Well Done Not Well Said

According to many scholars, the last letter Paul wrote was Second Timothy. In it, he gives some hard-nosed instructions to a young man. Among other things, the letter talks about how a person should live. I once heard someone say,

“When I come before the Lord, I don’t want him to say, ‘Well said, good and faithful servant.’ I want Him to say ‘Well done.’”

The Bible says that the Word became flesh. The Bible doesn’t say that the Word became more words. As Christians we are to be the body of Christ, not just one big talking mouth.

Five hundred years ago, a group of people rediscovered the Bible and the idea of faith alone. They described faith as a fire. They described works as the heat from the fire. You can’t create the heat without the fire. But if there is no heat, you can’t help but wonder if there is really a fire. The two things, fire and heat (or faith and works) go together. We will be remembered not just for what we believe, but for what we do.

God Keeps Losing

God lets Abraham win the argument over how many righteous people need to be in the city in order to save it. God lets Jacob prevail in the wrestling match.  God lets Moses win the discussion over whether to destroy the people in the wilderness. Our Lord takes the position of the disciples in the talk with the Canaanite woman concerning what is fed to the children and not to the “dogs.” Then Jesus lets the woman win the argument.

God sends his Messiah to free his people from the oppressors, and then it looks as though those colonizers actually win, and they execute the Messiah.

We look to the divine throne at the end of the Bible and we expect to see a victorious lion, but instead we see a lamb, who seems to have been killed.

What is going on here?

God is God, but it sometimes looks as though he allows himself to lose. Mothers and fathers and lovers can understand this sometimes…

Choppin' It Up

“If you let a person talk long enough, you’ll hear their true intentions! Listen twice, speak once.” Tupac Shakur

The burger was good—a flat patty with crispy edges, crunchy lettuce, a glistening tomato, sriracha aioli, all between two sides of a toasted, buttery bun. 

Neither this meal nor the company sitting across the table were planned at the start of my day. 

The young man, who in conversation disclosed he was now twenty-two years old, had texted me earlier that afternoon. He remembered we had met when he was twelve. He came to a basketball camp. Since then we’ve had many fist bumps and hugs as we pass on the street. He’s never been in our building, never been to church. He’s a rapper. Most young men in our neighborhood are or at least aspire to be. However, he actually is. He’s performed at the Apollo, has tens of thousands of followers on social media, and is excited about signing a deal with a prominent record company. His music reflects his experience in life, an experience very different than mine.

Yet there we sat—talking, listening, or in his words, “choppin’ it up.” Perhaps as you get closer to the end of this paragraph you’re expecting to find a point, a moral, a conclusion. No, it’s not here, just as I don’t have a conclusion to the end of my story. When we got back to the block, we parted ways with another fist bump and a hug. I’m not sure the point of it all, but I look forward to more opportunities to chop it up.