The Banzai Chronicles

Mostly keeping my head down and nose to the grindstone of late—we're in the throes of event season at work, which is exciting but takes lots of attention and effort. Pushed a few things back a couple of weeks because, while I could fit the meetings in to my schedule, there's no way I could really be present at anything beyond an operational level. The biggest of the events is this Sunday (our annual vision dinner), and though next week is full, they're all "objects in motion," so I'm hopeful that momentum can help.

Got lots of simple odds and ends done around the house today, which left me feeling settled enough to take in the last few moments of dusk on the Seattle skyline. The quiet is peaceful and centering. I'm spending so much of my days doing things (many self-imposed), and when I'm not, I'm strongly bent to let God have none of the rest of my time, often actively running from Him. Part of me believes He's the one who takes rather than the one who gives (and surely both are true, yet surely not as simply as my insecurities lead me to believe), so I hoard whatever of my time and energy I can claim for myself. It's childish and selfish, telling me so much about what I really believe and where I need to be transformed.

That all melts away with the sunset, not because I feel better, but because He is trustworthy. It's a gift to be able to see it, and I write it down because I'll forget again, all too soon. It's true regardless of my memory, but oh, how much better I can rest when I remember. The breeze rustles through the leaves just for me, a gentle shushing that reminds me of my place and my Father. My grasp of the truth is a tiny, tiny seed, but He can work with that.

My friend Kendall has recently adopted a morning routine that includes journalling; hearing about that and its rewards reminds me of how rich that kind of simple discipline has been for me in the past. For years I've struggled with (and against) creating spaces for stillness in my life. Part of me would very much like to stop kicking against the goads, so this morning and this entry are initial steps in that direction.

Likewise, prayer and Scripture reading have been sporadic and/or anemic for me, in part because those disciplines have had their "home" in that space. I'm talking about quiet time, though I'm resistant to the term for all sorts of reasons (many good, many petty). And I don't know which deficiency has given rise to the other, only that they're obviously related. So I'm trying to create the space again, in the spirit of "if you build it, they will come."

Yesterday was full of things I'd rather avoid, to the point of feeling sick to my stomach time and again. From hearing friends rail against the church to having uncomfortable conversations to high-end clothes shopping, I just wanted to withdraw over and over again. When I think about it (from a safe distance), it seems this literal gut reaction may be a great indicator of where I need to be saved.

The need for salvation is ongoing for all people. As a Christian, I'm called to embrace this and to look to my Savior, crying out to Him for whatever I need and walking forward in faith. It's not the kind of life my flesh wants to live, but it's reality and it's the life I need to live because of that. When I struggle like this, I need to remember and be reminded that I am a man who needs to be saved. My wife barlow_girl is a gentle and loving encourager to me in this, and I thank God for her. Sometimes it takes a while for me to catch on to what He's doing (and often I never do), yet He holds me in my weakness, saving me long before I ever realize that I need it. That's always been His way.

I will extol you, O LORD, for you have drawn me up
    and have not let my foes rejoice over me.
O LORD my God, I cried to you for help,
    and you have healed me.
O LORD you have brought up my soul from Sheol;
    you restored me to life from among those who go down to the pit.

Sing praises to the LORD, O you his saints,
    and give thanks to his holy name
For his anger is but for a moment,
    and his favor is for a lifetime.
Weeping may tarry for the night,
    but joy comes with the morning.

—Psalm 30:1-5

My to do list honestly scares the bejeezus out of me this week. Resolved not to freak out about it, going so far as to don my "Now Panic and Freak Out" shirt. All will be well, but holy schnikes, could I possibly have more stuff to do?

Spam is slipping through at a concerning rate in my personal Gmail account. Who in the world benefits from sending this stuff?

Came across this quote that's worth mulling over and taking to heart

If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the frame we see them in.

— Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark: An ABC Theologized

What does it look like to really see people? How wide is my capacity for this, and what drains it? Does faith call me beyond what I think I can do, in the power and love of the Spirit?

The early sunrises are a bit intimidating when a long day lies ahead. My persistent fear of being used up and exhausted wakes up early, too. Yet, even though I'm tempted to mistrust it, something in me looks forward to the day. Sometimes hope breaks through the Red Rover lineup.

Lots of new things for friends this weekend: Seth & Adrianne married yesterday way up in Vanderhoof, BC, Zack & Gala welcomed their third son into the world, and Ben & Sara were sent home from the hospital, still pregnant with their first son and thankful for God's goodness in keeping him inside a bit longer (they went in for pre-term labor last week at 33 weeks). Thinking about all of their joy, I'm struck by the beauty of faith. We live in an age and culture that exalts the struggle and messiness of belief, and sometimes I forget how beautiful and compelling it is when people actually believe.

That's not to minimize the reality, importance, and beauty of struggling.* It's just so refreshing to see trust in God shining through in joy, not because of denial based in fear, but because God is truly worthy of our trust, and there's a freedom that comes with doing so. That faith is a gift from Him, and I want to look for it more often—inside and out.


*Blogging about faith and beauty almost requires such a disclaimer, which makes me a little sad that faith can't be simply proclaimed as beautiful these days. But I digress, hence the footnote.

Finally, then, brothers, we ask and urge you in the Lord Jesus, that as you received from us how you ought to walk and to please God, just as you are doing, that you do so more and more. For you know what instructions we gave you through the Lord Jesus. For this is the will of God, your sanctification: that you abstain from sexual immorality; that each one of you know how to control his own body in holiness and honor, not in the passion of lust like the Gentiles who do not know God; that no one transgress and wrong his brother in this matter, because the Lord is an avenger in all these things, as we told you beforehand and solemnly warned you. For God has not called us for impurity, but in holiness. Therefore whoever disregards this, disregards not man but God, who gives his Holy Spirit to you.

Now concerning brotherly love you have no need for anyone to write to you, for you yourselves have been taught by God to love one another, for that indeed is what you are doing to all the brothers throughout Macedonia. But we urge you, brothers, to do this more and more, and to aspire to live quietly, and to mind your own affairs, and to work with your hands, as we instructed you, so that you may walk properly before outsiders and be dependent on no one.

—1 Thessalonians 4:1-12

No specific reason to quote this, other than it struck me this morning (I'm behind in my Advent readings) how good it is to have standing orders from God. The desire for a black-and-white world can be a grotesque and damaging idol, but avoiding this idolatry by painting everything in muddied shades of gray is unfaithful to the God who speaks by both Word and story. We who believe do have standing orders, fixed points by which we can set our course (the above are just a few, and by no means the most important). In these, there may indeed be a great deal of gray in the "how" of following Jesus, but the "what" is often spelled out clearly, and the "why" is always rooted in the story the gospel gives us. Part of discerning wisely is in not spending time discerning that which is already clear.

Grace doesn't cost me anything. Responding to grace does.

Early mornings (can) rule. Already at Irwin's enjoying a warm apple scone (missing it was one of the few drawbacks of being away Saturday), sitting outside because the pizza-cooking smell is too overwhelming indoors. The sun is rising over 40th, which has me squinting a bit but not uncomfortably so. There's ample road noise from morning commuters, which could either be an annoyance or an accepted soundtrack of living in this beautiful city. This morning I choose the latter.

Continuing to grapple with engaging the people and things that are important to me. It's interesting and more than a little scary to realize how regularly and automatically I run from that. It's a "path of least resistance" sort of thing that's become second nature (if it wasn't already my first nature, which is entirely possible). As much as I love being the idea of being done, the concept of being present is far more important. It may seem silly, but I have to keep reminding myself of three truths:

• God wants me to show up.
• Other people want me to show up.
• I want to show up.

Absence is something I absolutely hate, and yet it's too easily and too often my own default. Doesn't take a psychotherapist to see there's a connection, and I don't need to figure it out so much as I simply need to learn to walk faithfully.

Facing some uncertainties that grow more uncomfortable the longer I have to sit with them. Much if not all of the fear I have is of my own making, but that alone does little to dispel it or make the silence of the moment more peaceful. Read Psalm 16 this morning, which tells me where my security is. The word doesn't magically change my heart, but God can still use it to form and shape me, to teach me how to turn to Him even when my grasping is desperate and foolish.

( Psalm 16 )

This very Psalm points to Jesus Himself (Acts 2:30-31; 13:35-37). He is good and He is for me—on that I can rely.

( As a Christian, does Obama have a responsibility to come under his pastor's authority? )

My interest in Obama's situation isn't as great as my concern with the lost concept of following. In a culture that places so much emphasis on leadership, we seem to have no clue about what it means to follow. This is a particular problem among Christians, many of whom have somehow divorced belief in Jesus from following Him. Lots of people jump on the bandwagon (or "journey") of belief, but following Him isn't nearly as popular. That's by no means new (the distinction paved a great deal of the path to the Cross)—it just amazes me that anyone would think Jesus isn't calling for the latter. Failing to heed His call exposes the endpoint of our belief in Him.

Further, I am especially wary of those with a "Jesus and me" approach to authority. I've seen lives wrecked by versions of the notion that Christians are accountable to none but Him, as if He's established no civil or church authorities to whom we must submit. Indeed, I'm picking through the wreckage of such notions daily. It's grotesque.

The story of Jesus and the centurion from Matthew 8 and Luke 7 is continually encouraging for me (it's probably one of the stories on which I've reflected most often here):

“For I too am a man set under authority, with soldiers under me: and I say to one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and to another, ‘Come,’ and he comes; and to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.” When Jesus heard these things, he marveled at him, and turning to the crowd that followed him, said, “I tell you, not even in Israel have I found such faith.”

—Luke 7:8-9

Jesus "marveled" at the centurion's faith, an intense response He only otherwise exhibits at the unbelief of the Jews. A proper understanding of authority seems essential to faith. By God's grace, may it be so with me.

Is God an absentee landlord? Jesus says yes.

(Our pastor preached on this passage this week, dealing specifically with leadership; you can listen here.)

How do we deal with God's presence and His absence? It's much easier to choose one or the other and stick with it. One route is to chant "God is good, all the time" to the exclusion of the broken world around us, the pain inside us, and even Scripture itself (which, while it supports God's goodness, doesn't include this phrase and would certainly critique its use to drown out reality). Another is to act as if the discovery of His absence somehow negates faith—questions like "why do bad things happen to good people?" usurp God's sovereignty; His authority isn't recognized unless questions regarding His absence have been answered to our satisfaction.

It's certainly OK to struggle with the ways in which God is absent. In fact, it's dangerous to avoid it. But the discovery of His absence is by no means revolutionary—Jesus taught about it two millennia ago—and doesn't diminish who He is in the least. Both His presence and absence are to be part of the fabric of our faith. For me, there's great freedom in realizing that I haven't uncovered Christianity's deep, dark secret by wondering where God is. There's humility in it, too. And, perhaps most preciously, there's hope.

Enjoying midday chai after successfully running a couple of errands. I note "successfully" because lately I've felt thwarted when I try to accomplish even the simplest things. So that's good.

With more things ticked off on the to-do list, it'd be nice to have a grounded sense of what I'm doing. I get the day-to-day stuff and necessities, but the big picture feels a lot fuzzier. barlow_girl and I have talked about the possibility of home ownership, and that alone fuzzes things up considerably. In the Seattle market, it's always seemed like a pipe dream, and even now with price and rate drops I wonder if it's too soon (though not too soon to think about, which is all we're doing).

It doesn't take long for economics to put a knot of futility in my gut, not because we don't have enough, but because the larger landscape seems based on nearly nothing—we all just keep moving and hope the music doesn't stop, because when it does, it's pretty darned unlikely that there'll be enough chairs for everyone to have a seat (because there already aren't). I'm foolish for only considering God's promises at the end of that train of thought; that's a sure sign that I'm more disconnected from the Vine than I'm intended to be.

In the meantime, I should probably allow myself to be thankful for empty spaces that turn my thoughts to Him. That's what Lent is supposed to be about, after all.

What a serene and quiet life might you lead if you would leave providing to the God of providence!

—Charles Haddon Spurgeon, Morning and Evening (6 January, Morning)

Reading this morning in 1 Kings 18 of fire from God which consumed Elijah's sacrifice. He called out the multitude of prophets of Baal and Asherah, the latest emissaries of Israel's ongoing corruption under Ahab. The deck could hardly be more stacked against him, yet Elijah knew his God. He taunted Baal's prophets, and still they sought salvation from their god in vain:

And at noon Elijah mocked them, saying, “Cry aloud, for he is a god. Either he is musing, or he is relieving himself, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened.” And they cried aloud and cut themselves after their custom with swords and lances, until the blood gushed out upon them. And as midday passed, they raved on until the time of the offering of the oblation, but there was no voice. No one answered; no one paid attention.

—1 Kings 18:27-29

After their failure, Elijah stacks the deck still further, ordering gallons of water to be poured upon the sacrifice he prepared. And fire falls from God, for the sake of His own name:

And at the time of the offering of the oblation, Elijah the prophet came near and said, “O Lord, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, let it be known this day that you are God in Israel, and that I am your servant, and that I have done all these things at your word. Answer me, O Lord, answer me, that this people may know that you, O Lord, are God, and that you have turned their hearts back.” Then the fire of the Lord fell and consumed the burnt offering and the wood and the stones and the dust, and licked up the water that was in the trench. And when all the people saw it, they fell on their faces and said, “The Lord, he is God; the Lord, he is God.”

—1 Kings 18:36-39

This is the saving power I'm trusting, and knowing this makes it so much easier to rest where He's placed me. I may not be the man I once was, or the one I want to be, or recognized by others as either, but none of this is really the point. In whom do I trust? His glory needs to be what I'm investing in and counting on.

For this reason, when I'm tempted to stack the deck in my own favor (even for what I may believe to be His purposes), am I willing to consider doing the opposite? Am I willing to pour water on my own agenda, such that only fire from God can bring His will about? Too often I am looking for a God who will just cover the spread between what I myself can engineer and success. There's not nearly as much risk in that bet—it's a lesser God than one who truly saves. Certainly, my every effort should be given for His Kingdom, but I can easily blur the line between this and my own desires. There may be times when dampening what (I think) I'm offering is in order so that I can see His glory, as well as learning if I'm truly willing to turn it over to Him.

In serving each other, we become free.

—First Knight

Pressed to consider service from new angles recently. My job is being expanded/retooled to include coordinating our service in the city of Seattle—getting people connected and involved, developing relationships with service agencies, and creating a context for understanding service through the lens of the gospel. It's tremendously exciting and I love having the opportunity to face new challenges that are closer to my skill set.

Where those new angles particularly come in, however, is in my own life, personally and professionally. What does it look like to intentionally accept a low seat at the table? Or sometimes even no seat at all—just cleaning up the table after others have used it? Theoretically, there's a humble nobility in this. Practically, it feels uncomfortable. There's lots of language I could invoke to make me feel more justified in my discomfort, words like "passion," "leadership," "gifting," and so on. Such concepts shouldn't be dismissed, but they may not really get me off the hook. In the mixed bag that is my soul, there's plenty of pride, envy, greed, insecurity, and the like, all equally suspect for my unsettledness with that low seat.

Knowing this, my sense of justice and equity is best applied to advocacy for others, not myself. I have to trust someone else to be my Savior, and I have to trust that however He does this is for my good and the good of His Kingdom.

What does it mean to be faithful? I'm still trying to learn (while my flesh is still trying not to learn), and being uncomfortable doesn't necessarily mean I'm anywhere other than where God wants me to be. Do I honestly believe the truths I profess? Do I believe them deeply enough to keep wrapping a towel around my waist, regardless of anything around me? What if the only growth I can freely pursue in this season is that of simple, humble obedience? Will that be enough?

Yesterday, God really started to hammer home some areas He wants to work on in my life. At first I didn't really notice that was happening, but as with so many things (particularly with Him), after a while, patterns emerge.

One of the roots from which many branches have grown is that I haven't been putting my whole self in to a number of areas of my life. Two that readily show up are my relationships with Him and with my work. The latter is harder to notice right away because of how focused and productive I've been. Clearly, that increased effectiveness is a blessing, not only to myself, but also to those I serve. It's the spiritual aspect of my work that's been under some neglect—not in the sense of working for a church (though there's that), but rather the understanding any Christian must develop and maintain of his work as a gift received from God and given to others. There's nothing wrong with giving consideration to how my work is challenging me and enriching my life; it's just too narrow a view. There's a bigger picture, larger purposes, and until that's an integrated part of my perspective, I simply can't trust my internal instruments to evaluate where and how work is fitting in my life.

That bigger picture is, of course, informed by my relationship with God. There are so many ways I've been phoning it in, checking a faith box rather than exercising the muscles of faith. That's not about working to impress God or win His favor. Rather, it's about actively participating and abiding in a relationship, and anyone who believes he can successfully be in a relationship without work by just sitting there is deluding himself and doing everyone a disservice.

Awakened hearts, like awakened people, can be sensitive. Threaded through these two realizations is the conviction that the way I often see and interact with others, frankly, sucks. I'm condescending and judgmental, and under that I'm envious and insecure. That's not an "always" thing, and it doesn't wrap up neatly with a bow on top, but it's there and it's been there for most of my life, wreaking havoc (tangent: is havoc the only thing that's ever wreaked?) on both my relationships and my outlook. Ultimately, much of it is an outworking of finding my identity in my own abilities rather than in Christ—I don't see people and the world as He sees them, and I look for security in establishing myself in a better place than others (which always fails, sooner or later, and makes the problem that much worse).

Stepping back from where I've been will likely involve a lot more quiet on my part. I blame people for not thinking like I do, but that's not a sin. If the way God's wired me sometimes means that I'm in a different place than others can be in that moment, impatience isn't a good fix. Is it enough to be still and be with Him in those times? Will I trust Him not to abandon me? Is there room for Him to correct me and give me a greater appreciation of what He's working in and through the people around me? Does He love me enough that I don't have to be right in the eyes of others, or even in my own?

God doesn't have any shortage of appropriate tools to make His children look more and more like Christ. As I'd heard from so many others before I married, He uses marriage in unique and powerful ways in the lives of those who marry. Hard? Painful? Can be, without a doubt. But it's a relationship that reflects and reveals so much of who Christ is with His Church, and the things that can hurt are often the result of gripping too tightly on what we must release. If God is trying to take something away, the very best thing I can do is let Him do that. He's made me to embrace other things, and I'm very thankful for both the means and the end.

For you say, I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing, not realizing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked.

—Jesus (Revelation 3:17)

For those of us living in relative affluence, this can easily be true. For what do we see the people of the Bible depending on God?:

• Weather? Much of the need to depend on God for this is related to food or shelter, so see below. When there's bad weather, we may have trouble driving. When there's really bad, disaster-level weather, we may ask about global warming or social justice.
  
• Food? We can simply drive or walk to multiple grocery stores with near-infinite aisles full of near-infinite choices from across the globe. Many of us wouldn't even know how to use much of the food we see stocked in abundance. Stores are rarely out of anything, and if they are, we feel we have every right to be angry about it. From that perspective, it seems downright silly that Biblical people struggled with all the stuff about sacrifices, unclean animals, and eating food sacrificed to idols.
  
• Shelter? Home ownership is considered a right, even though banks actually own most of our homes (remember in Monopoly when a mortgage was a bad thing?). When home prices are out of our loan range, we say it's too expensive to live there (the truth is, we're often rich enough to do so—we just can't have the ownership myth, too).
  
• Enemies? Our wars are either over commodities we're unwilling to cut back on (though we may well blame our leaders for not effectively giving us a reason we can feel better about) or considered a side effect of not fully understanding each other. By and large, danger never comes to our doorstep, and we never consider ourselves people who hate or are hated, because that's just rude.
  
• Fertility? That's science. When it's not working, doctors can help, and when we struggle with fertility, that's often a very private (though very painful) affair. Even so, a quick look around the drugstore shows that we've spent at least as much time and energy combating fertility as we have seeking it.
  
• Justice? Sure, we're cynical. And we're often cynical about the government and the system, because that's where we look for justice now. And most of us have the luxury of being cynical without disrupting our daily lives in any real way. It's just another conversation topic.
  
• Money? Many of us can either not bother making a budget or make a hobby of money itself, complete with talk shows and seminars. When it's tight, there's credit, baby.

These are broad strokes hastily written, but even to nitpick them is often a privilege couched in our affluence. The point is, our culture has given us the (desired) illusion that we don't need God because all of the God-sized tasks are covered. Faith is just about meaning and community, pretty high-order items on Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Thus, it's not even that important what we believe, because it's all just icing on the cake. Finding a nice hobby and a good slice of community service seems just as effective and a lot less demanding.

Jesus calls out our true state in His words to the church in Laodicea, whom He threatens to spit out because of their lukewarmness. When we open our eyes (or rather, when He opens them), it's easy to see how easily our affluence can lead to an indifference toward God. Thankfully, the Master Physician offers a prescription for our healing, as well as an invitation to the greatest feast of all:

"'I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire, so that you may be rich, and white garments so that you may clothe yourself and the shame of your nakedness may not be seen, and salve to anoint your eyes, so that you may see. Those whom I love, I reprove and discipline, so be zealous and repent. Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me. The one who conquers, I will grant him to sit with me on my throne, as I also conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne. He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches.'"

—Revelation 3:18-22

This was too good to edit:

“The Lord will perfect that which concerneth me.”

—Psalm 138:8

Most manifestly the confidence which the Psalmist here expressed was a divine confidence. He did not say, “I have grace enough to perfect that which concerneth me—my faith is so steady that it will not stagger—my love is so warm that it will never grow cold—my resolution is so firm that nothing can move it; no, his dependence was on the Lord alone. If we indulge in any confidence which is not grounded on the Rock of ages, our confidence is worse than a dream, it will fall upon us, and cover us with its ruins, to our sorrow and confusion. All that Nature spins time will unravel, to the eternal confusion of all who are clothed therein. The Psalmist was wise, he rested upon nothing short of the Lord's work. It is the Lord who has begun the good work within us; it is he who has carried it on; and if he does not finish it, it never will be complete. If there be one stitch in the celestial garment of our righteousness which we are to insert ourselves, then we are lost; but this is our confidence, the Lord who began will perfect. He has done it all, must do it all, and will do it all. Our confidence must not be in what we have done, nor in what we have resolved to do, but entirely in what the Lord will do. Unbelief insinuates— “You will never be able to stand. Look at the evil of your heart, you can never conquer sin; remember the sinful pleasures and temptations of the world that beset you, you will be certainly allured by them and led astray.” Ah! yes, we should indeed perish if left to our own strength. If we had alone to navigate our frail vessels over so rough a sea, we might well give up the voyage in despair; but, thanks be to God, he will perfect that which concerneth us, and bring us to the desired haven. We can never be too confident when we confide in him alone, and never too much concerned to have such a trust.

—Charles Haddon Spurgeon, Morning and Evening (23 May, Morning)

( Spurgeon on the power to fight our sins )

I will be tremendously encouraged for the spiritual health of Christ's body when a believer, if asked "When were you saved?," is confident to simply respond with one powerful word: Today.

At risk of jumbling theological terminology, many of us make too little of salvation. A popular (largely Western, contemporary, and evangelical) understanding of salvation is primarily concerned with and limited to justification—through faith in the atoning sacrifice of Jesus, the Christian's sin-stained record before God is cleared once and for all. Also, through Christ's resurrection, we know the promise of abundant, eternal life at peace with God. These are all marvelous and true, but left here, we are simply waiting in lifeboats for Jesus to come pick us up, and while waiting is surely a large component of our faith, we may exercise it very little within the current context of our lives.

In other words, what about now?

A limited understanding of being "saved" is a breeding ground for a powerless and fragmented life. What if Moses or David never cried out to God for salvation in their immediate circumstances? Not only would the Hebrew Bible be empty and uncompelling (the Psalms alone would be more than decimated), but the glory of God would never have been revealed in the same way. And, as we might well know, our enemies are not merely flesh and blood, but cosmic powers of darkness (Ephesians 6:12).

As well as being the Founder of our faith, Jesus is also its Perfecter (Hebrews 12:1-2). Among other things, His teachings and miracles refocus our perspective on our true enemy in this world, from which we need to be saved both once and for all and again and again. Did He intend for our current struggles with sin to be met with our hands folded neatly upon our laps, looking wistfully into the distance? Or did He save us from the future penalty of sin just to abandon us to our own devices when we face it today? I don't know about anyone else, but left to my own strength, sooner or later I fold like a house of cards. Sin is still an enemy I cannot beat. It is God-sized. For whatever reason, it gives God glory for such battles to be fought in our lives today. And it stands to reason that our accountability partnerships, battle verses, and seven-principled plans have, even at their very best, limited value in bringing Him glory on their own. We don't need to be stronger so much as we need to be saved.

He must save us, today. We need salvation, today.

I normally don't do much in the way of plugging things here, but sometimes something comes up that's worth plugging. In this case, it's Film, Faith, and Justice 2007: A Forum Exploring Issues of Social Justice, presented by the fine folks (as well as my officemates) at The Other Journal. Whether you take in one or many of the films, speakers, and panels, and whether you agree with what you hear or not, the festival is trying to tackle some big questions, and that's worth some conversation that the church is often not engaging, internally or externally.

So if you're in the Seattle area, I encourage you to take a look. Chances are good that you may find yourself changed.

Last night, barlow_girl shared a thought-provoking quote from Marilynne Robinson's Gilead (loaned to her by shemaiah and reviewed here):

"This is an important thing, which I have told many people, and which my father told me, and which his father told him. When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think, What is the Lord asking of me in this moment, in this situation? If you confront insult or antagonism, your first impulse will be to respond in kind. But if you think as it were, This is an emissary sent from the Lord, and some benefit is intended for me, first of all the occasion to demonstrate my faithfulness, the chance to show that I do in some small degree participate in the grace that saved me, you are free to act otherwise than as circumstances would seem to dictate. You are free to act by your own lights. You are freed at the same time of the impulse to hate or resent that person. He would probably laugh at the thought that the Lord sent him to you for your benefit (and his), but that is the perfection of the disguise, his own ignorance of it…I am reminded of this precious instruction by my own great failure to live up to it recently."

It's been a good thing to consider today.