The Real Gospel

Walking down the city street, the man with the microphone assured me that it was not too late to find eternal life. In fact, he said I could have it today if I would only repeat certain words after him. From then on, he added, my life would be one of abundance, peace and tranquility.

“What on earth is he talking about?” I asked myself. To choose a life of faith takes much more then prescribed words, and, for me anyway, the life it leads to is far from easy. In fact, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever tried.

No wonder people try to water it down or bend it to accommodate their lives. Everywhere I look I see and hear a “gospel” that has nothing to do with the one I’ve to come to understand by reading scripture. Designed to make pews more comfortable and behaviors more acceptable, the other “gospel” is all fine and good until a person reads what Jesus actually said.

My experience is that following Christ calls into question most of what I do and challenges most of what I think. No longer can I live a self-centered life because he said it’s all about others. No longer can I feel content with the abundance of my life because he said I am to care about those who are not as blessed as I. No longer can I trust my way of seeing things because I have a plank in my eye, a self-centered plank that keeps me from seeing all the ways I fall short of being who God created me to be. (Judging others is so much easier than judging oneself.)

My brother was an accomplished wrestler in high school and college. I remember watching him bounce around and swing his arms on the side as he waited for the match. When he entered the ring, however, he crouched down, stuck out his arms, and gave it all he had. There were twists and turns, lifts and falls, and I was never sure who was going to win. The life of faith has been like that for me. It’s all fine and good when I am bouncing around and swinging my arms thinking (and writing) about such a life, and another once I enter the ring. Then, it’s a struggle, one with twists and turns, lifts and falls, just when I think I’m “winning” I fall flat on my face.

In this morning’s scripture, John describes many people coming to hear Jesus and walking away. I didn’t remember this passage, but I understood why they walked away. Discipleship is hard. Rather than stick around and say one thing and do another, they turned and admitted such a life was not for them. The cost of discipleship, as Diedrich Bonhoeffer called it, was too high. How refreshing it is to read about people who see the difficulty of living lives of faith as opposed to those who preach on the corner, stand in the voting booth, or walk in front of cameras promising a compromised version of the gospel.

Yes, discipleship is hard, maybe the hardest thing there is. If I am not wrestling with it daily, chances are I’ve watered it down or selectively edited it to suit my own fears which I disguise with greed, prejudices, and judgement.

If the gospel wasn’t hard, I don’t think it would be real.

If it didn’t challenge my human thoughts and actions, it wouldn’t be divine.

If it didn’t involve death of some sort, it couldn’t offer new life.

Horizons

I recently met with a friend who grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan. As someone who grew up in the northeast, when I hear “lake” I think of places like Lake George or Squam Lake, beautiful bodies of water where you can see the other side, but Lake Michigan is something altogether different. As he described its enormity and the fact that you cannot see the other side, I began to feel anxious, disconcerted.

It's a feeling I’ve felt many times in my life. I felt it when I was in rehab and someone said I could never drink again. I felt it when I left my job and knew I’d never teach again. I felt it when my father died and I realized I’d never see him again.

Looking too far ahead is not good for one’s soul. Not seeing the horizon can leave a person feeling disconcerted, overwhelmed, and paralyzed. Fortunately, I found wiser people than I who pulled the horizons of my life within sight. They spoke not of forever but a moment, not of a lifetime but a day, and it’s made all the difference.

Every morning, I awaken and get to try again. Sitting with my coffee watching the sun rise, I think not of the rest of my life but the day ahead. Pulling in the horizon allows my soul to breathe a sigh of relief. Thinking about the kind of person I want to be, the husband, father, friend, or follower is easier when I consider only the next 24 hours. I’ll do better if I don’t look too far ahead. When I fall short, as I inevitably will, I get to try again the next morning.

“It’s about progress, not perfection,” the wise remind. That’s enough to give me hope so I can try again. I’m not sure, but I think that’s what grace is.

Finding The Sacred Journey

There are times when life is amplified in such a way you can’t help but hear it. There are times when even the blind see what’s going on. Such moments are gifts beyond measure and invite us all into the sacredness that surrounds us, if only we have ears to hear and eyes to see.

I am traveling abroad with a group of golfers, one of whom is an old student of mine. Since our days in school, much has happened in his life and mine. We came to the trip with scars and bruises which were both unique and alike. Like me, he carried the weight of regret that was, at times, paralyzing. Last night, our group had no plans, so he and I snuck away to attend a local twelve-step meeting. Wandering the twisty streets of the English town, we shared about our lives – not as teacher and student, but as fellow sojourners. We found the meeting and took our places in a pew where we heard words that were both familiar and new. Never could I have imagined God using my struggles and recovery in this life-giving way. Never did this student envision becoming a teacher.

Sitting here in a coffee shop the morning after, I marvel at what occurred last night. It was nothing we did, so much as what was done in, through, and around us. Yes, we made the effort to find a meeting, but what happened because of that effort had nothing to do with us. In an unforgettable way, I saw the miracle of “God doing for us what we could not do for ourselves,” as the Big Book says, or, to paraphrase Ephesians, I saw God working within us to accomplish abundantly far more than we could ask or imagine.

It seems the life of faith is about doing the next right thing and then letting God do the rest. It’s about showing up and then getting out of the way. In sharp contrast to a world that says it’s all about us and what we make happen, I think life is more about surrendering control and letting God do what God does best - redeems the world one life at a time.

When that happens, as it did last night, life becomes a sacred journey beyond our comprehension.