“Inconceivable!” the bald guy with the cartoon voice keeps shouting. He uses the word over and over to express his shock.

And finally Inigo Montoya – of “… you killed my father, prepare to die” fame – has had enough and utters my favorite line from The Princess Bride: “you keep using that word – I do not think it means what you think it means.”

I mention this because I’ve heard several explanations of the famous Romans 7 passage where Paul says “… the things I want to do, I don’t do. What I don’t want to do I find myself doing,” etc.

And with nearly every explanation I find myself thinking “You keep using that Scripture. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

People like to say “see, Paul struggled the same way we did! His life was an ongoing battle too! Just like ours!” It’s the ultimate “misery loves company” moment for us. We should EXPECT for our lives as Christians to be a tooth and nail fight for shreds of goodness!

… wait, how is this good news?  It seems to me that if Paul’s saying “yep, the Christian life is one big, ongoing ying and yang battle against sin and you’ll probably never see much progress” … well that just depresses me.

But I don’t think that’s what Paul’s saying. At all. But seeing that involves backing up a bit.

The book of Romans is a theological progression, meaning each chapter builds on the one before it. So chapters 1-2 are about the universal problem of sin. Chapters 3-4 are about Christ as the solution, and faith being the means of accepting that solution. Then chapters 5-8 flesh out what that means.

So in chapter 5 Paul claims that if all evil entered the world through Adam, how much more VICTORY will come through the New Adam, Jesus Christ. The implication being the power of sin has been broken. Chapter 6 expands on this when it says (v. 1-3) that we can’t continue to sin, because we have DIED to sin! (died … sounds permanent). Paul says in v. 4 that the power that raised Christ from the dead is giving us new life. Our old selves have been crucified (v. 6). We are FREE from the power of sin (v. 7). Christ has BROKEN the power of sin in our life (v. 10). What does this mean? Verse 11 says that each of us “should consider yourselves dead to the power of sin and alive to God through Jesus Christ.”

But is this freedom only over the power of sin in death – isn’t this just a freedom from being separated from God in eternity? No! Verses 12-14 explicitly say we are free to choose goodness NOW.

Paul then in chapter 7 directly addresses his Jewish readers, who have lived under rules and sacrifices and a constant sense of their own inadequacy before God. He explains to these people how Jesus’ sacrifice, and trusting in Him through faith, is superior to the old law. He explains that the law exposes our inadequacy, but leaves us powerless to do anything about them. Paul deliberately highlights the differences between our life in Christ, and the old life under the law.

Which brings us to the aforementioned end of Romans 7. Here’s the entire passage:

¹⁴ So the trouble is not with the law, for it is spiritual and good. The trouble is with me, for I am all too human, a slave to sin. ¹⁵ I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate. ¹⁶ But if I know that what I am doing is wrong, this shows that I agree that the law is good. ¹⁷ So I am not the one doing wrong; it is sin living in me that does it.

 ¹⁸ And I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature.^[a] I want to do what is right, but I can’t. ¹⁹ I want to do what is good, but I don’t. I don’t want to do what is wrong, but I do it anyway. ²⁰ But if I do what I don’t want to do, I am not really the one doing wrong; it is sin living in me that does it.

 ²¹ I have discovered this principle of life—that when I want to do what is right, I inevitably do what is wrong. ²² I love God’s law with all my heart. ²³ But there is another power^[b] within me that is at war with my mind. This power makes me a slave to the sin that is still within me. ²⁴ Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin and death? ²⁵ Thank God! The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord. So you see how it is: In my mind I really want to obey God’s law, but because of my sinful nature I am a slave to sin.

Now here’s my question: based on the previous context, which life is Paul talking about here? Our new life as Christians under the power of Christ? Or the old life under the law? To me, it is glaringly obvious that Paul is talking about life under the law. Which is probably why the verses FOLLOWING this section say this:

²⁴ Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin and death? 25 Thank God! The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord.

And then in the next chapter Paul goes on an extended smack down against the power of sin, illustrated perfectly in v. 2: “And because you belong to him, the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you from the power of sin that leads to death.” And then in v. 11 “The spirit of God, who raised Jesus from the dead, lives in you. And just as God raised Christ Jesus from the dead, he will give life to your mortal bodies by this same Spirit living in you.”  

And here’s why this matters: because if we are convinced that our lives are just going to be an ongoing war against this fundamental part of who we are – if we say “well Paul was like this, so I will be too” – then that’s exactly what will happen.

BUT …

But if we get that we have a NEW identity … that we’re dead to sin … that we have a NEW nature that is freed by the power of Christ’s resurrection to do good works … if we KNOW in the core of our beings that we’re free …

… well THAT’S something worth hoping for.

In my preparation I learned something interesting: the word for love in this chapter is “agape” (which I knew). But what I didn’t know is how odd Paul’s word-choice was. During Paul’s time agape was an obscure word nearly no one knew. Most people think it was adopted from the Hebrew language, and thus was far from being a common colloquialism.

So why — in one of him most evocative chapters ever — does Paul use a word no one knows? I think for the same reason anyone uses an uncommon word … to sound smart.

… not really. I think it’s because new words demand new interpretation. Whenever I use the word “orange” my brain opens up a file containing everything I know about oranges. So if I want to communicate something OTHER than the information in that file, I need a new word.

I think Paul uses the word agape to clarify that he’s not talking about love the way his readers knew it. No, the love Paul talked about was something that — like the word — was different, rare, unusual. He then spends half the chapter defining this love: it’s patient, kind, free of jealousy and pride and rudeness. This love is hopeful and joyful and it’s always always always a proponent of the truth. It leads to faith and hope.

And I think the implication of this chapter is that whatever this agape is, it’s altogether other than the type of love we humans usually embody. It’s not phileo, friendly but only to a point. It’s not eros, romantic and desirous and lustful (not that either of these two loves are necessarily bad, by the way).

It’s a love that’s bigger … or maybe deeper would be a better adjective. It’s a love that humans aren’t particularly capable of on their own. It’s a love that will have to come from some place else.

Probably from a God who would repeatedly say that He is the inherent embodiment of agape. “For God so agape’d the world …” Or in 1 John, “For God is agape, and in Him there is no darkness.”

1 Corinthians 13, then, isn’t a call to try harder to love well. It’s a call to participate in a love that is altogether outside us … and never more needed.

– John Cusack’s character, Rob Gordon, in the movie High Fidelity

A stand-off between the priests of Baal – the spiritual seductresses that had led Israel to whore herself out to another lover – and THE God. The I AM. The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. The God who by His choice made Israel a chosen people.

And God won.

Fire fell from the sky. The altar was consumed. The priests were killed.

Elijah could not have dreamed a better result. God had show up in power and surely now – after all of this – Israel would rush back to Yahweh. Jezebel and her spineless husband’s reign of oppression would end. Israel would take its place as a shining beacon of light to the world. Right?

Except it didn’t go that way.

The next day Jezebel was still queen … and her new mission was to kill this upstart prophet who had dared stand against her. A national manhunt began. Elijah became public enemy number one, and his world came crashing back to reality. He remembered how far Israel had travelled from God, how dark the spiritual landscape of the country really was, and maybe he started realizing his grandiose dreams of change – of believing that God through him would turn everything around in a day … well, maybe those dreams were just dreams.

Nothing had changed for better. Everything had changed for the worse. Elijah felt like some pawn in a chess game where the outcome was uncertain, but his demise was a given. No pawn attacks the queen and wins.

So Elijah fled into the desert. The darkness of his depression eating away like a parasite at the hope in his heart. And eventually he ends up on a mountain where God says “what are you doing here?”

What am I doing here! Elijah must have thought. I’m saving my life. I’m fleeing from a queen who is STILL ruling what’s supposed to be YOUR people! The fire on the altar was a nice touch, but NOTHING has changed God! You asked me to be obedient, you said you’d use me, and it’s ALL STILL THE SAME! What was the point? Why did you do this to me?

And then God passes before Elijah, with wind that tore rocks from the face of the cliff, and an earthquake that rattled Elijah’s bones, and a scorching fire. THIS was the power Elijah had wanted to see. THIS was how he had wanted God to act. WHERE had THIS God been?

But God doesn’t speak to Elijah through the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire.

He speaks in a still, small voice.

He speaks in the way Elijah least expects.

He doesn’t bowl Elijah over with His power or force Elijah to submit to His will through grandiose “acts of God.” He just whispers to Him.

I wonder if God’s point was I know what you would have me do. Wipe out the enemies. Reestablish things immediately. Give you the victory you’re looking for. And I could do that … but in this world, I speak mostly like this. I want people to know me. I want them to hear me when I whisper. And I want you to hear me in the whispers too.

Then God whispered His truth to Elijah: I have a plan. I’m raising up new kings. I have a prophet who will take your place. There are 7,000 others who are loyal to me.

In other words: I’m doing things my way, in my time. I’m invading this world one heart at a time. I’m setting a plan into motion you can’t imagine, and that no one will see coming.

I think what Elijah needed to be reminded of was that while we all want to follow the God of earthquakes, and winds and immediate victories, we serve a God who moves at His own pace, and speaks mostly in whispers.

It was said to people who were in training to be one of the few, highly respected teachers of the Jewish faith. It was a saying for disciples who, if a rabbi allowed them to sit under their tutelage, would follow their rabbi around everywhere and watch as he interacted with the world. They would watch him eat, pray, go to temple, and they would observe him, because they wanted to be JUST LIKE their rabbi.

So to be covered in the dust of your rabbi meant that you has followed him so closely on the dirt roads of 1st Century Palestine that his sandals had kicked up a cloud of dust that was now caking your body. And this was an honor, because there was nothing a disciple wanted more than to be just like his rabbi. The dust was a sign of honor.

 So when Jesus – the rabbi – says to his disciples, “you will do greater things than these,” it is a huge moment. He’s telling them “you’ve been covered in my dust, and you’ve done well. I’ve watched you, and you have what it takes. Of course, Jesus also knew the Holy Spirit would soon be changing their lives, bringing the same power that would soon raise Jesus from the dead into every waking moment. But that’s kind of the point for us, right? If we spend each day hovering close to our rabbi – caked in the peripheral presence of the Holy Spirit – then we can be just like Jesus. We will grow in His love and power. We will see our lives changed, and see God use us to change OTHER peoples’ lives.

And Eve listened, and I still listen, and I see people everywhere who are listening too.

We’re focused on the tree, and how much we want its fruit, and how cruel it is for God to keep us from the tree. And how the tree really isn’t that big of a deal. We think it’s all about the tree.

And what we don’t realize is that it was never about the tree at all … not really.

It was about trust.

Satan’s goal always has been, and always will be, to make sure we don’t trust in God’s competency and God’s goodness.

Every sin we commit ultimately comes back to a belief that God either isn’t good or isn’t smart. He’s incompetent or He’s evil.

If I want what’s best for me, I best be about getting it, because God’s not going to come through, I think.

But I don’t realize any of this. Because I’m so focused on the damned lie that this is really all about the tree … not me choosing to shun the one who created me.

I blog twice a week for months … and then stop. I run three times a week for years … and then stop. I voraciously read the news every day for half a decade … then stop.

I’m an unpredictable guy.

Also unpredictable: my blog traffic. I have slowly but surely built something resembling a respectable audience the last few months, but figured that nearly a month off would wreck that. But when I looked at the statistics today … I’m averaging more views per day than ever before and on pace for a record breaking month. I’m pretty sure this is because of all the pictures I have here. People google image “cancer” and the cancer cell pic I used in a post several months ago shows up.

Basically what I’m saying is that when I DON’T write, more people look at this blog … primarily because most people coming to this blog aren’t looking to read anything. They are just looking for pictures …

There are some things I know are wrong, even if I can’t explain why I feel that way. For instance, I know — know from the bottom of my heart — that cockroaches are demons in physical form. Think about it, they thrive in dark and decaying places. They scuttle about all weird-like. They can survive a nuclear holocaust. Something ain’t right … I just can’t prove it.

For years I’ve felt the same way about the book of Revelation … or more accurately, about peoples’ interpretation of it. I read those Left Behind books and hear preachers explain a 7 1/2 year day-by-day timeline of the apocalypse and something inside me goes “this just doesn’t sound right.” But I could never explain why I felt that way. It was just a vague impression that these people were misreading things.

But I recently stumbled* on a book by Richard Bauckham entitled The Theology of the Book of Revelation that has totally put some substance to my theory. I’ll probably write more about this later, but in short Bauckham’s theory (so far) is this: the book of Revelation must be seen through the eyes of the seven very real churches addressed in chapters 1-3. The book, while most certainly an explanation of the end times, is intentionally written in a way they would understand. The heavy symbolism directly references and contrasts the symbolism of the Roman Empire in which they lived, and the book is basically saying “you can either side with Babylon (the enemy of Jesus, and an obvious reference to the pagan practices of Roman cult worship) or you can hold true to Jesus.”

*By which I mean I borrowed it from my genius friend Taylor Ishii

The book then is not so much a chronological, blow-by-blow account, but a heavenly interpretation of these churches current reality … with a futuristic bent. In other words, the writer John is saying “here’s how your world looks from heaven, and here is where things are going. The Empire of Rome is at war with the kingdom of heaven, and Rome will lose. So pick your allegiance accordingly, and for those of you being persecuted, hope is coming.”

Now this is probably an oversimplification on my part — I’m still reading the book — but I find this general interpretation much more compelling than what I was taught growing up. Mostly because it makes Revelation LESS a bizarre code to unlock, and more a look at how the Church (both the seven churches specifically and the Church Universal) must continue to remember which Kingdom they truly serve.

And THAT is something that most definitely will preach today.

”I suppose the reasons for the use of so much violence in modern fiction will differ with each writer who uses it, but in my own stories I have found that violence is strangely capable of returning my characters to reality and preparing them to accept their moment of grace. Their heads are so hard that almost nothing else will do the work. This idea, that reality is something to which we must be returned at considerable cost, is one which is seldom understood by the casual reader, but it is one which is implicit in the Christian view of the world.” — Flannery O’Connor

“When I go to a movie that is boring or meaningless I don’t think ‘all movies are boring or meaningless’ … just that one. So when my friends say ‘Life is ultimately meaningless and has no greater purpose’ I say ‘well, maybe just YOUR life is meaningless and has no greater purpose’ … which might be why I don’t have a lot of friends.” — Donald Miller

… and what the heck, one more:

“Some Christians wonder ‘how can we be happy hoping for a heaven that’s so long from coming’ … but have you ever met a depressed engaged girl? You don’t go up to her and go ‘I’m so sorry’.” — Donald Miller

I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.” – John 16:33 (NLT)

Hope is a good thing … maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies. – Andy Dufresne, Shawshank Redemption

It isn’t easy to work in a jail. Seeing the worst of humanity. Dealing with the violent, the angry, the evil, the dregs, those who are bitter, in denial, shattered, crazy.

Days turn into weeks that turn into years, and every night your ability to show compassion dies. You become less loving toward others, less inclined to see people as valuable. Less inclined to show mercy.

Which is part of the reason why the Philippian jailer paid no attention when a rabble-rousing Jew and his Greek companion, beaten far more than usual, a bloody and pathetic mess, were thrown into his jail. He was given specific instructions that they not escape, so maybe he was curious what made these guys so infamous, but his interest ended there.

And so Paul and Silas were led into the deepest, darkest, most inhumane section of the hollowed-out-cave-turned-prison, sat against the wall, arms chained above their heads, legs spread wide and shackled in place. The jailer probably inspected the scene – he’d had specific instructions to watch them after all – but when that was done he would leave them to sit there for hours. In only a few minutes a painful cramping would set in – eventually it would be come excruciating. They couldn’t move. Couldn’t adjust. The viciousness of their beating would make it astronomically worse for them. Sleep would be impossible.

He couldn’t have cared less.

As he double-checked their shackles he was surprised at how quiet they were – they didn’t protest, didn’t yell out their innocence, didn’t demand their rights or hurl curses at him. Maybe he was surprised at the peace in their eyes. The hope. Maybe Paul and Silas tried to tell the jailer about their Jewish savior who allegedly came back to life. No matter. He wasn’t listening.

But then the singing started.

Not taunting. Not pleading. Not the pointless, arrogant posturing of convicted men, dashing themselves against the rock of the Roman Empire.

These men were … worshipping their God. Not begging Him for mercy. Not trying to summon some incantation that would set them free. They were … thanking Him. Praising Him. Telling Him how great He was.

And how Paul and Silas suffered, for the first time, helped the jailer see who they served.

Something was different about these Jews. He’d known it before but not cared enough to investigate. And it’s probably too much to say the jailer was moved by this moment. But maybe he was intrigued, because after all, this was something NEW.

In a profession where every day is routine, and nothing ever changes, and there’s not much to marvel at, any break from the normal catches your attention. And even if he didn’t want to admit it, there was something moving about the sound of these suffering prisoners praising their God. It just … didn’t belong in this world.

 There was far too much hope.

Hope.

The only hope the jailer had was in his job. It was his ability to run the jail that gave him his place in the Roman Empire. It was his duty to the Caesar, his name be praised. The Caesar, as a matter of self-preservation if not of conviction, was the jailer’s god. And the only way to stay on his good side was to be a good jailer …

Which is why, when the earthquake hit, jarring him from his sleep and sending him in to a frantic scramble for a light, his clothing, his sword, all the hope faded from his life.

The earthquake had thrown open the doors to the jail. The prisoners had probably escaped. He’d failed the Caesar. His god. His life was forfeit. His only recourse now was to fall on his sword, die an honorable death, and hope that whatever underworld awaited him would have some measure of rest.

And then he hears a voice: “Don’t do it! We’re all here!”

And for the second time that night, the voice of Paul spoke hope into the jailer’s life. Only this time the jailer was listening. This time, the jailer had come to the end of himself, and realized just how little he was living, and how miserable he really was. Maybe he came to terms with the fact that his whole life centered around serving an Emperor who would have never noticed he was gone.

Whatever. He was desperate. Ready to listen.

And so he ran into the cave, found Paul and Silas, the crazy Jew and his friend who had dared cross Rome. The men he’d swore he’d keep a close eye on.

And in an astonishing moment of brokenness the captor acknowledged his captivity.

“What must I do to be saved?” the jailer asked.

“Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and you WILL be saved” Paul said.

They weren’t just words. It was a belief ingrained so deeply in Paul that he was willing to be beaten, threatened, eventually killed, preaching that JESUS was king of the world, not the Caesar.

And Paul stared at the jailer with a mix of compassion and intensity that seared the jailer’s soul. And he wanted what Paul had. How Paul knew how to suffer with hope. He wanted to know the God Paul served.

And the jailer – the bitter, calloused, angry, deadened jailer – invites Paul and Silas into his nearby home. And washes their wounds. And feeds him his food. And introduces him to his family – a family who doesn’t know that just a few minutes before their husband/father almost ended his life.

And the jailer and his entire family fall on their knees before the One True God who revealed Himself through Jesus and give their lives to Him.  

And it all happened because how Paul suffered showed Who he served.

It happened because when Paul suffered, he suffered with hope.

And hope found in Jesus never dies.

A speculative retelling of Acts 16:16-34

I once saw a coffee table book full of “deaffirmations” called You Are Worthless.

You’ve probably seen books filled with short little quotes that affirm life, love, liberty, and other positive “L” words — this book was filled with reality checks – little reminders that you were not, after all, a unique, beautiful snowflake. One of them made me laugh so hard I memorized it:

“People don’t really like you – they just like how they FEEL around you … you barely figure into the equation at all.”

Does finding this funny mean I’m a soulless clod? Maybe. But it’s just so … so … eloquently awful. And maybe more true about how we treat each other than we want to admit.

I was thinking of this quote recently as I thought about the way I treat God.

The truth is that I tend to worship (focus on, obsess over, give my passion toward) the gifts God gives me more than God himself. I like how God makes me FEEL, and the provision He’s given me, and the opportunity I have to use my passions and gifts …

But what happens when all that goes away?

                When, like Elijah, the brook dries up.

                                Or, like with Abraham, God asks me to sacrifice His gift at the altar.

                                                Or, like with David, God seems to have abandoned me.

Do I worship God for who He is, or for how I feel around Him? How much does he figure into the equation?

And what’s cool about God – I mean really, awesomely cool – is that He puts up with us being like this. The truth is we’re all an impure muddle of motivations and loyalties.  Lord knows we don’t serve him for purely selfless reasons. And yet He’s still there, providing when we’re not grateful, being faithful and constant when we’re anything but …

… but …

                … but He doesn’t leave us there. Eventually he dries up the brook, or asks for us to take our hands off the gift, or hides His presence from our senses. And that’s when we find out how much we really loved Him, just for Him.

And God’s plan is never to leave us in that place of abandonment, sacrifice, physical need. But He also might not move us until He’s helped us see …

It’s not about how God makes us feel.

                It’s about who God is.

                                And God IS the equation.