Talking Donkeys

What is life but a road full of twists and turns, and various detours we do and do not take?

I've been thinking quite a lot lately about big decisions. It's sort of that time of life, if you know what I mean. In all my pondering of all the fascinating options, I keep coming back to one specific thought. Perhaps memory would be a better word. "Seek not the will of God, but the mind of Christ." 

I jotted this phrase down in my notebook last summer on a study abroad trip in England. Our professor, Dr. Alan Jacobs, was talking about how many Christians take the concept of "God's will" and twist it into something remarkably similar to the pagan notion of Fate. In effect, we sit around waiting to hear God's voice, or receive some sign, or in some way have our decisions "confirmed" by divine means. And we use the absence of these confirmations as excuses for our failure to act. 

Dr. Jacobs suggested that a more beneficial - not to mention holier - way of navigating life is to cultivate in ourselves the "mind of Christ." As in 1 Corinthians 2:14-16, which reads: "The natural person does not accept the things of the Spirit of God, for they are folly to him, and he is not able to understand them because they are spiritually discerned. The spiritual person judges all things, but is himself to be judged by no one. 'For who has understood the mind of the Lord so as to instruct him?' But we have the mind of Christ." It is a powerful passage of Scripture. Essentially it says that if we are filled with the Spirit, we will be able to judge "all things" from a Christ-like perspective. 

So what impact does this have on the road we take through life? I think back to a talk author Donald Miller (Blue Like Jazz) gave at Wheaton last year. He challenged the audience - majority college students - to consider the idea that sometimes when making decisions, perhaps even more often than not, God just might want us to choose. Yes, he could send an angel or a prophet or a talking donkey to tell us what to do. He could speak to us audibly or do the whole wet fleece/dry fleece thing to make his will clear. But maybe, except in those fairly rare situations, he lets us decide for ourselves... as any good parent does, he gives us leeway to make our own choices, at least some of the time. 

To be clear, I'm not really talking about free will here. Yes, I believe God allows us to choose whether or not we will give our lives to him. But the choices I'm talking about are ones he gives to Christians specifically. Choices that do not affect our salvation. Some examples might be: where should I go to college? What should I major in? Who should I date/marry? What kind of career should I go into? Which church should I join? Sweet potato fries, or regular? Ok, that last one was a joke. Haha. Anyway. My point in all this is to say that we Christians need to stop crippling ourselves by waiting for some special "sign" or "call." 

If we actually receive one of these clear indications, of course we should act on it. As Don joked, "Here's how you know, based on Scripture, whether God has a specific plan for your life: If you are a virgin and you get pregnant anyway." He was kidding of course, but he has a point. In the Bible, if God wants someone to do something, he doesn't beat around the bush (literally... he seems to prefer lighting the bush on fire). But when he's not thundering from the heavens, his followers in Scripture don't just sit around waiting for the next talking donkey. Where did we get the idea we have to sit around waiting for God to send some sort of message in a bottle with instructions for our lives? 

Don't get me wrong. Decisions are important. Some (though perhaps not quite as many as we would like to believe) are incredibly important. But when choices are between two clearly good and beneficial alternatives, there really isn't as much hanging in the balance as we often think. In one of the best-known poems of the 20th Century, Robert Frost writes:

 
   I shall be telling this with a sigh
   Somewhere ages and ages hence:

   Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

   I took the one less traveled by,
     And that has made all the difference. 

People quote this passage at graduation ceremonies and the like as a profound statement of truth. But in fact, "The Road Not Taken" is one of the most misinterpreted poems in existence. Frost is being ironic here. For earlier in the poem he makes perfectly clear that the two paths before him were "really just the same," one "just as fair" as the other. His point is that, looking back, we often over-romanticize the importance of life decisions and the impact they have ultimately had on our stories. His insinuated message is that he probably could have taken the other path and ended up more or less the same person. Which, I think, is far more profound than the alternative (and wrong) interpretation.


Does God have a specific will for our lives? Yes. That we love Him, and love our neighbor. And love is an active choice, not a passive emotion. So maybe, when we are faced with difficult decisions, instead of asking God to "reveal His will" to us, we should instead pray for discernment - the "mind of Christ" - and then... choose.  

Out of Oxygen

When I received an email from Chaplain Kellough telling the Wheaton student body that a recent alum died this past Saturday, I paused and took a few minutes out of my evening to read the details.

Josiah Bubna graduated in 2011, meaning he was a senior when I was a freshman. He was running on Wheaton's track, where I've run myself, when he suddenly collapsed and died. His fiancée was right there when it happened. They were going to be married a month later. It was all very sad. But I didn't know Josiah personally, just like I didn't know Ramie Harris, another Wheaton student who died in a plane crash this past spring, and just like I haven't known any of the numerous Wheaton grads and professors emeritus whose deaths have elicited similar emails from Chappy K over the past year. So I closed my email and didn't give much more thought to Josiah.

Then this afternoon I got a text from my mom of all people, asking if I knew him. I said no, and then she informed me that he was the cousin of my YoungLife leader, Julia, someone I've loved and looked up to since middle school. And suddenly it all changed. It all seemed so much more real. I started hurting for Julia. I went to Josiah's Facebook page and saw that we have a number of mutual friends, and I started hurting for them too. I read through some of the recent posts on his wall, and started hurting for all the friends and family who are clearly in complete shock over the death of such a young and healthy person, right in the prime of life. I saw his profile picture with his smiling fiancée, and his "engaged" relationship status, and started hurting for Rebekah, who is right now going through a world of pain I can only imagine. My mind went back to nine years ago when my own beloved cousin died of cystic fibrosis at age 20, and I remembered the aching and grief and confusion I felt. It hurts just writing about it.

One day not long after Amy died, my mom told me about an interaction she'd had with my other cousin, Amy's sister Stephanie, at the funeral. Steph, who also has cystic fibrosis, had been in the hospital room when Amy's lungs finally gave out. She watched as her sister grew wide-eyed and fearful as she ran out of oxygen, trying so hard to listen to her parents' pleas to keep fighting. And so, as my mom tried to comfort her at the funeral, telling her that Amy had gone to heaven, Steph asked her, "If she was going to heaven, why was she so scared?" My mom, a pediatrician, gave the scientific explanation that as her body filled up with carbon dioxide, it went into panic mode and produced the frantic emotions Amy displayed in her last moments. And that was the end of the story. But I don't think Stephanie was fully satisfied with that explanation, and now, almost a decade later, I think she must still live in a measure of fear about her own impending death.

Why is it that death scares us so? There's a scene in the movie What About Bob? (a family favorite), in which eleven-year-old Sigmund shares his deepest fear with his father's 40-something psychiatric patient, Bob. "There's no way out of it. You are going to die. I'm going to die. There's no way out of it. It's going to happen. What difference does it make if it's tomorrow or in 50 years? Or much sooner in your case." Most of us aren't as melodramatic about it as Siggy, but we all think about death at some point. Especially times like this, when we or someone we're close to lose someone. And it's always a little scary, and it's always a little sad. Sometimes more than a little.

I'm not quite sure why that is, especially for Christians, but it just is. I mean, I'm looking forward to heaven. I hope you are too. Read the post called "Heaven" from a few weeks ago to see what I mean. But I don't know that I can honestly say I'm looking forward to death. Death. I hate it, by the way, when people give cutesy names to it, like "passing away," "moving on," or "going to a better place." Just call it what it is, people. Death. It's going to happen to all of us, just like taxes. And it scares us, because none of us knows how to be dead. Living we've got a decent handle on. But dying is a mystery. There's nothing we humans hate like a mystery we can't solve.

So what are we supposed to do? I, eleven-year-old that I was, wrestled with that question for weeks and months after Amy died. I came to the conclusion most people must come to when death stares them in the face: live. Live with everything you've got. Throw yourself into life like you're dying (to borrow from Kris Allen). After all, you are. As George Santayana once put it, "There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval." Enjoy is the perfect word. Biblical, too.

Josiah is dead. Ramie is dead. Amy is dead. Millions on millions of others have died. We all will at some point. Some today, some tomorrow, most a long time from now. But now, right now, we are alive. You and I are living and breathing, and I believe it's for a reason. I believe God made us to give everything we possibly can to the world, and get everything we possibly can back out. I believe He's using this life to shape and mold us in ways we can't possibly understand. It's a gift. And I don't want to waste it.

Shakespeare and Love

"Love is too young to know what conscience is." 

Shakespeare opened Sonnet 151 with these words. I think it is one of the most beautiful lines of poetry I've ever read. In the poem, the suggested meaning is that a person in love can't tell right from wrong in his or her own actions. That such a person isn't fully aware of how he or she is behaving. 

We've all seen this at some point in our lives, and many of us have been that blissfully ignorant, lovesick jackass. You know how it goes. Boy meets girl, boy falls for girl, boy suddenly starts ditching his friends to be with girl, boy hurts friends' feelings. But it doesn't stop there, because eventually the "honeymoon phase" ends and boy acts like a pig around girl and hurts her feelings too. Maybe even worse, boy looks for opportunities to get his feelings hurt even when girl didn't mean to hurt them. (Please feel free to switch around the pronouns if you feel like I'm being a man-hater. I'm not, it just sounded smoother this way). It's very true that love can bring out the worst in us sometimes. The selfishness and insensitivity we hide from almost everyone have a way of coming out in our closest relationships. We're alone among all God's creatures in this respect. It's sad, really. 

But there is another sense in which this line of Shakespeare's rings true. As love grows deeper and more mature and less thickheaded, its owner gains some self-awareness. Rediscovering a sense of right and wrong in his or her own life, this person learns instead to overlook the transgressions of the object of his or her love. Boy stops acting like a pig and starts putting girl's wants in front of his own. Boy stops looking for ways to find fault with girl and starts assuming she has his best interests at heart. (Again, please read those last few sentences again with the pronouns reversed if it makes you feel better. This really does work both ways). It's all about trust in the end. At the beginning of a relationship - any relationship, not just the romantic kind - trust is hard. As it starts to be rewarded, it gets easier. Then, all of a sudden, it's almost effortless. 

And forgetting "what conscience is" as it pertains to others... it's a beautiful thing. To live unhindered by ultimate concern for self and ultimate distrust of others. To refuse to hold grudges against anyone, but to forgive without needing to be asked. To let go of the need to be right. This is love in the truest sense. The kind of love older Bibles translate as “charity.” 

I recently left Wyoming to be a bridesmaid in my friend's wedding back in Pennsylvania. Watching Lindsey and Chris look at each other as they said their vows, you could just tell that as far as they were concerned, the other could do no wrong. And that may be a negative statement at the beginning of a relationship - the whole love is blind thing - but when it's still true after the test of time, its meaning changes. It’s not that you ignore each other’s faults, but that you accept each other completely despite them. After you've seen the worst in someone, and they've seen the worst in you, and your worsts just don't matter anymore. It's a point most of us only reach with a very few people in life. 

How incredible, then, that Christ sees us this way from the very beginning, and without getting anything in return. He sees our worst in a way no person ever could, and yet he loves us more deeply and perfectly than people are capable of loving. 

“This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.” - 1 John 4:10-11

Heaven (sermon given 6/24)

I work in the grocery store over at Colter Bay, and as part of our uniform we wear these gold name tags with our name and home state on them. Mine says: Linnea Peckham, Pennsylvania. These tags are a big conversation starter with customers. I hear “Pennsylvania? You’re a long way from home” on average probably 2 or 3 times a day. This observation is often followed by a question along the lines of, “What brings you out here?” It’s a good question, but it’s not an easy one for me to answer. The truth is, I wanted to come out West for the summer because I had this inexplicable longing to be awed. To be blown away by the beauty of Creation. To be able to clear my head of all the busyness of college life. To discover... something. I don’t even know how to express what. And whatever it is, I haven’t found it.

Don’t get me wrong, the mountains are beautiful. The lakes and rivers and canyons are absolutely incredible. I’ve seen the most amazing sunsets and the most unbelievable shooting stars. They are all God's handiwork, and they all display His glory. But this longing I feel deep inside of me, this yearning for something more... it’s not for the mountains, but something far, far beyond and above them. It was only after I came here and took it all in that I realized that the glory and wonder of places like the Tetons and Yellowstone are only a foretaste of something much, much greater. 

C.S. Lewis writes about this restlessness, this longing in the human heart. “Most people,” he says, “if they had really learned to look into their own hearts, would know that they do want, and want acutely, something that cannot be had in this world.” I think a lot of the folks who come through places like the national parks are keenly aware of this desire inside of them. Like me, they come looking for it to be fulfilled by the wonders of nature. Like me, they are disappointed. 

There are two mistakes people make when they encounter this disappointment. Some keep on looking for it in one place after another. Or one person after another, one drink after another, whatever the case maybe. They keep thinking that the next thing will be the last thing, which of course it never is. Other people become disillusioned by it all. They stop expecting greatness from the world and settle for mediocre. They grow cynical and laugh at those who keep trying to extract joy from life. I think I have, to an extent, been at both of these extremes at different points in my life. Maybe you have as well. And it's hard, because no matter how hard I try, or how hard I try to avoid trying, I'm just not content. It's like it says in that U2 song: "I still haven't found what I'm looking for."

But there is a third way. A way that ends in hope, not disappointment. If I may be so bold, it is the Christian way. We recognize that desire is meant to be satisfied. God would not have created us with longings that can’t be filled. We get hungry, we eat. We get thirsty, we drink. We get tired, we sleep, etc. Since we experience this elusive desire for “something more,” we believe, as with these more simple examples, that something must exist which will fulfill it. It's one of the most compelling arguments out there for the existence of an afterlife. As Lewis writes, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” Christians believe that this other world is the answer to the longing I’ve been describing. We are yearning for heaven. As it says in Ecclesiastes 3:10, God has “set eternity in the human heart.” 

But I’ve noticed that Christians, at least the Christians I’ve encountered, don’t talk about heaven very much. In a way this makes sense, since we don’t know exactly what it will be like, and it can for this reason be difficult to discuss. But if you think about it, in another sense, the fact that we avoid this subject is very odd. Heaven is where we’ll be spending eternity. It’s Home, with a capital H. The hope we always talk about, the hope we have in Christ, is more specifically the hope that we will spend eternity with Him in heaven. 

The Gospel, the Good News, isn’t just that Jesus died for our sins, though that is where it must begin. Jesus died for our sins so that, as it says in John 3:16, “whoever believes in Him will not perish, but will have everlasting life.” 

I think we’re supposed to spend more time thinking about and talking about heaven. It’s only with an eternal mindset that we can be fully effective here on earth. How can we know how to go through this life if we don’t know where it is that we’re going? And it is such a beautiful thing to look forward to. Such a beautiful thing to look forward to. Some people might say it’s morbid, but we aren’t talking about death, we’re talking about life. Life that is more real and beautiful and full than anything we have experienced or can experience here on earth. 

“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” He said to me: “It is finished. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To the thirsty I will give water without cost from the spring of the water of life.”

 - Revelation 21:1-6