call waiting
A few weeks ago, Dave Ferguson summarized Frederick Buechner’s famous quote as his Facebook and Twitter status: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”
I wrestle with this perspective because I have yet to find my “deep gladness.” Believe me, I’ve tried—I’ve prayed, fasted, and evaluated my spiritual gifts. (For the record, I don’t know what those are, either.) I’ve “first, broken all the rules” and “now, discovered my strengths.” I even participated in a very thorough and helpful SIMA analysis. (At the end the consultant told me he thought my profile and giftedness is the same as Martha Stewart’s except I’m not a jerk. Except he didn’t say jerk.)
I care about things; I’m all for clean water in Africa and ending urban poverty and planting new churches. I like most animals more than many humans and I’m good at growing tomatoes. But I wouldn’t say drilling wells or starting churches or protecting animals or feeding the poor (even with my produce) are consuming passions.
For years I thought it was just a matter of pointing the flashlight at the right corner of my soul—that a latent passion would spring into life if I strained the eyes of my heart into the dark. I remember saying in college, when I first hit my head against this wall while trying to choose a major, “If God would just TELL me what he wants me to do with my life, I would do it. Anything. He knows I will. Why won’t he tell me?”
I thought everyone had felt a call on their life and had a passion for something and struggled with burdens on their hearts during seasons of ministry and other such Christianese crap. (Perhaps the Martha Stewart comment has some truth.)
And I think some people do, just as I think God probably does handpick spouses for a few people. What safety, what comfort in those thoughts! But how much scarier to ponder the (much more biblical) feedback I received from one wise mentor: What if there are many professions we can pursue and people we could marry? What if God gives us guidelines for making the decisions but loves us enough to give us freedom? What if he’ll be pleased with any choice as long as we honor him while living it out?
I re-posted the quote on my own Facebook and Twitter pages with the question, “What if you have no great passion?” And another wise friend commented, “The Bible says to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. Love God and love others. We make it way too hard.”
I don’t think Buechner is a bad guy (or Dave, for that matter—he’s a great guy). But I have some problems with American Christianity’s myth that God will map out our lives for us. Perhaps his great gladness is watching us chart the course for ourselves.
okay, done with this one. what’s next?
I’ve written before (here and here and here….okay, a lot) about prayer. I don’t get how it works. I don’t always believe that it works. I don’t know why I get yes answers to some things and silence to others and no answers to others. I don’t know what God causes and what he allows. I’m skeptical and cynical about other people’s God-is-awesome Facebook status updates “claiming the victory” for continual blessings.
Since you’ve tolerated my ramblings on this subject (oh yes, there are more……here, and here, and here), I wanted to let you know I finally figured out my theology on this subject:
I don’t understand it. I probably won’t understand it in this lifetime. I’m still suspicious if you claim to understand it. But I believe Jesus is real and He’s listening.
That’s all I’ve got.
One moment someone whispers, “Thank you.”
Just then another heart cries, “How could you?”
And Jesus, who sees us,
He says, “I hear you.”
“I’m near you.”
It may be miles and miles before the journey’s clear
There may be rivers, maybe oceans of tears
But the very hand that shields your eyes from understanding
Is the hand that will be holding you for miles
pray anything?
I haven’t received one “yes” to a prayer in five years.
Clarity about whether to leave California? Guidance about which professional avenues to explore? Opportunities to be proactive and positive in a negative situation? Improvement of my physical health? A spiritual breakthrough with an atheist boyfriend?
Nyet.
On the other hand, I’ve received many blessings I never asked for: the health and safety of my loved ones. A good church and new friends in Nashville. More freelance work than I really have time for.
Needless to say, this causes me to ask questions.
For one, was I asking for the wrong things? They all seem like healthy and God-honoring requests to me.
And was I asking with the wrong motives? I don’t think so.
If asking is okay, and I asked for good reasons, and still I receive no answers (or “no” answers), we arrive at my latest question: Should I bother?
Perhaps I’m just going to get what I’m going to get—which is certainly more than I deserve, and certainly God’s prerogative. In that case, the goal becomes gratitude in spite of his apparent silence. And that means daily opportunities to grow in patience and maturity……which is probably what I should have been asking for the whole time.
My dad once told me God’s no answers are often the prelude to a yes we never could have imagined. If that’s true, I’m more than ready for the next movement.
private practice
I beat DOWN the Reader’s Digest word power quizzes. From “judicious” to “wainscoting,” I’m hard to beat.
This isn’t because I’ve tried to expand my vocabulary with flash cards—it’s just the natural result of almost 30 years of daily immersion in books and magazines. A lifelong love of reading has made me sesquipedalian.
My cousin’s wife, Amber, is a wonderful cook. After attending culinary school here and in Europe and interning at Martha Stewart’s TV show, she deglazes, she infuses, and she purees. From dicing vegetables to crafting the perfect pie crust, Amber easily and effortlessly navigates the kitchen. (She’s also fluent in French and beautiful, but I’m not allowed to be jealous because now she’s family.)
But Amber wasn’t born with all this ability, either. Hard work in her classes plus lots of practice at home and on the job have made Amber a talented chef.
The same principle is true for almost every person; from the Olympic athlete to the amateur oil painter, skill comes from years (and years and years) of practice.
So it makes sense the same principle would apply to our spiritual lives. We’re all born to connect with God. Unlike sports or musical talent, God created us all with the ability to have meaningful relationship with him. But an “unconscious competence” doesn’t just happen—we have to practice.
I considered this during a prayer night at my church last week, which is itself symptomatic of the issue: I am not good at prayer. My thoughts drift around from chores to shopping lists to future blog posts. I contribute little of value to the conversation and I receive even less because I have trouble slowing down and focusing my mind on the present moment and the God who allows it.
But I can practice. I can meditate on words or verses, I can write my prayers, I can be still every day even though it’s difficult. It may take years to see progress, but nothing of value that I’ve learned so far has come easily—why should my spiritual “skills”?
Sure, we all have areas of special giftedness, and prayer isn’t one of mine. But using that truth to excuse a lack of progress is like flunking math because I’m “an idea person.” I must work at prayer, at forgiveness, at joyfulness. I must practice being kind, serving with humility, and controlling what I say until these actions become truly second nature. Maybe in 30 more years I’ll have it down.
a question
Noah was 600 years old when he began building the ark. After weeks of backbreaking work, he endured 370 days stuck in that airtight boat with an ornery family, hundreds of animals, and enough “fertilizer” for the rest of his grape-growing career.
Abraham waited a lifetime for God to keep the promise of a son, only to receive a command to murder that son in cold blood.
Joseph refused to have sex with Potiphar’s wife but still went to prison.
Moses put up with a million whiny Israelites for forty years.
Job lost everything because he had done nothing wrong.
Hosea faithfully loved an unfaithful wife and provided for the children of her affairs.
David ran for his life to escape a crazy king.
Jeremiah became the weeping prophet.
Daniel faced hungry lions.
Ezekiel watched his wife die, and was forbidden to mourn.
Mary quietly suffered disgrace and journeyed 70 miles on a donkey while nine months pregnant to give birth in a cave, alone and in pain and probably embarrassed, with no idea she wouldn’t get to return home to show the new baby to her mom.
Joseph endured the same scorn, the same journey, the same embarrassment, the same years running from Herod, and didn’t even get his own Hail Joseph prayer.
John the Baptist lost his head twice; before his beheading, despair and confusion led him to question if the man he followed was truly the Savior.
And Jesus, the Man of All Sorrows, “became obedient to death–even death on a cross.”
These are the giants of our faith. They are some of God’s “favorites.” Yet their journeys were difficult, messy, painful, unsanitary, anguished, dangerous, and unfair.
So if this is how God deals with his favored ones, why do we equate his blessing with safety, self-fulfillment, and air conditioning?
child’s play
As last summer wound down, I wrote about my young neighbors and our occasional interactions. As a new summer begins the kids are back outside, and when my cocktail of allergy drugs makes it possible I like to have the windows open—which means I’m once again privy to their many arguments, negotiations, and meltdowns.
Some highlights from this week (imagine these in put-upon, fed-up little voices):
You are not LISTENING to me!
He has my stuff—that’s not FAIR!
You are not even smart. You don’t know what you are saying out of your face.
Come here. Come HERE. COME HERE!
You are a stupid IDIOT head.
Jesus said we must become like children to enter the kingdom of God. Although he meant we should have attitudes of humility and simple faith, we usually settle for simple immaturity instead. Thanks, God, for the thousands of years you have endured our complaining and bickering—all without the benefit of drugs.
easter dress
I have learned a few things during my two years in Nashville: Vegetables are not considered “done” until they are cooked to the consistency of baby food. The correct pronunciation of that major street downtown is Dee-MON-bree-un. Some people actually enjoy NASCAR. And Easter Sunday calls for new clothes and a big hat.
I’ve also learned about Tennessee’s rather unusual attempt to cut down on DUIs—these “I am a drunk driver” vests. Three years ago we became one of the few states to vote a “shame law” on the books requiring first offenders to clean up litter from busy roadways while announcing their crime. I saw several while driving around this past week.
There aren’t many things I despise more than drunk driving—it’s stupid, unnecessary, and potentially deadly. But when I noticed these people along the road, the punishment bothered me. For one thing, I’m not sure embarrassing offenders out of the behavior will be that effective. Instead, I agree with recent task forces which recommend simultaneously stricter and more solution-oriented penalties like revoking licenses or lowering the blood alcohol count which triggers a jail stay.
But the law also makes me uneasy for another reason: if we’re passing out orange vests for wrong-doing, I deserve a closet-full. Drunk driving is dumb and destructive, but so are many of my own choices. Laziness, jealousy, bitterness, anger—I could have vests for all of those. My Easter outfit could have been covered with signs reading “I am a grudge-holder” or “I am impatient” or “I have little faith.”
However, yesterday we celebrated God’s great victory over the original shame law. To paraphrase Galatians 3, there is neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female, drunkard nor sluggard, adulterer nor gossip. There isn’t even Yankee or Southerner. Because of Jesus, all who repent and believe are clothed with Christ, on Easter Sunday and on every other day—hats optional.
an inconvenient truth
When two of my friends got married, the pastor reminded the groom that while it’s right to be willing to lay down his life for his new bride, he must also be willing to be inconvenienced for her.
That’s often more difficult. There is something noble and soul-stirring about the grand gesture, but neither of those adjectives apply to waiting without sighs and eye rolling while she does her hair and makes you late. There is something heroic about the gallant knight expertly commanding his white horse to duel for the lady’s honor—it’s much less exciting to adjust the tire pressure on the white Camry so she can drive safely.
The same principle applies to other relationships. While I am quite willing to fly across country and be there for a friend at a time of great need, how often am I willing to take a phone call during my hectic day and listen to the details of hers? I would donate a kidney to a family member, but will I stifle a snarky comment the next time I’m annoyed with one of them?
And it’s true with God. As Twila Paris sang in her old song Undivided Heart, “There have been days when I would die for You, and days when I would not die to me.” I’ll hopefully never have to find out, but I think I really could face a firing squad rather than deny my faith. So why is it so hard to tithe?
God asks few of us for the grand gestures, but he asks all of us as his bride, the church, to “inconvenience” ourselves for His sake. Most of us won’t have to lay down our lives, but we all have to take up our crosses.
no guarantees
My heart is aching. Yesterday afternoon the 16 year old son of some good friends, a boy who many years ago made me a recipe card holder complete with a hand-painted monster, took his own life.
This would be a tragedy for any family, but as I absorbed the news this morning a gallery of good parenting images flashed through my memory: my friends explaining choices and allowing their boys age-appropriate freedoms; their involvement in the boys’ spiritual and educational development; their outings for paintball and camping; their consistency and balance in discipline.
None of us can know the intimate details of another family’s life, but from all appearances these parents did everything right. And so my heart aches doubly for their loss.
My mom often reminds me that in life “there are no guarantees.” We do our best to choose a good spouse and raise healthy kids, but for every couple who succeeds there’s at least one more—who also avoided promiscuity, prayed over their relationship, attended premarital counseling, raised their children in the church, and dared to discipline like Dr. Dobson himself—whose kids go off the deep end or whose marriage ends in an explosion of adultery and divorce. Whenever we allow other people into our lives we risk hurt and betrayal.
God knows this better than anyone. He set up the system of no guarantees, otherwise known as free will, and remains its biggest victim—every human in every time has made choices that cause him pain. “Your own conduct and actions have brought this upon you,” he says through the prophet Jeremiah. “This is your punishment. How bitter it is. How it pierces to the heart! Oh, my anguish, my anguish! I writhe in pain. Oh, the agony of my heart! My heart pounds within me, I cannot keep silent.”
I often question issues of justice, privately and on this blog. I would like a satisfaction guaranteed system, a planet organized to reward those who work hard and act honorably and punish those who don’t. But in this life that’s not to be; instead God simply promises his presence when we experience a small measure of the suffering he endures. And so I pray God, please. Please. Be with my dear friends who are also writhing in pain today. Amen.
an open letter
Dear Dr. Keller,
Thank you so much for speaking at Christ Presbyterian last week. I love that you still make time for the handful of churches that helped plant Redeemer 20 years ago. Thanks for traveling so far, and on such a brutal travel day, when Nashville received a whole 1/8″ of snow—almost enough to cover the grass. Sheer bravery, sir.
It seemed everyone was reading your latest book during Christmas, and I enjoyed the opportunity to hear your own summary of its message and the application to church life. Your description of healing spiritual communities and our responsibility to them as family members should be required listening for every Christian, both leader and layman, and if you ever release it as an MP3 I’m forwarding the link to everyone I know. 
But I’m not as eager to share the first half of your lecture, because it taps directly into the most personal spiritual questions I wrestle with. For those reading this blog who weren’t there and aren’t you (that would be just about everyone), the first half of Wednesday night’s talk revisited the parable of the prodigal son and showed how both the prodigal and his older brother are guilty of disobeying the Father—one through promiscuity and rebellion, the other through self-righteous moralism. They both want the Father’s gifts instead of relationship with the Father, and although the elder brother expresses that desire in more culturally and religiously acceptable ways—obedience, duty, judgmentalism—both are lost. Both want to be their own master and savior, and the only solution for them and for us all is Jesus and his willingness to bring each of us back to the family at his own expense.
As you spoke, I could almost see light bulbs snapping on above people’s heads. Most of us have heard this parable dozens of times and think we understand our role as the prodigal and God’s role as the Father rushing to extend grace. I’m sure your brilliant exposition of the story caused many in that audience to realize for the first time their identification with the older brother and their own tendency to choose rules instead of relationship.
But here’s the thing: I get than I’m an elder brother. Whether it’s this parable or the one in Matthew 20, I always identify with the long-suffering character who feels cheated. Like the prodigal’s brother or the early morning vineyard workers, I show up and do my job and fulfill expectations. I work hard and remain loyal and try to be obedient. I do stuff I don’t want to do and give money I don’t want to give. I demonstrate character when it would be easier and more fun to throw a screaming fit. I try to take the high road although traffic is light.
However, I don’t feel cheated because the prodigals receive grace and blessing just like me. I feel cheated—no, I believe confused, frustrated, and furious would be more appropriate—because they often receive way more blessings, the blessings I want, the blessings I deserve not because I am a righteous person but because God promised them.
Both the elder brother and I may be too rules-focused, but neither one of us set up the rules—the Father did. He promises to fulfill our hearts if we delight in him (Psalm 37). He promises to make our paths straight if we acknowledge and follow him (Proverbs 3). My heart is less than fulfilled and my paths are more crooked than Bernie Madoff. So either He changed the game or He wants the rules to remain unclear—is it really that terrible to feel betrayed?
I’m continuing to obey despite my limited understanding. But I do wish the parable had a third sibling—the sister who doesn’t want to control the Father, she just wants to understand His actions once in a while……even if it’s as infrequent as Nashville getting a real snow.
Thanks for reading.
Jen
Jennifer Taylor
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