One benefit of the holidays is that there is more downtime than at other times of the year. I was looking for something to read on my bookshelves and found a book that brought back a flood of childhood memories.
I’m a little older than many of y’all, and the book I found was part of a series from my childhood. To be fair, these books were probably read more by my parents’ generation than mine, but since I now live in my grandmother’s house, the house my mother grew up in, a house I visited throughout my childhood, I was surrounded by these books, and read them in my youth. I’ve poked around online, and seen that others remember them from elementary school.
I think they were called “Childhood of Young Americans,” and they were intended to make us more patriotic. Some of you may remember them because they were either orange or blue, and the name of the person they were about was printed on the spine.
These books featured the childhood versions of Jim Bridger, Teddy Roosevelt, Harriet Tubman, Betsy Ross, John F. Kennedy, and many others. (The one I found in my house was entitled Martha Washington, Girl of Old Virginia). The purpose of the readers was not only to teach us American history but also American virtues, like bravery, honesty, resilience, or hard work- virtues that aren’t exclusively American but, in this case, supposedly demonstrated by these kids who grew up to be great Americans. The idea was to look at the lives of these noble kids and pattern our lives after them so that we could be brave, honest, resilient, or hard workers, and then maybe we’d be famous and successful Americans, too (it obviously didn’t take with me).
Incidentally, this is another way my secular education did me what I know was a well-intended but genuine disservice. It gave me a false perspective on what it means to be human, which the Holy Spirit is still trying to undo in my life. Here’s what I mean.
With the notable exception of Jesus, the Bible doesn’t really hold people up as paragons of virtue, does it? The Bible doesn’t give us all these characters we should emulate, telling us if we just pattern our lives after them, we’ll be really successful and holy. Instead, the Bible is brutally honest. As I read it, I realized there are only a few people in the biblical narrative with whom I think I would actually enjoy being friends. I think I would like Mary and Joseph. Elizabeth and Hannah seem nice, even though she appears a little depressed. Barnabas is the “son of encouragement”- who wouldn’t like being around him? There are a few others.
For the most part, however, most of the characters of the Bible are pretty despicable, starting with Adam and Eve and then moving through Abraham and Sarah. I can’t even imagine being married to Sarah- anytime I want to appreciate my own wife, Sarah is my go-to source. And then there’s Jacob. Especially Jacob. Jacob would be a friend I would have to tell myself repeatedly, “God says you have to love everyone.” I don’t like much of anything about Jacob when I read about him in the Bible, even after he wrestles with the angel and is renamed Israel. I say all this with the self-awareness that I’m no prize, either. That is my point.
I appreciate that the Bible doesn’t ask us to live virtuous lives; it doesn’t ask us to mirror the character qualities of these wonderful people, and we’ll be wonderful people, too. I appreciate that the gospel, the central message upon which this whole story that we teach and build our lives around is that we are absolutely not virtuous people and can’t be. I appreciate that because it’s true. It’s consistent with my lived experience, self-reflection, and life with you, my beloved community (you’re welcome).
I was reading Paul David Tripp the other day, and he said there’s a big difference between self-reliant personal reformation and the penance that follows it, as opposed to true heartfelt confession and the repentance that follows. With self-reliant personal transformation, when you sin, you acknowledge what you’ve done, but immediately set forth a plan to do better (which I confess I have done many times). When you set in immediately to fix the problem, you subconsciously deny what the gospel says about you. Because the gospel says that you can’t do better, that you can’t fix it.
When you confess your sin to God, you not only confess that you’ve sinned but also that there’s something really wrong with you. You confess that there’s nothing within your power to deliver yourself from what you’ve just confessed. Instead, true confession spurred on by the gospel of Jesus is laid bare; it’s an open wound; it’s you lying there bleeding with no way to heal it except the provision made for you by Jesus Christ, a provision that you can do nothing but accept, like when you were a kid and ran to your mom after slicing your arm open from playing outdoors, and holding it out to her in helplessness and saying, “make it better.” In that moment, you realized it wasn’t going to get better if it was up to you, and that you would probably be in a world of hurt if she didn’t do something. It’s like that.
And, when you repent, when you turn and live differently, it’s not because you think that by doing so you’re cleaning yourself up and getting your act together, but because God has already gotten your act together. Even if you still look pretty ratchet on the outside (and, at times, on the inside, too).
This coming year, we are studying Hebrews at my church. The whole purpose of Hebrews 11, the Hall of Faith, is not “these people are awesome like the kids my orange and blue American readers, and you should be like them,” but “look at what the Lord has done in the lives of these people who are not particularly appealing.” The one thing they had in common was not that the Hebrew 11 people lived tremendously virtuous lives worth emulating but that they knew their lives were a dumpster fire, and they stopped trying to justify themselves and started trusting in God to justify them. Their faith in this God they could not see, these promises not yet fully realized, this work not yet completely completed, helped them stand apart. They were surrendered to God’s grace, so they were people of peace, of shalom.
People who surrender are people of peace, of shalom. Seeking shalom has been our school theme all year. In Luke 10:6, Jesus commissions his 72 disciples for ministry. As he sends them out, he encourages them to seek out “a son of peace,” or a person of peace, to live with, to stay with, as they were on mission, to spread the gospel, throughout the town. The person of peace was a facilitator or equipper of ministry, providing what the disciples needed to do their work.
How can we be people of peace? As parents and followers of Jesus, we are called to be disciple-makers and equippers. A lot of the work we do is primarily through the agency of other people. The older I get, the more I realize that my legacy on this earth will be through what I build into others. When I leave here, it won’t be long until people forget me. But, the leaders I leave behind, the students I have built into directly and indirectly, my children, and (hopefully) their children? Those people will be what I leave behind.
Sometimes we forget that. We subconsciously think we’re the point, and we’re not. By God’s grace, we’re the servants who help make the point happen. Our children, our families, the people who live and work and play with and us, the body of Christ- indwelled by the power of the Holy Spirit, living and active, fully equipped, educated, and empowered to do the good work of Jesus- they’re the point. That’s God’s Kingdom at work, the hands and feet of Jesus, moving in the world, bringing about that Kingdom until the day Jesus comes again. We’re the people of shalom, the equippers in this metaphor.
People of peace are surrendered to God. How well are you surrendered to God’s grace? On most days, I am, but if I’m honest, sometimes the idea of building my own ministry or brand masquerades as a commitment to expanding God’s Kingdom, and you might not be able to see the difference. My theological pride sometimes hides as a commitment to God’s truth. Sometimes, my craving to be known and respected is disguised as a commitment to ministry. Sometimes, living for the high opinions of others is covered up as a commitment to the community. And, sometimes, fear lurks in the background, prompting my need to control instead of surrender.
I went to see my dad over Christmas break. He has advanced Alzheimer’s and is in a memory care facility in Dallas. He doesn’t know me. We can’t carry on a conversation; his words are disconnected phrases you can’t follow when he talks. He can’t feed himself or change himself. Others have to do that for him. This man loves and knows Jesus, and although we had an extremely challenging relationship while I was growing up, God redeemed it in beautiful ways as we got older. We became close. And, there’s nothing I can do now except watch him and wait over the next few years for his brain to forget how to keep his heart beating or that cancer that probably led to his Alzheimer’s returns and takes him sooner than that. And, pray. I can pray. For someone who lives a significant portion of their life being in charge, whose gifting and, in many ways, identity is leading, it’s a masters’ class in surrender.
Christian psychologist David Benner noted that surrender is the flip side of obedience. Obedience is an active response to God’s grace, and surrender is a passive response—they’re two sides of the same coin. More often than not, surrender is obviously more challenging for me. How about you? How well have you surrendered to God’s grace? If surrender is the key to peace, how at peace are you?
Being completely surrendered to Jesus is a daily thing. We can’t surrender once and be good; the desires of the flesh are too powerful and require us to surrender over and over daily. Over the past several months, in my prayer time before the Lord, I’ve searched my heart each morning and asked, “What’s causing me angst?” “What am I afraid or worried about?” “What am I feeling the need to control?” These are all clues to things I’m not surrendering to Jesus. Then, I actively open my hands and speak it. “I surrender my daughter’s health to you, Lord.” “I surrender my need to run the school today.” “I surrender my need to make people think I’m a good leader.” Or whatever it is that day. This, as well as confession of sin and actively surrendering our brokenness to God’s grace, brings us to peace.
Sons and daughters of peace are surrendered people.
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