Lessons from Literature: Jumping to Conclusions while God’s Not Done (The Baron’s Apprenticeship)

We’re returning to George MacDonald’s trilogy for another literary lesson (see this post for the previous one), but this time the golden nugget comes from the third book, The Baron’s Apprenticeship. And this time, the goodness is delivered via a character’s mouth. We’ll get right to it and join Barbara as she is recounting a conversation she had with the curate, Thomas Wingfold:  

Mr. Wingfold said that it was not fair, when a man had made something for a purpose, to say it was not good before we knew what his purpose with it was. “I don’t even like my wife to look at my poems before they’re finished,” he said. “But God can’t hide away his work till it is finished, as I do my verses, and we ought to take care what we say about it. God wants to do something better with people than people think” (p. 95).

The truth and accompanying implications here, stated another way, are these: 1) God does things with a purpose; 2) God’s purpose in a given situation is not usually apparent to us at the outset; 3) we should avoid jumping to conclusions about our circumstances, assuming we know His purpose, and judging Him and our circumstances according to those assumptions. As these thoughts were simmering in my mind, I came across several Psalms that help us look deeper into this idea.

In Psalm 105, the psalmist is recounting the history of Israel from Abraham to the exodus from Egypt and return to the Promised Land. In the middle of the psalm, we read, “When he [God] summoned a famine on the land and broke all supply of bread, he had sent a man ahead of them […]” (v. 16-17a, ESV*).  Here we see God’s preparation for His people, years before they ever knew a famine was coming. What a beautiful, good thing!

But in the rest of verse 17, we find an unexpected ending: “When he summoned a famine on the land and broke all supply of bread, he had sent a man ahead of them, Joseph who was sold as a slave.” So wait, our good God provided a means of survival for His people, but He did it by allowing a man to become a slave? You got it.

I think it’s safe to say that we can all agree that slavery is bad. And being kidnapped by your brothers and sold to foreigners isn’t something we would call “good.” Yet, Joseph himself acknowledged that God’s hand was in his slavery. He told his brothers, “And God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. So it was not you who sent me here, but God,” (Genesis 45:7-8a). He later told them, “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today” (Genesis 50:20). Very clearly, Joseph understood that what seemed like a bad situation was actually a good one. But likely, he had doubts when he was in prison in a foreign land, having been unjustly accused after having been sold into slavery.

Joseph’s story is probably the most common illustration for the idea that what looks like something bad can actually be something good, but that shouldn’t make it any less potent. And when we combine it with Thomas Wingfold’s admonition to avoid judging things as “not good” prematurely, it becomes even more thought-provoking. What would have happened if Joseph had insisted that God had sent this flood of horrible circumstances upon him and therefore couldn’t be relied upon much less worshipped? What would have happened if he had hardened his heart to God because he judged God’s purpose to be against him instead of for him? How often are we guilty of doing just that?

In other Psalms, we see this idea again, that God uses bad to bring about good. Psalm 66:11-12 reads, “You brought us into the net; you laid a crushing burden on our backs; you let men ride over our heads; we went through the fire and through water; yet you have brought us out to a place of abundance.” Notice God is the one doing the action here. God is the one bringing them into the net; God is the one laying a burden on them—and not just any burden, a crushing burden; God is the one letting them be ridden over. The verse prior to these tells us that God did these things to test and try His people; in other words, God put them through challenging times to refine them for their ultimate good.

Are we comfortable and confident enough in our faith to accept that God sometimes puts us in painful, difficult, even crushing situations? Do we believe in a God that is big enough to redeem evil and use it for good? In these verses, God is the one inflicting the “negative” things on His people, but He is also the one bringing them out of those things into a peaceful place where they can flourish. His purposes were sure all along, even though the process might have obscured them from view.

Elsewhere, the psalmist writes, “You who have made me see many troubles and calamities will revive me again; from the depths of the earth you will bring me up again” (Psalm 71:20). Again we see that God is the one making him experience trouble, but that God is also the one who brings back to life what has been crushed. God can send someone to the lowest of lows and then bring them up again.

In all of these cases, what is important to note is that God is not cruel in allowing bad to happen to us. In our finite existence, it can seem that sad and painful circumstances are always and forever bad, but in God’s infinite reality in which we live, where His ways are far above our understanding, His good purposes are always at work and will always prevail. As the psalmist testifies, “The works of his hands are faithful and just” (Psalm 111:7a). We must be careful, then, that we don’t unjustly accuse our all-wise God of cruelty or callousness simply because we cannot see the bigger picture or all of the details of His eternal plan.

Because we know who He is from His Word, we can trust Him completely—even in the midst of crushing burdens that weigh us down, grief that knocks our breath away, and pain that doesn’t relent. He is in control. And He is good. I can’t think of a better way to conclude than to revisit Thomas Wingfold’s words. May they sink into your soul, challenging and encouraging you as they have me.

Mr. Wingfold said that it was not fair, when a man had made something for a purpose, to say it was not good before we knew what his purpose with it was. “I don’t even like my wife to look at my poems before they’re finished,” he said. “But God can’t hide away his work till it is finished, as I do my verses, and we ought to take care what we say about it. God wants to do something better with people than people think.”

Source: MacDonald, George (Phillips, Michael, ed.) The Curate of Glaston. Minneapolis: Bethany House, 1986.

*All Scripture is quoted from the English Standard Version

Lessons from Literature: The Making of a Classic (Good Wives: Little Women, Part II)

Ancient history has never been my favorite period to study, perhaps because it seems so far removed from our own times that imagination and empathy require a great deal more effort. Nonetheless, my ancient history course in college did gift me with the opportunity to work on strengthening those skills and to expand my understanding of the world as it was and as it is.

Among the ways this was accomplished was through my professor’s use of original works for our textbooks. Thucydides, Plato, Suetonius, and others—authors of the “classics”—became our tour guides to the ancient world. And as my small group presented on St. Augustine’s City of God, I pondered what it was about these works—indeed, any works—that make them “classics.” Five years later, while reading another classic, I encountered the conclusion I had reached in that Ancient History classroom.

The novel was Good Wives by Louisa May Alcott (which is actually the second half of Little Women), and in her usual insightfulness Alcott slips in powerful truth in a parenthetical statement. She is describing the scene of Beth’s sickroom, made as cheerful as possible by the March family, when she mentions, “father reading, in his pleasant voice, from the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as applicable now as when written centuries ago […]" (p. 244).

And there it was—the “old books” are “wise” because they ring just as true today as they did when written. What else makes a classic if not that? Just as the “old books” were still valued in Alcott’s 1860s world, so her works, now old, are valued in ours. Of the countless books published over the course of history, only a relative few have stood the test of time, and I would suggest that those that have survived have done so because they contain such perception, such enduring observations of and commentaries on human nature that they are just as useful for our growth today as they were when penned. Or as Alcott says, they are “as applicable now as when written centuries ago.”

Sometimes the application points may require a little more effort to discover because of changes in language or syntax, but the concepts and expressions that cause the reader to say, “Yes! I recognize this character or world!” are those that make classics what they are. And in finding this reality about the nature of classics, we stumble upon another, greater reality about the nature of ourselves.

If classics are classics because they contain enduring concepts, then classics are made possible because enduring concepts exist. In other words, because human nature is constant, observations made about a human mindset in 431 B.C. can also be made of a human mindset in A.D. 2018. This is why words written hundreds or thousands of years before our time can still affect us so powerfully. (It’s also why the Lessons from Literature series on this blog is even possible.)

Classics help us see, then, that we really are all the same at the root of things. As humans, we all have the same nature—the same capacity for good because of God’s image that we bear and the same propensity for evil because of our inherited fallen-ness. Realizing this truth should help us demonstrate more kindness, empathy, understanding, and grace to our fellow humans and should help us to see that there is a Being who created us all. His design for us was perfect, and we’ve gone and twisted it until sometimes it’s almost unrecognizable, but the core of our being is still dependent on Him and receives its very definition from Him alone.

Enduring words and ideas can exist because there is an enduring God who is Truth itself. He is the standard by which all “truth” is measured, and He has made Himself and His truth known to us. What a blessing He has given us to be able to comprehend truth ourselves, to receive it from those who have gone before us, and to communicate it to those around us and those who are still to come.

Source: Alcott, Louisa M. Good Wives: Little Women, Part II. New York: Penguin, 1994.

The God Who Goes Before

Birthdays have a way of making us think about the past and the future more than we usually might. Like New Year’s, they are a time of reflection and anticipation. But the more birthdays I experience, the more the reflection lends itself to an uncertain anticipation—a vague hopefulness that new things await but a realization that those new things could include unexpected difficulties as well.

At the end of a year, looking back on all of the unforeseen circumstances we encountered causes us to realize that we never truly know what a year will bring—much less a day. Even looking back on a single day, we often find that it looked altogether different from how we had thought it was going to when we woke up.

In some ways, this realization can be exciting—there’s always the possibility for unanticipated joys. But in other ways it can be frightening, because there’s always the possibility for unanticipated hardship, too. For those of us in Christ, though, there is a truth that is so very reassuring, and we see it in both the Old Testament and the New.

In Deuteronomy 31, Moses is nearing the end of his life and is preparing the Israelites and their new leader Joshua to enter the land God had promised would be theirs. The people had wandered for 40 years in the wilderness and had experienced a series of events that they (and their parents who left Egypt) undoubtedly had not anticipated. Now they were facing entering a land filled with people who claimed it as their own and who were hostile to the living God. In short, their future was headed toward a promised certainty, but the path to get there was filled with unknowns.

It is into this situation that Moses speaks to Joshua in front of the entire community: “Be strong and courageous, for you shall go with this people into the land that the LORD has sworn to their fathers to give them, and you shall put them in possession of it. It is the LORD who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you nor forsake you.” (Deut. 31:7-8, ESV)

In the middle of this encouraging passage is the truth that reassures us even today—“It is the LORD who goes before you.” Said another way, just a few verses before, “The LORD your God himself will go over before you” (Deut. 31:3, ESV). Whatever Joshua and the Israelites were about to face, God himself would face it first. Because God is outside of space and time, He could be in their future and their present simultaneously. And because He never changes, He can do the same for us.

The LORD (Yahweh, the covenantal God who relationally reveals himself) abides in our future before we even begin to step into it. This means that whatever is unknown to us is not unknown to Him. He knows exactly what we are going to face from every second of our future. But why is that reassuring to us? It’s not particularly, unless of course we put that truth in concert with the other truths that God has revealed to us about Himself, e.g. that He is loving, merciful, and gracious, that He gives good gifts to His children, that He is our strength, and that He hears the intercession of His own Spirit on our behalf (see Exodus 34:6-7, Matthew 7:11, Psalm 28:7, Romans 8:27).  In other words, He knows what we are going to face, and He prepares us to face it, even when we are unaware of His doing so.

With this truth, though, comes a promise. Not only does He prepare us in advance (sometimes years in advance), but also He is with us when our future becomes our present. “It is the LORD who goes before you, He will be with you; he will not leave you nor forsake you” (emphasis added). He already exists in our future, yes, but more than that, He accompanies us as we enter it ourselves. Whatever we will face, whether joyous or heartbreaking, He will be with us every step of the way.

As if that wasn’t encouraging enough, we find a deepening of this truth, in Jesus’ words in John 10. As He is revealing Himself by analogizing Himself to a shepherd (a familiar occupation of the time) He says, “When he [the shepherd] has brought out all his own, he goes before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice” (John 10:4, ESV, emphasis added). In calling Himself the Shepherd who goes before His sheep, Jesus is revealing that He is God—the same Being as the One who went before His people in the wilderness. Conversely, the Yahweh who preceded the Israelites is the same Being who took on flesh for Jews and Gentiles alike and laid down His life so that we might be with Him forever (John 10:14-18).

The transcendent God who goes before came to live intimately among us in the person of Jesus Christ. And now, through His Spirit who came to us after Jesus rose from the dead and returned to heaven, He is not just with us; He is in us, giving a richer understanding of the promise “he will not leave you nor forsake you.” So no matter what our future may bring, we can rest in the knowledge that God Himself, who loves us enough that He died a death we and not He deserved, has already been there and is powerful, wise, sufficient, and good enough to equip us with what we need and to accompany us as we face whatever lies ahead.

May we live increasingly in the sure and steady peace that such God-provided knowledge brings. 

You Work in Archives—So What Do You Do?

If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you might have picked up on the fact that I’m a history enthusiast. In fact, I even have a history degree. What you might not know, though, is that I use said degree in my work as an archives assistant. (That’s right, contrary to popular belief, history degrees aren’t just for teaching. Not to downplay history teachers at all—I have two pretty awesome ones in my family!) 

So, in other words, I work in archives. Even if you did know that, you might still be wondering what exactly I do—or anyone does—when working in archives. If so, you’re not alone. I am asked frequently, “So…what do you actually do?” Hence, this blog post. Today, I hope to give you a very abbreviated explanation of what archives are, what archivists (pronounced ARK-uh-vists) do, and why it matters to you.

Let me start by clearing up the common confusion about digging around in the dirt, hunting for ancient artefacts or skeletons. That’s not what I do; an archivist is not an archeologist. And while archivists can—and often do—work in libraries and museums, each of those entities involves a separate profession with a different, although similar, focus and standards from the archives profession. I like to think of archives, libraries, and museums as cousins—related, but not identical.

Archivists have their own profession that, like any other, has standards, guidelines, and ethical codes that govern its work in addition to societies and scholarly publications that help shape it. And just as archivists are distinct from librarians and curators, archivists can be distinct from each other as well. They can come in a variety of breeds (aka specializations) or can wear all the specialization hats at once, and they can work in a variety of types of archives—religious, corporate, public (government), academic, family, community, etc.

The most succinct way to describe what archival professionals do overall, though, is that we identify, sometimes gather, preserve, and provide access to records that have lasting or “enduring” value. These records are housed in the archives, but they themselves are also referred to as archives. So the term “archives” can refer both to the place and to the contents of the place.

Probably the most well-known archives in the United States (thanks to a degree, I’m sure, to the film National Treasure) is the National Archives that most famously houses the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Those are some pretty obvious examples of documents that have enduring value, but there are so many other things that warrant being preserved.

Think about why you keep things in your own life—you keep contracts to have proof of an agreement and its terms; you keep letters (in archival terminology, known as “correspondence”) that are special to you because of your relationship with the person who wrote them; you keep owner’s manuals because you might need to refer to them if an appliance malfunctions; you keep photographs of your grandparents because your kids never met them; and the list goes on. In short, you keep things for “future reference,” whether that reference is practical or sentimental.

Archives are the same way. At the most basic level, they are things that someone has decided to keep for a future use—whether or not the specific nature of that use is presently known. And that “someone” can be the creator of the items (e.g. the person who wrote the letter, took the photograph, etc.), an heir or successor of the creator, or an archivist.  

When materials (i.e. documents, photographs, etc.) are donated to an archives, whether by the person who originally owned them or someone else, it’s part of the archivist’s job to evaluate (or “appraise”) the items to determine if they should be kept. Archivists are in the business of permanent preservation, so you can imagine how quickly it becomes necessary to be selective with what is kept in the first place, due to limitations of both space and resources.

Once materials (often called “records” for items documenting official functions of an organization and “papers” for items created in a person’s personal life) are transferred into the archives’ possession, archivists take steps to preserve them from deterioration. This can include removing rusted paperclips, rubber bands, or other attachments that will cause damage to the paper over time, placing the materials in acid-free folders and boxes, and storing the materials in appropriately climate-controlled areas.

Another important part of archives work is what’s called arrangement and description. Archivists understand that the context surrounding a record—including its immediate physical context—is just as important as its content. For example, the significance of a handwritten poem is diminished if it is separated from the letter in which it was enclosed. In addition, the way a person organizes his papers reflects something not only about the papers themselves but also about him as a person.

For these reasons, archivists try as much as possible to maintain what’s called “original order,” i.e. to keep things in the order in which they were kept by the person who created or used them. This order can be kept physically (among the materials themselves) and/or “intellectually” (within the description of the materials). Sometimes, though, materials come into the archives in no discernable order, sometimes even literally dumped loose in a box. In these cases, archivists have to create order out of the chaos, deciding how to organize the materials in a way that will make sense to those who will use them.

The next step (which, in reality, happens concurrently with arrangement) is description. Archival description can take various forms, but essentially it means creating some form of tool to help people find specific materials in the archives. These tools can be simple inventories or complete “finding aids” that include information about the materials, where they came from, who created them, how they were arranged and why, and who arranged them.

My current position heavily involves this arranging and describing work. But there’s another “hat” that I wear, and that’s the reference hat, i.e. helping people physically locate and use the materials in the archives. This involves answering calls and emails and helping those who drop in with a research question.

See, there’s no point in gathering and preserving records if no one ever uses them. All the work that archives professionals do is for this foundational purpose—for researchers to discover, for students to explore, for city planners to verify, for families to uncover their history, for citizens to keep governments accountable, and so much more! And that, in short, is why you should care. Archives are open to you!

Even if you didn’t know that they were out there, you can discover the treasures they hold just like anyone else can! And even if you never step foot in an archives or explore archives that have been digitized and are readily available online, they make a difference in your life through the work that others do using them. If you’ve ever read a book, been influenced by the outcome of a court decision, gotten a passport, walked into a building that was remodeled, or watched a movie, chances are pretty good that archives were somehow involved in making each of those experiences what they were for you.

Archives hold information that solves problems and answers questions; they provide evidence that proves arguments; and they encapsulate our collective memory, helping to ensure that our society doesn’t suffer from crippling and dangerous amnesia. Without record of both the good and bad things that have happened, we cannot see where we’ve been and know how to move forward in a constructive, positive way. Without glimpses into how people have lived, loved, and learned in the past, we lose an invaluable opportunity to grow in empathy and understanding for our fellow humans in the past and the present, too.

I’ve only scratched the surface here, but I hope I’ve given you a taste of the world of archives—a world that is really just a microcosm of the larger world—and a glimpse into what I do every day. And I hope I’ve whetted your appetite, maybe enough to go exploring some archives on your own! Just think of a question and look in the archives for the answer. And if you need any help, your friendly archivist is only a question away!     

Enlightened Brokenness

Have you ever suffered a broken heart? I’m not talking about minor disappointments, which are uncomfortable enough; I’m talking about the kind of grief that crushes your spirit, the kind that no matter what else you think of is always accompanying you, the kind you feel physically in your chest, the kind that makes you genuinely understand why it’s called a “broken heart.” If you have, I daresay you know you have and that you might be wondering what good could have possibly come out of it.

Perhaps you’re living with a broken heart right now and are struggling to see any redeeming quality of your plight. There are many ways to find beauty in the midst of brokenness, for it is often the schoolroom that God uses to teach us truths that would otherwise be difficult for us to learn. So today I’d like to invite you to consider what I believe is one blessing of experiencing this kind of brokenness, namely a deeper understanding of and gratitude for the love of God. Let’s think about it . . .

If you’ve been in a true gospel-preaching church for any length of time, you’ve likely heard mentioned Jesus’ love in enduring the lethally potent wrath of God in our place. We know that Jesus paid the ultimate sacrifice for us, thus showing us the deepest love. But how often do we really think about the Father’s sacrifice?

We think of God the Father as the One who poured out the wrath, but do we picture Him as purely vengeful and devoid of love in this act? No, He showed His love for us in what He did, just like Jesus did, you might be thinking. And this is true. After all, one of the most famous verses in the Bible tells us that God loved us so much that He gave up His only Son for us (John 3:16).

But what about His love for His Son? Did the Father cease loving Jesus when He poured out His wrath on Him? Their perfect fellowship and intimacy was broken for a time, yes, but did God stop loving His Son? Somehow, I don’t think so. And if He didn’t, what do you think that means He experienced when He willingly separated Himself from His Son and poured out the full extent of His wrath upon Him? Do you think it might have been something akin to a broken heart?

Of course, we must be careful when we try to apply our own finite emotions and experiences to the transcendent, infinite God; we must avoid making Him in our image. But we are made in His image and thus can understand, to an extent, His character. We also know that He reveals Himself in His Word through anthropomorphisms (i.e. the use of human-like descriptions to describe a non-human, e.g. “the arm of the Lord” or “the sun smiled on the earth”). So I don’t think it is too far a stretch to presume that Jesus’ suffering was as painful for His Father as it was for Him (to say nothing of the fact that they are, after all, the same Being).

In our human experience, it seems that most true cases of broken heart relate in some way to the fracturing of intimacy with another being, to the loss of relationship whether through death or through a parting of ways, either physically or emotionally, or sometimes both. So if God’s love is so much more perfect and complete than ours, does it not stand to reason that the fracturing of intimacy within the Trinity would produce a pain so much more profound than ours?

If we accept, then, that God’s heart was broken at the Cross, next we come to another realization—that in doing what He did willingly, He chose to let His heart be broken—for us. He chose to endure the pain of inflicting undeserved pain on His own beloved. The weight of separation was felt by the Father just as it was by the Son, and this weight not only was willingly born but was willingly initiated.

So when we experience a broken heart, we get what I believe is a small taste of the pain God must have felt.  Instead of mere cognitive understanding of what God suffered, we’re granted experiential understanding; we get a personal glimpse into the agony and an inkling of the soul-crushing distress.  

And when we realize that God voluntarily subjected Himself to that kind of pain for us—people who were ungrateful, selfish, rebellious creatures—we cannot help but be moved to worship and praise the One who loved us that much and to be comforted in realizing that He knows firsthand what it feels like to be in pain. However much you are hurting, He chose to bear that much and more in loving you.

So in the middle of a brokenhearted season, when goodness seems absent, take the opportunity to ponder the matchless love of God that demonstrates itself in His willingness to suffer pain on our behalf. If your heart is broken today, or if it will be one day in the future, rest in this: in all the many ways God may be using your brokenness to shape and grow you, it just might be that among them is enlightening you with deeper understanding of the depth of His love. 

To read the Arabic translation of this post, click here.

لقراءة الترجمة العربية لهذا المنشور إضغط هنا.

Lessons from Literature: How to Be Your True Self (The Lady’s Confession)

It has been fairly exactly a year since we last explored a lesson from a literary classic. In truth, I was stunned when I realized it had been that long! So let us end the drought by looking at a nineteenth-century Scottish author who inspired C. S. Lewis and whose books have been re-popularized in recent years through Michael Phillips’s editorial work. His name is George MacDonald, and he possesses that Austen-esque intuition into the human condition with the added potency spiritual astuteness.  

Having known of him for some time, it wasn’t until a few months ago, when a friend let me borrow one of his trilogies republished under the new title The Curate of Glaston, that I became acquainted with his work first-hand. I’m reading the last of the three novels currently, and MacDonald’s work so far has proved to be the kind that leaves me almost speechless from the sheer volume of truth it contains.

Sometimes, the only thing I can think to say, on repeat, is, “It’s just so good.” So good, in fact, that I could probably write a dozen “Lessons from Literature” posts just from the two novels I’ve already read. But let’s just start with one, shall we?

In previous posts in this series, we’ve seen truths expressed through the characters’ actions and some through the author’s commentary. MacDonald’s writings are full of both. In reading them we can learn much, both from what his characters do, say, and think and from his direct addresses to his audience. In this post, we’ll look at two passages of direct address that shed light on a central theme—namely, being fully ourselves.

We live in a culture that is preoccupied—even obsessed—with individuality, being confident in who we are, not being intimidated into hiding our “true selves.” But no one seems to think much about how we actually know who our true selves are. Do we get to define what makes us “us”?

If we listened to our culture, we would hear it say, “Absolutely! You define your own destiny. You can be whoever you want to be.” And in some small way, that is true insofar as we have been given the ability to make choices that have consequences that, in turn, can shape our circumstances and even our attitudes, mindsets, and personal contexts out of which we evaluate and respond to others. But is any of that what creates our core identity?

MacDonald doesn’t think so. He declares in The Lady’s Confession (originally titled Paul Faber, Surgeon), “Only in the unfolding of the Christ in every man or woman can the individuality, his or her genuine personality, the flower of his nature, be developed and perfected in its own distinct loveliness” (p. 193). Read that sentence again—slowly—and let it sink in. It’s message is in direct conflict with what our society’s impression of Christianity is, but it’s in complete agreement with God’s Word.

Society often has the idea that becoming a Christian involves joining a community that strips you of the “freedom to be yourself” and makes you a cookie-cutter person following a set of rules. The world doesn’t understand that while we do, in a sense, lose ourselves when we follow Christ (Matthew 16:24, Galatians 2:20), we are only losing the worst part of us—our identity as sinners, our selfish desires, and pride—so that the best part of us—our God-given personalities, talents, and gifts—can actually flourish as our identity becomes children of God. 

Instead of the reality being that following Christ squashes a person’s individuality, the exact opposite is true—we can never truly be ourselves outside of a relationship with Jesus Christ. Why? Because God is the One who created us in His own image and, therefore, designed every part of who we are (Genesis 1:27, Psalm 139:14).

When we speak of our “fallen human nature,” there is no comma between “fallen” and “human.” The two words are not adjectives both equally describing “nature.” Instead, “fallen” describes “human.” In other words, Adam and Eve were perfectly themselves before they rebelled against God (and event we call The Fall); they were completely whole, fully human as God had designed them. But after their rebellion they were not complete. Their human nature was broken and flawed, and they were not able to be fully themselves.

As their descendants, we are born with the same problem, the same fractured nature. That’s why it is only when we let God inform us through His Word and His Spirit (who lives within us when we become God’s children) that we can know who we really are and live accordingly. And it is only then that we will find personal satisfaction and fulfillment.

A related truth that is counter to the world’s message is that our individuality is not best displayed in being self-sufficient. Especially in America, we’re all about “picking ourselves up” and taking pride in our personal independence. But is that the mark of a truly successful life? Will that bring satisfaction?

Again, MacDonald doesn’t think so. He explains through his character Thomas Wingfold’s words: “He is not the greatest man who is most independent, but he who thirsts most after a conscious harmony with every element and portion of the mighty whole, and who demands from every region its influences to perfect his individuality. […] The finest and strongest is that which to live must breathe essential life, self-willed life, God himself” (p. 112). The “mighty whole” he speaks of is God, the One in whom is the fullness of life, indeed, who is the origin of life itself. It is only in recognizing our need for something—or Someone—outside of and far greater than ourselves and in finding that need met in God that we become strong and can become most fully ourselves.

As Jesus (i.e. God) Himself said, “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. […] These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full” (John 15:4-5, 11, ESV). True, enduring growth, flourishing, and joy can only come through Jesus.

We have a Creator who has designed us specifically, masterfully, and caringly, and He calls us to Himself so that in bearing fruit and becoming more like Christ we finally can be our true selves in order to display His glory and further His kingdom. He has made us who we are, and He uses who we are to bring glory to His Name. What a beautiful, encouraging, humbling truth to absorb!

Source: MacDonald, George (Phillips, Michael, ed.) The Curate of Glaston. Minneapolis: Bethany House, 1986.

Thankful for the Journey

Teleportation. If I could have any superpower, that’s what it would be.  Being a history-lover, I used to say time travel, but fifteen years of living twelve hours away from first family and then friends has solidly changed my answer.

Physical distance is just so hard, partly because so much is required to overcome it--time, money, health, transportation. And when those things are lacking, it means missing birthdays, funerals, weddings, children being born and growing up, in-person conversations, and hugs. Even when time and money are available, they are necessarily spent in the process of traveling from one point to another. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could just snap our fingers and be 600 miles away—or rather, 600 miles near? Think of all we could gain.

But I wonder, too, what we would lose. If teleportation was among our abilities, there would be no more full-day-long car rides, no commutes, no waiting in airports. Doesn’t sound too bad, right? But that also means there would be no playing road games, no daydreaming as the clouds roll by, no watching the scenery gradually change from flatlands to rolling hills to mountains, no time to sit and be alone with your thoughts—or a good book—for hours on end. 

Travel has a way of slowing us down, even as we’re speeding down the highway or soaring through the air. The craziness of life gets put on hold for thirty minutes or thirteen hours, and we have a chance to breathe, to reflect, to ponder. If there was no need to travel, everything would be more nonstop than it already is. There would be no pause, no perspective, no journey. And I daresay we wouldn’t be as appreciative of what’s at the end of the road—whether it be family, friends, or favorite places—if it didn’t cost us something to get to them.

Life without travel might sound nice (by travel, I mean the necessary movement to get from one place to another, not the process of exploring the world), but life without journey certainly would not be.

On a much deeper level, the same could be said for our spiritual lives. If you’re like me, the older you get, the more you wish we could just skip the expense of the time and discipline and cost that goes into the process of our sanctification, i.e. of God’s making us more like Jesus. Sometimes it seems it would be wonderful if we could just snap our fingers and be in our perfected state, like we will be when we leave this earth and enter the tangible presence of Jesus.

But just as with teleportation, if this were possible we would lose so much. There would be no more leaning on Jesus for daily strength to fight our besetting sin, no more sense of victory when by God’s grace we overcome the temptations of this world, no more watching the scenery of our personal, spiritual landscape change from mounds of clay to a beautifully formed vessel, no more urgent need to plead daily with God in prayer.

As physical journeys, whether great or small, give us a deeper perspective on the value of relationships and time, our spiritual journey gives us a deeper perspective on the value of the most important relationship we’ll ever have—that with the living God—and the timing that is always perfect—His.

So next time I leave work so mentally exhausted that I don’t want to go through the relatively short commute home or the next time I have to drive over 600 miles just to see dear friends, I’ll try not to wish I could teleport and be done with it. Instead, I’ll try to be thankful for the journey with all of the blessings it brings. And I’ll be reminded to be thankful for the more meaningful journey that I am on with Christ Jesus, for, although it can be tiring and uncomfortable at times, it will all be worth it in the end, and I will love Him all the more for the journey He so tenderly leads me through. 

Are you on a journey with Him? And if you are, have you thanked Him lately?