students of jesus

Once there was a man who was very good at his chosen profession. Although he was young everyone recognized that he was a rising star within his organization. One day he took a business trip. Before he arrived at his destination he unexpectedly encountered his arch-enemy along the road, and that enemy left him on the roadside defeated–and somehow–totally blind.

This man was led by the hand toward his destination, a strange town where he knew practically no one, and was left alone in a room for three days. During those three days, in the darkness of his new-found condition, he had time to reconsider everything he had learned about his profession. He was a man of great learning, especially with respect to the “Bible” of his business. Oddly enough the “Bible” of his business was in fact, the Bible–at least the Old Testament.

The man’s name was Saul, and you can read this story in the Book of Acts, chapter 9. Saul had a passion for the Old Testament. Some Pauline scholars speculate that Saul had committed the entire Pentateuch to memory. Imagine: Saul had memorized every word of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.

Despite such a passion for the Bible, when the author Himself came to earth Saul could not recognize that the One who inspired the Scripture was standing in front of him. How could someone who studied the Old Testament scriptures all their lives miss the Subject of those scriptures? I would like to suggest this answer: it’s easier to relate to a book than a living person. Books are manageable. Books can be memorized and mastered. Books can be analyzed and interpreted. Books can be used to support conclusions we have have already decided upon.

It’s too easy to criticize Pharisees like Saul. “How could they have failed to recognize Jesus?” we might ask. “Surely we would not have missed God’s anointed when he came.” Yet we should be careful, because these Pharisees, Sadducees, scribes, and lawyers possessed a commitment and dedication to the scripture that was likely far greater anything we practice in our day.

Perhaps the religious people of Jesus’ day were engaged in a kind of idolatry. Not in pagan practices or rituals but in a kind of idolatry which elevated the inspired word of God over God himself. The Bible is a precious gift from God. He breathed it into the minds and hearts of the men who wrote it. I believe that God Himself watched over process of collecting and canonizing these documents. I believe that God has protected the Bible through many dark ages so that every generation would be able to benefit from his gift. I love the book he has given us, but I do not confuse the book with the Author.

Sadly, in many Evangelical circles the Holy Trinity has morphed from “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” to “Father, Son and Holy Bible.” Todd Hunter, a Anglican bishop, says plainly, “the Bible is the menu, not the meal.” I believe he means that the Bible should help bring us to the Bread of Life, Jesus, and encourage us in a living relationship with a Lord who is still alive, still speaking, and still doing.

The same Holy Spirit who inspired the scriptures in the first century is still moving and working all over the world. Jesus pointed his followers to the ministry of the Holy Spirit when he said, “But the Counselor, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you.” (John 14: 26) For each follower of Jesus there is a tension between learning about Jesus and having a relationship with him through the Holy Spirit.

So, how should we come to the Bible? I’d like to suggest three “nevers:“

First, never come to the Bible alone. Always invite the same Spirit who inspired the Book to inspire your encounter. The Holy Spirit is the one who “will teach all things,” and He will use the Bible as part of His tutorial.

Second, never settle for head-knowledge apart from personal experience.True, our first ideas about following Jesus may come from reading the Bible, but I believe we should ask the Holy Spirit to move us from the book to real-life experience. What starts as head-knowledge must find its way into our experience.

Finally, never come to the Bible without a commitment to obey his voice. James, the brother of Jesus, tells us that if we build a lifestyle of merely hearing God’s word without doing it, we will become deceived. God doesn’t speak “FYI,” he speaks “FYO,” For Your Obedience.

The Bible is a gift–a gift we should treasure and respect. Let’s use that gift to grow closer to the Giver.

One of my on-line friends took his kids to Disneyworld. He’s seriously addicted to Twitter, so with the help of his iPhone the rest of us got to experience the day as well. He spent a ton of money and dove into the whole Mickey Mouse experience. His final tweet that day: “We have left the park—now what do we do with these mouse ears?”

This is a parable. What happens if we are so heavily invested in the church-world that we look ridiculous outside the church? It’s one thing to be a fan of Mickey Mouse inside an exclusive park where everyone is a fan. It’s quite another to represent him out in the real world. And I wonder, are plastic ears the best way to do so?

Another question: what if our devotion to Jesus finds expression only in the “safe” environment of the church building? Is it really devotion to Jesus? Jesus created his church, but he did not create houses of worship. There’s nothing wrong with church buildings. I love the building in which my community gathers to worship. But even more, I love the people who exit the building through the Servant’s Exit. They serve Jesus and their city by demonstrating the love of God in a thousand ways: mothers, teachers, accountants, shopkeepers, restauranteurs, neighbors, grandparents, coaches, mechanics, students, and all trades, their tackle and trim. The church is God’s dappled face turned toward his creation.

This should be no surprise, since God created the world. He thinks the world belongs to him. What’s more, he has given it to us. All the earth is our true venue. The magic kingdom awaits.

My friend read Shakespeare’s Hamlet when he was an 18 year-old high school senior. Over the decades he has returned to the play every ten years: at 28, 38, 48, and yes, now at 58. He reports to me that the play is radically different with each reading. Although the words remain unchanged, the reader has not.

If this fresh experience is true for one who reads, I began to wonder about the one who writes. What we write in our youth may bear no relation to what we think and write in our old age. Which brings me to David, who wrote so many of the Psalms. David, the shepherd boy who became the prophesied hope of Israel, who was then chased by a madman, then became the great king of God’s people. As David aged he became the husband of several wives, the father of many children, and finally an old king—a man with with scores to settle. David was, in effect, more than one man: his years and experience shaped him even as God’s favor and anointing pushed him forward.

When I read the Psalms attributed to David I’m left to decide which David wrote what Psalms. Sometimes the introduction of a Psalm tells us plainly, as in Psalm 18. But most often we are simply informed with the words, “A Psalm of David.” We are left to imagine when each Psalm was written and under what circumstances. Here is an exercise in spiritual imagination: take David’s most famous Psalm—number 23—and imagine it from the mouth of young David, the shepherd boy. Then read it again, this time hearing the words of a young man on the run for his life against the murderous rage of the insane King Saul. Or yet again as the newly crowned king of all Israel, or (finally) yet again as the dying king who has witnessed the death of his own children and the infighting among those who want to succeed him to the throne.

Or, in a darker vein, take any of the Psalms where David cries out for God’s justice and rescue, or even for God to take vengeance on David’s enemies: the kind of Psalms C.S. Lewis says could only be written by “ferocious, self-pitying, barbaric men.” (As just one example take a quick look at Psalm 28). As I read these Psalms I imagine a very young David, someone unaware of the events he will face in the decades to come. In the passing years David will discover he himself is capable of lust, adultery, intrigue, murder, and pride. It's a cautionary tale of self-righteousness. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it is a comforting notion that even someone “after God’s own heart” can feel and think such thoughts. Or more simply still, that David was human, no different from you or me. We do not know what the years will bring, or what the events of life will surface in our own feelings and actions.

This exercise can lead us to greater insight, and what’s more, it can lead us to greater humility. The kind of grace which could seal our lips when we are tempted to criticize others because we are so convinced of the rightness of our cause, never realizing that even when we are on the “right side” of an issue, God looks at our hearts and actions far more than our opinions. Will we be like young David, who rails and demands divine action (or worse, human action), or will we become the kind of person who enters each day with humility, recognizing the fact that our future holds experiences—and attitudes—for which we are not yet prepared?

John the Baptist was a great man. So great, Jesus said, that up until his day, no one born of a woman was greater than John. Yet in Matthew’s gospel (chapter 14) we read of his death: a death so random, unfortunate and petty we could be excused for looking up from the pages to ask, “Father, how could you let this happen?” I wonder if Jesus had the same question. 

1. Jesus had the experience of receiving unexpected bad news. (v13) We are not alone in our surprise and grief: our Lord himself lived through events unforeseen and had to deal with shock and sadness. When we are overcome with senseless suffering we will find Jesus there with us.


2. Jesus needed space and time to process: “When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place” (v13). This was his way. Time and again the gospels reveal one of the primary sources of the Lord’s strength--he took measures to be alone with the Father. The solitary place need not be the place grief, it can also be the place of comfort.


3. Sometimes events overtake our personal needs: “Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick” (vs 13-14). Most people knew nothing or cared little for Jesus’ sadness. They had their own sadness, and they looked to him for relief. Amazingly, Jesus didn’t hang “Do Not Disturb” on the doorknob. He was filled with compassion for them and took action. Setting aside his own need, he modeled for us again that the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve others.


4. Jesus taught the disciples to follow his example: “They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat” (v16). At least two of Jesus’ disciples had been with John the Baptist previously. The Lord wanted them to focus on the needs of others as those needs presented themselves. Five thousand people were fed, even as Jesus and his disciples wrestled with their own pain. It’s a parable: when we are weak, he is strong. Miraculously strong on behalf of others.


5. Still, Jesus needed time alone: “After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. Later that night, he was there alone” (v23). Events had overtaken Jesus’ original plan. The narrative starts with him slipping away in a boat for some down time. He remembered his initial purpose and took the opportunity to see it through. Jesus demonstrates the balance between his own need and the needs of others. Even while he displayed compassion he did not lose sight of his deep need to process with the Father. Eventually he got there. With some intentionality we can, too.

This story originally appeared two years ago, but today is a beautiful spring day in Kentucky, and it calls out for some whimsy:

Once, somewhere in the Northern Highlands, among the hills of rock, two masons set out to build their homes. In the thin light of a new spring morning they each gathered stones together for their task.

The first mason selected stones suited for the work. He carted them to his site and quickly joined them together into a house both sturdy and safe. Because he finished his work quickly he built another house. And another. And still another until the landscape was filled with houses of stone, all sturdy and safe, but each one cold and empty.

The second mason made a curious choice of building materials, for among the Highlands was a quivering mountain of living stones. These stones were no bigger than those used by the first mason. They were no stronger or better shaped, nor any more lovely than the others. But they were alive: they spoke, they sang, they even argued, and somehow they could move of their own accord, even after being selected by the second mason.

As the mason piled the living stones into his wagon they asked where he was taking them. When they saw the plans for his house some cheered and sang while others complained and wandered away. They wanted no part of his house. Still the mason joined the stones together, building the walls and arches and hearth of a home fit for his purpose.

But because he had chosen living stones, the house was never completed. Some stones jumped from the cart before they arrived at the building. The work was forever unfinished as the mason returned to the mountain quarry again and again for more supply. Other stones allowed the mason to place them in the wall but failed to connect with the wall-mates on their left and right: they argued, they cried, and when they had could stand it no more, they left.

Still he continued to build. Always the house was incomplete. Some mornings the Mason would return to work only to discover that the stones had re-arranged themselves in the night. The Mason made curious choice to leave holes in the walls where the stones had fled, because (he said) “I selected that stone and crafted a place for it alone. Another cannot take its place.”

From time to time a missing stone would wander back to the house and the Mason lovingly fitted it back in the wall again. Some stones stayed in place forevermore, but some left (and returned) time and again. Still he continued to build. Room upon room he added, not one of them finished until there grew an unwieldy mansion both large and incomplete. In this mansion he chose to live, year after year in fellowship with the living stones that breathed in every wall.

Passers-by would stop and stare in amazement. Many laughed at the sprawling mess of a mansion that had grown on the landscape. It seemed without design and devoid of all reason.

“Why don’t you use the stones all the other masons use?” they laughed. “You could finish your house in days and be done with the work.”

“This building is my work,” he replied. “And as for the living stones it is true--they are a bother: but I could never build with dead ones, for this is my home, and I’ve come that they might have life.”

House of the Second Mason is part of a collection of super-short stories I published last year. If you liked this story, perhaps you will like some more.