Sin is Different Than We Think

We usually think–with good reason based on our experience–that the thing that separates us from God is our sin. Without question, it has that effect. But if St. Paul’s statement is true that “where sin increased, grace increased all the more, so that, just as sin reigned in death, so also grace might reign through righteousness,” part of what that means is that our separation from God, and our sin, are both significantly different than we think. As we recently described, grace is bigger than we think–it's accessible in abundance, long before we know anything about it, and it is available every day of our lives, to every single human being.

Because of that, I think James Bryan Smith hits the nail on the head when he says, "It is not my sin that moves me away from God, it is my refusal of grace, both for myself and for others."*

The practical difference this can make in our lives is monumental. If identifying and avoiding sin is our focus, and if we are dedicated people, then we may become obsessed with trying to figure out the right place to drawn the lines about what is sin and what isn't–so that we can be sure about what things belong on the “don’t” list (both in our own lives and–Lord, have mercy–in the lives of those around us).

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God In the Dark

I don’t remember being afraid of the dark. I’m sure I went through normal childhood nyctophobia, and I certainly have those moments as an adult in which I’m fearful about some unknown noise outside at night or in a dark house. But there’s a deeper fear of a deeper dark with which I’m all too familiar.

In Ascent of Mt. Carmel, John of the Cross talks about faith as darkness, and that one who wants to live in union with God must enter the dark. This dark faith is opposed to senses and intellect, i.e. opposed to outward circumstances and our constant struggle to figure out how everything will work out and how we can position ourselves for the best possible outcome. 

We are afraid of the dark, and that fear of stepping into the unknown is understandable. But the problem, all too often, is the reason for the fear. It isn’t because we know there will be struggle and that we must learn to walk by faith rather than by sight. The reason for our fear is because we are sure that we are all alone. Surely there is no one there to lead us into the light. Is there even any light at all?

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Camping with Jesus

Next spring will mark the twentieth anniversary of my graduation from Homedale High School, located in Homedale, Idaho, a small farming community located 45 minutes west of Boise on the banks of the Snake River.  After graduation I left town, first to college, and then to life.  The first couple of summers I came home to work during the summers, but after my junior year of college Heidi, my lovely bride, and I were married, and then only made my presence in Homedale to visit my parents.  A few years ago my parents moved to Caldwell, a city twenty minutes away, and my reasons for visiting Homedale were few.

I loved growing up in Homedale, and have very fond memories of doing so.  I also remember some times in junior high and high school that weren’t the best.  Regardless, when I graduated from high I couldn’t wait to leave and spent the next sixteen years away from Homedale and the state of Idaho.  Three years ago, this October, I moved back to Homedale with my family (Heidi and our three boys), feeling called by God to do so.

One of the things I have enjoyed the most about being back in Homedale and the state of Idaho is taking my family to explore places I visited as a child and a youth.  A few weeks ago, for vacation, we spent the better part of five days in the Boise National Forest camping on the Middle Fork of the Payette River north of Crouch, Idaho–one of the many places I remembered camping with my family as a child.  We stayed in a rustic camp ground, were away from cell phone towers, and relaxing was our only agenda. (By the way if you are ever in Crouch, Idaho try the coffee shop in the antique store.  Best coffee in Crouch!)

My boys loved every minute of our camping trip; eating s’mores by the camp fire at night, wading and swimming in the river, catching rainbow trout from deep cool river pools, soaking in pools of hot water fed by an underground spring that came out of the side of a mountain and cascaded down into the pools of rock and sand, riding bikes, reading books by the fire, eating camping food, and just simply being together as a family.  

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Courage to Run

“Courage to run” may not sound too much like a topic that would have much to do with the spiritual, or with spiritual development and discipleship. After all, most folks I talk with think that running is somewhat crazy, and that runners must be a little nuts. I’ve heard folks say how we are simply not made for running. Our bodies aren’t designed for it. They seek to support this with the misinformed and incorrect assertion that running “destroys the knees.” I’ve even had some folks quote the apostle Paul’s words to his young protégée, Timothy, as a reason for why running (physical training) is spiritually superfluous and unnecessary: “Train yourself in godliness, for, while physical training is of some value, godliness is valuable in every way, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come” (1 Timothy 4.8). And while it is hard to argue against Paul, I do not think it is as binary, as cut and dry, as choosing one over the other. After all, Paul spent hours upon hours and days upon days walking great distances across the Roman Empire. Physical training, it seems, was very much part of his everyday life. As a matter of fact, one might even imagine that it was during these long solitary treks that Paul wrestled with and hammered out much of his theology. They were times of prayer and deep spirituality. It also seems to me that in our day, where we’ve become increasingly sedentary, we are damaging more than just our bodies—our hearts and our arteries, spikes in blood-pressure and blood-sugar—we just might be damaging ourselves spiritually as well.

So that brings us back to running. And not just running, but specifically the courage to run. You might wonder just what sort of courage does it really take to run?

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Grace is Bigger Than We Think

“By the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them—yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me.” 
– St. Paul (1 Cor. 15:10, NIV)

“Stir the spark of grace now within you, and God will give you more grace.” 
–John Wesley

“Grace is opposed to earning, not to effort.” 
–Dallas Willard

Grace is Bigger Than We Think

    Many Christians rightly understand that grace is indispensable in our lives, as much as the right kind of fuel is essential to a working vehicle. Grace is indeed that essential, since the scriptures insist from beginning to end that every good gift from God is precisely that–a gift, which we could never possibly deserve. However, instead of cruising down the open highway and having enough gas in the tank to deal with whatever obstacles may come along, many of us have experienced the Christian life more as one with an occasional spurt while more often staring at a “Low Fuel” light, feeling like our motor could have nothing left at any moment. 

    Grace is the fuel we are made to run on as Christians, and learning to live the kind of life Jesus invites us to as his followers is about learning to cooperate with grace. Unfortunately, though, we often misunderstand (or, perhaps, under-understand) what grace is, and we therefore end up putting a diluted fuel in the tank. Then, we’re left unable to explain why our car quit on us before finishing the trip.

    In the minds of many of us, grace has been diluted to one thing: through Christ, God offers me forgiveness even though I really don’t deserve it. Even though that is true, immensely important, and an exceedingly gracious thing of God to do, forgiveness is not the totality of grace.

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Are We Too Familiar With God?

Perhaps “familiar” is not the right word – maybe “casual” or “nonchalant” might be better choices.  My husband and I recently celebrated his birthday in St. Louis, Missouri.  My parents cared for our five year old son and three year old daughter for the day, so we took advantage of getting to do things in the city that wouldn’t be as easy or enjoyable with preschoolers.  We toured Bush Stadium, home of the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team, and then visited the Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis. The walls and ceiling of this massive stone cathedral are covered with mosaic scenes, which took 76 years to complete and total 83,000 square feet!  

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The Courage to Live

I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately. There are a number of reason for this. Part of it is stress about where I am in my education (done with course work, but have no clear dissertation topic). Part of if it is where I am in life (I’m turning 56 in September and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up). Part of it is I tend toward melancholy (the Eeyore syndrome). Part of it… well, anyway… there are a lot of reasons. I’ll get through it. I always do. I’ll go for a nice 10 mile run. Classes start soon (Aquinas this semester). Maybe I’ll go to Disneyland (one of the perks of living in So Cal). 

One thing I’ve done that has helped is I started reading George Sheehan’s classic, Running and Being. It’s a 35 year old book, and I can’t believe I’ve never read it before. As I’ve read, I’ve seen some of myself in the pages—some of my reclusiveness, my inwardness, retreating into my mind, into the realm of ideas and thoughts (yes, I’m an introvert). Some people misinterpret these characteristics in me. They see it as being antisocial or as a tacit misanthropy. But it’s not. 

One of the things Sheehan notes right in the beginning is how he had spent his whole life trying to “fit in” and in the process lost himself. By working so hard trying to identify with a group, trying to fit the image of what he was supposed to be, he lost who he was. He struggled with unworthiness (he wasn’t one of the popular), inferiority (he wasn’t like others), and incompleteness (somehow he never measured up). Struggling to overcome these “flaws” he constantly fought to “reinvent” himself, to become something other than who he truly was. Striving to “fit in” he lost himself. 

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