students of jesus

You see this person everyday, and every day you look at this person with a critical eye. Evaluating. Assessing. Judging. This person you see, the one you so critically assess, is you.

Mirrors have a 5,000-year history, but in the last 200 years, our reflections have moved into our homes and become silent members of the family: mirrors in every bathroom; a full length mirror in the closet; a mirror in the entryway; lighted mirrors in the visors of our cars; and now, cell phones with a camera pointed our direction.

Have you ever watched someone else look in a mirror? Never mind how the face contorts to apply make-up or fix hair, have you seen that last look we give ourselves before moving on? We check ourselves over, looking for defects. We use our serious face. It’s nearly a scowl. We subject ourselves to a harsh stare.

Nearly all the time: when we look in a mirror it’s to examine—and critique—ourselves: the hair, the make-up, the wrinkles, the age. But in the examination we also see that critical look on our face, the look that communicates judgment and criticism. Before we leave home, we have stared ourselves down in the cold light of judgment. Is it any wonder that for the rest of the day we hear our own critical voice inside our head critiquing all our actions? It's how we started the day.

The ancients had no such daily struggle. Only the rich owned mirrors. The poor rarely paused, like Narcissus, to gaze upon their reflection in still water. Ancient mirrors distorted color and proportion: they saw through a glass, darkly. Can we imagine the Apostle Paul as a vain man, checking out his bald head, large nose, and scarred face before setting out to proclaim the Kingdom of God? No. His ears heard the Spirit; his eyes saw the nations.

We face a subtle tension in our daily preparations. Before we leave home we have already turned a critical gaze on at least one person: ourselves.

Some years ago I decided to be a little nicer to the guy in the mirror. Silly as it sounds, I decided to practice the discipline of a simple smile turned upon myself. Not the foolish happy-talk daily affirmations of motivational speakers—I merely smiled at one of God’s good children, who happened to be me. Imagine the atmosphere in our home if I turned a critical eye to my wife before she left the house. What if, instead of a hug and a kiss for each child, I sent them off with a stern, judgmental look?

A true story: I once asked a woman if she ever smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Startled—horrified—she said no. Yet, is the Father any less loving toward us than we are toward our children? Are we not the objects of his pleasure? In our awkwardness and even our rebellion, are we not his own? Who are we to judge any of God’s children, even ourselves?

What if our final look in the mirror each morning ended with us smiling at ourselves, reflecting on God's great love for us, and his approval? We just might hear his voice, whispering, “This is my beloved, in whom I am well-pleased.”

In some ways John Updike is the embodiment of C.S. Lewis’ vision for a Christian artist. Lewis held that the idea of Christian Literature made no more sense than Christian Engineering. This is from Lewis' excellent essay, Christianity and Literature:

The rules for writing a good passion play or a good devotional lyric are simply the rules for writing tragedy or lyric in general: success in sacred literature depends on the same qualities of structure, suspense, variety, diction, and the like which secures success in secular literature.

Updike may well be the best American novelist of the 20^th century. He was a believer. But you will search in vain for his work at any Christian Bookstore—which is why I rarely visit them. His work deals with the most-human themes (ambition, pride, sexual desire, alienation, and disillusionment) in ways considered unmarketable by Christian Publishers.

Updike also wrote poetry. I don’t know if his poems ever appeared in Guideposts, but he did manage to gain the attention of The New Yorker and other pagan publications. The result is a writer virtually unknown among Evangelicals, but revered among the lost. In this instance, please number me among the lost.

Earthworm

We pattern our Heaven

On bright butterflies,

But it must be that even

In earth heaven lies.

The worm we uproot

In turning a spade

Returns, careful brute,

To the peace he has made.

God blesses him; he

He gives praise with his toil,

Lends comfort to me,

And aërates the soil.

Immersed in the facts,

one must worship there;

claustrophobia attacks

us even in air.

At a traffic square just east of Bridgetown, in Barbados, stands the Bussa Emancipation Statue. A strong black man, Bussa, the leader of the slave rebellion of 1816 has found his footing and raised his vision. His lifted hands reveal the chains of slavery, broken. But the shackles, and bits of the chain, remain attached to his proud arms.

Sculptor Karl Broodhagen’s 75-foot statue is bold and inspiring. It cries freedom. It also illustrates the spiritual challenge of freedom. Bussa’s chains are broken, but his shackles remain. It’s a parable for everyone who finds freedom in Jesus: too many students of Jesus carry the cold hard metal around our wrists. Slavery is gone, but its effects remain. Until the shackles are gone every slave is reminded of the past.

Consider the controlling metaphor of the Old Testament, Exodus. After 400+ years of slavery the children of Abraham are set free by God’s powerful intervention. They leave with the wealth of Egypt in their bags but the habits of slavery still in their hearts. “God has delivered us,” they cry, “but who will care for us?” No more than three days into the wilderness, the fleshpots of slavery began to look good to a hungry and weary people. The real problem was not a lack of food, but a lack of vision: the God of Abraham had set them free, but the community of Israel still wanted someone to feed them.

In fact, it took 40 years for Israel to learn the lesson that man does not live by bread alone, but by every word proceeding from God's mouth. The Creator spoke “Freedom” over the people, but it required a new generation to hear his voice. Each successive generation had to learn that freedom came only through loving faith-filled submission to their God. It is not enough to be set free: we must serve the True Master.

So too the church. Generations of believers have struggled to grasp the liberty of bond-service to Jesus. The Lord has spoken forgiveness from his cross; he speaks freedom by giving us our own cross. The Apostle Peter warned those who had been set free, “Live as free people, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as God’s slaves.” Prophets from Saint Paul to Bob Dylan have reminded us, “you're gonna have to serve somebody.” He sets us free so that we might choose to serve him. We cannot choose rightly until we have been redeemed, but choose we must. After we are born again we must decide whether to live with him or live on our own.

Even for a believer—especially for a believer—a life apart from the lordship Christ is disordered, chaotic, and filled with fear. We need the Spirit of God, who specializes in hovering over the chaos to carry out the words of God: let there be light, let there be growth, and let there be a Sabbath rest. That’s why the preacher of Hebrews—speaking to an audience of believers—reminded us there's no Sabbath rest apart from communion with God.

This is the case for embracing Jesus as Lord: we may have experienced the freedom of broken chains, but we must make our way to the blacksmith of our souls and ask his help to remove whatever shackles remain.

True story: Leonard Pugh was my first boss, 40 years my senior, a hard-boiled sales manager. He took me out for sales training: we parked at a nondescript office building and he asked, “Have you thought about what you’re going to say when you cold-call a prospective customer?”

I hadn’t, but I stammered out some nonsense.

“No,” he corrected. “Say this . . .” He proceeded to rattle off a well-rehearsed pitch. I had no chance of remembering a word of it. We entered the building and walked into the first office. As he pushed the door open he whispered, “All right then, off you go!” He stood by the door and listened to me. The receptionist brushed me off in less than a minute—less than 30 seconds, really. Leonard and I retreated to the hallway.

“That was terrible,” he said. “Say this . . . “ and he repeated the same stuff.

On to the next door: same building. As I touched the door he patted me on the shoulder and whispered, “You take this one by yourself.”

Petrified, I walked into a small office. A man old enough to be my father looked up and asked, “May I help you?” using only his eyes. I mumbled an introduction and company name. He interrupted, “What does your firm do?” I told him everything I knew. It didn’t take long. When I paused he said, “OK, we’ll give you a try.” Whatever deficiencies I experienced on my first attempt were magically corrected by walking ten steps down an office hallway. I returned to the hallway, order in hand. Leonard grinned: “OK, you’ve got it. You’re on your own.”

Months later I found out Leonard set the whole thing up: the guy in the second office was a regular customer. Leonard told him we were coming, and asked him to give me an order. Even in my inexperience and ignorance, Leonard had my back. He remained a teacher and a resource, but he sent me out to do the work from the very first day.

This is a real-life parable. Simply substitute “Jesus” for “Leonard Pugh” and you’ve got the idea. That, and multiply Leonard’s powers by a zillion.

We think we’re not ready. In fact, we know it. But Jesus delights in pushing us out door even while watching over us. Here’s the Bible-version. When Jesus had called the Twelve together, he gave them power and authority to drive out all demons and to cure diseases, and he sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal the sick. He told them: “Take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra shirt . . .”  (Luke 9:1-3)   Do you honestly think these guys were ready? This episode happens early in Jesus’ ministry, when the disciples were still rookies. The Lord puts his hand on their shoulders and whispers, “You take this one by yourself.” They return triumphant. Before the chapter is over they’re multiplying loaves and fish along with the boss.

In Luke 10 Jesus sends out 70 more – do you think they were ready? A mere 18 verses later: “Jesus, full of joy through the Holy Spirit, said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this is what you were pleased to do.” 

Let me make it plain: he’s got your back. Ministry’s not really about you, anyway. And besides, who could really learn everything they need to know in advance of the situation. I suspect that’s why Jesus ended the Great Commission with “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”

Of course we should study, train, apprentice, and prepare. But when it comes to ministry, who is ever prepared for healing the sick, cleansing lepers, binding up the devastated heart, or sharing heaven’s wisdom? The revelation comes when we realize we don’t have the goods no matter how much experience we gain. He’s the source; we’re the servants.

And Leonard Pugh would agree: Jesus is a better boss.

“All right then, off you go!”

Don't let the lyrical Italian name fool you: Christina Rosette was British through and through. Her father was Italian, and a poet, but Rossetti’s upbringing and environs were solidly the stiff-upper-lip stuff of 19th century England.

Her verse has been chopped into bite-sized pieces and to this day shows up on Hallmark cards and sappy Facebook memes. Her true story—and her work—are much deeper. Peeking through the British reserve and stylistic sound of long-ago, we can still discover the thoughts of a disciple.

The disciplines of meter and rhyme sound strange to our modern ears. Indeed, these devices remind us of greeting cards and simple-minded expressions. Our work today is to look beyond these biases and hear the voice of a devoted follower of Jesus, who still speaks today:

Uphill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
    Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
    From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
    A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
    You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
   Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
   They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
   Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
   Yea, beds for all who come.