The Last One

“It is done!” – Revelation 21:6

We are here! Today is our last day in our one-year Bible reading plan (a few days short of an actual year, due to some glitch in the adaptation). There is a particular sense of accomplishment in a task finished, isn’t there? When you pull a cake out of the oven, turn over the last page in a book, put the final touches on a drawing. There are probably far too many projects in life we don’t finish, the life-equivalent of TLDR (Too Long, Didn’t Read). Our good intentions too often run out, reflections perhaps of the fact that we didn’t really care enough, or that we simply lacked the perseverance or resources it would have taken to complete what we started.

 

God never leaves a project undone. “I am sure of this,” Paul writes in Philippians 1:6, “that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” This day comes so beautifully here in the last two chapters of Revelation. The proclamation of God that his work is finished occurs three times in the Bible: at creation (Genesis 2:3), on the cross (John 19:30), and here, at the re-creation of the world. Creation, redemption, and re-creation: God never intended to leave the story unfinished, and we carry the hope of knowing how it will end. 

 

How was this Bible reading experience for you? What is your reading plan for tomorrow? For the point, after all, was never to finish the year, but to develop a lifetime habit of daily Bible reading. My plan for continuing is pretty simple: stick a bookmark at the Old Testament, Psalm, Proverbs, and New Testament, and read through one chapter of each a day—I like how this plan chose from those sections, but this way I don’t have to look up exactly what verse to read to, which is fine given there’s no pressure to finish in a year anyway. But your plan might be different; the point is to find something that works. 

 

And if you can, try writing something every day: one thing that stood out to you from the reading. One verse you can scribble down to think on throughout the day. One point of application. One short prayer. Writing helps you consume what you read. It pushes you to read more actively. It takes the seed of the word and burrows it down deeper into the soil of your heart and mind so that it can grow.

 

To all those who are still seeing these posts a year out: thanks for reading! Your invisible presence has encouraged me immensely. May we continue reading and talking about what we’ve read together!

Justice

“What does the Lord require of you but to do justice…?” – Micah 6:8

“But let justice roll down like waters.” – Amos 5:24

About two months ago, I was asked to join a social justice and health equity committee at Stanford. This committee was formed as the result of medical students pushing for concepts of anti-racism and social justice to be integrated into the medical school curriculum. At one of the first meetings, students directly confronted professors about racist and stereotyping content contained in lectures and tests. It was shocking to me to see students being so vulnerable, bold, and feeling empowered enough to engage Deans in the medical school that were 30-40 years older, and had the power potentially to impact their career trajectories.

I reflected on this afterwards and remarked to Esther that we would have never even imagined 15-20 years ago during our training calling out professors for their actions and demanding curriculum reform. But somehow, we are in a moment of history, when calls for social justice are louder than ever. It has been inspiring to hear student members of our committee—those with disabilities, who identify as queer, and those from cultures that been discriminated against—call out those with power and privilege from a place of complacency and comfortability to confront these problems within the curriculum that are traumatizing our students. 

But, I also find myself somewhat uncomfortable with the current predominant justice narrative that all power structures should be overturned so that society subverts the power of dominant groups in favor of those that are oppressed. In this postmodern framework, justice is primarily about those who have been historically without power seeking the authority and allyship to overturn inequitable institutions and assuming power.

As Tim Keller puts it “...power must be mapped through the means of ‘intersectionality.’ The categories are race, gender, sexual orientation, gender identity (and sometimes others). If you are white, male, straight, cisgender then you have the highest amount of power. If you are none of these at all, you are the most marginalized and oppressed–and there are numerous categories in the middle. Most importantly, each category toward the powerless end of the spectrum has a greater moral authority and a greater ability to see the way truly things are. Only powerlessness and oppression brings moral high ground and true knowledge. Therefore those with more privilege must not enter into any debate—they have no right or ability to advise the oppressed, blinded as they are by their social location. They simply must give up their power.”

Tim Keller points out that there are several issues with this postmodern framework of social justice, including its logical incoherence, the undermining of our common humanity, and its denial of our common sinfulness. But the two ways I feel that the postmodern framework misses the mark in offering a pathway to biblical justice is 1) it offers a highly self-righteous performative identity and 2) it makes true forgiveness, peace, and reconciliation between groups impossible. 

Keller then goes on to speak about biblical justice and other types of social justice frameworks which you can read about here. But I would like to highlight a quote from Keller that discusses what true justice looks like. It is found in the life and character of Jesus. “When God came to earth in Jesus Christ he came as a poor man, to a family at the bottom of the social order. He experienced torture and death at the hands of religious and government elites using their power unjustly to oppress. So in Jesus we see God laying aside his privilege and power—his ‘glory’—in order to identify with the weak and helpless (Philippians 2:5-8). And yet, through the endurance of violence and human injustice he paid the rightful penalty of humanity’s sin to divine justice (Isaiah 53:5). Then he was raised to even greater honor and also authority to rule (Philippians 2:5:9-11). Jesus takes authority, but only after losing it in service to the weak and helpless.”

The means for achieving justice from a postmodern framework has primarily been through asserting force, protesting for political change, and guilt assignment. All of these have their places for achieving our goal of having an equitable society. But these methods do not ultimately create heart change and inner transformation. Jesus models the way for biblical justice: a humble man who has all power and authority coming to dwell among the poor and uneducated - transforming lives, governments, and culture by modeling humility, compassion, and healing the sick. This is compelling biblical justice that changes not only our behaviors, but our hearts, and makes true forgiveness, peace, and reconciliation between groups possible.

Rejoice

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.” – Philippians 4:4

If one word could sum up the book of Philippians, it would probably be “rejoice.” In this book, the words for joy and rejoicing appear sixteen times in only 104 verses. Yet Paul is writing from imprisonment, a forced shelter-in-place (with the possible outcome of death). 

The dictionary defines “rejoice” as “to feel or show great joy or delight.” It isn’t merely joy, but the feeling of joy and gladness, the rising of it up to the surface such that it can be perceived by others. What feeling have you most displayed during your shelter-in-place? What would the people living with you say rises most to the surface? Would it be frustration, grumbling, weariness, complaint—or joy?

What does Paul rejoice in? He rejoices in other people who share the gospel (1:5), grow in faith (1:25), have the mind of Christ (2:2) and reunite with each other (2:28). He rejoices in Jesus who is proclaimed (1:18), who provides deliverance (1:19), who gives meaning to everything in life (2:16). Most frequently, he rejoices in the Lord (3:1; 4:4, 10). Nothing that Paul rejoices in is fixed in his circumstances; it is rather—as he repeatedly emphasizes—fixed in the Lord. He commands us in a present-tense, ongoing imperative: find and show your joy in the Lord. Find and show your joy in how the Lord works in and through other people.

Paul speaks in this book about a God to whom he can constantly pray. Who is sure to complete the good work he begins in us. Who fills us with the fruit of righteousness. Who gave up everything he had for us, who made us his own, who is of surpassing worth to know, who supplies every need of ours, through whom we can do all things. Whom he cannot wait to leave life and be with. If I truly grasped these things, would not my joy in this God be evident to all? Would I not say, like Habakkuk:

“Though the fig tree should not blossom,

   nor fruit be on the vines,

the produce of the olive fail

   and the fields yield no food,

the flock be cut off from the fold

   and there be no herd in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the Lord;

   I will take joy in the God of my salvation.

God, the Lord, is my strength;

   he makes my feet like the deer’s;

   he makes me tread on my high places.”

The Shoes of Readiness

“… and, as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace.” – Ephesians 6:15

In The Way of Kings, Kaladin begins training a group of men for battle by teaching them simply to stand: “‘We’re going to spend all day today—and probably each day this week—working on stances. Learning to maintain one, learning to not lock your knees the moment you’re threatened, learning to hold your center of balance. It will take time, but I promise you if we start here, you’ll learn to be deadly far more quickly. Even if it seems that all you’re doing at first is standing around.’”

Paul focuses on something similar. The point of putting on our spiritual armor, he says, is not to launch some complicated offensive tactic, but simply to stand and not be moved: “… that you may be able to withstand… stand firm. Stand, therefore…” In ancient times, battles were often won or lost based on the weight of one army thrown against that of another. “The one needful thing,” writes one commentator, “was that a man should stand firm and resist the shock of enemies as they rushed upon him.” A key piece of armor, then, were shoes. Roman soldiers wore heavy sandals, with soles two centimeters thick and studded with hobnails, to help them get a secure foothold.

What we are to put on our feet is not the gospel itself, but the readiness it gives us. God’s gospel, Paul emphasizes, is news of peace, and standing firm on this peace makes us ready to face whatever may try to shake us. “The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:7). The peace of the gospel is like an armed force in our hearts, able to guard us against circumstances and forces that would otherwise overwhelm us or cause us to stumble. It gives us a preparedness of spirit and alacrity that like hobnailed boots help us stand firm, whatever comes.

Lately, I’ve found myself facing unexpected anxiety as things start back up. It feels like I’m still managing the ongoing demands of sheltering in place, in addition to now adapting to activities with new constraints and unclear outcomes. I always knew life wouldn’t be going back to the way it was before, but it takes equanimity to face the new measures and unknowns that come with resuming surgeries, social gatherings, sports, and eventually school. Our worlds continue to change. The foes we battle continue to come at us. But we can stand firm, having shod our feet with a readiness that comes from the peace we have in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Rejoice

“Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” – Romans 5:2-5

Did you know that there are four main Greek words translated “rejoice” in the New Testament? Chairo is the one used most frequently (75 times); it means “to be glad,” and we’re familiar with it from the book of Philippians. Agalliaomeans “to jump for joy”; euphraino means “to cheer up.” The word Paul uses here is kauchaomai, and it has two meanings: “to glory in a thing or on account of a thing,” and “to boast.” It adds a kind of subtle redundancy here, to “glory in the hope of the glory of God.” 

The definition of “rejoice” from the dictionary is: “to feel or show great joy or delight.” If I had to explain the meaning of kauchaomai to one of the kids, I would say it’s to be happy about the nature of something so much that you need to show your happiness. It has to come out in some way. It’s a boasting in something, not to selfishly brag about it, but because you really want to show it off. Paul says that we should feel this way about the hope that we have.

Someone once said, “Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air, but only for one second without hope.” I remember a friend once asked, “what is something you are looking forward to?” and I thought it was such a good question. What we look forward to keeps us going, doesn’t it? But the hope we have as believers isn’t just looking forward to the next exciting experience or anticipated pleasure. It’s not counting on when something bad will end. It’s not self-generated optimism or wishful thinking. Paul is quite specific here: it is hope of the glory of God. The glory of God is everything about him; the excellence and magnificence of every one of his qualities. There is a sense in which we experience God’s glory now: we stand in this grace; his love is poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit. But there is a sense in which we anticipate much more to come, both here on earth but especially one day in the eternity to come.

And here, the awful mystery: this kind of hope comes in suffering. The more we continue in suffering, the more we endure, the more it shapes the nature and quality of our inner selves, the more, somehow, it leads to this exact kind of hope. This is why we rejoice in our sufferings the same way we rejoice in our hope: so happy about the very nature of its work in us that we can boast about it, that we must express it somehow. 

When I think about someone who rejoices this way, Joni Eareckson Tada comes to mind. She wrote a short booklet entitled Hope… The Best Of Things, in which she wrote: “I sure hope I can bring this wheelchair to heaven. Now, I know that’s not theologically correct. But I hope to bring it and put it in a little corner of heaven, and then in my new, perfect, glorified body, standing on grateful glorified legs, I’ll stand next to my Savior, holding his nail-pierced hands. I’ll say, ‘Thank you, Jesus,’ and he will know that I mean it, because he knows me. He’ll recognize me from the fellowship we’re now sharing in his sufferings. And I will say, ‘Jesus, do you see that wheelchair? You were right when you said that in this world we would have trouble, because that thing was a lot of trouble. But the weaker I was in that thing, the harder I leaned on you. And the harder I leaned on you, the stronger I discovered you to be. It never would have happened had you not given me the bruising of the blessing of that wheelchair.’ Then the real ticker-tape parade of praise will begin. And all of earth will join in the party. And at that point Christ will open up our eyes to the great fountain of joy in his heart for us beyond all that we ever experienced on earth. And when we’re able to stop laughing and crying, the Lord Jesus really will wipe away our tears. I find it so poignant that finally at the point when I do have the use of my arms to wipe away my own tears, I won’t have to, because God will.”

Emptying

“Mary therefore took a pound of expensive ointment made from pure nard, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.” – John 12:3

Every time we see Mary, she’s at the feet of Jesus: learning (Luke 10:39), grieving (John 11:32), and here, worshipping. Mark tells us that the ointment of nard came in an alabaster flask, which Mary broke (Mark 14:3). Nard was exported from the Himalayans, and this amount would have been worth 300 days’ wages; it was likely their financial security. But the nature of the jar was all-or-nothing: she could not have given just part of it, even if she’d wanted to; she had to break it apart and give it all. 

One chapter later, we once again see someone tending to the feet of those gathered for a meal, under the shadow of Judas. This time, it’s Jesus, enacting Philippians 2 by taking off his robe (“did not consider equality with God a thing to be held on to”), tying a towel on (“taking on the form of a servant”), washing feet (“humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death”), putting his robe on and returning to his place (“God has highly exalted him”). This downward-shaped parabolic movement is often called the “kenosis,” from the Greek word for “emptied” found in Philippians 2:7. Emptied. Like the alabaster jar.

I read somewhere, “Judas is following Jesus because of what it gets him. Mary is following Jesus despite what it costs her.” I’ve always been struck by the radical beauty of Mary’s act, but really, it points to the beauty of what Jesus is about to do for her. He emptied himself, at great cost. Sometimes we forget that Jesus existed before he came into our world. While he was fully God on earth, there were things he gave up to take on human form. And every step on earth was a step towards the cross, where he emptied himself of life and poured out his blood for my sake. I think of the smell that must have filled the room when Mary broke open the jar, and I think of how Paul put it: “Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God” (Ephesians 5:2). 

David And Jonathan

“And as soon as the boy had gone, David rose from beside the stone heap and fell on his face to the ground and bowed three times. And they kissed one another and wept with one another, David weeping the most. Then Jonathan said to David, ‘Go in peace, because we have sworn both of us in the name of the Lord.’” – 1 Samuel 20:41-42

It's hard not be struck by the physical and emotional expression in David and Jonathan’s friendship. Sarah Sumner writes, “No, they weren’t gay. It is not gay for a man to love another man.” We are so conditioned to think about sex that we have a hard time conceiving of genuine affection. She taught her third grade students, “Hardly, hardly ever is love meant to be romantic. Nearly, nearly always love is meant to be for family and friends.” It wasn’t sexual when John the apostle reclined his head on Jesus’ breast (John 13:23), when the Ephesian elders “wept aloud” and “embraced” and “repeatedly kissed” Paul as they saw him for the last time (Acts 20:37). It wasn’t sexual when David and Jonathan kissed and cried as they said goodbye.

Some of this can be cultural: when I first moved to the Bay Area, I was struck by how much less people hugged here compared with in southern Virginia. I missed the long, close hugs of my old girl friends. But culture aside, I wonder if there really is such a thing as “the affection of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:8): a pure, deep fondness felt for a spiritual friend, expressed in touch and tears, in a way that is not only healthy but reflects the affection that Jesus has for us. Children understand this best, I think. Children are always touching us. They cry because they miss us. They use the word love all the time.

We’ve lost something of this in our current-day conception of male friendship. Traditional ideas of masculinity do not tend to include being deeply relational or emotionally expressive. Yet when Lazarus died, Jesus cried so hard for him that his love for Lazarus was evident (“See how he loved him!” John 11:36). We see the weeping of David in Jesus himself. They were men who cried for their friends, loved their friends, changed plans for their friends, sacrificed for their friends. 

It can be hard to find friendships like this, man or woman. The older I get, the more I realize how much intentionality, commitment, and sacrifice it takes to be a true friend. But this story reminds me that it’s worth it. It encourages me to see and be thankful for the friends I have. It challenges me to keep praying for and being open to new and deepening friendships. It exhorts me to be willing to give things up for my friends. And in this story I see Jesus, who like David is my King, yet calls me his friend. He feels affection: he not only loves me, but likes me. He lay down his life for me, for the very reason that I am his friend (John 15).

Obedience In The Unseen

“And she said, ‘I will surely go with you. Nevertheless, the road on which you are going will not lead to your glory, for the Lord will sell Sisera into the hand of a woman.’” – Judges 4:9

“As we live our ordinary lives we are declaring all the time exactly what we are.” – Martyn Lloyd-Jones

At this time of transition from the bronze to the iron age, Sisera’s 900 iron chariots represented a huge technological advantage. In human terms, Barak was leading his 10,000 men into certain slaughter, but they stream down Mount Tabor anyway under Deborah’s command. We learn later in song (Judges 5:21) that God flooded the valley, creating mud that clogged the chariots’ wheels and giving the Israelites victory. 

Barak points to Christ, who like him is under authority (John 8:28), does not act apart from the one who sent him (John 5:19), and is victorious through obedience (Romans 5:19, Philippians 2:8; Hebrews 5:8). In all this, he demonstrates courage, humility, and a faith for which he is remembered in Hebrews 11. But most of all, he does it all unseen. He goes on a mission instigated by a woman and finished by a woman, knowing he will get little credit for it.

Sometimes it feels like my hardest battles are the ones I fight unseen, the hidden battles of ordinary life. Battles to control what I say or don’t say. Battles to not indulge in self-pity, complaint, judgment, or gossip. Battles to give up what I know God is calling me to turn away from. Battles to forgive someone, again. Battles to discipline well when I’m tired. Battles over my thoughts in the dark before sleep. I fight these battles against my own sinful nature, against the schemes of Satan, and for the most part there is no element of public recognition. The struggles are real, hard, and sometimes long; the victories when they happen can be unmistakable experiences of God’s power. But no one really sees them.

Barak had no less courage though he knew there would be no fame, and neither should I. Because the reality is, of course, that I am seen. Deborah’s words echo Jesus’: I will be with you. Mount Tabor is thought to be the place of Jesus’ transfiguration so many years later, the place where God declares his love to his Son as he does to us. The Holy Spirit lives inside me. I am not alone, in these most important battles in my life.

Complaint Versus Lament

“And the people complained in the hearing of the Lord about their misfortunes, and when the Lord heard it, his anger was kindled.” – Numbers 11:1

At last—after the tabernacle and law and census and camp arrangements—the Israelites set off from the mountain on their journey. The first recorded incident, only three days in, is this one. The first implied casualty is not to disease or battle, but to God’s anger. Does His reaction seem like (the use a word popular amongst 10 year-old girls these days) overkill?

Perhaps that points to the fact that we don’t take complaining seriously enough. Complaining strikes me as a sly sin. The Hebrew word is anan, literally “murmur,” and that is how it starts, a murmur in our minds. Like a fire, it is kindled, with under-the-breath grumbles, then louder, around others who join in, until it becomes a normative part of our language without us realizing it. What we are ultimately doing is declaring, directly or indirectly, that God is not sufficiently good, competent, loving or faithful. We are accusing him of doing wrong. We are saying that we know better and what we want is better. It is a subtle but unmistakable assertion of pride.

Warnings against complaining or grumbling litter the New Testament: Jesus said, “do not grumble among yourselves” (John 6:43); Paul wrote, “do all things without grumbling” (Philippians 2:14); James exhorts, “do not grumble against one another” (James 5:9). How do we stop complaining? We try to be aware of the consumeristic, comfort-oriented, self-centric tendencies of our culture. We take inventory of our words and thoughts. We may avoid people who tend to complain. We examine ourselves for attitudes of entitlement or ingratitude. 

We also, I think, learn how to lament. There is a kind of honest groaning, an expression of the frustration and sadness we feel living in a broken world, that is okay, that is encouraged and modeled in the Bible. About one-third of the Psalms are songs of lament. Some of Jesus’ last words on the cross were a lament. God wants us to pour out our troubles to him, as we’ve read (Psalm 42:4); to sing them, to pray them, privately and corporately. Complaining is speaking against God; it is a distorted view of reality (“we remember the fish we ate in Egypt that cost nothing”). Lament is speaking to God; it is an honest view of reality. Complaining is easy, and all too natural at times. Lament takes insight, courage, vulnerability and faith in a compassionate and listening God.

Meekness

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” – Matthew 5:5

Does anyone else find the list of traits Jesus chooses for the beatitudes mystifying? If we, here in the Bay Area, were to choose ten or fewer traits that we felt would most describe people who are happy, would we choose any of the ones Jesus does?

Meekness is not something most of us talk or think much about. David Brooks points out that one of the assumptions in our culture is “the centrality of accomplishment”: we are not measured by conforming to a code, or the “thickness” of our relationships, but by what we have individually achieved. It’s okay to be self-oriented, to promote the self. “The meritocracy,” he writes, “is the most self-confidant moral system in the world today… it subliminally sends the message that those who are smarter and more accomplished are actually worth more than those who are not.” Coupled with this is a sense of entitlement, and all of it is insidious. On some level, it’s very hard not to believe that I am worth more, that I deserve more, because I achieved more. 

But that is not the moral economy of the kingdom of Christ. Those who will inherit the earth, who will gain it all, are the meek. Lloyd-Jones writes, “Meekness is essentially a true view of oneself, expressing itself in attitude and conduct with respect to others… when I have that true view of myself in terms of poverty of spirit, and mourning because of my sinfulness, I am led on to see that there must be an absence of pride. The meek man is not proud of himself, he does not in any sense glory in himself… he does not assert himself… does not demand anything for himself… The man who is truly meek is the one who is amazed that God and man can think of him as well as they do and treat him as well as they do.” In demeanor and behavior, a meek man is mild, lowly, of a quiet spirit, patient and long-suffering, without a spirit of retaliation, ready to listen and learn with a teachable spirit.

Meekness is Abraham letting Lot have the first pick of the land, Moses not defending himself before Aaron and Miriam, David not retaliating against Saul’s unjust treatment, Jeremiah allowing unkind things to be said behind his back, Stephen being stoned, Paul’s willingness to suffer and bear disparaging remarks, and Jesus himself, the “meek and lowly in heart” (Matthew 11), who did not regard his equality with God a thing to be grasped (Philippians 2).

This isn’t something we can generate on our own. I think Lloyd-Jones is right in saying it is listed third for a reason: we first have to learn what it means to be poor in spirit, that we have nothing before a holy God, and to mourn, to truly grieve sin—and that can only be a work of the Holy Spirit in us, I think, to open our eyes in those ways. To be meek is then to turn that outwards, before others, to be willing to let them turn the spotlight on us, without the need to defend or assert ourselves.

Meekness is not self-abasement because these things are done in the presence of God, and in his presence we see our high worth. Look at the promises here: while they are promises for the future, they are instantaneous as well. To be spiritually impoverished is to be open to the gospel and the kingdom. To mourn is to repent and be comforted at once with the joy of forgiveness and deliverance. To be meek is to be as Paul, “having nothing, yet possessing everything” (2 Corinthians 6). Meekness is not weakness, but is compatible with great strength, authority, and power. It is so radically counter-cultural that it is worth our attention. What does it mean for me to be meek? Who do I know in my life who is meek? How do I grow in meekness in my life?