Obvious Advice for the New Year

We are a few days into 2017 and gym ads arrived right on cue in my mailbox this afternoon. Time to put some teeth to those resolutions (or at least extract some money from those who made them!) Another new year is as good a time as any to start afresh, to seek to right the wrongs, to improve ourselves and accomplish our dreams.

Of the various schools of ancient Greek philosophy, I have always had an affinity for the Stoics — ascetic, logical types, in sharp contrast to the hedonistic Epicureans. Stoics weren’t afraid to make the obvious explicit. Like this gem from Epictetus:

Whatever you would make habitual, practice it;
and if you would not make a thing habitual, do not practice it,
but habituate yourself to something else.

Isn’t this the core of most “self help/ self improvement” writing? Do what you need to do in order to be who you want to be. It’s so obvious as to be laughable. You can find thousands of people on the internet telling you that’s what you need to do to get where you want to be.

So why do we have such a hard time pulling it off?

Take this blog for example. I’ve had it for years, but for most of those years I just wrote on it when I felt like it. Posts were sporadic and widely spaced. 1 January 2016 I decided I wanted to write more, so I set myself a goal to write 500 words a day. The first 6 months, it went pretty well. Then we moved and it has been an uphill climb ever since.

Maybe Europe is just a more inspirational place to write than the Pacific Northwest. My schedule has played a bit of a role, but I have been able to adapt so as to have the time. Even so, I still find it increasingly difficult to get to 500. Part of it is the struggle for material. Finding things to write about seemed to come easier during the first half of the year.

Proficiency comes from sticking with something after the initial thrill wears off until mastery is attained. It is hard. It takes a lot of self discipline. It requires intense effort for seemingly small gains. This holds true whether you are training for a marathon, learning an instrument, or in just about any other pursuit. There is a desert between novelty and mastery that we must cross. It is long, arduous, and often lonely. It can feel barren and dry. But on the other side is the real goal — the attainment of the skill or ability that caught our imagination in the first place.

This applies also to our journey of faith. In an age where people binge-watch television programming like it was their job, it seems we should be able to put that same effort into our own salvation. If we truly want to become holy, we must cultivate holy habits. This takes a lot of work, but what else is worth our greatest effort, if not knowing God?

Listening to Suffering

In the liturgical calendar, Christmas is followed immediately by the Feast of St. Stephen, whose martyrdom is recorded in Acts 6 and 7. In the midst of celebration, we are reminded that suffering is interwoven in the tapestry of our faith.

In the Christian West, we have all but lost the sacrament of suffering. To even suggest that suffering may have benefit is to invite scorn in most quarters. While it can be a laudable service, the alleviation of suffering is a tyrannical and merciless master.

The advance of euthanasia in the West is an stark example of this. In our efforts to minimize suffering, we instead seek — and increasingly impose — death. As we increasingly commodify our very bodies, there is increasing pressure and apologetic for aggressive organ harvesting in order to supply the demand of those awaiting donation.

All of this seeks to avoid the sacrament of suffering. Pain is unpleasant, but it often clarifies our vision and prunes our priorities. Intense pain makes it difficult to focus on much else, but lower-intensity chronic pain is wearying. In this weariness, the unrelenting constancy of chronic pain, we learn what it means to lay our burdens on our Lord. Pain prompts us to prayer — not invariably, but if we are already formed in the faith it ought to.

We can ignore even pleasure. But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.

C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

Increasingly, we silence that megaphone by treating all pain as the enemy and warring against it with the tenacity that should be leveled against sin.

I still remember, in the aftermath and recovery from a ruptured appendix, lying in a surgeon’s office to have my wound repacked and reattached to a wound vac. I carried the portable vacuum pump with me for weeks to aid in pulling the hole in my side back together for proper healing and drainage. Having the adhesive dressing ripped from my skin and the foam packing similarly removed from my side twice every week was a spike in the low-grade pain of healing.

As I lay on the exam table, staring at the ceiling in the earth-toned room, I closed my eyes and prayed, “Jesus, don’t let this pain be wasted.” Though I didn’t know it at the time, it may have been one of the most profound prayers I have ever uttered. A decade later, I still reflect on those two months of my life. That experience — from the sickness to the pain of the rupture through the surgery and the long recovery — is a defining moment in my life.

Throughout most of the history of the church, suffering has been viewed as a means of sanctification. It is the uncontrolled version of asceticism — voluntary denial in order to increase attention to God. Suffering finds us; we do not have to seek it. It may be a headache or the discomfort of a long car or plane ride. Occasionally it is more intense, and eventually, it marks the way to death.

We are right to be cautious about intentionally seeking pain, but we should also be cautious in always viewing pain as an enemy. It can be God’s means of speaking to us.

Aspiration

In the training I mentioned in a recent post, we also had to answer the question, “Who or what do you pretend to be?” Though our natural inclination as adults is to consider pretending to be a sin against the twenty-first century virtue authenticity, this is not always the case. Yes, there are times of “fake it ’til you make it,” but even these aren’t necessarily being inauthentic as much as acknowledging that some days we just don’t feel as energized about whatever roles we play.

If we only did what we truly felt like doing day in and day out, I would probably spend most days in bed eating cookies. Not a very healthy or productive lifestyle. Having enough discipline to do what we ought even when we don’t feel like it is a mark of maturity.

In the training, we discussed this phenomenon briefly: “Why is it that pretending is viewed negatively for adults?” We don’t deflate our 5 year old when he is running around pretending to be Superman. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re not a superhero; you’re a child! Get a grip!” On the contrary, imagination is the world of a child. Whether they are their favorite major league baseball player while at little league practice or a daring spaceship pilot as they ride their bike around the neighborhood, imagination and imitation are part and parcel of their day.

It is the imitation part of imagination that has special merit for us as adults. I picked up on this toward the end of the exercise of answering, “Who or what do you pretend to be?” I said, “Norm Abram, in my garage some weekends.” Norm is the long-time host of “The New Yankee Workshop” on PBS. He makes furniture mostly, and never (at least on camera) makes a mistake. I have learned things watching his show over the years, though I am nowhere near his level of skill when it comes to woodworking.

But Norm is not the only person I attempt to emulate. Augustine of Hippo, John Chrysostom, Anselm of Canterbury, Thomas Merton, Michael Casey, and Dallas Willard are all Christians who I have tried to emulate either in writing or in speaking. I also try to emulate their practice as well. Am I pretending to be them? It depends on your definition of pretend.

I don’t dress up like any of them or try to speak in Latin or Greek as some of them did. I haven’t joined a monastery or become a college professor. But I do try to imitate them in sanctity, intellectual rigor, insight, and clarity.

That is what All Saints Day is about — being reminded of those who have gone before us who inspire us and whom we seek to imitate in some way. Not every saint speaks to every person. We each have different temperaments, vocations, and settings. But it is helpful to have some we can look to. We should have some from whom we can learn through their attempts to follow Christ, just as others will someday learn from us.

But It’s Not an Excuse

Yesterday we looked at accepting the way God made us. Today I want to balance that idea with a look at the way God pushes and pulls us to growth. Just because God made us a certain way (male, female, introvert, extrovert, feeling, thinking,…) doesn’t mean we can rest on our heels refusing to grow. Yes, God gifts us differently, but he gifts us to use those gifts, and sometimes that requires stepping out of our comfort zones. We have to be willing to risk failure. We may have undeveloped areas in our lives that God would like to use to bless others through us.

I came to pastoral ministry somewhat reluctantly. I had long enjoyed reading and writing, but like many people, public speaking was not something I enjoyed. Nevertheless, after one year of seminary, I found myself in a pulpit looking at a church of about 50 people staring back at me. I was filling the pulpit for a church in north-central Ohio and my first sermon last all of about 8 minutes. I’m not sure I took a breath. I know I didn’t let go of the pulpit. Being people of grace and mercy, they had me back and I later served as their part-time pastor for a while.

God used my enjoyment of reading and writing to give me a platform from which to build my preaching skills. Over the course of many years, I hope I have improved a bit. I certainly feel more comfortable stepping behind a pulpit. In fact, when I don’t have opportunity to do it regularly, I miss it. I’ve learned that God sometimes pushes us to grow so that our faith in him will develop. He desires us to throw ourselves into his grace. To use Dallas Willard’s metaphor, we should burn grace like a 747 burns jet fuel on take off.

We must be willing to take risks in faith. Not for our own glory, but to serve God and to serve others. I’m not a supporter of the “do big things for God” idea, but I am a supporter of doing something for God. For some, the challenge may be to faithfully maintain prayer and Bible reading each day. For others, maybe it’s reigning in our appetite for food, drink, or something else. For others, it may be to attend worship faithfully. For others, it might be the willingness to speak up when topics of faith are raised.

Living things grow, just as we are called to grow. Even when our bodies start to fail, our faith can continue to grow. We may have reasons why growing is hard, but we have no excuse for not making the effort.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured from sinners such hostility against himself, so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted. In your struggle against sin you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding your blood.

Hebrews 12:1-4 (ESV)

Faith, Works, and Suffering

I wonder if the Protestant manifestation of “faith alone” has led to, or at least contributed to, our anemic theology of suffering. I recently heard Gerald McDermott speak and he presented the contemporary idea of faith alone as clinging to an intellectual assent that Christ died for my sins. Therefore, this act of faith makes no change in who I am and this justification is the crux of the Gospel. I think McDermott has accurately identified the contemporary evangelical Protestant position. What I want to examine is not his assessment, but its effects when we face suffering as Christians.

If justification is the core of the Gospel, and “nothing happens” to us upon confession of faith other than a change of eternal destination, then sanctification is a future event, not an ongoing process. This goes against Scripture and most church teaching. It also contributes to a non-sacramental view of the Eucharist and baptism.

It is this anti-sacramental shift that strips suffering of its meaning. If there is nothing we can do, and nothing that can be done to us, to make us more holy, then suffering is just prolonged pain with no purpose. If, however, we see that God desires us not only to be “saved” but to be holy, and to work toward that goal in this life, then a sacramental theology has meaning.

Suffering allows us two opportunities. First, it allows us to identify with Christ. If we are to become more Christ-like, we must suffer. Jesus suffered, and did so without any just reason. He is without sin, unblemished and perfect, yet was scourged and crucified. Not only that (which is outside of most of our experience), he lived as one of us. He slept on the ground and ate what at times was probably gross food. He dealt with bugs, body odor, and bad breath. He was heckled and misunderstood.

The second opportunity comes because we are not Christ-like. We all like sheep have gone astray and there is no health in us apart from God’s grace. We are sinners and deserve condemnation and death. When we suffer, we are reminded of this and, if God gives us the grace, we can understand that whatever suffering we endure is totally justified.

These are not easy words, and they are certainly not popular words, but centuries of saints tell us the same thing. From Paul’s thorn in the flesh onward, Christ’s disciples have, until recent times, understood suffering as what we deserve. They have seen suffering as a chance to share in Christ’s sufferings — which Paul again mentions in a few places — and in so doing to be made more like Christ.

Suffering may devastate our body, but it can cleanse our soul. We defeat the enemy when we receive his blows not as an unjust attack, but as a reminder that we are unworthy sinners before God. This requires humility before God and in the face of suffering. It turns the “problem of pain” on its head. We will look at that next.

Subversive

I may have genuinely scared someone. It came up in conversation the other day that I do not have a television and the look of shock on his face could not have been more if I told him I was a cannibal. It’s not something I broadcast much, but neither is it something I hide.

It started years ago, in varying degrees, and has been consistent for at least the last 12 years or so. Our early motivation was time. Television took away time that we could spend on other things, like playing with or reading to our kids. Watching television took away our kids’ time to do other things as well.

With distance comes perspective. Over the years, we realized that with no longer watching television, we were no longer being programed by it. Our ideas and attitudes were no longer being shaped by those who wished to exploit us for their own financial (and ideological) gain.

This same impulse now leads us to question our online world. We have reduced our social media consumption and we don’t use television alternatives such as Hulu or Netflix. The internet is better, and worse, than television. The wisdom of the ages and unfiltered depravity are both but a few keystrokes away.

I could not have put the words to it all those years ago, but it is a monastic impulse. A desire to restrict input in order to focus more on God. We only have so much time and attention to give. Just like the livestock of a farmer, our time is a limited commodity, and as the Scriptures teach us, the best of our flocks and fields should be dedicated to the Lord.

Those who look at monasticism as an escape from reality understand neither reality or monasticism. Those who pursue it as a retreat from the world are soon disappointed. Having to deal with the reality of your own sin without distractions is not for those seeking an easier experience.

I learned this lesson involuntarily the summer between high school and college. I had sin to deal with and decisions to make and I was working in a factory. Much of the time there was the din of the top-40 radio station to keep me from my thoughts, but often enough I was running one particular machine that was noisy enough to drown it out. It was boring to operate. Stack the pieces and wait while the machine welded them together.

Working on that machine was my first experience of sustained self-reflection. Alone and surrounded by the white noise of the machine, I had nothing but my thoughts. It was not easy. I had made many poor choices in high school and I knew the extent of my sin. My life was on the brink of significant change, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to take the leap.

In retrospect, it was a healing time for me. Not as much as it could have been if I had had some guidance on prayer for such times, but in his grace, God used it. By the end of the summer, I was ready for a new start. I had taken the time to consider where I had been and what I had done.

Such reflection does not occur in front of a screen. Even the pages of a book can be a hinderance. There is nothing magical about the printed page; there is as much garbage available there as on television. The one advantage of paper is that if your mind wanders off, the page waits and doesn’t try to pull you back in. There is no flicker, flash, and noise.

To live this way—switched off—in our culture is subversive. It goes against the prevailing modes of existence and challenges the assumptions of the mass. Seeking to follow God has always cut across the grain of society and power. May we embrace the call to be set apart.

You shall have no other gods before me.

Exodus 20:3 (ESV)

Do-Know-Be

The Army has long held up the paradigm of Be-Know-Do as reflecting what a leader should embody. (See FM 6-22 if you’re interested.) In my re-reading of it the other day, it is merely used as three categories of “stuff” for leaders to focus on.

Unfortunately, some take “Be-Know-Do” as a progression. I have heard this idea held up not only in the military, but more predominantly, in the church. The idea is that sanctification is an “inside job.” If we sit around in church long enough, the Holy Spirit will somehow affect an ontological change within us and we will be Christians. Then we will (dare I say magically?) know what we are to know and do what we are to do.

This is not a terribly effective method of discipleship, so we try to help the Spirit along a bit by concentrating on the “know” part in our church services. The sermon is the central point of a great many worship services, though the information given is rarely very instructive on what to do. Many in the church have become so averse to anything that might hint at “works righteousness” that we avoid advocating all righteous work. This leads to us trying to instruct backwards from almost every other institution.

Let us go back to the military example. Consider the brand new private who arrives at basic training. In a sense, he is already a soldier. He has signed the contract and sworn the oath. But that is the only sense in which he is a soldier. He spends the next 9 weeks being told what to do by his drill sergeants. He will then go to advanced individual training and be told more things to do in order to fulfill his particular role in the army.

Along the way, our soldier starts to learn some of these things and he knows them—how to march, when to salute, how to wear the uniform, how to handle his weapon, etc. Eventually—how long varies—he might be a soldier. What does that mean? He thinks, acts, and speaks like the army wants him to. He has internalized all this doing and knowing to the point where it is part of who he is. Some soldiers never get to this point, or not fully. They serve their time merely doing, and to some extent knowing, but they always keep soldiering at arm’s length in their heart.

Consider the church, not the contemporary version today, but the historic church. A person comes into a service. They are led in what to do. “Please stand.” “Sing.” “Pray.” They are given words to hear and words to say. Over time, the doing and saying start to seep into knowing. Add some catechism of why we do and say these things and the knowing becomes deeper. Eventually, after days and months and maybe even years, the liturgy of the church—the saying and doing of Eucharist and Daily Offices—in conjunction with the inner working of the Holy Spirit causes the being of the person to be altered. Sanctification happens.

Lex orandi, lex crendi. As we pray, so we believe. This is a central component of how Anglicans conduct spiritual formation. It is how we do discipleship. We start not with the head, but the body. Our souls—at least in this life—are wrapped up in bodies. The only way for them to interact with the world is through our flesh. The converse is also true: our souls are shaped by what happens to, and what we do, with our bodies.

Let us not be ashamed to call people to do in the name of Chris——t.

Momentum

I do not possess much natural athleticism. I can move heavy things, I can even carry them, but there are not many sports I am very good at. To be honest, my wife has more natural athletic ability on me. I may have more strength and stamina, but she has more coordination and balance.

I was reminded of all this last Saturday when we visited the Pacific shore. I made my way out onto a jetty to look at birds. It was made of large rocks with no improved walking surface so it took me some time to walk out onto it. I was surprised when my wife caught up to me. As we walked back together. I had a hard time keeping up with her. Her agility gave her an advantage stepping from rock to rock.

As we discussed this once back on the beach, I mused that my hesitancy was due to my mistrust of building up too much momentum. In stretches where the best move was a series of steps that had to flow into each other, I was uncomfortable. I want solid steps, where I can pause at any point. I don’t trust myself needing to continue hopping from rock to rock for fear that I will either gain too much momentum and crash, or not build enough and fall short. Coordination is not one of my strengths.

Finishing of Chronicles this morning also caused me to reflect on momentum. It’s clear that Israel’s default movement was away from God. Unfortunately, I don’t think that trait is unique to the ancient Israelites. It is the default for all of us since the fall. It is what theologians call original sin.

It is no mistake that the Scriptures, and Christian writers, use the image of a mountain top to represent holiness or closeness to God. Mountains are uphill and we cannot coast uphill, at least not for long. Sometimes with a running start we can coast a bit, but gravity works against us and soon we are stopped or rolling back down hill. Our momentum is never up.

Many spiritual writers have also used the image of a ladder to represent progress in godliness or various godly virtues. Benedict’s treatment of humility in the seventh chapter of his Rule is a well-known example. Just like mountains, we cannot coast up ladders. Gravity tugs us back toward earth.

What is the lesson from all of this? There is no coasting toward heaven. God calls us to work, to strive, to sweat in our pursuit of him. Despite what some may proclaim, nowhere in the Bible does Jesus ever say, “Just believe in me and I’ll do the rest.” Certainly, we are assisted by God’s grace and the Holy Spirit, but the life of obedience is hard. If our natural inclination was to do the right thing, we would not need commandments to guide our behavior.

The encouragement I find in all of this is to not be surprised or upset when the road ahead continues to climb upward. To not be shocked when I don’t feel like praying. Of course I don’t! I’m a sinner. But, thanks be to God, I can pray anyway. I must choose to resist the downward pull of sin and instead lift myself heavenward with each step.

Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed. Strive for peace with everyone, and for the holiness without which no one will see the Lord.

Hebrews 12:12-14 (ESV)

Up or Down?

I am over 6′ 1″, which places me roughly in the top 10% of American males for height. Practically, this means it is unusual for me to meet someone I have to look up to see their face. For some people, though, that is a normal experience, a normal frame of reference.

Our frame of reference is also dependent on our focus. I have noticed that my wife and I tend to see different things when we are out walking. She is generally the first to point out snails, while I tend to point out birds. She saw a deer the other night before I ever noticed it. Our visual filters are tuned to different things and different parts of our field of vision. (She watches where she’s walking, while I usually don’t.)

Where we focus determines our evaluation of ourselves and others. Economically, Americans generally have very skewed views. Our concept of poverty equates to middle to upper class in many countries. Clean drinking water, indoor plumbing, an automobile, and a phone. These are goals or even dreams in some parts of the world. They are baseline “requirements” for us.

Where we focus also frames our self assessment in terms of sanctification. It is easy to find examples to make us feel pretty smug about our perceived holiness. It is easy to become like the Pharisee Jesus holds up in contrast to the tax collector.

Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.’

Luke 18:10-12 ESV

This is lazy. We don’t have to look very hard to find someone to feel superior to. The person with the unruly child in the grocery. The aggressive driver on the freeway. Our foul-mouthed coworker. We look around and feel like the Pharisee, “Thank goodness I’m not like them.”

The standard we are called to is a bit more stringent than that, however.

Therefore you must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

Matthew 5:48 ESV

It is as if we are children standing over an anthill basking in our colossal stature. Jesus places a hand under our chin and shifts our gaze to the towering redwood under which we are standing. We are not as tall, strong, or good as we think we are.

If we hold before our gaze the lives of the Saints, the Apostles, and our Lord, we find that we are far from perfect. We are put off by minor inconveniences, we willingly fill our minds with impurity, and we seek our own comfort above all else.

And what more shall I say? For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets—who through faith conquered kingdoms, enforced justice, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, were made strong out of weakness, became mighty in war, put foreign armies to flight. Women received back their dead by resurrection. Some were tortured, refusing to accept release, so that they might rise again to a better life. Others suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were killed with the sword. They went about in skins of sheep and goats, destitute, afflicted, mistreated—of whom the world was not worthy—wandering about in deserts and mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth.

Hebrews 11:32-38 ESV

O Lord, who gave sight to the blind, let us have the scales removed from our eyes that we may see you clearly, and so rightly judge ourselves as unworthy sinners. May we be moved to extend grace and mercy to our fellow man as we are penitent before your holiness. Cleanse us by your Holy Spirit that we may love you and serve you only. Amen.

A Journey or a Mission?

It is a common metaphor for our life and what we perceive to be its purpose—a journey. It seems fitting, because like a journey, our life has a start and a finish. There are landmarks and mileposts along the way. Breakdowns, detours, and crossroads.

Occasionally when I’m driving, usually on some busy highway, I wonder, “Where are all these people going?” At any given moment I may be witnessing a glimpse of hundreds of journeys. It can seem as chaotic as watching an ant on an anthill.

From our perspective, our life may well seem like a journey. We are always our own frame of reference. There’s no getting around it; my life is all about me. The problem is, it’s a limited perspective and it’s not God’s perspective, though we can begin to assume it is. We know God loves and cares about us so he must care about “my journey.”

This perspective, though, quickly reduces God to a heavenly AAA. He’s there to give me directions and help me out if something goes wrong on my journey. Spiritual roadside assistance. Prayer becomes like the OnStar System in some vehicles. Push the button, get some directions, carry on.

This is a very western, a very American, way of viewing things. (My) life, (my) liberty and pursuit of (my) happiness. It is not the only way, nor is it the best way, of viewing our lives. We like this way because it reinforces our perspective that we are the center of our universe. But it’s not true. We are not the center of the universe.

Instead of a journey, consider your life as a mission. Not some individualized mission or calling as a way to spiritualize your journey. Think of yourself as one of the 160,000 Allied soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy on 6 June 1944. Yes, there were 160,000 journeys and a good number of them ended that day, but arguably, there was only one mission: establish a beachhead in France to allow onward movement onto the continent to culminate in the destruction of the Third Reich.

Certainly there were sub-tasks within that overarching mission. The Rangers at Point Du Hoc had a different task than the paratroopers at  Sainte-Mère-Église or the pilots of the landing craft. But all worked toward that one mission: establish a beachhead, defeat Hitler. 160,000 stories brought together for one purpose.

Soldiers endure hardship. Rain, cold, heat, hunger, and fatigue. They learn to sleep, eat, and fight anywhere. Sometimes they are given seemingly impossible tasks. Some tasks do turn out to be impossible. In order for a mission to succeed, a commander must find the balance between caring for his troops and being willing to place them in harm’s way.

God cares for us, but he is also willing to place us in harm’s way. God cares for us, but he is willing to accept the loss of some in order for the mission to succeed. That’s not a view we readily embrace as Americans. We don’t uphold self-sacrifice to a greater cause much anymore. But our mission requires it.

We can hardly open the Scriptures without being confronted by individuals working to fulfill their mission. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Paul and Silas. Jesus of Nazareth. May we be inspired by their example to set aside our journey for God’s mission.