that beloved King Uzziah died, Isaiah witnessed a vision of the Almighty Lord. Seated high and exalted on his throne, he was surrounded by angelic beings singing to him. The hem of God’s robe filled the temple because nothing on earth can contain him. His voice shook the threshold and doorposts while smoke filled the temple. Isaiah’s “face-to-face” encounter with God drove him to cry out, confessing his sins. “Woe to me! I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty” (Is. 6:5). By looking upon the Lord himself, Isaiah got a good look in the mirror. Quickly, all his sins and shame were crystal clear as if he were watching himself in HD. The guilt and reproach forced him to wonder who was equal to such a task. Certainly, it wasn’t him.

Jeremiah’s task was set before him, and to say it was a tall order was an understatement. The motto for his ministry was, “to uproot and tear down” (Jer. 1:10). The motto might have caught on if it were applied to Babylon. It wasn’t. It was applied to Israel, which is hardly a popular motto for a national ministry. Truth be known, outside of a couple of people, no one listened to Jeremiah. His message was politically loaded as he advocated surrender to Babylon. He was abused, arrested, imprisoned, and even betrayed by his own family. When God called Jeremiah, the soon-to-be-prophet goes directly to his youth for his play, calling himself a child (Jer. 1:6). If, as some believe, Jeremiah was about 20 years of age at the time of his calling, then Jeremiah wondered who was equal to such a task. For him, he was too young.*

But God was not accepting any of the excuses or rationalizations. God wasn’t dancing to their song. After Moses’ five excuses were countered, God told him, enough. Aaron was on the way to meet him, and he was going anyway. After Gideon argued that he was the weakest among the weakest, God showed him how the Midianites were shaking in their boots. After Isaiah confessed his sinfulness, God purified his sins by touching his lips with a hot coal. And when Jeremiah saw only his youthfulness, God promised him his presence, telling him not to fear for he will be with him. Yes, who is equal to such a task? It’s a good question, until one realizes that God is a force to be reckoned with.

In the next chapter of 2 Corinthians Paul begins to answer the question, “Who is equal to such a task?” Given the antagonists who had infiltrated Corinth and were beginning to undermine Paul’s ministry, the question was relevant for Paul to address. Paul suffered too much. Paul’s speaking ability was far from eloquent. Paul carried no letters of recommendation. While they were taking him down, they threw shade on him for refusing money from the Corinthians. To the antagonists influencing the Corinthians, Paul is far from equal to such a task.

And on his own, Paul readily agreed. He said that the confidence we have is not from ourselves, our talents, our education, our connections, or our exegetical and hermeneutical abilities. Our confidence is rooted and grows out of God and the power he gives us. As Paul says,

“Such confidence as this is ours through Christ before God. Not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves, but our competence comes from God” (2 Cor. 3:4-5).

God is the one who fuels competency in what we do. We may be Spiritual Care offering divine and compassionate hope to a patient without hope. We may be an STNA who offers gentle physical care like bathing a patient without dehumanizing them. We may be a nurse taking vital signs or counting pills or educating family members on treatment, while making the patient feel like he/she is your favorite patient. We may be a Bereavement Coordinator who holds the hand of the family after the patient has passed. We may be a Volunteer Coordinator whose greatest role is to sit and actively listen to the patient as they reveal their worries and concerns. We may be a social worker who leads the family to secure the final preparations of life. Or, we may be a TC whose soothing voice calms the anxiety of the person on the other end of the phone call. The competency to fulfill these actions do not come from us, but from God. When that happens, we are equal to such as task.

Thirty years have passed since I stepped into my first preaching ministry. It was a long time ago but feels like yesterday. I was arrogant, but also unsure. I was hopeful, but also anxious. I was mentoring, but also needed mentored. I made mistakes but was often too prideful to admit them. I felt the thin ice between calling and competence crack more times than I care to admit. If my older self could pull my younger self aside, I’d try to reassure him. I’d tell him it was going to be ok, and that God will supply what is needed to make you equal to such a task. Some may say that sounds mysterious. Some may push back and say that such a statement isn’t goal driven or a purpose driven model to build a ministry. They may be right. Still, others might call it the one thing we need most. Grace.

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)

*These examples were inspired by comments made by Scott J. Hafemann, 2 Corinthians, The NIV Application Commentary (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2000), 127.

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Letters of Recommendation

My college admission likely hinged on the quality of recommendation letters written by personally selected alumni. My grades were far from impressive, reflected in my ACT scores. I was an academic bubble risk because I was an ADHD/dyslexic kid before ADHD was diagnosable and dyslexia was understood. Reading and reading-comprehension, with an inability for rote memorization, all but doomed my hopes of a college experience. Truth be known, some even told me to quit dreaming of going to college. I needed help getting into my college of choice, because I was not getting in on my own merits.

I sought out my high school principal, my cross-country coach, and my preacher – all whom graduated from the school I was sending my application to – and asked them to write a letter of recommendation. They agreed. I never knew what they wrote. They never shared, and I never asked. All I knew was that I needed someone to go to bat for me. I needed someone to speak for me if I was going to have a chance to begin my academic studies.

Letters of recommendations help in introductions, giving credibility to the one whom the letter is written about. They are a common practice and have been around for a very long time. You have probably written one or have had someone write one for you. They are a staple in society. They are a staple in almost every society.

The letter connects three points of a triangle. The first point is the subject or whom the letter is about. The second point is the recipient of the letter who does not know the subject personally. The third point is the author of the letter who knows the subject and the recipients, and acts as a mediator to introduce the two. The one writing the letter pours his/her own credibility into the subject since the subject has no credibility with the recipients. Essentially, letters of recommendation sound like this: “Hey guys, Jon here. I know Joe and I think Joe is a good guy who does good work. You guys ought to give Joe a look, or a second look.”

Since letters of recommendation introduce people and give an endorsement to lay a foundation for believability, they are commonplace and, as said earlier, have been around for a long time. Long before access to the internet, or making a quick phone call for verification, or dropping a quick text to a friend, carrying a letter endorsed by someone else or a group of people was crucial in establishing credibility.

No better example of this can be found than in Acts 18. Apollos, who was in Ephesus at the time, wanted to preach in Corinth. So, the church in Ephesus wrote letters to the church in Corinth on behalf of Apollos (Act. 18:27). The church in Ephesus knew Apollos, but the church in Corinth did not. With a letter from the Ephesian church, the Corinthian church welcomed Apollos with open arms. From 1 Corinthians we know that many came to love Apollos and his preaching (see 1 Cor. 1:12; 3:4-6, 20-22).

Letters of recommendation played an important role and function in society, especially in the early days of the church. Having some proof of who you are goes a long way in establishing trust, rapport, and credibility.

One of the issues Paul was facing was that the Corinthians were seeking letters of recommendation from him. Supposedly, some individuals had arrived in Corinth carrying such letters. Who they were, what the content of the letters were, and who authored the letters are all unknown. The simplest answer is that the individuals and letters originated from Jerusalem. If that is the case, we are likely not talking about James, the brother of Jesus, or Peter, or one of the other apostles, but a faction group in Judea that resisted Paul, his teachings, and his mission.

So, a group of individuals carried letters of recommendation to establish their credibility with Corinth. Paul had no such letters. Paul needed no such letters. But the group infiltrating the church began using Paul’s lack of letters against him. They had letters, he didn’t. They had credibility, he didn’t. They had authority, he didn’t. They had support from Jerusalem or Judea or whoever penned the letter, Paul didn’t. And that became their point of entry into undermining Paul’s ministry. He had no letters.

Paul had no letters of recommendation because Paul needed no letters. He came to Corinth empty handed, except for the message of Jesus to share with people. No church existed in Corinth when Paul arrived. Working bi-vocationally he set up a tent business to support himself, while speaking, teaching, and preaching in the Synagogue on the Sabbath. He planted the seed and started cultivating the church in Corinth. Nurturing their faith, he led them through the waters of baptism and out of the darkness of paganism. They knew him. They worshipped with him. They walked with him. He had no reason to carry letters of recommendation as the Corinthians probably knew him better than people in Jerusalem.

Thus, when Paul probes the Corinthians, he asked them rhetorically, “Do we need . . . letters of recommendations to you or from you?” (2 Cor. 3:1b). Of course, he doesn’t need such letters. But then he turns the issue on itself, stating in the next line, “You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by everybody” (3:2). The proof of Paul’s credibility and ministry is not based on a letter written by someone a thousand miles away who never ventured into Achaia but written by the church themselves through their faith and growth in the Spirit.

Paul places the burden of proof, not on someone else, but on them. When people look at Paul’s ministry, he will not allow them to judge it by his personal credentials. He does have them: a Hebrew, an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham (2 Cor. 11:22-23), circumcised on the eighth day, tribe of Benjamin, Pharisee, and faultless in regard to legalistic righteousness (Phil. 4:4b-5), and schooled in Jerusalem under the feet of Gamaliel (Act. 22:3). Paul neither relied on those experiences to garner his credibility, nor flaunt them as a means to strengthen his standing. Looking at his people in the pew, he implored, “You are my letters of recommendation. Your lives, changed by the gospel of Jesus Christ, are the proof to validate my ministry.”

If you ask me, the easy step is to provide a letter from someone verifying your credibility. Letters are a dime a dozen. I once wrote a letter for a young man I knew six months so that he will get into a school. I questioned why he should ask me; I barely knew him. He said, “It’s just formality, I’ve been accepted into the school already.” Drumming up a letter to provide as proof of ministry is easy in and of itself. The hard step is to look at the people we minister to and allow them to be the proof of our ministry. Has the body produced the Fruit of the Spirit? Has harmony replaced dissonance in the community? Has love, forgiveness, and grace switched with hate, bitterness, and legalism? Is the community marked by being a place of healing or a place where pain festers? Is the community caring for the marginalized or consumed with serving their own people? The hardest part in all of this is the trust one must have in a community to place one’s credibility with their behavior.

For our hospice care, the most important letter we write is the one on the heart of our patients and their families. What they say about us and about our service is the letter worth reading. We make that happen by how we engage and serve our patients and their families.

I once experienced a profound letter of recommendation. It wasn’t written on paper, nor was it about me. It was penned in and from the heart of my sister.

Deanna and I were playing under the dining room table on a Sunday afternoon. We were in the third grade and were reflecting on Sunday school class hours earlier. I don’t remember what were playing or why we were under the table. I don’t remember what time of year it was, but I suspect it was summer since our Sunday school teacher did a no-show at church. With no back up teacher in play, Deanna and I were sent up a grade for Bible class. I can’t remember if we were sent to the 5th and 6th grade class or the junior high class, but I do remember the classroom was among the upper rooms of the church building, a place I rarely ventured to. I remember climbing the stairs to the classroom like we were climbing steps of a mountain to visit the wise guru. We entered the room where a handful of children were being taught a Bible lesson from their teacher. The teacher was our mother.

I don’t remember what the lesson was that morning as most of that day is a memory fog. What is clear, as if it said it yesterday, was the comment my sister made to me under the table in the privacy of our own little world. Deanna looked at me and said, “When mom teaches, she makes you want to be a better person.” Mom did not have a lot of credentials as a teacher, but she had biblical knowledge, a passion for the Scriptures, and a heart for storytelling. She made the text come alive with clear application for our lives. Thus, it was an easy step to be a better person because she showed us how.

What Deanna stumbled across that Sunday afternoon under the dining table sits at the core of Paul’s thought in 2 Corinthians 3. Teaching, preaching, or ministering is less about crossing denominational doctrinal “T’s” or doting “I’s,” and more about whether the person teaching, preaching, or ministering is inspiring you, motivating you, or modeling for you to become a better person, to become a better version of “you,” who reflects Jesus Christ. And when you are that better person, God gets the glory while your source of inspiration is validated through your life. And no letter of recommendation can substitute for a transformed follower. As Paul concludes, “You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts” (2 Cor. 3:3).

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)

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Peace On Earth

Pax Romana was the propaganda slogan for the Roman Empire. It’s been found inscribed on coins and other artifacts in the Roman world. The Latin translates “Peace of Rome.” By the first century the Roman Empire had experienced an enormous era of peace. For about 100 years no major wars were fought, and in its place some of the greatest advancements were made including a highway system linking major cities together. Yes, Rome experienced significant peace and they jumped on the marketing campaign to feed it to its citizens so that they would buy into its rule.  

Yet the kind of peace that the Empire experienced was derived from brute force. They flexed their muscles and forced their will on their citizens. They controlled people and territories with an iron fist, and any who challenged their rule or presence was met with decisive action. Just ask the Jews. Their lands were occupied and patrolled by the Romans. And while Rome made concessions to keep the peace, the situation was always volatile. By A.D. 70 the resistance in Judea reached a boiling point and Rome came in, marching on Jerusalem, razing Herod’s temple to the ground. Sure, Roman fueled the Pax Roman messaging system, but ultimately it was accomplished and maintained by nothing other than peace.

Luke tells us that on a hillside outside of Bethlehem, shepherds were tending to their flocks. As they were passing their time, angels appeared in the sky proclaiming, “Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth and goodwill toward men” (Lk. 2:14). They then told the shepherds to go to Bethlehem where they would find a baby wrapped in cloths lying in a manger. That baby is the long-awaited Christ, the Lord.

When the angels declared, “Peace on Earth,” they confronted and challenged the Roman propaganda head on. Peace on earth would not be attained through military might or force or political ploys, but through the innocent and the vulnerability of a baby.

We spend our lifetime seeking peace. All the while, something within us remains restless. No matter how much we try to settle the storms within, we cannot find peace. Oh, we try. We try to find peace. Often, that search is in vain.

We cannot find peace,
          by feeding our addictions.
We cannot find peace,
          by wrapping gifts and placing them under a tree.
We cannot find peace,
          by holding onto grudges.
We cannot find peace,
          by ordering and opening our packages from Amazon.
We cannot find peace,
          by threatening war.
We cannot find peace,
          by electing officials who break their promises.
We cannot find peace,
          by trying to win arguments on social media.
We cannot find peace,
          through our “conceal and carry” permit.

Oh how we desperately seek peace. And in our search, we walk away empty and longing for something we cannot find. But we are not alone in our search.

The Charlie Brown Christmas Special hit the airways in 1965. Charles Schultz seemed to have two purposes in mind when he produced the show. First, he wanted to address the amount of commercialism surrounding Christmas. All the lights. All the sales. All the competitions for the best decorations. All of which seemed to miss the point of Christmas. If commercialism was driving Christmas in the sixties, one wonders what Schultz would say about Christmas today. Secondly, Schultz pushed to tell the birth story of Jesus as the true meaning of Christmas. When his fellow artists questioned his move, Schultz (and I’m paraphrasing his reply) said, “If not us, who? If not now, when?” When the suits got involved to change the story, Schultz pushed back. Knowing his popularity, he was willing to levy his following with his fans for the good of the story. His clout carried the day, and Charlie Brown Christmas, nearly sixty years later, is a classic staple today.

We know the story. Charlie Brown is struggling with commercialism surrounding Christmas. Even Snoopy has sold out. Having been asked to direct the Christmas pageant and running up against agendas and opinions and resistance at every step. It all comes to a head when Charlie Brown brings the frail little tree to the stage. Not knowing what to do now, Charlie Brown seeks clarification as to the true meaning of Christmas.

Enter Linus. Linus is the theologian/philosopher among the Peanuts Gang. When he speaks, his clarity of voice usually cuts through most discussions. Usually. Linus has his insecurities, just as much as Charlie Brown. The difference between Linus and Charlie Brown is that Linus sooths his anxiety with his blanket. He carries that blanket everywhere he goes, and the blanket has a life of its own as well. The blanket has a defining role in the TV show.

With Charlie Brown exasperated, he cries for someone to tell him the true meaning of Christmas. Linus steps forward. With the spotlight on him, he begins to recite Luke 2, the passage where the angels speak to the shepherds. As he begins to speak, a subtle but significant moment takes place as Linus drops his blue blanket.

Since Charlie Brown is a cartoon, the artists make choices. Sometimes an object may disappear for no apparent reason, especially when each frame is hand drawn. Not so in this case as Linus will pick up his blanket immediately after his soliloquy. So, as soon as Linus begins reciting Luke 2 the blanket falls to the ground because Linus finds the peace to abandon his blanket through the manger, through the baby Christ. All the anxieties disappear at the manger. Even Charlie Brown finds the peace to walk away from the show with the frail Christmas tree.

The Roman Empire used Pax Romana to convince their people that peace comes through military might or political maneuvering. Neither provides peace. Both are manipulative propaganda still in play today. True peace begins when we approach the vulnerable and defenseless baby at the manger.

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)

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A Not-So-Silent Night

When my daughter was a preschooler, a neighbor had set out a traditional nativity display on their lawn. She loved that nativity scene. She loved going to see “Baby Jesus.” Every time we came home from church, the store, the school, or from running errands, she’d beg, “Let’s go see Baby Jesus!” Every time. And because the nativity scene was set up in a yard in a circular road off our street, it was an easy diversion to make and a simple request to fulfill. Maybe, just maybe, her best day was the afternoon we trudged through the snow to the nativity scene to visit “Baby Jesus” in person.

Nativity scenes capture the serene and holy hope of the Christmas season. Saintly Mary and her betrothed, Joseph, sit over a feeding trough gazing at the newborn who warmly coos. Gathered around are the barn animals, the shepherds, and the “Wise Men” in solemn worship. With the star shining bright, the child in me cries, “I want to see Baby Jesus.”

But the nativity scene is an enigma as the traditional story of Jesus’ birth fails to accurately line up with the biblical story, especially in one significant detail. The Christmas story is nothing shy of a bloodbath, filled with the screams and cries of mothers across Judea. Mothers who cannot be comforted.

According to Matthew, the “Wise Men,” better described as “Magi,” came from the east, probably from modern day Iran or Iraq. Being astrologers, they followed a star that led them to Judea. Connecting the star to a newborn baby, they went to King Herod to get more information. Specifically, they wanted to know where they were to find this child. Once they dropped the title, “King,” Herod’s paranoia was triggered. He sent them on their way with his blessings under the ruse that he wanted to worship the child. He didn’t. He wanted to kill the infant before the child became a man. King Herod was a ruthless ruler who was easily threatened by anyone he deemed stood in his way. So much so, he had his own son killed believing his son prematurely eyed the throne.

The Magi made their appearance before the child. Leaving their gifts, they returned to the east. However, being warned in a dream, they discarded King Herod’s request to tell him where the child king lay. Such defiance angered King Herod, deciding he cannot have anyone compete for his title or throne. In a moment which foreshadows the cross, and eerily linking Jesus to Moses, Herod cast a dragnet, ordering his men to kill all the baby boys under the age of two within the vicinity of Bethlehem. By employing genocide, King Herod will stop this threat before his throne is compromised. Instead of joy and laughter on Christmas, Matthew says we hear Rachel weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted (Mt. 2:18).

It’s not the Christmas story we want or tell, certainly not the one we tell our innocent children. It is the Christmas story de-sanitized. For all the quiet, holy, and reverent moments, something dark and sinister is at play. Something dark is always at play. In the midst of the bloodshed and weeping comes a glimmer of hope. And hope never disappoints.

One of my favorite Christmas songs draws the listener to the manger scene in “Do You Hear What I Hear?” The song opens with the night wind speaking to the lamb about the star in the sky. The lamb goes to the shepherd boy and in the midnight sky, he hears singing. Presumably, he hears the angelic host in chorus. By now we realize that the song is drawing from myth since the wind communicates to a lamb who then speaks to the shepherd. The sheep speaks. The shepherd boy, doubling as the role of the Wise Men, goes to the Mighty King to tell him about the child shivering in the cold, pleading with the King to bring silver and gold. The Mighty King, instead of using the Magi as a ruse to kill the child, makes a proclamation, declaring to all people hope and peace as this baby child will bring goodness and light.

As much as I loved this song, I struggled with its lack of biblical accuracy. Never mind the mythology part, the Mighty King, who is clearly Herod, does not support the child but does everything to kill the child. That part of the song rested uneasily with me as one who holds the Biblical story in high regard.

All that softened once I discovered the context for the song. In 1962 Russia supplied nuclear war grade missiles to Cuba and parked them off the coast of Florida. For two weeks America was on a head-on collision with a third world war. Only this time, it was nuclear. And for thirteen days it looked like no other option was on the table.

Out of that crisis, on the cusps of the Christmas Holiday Season, and seeing two mothers with babies in strollers who were looking at each other, smiling, Gloria Shayne and Noel Regney composed, “Do You Hear What I Hear?”  The song calls people to find another alternative to their fears, where Rachel weeps for his children and refuses to be comforted. The song embraces a prayerful peace. Ultimately, the only venue for peace comes, not from a nuclear holocaust, from the baby born in Bethlehem. Like the Mighty King, instead of feeding our fears, we turn to faith, we humble ourselves, and we use our power and position to help speak a calming peace to people, where Rachel, weeping for her children, may be comforted. When we do that, we fuel hope. And hope never disappoints.

Arguably, the bloodiest and deadliest war lasted five long years, fought between 1914-1919. We know it as World War I. That war was the first to use modern inventions and technology of tanks and artillery which stripped the land barren while dehumanizing the soldiers. The new trench warfare tactic dug people in, and it prolonged the war instead of bringing it to a quick and decisive end. It also became a cesspool for disease and sickness. The war killed more people than any war up to its time, and left the majority of soldiers wounded, not only physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually as well. The war was rapidly devolving into one of the most horrifying moments in our world’s history. Over a million casualties with three hundred thousand fatalities occurred just during the six-month Battle of Somme. The scars from this war took a generation to begin healing, only to be ripped opened by a second World War.

In the early days of the war, Pope Benedict XV was negotiating a ceasefire when talks stalled, then failed. Instead of the heads of states coming to a consensus, a grassroots truce emerged from within the troops.

On Christmas Eve some German soldiers began singing “Stille Nacht” (i.e., Silent Night). As they were singing, the Allied soldiers began to join them. The Germans sang a verse in their language followed by the Allies singing a verse in English until both had formed a unified chorus of praise. Eventually, one of the German soldiers braved the enemy and emerged from the trenches unarmed. At first the Allies believed it was a ruse. But time unfolded and, daring to seek a holy peace, they acted in faith and stepped out into no-man’s land. Each side laid down their arms and shook hands. They exchanged gifts of cigarettes and chocolates. They topped the night with a rousing game of European football. When the day ended the soldiers shook hands and returned to the trenches where fighting resumed the next day.*

Many of the soldiers were changed by the new-born friendships. They refused to fire on each other and yelled out warnings when mortar was launched. Most of the soldiers were transferred to new outfits in order to reengage the fighting. But the 1914 Christmas cease-fire, the only recorded cease-fire in history initiated within the ranks, occurred because on Christmas Eve soldiers decided to sing Silent Night.

In the midst of a hell-hole called, War, a sliver of hope overran despair. No, it did not last, but it happened because understanding the true nature of the Christmas story, a story born in bloodshed, always brings hope. And hope never disappoints, so that Rachel, weeping for her children, can be comforted.

So if you find yourself in a not-so-silent Christmas night, because you’re Rachel weeping for your children, just remember that you are the reason for Christmas. For in the midst of weeping, we celebrate Christmas. We celebrated the child born in Bethlehem. For God did not send his Son into the world as a great, invincible, and powerful King who will put people and nations in their place. No. God sent his Son into the world as a vulnerable and precious baby, swaddled in clothes, lying in a manger. And that baby is the hope, a hope that comforts you, like you are Rachel weeping for her children. And that hope will not disappoint.

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)

* Joseph Loconte, A Hobbit, A Wardrobe, and a Great War: How JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis Rediscovered Fatih, Friendship, and Heroism in the Cataclysm of 1914-19 (2015), ix-x.

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Paper Faces On Parade

Halloween kicks off the holiday season as one big, mascaraed ball. Children, and even adults, dress up pretending to be something or someone they are not. Masks help with the illusion. At our office Halloween Trick or Treating afternoon, we saw the children come in with their many costumes. Some adults did too. My granddaughter dressed up as The Lion Queen, in an outfit my wife made for our daughter. Maverick dressed up as Spider-Man as he climbed the walls. Addi was an adorable Squishmellon. The costumes and the masks help sell the act, hiding the reality for the fantasy.

Mask wearing is expected when we go to a costume party. Mask wearing is common when adulting. Masks tend to protect us from showing our true nature. At a costume party we try to hide our true identity so that inquiring people ask, “Who is behind the mask?” When adulting, mask wearing tends to hide our scars, or our fears, or our darker selves.

Andrew Lloyd Weber understood something about masks. In his proclaimed mask story, the Phantom of the Opera, the main antagonist wears a mask to conceal his scars, but nothing can hide the scars of his broken heart. The chorus, gathered for mascaraed ball, are all in costume, each wearing masks. They confess, singing, “Mascaraed! Paper faces on parade . . . Hide your face, so the world will never find you. Mascaraed! Every face a different shade . . . look around, there’s another mask behind you.”  

Taking their advice, when we look behind us, we notice the masks people wear. We note that the mask of sarcasm hides our bitterness. The mask of humor covers our nervousness. The mask of bravery conceals our fear. The mask of strength camouflages our weakness. The mask of self-righteousness shrouds our shame. The mask of confidence obscures our doubt. The mask of assuredness disguises our timidity. Yes, masks are nothing more than paper faces on parade, so that we can pretend to be something we’re not.

Paul might have known something about these masks since he saw right through them. Instead of embracing the masks, he grew tired of them. Ready to strip the facade from the Corinthians, Paul was exposed them and their authentic identity.

Second Corinthians 13 opens with an ominous promise by Paul. He’s coming to visit them for the third time, but unless they repent and change, this forthcoming visit will hold second coming judgmental overtones. By quoting Deuteronomy 19:15, “Every matter must be established by the testimony of two or three witnesses” (2 Cor. 13:1), the stakes are high and in play. This law was put into place to prevent someone from leveling a false accusation against another. Having someone to corroborate the accusation ensures its legitimacy. Granted, it’s not foolproof, but it does provide a level of protection to the innocent.

With Deuteronomy in play, Paul interprets these so-called “witnesses” as his visits to the Corinthians.

When Paul first went to Corinth and established the church in Acts 18, he may be linking that visit as the first witness. The second visit, which he discusses earlier in the letter (2 Cor. 1:23-2:1) is the second witness. Paul describes that visit as “painful” (2 Cor. 2:1), probably for him. At that time someone(s) humiliated Paul before the church; essentially, they hung him out to dry. They likely mocked him, saying the great apostle Paul left like a dog with his tail between his legs. That said, before being run-out-of-town, Paul warned them that their behavior would have unintended consequences (2 Cor. 13:2). Finally, the third visit is the one to come which he promises in verse 1 and we find its fruition in Acts 20:3.

Pleading, begging, and extending any olive branch will come to an end. Paul has warned them, and unlike a compliant parent, he will not warn them again. He will take decisive action on those who continue to sow strife. They will reap a whirlwind.

Here is where the masks begin to be removed, and the face is exposed for its ugliness. At the end of 2 Corinthians 12, Paul addresses two sets of sins still plaguing the church. Even though Paul addressed them at length in his first letter, those sins are dug into them like sliver under the skin. It will take more than just picking at these to be removed.

The first set of sins are not only relational in nature but are also toxic. Such communal sins will poison the life of the church (or any organization, for that matter), eventually leaving a “Hunger Games” victor. Honestly, what bragging rights would one have? Paul lists them as quarreling, jealousy, outbursts of anger, factions, slander, gossip, arrogance, and disorder (12:20b). No one wants to be part of any organization that is emotionally cannibalistic, constantly devouring each other. No one wants to listen to the thump of the bus running over the latest person who happened to be thrown under it.

The second set of sins are immoral in nature, often linked to idolatry. Paul describes them as impurity, sexual sin, and debauchery. The added line, “in which they have indulged” (12:21), seems to suggest an ongoing problem. In a permissive society, immoral behavior stains the heart, clouds the judgment, and creates a wedge between us and God. Even though society tries to justify immoral behavior, the guilt within the conscience will not be quieted. It will come out, either through repentance or, to sooth oneself, begin attacking others.

So, when Paul calls out these sins to the church, then turns around and warns them that he is coming to confront them for demanding proof that Christ is speaking through him (13:3), be assured that these two groups are one and the same. The ones dividing the church and engaging in immorality are likely the ones linking themselves to the so-called Super Apostles and challenging Paul’s authority. The reason for taking on the apostle seems clear enough: he confronted them. He called them out, and they knew it. He stripped away their masks and exposed them for the ugliness they are. With the paper faces exposed, everyone could see that they have been pretending to be something they are not. All their pretensions were gone, and what was left wasn’t very attractive. And when Paul arrives, if they fail to repent, he will take decisive action against them.

Pretending to be something you’re not is detrimental to the health of the believer and the church. At some point you will get exposed and it won’t be good.

One day wolf was on a hill overlooking a flock of sheep. He was hungry. He was also tired, and did not feel up to an all-out assault on the flock, noting the shepherd was watching the flock. He sat on the hill contemplating his situation. To his luck he spotted a sheepskin behind the bushes. How it got there he didn’t know, nor did he care. He just stared at it for a while until he had an idea. “Why not put the sheepskin on me. Then, I’ll infiltrate the flock as one of them. Tonight, I’ll have the choice of the best.” So the wolf began implementing his plan.

He took the sheepskin and began putting it on, like it was a costume. While his front legs went through the front legs of the sheepskin ok, he struggled to get his back legs into the appropriate sheepskin legs. He determined that the sheepskin must have been a size 36 while he wore a 42 long. The head of the sheep covered his head, barely, but it fit like a cheap mask. Needless to say, the skin worked well enough to hide his identity, and if he was lucky, the sheep won’t notice his peculiar look. Let’s face it, sheep are not known as the smartest animals in the pen.

Next, he had to work on his voice. Wolves sound nothing like sheep, and he knew it. He started rehearsing, “Aah-rrrooooooooh.” The wolf coughed and cleared his throat, “No that won’t do at all.” He tried again, “Bah-rrroooooooh.” Once again, the wolf coughed and cleared his throat, “No, that won’t do.” He tried again, thinking, three’s a charm, “Baaa-oooooooh.” It wasn’t perfect, but maybe it was good enough to pass himself off as a sheep.

Sneaking down the hill, the wolf slowly infiltrated the flock of sheep. He tried to act naturally, and while the sheep thought him strange, they gave it no more thought. We know why.

That night the sheep were herded into a pen. The wolf was successfully part of the flock and began salivating at the thought of having lamb chops for dinner. He started feeling out the sheep. “No, this one is too old. No, this one is too cute to eat. Wait!” he thought to himself, “this one is perfect!” As he was about to take his first bite of dinner, he heard behind him a click of a lock, followed by creek of a door opening then closing, ending with another click of a lock. Then he heard the voice of the shepherd, saying, “Boy, don’t veal sound good for dinner tonight?” And as he made his way through the flock, the wolf heard him say, “Nope, this one is too old. Nope, this one is too cute.” At that moment the wolf heard him say, “Yes, this one is perfect.”

Sure, the shepherd was surprised to realize that the sheep he thought he had killed was really a wolf, but not as surprised as the wolf who learned a little too late that pretending to be something you’re not, can be very dangerous in the long run.

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)

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Cruciformed

The preacher, speaking to an audience of teenagers, held their attention like he was holding them in the palm of his hand, and he wasn’t letting them go. His dynamic and charismatic message was drawing the young to the cross, while the props on the table helped pave the path to clarify his message. He spoke boldly and convincingly, quoting Jesus, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mt. 16:24).

The items, neatly positioned on the table, were a handful of different crosses which helped move his message forward. Among the varied crosses was an attractive pendant to be worn around the neck. Another was a bookmark to be used while reading. Still, another was a six-foot rugged, heavy cross leaning against the table itself. Each of the crosses had a name attached to it, as if they were made for a specific person. The preacher kept preaching and expounding on the verse, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mt. 16:24).

As if responding to an altar call, motivated individuals stood up to “pick up their cross in order to follow Jesus.” The bookworm asked for his cross and was given the pendant. Disappointed, and refusing to accept his cross, he said, “I don’t wear jewelry, I was hoping for the bookmark.” He returned to his seat. The petite girl jumped up like a cheerleader hoping to be given the pendant only to realize her cross was the six-foot rugged cross. Bewildered, she said, “I can’t carry that thing around school. It’s too big, too bulky, too heavy.” Walking back to her seat, someone overheard her say, “I’d hurt myself.” The lineman on the football team, never balking at a challenge, approached the table hoping for the six-foot rugged cross, only to be given a bookmark. A bookmark. The irony was beyond belief. Without saying a word, he set the bookmark back on the table and returned to his seat. Still, the preacher continued his message, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mt. 16:24).

The participants in this scenario reflect a mindset prevalent to today’s market. We love to quote Scriptures about the cross, “. . . pick up your cross and follow me.” We love to sing about the cross, “So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross, till my trophies at last I lay down; I will cling to the old rugged cross, and exchange it someday for a crown.” We wear crosses as jewelry, have tattoos of crosses on our bodies, and place crosses as iconography in our churches. But when it comes to picking up our cross to follow Jesus to Golgotha, we tend to take an alternative path.  

We saw that alternative path three years ago.

Saying the pandemic was hard on people, society, and churches was an understatement. Hospitalizations overstressed and overworked the health care workers. Death tolls from COIVD-19, no matter how you count the cases, were far greater than we care to admit. Businesses, not deemed essential, were closed, cutting into people’s savings accounts. Schools shifted to online studies putting many at-risk children behind their learning and social developmental curve. Churches were forced to meet outdoors or online as well. And when the doors finally opened, social distancing was the new norm. And still today, one of the biggest mysteries was how there came a rush on toilet paper? Yes, the pandemic was hard on everybody, and sometimes it was far more than we could bear.

Like filling in a coloring book, the Pandemic was filled-in with white noise. We not only speculated on the origin of the virus, but also read into why the government was taking steps for the lockdown protocols, masks, and social distancing. We took our cues from the news media, forming our beliefs based on their perspective of reporting. Questions were raised about our rights being violated. Whether the government was conspiring against its people or taking steps to protect its population was always held in tension. What we didn’t hear enough of was passages from Scripture like this one, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mt. 16:24).

We march under the banner of the cross, but sometimes it feels like it’s all talk. We like to read about it in Scripture, sing about it in our hymns, and raise it up as an image in our churches as a heroic moment of triumph. Herein lies the conflict. The cross is not a sign of strength, but a sign of weakness. The cross is not a trophy displaying victory, but a refuse of humiliating defeat. The cross is not an ecstasy of pleasure, but a painful pit of suffering. The cross is not a place of honor, but a place of shame. The cross is not a celebration for winners, but a mockery for losers. The cross is not about success, but it’s all about failure. All of which seems to collide with our current culture consummation and a “conquest at all costs” conviction.

The Corinthians, like us, were enamored with a theology of success, blinding them to the reality of the gospel. They aborded being cruciformed, opting instead to equate the cross with an eloquent speaker whose charisma naturally attracted members. Looking for success, they rejected someone who suffered like Paul, bringing shame on all those who knew him. The form of this gospel, which Paul neither preached nor modeled in his life, was the exact gospel they were endorsing.

Paul was planning to make a visit. He hoped it was to initiate a repented spirit of reconciliation, and to clarify the heart of the gospel. But he had a backup plan, as he was prepared to confront the situation head-on with the power and authority Christ gave him. Thus, he spells out forthrightly, “For to be sure, (Jesus) was crucified in weakness, yet he lives by God’s power. Likewise, we are weak in him, yet by God’s power we will live with him to serve you” (2 Cor. 13:4).

Paul’s words can be spiced into two thoughts. First, the crucifixion was all about weakness, not strength. If Paul wrote those words today he would have underscored them, capitalized them, italicized them, and/or bolded them because this cannot be emphasized enough. Nailing a naked man to a cross for the purpose of insuring the most pain for the longest period, and then mocking and taunting him while he dies, has only one goal: to inflict shame, reproach, and anguish on the individual in the hope of discrediting his strength and character. No one in their right mind looks to a crucified criminal as some hero.

If followers of Christ are going to be shaped by the cross, then we must begin shifting our strategy from winning to losing, from strength to weakness, from honor to shame. Suffering is the new normal standard for people who carry the cross. We don’t demand our rights, as cruciformed followers of Jesus have abdicated our rights. We do not use our influence to manipulate, coerce, or power play a situation to get our way. A cruciformed person has no power. A cruciformed person has no voice. A cruciformed person has no rights. A cruciformed person is no longer concerned with self-preservation.

The second part of Paul’s thought taps into the power of a resurrected person. Paul’s use of power is directed toward the church and how Christ will work through Paul to correct behaviors and rebellion in the church. Such power seems regulated to the apostle, called by Christ himself to a church Paul planted. Such power and its use seem limited in scope. But another power is at play when Paul says, “. . . we will live with him to serve you” (v. 4b). This power is the power to serve. The power to wash feet. The power to put others’ needs and priorities over our own. The power to welcome one into God’s presence. The power to make sure the desires of others are met at the expense of personal preference. The power “to consider other people better than yourself” (Phil. 2:3). The power is to model a cruciformed Christ to the people around us.

If you want to see what this looks like on a daily basis, then look no further than the care we give others through hospice. To quote from our boss, “Hospice is doing the very thing the church should have been doing all along.” We serve. We encourage. We heal. We provide a safety net of support for people facing death, and that is a powerful place to stand.

↓ The preacher kept moving his message forward, coming back to his key verse, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mt. 16:24). Soon, the bookworm student came forward in repentance and said, “If I am to deny myself, I’ll carry the cross Jesus assigned to me,” and he reached for the cross pendant, and returned to his seat. The preacher continued preaching until the petite girl step forward and meekly said, “I want to follow Jesus under his terms, not mine. I’ll take the big, rugged cross even if it does hurt me.” She grabbed the cross and dragged it to her seat. The preacher kept preaching when the big brawny football player spoke up, “If he could die on the cross, I can carry a bookmark cross in my science book or my Bible.” Picking up his cross, he sat back down.

A cruciformed life is shaped by the cross, embracing the same shame, weakness, and selflessness Jesus embraced. At the heart of cruciform is Matthew 16:24, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mt. 16:24).

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)

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I Want to See Jesus

They were Greeks, standing outside of God’s promises. While drawn to the monotheism and the disciplined life offered by the Jews, they refused full commitment to Judaism. They were like New York City depression era children peering through the window of the luxury lifestyle and were satisfied with being outsiders. They were satisfied until Jesus showed up, and suddenly their spiritual hunger pains ached. Drawn to the teacher, but keeping their distance, they approached Philip with their request. “Sir, we would like to see Jesus” (Jn. 12:21).

If you listen carefully, those words have been reverberating throughout time, “We would like to see Jesus.” We can hear Zacchaeus utter them as he climbs the Sycamore tree just to get a glimpse of him passing by, “I just want to see Jesus” (Lk. 19:1-10). We can hear the so-called “sinful woman” whisper those words as she risks public shame by breaking social protocol to reach him, crying, “I just want to see Jesus” (Lk. 7:36-50). We can hear Thomas, so sure of himself as he disclosed his own fear of disappointment. “I’ll believe,” he says, “but first, I just want to see Jesus” (Jn. 20:25). And while John’s words are written so that we may trust his testimony, sometimes it feels like salt on an open wound. He says, “We heard him speak, we shook his hand and hugged him, we saw and gazed upon him” (1 Jn. 1:1). I read those same words and my hearts sinks because if I’m honest, I want so desperately to see him, too.

Something within us wants to see Jesus. As the song says, “Open the eyes of my heart, Lord, I want to see Jesus,” But something keeps me blinded to him. For some, like a child who sees their parent at the end of the day, they see him and run into his loving embrace. For others the wounds are so deep and painful to the touch, we long for the only means of healing possible. Still others are skeptical that he is full of grace and mercy, or that he is risen, or that he even lived to begin with, so we need his blessed assurance. All the while our greatest fear is that meeting him might not meet our expectations, and that in our hope it will only disappoint.

By the time Paul comes to 2 Corinthians 5:21 he is showing us a picture of Jesus, not the one we might want, but the picture of Jesus we need to see. In a church where their relationship with the apostle is estranged and tension is still present, Paul calls them to reconciliation. To hold the church together, they must stop the inward fighting and begin “reaching across the aisle.” More importantly, they must remove the fence they built to keep Paul out, and instead build a bridge or a larger table to invite Paul in. And in all this they must begin aligning themselves with God by assuming the role of an ambassador who actively participates in reconciliation. The motivation for reconciling is found in verse 21.

“God made him, who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”

The perfect and pure, holy and hallowed, set apart and sinlessness of Jesus is well documented in Scripture. From John who calls out, “Look, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (Jn 1:29), to Peter who applies Isaiah proclamation to Jesus, “He committed no sin, and no deceit was found in his mouth” (1 Pet. 2:22; Is. 53:9), and to the Hebrews writer who claims, “. . . he was tempted in every way, just as we are, yet without sin” (Heb. 4:15), Scripture reinforces the perfection and sinlessness of Jesus. While he walked on this earth as a human, Jesus did so without the baggage we carry. He walked alone without sin, without guilt, without shame, without hatred, without lust, and without deceit. They never accompanied him. The dark places that encroach our hearts did not touch his heart. While Jesus was just like us, he was nothing like us.

Paul makes two statements in verse 21 that are deeper and richer than we can explore at this time. First, with God taking the initiative, he made Jesus who was without sin to be sin. Allow that image of those words to wash over you for a moment. Whether Paul is talking of the incarnation, when Jesus steps into humanity to endure all our sinfulness, or he’s talking about bearing the sins of the world on the cross, I do not know. It may be both.

All of us had to walk into patients’ homes that are nasty. The odor and stench are unbearable, as it absorbs into our clothing and into our noses. We can taste the nauseating foulness. Keeping the residents at arm’s length, we do everything we can to finish the visit and get out of their home. That’s not what Jesus did. No. He came and sat with us in our filth. Without becoming a sinner, he embraced us in our sin, refusing to keep us at arm’s length. He loved us despite our filth, and maybe even because of our filth, our failures, and our fears; it certainly wasn’t because of our great faith. Remember the indictment, whispered snarly under their breaths, “He eats with the sinners” (Lk. 15:1).

This leads to the second statement which is “. . . in him, we become the righteousness of God.” God now views us through the prism of Jesus which is how reconciliation is achieved in us and through us. The righteousness of God can either be imputative, in that God reaches down and declares us righteous, or its transformative, where God works through us to shape and mold our character to look like him. And like before, why not both imputative and transformative? He makes us righteous so that we become more righteous.

So Paul might describe it like this: the sinless one becomes sin-laden, so that in him the sinful may be viewed sinless; or the guiltless become guilty, so that in him the guilty may be viewed guiltless; or the righteous become lawless so that in him the lawless may be viewed as righteous; or the one with honor becomes shame so that in him those who are shamed may be viewed with honor.

What is left is a simple prayer, “Open the eyes of my heart Lord, I want to see Jesus.”

As a child, I had my fair share of spankings. I wasn’t a bad child who rebelled against his parents, but sometimes my behavior needed a course correction. Mom and Dad tried keeping me and my siblings on the straight and narrow. On this particular day, my hometown had experienced a good amount of rain and large mudpuddles were present, especially at school. Before we left that morning, mom told my brother, my sister, and me that we were not to get wet at school. Since I was in elementary school, I guess I interpreted her command to be limited to school hours. Mom was the librarian and often stayed till 4:30 or later, so with nothing better to do after hours, I played outside. I played in the mudpuddle. I got soaked playing in the mudpuddle.

Mom said nothing on the way home, but I’m pretty sure she was reaching a boiling point. She called me to the kitchen where she expressed her displeasure at my behavior. Then, with the belt in hand, she invited me to her lap.

To say I deserved the punishment is unquestionable. Looking back on that moment, I’ve wondered if there was not a better way to handle the moment.

The story is told of a family with a delinquent son who always pushed the boundaries of his parents. One of his favorite episodes was to be late for dinner. Sitting at the table with the entire family was a core value for the patriarch of the family. The son, though, thought differently. He hated the formality and viewed his time with his parents and siblings as an encroachment on his own time. His passive aggressive behavior kicked in so that being late to dinner was his means of thumbing his nose to his parents.

At wits end, the father looked at his son and said, “The next time you’re late to supper, you will sit here with an empty plate and watch the rest of us eat dinner. Then, you will go to bed without supper.”

It didn’t take long for the son to rebel. The next night, he showed up late like he was calling his father’s bluff. With everyone in their seats, the father looked at his son and reinforced the punishment rule. He will watch them eat their dinner.

The father led the family in prayer.

Following the prayer, the family began serving themselves the food, except for the son who sat and watched the others pile on the delicious food. Once everyone was served, the father took his plate full of food and stood up. He walked over to his son and, while he removed his son’s empty plate, he set his own plate before the son. With his son’s plate in hand, he returned to his seat where he watched his family eat dinner.

The similarities of these stories are linked to a son who stands in defiance to his parents. The contrast between the two stories is how the parent chooses to exact punishment on the child. While the corporal punishment debate is not in play here, one of these scenarios looks more like Jesus than the other. And if you can see the difference, then maybe, maybe, you can say you’ve seen Jesus.

“Open the eyes of my heart Lord, I want to see Jesus” . . . “God made him, who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)

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You Say Hello, I Say Goodbye

My father’s final attendance at church began like any other Sunday morning, given that my father’s health was failing at the time. Mom dropped him off at the side door of the church building before she parked the car. Making her way back to the side door, she would find my dad sitting in their pew waiting for her arrival. Except, on this particular Sunday my dad was not sitting in their pew. Concerned, but not worried, mom sat down believing he would show up sooner or later. Why not? They’d been married for 47 years, he wasn’t bolting now. Sure enough, as services began, Dad found his way back to mom and sat down next to her. Curious, she asked him, “Where were you?” He replied, “I was just going around to say, ‘hello’ to people.”

He was just saying, “Hello.”

Paul uses two contrasting metaphors for our bodies in 2 Corinthains 5:1-4, one of which captures my father’s health. On this side of eternity he describes our current bodies as if they were tents (v. 1). Since my sons are Eagle Scouts, I’m kinda familiar with tents. They are remarkably sturdy and weather resistant. They break the wind and they keep rain, ice, or snow off of the camper. Thus, the outdoorsman can safely shelter in times of storms, giving  him or her the chance to stay warm and dry.

My only trip to Washington DC was with my son’s Boy Scout Troop. We toured the Smithsonian, the Marine Museum, the Air and Space Museum, the Capital Building, all the memorials, and even took in a Orioles baseball game. Truly, it was a life-changing experience as we were in awe of the city. The adventure was cost effective for a family of five, but there was a hitch. We had to camp in tents. While Jonathan shared a tent with other Boy Scouts, Cile, Taylor, Matthew and I shared a family tent. Like visiting Camelot, it only rained at night. On one of those nights it was a deluge. We felt the water rushing under the tent, and with all the rain, a bubble appeared above our heads. It grew. It grew larger. It grew dangerously large. Fearing it was about to burst, I pushed the bubble back up forcing the water to flood over the tent like a waterfall. But here’s the thing. We stayed dry and safe the entire night. We were safe from the storm.

Tents are far from indestructible. I’ve seen tents blown over by strong winds because they were not secure to the ground. Rods break and fabric is susceptible to mold or tearing. Falling limbs can become a widow-maker. No, tents are far from being indestructible, but they do serve a purpose and are appropriate for temporary shelter.

Paul’s metaphor is that our bodies are like tents. Sure, they are durable and incredibly resistant, but they do not last forever. Like my dad’s health, eventually they wear out. Our bodies are healthy until they are not, as they are susceptible to disease and sickness, broken bones, failing eyesight and hearing loss, hang nails, slivers, and stubbed toes. Pushing harder, faster, and farther, athletes at their prime are poetry in motion. Athletes past their prime are painful to watch. Youth is often beauty at its best, while aging is a hard process to endure. One of my patients has a large picture of him and his bride hanging in his room. He was so handsome, and she was strikingly beautiful. Their future together was filled with hope and anticipation. But the key word is “was,” since she has passed, and he, left with his frail and tired body, only has her memories to hold onto.

The world we step into every day is the world of the tent, managing the storms of life. No where can we see this clearer than through hospice care where we are with the family as the patient’s body – their tent – fails them.

Paul, though, offers hope. While he acknowledges “that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed,” he pivots to capture that side of eternity by saying, “we have a building from God, an eternal home in heaven, not built by human hands” (v. 1). Something about the life to come is described as a building. A big strong building that will not fall, or decay over time due to damage by the elements, or to a big bad wolf trying to blow it over.

I have a friend whose job it is to build and then destroy buildings. Actually, he’s an architect who is responsible for building scale model buildings that are resistant to wind, rain, and earthquakes. He will be given the specs for a building, and it is his responsibility to design a building that is within certain parameters. Once he has designed the model building, he hands the designs to contractors who build the building. When the project is completed, he is invited to attend its test at a wind tunnel. They throw all the elements at the building to see if it can withstand the rain, wind, and earthquakes. Success, and they celebrate. Failure, and it’s back to the drawing board.

God promises in the life to come that our bodies will be strong and durable as a building, a building designed and erected by God himself. Pleasure and euphoria will replace pain and suffering. Strength will supersede weakness. Enduring health will conquer disease. Wounds and scars will be healed. Eternal calmness and peacefulness will overshadow our PTSD. Guilt and shame will vanish as God will wipe away every tear.

It might be worth noting that in the resurrected body of Jesus, his scars were still present. In fact they were his personal identification, especially for Thomas who had questions and doubts (Jn. 20:27). While I don’t know what to make of Jesus’ scars and Paul’s words, there may be room for both in that the sores that are present no longer cause pain. The blemishes which are evident on the skin no longer hurt. The wound was completely healed, though the scars remained. I believe that thought in and of itself brings much hope to the life that comes.

Rooted in all of this is the promise highlighted by Paul with a banking analogy. God has given us his Spirit as a deposit, guaranteeing that the building promised will be completed (v. 5; Eph. 1:13-14). If you own a home, chances are two realities are at work. First, you don’t actually own the home, the bank does. Monthly payments are made so that somewhere down the road you will be out of debt and own the home. Secondly, you had to make a down payment on the home. Unless you were able to pay cash for the home, you had to scrape up five to twenty percent of the price of the home to secure the loan. The deposit told the lending company you were serious about owning the home, and helped guarantee that you will make good on your promise to buy the home.

With the deposit of the Holy Spirit, God is promising that he will make good on that whatever death and decay we experience in the here and now, which will be swallowed up by life in the then and there. That little bit of God in you guarantees the indestructible building. That’s the hope we hold onto, even when we hold onto for dear life. That hope is based on God’s promise, and God is always good to his promise. Always.

My father’s health was failing, but it had been a long battle. He was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver in the mid-nineties, likely caused by NASH. Likely, because at the time the doctors did not understand how someone who never drank or smoked could be diagnosed with such a liver condition. Dad’s struggle was real as he made multiple hospital visits, some of which we believed at the time he wasn’t coming home. He survived. In 1997 he underwent a successful liver transplant in which afterward, he thrived. He had felt better than he ever had. Spiritually, his faith deepened. He began speaking with bold hope in God. People noticed something different about him. My home congregation noticed it too and asked him to serve as one of their shepherds. For five years he helped lead this church.

Then cancer struck his pancreas. He was given six months to live. He made it to four the month marker. During which, his faith never wavered. His body gave out, but his hope in the life to come with the promised indestructible body never vanished. The storm of cancer had the upper hand on his tent, and he was ready for a building that was immune to cancer.

My father’s final attendance at church began like any other Sunday morning, given that my father’s health was failing at the time. Mom dropped him off at the side door of the church building before she parked the car. Making her way back to the side door, she would find my dad sitting in their pew waiting for her arrival. Except, on this particular Sunday my dad was not sitting in their pew. Concerned, but not worried, mom sat down believing he would show up sooner or later. Why not? They’d been married for 47 years, he wasn’t bolting now. Sure enough, as services began, Dad found his way back to mom and sat down next to her. Curious, she asked him, “Where were you?” He replied, “I was just going around to say, ‘hello’ to people.”

He was just saying, “Hello.”

After my dad had passed, mom and I talked about this moment from church. She acknowledged that dad was not telling people “hello.” He not only knew that this was his last Sunday with his church family, he also held out hope in the resurrection. He wasn’t telling them, “hello,” he was telling them, “goodbye.”

He was telling them, “goodbye.”

Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)