Archives For God's view of us

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I recently met with someone and—what can I say?—I I just didn’t like him very much. Oh, it wasn’t his bad breath (I didn’t get close enough to find out) and he wasn’t terribly obnoxious.

I just didn’t like him very much. And I felt bad about it.

And, no, he isn’t a reader of this blog. So if you’re a reader, it’s safe to meet with me. (Unless, perhaps, you just don’t like me very much.)

A week later I was sitting in a coffee shop and I overheard a loud no_like_button(obnoxious) neighbor talking about one of her friends. She said,

Well, I love her, but I don’t like her very much.”

I thought, “I know exactly what she means. I love this guy; it’s not my fault I don’t like him very much.” I felt much better about myself and thought,

Yes, that’s me. I’m a loving kind of guy. I obey Christ’s command to love my neighbor even though he’s a bit boring. I like me!”

And then, as these thoughts raced through my mind, I began to dislike myself. As you read my thoughts (above,) perhaps you began to think of me, “What a jerk!”.

Now I’m thinking, “I love me, but I don’t like me very much.”

Why don’t we like some people? Continue Reading…

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Many years ago a young man was transferred to my department. During his first annual review with me, he asked why his raises had been consistently lower than the company average. I answered,

“Well, you’re kind of a jerk.”

And he was. If a colleague asked how the software worked, he’d sigh with feigned Rude customer-service r2patience, look at his watch, and ask, “Don’t you know that by now?” If a client asked how the software worked, he’d huff, “Didn’t I explain that just last month?”

But he was smart. He sliced through client’s problems with scalpel-like sharpness. His technical keenness took the edge off his social rudeness, but just barely. His past annual raises reflected the mixed feelings his previous boss had toward him.

When I told him he is kind of a jerk, he seemed stunned and simply squeaked, “Really?” Then he read, How To Win Friends and Influence People, and began to change. Something really seemed different.

Different enough, that he got a huge raise the following year. He then asked his former boss (a Christian) why the boss hadn’t been honest and direct. The boss admitted, “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” My new employee retorted,

Damn it! Your cowardly Christian niceness cost me thousands of dollars. Thanks for nothing.” (Hey, he was a recovering jerk; I never said he was completely cured.)

Christian cowardice      Continue Reading…

Several weeks ago I had an awful day in the middle of a horrible week in the midst of a bad month. A sniffle turned into post-nasal drip which turned into bronchitis—the third time in five months. When I inhaled, it felt like shards of glass shredding my lungs.

I canceled everything so6990615-sick-man-sleeping-on-office-table I could have some recovery time. Later, that same day, I ended up with six hours of unexpected, unscheduled, and exhausting meetings.

Now I was both sick and tired.

That same night an organization I belong to sent out its weekly email. Hidden in the email was the description of a decision that I considered a tactical blunder. So I dashed off a short email to the leaders asking them to reconsider.

Alas! I ended the email with this nasty, sarcastic dig:

Why don’t we think first? For a change.

The next morning several people emailed back, correcting me for my caustic comment.

My initial response was self-defense: I was sick. And their decision made little sense. And my day of recovery had been stolen. And besides, maybe they deserved it.

But that was just defensiveness. The truth was I had been a jerk. No one forced me to write those words.  They were unnecessary and inflammatory. And no one had a gun pointed at me when I pressed “send.” I was the one with a gun, pointing it at others.

Why didn’t I just think first? For a change.        Continue Reading…

I remember the first time I visited the home of one of my high school friends. A corner of his family room housed a music section with a baby grand piano, some brass instruments, and a beautiful old guitar lying on a shelf.

The guitar looked like something special. I took it down from the shelf, dusted it off, tuned it up, and strummed it. I thought I was in love.

I asked my friend about its history. The guitar has been given to his mother when she was young. old gibsonShe had never learned to play it, but she had a sentimental attachment to it, and she loved seeing it sit in their music corner.

I wrote down the model and serial number and visited my favorite guitar store to discover its roots. It was a customized 1940’s Gibson guitar with rare Indian Rosewood sides, real ivory inlay, and a custom fingerboard. It was a literal treasure.

Years before some unknown master craftsman had fashioned this custom guitar using special woods, saws, braces and glues, to make a masterpiece. Now it sat on a shelf gathering dust. My friend’s mom thought, “It added atmosphere.”

I think this is the common picture of Christian calling: to look good on the pews—maybe a little dusty—while missing the God-designed purpose: releasing our music.       Continue Reading…

About thirty-five years ago, I lived in a community of a hundred men who kept everything in common. We literally pooled our money. Out of that pool we paid for our clothes, food, rent, and even our cars.

Before we had a non-profit name, the cars we bought were registered in one of the men’s names (usually whoever was convenient at the time). We had a little fleet.

One day I was in a car with Bruce (the first time I’ve used a real name) when he was pulled over for speeding. Officer ticketThe officer sternly asked for a driver’s license and the car registration. We always kept the registration in the glove box; always … except this time.

Bruce told the office he didn’t have the registration, and the officer asked Bruce who owned the car. Bruce glanced at me red-faced, turned to the officer and stuttered, “Sir, I don’t know who this car belongs to.”

The officer replied incredulously, “Let me get this straight. You are speeding in someone’s car; you can’t find its registration. You don’t even know who it belongs to; but you don’t want me to think you are stealing it.” He strode back to his squad car.

A few minutes later he marched back with a speeding ticket. After handing the ticket to Bruce, he leaned in the open window and he dead-panned,

“By the way, sir, just in case you’re curious, this car belongs to you. You own it.” Continue Reading…

In The Princess Bride, the criminal genius Vizzini repeatedly and inappropriately exclaims, “Inconceivable.” His partner Inigo Montoyo finally reflects, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Like that criminal genius, Christians use religious jargon repeatedly and inappropriately. Sometimes I want to respond, “I do not think it means what you think it means.

I struggle with the phrase, “wrestling with God.” Christians use it to arm_wrestlingdescribe an intentional long night of interceding with God. The phrase refers to Jacob wrestling with God (Gen. 32:22-31). We use it the wrong way; I want to reply, “Stop saying that!”

I used to work in a ministry with a man who loved the phrase. If the finances were low, he’d demand an evening bout of wrestling with God. When the congregation failed to follow the message, he’d insist on an upper room experience battling with God.

My friend used the phrase as though we needed to get God’s attention, as though we needed to place a shot over God’s bow. We’d argue with God, make our pitch, and try to persuade him of our plans. Maybe we’d fast or lie prostrate.

It reminded me of the priests of Baal as they cut themselves on Mt. Carmel (1 Kings 18). I wish I’d said to my friend, “I do not think it means what you think it means.

It may sound noble or heroic, but an African American preacher understood it better when he preached, “Your arm’s too short to box with God!” Continue Reading…

A friend of mine challenged me to adopt—perhaps embrace—a Transcendent Pursuit for the coming year, something life changing, something I can bring to the world to make a difference.

Then I re-read the first chapter of Genesis. It felt like I was reading it for the first time, and I felt the nudge of God.

The first thing I noticed was the creative artistry of God. The opening verses do not focus on God’s unparalleled power. Instead they reveal—and almost revel in—the beauty.  After each creative act God doesn’t say, “That was powerful;” he says, creation+of+adam+michelangelo“This is beautiful” (a better translation than what we are used to).

Next I noticed that God sees potential where no one else ever could. God hovers over and looks into the chaos and void; he takes the raw materials of darkness and depth, and he creates light, and it is beautiful. As are the oceans and fields and skies.

After observation and creation, God gives. He gives this unparalleled treasure of creation to man. The opening chapter of the Bible surges with swarming fish, teaming land animals, luscious vegetation, and a sky pregnant with stars.

And God turns to man and says, “It’s yours. Take it. Care for it. Love it.”

The opening of the Bible reveals a completely different God than any man has ever created. The opening of the Bible reveals God as an artist, seeing beauty, creating incomparable art, and giving it away. It is a radical image of God.

I long to live like that artist

Continue Reading…

Years ago I witnessed a curious interaction between a client’s president and his secretary. I arrived at their office mid-morning and found the secretary crying in the parking lot, crying because of a tongue-lashing she had just received.

Apparently her president had wanted new conference room table and chairs. He found a set man-pointing-fingeronline and asked his secretary to buy it. She found an identical set from another distributor with a better offer: it was several thousand dollars cheaper and it included an extended manufacturer’s warranty.

When she told the president about the better deal, he was furious, and he shouted, “Don’t you know who I am? I am the president!”

The president and I had lunch later that day. During the lunch, the president gave me his version of that morning’s story, and his story matched hers—almost word for word. He ended by asking, “Didn’t she know I am the president?”

The thing was, everybody knew he was the president. He owned the company. He basically operated as the CEO, COO, and CFO. There was not a single person with a hint of a shadow of the tiniest doubt who he was. Everyone knew it.

Except maybe the president himself. Continue Reading…

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I hate leaving for trips, but I also—sometimes—hate returning. There is so much to do. There are all the things I didn’t do while away, and all the things I normally do when I’m home, and all the things my trip generates.

I returned home late last Friday night from a week long set of planning meetings. Sure enough, my “normal” things for last week didn’t get done by themselves; the planning meetings generated a huge list of terrific things to do; and I had my normal new week’s list just waiting for action.

I felt overwhelmed and weighed down, besieged by an army of action items. As I charged through my to-do list, the battle went downhill. Technology misfired, people were late, misunderstandings abounded, and phone interruptions ruled.

Instead of bleeding with a sword through my heart, I was dying of a thousand paper cuts; instead of facing the hulking, flying Nazgûl, I was surrounded by ten thousand blood-sucking mosquitoes. Continue Reading…

[To listen to a reading of this article, click here.]

Ten years ago, I was on a plane heading for New York to give a presentation. The man next to me was a professor of public speaking at a major university.

Somewhat sheepishly, I asked for advice, “What is the key to great public speaking?”

After some preliminary comments, he said this: “At the beginning of World War II, when Winston Churchill became Prime Minister of England, he said, ‘I felt as though my whole life had prepared me for this moment.’”

“Sam,” he continued, “the best public speakers feel as though their entire lives have prepared them for this moment.”

His words pierced me more deeply than had any other past comment or deliberate insult.

I was devastated. I didn’t feel prepared for anything of significance.

Why?

My soul longs—and I believe every soul longs—for a purpose, for a deep meaning, to know that we matter. We long for something transcendent.

Yet I believe most of us fritter our lives away with little dreams. We eagerly await our next vacation or our next car. We squander our money—or our dreams—on the next new iPhone or matching shoes and purse. Continue Reading…