I used to be an avid reader. Lately, I’ve slowed down. I have no excuse, really, other than to say that other things took up my time. Laziness and lethargy set in, and easy entertainment (television, Netflix, YouTube) became my preferred medium. It’s the same old story: I allowed work to wear me out, and instead of coming home excited to learn and expand my mind, I spent my time just trying to wind down before bed.

I’ve mentioned before that in the last five years, two books have changed my life and altered my mind. The Bible is one. The other one is a book on woodworking called “The Anarchist’s Tool Chest,” by Christopher Schwarz. I’d like to take a moment to explore the latter in this space, because despite the ominous-sounding title, it actually shares some common threads with the former, at least in my own life.

“The Anarchist’s Tool Chest” explores traditional hand tools for working wood, how to use them, and how to build a chest in which to keep them. But at it’s core, it is not a book about tools and chests. It is a philosophical exploration of aesthetic anarchism (more on that in a moment), of moderation, and of being free from society’s expectations–it is about the refusal to kowtow to consumerism.

Growing up, my father and grandfather were always interested in woodworking. I grew up around power-tools, around woodworking catalogs, and around the idea of building my own furniture. I enjoyed it, I suppose. I enjoyed spending time with Dad and Papa, and I enjoyed learning new things, and I think that building is in my blood and bones. I wouldn’t say that it feels like a calling; I would say that it feels like a necessity. But growing up, something was missing.

When I first moved out on my own, the first expensive thing I bought was a fancy tablesaw.  I still have it, though now it’s in my Dad’s garage. It is extremely nice–much nicer than a hobbyist needs–and I was proud of it. Then I bought a router table. Then I bought a jointer. Then I got a drum sander, then a drill press, then a band saw. I built a shop in which I could manufacture practically anything.

The key word in that above paragraph is “manufacture.” I was manufacturing furniture, and it was easy. I was essentially machining wood as though it was plastic or metal. The results were fine. Some of the things were ugly, but that was my fault as the designer. The tools weren’t getting in my way. But the entire process was joyless. I was just killing time–largely alone–and manufacturing furniture-shaped objects. I didn’t understand what was wrong.

Then I came across Schwarz’s book while browsing the internet one day. I thought the idea sounded interesting, so I bought a copy and waited for it in the mail. From the absolute instant I opened the book and read the first page, I was completely transformed.

I’ll spare you the details. If you want to read Schwarz’s book, you can find it at Lostartpress.com. I only want to get at the essence of the philosophy here. I promise this is going somewhere.

The book explores what Schwarz calls “aesthetic anarchism,” or “American anarchism,” but what is also known as Individualist anarchism. It sounds disruptive and violent, but at its core, it is inherently peaceful. In the context of woodworking, the essence of this brand of anarchism is that often, what society tells us to do–or buy–is not right for every individual, because many individuals are left behind. Our society is driven by what’s best for corporations, not individuals. Mass-manufacture of goods reduces quality, lowers wages, and stifles individual thought. In short, it breeds greed and reduces humans to dollar-signs.

I realized what was missing in my woodworking: me. My self, my joy, my love, and my point of view. This book jarred me awake. I started working with hand tools, and finding joy and satisfaction in my hobby again.

After starting to read my Bible again some short weeks ago, I recently came to the same realization about what was missing in my life: me. My self, my joy, my love, and my point of view. I was sleepwalking, and I wasn’t me. I was conforming to what society thought of me: I was a cog in the machine. Because I was participating in the consumerism and conformity, and because my relationship with God had fallen to the wayside, I had forgotten my own value.

This verse, where Jesus speaks to his disciples, was instrumental to waking me up: “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows” (Luke 12:6-7).

Even the very hairs of my head are numbered! That is my value to God as an individual. That is my worth. I am so precious to Him that He treasures every single hair on my head. I am so precious to Him that an inconceivable sacrifice was given for me, and for all, so that we might live.

As I remembered the joy in my hobby five years ago, let me remember the joy in my own life today, for it is truly precious.

Prayer for the morning:

Holy Father, I am humbled and filled to the brim that You see my value, and that value comes from You. I hope today to see that value in myself and seek joy in Your name.

Because I’ve been enduring a time of great need, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about friendship, and what it means to give of myself, and receive friendship. This will be a short essay, because what I have to say is simple.

In any human culture, there are uncountable adages about friendship, and what it means to feel and exhibit true friendship. I’m not going to get into all of them here, but you can check out infinitely many here.  One of my favorites is Euripides: “Friends show their love in times of trouble, not in happiness.”

But the book of Proverbs has perhaps the most beautiful, simple, humble summary of what it means to be a true friend. It’s so perfect that I’m only going to include this singular piece of verse in this writing, because it says everything that needs to be said about friendship, and doesn’t leave anything unsaid.

“A friend loves at all times,
and a brother is born for a time of adversity.” (Proverbs 17:17)

In these times of “social” media, where casual, long lost acquaintances count as friends, and clicking a thumbs-up or heart-shaped button counts as support, it can be easy to forget what a real friend means. And, when we are isolated from those hollow interactions, it can be easy to feel alone.

Every day since I put down Twitter and Reddit and Facebook, I’ve been reminded of who my true friends are. A friend loves at all times. Good times, hard times, times of need and times of plenty. All times. It’s that simple.

But when we are truly in our hour of most need, those friendships that endure are galvanized. They become a bond unbreakable, and those friends become something akin to the family that we choose. They become our brothers (and sisters!) I believe that even for those who are disbelievers, God is in that love, and strengthens that bond. Friendship is the ultimate example of the Golden Rule that I’ve written so much about. If I love others as I love myself, and I find even one person that feels the same way about me, then that person is my true friend, and my true brother.

This song is secular, but in a way it is not.

One of my greatest struggles in this life is that I feel a need to control every variable. It is against my philosophical beliefs to control people, but I still try to control situations. This manifests in mainly three ways.

First, I feel a deep unease when I don’t consider myself prepared for any eventual outcome; the Scout Motto I learned many years ago is “Be Prepared,” and I still take that to heart (even if I don’t remember anything else from Boy Scouts). This starts with over-planning for unlikely eventualities, continues to collecting and keeping any useful thing or tool I might ever need, and it cripplingly ends with avoiding situations for which I don’t feel prepared. Sometimes those reasons are emotional, sometimes they’re financial, but they’re almost always irrational.

Secondly, I can’t resist the urge to fix things (or at least attempt to do so). When someone tells me they have a problem, difficulty or struggle, my first instinct is to try to help them fix it. That someone can also be myself, and the real struggle rears when the problem cannot be solved. If I feel something is wrong in my life, I dwell on possible solutions, over-analyze, and create a wall of inhibitions and doubts between myself and moving forward. Instead of realizing that sometimes the solution to a problem is simply moving on from it, I internalize the problem and create a new, bigger problem in my mind and heart.

Thirdly, I forget myself and my personal philosophy, and I try to influence or convince people to see things my way. This is a great source of shame for me. It is my deepest desire to let people see the world in their own way, and live their life according to their own creed, but sometimes in my need for control I forget that. Instead of openly discussing politics or religion or philosophy with an open mind and heart, I will instinctively dig in my heels and try to impose my will through logical and well-spoken rhetoric. The line between being right or wrong seems to fade away into the background, and I assume that because something is my belief, that makes it right for both myself and for people with whom I’m close.

Sometime in the early 1930s, Reinhold Niebuhr wrote down a prayer that would become perhaps the most famous non-scripture verse in history.  Today, we know it as the serenity prayer, and though it has taken on many forms, they all go something like this: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

Recently, something happened in my life that I am having trouble accepting, so this is particularly poignant right now. In a broader sense, though, this prayer is a good reminder of God’s will for every day in our lives. In particular, the first phrase about acceptance rings true to me.

The apostle Paul writes: “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control” (Galatians 5:22,23). Sometimes I lose sight of what the word “peace” can mean. Often when I think of peace, my mind considers it to be an antonym for violence, and that word calls to mind external conflict. So Paul, like Jesus before him, calls us to be non-violent. This makes sense, and I’m certain that it’s part of what Paul meant.

But, if I turn that ever-so-slightly on its end, though, I can think of unrest in my soul as violence of a sort, and that “serenity to accept the things I cannot change” could be what I need to quell that inner turmoil. Inner peace feels like it has always been just out of my reach, but finding that peace through God may be my most important fruit of Spirit.

This song from MercyMe, off their 2017 album “Lifer,” contains some powerful lyrics, but one of the most affecting and apropos is “God when you choose to leave mountains unmovable/Give me the strength to be able to sing: ‘It is well with my soul.'”

Asking for that strength is critical to my relationship to God, my relationships with people I love, and to my inner peace. I must take to heart the trust that God would not leave a mountain unmovable simply to hurt me or teach me a lesson; His reasons are His alone, and I must have faith that if I give myself over to His will, my current struggles will bring me closer to becoming who He means for me to be.

As Paul writes in Colossians: “Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.” (Col 3:15)

One of the things that’s been weighing on my mind lately is the wisdom to discern the difference between true understanding of God, and simply following my own heart. Because I am human–and therefore am simultaneously prideful, fallible and frail by nature–part of me wonders how I might be able to tell if my path is truly God’s will and wisdom, or if my human mind is just attributing my own thoughts and feelings to God’s plan based on how “right” something might feel. And, in the end, if I act by submitting myself to God with humility, is there a difference between the two sides of that coin?

I turned this morning to 1 Corinthians, in which Paul addresses the Greeks, and he offers several verses that may help.

“The wisdom of the wise will perish,
the intelligence of the intelligent will vanish.” (Isaiah 29:14)

Paul quotes this passage, and then talks about how in order to preach truly for God and of Christ, he had to undo his eloquence and human wisdom. He does not say that he did not have those things, only that he could not rely on them to relay the message of salvation through the Lord:

“For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. I came to you in weakness with great fear and trembling. My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, so that your faith might not rest on human wisdom, but on God’s power.” (1 Cor 2:2-5)

The key word in that passage is “resolved.” He is literally saying that in order to convey the true message of Christ’s salvation, he had to make a conscious decision to forsake his human knowledge and wisdom. I’ve written here before about making spiritual decisions of faith by simply choosing to do so, and what Paul writes is not that different. In much the same way that I make a conscious decision to disregard my previous doubt, and simply “believe,” Paul says that we can just flush our minds of our lowest human impulses of pride in our own cleverness and knowledge.

He continues:

“The Spirit searches all things, even the deep things of God. For who knows a person’s thoughts except their own spirit within them? In the same way no one knows the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God. What we have received is not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who is from God, so that we may understand what God has freely given us. This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, explaining spiritual realities with Spirit-taught words. The person without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God but considers them foolishness, and cannot understand them because they are discerned only through the Spirit.” (1 Cor 2:10-14)

For me, this is a critical distinction: perhaps it is not that I must forsake my human mind and human will because they run contrary to the wisdom of God, but because I cannot simultaneously rely on my human intelligence and worldly wisdom while truly accepting the Spirit of God in my heart; they are at least somewhat mutually exclusive. Our low, human minds cannot conceive of God’s own infinite, omniscient and omnipresent mind. If we try to conceive of God’s thoughts, our human limitations will impair us, governing our ability to commune spiritually. Instead, I must take what the Spirit gives into my heart, and grow to know God that way.

In Ephesians, Paul writes, ” . . . how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know that this love surpasses knowledge” (Ephesians 3:18,19).  This verse similarly juxtaposes the two as completely separate entities.  It is almost as if Paul is asking a question: would you rather have the infinite love of Christ, or your own meager knowledge? When posed as a dichotomous choice, I suppose the answer is very clear.

The difficulty, at least at this stage of my young faith, is determining where one ends, and the other begins.–especially since they are not on a linear plane together. Perhaps there is no way to reconcile what I think is right and righteous in the Lord’s eye against what my spirit feels is right and righteous. It may really be as simple as emptying my mind, and allowing the Spirit to fill me up and guide me closer to God and His will. Ultimately, if I submit myself humbly before him, and ask that his will be done, I can only follow to the best of my ability, and know that He knows my heart and will not abandon me.

Prayer:

Holy Father, thank you for this morning, thank you for your word, and thank you for your guidance. Today, I ask for help in emptying my mind of human thoughts and wisdom, so that I may seek your Spirit, and find your will.

One of the more difficult philosophical paradoxes is the question: does true altruism exist?  It’s certainly an interesting question, and one that I’ve been thinking about for a week or so, ever since I came across this passage in Matthew.

“Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven. So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you” (Matthew 6:1-4).

Altruism is easy to define: it is simply “unselfish regard for, or devotion to, the welfare of others” (MW). It is decidedly more difficult to identify. The key is the word “unselfish,” and the rub is in unravelling what unselfish behavior really means. I can’t think of a single act of truly altruistic behavior that I’ve performed in my entire life, because in retrospect, there was always some benefit to myself. Even if I gave of myself and told no one, I felt a sense of satisfaction. It can be an expensive way to buy satisfaction, and it is certainly one of the most selfless acts, but there is still a (barely) selfish motivation on the periphery.

In the above passage from Matthew, Christ tells us to be private about our charity and service of the needy. (The next few verses are also some of my favorite–they tell us to be private about our prayer, and not to pray for the benefit of others, but to keep our prayer to the Lord behind closed doors.) This privacy, He says, will please the Father, for it means that we are doing it for Him, and not to elevate ourselves in the eyes of our peers.

Charitable acts make us feel good. They make us feel connected. They make us feel righteous. Helping others, in short, makes us feel better about being ourselves. One thing that has always ruffled my feathers is vainglorious boasting. I hate braggarts. Even so, I have been guilty, in past moments of weakness, of crowing about a charity to which I’ve donated. In the future, I must be mindful to keep acts of service or charity between only myself and God.

In the end, I’m not sure that truly altruistic behavior exists. Even in the context of what Christ tells us in the above message, He mentions a reward. Even if that reward is simply that the Father is pleased with me, does that reward preclude selflessness? I think there’s certainly an argument to be made.

Ultimately, though, I think in the context of Christianity, I must shift my understanding of the definition of altruism. Perhaps instead of simply restricting altruism to unselfish behavior, I can redefine it as unboastful, humble, and modest regard for, or devotion to, the welfare of others in the service of God. In the end, only he can know my true heart, and whether I am doing something for Him, or for myself.

On a related note–after having re-read those passages–I’m not certain whether I should offer my written prayer in this space. I’m not really certain that anyone is reading it besides myself and God, but it still feels as though it borders on boastfulness. On the other hand, typing a prayer often helps me put words to what my heart is trying to say. A difficult choice, but for now, in the unlikely event that someone reads this and it might help them to articulate their own, similar thoughts, I will continue to write them.

Prayer:

Father, help me see my own heart, so that I know that my actions are in your service and in the service of others, and help me to be as selfless as is humanly possible. Thank you for today, and for this lesson in humility.

I don’t have a lot of time this morning for thoughts, but it does seem like a good morning for some simple sacred music.  This is one of my very favorite hymns I’ve ever sung with a choir. Here, it is very well sung by the University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire Concert Choir, conducted by Dr. Gary R. Schwartzhoff.

Paulus, who died in 2014, wrote “Pilgrim’s Hymn” in 1997. One of the most notable things about the piece is how traditional it sounds, given the contemporary nature of the composition. The harmonies, tempo, and key sound more in line with the 1890s than the 1990s. This is no accident, as the piece is written from the perspective of early American settlers, and the lyrical themes remind me very much of the traditional Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts.” Let’s look at these lyrics by Michael Dennis Browne, as adapted from a Russian Orthodox prayer:

Even before we call on Your name
To ask You, O God,
When we seek for the words to glorify You,
You hear our prayer;
Unceasing love, O unceasing love,
Surpassing all we know.

Glory to the father,
and to the Son,
And to the Holy Spirit.

Even with darkness sealing us in,
We breathe Your name,
And through all the days that follow so fast,
We trust in You;
Endless Your grace, O endless Your grace,
Beyond all mortal dream.

Both now and forever,
And unto ages and ages,
Amen

The first stanza is incredibly powerful to me personally. The theme here is that God knows our hearts and needs before we even pray to him. This is reminiscent of the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 6, verse 8: “Your father knows what you need before you ask him.”

The second stanza is a glorification, not unlike the line in the Lord’s prayer, “Hallowed be thy name.”  In fact, this entire song is a simple prayer that follows the basic outline provided to us by Jesus Christ, in that above-mentioned chapter of Matthew.

The theme of the third stanza is trust in the Lord, and understanding that His infinite nature is beyond our mortal imagination.  Even in our darkest times, He is there, and we need only have faith beyond what we know.  These are beautiful thoughts.

But, I think that the most beautiful thing about the piece is the simplicity of the harmonies and unities. The composition itself is humble in a way that few contemporary pieces manage to achieve. The song is absolutely gorgeous; it is gentle and clean, uncomplicated, and swells with love when it needs to do so. And it may sound strange to say this, but the song is not about the song. This song is about a straightforward prayer to God, from the heart. It glorifies with love and devotion and trust, and not elaborate, difficult harmonies and solos. It is sung essentially in unison by a large choir, and no one vocal part stands out.

Psalm 116, verse 6 says: “The Lord preserves the simple; when I was brought low, he saved me.” This song seeks that same humility.

The day before I started these writings, I suffered a great personal loss. I won’t pretend that that loss was unique to me, or that others would not understand or empathize, or even that others have not felt that same pain even more acutely. I am not special in this way.

I will also not pretend that I am okay, or that it was not the most painful loss of my life. I was completely destroyed, and whether or not that’s justified in this case is irrelevant. The heart of the matter is that my destruction has led to introspection, which I hope will lead to personal growth through exploring my relationship with God, and his Son Jesus Christ.

One of the hardest questions to answer in life is “Who am I?” I know my name, and my family, and I know about the things I enjoy. I know what I do to make a living at the moment. I know the answers to the rote questions people ask about how I define myself. But I’m not really sure that I understand the totality of my self.

I used to think the truth wouldn’t come because I was still working out the answer. Now I wonder if the answer eluded me because I wasn’t ready to admit the truth. I am working on it, but I don’t really like myself very much–more precisely, I don’t like the person I’ve become over the last few years. Selfish, ego-centric (and self-impressed and egotistical), stubbornly opinionated, intellectually righteous, occasionally contrary, sometimes condescending. I do not like that I’ve justified morally ambiguous behavior, because I always considered myself to be above that. I do not like that I’ve hurt people, even without meaning to. I should have been striving for better.

So lately, through this writing space, and through my reading and understanding of scripture, I’ve begun to deconstruct who I am.

They say that the first step to recovery and improvement is admitting that you have a problem. It is not an accident that much of this writing is largely confessional about my flaws. I don’t like the way I was seeing the world, and so a large part of understanding how to change that was to admit my failures and shortcomings. I’ve always been fairly self-aware, and I have always understood intellectually that I am not perfect. But this deep self-reflection in the context of scripture has humbled me, and I have taken that understanding to heart. What I once knew only in my mind, I think I now understand in my soul. Today, I believe I understand myself better than I have at any point in my 33 years here on earth.

I also understand that I am human, and I will never be perfect. I can only strive to be my best self. Part of that is changing the way I see the world, and part of changing the way I see the world is completely changing my relationship with faith. Every day is a new challenge in faith, and a new opportunity to grow closer to God. I’ve written before that faith takes practice, and I believe that. Every day, through prayer and scripture and worship and treating people with respect and love, I must endeavor to practice faith.

I also know what else faith requires: faith. It sounds ridiculous and redundant and circular, but really that’s all there is. I just have to do it. Let go of my inhibitions, release my grip on what has been holding me back, and just believe. Trust.

This writing stated with “Day 1.” Day zero was the most difficult day of my life, and at first the only thing that moved me was muscle memory. Every day since then has been a little easier, a little lighter, a little less painful. Part of this is time. But I will not discount the comfort that I’ve been graced from God. I am heartened that my trust does not feel misplaced. I am inspired by how easy it has felt to grow towards Him in his light and love.

Although there will never be an end to my seeking, and I cannot yet see a time when I stop writing in this space, I do trust that there will come a time when I am healed. For now, I have trust that I am on the right path. Part of that trust comes from knowing that the question has shifted: what was once “Who am I?” is now “What is the best version of myself? What is the plan for me that God has in mind?” In that way, I know that my mind and heart have changed. I trust that God has great things in mind for me. I have faith.

Prayer:

Father above us, Father among us, Father in our hearts, I glorify your name. I am grateful beyond words for you love and forgiveness and sacrifice. I ask today only that you continue to lead, and know that I will follow.

I want to write about the difference between being rejoiceful-slash-joyful, and being happy.

This idea has been rattling around in my brain for a couple of days.  Unlike so many of the others I’ve posted here, it has been a struggle to wrap my brain around. The concept of being joyful–and rejoicing in the Lord’s love and hope–is simple. There is so much for which to be grateful, and God’s love, hope, and forgiveness are boundless. These are reasons to be joyful!

My difficulty is defining what I’ve identified as “happiness” thus far, and putting to words why it has been so elusive.

I think that materialism and objectification, both of which I’ve written about before, play a significant role. We live in a consumer society, and it is so easy to fall prey to the consumptive mindset. Buy the thing, possess it, and then buy the next thing. This dangers in thinking this way are many-fold, but I’ll try to describe in words how I think they’ve affected me most.

Firstly, I don’t think the problem necessarily lies with the thing we buy, but with the concept of the next thing. The better thing. The “upgrade.” When we start to think about what could be better, we lose sight of gratitude for what we have been given. We start to chase the ghost of perfection. I have chased that ghost, and for far too long. There is no satisfaction in that, and no contentedness, because we’re trying to capture and bottle an ether, and finish a race with a moving finish line. We will never be finished, and we will always feel that pang, that yen, for whatever comes next.

Secondly, I think when we start to feel that way about the world, and the inanimate objects of our desires, that thinking can start to leak into how we treat people. While it may be financially expensive to do so, it is relatively easy to temporarily sate the thirst for the material. I can simply trade some of my time and money for the thing I want, and that urge is satisfied (for now). When we consider people that same way, as objects to fulfill our desires, that is when true objectification occurs. Our friends and family can become disposable in our mind’s eye.

Ultimately, I think this thirst for the material has handicapped my ability to understand what it means to be loved, and to receive love as it was intended. Love–God’s love, the love of a friend, love from family, romantic love–should be a graceful gift, given freely, and accepted with gratitude. I have been guilty of considering love as I consider any other material object: as something that I could possess and hoard. I have accepted it when convenient, and I’ve been willfully ignorant of it’s value instead of cherishing it. It was simply something that I “had,” like I have a stereo or a computer. Feeling this way–even accidentally–is perhaps my life’s greatest folly: along with attributing the disposability of worldly objects to love, I also associated the same replaceability to love. I have squandered time and love that cannot be replaced.

Another aspect to this conversation is our society’s emphasis on possessing the things we want, instead of being grateful for having been provided what we really need. There’s a reason that the Lord’s Prayer asks “Give us this day our daily bread.” Others have even argued that in the original Aramaic that Jesus spoke, the phrase played on words in a way that the intended meaning was actually something more akin to “Give us that which is necessary.” You can read about that here; I’m not going to get into it in this space, because that’s not my area of expertise. I think there’s an argument to be made that we have far, far more than we need, and that the excess we enjoy breeds pressure and greed, which begets more excess, and so on. I believe it factors greatly into our dissatisfaction.

The Gospel of John teaches us not to love worldly things, and it’s a lesson I wish I’d learned sooner. “Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, love for the Father is not in them. For everything in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—comes not from the Father but from the world. The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever” (John 2:15-17). On the surface, the passage is simply saying not to hold up with love the things that man has wrought. Dig deeper, though, and I think this passage points out the foolishness of loving transient things over those that will last forever. Love, for example. Hope. Forgiveness.

This passage is also apropos: “What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?” (Matthew 16:26). This is deeper than I thought at first glance, as well. Originally, I thought that it was saying that my soul and God’s salvation were simply more important than worldly pursuits.  That is certainly true, but I can also read it another way. Loving the worldly, the made-by-man, and the desires of the flesh actually impairs my heart-and-soul’s ability to love and be loved. By aligning my thoughts and desires with the worldly, I cripple my ability to see beyond into the otherwordly, and to love God and my fellows.

Again this bears repeating: by chasing the ghost of worldly happiness, I have been making true joy impossible to catch. This is because it cannot be caught, it can only be accepted as a gift of grace.

I will wrap this up with a Psalm:

“Take delight in the Lord,
and he will give you the desires of your heart.
Commit your way to the Lord;
trust in him and he will do this:
He will make your righteous reward shine like the dawn,
your vindication like the noonday sun.
Be still before the Lord
and wait patiently for him;
do not fret when people succeed in their ways,
when they carry out their wicked schemes.” (Psalm 37:4-7).

Ultimately, I think a big part of the reason why I have been so unhappy and dissatisfied is that I’ve been chasing the wrong things. Even further, I think I’ve wanted to be happy about the wrong things. I wanted to be satisfied with my place in the world and within society, when I should have wanted to be rejoiceful and joyful of the Lord’s grace. If I trust in God with a heart full of gratitude, everything I need will be provided.

“When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, ‘Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her’” (John 8:7).

The “her” in reference is a woman guilty of adultery, and Jesus is speaking to a group of law-teachers and Pharisees who mean to stone her to death for her sin. This verse is, in my mind, one of the most important passages in the entire Bible, and I think it may be one of the most important teachings that any resource has to teach us about what it means to be a sheep in Christ’s flock.

Firstly, it teaches me that because we are all human (and fallibly so), that we must be mindful that our fellows under God are likewise human, and that our humanity makes us susceptible to failure. With these words, Jesus reminds the mob that next to God, we are all in the same sinking boat of frailty and fallibility.

Secondly, it teaches that our province as humans is not to judge sin. Judgement, and forgiveness, are the sole province of the Lord. It is neither my responsibility, nor my responsibility, to judge others.

Today is a different time, and we live in a very different place than Judea. Thankfully, people here aren’t stoned in the streets these days. (We leave it to our criminal-justice system to dole out ultimate punishment, and that is a conversation for another day.) The question is: what does this lesson mean to my own insulated life, and how can I use this to become closer to God and to my fellows?

One of the things I am particularly guilty of is criticism. It can feel good, even righteous, to be critical. I’ve written before about how addictive rage and outrage can be–pundits (comedian and otherwise) like Sean Hannity and John Oliver have made a living off of that principle. Criticism is no different. I often read a review every day: of a movie or television show or car or restaurant. And because I read in a language of criticism, I believe I’ve started to think in a language of criticism.

I don’t necessarily tend to be vocally critical of people close to me; I’m mostly tactful, and often gentle. But I do tend to be be a perfectionist. When I write or build something, I tinker and toy and fidget until it is as good as I can possibly make it, and if the results are substandard, I will often trash that thing before it ever sees the day’s light. In that way, I am my own harshest critic. Perhaps that is good, perhaps not. But, because I see myself that way, I tend to hold others to the same standard. If something isn’t absolutely perfect, wonderful though it may be, I find it all too easy to pick it apart. That song could have used a different key for the bridge. This language of this book is too simplistic. This movie was 20 minutes too long. I have never written a song or a book, nor have I made a movie, but I still have been guilty of considering myself an expert in those arenas, if only by virtue of being a consumer.

I feel as though I’m at my worst when I am critical of someone close to me. It’s so easy to cherry-pick bad decisions in hindsight, or to point out where something went wrong. What I sometimes lose sight of is the effort that went into creating something, or making that decision. I can’t see the different viewpoint from which the author of that thing, whatever it is, viewed that moment.

Being critical makes us feel smarter than our peers, more evolved than our fellows, and better than the average person. Am I actually any of those things? I make mistakes every day. I give partial efforts where full effort is due. I commit sins. My results, such as they are, are no better than those of whom I’m being critical. This comes back to humility, and seeing myself as equal to my fellows, both in my ability to achieve, and my ability to fail.

So, who am I to criticize? Who am I to pass judgement?

Prayer:

Heavenly Father, please help me walk humbly among my fellows. Let me see their efforts and intents rather than imperfect results, and help me see that next to you, we are all imperfect.

The 2010 remake of “The Karate Kid” has myriad flaws, but it also does some things right. Like its source material, it has two climactic moments. The obvious one is the end, when the tournament is won on one leg and an enemy is turned into a begrudgingly respectful friend. The true climax, however, occurs when ‘Dre (or Daniel in the original) realizes that Mr. Han (or Mr. Miyagi) has been teaching him martial arts during the entire course of what the former thought to be menial tasks and labor. This is the most important moment in both films. The 1984 original is a better film overall, but during this moment, the remake actually wins out.

Once Mr. Han sees the “Kung Fu” that Dre’s antagonists are being taught, he pledges to teach the young American “real” Kung Fu. Then he spends weeks forcing Dre to pick up, put on, take off, and hang up his jacket. Dre believes that Mr. Han is teaching him a lesson about being respectful. In the end, he’s not wrong, but there’s more to it than that. Mr. Han is teaching Dre to internalize movements until they’re second nature. He’s also setting up the most important philosophical lesson Dre can learn about Kung Fu (or himself). Watch below.

This moment is chilling to me. First, I love Kung Fu and Kung Fu movies. Second, Mr. Han’s words to Dre resonate with me: “Kung Fu lives in everything we do, Xaio Dre. It lives in how we put on the jacket; how we take off the jacket. It lives in how we treat people. Everything is Kung Fu.”

On the bare surface, Mr. Han is telling Dre that if he looks around him and pays attention, he will see the art of Kung Fu everywhere.  Dig a little deeper, and he’s saying that Kung Fu is not an art at all (martial or otherwise), but is instead a philosophy and outlook on life. The students that have been antagonizing Dre do not know real Kung Fu, because all they know is how to use their martial art for violence and anger. Mr. Han is teaching Dre that the true purpose of Kung Fu is to change the way you see the world, and make peace with your enemies.

What’s remarkable to me is that if I change the lens through which I hear that lesson, and replace the words “Kung Fu” with the word “Christianity,” the lesson resonates just as truly. Try just re-reading that passage, for example: “Christianity lives in everything we do. It lives in how we put on the jacket; how we take off the jacket. It lives in how we treat people. Everything is Christianity.” You could also read the previous paragraph I wrote through that same lens, and I think it would still make perfect sense.

The book of Peter has a passage that summarizes this, I think. It’s just a corollary to the Golden Rule I’ve been thinking and writing so much about, but I think it really points to the heart of what it means to be a Christian:

“Finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble. Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called . . .” (Peter 3:8-10).

My lesson for today is to try to see a Christian opportunity everywhere I look. An opportunity to be humble. An opportunity for gratitude, compassion, sympathy and friendship.

Prayer for this morning:

Heavenly Father, please help me see the world through a lens of humility and service, and bring me closer to you today, if even by only an inch.