Greshniku

“To fear the LORD is to hate evil.”

That’s what I read this morning in Proverbs. And it got me to thinking, Do I HATE evil?

Do I even recognize it?

I’m usually a little squirmy when I hear something identified as “evil.” Maybe it’s that pesky optimism. Because, to me, everything is redeemable. Everything has a chance. The list of things I would confidently define as “evil” is very short.

Solomon had no similar qualms. He goes into long lists of things that are evil and that God hates. Pride. Arrogance. Perverse speech. Haughty eyes. A lying tongue. And so on.

And even David, a man after God’s own heart, punctuated the Psalms with his hatred and desire for punishment of evil men. He didn’t seek mercy for his enemies, he prayed for violent retribution. And how many entire people groups did God wipe out in the Old Testament because of their entrenchment in evil?

Now surely, New Testament grace causes us to shift our righteous anger away from the sinner and toward the sin. But we’re still supposed to hate the sin. “Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil. Cling to what is good.” (Romans 12:9)

Hate it.

Not “dislike” it. Not “prefer to avoid it.” Not “get used to it as a normal part of life.”

And this is my problem. When was the last time I was repulsed by sin? When was the last time that I even blinked in its presence? Sure, I don’t particularly want it in my life, but do I detest it? Do I despise it? Do I run from it with every ounce of energy I possess?

It’s like having a venomous snake in the room, but reacting like it’s a fluttering moth.

And so my prayer is that God would teach me to hate evil. In the world. In my community. And most of all, in my own life.

I cannot change everything.

Yes, most people learn this when they’re about three years old. Yes, I’m 27. Yes, I just figured this out. Yes, I’m a little slow. I blame an inflated sense of self-importance and the unwavering flame of optimism.

The list of things I can’t change is painfully broad. Weather. FOX News. (Or CNN, for that matter.) Traffic. Wall Street. Gas prices. Other people’s minds. Kansas State football. Allergies. Rampant poverty. The shape of my toes. War and violence. The landscape of Illinois. Time. Bad decisions other people make. Who loves me (and doesn’t). Large-scale corruption. The smell of cottage cheese.

And so on.

I think for most of that list, I’ve had a background awareness of my inability to affect change. But there are two things where I’m realizing that all of my efforts are just the spinning wheel of a tired hamster. I can run and run and run and run, and I haven’t even touched the ground.

(1) I cannot fix what others have broken without their participation. I look at shattered relationships and my deepest desire is to heal. I have been tirelessly gluing one piece back at a time, only to finally realize that for every piece I put back, two fall off. I will never win this alone. I’m not the potter – I’m just someone who remembers what the pottery looked like before we destroyed it. And all of my efforts to rebuild are quite possibly making things worse. And so, I’ve decided to try something new. I’m going to love the pieces and cherish each one for the wholeness they used to be a part of. And maybe the Potter can restore the original artwork. Or maybe He can use the pieces to make something else – something different, but still beautiful. But I cannot.

(2) I cannot change whether I stay single forever. This is sort of touchy and uncomfortable, and I’m not sure if it’s me making it taboo, or if social pressure decides. (The first one is also touchy and uncomfortable, but I got around that by using a metaphor instead of names!).  Now, in some ways, technically, I can. I could change all of my standards and settle for something less than worthwhile. But in a real sense, I can’t. It’s outside of who I am to do that. So, assuming I maintain my current commitment to pursuing Christ with my heart and life, I simply don’t get to decide if marriage is in the cards for me or not. I don’t get to control who God brings or doesn’t bring into my life. And I realized I spend a lot of time trying to affect this because I’m afraid if I stop trying, it’ll never happen. But nothing I do – what I say, or the way I smile or dress, or the ways I demonstrate my mind, humor or other qualifications – none of this has changed anything, nor is it likely to. And so, I’m grieving the dream I’ve been holding on to, and then giving it away. I’m giving it to the One who really gets to control this situation anyway. I admit, I’m scared to trust Him with this because I’m afraid that how He takes care of me is not going to be the way I wanted. But I’d rather have Him take care of me His way than spend anymore time on this plastic treadmill.

I cannot change everything. But I get to choose how I respond to all the things I can’t control. And today I’m choosing to trust God.

You are all alone.

This is one of the most effective lies I’ve ever heard. King Saul believed it. Elijah believed it. Christians around the world believe it. I suspect it’s been hissed into the hearts of all of God’s people at some point in their lives.

I read all these newsletters about missionaries around the world, including some of the most desperate, dark places imaginable. The newsletters often include stories about locals who had been secretly following Christ for years before they ever learned of another believer. When they learn that they are not alone as they’d thought, they almost always weep in relief. Because the load is too heavy to carry alone.

Elijah called down fire from heaven and God consumed an entire altar before the stunned eyes of all of Israel. He was clearly working for the winning team. He was the host for an enormous victory for God. And then, he believed the lie. He found himself on a mountain, being supernaturally fed and protected – and he prayed that he would die. He was so sure that he was the only one – that he was carrying everything alone – that he wanted nothing more than to give up forever.

Loneliness is a powerful feeling. It’s a powerful lie.

Sometimes, I’m Elijah. I sit back and watch God do overwhelming things, and then I crawl into a cave and accuse Him of putting me out there all alone. I don’t just mean because I’m single, although I’m sure that’s part of it. But it’s also a different kind of aloneness. A deeper kind.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not praying for God to end my life. And I’m still perfectly happy and willing to go out and watch Him change the World and reveal His glory. And I have friends and family who love me and listen to me and go through life with me.

But sometimes, when I’m sitting in my house, or watching people at the airport, or sending out another prayer update, I think, I’m alone here, aren’t I?

This has been especially frequent in the last few days. While my summer and house were occupied by plenty of external presence, the lie hasn’t had a chance to slither in. But now that I’ve been alone for a few days, it hits me like a familiar scent that I had almost forgotten at times when I least expect it.

I’d like to be able to post this blog in the past tense. I’d like to say I have figured out how to silence the lie forever. I can’t in good faith do that. But I can say that I know it IS a lie. And the more I read God’s Word and learn about the Christians around the world, I know that I’m in good company – which makes me feel much less lonely.

And, I can say, that like Elijah, God is showing up in the quiet moments of my fear. Not in the wind. Not in the earthquake. Not in the fire. In the whisper.

And that gives me a lot of hope.

Hurt people hurt people.

This is what my dad taught me several years ago when I couldn’t answer questions about fairness, suffering and the emotional pain inside me so sharp that each breath was a struggle. And he was right. The people who are fierce, cold, manipulative, sarcastic, negative, abusive, oppressive – these are the people who are most wounded, lonely, hopeless, lost and hurting.

I was reminded of this while watching an episode of “Intervention” a few nights ago. This is a TV show that documents the lives of people who are addicted to something so severely that it is literally destroying their lives. My self-righteous, super-Christian side looks at those people, shakes my head sadly, and says, “They’re doing this to themselves. They just need to make good decisions. Look at how selfish they’re being. They don’t even care that they’re destroying the people who love them. Terrible.”

But, like everything else, it’s a little more complicated than that. In following these people around, the show reveals layers of abandonment, abuse, hopelessness, anger, grief, mental and physical disabilities, and a host of equally debilitating demons. Yes, they still made bad decisions along the way, but those decisions were compounded by forces well outside of their control.

Do they deserve my compassion? My action?

What about in the truly terrible situations? I hear about all the trafficking of young girls into the sex industry, and I’m immediately filled with righteous anger and a desire for justice. I want those girls to be rescued and their oppressors to be punished. But then, in the middle of my indignation, it hits me.

Hurt people hurt people.

Oh. Dang it. Those depraved, conscience-less, evil destroyers of innocence and hope – they are victims, too. They’ve been so engulfed by immorality and wretchedness that their very lives are saturated with it. They are so enslaved that they don’t always even know what kind of wickedness controls them.

Do they deserve my compassion? My action?

This nagging question infiltrates countless situations. The guy who cut me off with his car. The friend who constantly picks at what I say. The old lady who gossips and meddles. The careless family member who jokes at my expense. The co-worker who seems to run over everybody. The politician who fails to deliver on his promises. The angry mom who yells at her kid at the grocery store. The workaholic who never sees his family. The teenager who walks into his school and starts pulling the trigger.

And the list goes on. What if instead of getting angry or self-righteous, I recognized each act of pain-infliction for what it really is – a confession of suffering? Would my reaction change? Would my whole world change?

What if I refuse to continue the cycle? What if I take the hurt I’ve received and put it aside? What if I forgive when I want to lash out, move forward when I want to wallow, and restore where I want to rip away? What if I trust God with what I can’t control and pursue Him with what I can?

What if I stop worrying about who deserves my compassion and just start worrying about who needs it?

In the last two days, I’ve really gotten to know this one family. I know the personalities of all their kids. I know about the struggles and victories they’ve experienced while living in Asia. I know what their major prayer requests and concerns are, and also how God has provided for them and challenged them over the years. I know their birthdays, their favorite things, and their heart-level struggles. I know what makes them laugh because I have a pretty good grasp on their sense of humor, and I know what makes them cry because I’ve heard the stories that make them tear up. I really know this family.

I’ve never actually met them. Or talked to them. Or had any kind of interaction with them at all.

I have, however, read roughly 70 of their newsletters.

In an effort to do thorough research for a story I want to write on this family and their ministry, I sat down at my computer and have done little else for the last two days than read their newsletters, rejoice with their victories, cry with their hurts, watch their kids grow up, look forward in anticipation with them at their futures, laugh at their stories, and generally bond with this family a billion miles away. (I hyperbole – more like a million miles.)

So, yes, it’s a little creepy that I’m so attached to them, and that I might know more about them than their own grandparents. But, in another sense, I feel an overwhelming sense of humility and joy. Because I know that in a small way, I’m connected to them and to their amazing ministry in Asia. How did I get so lucky to get the kind of job where I have access to the front rows of what God is doing all over the world? I get to spend two days reading about the lives of honest, obedient followers of Christ whose major goal is that people would know the hope and salvation of God, and that His name would be glorified in all parts of the world.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to talk with them (and not just newsletter stalk them). And if I’m really lucky, I’ll get to write their story.

This afternoon, I was sitting on my porch, in the shade, reading a biographical novel about John and Abigail Adams. I was perfectly content with my moment, and was enjoying a tranquil Sabbath.

This was suddenly interrupted with the wild howls of half-delight/half-terror of my neighbor. Startled out of my revere, I looked up just in time to see my five- or six-year-old neighbor boy, nearly naked, tucked into a ball precariously perched on a skateboard, which was noisily roaring down the natural slope of the street at impressive speeds. His fingers were tightly wrapped around the front of the skateboard, and he was managing to curl his thin body rollie-pollie style, with his chin bouncing off his tucked-in knees.

And he was having the time of his life.

Immediately, I thought of all that exposed skin and all of that rocky pavement. He was traveling much too fast allow himself any control of the board and was gaining speed with each driveway he passed. He had no way of stopping his vehicle of doom, short of dragging an exposed foot, knee, or hand along the pavement or crashing headfirst into a car, mailbox, shrubbery, or innocent bystander.

I looked at this crazy kid having a blast, and all I could think of was how this was going to end in disaster. I could imagine all of the possible injuries: full-body collision with the asphalt leading to an impressive arrangement of scrapes, burns, and bruises; a slip of his small fingers under the wheels of the propelling weapon; a disastrous incident involving my neighbor’s blond six-year-old and a tangle of arms, legs, and inevitable wailing.

And while I was picturing all the possible bloodshed, two things occurred to me. (1) It’s possible that boys are missing a crucial inhibitor in their brains that helps them imagine the possible ramifications of their adventurous decisions. (2) This quality makes them so much more likely to experience exhilarating terror and joy. They risk so much, but they gain a whole world that I’ll never have access to.

I’m really an optimist. I love adventure. But I’ve never completely thrown caution to the wind and pursued adventure recklessly and in the face of unavoidable disaster. I suspect that this is a good quality, but it also raises some pretty important life questions. OK, so, clearly throwing my body into certain pain and punishment for the exhilaration of thirty seconds of bliss would not be a good decision. But what about other risky things?

What about when God asks me for faith that seems dangerous? What about when He asks me to close my eyes and leap, when all I can imagine is disaster? What about when following Him will lead to an array of scrapes, burns, and bruises – but will certainly be the best journey of my life?

In the end, my skin-flashing, skateboard-wielding daredevil of a neighbor used the skin of his left foot to slow and stop the sled of destruction. He yelped for a good 2 minutes about how he no longer had any toes, writhing and sprawling on the ground in a well-deserved celebration of his manliness. And despite his proclamations to the contrary, I truly believe he was excited and even proud of the injuries he sustained.

And this, my friends, is why I can’t wait to have the faith like a half-naked little boy.

There are a lot of things that I don’t know. I don’t know the periodic table or the equations I learned in Physics. I don’t know the constellations beyond the Big and Little Dippers, and the ones I regularly connect in my mind. I don’t know Latin. Or Greek. Or, well, nearly every other language. I don’t know how to cook anything that doesn’t come in a box. I don’t understand any of the positions in football. I don’t know how to keep resilient house plants alive, and can’t even imagine attempting anything that requires more maintenance. I don’t think I can connect any famous painting with its famous artist. (Well, maybe I could get some of the Van Gogh paintings right, and maybe a Picasso or two.) I don’t know the names of my mayor, senators, representatives, or governor. When I go to the mechanic, I don’t know what they’re talking about when they mention the fuel filter, water pump, head gasket, fan belt, or intake valve. Or, well, anything else they mention.

While I’m generally willing and interested to learn more about these things, I am pretty comfortable with the truth that there’s a lot I don’t know. Because, well, I’ve always thought that at least I know myself.

I’ve lived with myself for quite awhile now. I know what foods I like and dislike, and have never tried but assume I don’t like based on texture, content, and previous experience. I know what music makes me dance despite all efforts to contain myself. I know my favorite authors and quotes and poems. I know that a twirly skirt will always brighten my day and a good thunderstorm will completely render me incapable of focusing on anything else, and that I’ll smile in spite of myself with every splinter of lightning that pierces through the sky. I know that my favorite relationships are the ones where we can be introverted socially – doing our own things while we exist in contented silence. I know that everyone makes me laugh and that I can generally make anyone laugh. I know that I’m a little imaginative and that I’m perfectly content to create elaborate stories around the most mundane situations. I know that I like attention, especially if I’m somehow in control of it.

I also know that I change sometimes. I know that in middle school, I was completely uninhibited and fearless, probably to a fault. I know that in high school, I was reserved and insecure.  I know that in college, I was a combination of those personalities.  I know that now, I’m a little more stable, but still not quite definable or containable.

Yes, it’s good to know that in the sea of all the things I don’t know, I’ve landed on a small, secure island of self-knowledge. I’ve been sitting here quite happily for some time now, but in the last week, I’ve been shoved off my island twice – into the salty, bitter waters of discovery.

In the last week, I’ve twice been voluntarily kidnapped and taken outside my comfort zone. I’ve learned about the ways I’ve been protecting myself and calling it “ministry.” I’ve unearthed lingering insecurities that have kept me at an arm’s length from everyone and everything new. I’ve rediscovered a long-repressed ability to genuinely and actively engage people in meaningful conversation.

And I learned that there’s still a lot I don’t know.

“Oh Lord, please send somebody else to do it!”

Moses said that. To God. Immediately after God invited Him to be part of something amazing, Moses begs God to choose somebody else – someone more qualified, someone more capable, someone more powerful. Anyone but him.

I admit, I think Moses is a pansy. God showed up in a miraculous way, establishing Himself as all-powerful. He lays out the problem and reveals His heart to Moses. “I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers, and I am concerned about their suffering.” Then, in no uncertain terms, He invites Moses to be a part of what He is about to do. And Moses, the baby, looks around for someone else.

But when I look at my response to God’s invitation, I see a little bit of Moses in the mirror. Moses wasn’t expecting God to come knocking. He was just doing his thing, watching his flocks and living a content life. He hadn’t had an encounter like that before, nor did he have any reason to expect one. He hadn’t been hanging around, praying that God would use him to deliver God’s people. Sure, maybe he would rather see them delivered than not, but what did that have to do with him?

And then God shows up in a fiery display, and Moses is confronted with a huge decision. Do I live my life the way I’ve been living it, or do I accept God’s invitation to change the world?

It seems like such an easy decision, but if it’s so easy, why did Moses – and why do I – look at God with fear in our eyes and say, “Please send somebodyelse to do it!”

It’s the place I go to pray.

Well, not literally. I curl up in my covers, close my eyes, sigh, and then imagine myself in the middle of the sea. Sometimes, I imagine that Jesus is already there – squatting patiently, watching the waves. Sometimes, I imagine that He comes gently and patiently after I’ve been calmly waiting for a minute or two. Then, I imagine walking with him slowly, the waves cresting on our bare feet while we talk through my day.

It’s peaceful. It’s safe. I’m completely without distraction. It’s a beautiful mental image.

But yesterday, I started thinking about another encounter on the sea that Jesus had with one of his followers. But this situation was anything but serene.

It had been a long day for all of them. Jesus found out about the death of  John the Baptist. He tried to retreat, but the crowds had followed him. He set aside his grief for the moment, and healed their sick late into the evening. His compassion continued, and he provided the dinner for more than 4,000 people. Then, he put the wide-eyed disciples in a boat and he slipped off to the mountain to pray.

Imagine Peter, sitting in the boat that was being pushed farther from his grieving Teacher. The wind-swept waves were crashing against the side of the boat, and his eyes scanned the horizon where they’d just left Jesus. Suddenly, there’s a figure. The other disciples notice it, too.  They automatically assumed that it was a ghost. It was a stormy night, they were emotionally and physically exhausted, and there was a man walking. On the water. It’s not like this is a normal occurrence. So, quite naturally, they turn into six-year-old girls.

Jesus offers quick words of comfort and assurance, and Peter – always juggling his toddling faith with his blind impetuousness, says basically, “OK, prove it.”  I wonder what went through his mind when Jesus said, “Deal – come out here.” Did he hesitate when he swung his legs over the side?

Of course, the second part of the story is when Peter started to get scared. He took his eyes off Him who even the winds and waves obey, and he immediately began to sink. While he trusted that Jesus was controlling the laws of nature, he could move forward, but as soon as he defined the situation by what he could experience with his own senses, he was bound to sink.

Faithfully, Jesus immediately took hold of him. His response sounds like a rebuke, but comes out so gently. “Why did you doubt?” Of course, Jesus knows why Peter doubted and panicked – He knows that He was inviting Peter into the realm of impossible. But Jesus also knows that before all is said and done, Peter’s going to have to encounter a lot more of the impossible.

As I thought about this story, I realized that Peter is a lot braver than I am. When the storm rages around me, I want Jesus in the boat with me. I don’t want to walk out and find Him in the midst of it. I’ve never obeyed Him in such a way that rejects all reason, science, and experience. Sure, I’ll walk with Him on dry ground. I’ll follow Him to the ends of the earth, but get out of the boat? Throw out all caution, security, and inhibitions? It’s one thing to have faith, but it’s quite another to fearlessly leap into the unknown and uncharted at the invitation of Jesus.

Or is it?

Have you ever noticed how the sky fills with light well before the sun actually rises? That’s the way I realize things. I get a hint of the idea long before I fully grasp it. I stand in the light preceding the source for a long time, and then when the sun actually rises in my mind, it’s not that much of a stretch for me to accept the change.

I think I’m standing in the pre-light of a pretty huge revelation. It seems, much to my shock and amazement, I might be considered an “artist.”

In the last couple of months, it’s been suggested to me several times that this is the category where I am classified. Of course, my medium is not clay, canvas, sculpture, music, or anything else in the physical realm. My art exists in the sphere where words meet the imagination and create new worlds.

While I’m slowly adjusting to identifying myself as a writer, it hadn’t really occurred to me that writers fall into the “artist” category. Several incidents have prepared me to accept this shiny reality, and I’m attempting to adjust my thinking accordingly.

And that’s when the insecurities come.

I openly and earnestly admit how much I love to write. It’s my release, my small act of worship, my favorite form of expression. It’s the lens I use to view and process the world. All of this I understand. I even acknowledge that this isn’t true for most people, so it’s something special for me.

But for it to be an art form – for me to be an artist – I have to be creating new experiences and expressions with the things I’m writing. I have to be taking something you’ve seen before and turning it into something you haven’t. Each story would need to usher you toward Truth. Is this not what artists do?

Perhaps the only balm for my insecurity is that I’ve never sought to be an artist. I stumbled into the category quite unknowingly. I’ve desired to chronicle my pursuit of beauty and emotion and holiness and failure and redemption and worship and …

And, I suppose, that is more important than any pressure I put on myself by accidentally noticing that I landed in a category of people who create passageways toward Truth.

Besides, I can’t ever figure out how they all know how to dress like artists, anyway.