Out of Your Mind

This one's a hard one for me. I'm going to confess that right up front. It's one of those things that I'm still searching for the balance on because I'm a person driven by fiery passion and an inspired vision and eyes that see God's design/intention for everything.

Then Paul says, "So if we were crazy, it was for God. If we are sane, it is for you" (2 Corinthians 5:13). And he's got me.

God does have all of these wild and crazy ideas that require us to step out of our comfort zones. Not once does God ever tell anyone that what He wants for them is the status quo. He never says He wants you to just live a quiet life, go to church on Sundays, stay in your lane, and die. God's always calling us to crazy adventures, and the life of faith that we seek requires us to be a little crazy ourselves. Okay, sometimes out of our mind crazy.

But the persons around us don't really keep up with that. You start talking about the things God's made you passionate about, you start talking out of the fire that He's lit in your soul, and this world can hardly handle you. I know. I get it all the time. What the world needs is someone who is down-to-earth, authentic, feet-on-the-ground. The persons around you need to know that you share the same space with them, that you're right here with them. That their experience in the flesh is your experience in the flesh. They need you to be grounded. On holy ground if you must, but just don't go crazy, okay?

It's a tough balance to strike. On the one hand, we want to be the kind of people of faith who do the crazy things God calls us to. We want to leave everything and go to the land that He will show us. We want to build an ark. We want to pick up our Cross.

At the same time, we want to be the kind of people of faith that other persons can relate to. We want to be the Christians whose kids play soccer with the other kids, who go to the grocery on Saturdays, who put their pants on one leg at a time.

We want to be crazy, but can't we be cool about it?

That's what Paul's getting at. That's the balance that we're all seeking.

Paul was a passionate man. He was a guy on fire for Jesus and this whole new Way that was taking off. He cared deeply about persons, cared deeply about the faith. He also didn't want to alienate anyone. So he'd go wild off the rails and then he'd have to pull himself back. He'd preach fire, but then he'd preach grace. He'd plead with the people, but then he'd identify with them. And what he's basically saying here is, "If you think you've lost me, that I've gone off the deep end, it's because God's got his hooks in me for something, but if you're with me and I'm making sense, it's because I've remembered to focus on you."

I'm crazy for God, but sane for you. I let myself run wild with the vision that He's given me, but I tone it down so I don't lose you.

It's an important reminder for us. Okay, at least for me. Not everyone can keep up with our passion, and why should they? God hasn't given everyone the eyes He's given us. He hasn't asked of everyone what He's asked of us. Only Noah built the ark. Only Moses stood at the burning bush. But it's important that when God sparks something in us, we get fired up. We have to learn to balance the fire that He's fueling and the authentic, relatable expression of that. We have to learn to remember to focus on persons when they need us to be there. We have to dream loud and walk quietly, if it even seems like such a thing is possible. We have to be in this world, but not of this world. Crazy for God and sane for His people.

It's a tough one for me. I suspect I'm not alone. What I also suspect, however, is that the default for most of us is toward sanity, not toward craziness. Most of us, having to choose between the two, think it more important to be proper in this world. (My problem is just the opposite. I can't let go of my crazy for God for anything!) But Paul says it's not about choosing one or the other. It's about finding that balance so that we can say, along with him,

If I'm crazy, it's for God. If I'm sane, it's for you. 

On Forgiveness

The church at Corinth loved Paul. All of the churches where he preached loved Paul. So it was easy for them to become angry with someone who caused Paul pain. In the early words of his second letter to the believers at Corinth, Paul tells them in no uncertain terms that that's not the right response. He tells them, rather, to forgive the one who has caused him pain (2 Corinthians 2).

Man, that's tough. It's hard for us when someone hurts someone that we love. We see firsthand the pain that it's caused, and it's easy to be angry. It even feels righteous to be angry. There's something in our human nature that wants to lash out at them, that wants to strike them, that wants to make them feel some part of the pain that they inflicted. We want to be bitter and hateful and spiteful, and we want to call ourselves noble for doing it.

But what we need are more wise words like Paul's.

One of the things I've wrestled with in my life is how to tell the part of my story that involves my dad. It's a point of contention for me with members of my extended family. Some think you should only talk about the good parts of a person. Others think it's fair game to talk about the bad. For me, what I've found is that the best course of action is to talk about the authentic person. For every one of us, that's a mixture of good and bad. It's a combination of fallenness and redemption. It's our brokenness and our blessedness. We are dynamic human beings, each a product of our own story, each with our high points and low points. And I think we ought to be real about that.

A few years ago, I told part of my story that required telling part of my dad's. I chose to do it in this way, with a view to the authentic person that he was. When I finished, silence and tears filled the room. A little while later, a woman walked up to me and said, "I am so mad at you right now." I shook my head and said, "What? Why?"

She said, "Because as you were telling the story about your dad, I wanted to hate him. But the way you told it, you wouldn't let me."

That's the essential key to forgiveness. That's it, right there. We have to tell our stories in a way that they are real and raw and authentic and dynamic and everything we're living, but we have to tell them with enough grace that we don't engender bitterness.

I never talk about my dad trying to get others into some sort of "us vs. them" mentality where they feel like they have to "join" my "team." I'm never trying to start a fight. It's never my goal that they walk away justifying me, for I am a sinner, too, or denigrating him, for he was also a man under grace. It's not about what happened or how it happened or what it meant. It's about two fallen beings in relationship that is...as messy as everything can get.

And that's what Paul is saying to the church in Corinth. It doesn't do them any good to hate this man, and it doesn't do the man any good, and it doesn't do Paul any good. Nobody is better off if the church is spiteful toward him. Nobody. So what he says to the faithful is, forgive him. You forgive him, and we're all better off.

Forgive him, and you don't have to hold onto your bitterness. Forgive him, and he gets to hold a measure of grace. Forgive him, and I (Paul) don't have to play into this story for the rest of my life. Because that's what happens - if you hold grudges and tell stories for the sake of making teams, then you end up with stories that tell you, instead of the other way around. They come to control you, to force you to be someone you don't want to be. And in turn, those who have joined your team become persons they don't want to be. And the sinner is someone he doesn't want to be. What kind of love is that?

It's not. That's why we have to tell our stories with grace. That's why we always have to make room in them for forgiveness. That's why we can't let others gang up and start a war. It's not worth it. Everybody loses. You included.

What would happen if we started to tell our stories not in black and white, but in the shades of grey in which we all actually live? What if we told them with authenticity, with the good and the bad, the broken and the blessed, the fallenness and redemption, all mangled together the way we actually live them? What if every time we talked about something painful in this world, we did it in such a way that we always heard that woman's words - I wanted to hate him, but you wouldn't let me?

What if, like Paul, we called our world to forgiveness?

A Wise Word

Some of the most well-known words that Paul ever wrote came in his letter to a young Timothy, where he says, "Do not let anyone look down on you because you are young. But set an example for believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith, in purity..." (1 Timothy 4:12)

But did you know that's not the only place he says this, and Timothy is not the only person he says this to?

This is important, especially in today's world.

See, Paul also says these words to the church in Corinth. Specifically, he tells the church, "Do not look down on Timothy." "If Timothy comes...no one should treat him with contempt" (v. 10-11).

It's kind of in that same vein where we're told that if someone is cold and we tell them to keep warm, we haven't really done anything for them. If they're hungry, and we tell them they should eat, we haven't helped. If you tell Timothy to not let anyone look down on him, he doesn't really have control over that. We haven't done anything. Except set up a stage for some discouragement if others continue to look down on him and what we've essentially told him is to not take it personally. You can only be looked down on for so long before you take it personally.

But if you tell Timothy not to let anyone look down on him and then you tell the church not to look down on him, now you've done something. You've tackled the problem from both sides. It's not all on Timothy's shoulders as the recipient of their scoffing and scorn; it's on their shoulders as scorners, as well.

This runs counter to the "wisdom" (and I use that term loosely) of today's world. Today, we tell everyone that they are responsible for their own selves. It doesn't matter what anyone else does; you are responsible for you. You choose how you respond. You choose how you let things affect you. There are stories of  children being bullies where the solution to the problem is to just avoid the bully. Or just ignore them. Or let it roll off your back. No longer do we tell the bullies to stop being bullies; we just tell the victims to stop being victimized by it.

This is really prevalent in stories of rape, as well. You almost never hear that rape is a problem because there are rapists in the world. Rather, victims dress too scantily. They drink too much. They do drugs. They go to bars, where of course you're "going to" get raped. They don't take care of themselves. So we spend all of our time and energy and resources training women how not to get raped, how to defend themselves, how to keep themselves out of those situations, and we exert virtually no energy at all training men to stop raping women. Not only is it not fair, but it doesn't work. (And I do understand that men are also victims of rape and women are also rapists, but the sheer numbers facilitate the pronouns used above. Brothers who have been victims, I hear you. I'm sorry.)

In a world that says that 1) we're not responsible for anyone else and 2) we are entirely responsible for ourselves, we need more of this two-way dialogue that Paul creates. We need more ministry in both directions. We need more community and fellowship that enables us to understand that no, we aren't responsible "for" anyone else, but we are responsible "to" them and that means not letting them settle for being lesser than they ought to be. It means training and teaching and holding them accountable for their own actions. We need to understand, too, that we are responsible for ourselves, but being responsible for ourselves doesn't mean that we shoulder the burden of the whole world, whatever it decides to heap on us. It doesn't mean that we're supposed to be untouchable, that we aren't supposed to let things bother us. This broken world sucks. It's not fair. Some things hurt. We need to be honest about these things, not falsely "taking responsibility" for ourselves and pretending it's all fine.

We need to look at problems from one more than one perspective and see where it is that we need to speak. Paul speaks two words on this issue, and it's vitally important - for Timothy, for the church, and for us. We need both truths. Desperately.

Don't let anyone look down on you. But also, don't look down on anyone. 

An Offering

Nearly everywhere Paul goes, we hear about the churches taking up collections for the believers back in Jerusalem. If you worship in a denominational church, you likely equate this to the denominational structure somewhat - where there is a headquarters that shepherds over all of the churches, and offerings are taken as a sort of membership dues.

The structure is similar, but the reasoning is not. Not exactly, anyway. Jerusalem was the place where this little movement of the Way was being born. It was ground zero, grand central station for Christianity. From it flowed all of the ministry that was being done early on. It's where the disciples were. It's where the landmarks were. It's where the stories were. So the churches lent their financial support to Jerusalem not as some sort of membership dues, as though they could not be a legitimate church if they did not, but out of indebtedness to what that church was doing.

It's as if you belonged to a small church out on the edges of town, but you knew that a bigger church in the center of town had a community meals program where they were feeding the hungry every week. So you send your resources - money, volunteers, whatever - to work in their program because they are the ones where the people are. That's what's going on here. Rather than sending their own missionaries out to plant more churches, the churches are sending their resources back to mission central, where they are really good at sending out missionaries and have the resources to do so on a scale that these smaller churches just couldn't match.

Although all of these churches were collecting offerings to send back to Jerusalem, and Paul commends them for it, it's important to note one thing:

Paul wanted them to take their own offering to Jerusalem. He wasn't going to take it for them. (1 Corinthians 16)

It's not...efficient. Paul's the one traveling around. He's going there anyway. It seems to most of us that it makes sense to just give him the offering and let him take it with him. Especially in those days when travel took a lot longer than it does now, was a lot harder, was more of a commitment. But Paul wanted them to have a real, vital connection with the church in Jerusalem, not just a transactional, distant relationship. It changes everything when you see the work firsthand and when you're able to be there to offer your encouragement in person.

Today's church misses out on a lot of that. There's a disconnect between the money we put in the plate on Sundays and a real understanding of where it's actually going, what it's actually doing. Most of us, even those of us actively involved in the church, don't know what ministry we're funding. We don't see it being done. It's even worse when we give to organizations outside of the church, where it's too easy to cut a check to an operation with a Christian-sounding name and pat ourselves on the back, but how many of us have followed that check into the field to see what it's actually accomplishing for our brothers and sisters? For Christ?

We need to get back to what Paul says is good - taking our own offerings to Jerusalem. We need to go where the money goes and see what's being done. We need to set our eyes on the good work that God is doing in our world with our resources, and we need to encourage - in person - those doing the work. They need to know that we're with them. Not just as financial backers, but as partners in ministry. It absolutely changes your perspective to see where your money goes, and it inspires you to do even more - not just with your money, but with your time and your heart and your energy - when you get back.

Maybe you're saying, but my church doesn't sponsor missionaries or anything like that. My offering goes right back to my church and supplies our needs, whatever those are. Let me tell you something - "the church" doesn't have any needs; the people do. That money is going somewhere to benefit people somehow. Even if you're in a struggling congregation where all it can do is keep the lights on. Hang around your building after-hours and see what kind of ministry is going on when it's not Sunday morning. Follow your pastor around and see what he's up to. Offer a hand to the deacon who changes the light bulbs. You have no idea how often little things break around a church building - light bulbs burn out, toilet flappers falter, chair legs come loose. All of that takes a ministry to fix it. It takes someone with a minister's heart to take care of even the building.

Volunteer in your church's ministries. Make the rounds. Do a little bit of everything, if your money is staying in your own congregation. Teach a children's class. Watch the nursery. Hand out bulletins at the door. Make coffee. Greet counselees as they come for guidance. Take a shift in the prayer room. Clean a few toilets. Mow the grass. Whatever is happening at your church, it's not enough to just sit in a pew and cut a check. Follow your money and see where it goes.

It's an encouragement to you and to the ones who normally do the work. And it's essential for all of us. 

Covering the Body

One of our favorite images for the people of faith is that we are the "body of Christ." We take this image from the writings of Paul, where he encourages the church that not every one of them needs to have the same gifting and that they are, in fact, better together - the way that the different parts of the body have different functions but each is necessary to make one, whole, healthy body (1 Corinthians 12).

Undoubtedly, if you've been around Christians long enough, you've heard somebody say something to the effect of, "Well, if we are the body, then I must be God's little toe! I'm nothing at all! I don't even know what my function is!" (Of course, the little toe's function is finding the edges of furniture when one gets too close, but that's another point altogether.)

I have, in my time, heard even more crude comments, centered around parts of the body that we don't like to talk about or parts that we make sure are always covered up. The...unmentionables, which even extends to perhaps the parts we just don't talk about but wouldn't consider crude, per se.

But if you read what Paul says about the body, he says that there is perhaps greatest honor in these parts. Actually, what the Scripture says is that we give great honor to the least honorable parts of the body.

And he's right.

We give them greater honor because we are so careful to take proper care of them. We get up in the morning, and that's the first thing we cover. We wrap it in tender care so that it is not exposed, so that it does not become fodder for staring eyes. We get up in the morning and put on underwear for the special protection of what seem like our dishonorable parts, then put on socks to shield our dirty, calloused feet, but none of us thinks much about covering, say, our elbows. We don't urgently hurry to wrap up our shins. We wear our faces uncovered so that others can tell who we are at a glance. None of us feverishly hides our ears, lest someone see. Because these are, we think, dignified parts of us.

Think, though, about those parts we're covering. They are essential to our life. They are vital to continue living. The anus and urinal openings remove waste from our bodies; without them, we would poison ourselves in a matter of days, perhaps hours. The genitals produce new life; without them, we would die out. Well, actually, we would have died out long ago and we wouldn't be here, having this conversation. The feet get remarkably dirty, crusted, calloused, fungused - they come into contact with literally everything wherever we venture and pick up the wastes of this world; without them, however, we would struggle to go anywhere, to do so much.

The same is true in our churches. In this body of Christ in which we dwell. Those persons who say they aren't an honorable part of the body are often most honorable part. We usually don't put them on stage, don't have them handing out bulletins at the doors. They're not the first persons we have greeting guests on Sunday mornings or heading up the missions team. We probably don't even have them volunteering in the children's church or taking nursery duty.

But these are the persons who remove waste from our bodies. They are the quiet counselors, the founts of wisdom to where other members of the body can turn for comfort and help. Just to vent. They're the persons who are truly really good friends to everybody, and they think, oh, I'm not doing anything for the body; I must just be God's little toe, but that's not true. They are the comforters, taking care of the toxins of our systems.

Theses are the persons who give us life. They are the persistent encouragers, always there to remind you that you're just one step away from the next glory. Always standing with you and cheering and clapping, getting you to go for it. They, too, are truly really good friends to everybody, and they think, oh, I'm not doing anything; my gift isn't anything at all. But that's not true. They are the encouragers, giving life to the body.

We live in a world that wants to quantify our value by what we do with it, as though meaning is some sort of definable action that we can give a title to. If you don't have a title or a position or something formal around it, it can feel like you're not doing anything. It can feel like you are less honorable than some others, but that's just not the case.

The truth is that those who think they aren't doing anything for the body are those with whom we tend to take the most care, because we realize how essential they are for our life. We realize that without them, we lose very vital functions of faith. It's easy to mistake it for pity - like we're just focusing on them because they're right, they are not valuable at all and it's kind of sad that they don't have a gift to use like the rest of us. It's easy to mistake for dishonor, that we shield and shelter these persons so much. But it's exactly the opposite. It's that we recognize the incredible value of their gifts and the invaluable nature of their contributions to the body, and we seek to protect and to keep them at all costs.

These "less honorable" parts of the body are doing our dirtiest work for us, and that's why we take such great care with them, bestowing great honor on what seems dishonorable. For without them, we are nothing at all. And we know it.

Even if we don't want to talk about it.