storiesofvalue

“Take a deep breath!”

The stranger’s advice wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for, but it was what I needed.  My parents had given me permission to rent a rowboat on Glacier Lake at a lodge in Montana.  The surface was placid when I pushed off from shore, but on my return the wind increased and waves began to toss my little rowboat from side to side.

I was not an amateur, but the strangeness of an unfamiliar lake, combined with the unwise decision to travel alone led to panic.  I pulled so hard on the oars they jumped out of their mounts.  Each time I replaced them, they would jump out again.

About that time, an older couple happened to be walking along the shoreline.  They spotted my dilemma and the husband yelled out, “It’s alright!  You’re not that far away!  Take a deep breath!”

I breathed deep.

“Now, put the oars back in and start rowing slowly.  You don’t have to hurry.  You are so close.  Just row slowly.  Take your time!”

In moments I was safe on shore.  In the meantime, my father had walked out from the lodge and was standing by my rescuer, thanking him for his help.  I handed my life jacket to the manager of the boathouse and tried to act as unshaken as possible.

But my cool demeanor couldn’t hide the tremor in my voice.  And mostly, I was just embarrassed.

Embarrassment seems to go hand-in-hand with the testing of our faith.  Perhaps you remember this unfortunate gospel narrative: “The Lord turned and looked straight at Peter. Then Peter remembered the word the Lord had spoken to him: “Before the rooster crows today, you will disown me three times.” And he went outside and wept bitterly.”(Luke 22:61-62 NIV)

Jesus had warned Peter that Satan was intending to sift him like wheat.  Then He gave him specifics.  But it didn’t help.  Peter failed the test and came undone.  A few days later Jesus appeared on a shore and yelled out, “Friends, have you any fish?” (John 21)

“No!”

“Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some!”  They did, and their net was so full of fish they were unable to haul it in.  That’s when John recognized Jesus, and Peter jumped in the water to join Him on the beach.  Then Jesus restored Peter to ministry by challenging his understanding of divine love and calling him to feed His sheep.

Peter’s faith was tested, but it wasn’t lost.  He was thoroughly embarrassed and his spirit nearly crushed.  Yet he still believed.  A test of faith is not the same as a lack of faith.

How would you describe the difference between a lapse of faith and a lack of faith?   What do you think Jesus meant when He accused others of having “little faith?” 

Dear God, I’m breathing.  In Jesus’ name, Amen.

It is difficult to define a faith out of control; one in which the certainties we once counted on are shaken to their core, and Satan uses our long unanswered questions as weapons against us.  At least we know we are not the first.

In the Garden of Gethsemane the rattle of soldiers’ gear crashed the mood of Jesus’ spiritual anguish, “Not My will, but Yours be done.”  The traitor Judas delivered his treacherous kiss and the arrest commenced.  I picture a violent scuffle with shoving, screaming and perhaps a cuss word or two, followed by Peter’s irrational act.  In the presence of soldiers he drew his sword and cut off the ear of Malchus, the servant of the High Priest.  Horrible!

The poor man must have been brought to his knees, writhing in pain with his hand cupped around a bleeding stub.  Then Jesus reached out and healed him.  In an instant, through a process of supernatural regeneration the man was restored.  And Jesus said, “No more of this!”

“No more of this!”

No more of what?  No more pushing back against the providential plan of God.  No more attempting to control the uncontrollable.  No more interventions into the ministry of the Savior who came to give His life for the world.

Wasn’t it God who delivered a similar message to Job? “Will the one who contends with the Almighty correct him?” (Job 40:2a NIV)  Both Peter and Job were only trying to restore order to chaos when in fact chaos is what has been ordered.

As do we.  Isn’t God a God of order?  Why then do we feel we are working against Him when all we wish is a suitable framework within which to organize our circumstances?  We don’t demand permanence.  Even scaffolding will do.

“No more of this!”  Then, God, what am I supposed to do?

Have you ever felt as though you were working against God when you thought you were working for Him? 

Dear God, help me in my disorder.  In Jesus’ name. Amen.

I have always been a lead breaker.  A lefty, my writing protocol is unorthodox, and I have a bad habit of holding writing utensils too tightly and pushing down hard.  Mechanical pencils are impossible and even ballpoint pens sometimes crack in two, sending parts into the air.

Some of my classmates used to groan when our teacher insisted we bring two #2 pencils.  I worried two might not be enough.  More than once I did indeed break them both, and only under careful surveillance was allowed to trek to the back of the room where a hand cranked pencil sharpener was screwed on a door frame.

My response to fear and doubt also tests this two pencil minimum.  I press against my circumstances in a feeble attempt to maintain control.  And when I find I am no longer in control of the things that threaten me, I try to proclaim power over other less relevant forces.

Several years ago the church I serve experienced a fire that decimated its facility.  The months that followed were filled with nightly meetings, serious challenges and personal disappointments.  More than once, I teetered on the cliff of despair.  One afternoon I was driving to the hospital to see a church member when I experienced heaviness in my chest and shooting pains in my jaw.  Within a few hours I was in the emergency room under observation for a heart attack.

My heart was fine.  But I wasn’t.  It was time for a total lifestyle makeover.  The only problem was, I was a slave to our recovery process, and any extra energy was quickly eaten up by the next emergency.

So I found something to control.  I had always exercised regularly, but I decided to ramp things up.  I started eating like a mouse and running like a fool.  In a matter of weeks I had lost nearly thirty pounds and was running seven miles a day, seven days a week.

Honestly, it felt wonderful to lose the weight, and I placed impressively at a local 5K race, if I must say so myself.  But one night at a church elder’s meeting, as I was standing with the men who were faithfully walking with me through our trial, my body failed me.  We had formed a circle for our closing prayer and as my hands started to slip from the hands of the elders on either side, I collapsed in a chair at the table.

A cookie and a soft drink brought me back, but clearly, the things I was using to simulate control had, just like everything else in my life, found a way to control me.  That’s when I learned an important lesson about control: the harder we press to bring our lives under control, the closer we come to breaking.

Have you ever substituted something you can control for something you can’t?  How did this work out for you?

Dear God, forgive me for my delusion of control.  In Jesus’ name, Amen. 

As the persecution escalates I question my strategy of allowing such things to exist within the context of faith.  It sounded so reasonable at the time.  It would have made no sense to allow the lesser things that troubled me to keep me from flourishing in those things I understood?  But when those things I left unconquered wish to conquer me, I wonder what kind of faith exists alongside doubt and fear?  Doesn’t the writer of the book of Hebrews proclaim, “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1 NIV).  Would it not be more honest to say I am not fully convinced of my beliefs, if indeed I am not sure of everything?

Then again, it must be plausible to live with uncertainty, especially in an imperfect world where we are surrounded by the temporary.  The Hebrews writer continues with a list of faithful servants of God who longed for a promise but never received it in this life.  “All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance. And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth” (Hebrews 11:13 NIV).  And who is in this list but Moses.  Moses!  The man who doubted his place as God’s choice to lead His people out of Egypt and who ultimately lost out on his right to enter the Promised Land due to an inexcusable lapse of judgment driven by fear.

Surely, having a faith that is certain of things hoped for does not rule out fear and doubts.  Even the greatest spiritual warriors have lived with them, and most have confessed them.  But when these threaten our foundation, we want to go back to Egypt, or die in the wilderness rather than live with the paradox of our human existence.  Such are my thoughts when the things I live with out of necessity invade those things I cling to with all hope.

Is it really possible to be a committed follower and live with doubts and fears?  Can you think of other famous servants of God in the Bible who demonstrated doubt?

Dear God, help me be sure of the things I hope for.  In Jesus’ name, Amen.

This marks the beginning of the delusion.  Though we have grown confident in those things we understand about God, our doubts and fears rise with alarming aggression.  Worries spiral out of control and we foolishly believe packs of lies spewed out by the Deceiver.

One might ask, “How is the insurgence of fear and doubt any different from the unsettling of certainty?  Aren’t they both indications of a floundering faith?”  No, not exactly.  Allow me to explain.

When the certainties of my faith are tested, I encounter new questions, or old questions asked in new ways.  If I apply the “law of possibilities” I find considerable comfort in the fact God can be trusted as I struggle to see His providential hand in new ways.  However, when the doubts and fears I have tolerated push against the certainties I stand in, I risk losing perspective.  What if peace continues to elude me and my imagination starts to run wild with things yet unresolved?

In this fragile state my #2 Pencil Faith exhibits critical signs of distress.  The outer pencils framing my faith grow perilously close to snapping, and the single pencil I use as a sliding indicator begins to shake and wobble (Click on link below).  My carefully constructed system of faith threatens to disintegrate in a violent ball of fire and smoke.  I cry with Job, “I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil” (Job 3:26)

Then, in a sudden breach of theological protocol doubt and fear surges and its evil gremlins persecute me with screams and clinched fists of fury.  They taunt my trust in the holy one: “How can God permit such horrific events in the lives of the people you care about?  Why doesn’t he pave an easy path for you if you are His servant?  If He really is a wise and all-knowing God, isn’t He aware of the burden you are carrying?  Can’t He at least orchestrate a more manageable economy of pain, spacing out your trials and permitting you to regroup before you are driven to your knees once more?”

How do we know the difference between a man-made faith system and Biblical truth?  How can they be the same?  How can they be different?

Dear God, thank you for the trails that shake up my thinking.  In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Pencil Faith in Crisis

The devil’s workshop is draped with doubt and fear.  Through these he tortures our souls and slows our progress.  On a good day, we keep these twin terrors in check, but when life goes terribly wrong, they turn volatile.

As shared previously, my baseline encounter with doubt and fear accounts for approximately 10% of my faith experience.  I don’t mean to suggest I am immune from daily fluctuations between doubt, fear and certainty, but this is how I describe my perspective on a good day.

I must also qualify that doubt and fear are not actually a part of my faith, but rather captives to my faith.  They are the uninvited thugs I tolerate because they seem impossible to completely eradicate.  I have not agreed to let them stay, but like cockroaches they seem to hide in the recesses of my soul and survive even my most ambitious counterattacks.  I have not necessarily learned to live with them, as much as I have acknowledged their presence and determined the things I am unable to resolve will not keep me from anchoring my life in those things I can.

During my teen years I lived in a town on the Gulf of Mexico.  In those days, we didn’t buy sunscreen.  We bought suntan oil, and baked our skin on a daily basis.  No one thought about skin cancer.  But now they do.  And so do I when I spend a little too much time in the sun and red bumps appear on my arms to remind me I did not escape the sun and fun of my youth unscathed.

So it is with doubt and fear.  Like damaged cells they sleep dormant in our hearts and minds until an unplanned trial triggers them.  At that point they encroach on our certainties and shake our faith, creating pressure against the things we thought we understood.

What doubts and fears do you believe sleep in your heart?  What kinds of trials bring them to the surface?

Dear God, help me be ready for the struggles that stir my doubts and fears.  In Jesus’ name, Amen. 

Another way of expressing the “law of possibilities” is that true certainty assumes the element of surprise.  Since resurrection Sunday, followers of Jesus have been reminded they serve a God who moves in unexpected ways.  Today, we often speak of faith that is too small and exhort one another not to limit God.  While I understand the intent behind these encouragements, I sense our issue is not so much with the size of our faith, but rather our ability to grasp the immense nature of divine option.  Simply put, God has infinite combinations of circumstances and participants which can be aligned to accomplish His eternal purposes and still meet our needs.

Yet, in all of this, I realize, our problem with the unsettling of our certainties is often not so much that we have to rethink how God works, but rather that we are waiting on a heavenly Father who seemingly is not working at all.  Or at least He is not working as we assumed He would.

Are you ever frustrated because God isn’t working as you expected He would?  How do you manage your disappointment?

Dear God, help me see the possibilities.  In Jesus’ name, Amen.

The delusional nature of trials might call the things we thought we understood into question.  This doesn’t mean these things are no longer true, or that our faith is fundamentally flawed.  Sometimes, however, we are tested in news ways, or with greater force, and the collective impact of facing too many doubts in too brief a period of time can leave us spiritually breathless.

When the sliding pencil of our metaphor encroaches on our 80% field of certainty, we feel considerable resistance, as if we were pushing against a strong coil spring or compressing air into a bicycle tire with a small hand pump.

This resistance is two-fold.  As believers we naturally resist anything that threatens the faith we stand in.  The writer of the book of Hebrews encourages us with these words: “Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful” (Hebrews 10:23).  In this single statement the Holy Spirit reveals the second point of resistance as well.  While we hold unswervingly to our hope, God is faithful to hold us in the hollow of His hand.  In this way we resist the schemes of Satan who looks for ways to exploit our circumstances.

How then, can we purposefully address the tension within our certainties without losing our foundation?  We have three choices.  We can toss out pieces of our faith, reducing the pressure, ignore our doubts and pray we survive with minimal damage, or practice something I call the “law of possibilities.”  The law’s expression is as follows: stress on our faith is reduced when we allow room to mature in our understanding of God person, purpose and methodology.

I compare this to the difference between squeezing a sponge or an egg in our hand.  The sponge has tolerances that allow it to undergo tremendous stress and still return to its original shape.  The egg, unfortunately, has no such tolerances and will quickly disintegrate into a white and yellow glob.

The “law of possibilities” does not promote a faith of conformity that molds itself into various forms to avoid conflict.  Such an approach would stand in stark contrast to the command of the apostle Paul who wrote: “Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world” (Romans 12:2a).  Instead we should fully engage our intellect, as we grow in our awareness of certainty’s possibilities, and fill in our sponge-like recesses with a deeper appreciation for God’s providential care, and its unlimited expressions.  In fact, Paul makes this very point when he writes, “But be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is–his good, pleasing and perfect will.” (Rom 12:2)

Put another way, the “law of possibilities” gives our faith “wiggle room” to explore new, biblically sound scenarios that describe how God might be moving in our circumstances.  We may never arrive at a place of perfect comprehension, but by increasing our options we expand the conduits through which peace might flow into our hearts.

Perhaps I should be specific.  A few years ago my father was diagnosed with Parkinson disease, and after many years of steady decline he went to be with the Lord.  Not long before he died my father asked me to sit down and talk about his circumstances.  He said, “Larry, I want you to know I’m not bitter.  This is not the way I thought things would work out, but I’m alright with it.  There are things that happen in our lives we can’t explain, but we do the best we can and ask God to give us the strength to deal with our disappointments.”

My father’s statement showed me many things about his faith.  First, it was an honest appraisal of the outcome of a life lived for God.  He had spent his entire life in church ministry, and in the end been stricken with a hideous disease.  Secondly, it demonstrated a level of trust I have always assumed existed in theory, but have never come close to experiencing in person.  Finally, it was obvious my father was using his experience to mentor me in my walk with God.  He was concerned for my soul and the bitterness I might face in the days to come.  By creating tolerances in his view of the Lord’s working past, present and future, he freed me from the deadly prison of rigid expectations.

Do you have trouble creating flexibility in the things you understand about God on a good day?  Can you live paradoxically in the certainty of what you know while allowing God to work in ways you may never have experiences?

Dear God, teach me to look for possibilities in the way You work.  In Jesus’ name, Amen.  

I have provided a link to an illustration as a compliment to my #2 Pencil Faith posts.  Today’s action item is to review past #2 Pencil Faith posts and relate them to the illustration, even as it relates to our experience.

#2 Pencil Faith Illustration

What percentage would you place in the “doubts and fears” category? What about the “certainties” category? How often does the middle pencil vacillate in your life?

Dear God, help me understand faith. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

As I talked and moved the middle pencil in my metaphor from side to side, my friend nodded his head as if to say, “That’s me.”  No, I didn’t take away his suffering, or answer his questions, but I felt as though I had given him a tool to better understand his test.  It also reminded him his confusion was temporary.  The timeline moving forward was yet to be determined, but it was helpful to know his battle was normal and his future was filled with hope.

Since this initial pencil talk I have used the same metaphor with others seeking a structure to help them begin to process their feelings.  Sometimes the people with whom I share aren’t ready to process, but just having a structure they know they can access seems to give them a sense of control.

And like all metaphors, this one has its flaws.  Not everyone is comfortable viewing the questions and answers of faith as a sliding scale.  Some see faith as a matter of the will, and believe all questions are ultimately answered by the power of the cross.  I understand this sentiment, but personally am comfortable living with doubts, as long as they are held in check by other certainties.

Others think a sliding pencil oversimplifies the dire complexity of human suffering, and trivializes our grief and pain.  I sympathize with this concern as well, and am careful to point out any characterization of trouble is merely a container for our thoughts, not a medicine bottle with an instant cure.

I reiterate my #2 pencil metaphor is just that: a symbol of life that aids us in processing the disappointments of life in our search for peace and clarity.  I take my cue from Jesus who used parabolic examples such as sparrows and grass to describe the love of God.  Sometimes He even used a sliding scale to convey degree, such as in His parables of the talents and the sower.

There is no intent on my part to raise my #2 pencil graph to the level of Jesus’ teachings.  But if, they can help someone on their journey of pain, I am thankful and give the Lord all of the credit.

It is true the subject of testing is not a simple one.  Therefore, our discussion must begin with an admission of two of the most common faith frustrations (stay tuned).

What value do you believe metaphors have in the process of working through our personal struggles?  Do you have a favorite?

Dear God, as I seek a way to gain some control over my circumstances, help me remember you are in control of everything.  In Jesus’ name, Amen.