spiritual amnesia

We live in a world beset with an acute case of amnesia. We forget that ours is a dual reality – that beneath the skin of physical existence is a spiritual realm. We forget that Satan is not the villain in a bedtime story, but a very real antagonist possessing very real angelic power. We forget that he is hell-bent on our destruction. We forget that we are freedom fighters in an all-out war for the unclaimed souls of humanity.

 

And we forget the strength that lies within us. Perhaps we need a reminder.

 

It is far-too easy to lose sight of the battle which rages just beyond the reach of our senses: We cannot see it, nor do we hear it, and we have never touched it. But it is there. The hater of our souls would have us believe that all such talk of combat is purely metaphorical, or that it is confined to the spaces of heaven and hell; certainly it never touches our lives. Oh, the master of deception, the father of lies, the spinner of stories! It is a fatal fiction we believe. This is why Scripture tells us – in no uncertain terms – that we walk “by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7, NIV).

 

I constantly witness this devastating naïveté in my students. It is painfully evident as they speak to me of their heartaches and problems. Of course, some of this is simply the product of a fallen world. But it goes without saying that the accuser capitalizes on every human weakness, every insecurity, every fracture within our homes and relationships. He lurks in shadows, sowing the seeds of discord. The cunning snake, he smells weakness and coils himself, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Our first line of defense, then, is to recognize what is really going on.

 

As John, beloved friend and confidant of Jesus, said, “Every spirit that does not acknowledge Jesus is not from God. This is the spirit of the antichrist, which you have heard is coming and even now is already in the world” (1 John 4:3, NIV; emphasis mine). John, like his fellow apostles, operated under the belief that the spirit of the Antichrist – i.e. Satan – was already at work. We would be wise to do the same.

 

And yet, we need not fear, for the record does not end there. “You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them, because the one who is in you is greater than that one who is in the world” (4:4, NIV). It is true that Satan stalks our earth like a predator, hunting the weak and the sick. But his ferocity is more than matched by that of Judah’s Lion: “I’m the Holy One and I’m here – in your very midst… I will roar like a lion – Oh, how I’ll roar!” (Hosea 11:9-10, MSG). He is right here, standing shoulder to shoulder with us, fighting on our behalf.

 

In Jesus, the outcome of this battle is already assured. “Despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us” (Romans 8:38, NLT). God did not merely edge out a win over Satan; there was never a deadlock between the forces of good and evil. The triumph is overwhelming. Consider the words of Paul, writing to the church at Colosse: “Having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross” (2:15, NIV). Jesus shamed our adversary, making slaves of the slavers, binding them in the very shackles which once bound us. It is ours to stand in this victory.

 

We must remember that we are coregents with Jesus himself: “If we are children, then we are heirs – heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ” (Romans 8:17, NIV). We bear the mark of his signet, which means that we bear his authority (Ephesians 1:13). We are the spiritual successors of Peter, to whom Jesus said, “I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven” (Matthew 16:19, NRS). We speak on behalf of the King when we align ourselves with the purposes of his Kingdom; we voice the full authority of Jesus when our words echo his Word.

 

Let us remember.

solomon & samson

When he woke up, he thought, “I will do as before and shake myself free.” But he didn't realize the Lord had left him. So the Philistines captured him and gouged out his eyes. They took him to Gaza, where he was bound with bronze chains…

– Judges 16:20-21, NLT

Is there anything so tragic as one unmistakably marked for greatness who throws it all away?

 

Such is the story of Samson, a man “like the sun” – so named because he would fracture the darkness of Philistine dominance and usher in a brighter era. He was, without question, born to lead, hailed by God himself to be the liberator of a nation (Judges 13:5). Yet, the mighty Samson is remembered as a washout, a letdown, a fallen hero. Falling for a pretty face that belied treachery, the man who routed myriads ended his days blinded and bound by chains. How sad. How ironic. And how prophetic.

 

This planet is filled to the brim with modern-day Samsons: Young men and women destined for great things. Theirs is a generation of would-be freedom-fighters, born to break chains. But following in the missteps of their predecessor, they sell themselves out, spending their strength on the very things that will steal it: drugs, booze, dead-end relationships, and cheap thrills. Suckered into bondage, they cheat themselves – and others – of liberty.

 

We must reach them before they are shorn of their priceless gift. It is ours to train, to stand between them and the Delilahs that would sell them into captivity. Who will teach them of the true source of strength if not us? Who will instruct them of the sacredness of their trust if we do not?

 

Solomon tells us in Proverbs that, “The glory of the young is their strength; the gray hair of experience is the splendor of the old” (20:29, NLT). Youthful vitality must be tempered by the wisdom of years. Herein, O Church, lies our calling and the underpinning of our might. Unity within the Body of Christ is not a nicety but a requisite for survival. As Jesus has it, a house divided is doomed to fall (Matthew 12:25). Generations must cross the cultural chasms which divide us so that prudence might harness vigor, that energy might animate insight.

 

Solomon and Samson: Now there is a dynamic duo.

the problem of evil

In a recent conversation, a friend of mine posed a question: If God knew from the very beginning all that would happen – the insurrection of Lucifer and humanity’s subsequent choice to rebel – why did he continue on with creation? I knew immediately what he was getting at. Why didn’t God do something to stop it? It is a dilemma that haunts us, gnawing at the edges of our faith: Why does God allow evil?

 

We see its effects all around us, filling up our world with pain and suffering and death. The remnants of broken hearts and broken lives litter our existence like refuse. Boldface headlines scream to us of war-torn nations, innocents used and abused, natural disasters ravaging the already-impoverished. Subconsciously, we find ourselves asking, “How could God let this happen?”

 

The devout and the deviant alike have brooded over this for millennia. More than a few skeptics have, for lack of satisfactory answers, dismissed all possibility of God’s existence: “A loving God wouldn’t…” And as many believers have for the same reason stagnated in their faith. But perhaps we are asking the wrong question. Perhaps we need to reframe our inquiry: “How could a loving God not allow evil?”

 

Ever since Lucifer’s expulsion from heaven in the wake of his failed coup, a question mark has hung over our universe: Is God good or is he merely powerful? That is, does he rule from a beneficent heart or is he an iron-fisted dictator? Herein we find the reason for our free will. If God had not given us the capacity to choose, we would be puppets, moved by the whims of a superior power. But God desires more of us. His heart longs for relationship. He craves our affection and love. These, by definition, can never be the product of coercion; they must be given freely, for love that is compelled is not love at all.

 

And so God presented to our first parents a choice – to live in a utopian state of innocence, free from all defect and blight, or to choose independence. We know how the story goes. Humanity inclined its collective ear to the sibilant whisperings of a wayward serpent as he revived his seditious mantra: “Is God good? Can he be trusted? He holds out on you! Rise up and take for yourself what he will not give.” We hear echoing in his words to Eve – “eat from that tree [and] you’ll be just like God” (Genesis 3:5, MSG) – his own duplicitous ambitions:

 

How you are fallen from heaven, O shining star, son of the morning. You have been thrown down to the earth, you who destroyed the nations of the world. For you said to yourself, “I will ascend to heaven and set my throne above God’s stars. I will preside on the mountain of the gods far away in the north. I will climb to the highest heaven and be like the Most High.” (Isaiah 14:12-14, NLT; emphasis mine)

 

To prove once for all his intentions and in hopes of winning our love, God did the unthinkable; for a second time, he exposed his heart to be broken, knowing that it indeed would be. For the prospect of love, God permitted the possibility of hate. And in true turncoat fashion, humanity chose the latter, siding with Satan and the fallen angels. That decision, freely made, held untold consequences: War and murder, poverty and injustice, famine and death. These are the repercussions, not of a loveless God, but of our choice. Could God speak the word and mend our broken world, erasing all traces of suffering? Of that there is no doubt. But to do so would be to overturn our capacity to choose and thus, our ability to love.

 

And yet in steadfast devotion and tireless love, God pursues us. The resolute romantic, he would win back our hearts from the enemy who stole them. We see in Jesus, not the annulment of our choice, but one who offers us the opportunity to change our mind, to return to that fateful moment in Eden and choose rightly.

 

Just as we reframe the question, let us also reorient our vision, learning to look at this world through God’s eyes. What he saw within the epochs of eternity past, we must see today: Missteps and the molestations of evil do not negate the goodness of what God created; each is an opportunity for redemption. “Oh your cross, it’s where my hope restarts – a second chance is heaven’s heart.”

a revolution of honesty

If we’re ever going to get this right, if we’re ever going to live this life as it was meant to be lived, we have to ask the tough questions. We have to dig deep and be honest with ourselves, even if it hurts… If we could pull back the curtain to reveal what is really going on, we would see what Zeke saw: A war-torn world filled with death. But there’s good news. God doesn’t like that ending, so he’s writing a new one. And he wants to bring you back to life. But first you have to let go of the things that are killing you.

 

– Excerpt from “The War” [last week’s Zeke lesson]

 

“What is killing you?” That is how our 2012-13 student ministry began – with a question. It is easy, much too easy, for us to point out the flaws in the youth generation, to finger their guilt, to write them off for their failings. What is much more difficult – and, I have found, much more constructive – is to guide them in reaching their own conclusions. And that begins by pointing the finger in the mirror. In the words of Jesus, “First get rid of the log from your own eye; then perhaps you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend’s eye” (Matthew 7:5, NLT). To be transparent, to confess our own humanity is, to the Millennial Generation, to earn respect.

 

Demonstrating the brand of candor that Jesus endorsed gives young people permission to be honest themselves. Teens are imitators; they do what they see us doing. Our concession to needing a Savior might very well coincide with their first step of faith. It empowers them to make their own confession. As Paul has it, “It is by believing in your heart that you are made right with God, and it is by confessing with your mouth that you are saved” (Romans 10:10, NLT; emphasis mine). Belief and coming clean are inseparable.

 

And so, before an audience of nearly 50 teens, I told my story – the insecurities, hopes, and missteps of my own teenage years. You could have heard a pin drop. The rambunctious, ADD generation was engaged. Trending forums term this “narrative evangelism,” but it is not about being trendy. To put it simply, it is about meeting young people where they are with the Gospel of Jesus.

 

Our vision at Zeke37 – to breathe life into an asphyxiated generation – might rightly be deemed revolutionary in its stance and scope. But then again, Jesus had radical leanings. It certainly wasn’t conventional to preach a message of forgiveness in an eye-for-an-eye society, nor was it orthodox for God-on-foot to mingle with sinners. Yet those drastic measures set in motion the righting of an upside-down world. So following his precedent, we reach out to the unchurched, the underchurched, and the overchurched, and we invite them to be honest. “What is killing you?” That is more than a question; it is an invitation to be resuscitated, to breathe in the Spirit of life and begin living.

 

Oh, how I await the day when I see what Ezekiel’s saw: “They all came to life and stood up on their feet – a great army of them” (37:10, NLT). Friends, that day is, by the grace of God, drawing near…

something old, something new

By calling this covenant “new,” he has made the first one obsolete; and what is obsolete and aging will soon disappear.

– Hebrews 8:13, NIV

 

In an unguarded moment, a question crept unsolicited into my thoughts: What covenant am I living under? Which convention informs my day-to-day life and approach to ministry? Wisdom dictates that we give careful consideration to these questions, as our responses chart our course – either toward success or failure.

 

On the most basic level, Scripture is comprised of two units: the Old and New Testaments. These are structured as covenants, what we might call binding contracts. While they are two halves of a single book and counterparts of one canon, the old and new covenants are fundamentally very different.

 

Under the old, God remains distant and untouchable, as when he delivered the Ten Commandments: “I will come down upon Mount Sinai as all the people watch. Set boundary lines that the people may not pass. Warn them, ‘Be careful! Do not go up on the mountain or even touch its boundaries. Those who do will certainly die’” (Exodus 19:11-12, NLT). Under the new, he is Emmanuel, God with us: “We saw him with our own eyes and touched him with our own hands” (1 John 1:1, NLT).

 

The old takes the form of codified law, a mechanized system of dos and don’ts. Operating on the twin engines of obligation and fear, it creates adherents at best and, at worst, slaves compelled by the looming threat of “or else:” “Cursed is everyone who does not observe and obey all these commands that are written in God’s Book of the Law” (Galatians 3:12, NLT). By contrast, the new inhabits the spacious greens of faith where grace offers what we cannot earn and forgiveness compensates for our failures. It is cultivated from passion and gratitude which spring out of the fertile soils of liberty. Here, we are beckoned by Jesus’ calls of “come to me,” invited to become his disciples and friends.

 

The old is a mirror which reflects our inherent need: “Why was the law given? It was given to show people how guilty they are” (Galatians 3:19, NLT). With its focus on sin and human unworthiness – i.e. the problem – it adopts a preventative view to stabilize against moral erosion. Altogether different is the new, which is a doorway into God’s presence: “Let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God” (Hebrews 4:16, NLT). Its focus is redemption and restoration – i.e. the remedy – encouraging us to grow and mature, to become what God dreamed we would be, to move from glory to glory. The new, rather than fortifying the ground it holds, dares to go out and take the field.

 

The old is a humanistic model; the new embraces the mind of God.

 

Which defines us? Certainly we aspire to the latter, but does our default mode more closely resemble the former? Do we truly know the air of God’s presence? Is it duty or desire which drives us? Are we so consumed with preservation that expanding the Kingdom becomes secondary? I must ask myself these questions. Each of us must.

 

Transitioning between these models is no simple affair; it is involved and messy, requiring a complete overhaul. Paul made it abundantly clear that Christ is the sole foundation of orthodoxy: “No one can lay any other foundation than the one we already have – Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 3:11, NLT). In other words, if our house is framed under the old covenant, a complete demolition is required, since the foundation of the old covenant is human effort. This is precisely why the Pharisees protested so vehemently to the teachings of Jesus; his message was so revolutionary that it left no room for partial measures or compromise or incremental change. Its call to displace an egocentric theology with a Christocentric one was urgent and unwavering.

 

Will we heed this call? God’s words echo down through the ages to us: “Today I have given you the choice between life and death, between blessings and curses” (Deuteronomy 30:19, NLT). Friends, let us choose life and blessings. Let us choose Jesus.

God-in-a-box

Humanity has a nasty little habit of boxing up God. It is, I think, a natural repercussion of our finite state; despite our best attempts to comprehend his infinity, we can achieve a measure of success only by delineating boundaries which confine him. One of our many boxes is relegating God to only the “good” times in our lives. The logic goes something like this: God is good, he loves us, so when something bad happens in my life, God cannot be in it. Sadly, it is a lie that many of us find ourselves believing.

 

One of the surpassing beauties of Scripture is how it condescends to human frailty. Those themes which are most vital to us, those deepest truths, are repeated time and again to remind, persuade, and assure us. It is as if God, in composing the canon, annotated in bold letters: “Don’t miss this!” One such recurring statement is that God is always with his children. Just consider for a moment the myriad passages which express this in one form or another: “I will never fail you. I will never forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5); “We are hunted down, but God never abandons us” (2 Corinthians 4:9); “I am with you always” (Matthew 28:20); “Even when I walk through the dark valley of death… you are close beside me” (Psalm 23:4); “I can never get away from your presence! If I go up to heaven, you are there; if I go down to the place of the dead, you are there” (Psalm 139:7-8). The sentiment of these verses is not, “God is with us, but only when the sun shines and all is as it should be in the world.” No, they assure us of just the opposite: That he is a constant and devoted ally, not a fair-weather friend.

 

However, the reality of this – and its beauty – goes much deeper. God doesn’t simply tag along as we muddle through our sorrows. He gives them purpose. In this life, heartache and pain are inevitable; they are the aftershocks of a fateful day in a paradise lost. Yet such is the greatness of our God that he is able to fashion from our consequences something which works in our favor; as at creation, he breathes into our dust and ashes to create life. And so the little annoyances and the heartrending sorrows become the sandpaper which smoothes our rough edges, the kiln which burns away our dross.

 

Still, in those moments we wonder: Has God abandoned me? If we will but listen, he whispers to us in the deepest places of our soul, “I am with you even now.”

 

This is perhaps one of the most difficult lessons for young people to learn, made particularly so by our instantaneous, just-add-water culture. Society has conditioned us to respond to what we feel at this moment, right now. Hunger, boredom, and nearly any other appetite or emotion has a quick fix: Fast food, high-speed internet, instant messaging, movies on demand – the list is endless. These in and of themselves are not wrong, but their effect lingers well beyond their immediate reach. So when we feel sadness or grief or despair and there is no direct resolution, we instinctively assume the worst: God must have abandoned us.

 

This is why James, with such deep insight, wrote, “Whenever trouble comes your way, let it be an opportunity for joy. For when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow” (1:2-3). The implication could not be clearer; one has no need of endurance if the outcome is immediate. Rather, it is the quality which sustains those who find themselves in a protracted affair. Restoration is a lifelong process, and God is in every moment. This life is a training grounds; he is preparing us for an existence beyond the confines of time, when we will join him in the sprawling expanses of eternity.

 

We, who have walked through the valley of shadows, who have caught glimpses of the Almighty by our side, have a most remarkable opportunity: To flesh out the words found in Scripture which assure us that God is indeed faithful. So let us sing and re-sing this anthem for generations to come: His love “never fails, never gives up, never runs out” on us. One less box...

the gospel on repeat

While preparing to launch my new blog, I brainstormed what I would call it. When I asked my wife for suggestions she offered, “The Broken Record.” With raised eyebrow, I looked at her warily. What exactly, I asked, was she implying? Nothing, she replied, she just liked the sound of it. Understandably, I was hesitant about the connotations of such a name. And in the end, I chose not to use it. But it did spark some thought.

 

Am I playing the gospel on repeat?

 

I once heard it said that in every classic work of literature, one can find interwoven elements of the gospel. While I am skeptical about the breadth of that statement, the point nonetheless has merit. One only need consider works like Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities,” in which one man forfeits his life so another might live; Eliot’s “Silas Marner,” whose embittered title character is transformed by the hope and redemption he finds in a little child; Stevenson’s “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” wherein a man is host to an all-out war between impulses of good and evil; Dumas’ “The Count of Monte Cristo,” an exploration of the themes of liberty and bondage, justice and injustice, revenge and forgiveness; or Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” which testifies that the power of words can either inspire life or devastate entire nations.

 

One might rightly argue that “classics” such as these are defined by the quality of their writing. Yet their distinction is also found within the depth of their insight; the story they tell resonates with us because it speaks to our human condition. Is there any plot more epic, more stirring to the soul than the one in which right overcomes wrong, love triumphs, and hope, against all odds, thrives in that most desperate of circumstances? Restoration, mercy, sacrifice – these are the motifs which move us, because they are the trademarks of the Story.

 

Unfortunately, society has instilled within us an aversion to repetition (which is one of the supreme ironies of pop culture, by the way). We’re consumers of the latest fads, we follow trends, we become bored easily. Fashion, music, Hollywood, Madison Avenue – they all bow in reverence at the altar of innovation. But could it be that it is in constancy, not novelty, that meaning is found? Are we, in the endless pursuit of originality, robbing ourselves blind of the very thing we’re looking for? The soul – that which is eternal – can never be anchored by that which is, by its very nature, transient. Our hope cannot lie in being fashion forward or groundbreaking, no matter how much culture hails such adjectives.

 

Consider the words of the psalmist: "I will teach you hidden lessons from our past – stories we have heard and know, stories our ancestors handed down to us. We will not hide these truths from our children but will tell the next generation about the glorious deeds of the Lord… He commanded our ancestors to teach them to their children, so the next generation might know them – even the children not yet born – that they in turn might teach their children. So each generation can set its hope anew on God, remembering his glorious miracles and obeying his commands" (Psalm 78:2-7, NLT).

 

This is repetition at its finest. Not passing along stale leftovers and threadbare hand-me-downs, but imparting treasured stories that are as relevant today as the moment they were first spoken. Just as the classics were informed by gospel truths, so our lives should be graced by its golden threads. In so doing, we retell the story. And when that happens, we inspire the next generation to “set its hope anew on God.” Let us, dear friends, play the gospel on repeat for posterity’s sake.