What We Talk About When We Talk About God (10 page)

There's also an agreement, I'm assuming unspoken, that God and religion aren't to be acknowledged beyond passing, often apologetic references to spirituality and transcendence. These are, after all, the smartest folks around. What would Jesus have to do with anything they're doing? (That is an example of sarcasm.)

I tell you all this because at TED 2012 a brilliant, passionate lawyer named Bryan Stevenson gave a talk about injustice and racism. He spoke about his work around the country within the prison and court systems and his desire to see all people treated fairly. He told stories about young men he's currently defending in court, arguing compellingly for a more just society, and then he closed with a quote from Martin Luther King Jr. (who was quoting the abolitionist Theodore Parker) about how the moral arc of the universe is long and it bends toward justice.

The second Stevenson was done, the audience gave him a rousing, extended standing ovation. Then later, they pitched in collectively to give his organization over a million dollars.

I point this out because when the audience was asked from the stage two days earlier how many of them considered themselves religious, it appeared that only about 2 or 3 percent of the people raised their hands.

And yet a man confronted them with the
moral arc of the universe
and they intuitively, unanimously, instantly affirmed the truth of his claim.

Is history headed somewhere?

Seriously?

Because when Bryan Stevenson talks about the moral arc of the universe, he's talking about history, history that is headed somewhere, somewhere good.

History that has a point to it.

I believe that those smart, educated, accomplished, self-described-as-not-very-religious people stood and applauded because deep within every single one of us is the conviction that there is a point to this. That life has purpose. That when we die, the lights are not turned off and the show is not over.

The Greeks had a word for this sense of forward movement, purpose, and direction—they called it
telos
. The
telos
of something is its point, its purpose, where it's headed, what it's doing, and where it's going.

This is why we love stories: they're loaded with
telos.
They are not static but dynamic realities, heavy with potential and possibility. In a story, something happens, and then something else happens after that, leading somewhere. That's how stories work.

When we talk about God, we're talking about that sense you have—however stifled, faint, or repressed it is—that hope is real, that things are headed somewhere, and that that somewhere is good.

That's the power of a TV show like
The Office.
Boring meetings and photocopiers that hum in the background and annoying people in the next cubicle—at the deepest level these sorts of settings are a vise on our heart, squeezing us tighter and tighter with the insistence that tomorrow is going to be just like today. It's the terror of the modern world, the crushing fear behind every day: that it's going to be like this—just like this—tomorrow and the next day and the next day.

And so a show about a drab and dreary office where the work is mind-numbing and the rewards meaningless—and yet the people stuck in this setting find humanity and laughter and compassion and even meaning—has a really, really powerful effect on its viewers.

When light bursts through,

when our boredom is pierced and our angst hijacked by surprise,

we're brushing up against
ruach—

calling us,

inviting us,

rescuing us,

reminding us that

it all matters,

it's all connected,

and it's all headed somewhere.

 

To wrap up this chapter about the God who is with us, then, a few thoughts.

First, I began this chapter by talking about our very real experiences of this world for a very specific reason:
I believe that you are
already experiencing
the presence of God with you in countless ways every single day.
This is why I introduced you to
ruach
and the idea that God is the source of the very
going-on-ness
of the universe, like electricity that powers the whole house and everything in it.

There's a story about Jesus where he's at a dinner party, reclining at the table with the other guests, when a woman begins pouring perfume on his head. His disciples are outraged because of how expensive the perfume is. Jesus, however, is thrilled, telling them, “She has done a beautiful thing to me.” He then proceeds to tell them that what she's done is prepare him for burial.

Burial? Here's the revealing part: in Jesus's day, preparing someone for burial was a
religious
act. In Jesus's eyes, this woman's gesture is a holy, sacred act of worship. His disciples miss this, seeing only a common, everyday act.

They miss the power and significance of the moment because

they don't have the eyes to see what's going on right in front of them.

There is a strong word here in this story for our day: you can be very religious and invoke the name of God and be able to quote lots of verses and be well versed in complicated theological systems and yet not be a person who
sees
.

It's one thing to sing about God and recite quotes about God and invoke God's name; it's another be aware of the presence in every taste, touch, sound, and embrace.

With Jesus, what we see again and again is that it's never just a person, or

just a meal, or

just an event,

because
there's always more going on just below the surface.

Jesus sees what others miss.

He is aware when others are oblivious.

I love how the apostle Paul puts it in a letter to friends: “May the eyes of your heart be enlightened.”

Which leads me to a second point, one about faith. Sometimes people who believe in God are referred to as “people of faith.” Which isn't the whole truth, because
everybody
has faith.

To believe in God requires faith. To experience this world and its endless surprise and mystery and depth and then emphatically declare that is has
no
common source, it is
not
headed somewhere, and it ultimately has
no
meaning—that takes faith as well.

I tell you this because in the times I found myself in the deepest, darkest places of doubt and despair, it seemed too huge a leap of faith to trust that there is a God who loves and helps and hears and heals. That sounded crazy to me. Depending on where you're coming from, that kind of faith can seem naive, simple, childish, uninformed, and at times downright stupid.

In those times, believing in God to me seemed like taking a flying leap.

But the truth is, I had already taken a leap, because we've
all
taken a leap. Whatever it is that we believe, whatever it is that we trust, we've all leaped and we're endlessly leaping because we are all people of faith.

Whether you believe that this is all there is

or

we come from outer space

or

you're a Christian or a Buddhist or you're Jewish or Jedi

or

you don't believe that we can know
anything
for sure, it's all a form of faith.

Nobody
hasn't
leaped.

Which leads me to one more thought about the God who's with us: choosing to trust that this life matters and we're all connected and this is all headed somewhere has made my life way, way better.

Or to say it another way, God has made my life better.

I don't mean this in a shallow, trite, then-I-believed-and-now-I'm-happy-all-the-time way, but in a deep, abiding, satisfying way.

I move more slowly than I used to because I don't want to miss anything.

I find more and more beauty and meaning in everyday, average moments that I would have missed before.

I need fewer answers because I see more.

I find more people more fascinating than ever because I'm more and more used to being surprised by the mystery that a human being is.

I've discovered more and more events are less about the events themselves and more about me being open to whatever it is that's going on just below the surface.

Because there's always something more,

something else,

depth and fullness and life,

right there,

all of it a gift from the God who is
with
us.

CHAPTER 5

FOR

Now, on to the God who I believe is
for
us.

When you've heard people talk about God, did they talk clearly and compellingly about the God who is for us? The God who is for all of humanity and wants the best for everybody—regardless of their background or religion or perspective or beliefs or what they've done or haven't done?

Do you believe that God is for
you
?

Do you believe that God's desire is that you flourish, thrive, shine?

Do you believe that God wants you to be everything you could possibly be as you become more and more and more your true self?

I do.

While this is very simple and straightforward, for a staggering number of people in our world the
for
of the Jesus message has been buried under a massive pile of
against
s
.
Somewhere in all of the years of religious againstness—from boycotts and wars and judgments and sermons about how “God loves you if you'll just . . .” and “God is for you as long as you . . .” and inquisitions and placards and crusades and terrible PR—for many people the beautiful, life-changing message of God being
for
us has been lost.

All of which means it's time for a radical reclaiming of the fundamental Christian message that God is for us.

God, according to Jesus, is for us because God loves us.

Once again, this is rather straightforward and simple, and yet ask average people on the street what the first thing is that comes to mind when they hear the word
Christian,
and it's tragic how few will mention something about the revolutionary news at the heart of Jesus's message: that God is for us.

I realize that in asking that question and talking about God being for us, it's easy to sound like a motivational speaker or a salesperson or a televangelist—promising all of these AMAZING! THINGS! that are going to happen to YOU! if you just believe . . .

Or have enough faith . . .

Or give money . . .

Or blindly follow . . .

Or pray or whatever.

So let me first say that when I talk about God being
for
us, I'm not talking about guarantees and surefire ways to stay healthy and have lots of friends and drive a nice car and keep up with the Kardashians. When I talk about flourishing and thriving and shining, I'm talking about something much more profound, enduring, meaningful, and satisfying.

And to talk about that—

about God being
for
us—

I'll talk about the God that Jesus talked about,

which means I'll first talk about Jesus,

which means I need to tell you about something that happens in the town I live in on the first Friday night in the month of December.

 

On that first Friday night the businesses and shops and restaurants throw a party. They close down the streets in the center of town and Santa rides in (as he does in all those Bible verses), and the stores serve food and drinks and play Christmas music.

Last year, one of the surf shops topped them all by bringing in a gospel choir to sing among the racks of T-shirts and trunks. The store was packed. And the choir was amazing. At one point, they sang a Christmas hymn in which Jesus is referred to as
Immanuel,
which is an ancient Hebrew word that means
God with us
.

Picture your average nativity scene, assembled sometime in late November or early December, sitting in someone's front yard or on the lawn of a church, with a spotlight or two shining on it. There are a few animals, some wise men (three, for some reason), Mary—who has just traveled miles on dusty roads but is wearing a spotless white-and-blue robe, Joseph—who apparently found time during the birth to trim his beard, and then there, in the middle of it all, lying in a manger, is

—in the words of the great poet Ricky Bobby—

Eight-pound six-ounce newborn infant . . .
don't even know a word yet . . .
Golden fleece diapers with your tiny fat balled-up fist

baby Jesus,

whose birth is celebrated every year at Christmas in a variety of ways, some of them even having something to do with Jesus.

This ritual is so familiar,

so predictable,

so harmless,

so
benign,

that it's easy to miss how this word
Immanuel
is actually an extremely radical claim about the very nature of reality.

Right there in that surf shop, jammed to the walls with people smiling and nodding along, those singers in their Christmas song were singing about
the divine

and the
human

existing in the same place.

In the same
body.

This Christmas story, then, the one that we're all so familiar with, is a deeply subversive account, coming in just under the radar, giving us a picture of a God who is not distant or detached or indifferent to our pain or uninterested in our condition or uninvolved in our very real struggles in this world, but instead is present among us in Jesus to

teach us

and help us

and suffer with us

and give us hope

because

this God is
for
us.

So when we talk about Jesus being divine and human, what we're saying is that Jesus, in a

unique,

singular, and

historic way,

shows us what God is like.

And to talk about what God is like,

let's talk about waterskiing.

 

If you've water-skied before, I assume you remember your first time, floating there in the water, teeth chattering, life jacket strangling you up to your jawbone, being told to keep the rope between your skis. And what was the advice that the people in the boat kept repeating? Remember? (Say it with me now . . .)

“Let the boat pull you up!”

Which the people in the boat, who have done this before, say like it's the most sensible thing imaginable, but which, to someone who has never water-skied, can sound like complete nonsense.

Lean back—to go forward?

Stay down—to get up?

As a result of this confusion, many people, on their first attempt, get pulled forward out over the front of their skis; they ignore the advice from the boat and follow their natural inclination, which is to try to get themselves up onto the surface of the water.

Which doesn't work, because you
can't
get yourself on your own up onto the surface of the water.

It's impossible.

Learning to water-ski requires a person to make the counterintuitive leap from trying to do what seems natural, which is to get yourself up onto the surface of the water, to trusting that the boat will do that work for you.

Which can take a few tries and often involves a lot of water up your suit.

I talk about the counterintuitive nature of learning to water-ski because at the heart of what Jesus teaches us about God is something called
gospel
. Gospel is an unexpected, foreign notion, a strange idea that cuts against many of the dominant ways we've all come to believe are how the world works.

In one of his first teachings, Jesus announces God's blessing on those he calls the “poor in spirit.” The poor in spirit are those who are lacking, who don't have it all together, who are acutely aware of how they don't measure up.

The nobodies,

the pathetic,

the lame,

the has-beens,

the not-good-enoughs.

This word
blessing
he uses is a rich, evocative, loaded word, and it essentially means “God is on your side.”

I talk about gospel—Jesus's announcement of good news and blessing for everybody who needs it—because over the years as a pastor I've interacted with thousands of people who were operating under the conviction that if they could just get
better
—

more moral,

more disciplined,

more spiritual,

more kind,

more courageous,

more holy or righteous or whatever religious jargon they had picked up along the way—

then they would be

in

or

accepted

or

embraced

or

validated

or

affirmed

by God.

I've often been asked, “Isn't the only thing that really matters to God in the end that you're a good person?”

This sounds great, and being and doing good are obviously central to what it means to be human, but can you hear the other thing, the subtle belief system, just below the surface of this sensible, common, conventional way of seeing God?

That question often flows from a belief that God operates according to a point or merit system, and if you do the good or right or decent or religious thing, then you will get the points you need to get on God's good side.

That is not gospel.

Gospel is the shocking, provocative, revolutionary, subversive, counterintuitive good news that in your moments of greatest

despair,

failure,

sin,

weakness,

losing,

failing,

frustration,

inability,

helplessness,

wandering,

and falling short,

God meets you
there
—

right there—

right exactly there—

in
that
place, and announces,

I am on your side
.

Gospel insists that God doesn't wait for us to get ourselves polished, shined, proper, and without blemish—God comes to us and meets us and blesses us while we are still in the middle of the mess we created.

Gospel isn't us getting it together so that we can have God's favor; gospel is us finding God exactly in the moment of our greatest
not-togetherness
.

Gospel is grace, and grace is a gift. You don't earn a gift; you simply receive it. You don't make it happen; you wake up to what has already happened.

Gospel isn't doing enough good to be worthy; it's your eyes being opened to your unworthiness and to Jesus's insistence that that was never the way it worked in the first place.

Being a good person, then, naturally flows not from trying to get on God's good side but from your realization that God has been on your side the whole time.

Gospel calls you to a major change in thinking, a giant shift in understanding,

a massive leap in how you see yourself—

otherwise, you're stuck in the same old points program, trying to earn what is already yours.

Can you see why Jesus often began his teachings by saying “Repent!”? You know what
repent
means? It means to change your thinking, to see things in a new way, to have your mind renewed—all of which reminds me of my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

 

I was twenty-five years old, just starting out as a pastor, and one evening after I'd given a sermon, a man named George walked up to me and told me that I needed to go to an AA meeting. I was totally caught off guard and muttered something about how I wasn't aware that I was an alcoholic. He said that it didn't matter, that everything I needed to know about being a pastor I would learn if I went, and that when it came to my turn to share in the meeting I should simply say, “Hi, I'm Rob, and I pass.”

So I went, and it changed my life.

As the people went around the room and told their stories, the gears in my mind turned as fast as they could, trying to figure out and name what it was about the meeting that was so different from any other gathering I'd ever been in.

Slowly it dawned on me what it was: I was in a bullshit-free zone.

In that first meeting I went to, people were talking about the first of the twelve recovery steps, which deals with admitting your powerlessness.

Admitting demands honesty.

Admitting requires a ruthless assessment of your condition.

Admitting is what happens when you've hit the wall,

when you have no energy left to pretend,

when you're done playing games,

when you no longer care what other people think,

when you've come to the end of yourself,

when you're ready to embrace the truth that you need help, and that on your own you're in serious trouble because you've made a mess of things.

As I sat there, it was as if I could see, really
see,
for the first time, just how much time and energy and effort we expend making sure that everybody knows how strong, smart, quick, competent, capable, together, and good we are. (I imagine you could add your own words to that list.)

It's hard to see just how much that posturing consumes us until you're in a room where it's absent—a room where people aren't doing any of that because they are giving their energies to
admitting
.

Our need to control how others see us is like a God we've been bowing down to for so long we don't even realize it. But in an AA meeting, no one has energy left for that sort of thing. You come face-to-face with yourself as you truly are.

And now here's the twist,

the mystery,

the unexpected truth about
admitting
that takes us back to the counterintuitive power of gospel:

When you come to the end of yourself, you are at that exact moment in the kind of place where you can fully experience the God who is for you.

I was at dinner recently with a friend who is very clear about how religious she
isn't.
She was telling about her daughter's recent health scare and how terrifying it had been for her as a mother and how all she could do was pray, even though she doesn't pray.

Why do people who don't pray, pray when they're terrified?