Seth Lewis's Blog, page 8

A Curious Mind

Have you ever wondered about your ability to wonder about things? It’s a wonderful gift, when you think about it. It’s the ability that has unlocked most of our discoveries, because the most fertile ground for discovery is always a curious mind. I’m sure you can learn things without being curious—some lessons will slap you in the face whether you ask them to or not—but there’s no question you’ll learn a lot more if you start with questions. Isn’t our entire scientific method just a systematic series of questions? Without curiosity, the whole world fades into nothing more than a boring necessity, the people around us flatten down into a procession of stereotypes, and God himself starts to look like some kind of tired trope or taskmaster. Without curiosity, life goes stale. Tasteless.

For the curious mind, this world is an endless feast that can never be exhausted. Nature is filled with countless wonders, waiting to be discovered. People are complex characters, with histories and experiences and hidden dreams, and my grandfather taught me that every single one of them knows something you don’t, but you can learn it from them if you ask the right questions. In other words, if you’re curious enough to want to. And then there’s God, the inventor of all the rest—wouldn’t it be interesting to get to know the One who made every other interesting thing and person in the universe? He’s revealed himself to us and invited us to come to him and know him through Jesus. How could that be anything but fascinating? Of course it might also be surprising, and it might disturb our settled sensibilities and we might have to tear up some of our old assumptions along the way, but isn’t that what learning is all about?

Curiosity is key to learning, growing, and enjoying life. It’s the reason toddlers ask so many questions, and learn so fast, but then slowly, we grow. Slowly, we change. We start to feel the pressure to impress people and prove ourselves by showing how much we already know, so the questions fade and the world fades with them, and our interest in everything fades but at least we’re cool. We put the whole feast of life on ice just to prove to everyone that we’ve already tried it—and then we wonder why it tastes so cold and bland.

It doesn’t have to be that way. There’s nothing stopping us from being curious again—nothing except our own pride and indifference. You can’t be curious if you’re convinced that you already know everything you need to know. What would be left to be curious about, in that case? So one of the conditions for cultivating a curious mind is humility. We have to admit that the boundaries of our knowledge fall far short of the full scope of reality. That’s not to say we know nothing—some people are so humble about their knowledge that they refuse to believe that anything is truly knowable at all, by anyone. And what’s the point of being curious, if you’ll never find the truth, anyway? So another condition needed for curiosity is that we must believe that the truth really is out there, and that we really can discover it. That we can genuinely learn things, and then add more knowledge, with more questions. But notice that I said that the truth is “out there”, not “in here”—because one sure-fire curiosity killer is the idea that the only truth I need is the truth I create inside myself. What’s the point of being curious about anything or anyone else, if I’m the only one that matters, anyway? Thankfully, that’s not how the world works. Reality is not my personal invention, and truth is not my personal possession. If I want to know what the world is really like, what the people around me really love, and who God really is, I can’t discover these things inside my own head. I’ve got to learn, or re-learn, how to be curious. It doesn’t matter how much knowledge I’ve already accumulated, I still have far more to learn. How could I ever discover everything there is to know about another human being? About our world, or the God who made it? The feast is endless, and it grows with the tasting. God gave us wonderful minds, and they work best when they’re full of wonder.

Tree House (a poem)

Tomorrow, my wife Jessica and I celebrate twenty years of marriage. Two decades sounds like a lot to me, but—doesn’t everyone say this?—it seems like it’s gone quickly. When we first got married, I wrote a poem for Jessica about how our love was in Spring, and I didn’t know what seasons would come, but with God’s help we would keep growing through them all. Twenty years—and many different seasons—later we’ve made our home in this growing love. That’s what this poem is about:

Tree House

When we stood at the altar
And promised forever
Our love was in Spring—
A new, growing thing
But newness can’t last
And the years hurry past
And a sapling cannot stay
A sapling
Through summers and autumns
(The passing years brought them)
And winters, and snows—
Our love slowly grows
Adding ring upon ring
Like a tree, expanding
For a strong, stable nest
Fit for singing, and rest
For a sheltering home
That is happy, and warm—
So let the storms come,
I don’t mind
There’s a song within me
In our home, in our tree
Since we promised “I do”
Sharing seasons with you
Is a joy that keeps growing
Forever

The Good In Regret

What would it be like to be able to look back at your whole life and say with confidence, “no regrets”? It sounds amazing, but I can’t say I know how it feels. When I look back, there are plenty of moments that are permanently stuck as perfect, vivid memories—not because I’m proud of them, but because of how much they make me cringe. Out of all the thousands of things I’ve forgotten, I’d love to be able to forget the mean and stupid things I’ve said and the foolish choices I’ve made and the embarrassing immaturity I’ve displayed, but those memories are firmly fixed in place. “No regrets”? I have to be honest, that’s not me. I have regrets.

That’s bad, of course, because it shows how often I’ve gone wrong. Sometimes the problems came from simple ignorance, but other times they were wilful—I knew better, and went ahead anyway. My biggest regrets remind me of these wilful failures, of my selfishness, and sin. They replay my bad attitudes, and pride. Can we change the channel, please?

Not so fast. I know very well how uncomfortable regrets can be, but there is still a goodness in them. Yes, goodness. I’m not saying we should all be constantly fixated on our failures, but neither should we completely ignore them. I’ve heard that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, and I certainly do not want that to be true of my own personal history. The sting of regret is a spur that digs into my side and drives me forward on a different course, and I dare not ignore it.

Regret won’t do me any good if I cover it up as quickly as possible, try my best to forget it, or twist everything around to justify myself as somehow being right after all. If I refuse to recognise my wrongs and learn from them, I will not only miss the opportunity to improve, I’ll actually become worse. Creating habits of hiding, self-deception, and self-justification is a dangerous game, and I’m the first loser. I must own my wrongs fully. But that doesn’t mean I have to live under the guilt and shame of regret forever—I have a Saviour who offers full forgiveness freely, though it came at great cost to himself. He also gives his own power to change me. As John writes in 1 John 1:9, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” My regrets aren’t good in themselves, but they can do me great good if they drive me to Jesus. I’ll never regret taking any regret to him.

“Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret” (2 Corinthians 7:10).

Slow Happiness

As I look out the window at the sunshine on my garden, I remember the many days that I saw the same view differently—when the glass was streaked with rain, when the ground was hard with frost, and the plants that are budding and growing so beautifully today were nothing but tiny seeds or bare sticks. It all changed so slowly, but it changed so much. And as good as it looks today, I know that there are even better things ahead—the apple blossoms will ripen into apples, the rose stems will bloom with their own unique colours and fill the air with their intoxicating aromas, there will be blueberries and strawberries and maybe this year we’ll finally get some grapes from the grape vine, now that it’s more established. It takes time, establishing. Our blueberry bushes give us a lot more now than they used to, and the apple tree is a little bigger every year. Life is like that, too, isn’t it?

It seems to me that the best, most deliciously happy and wholesome aspects of my life today are the ones that grew slowly, like my garden. I remember the excitement of planting new friendships, but now I look back over years of shared ups and downs and tears and laughter and life with the same people, and I realise that what I have now in my old (maybe let’s say “mature”) friendships is richer than ever. I remember when my wife and I said our vows, only guessing at the challenges and joys that life would bring us, and I realise that our love has grown deeper now than it was on our wedding day. I remember when our children were born, and I realise how much I enjoy the new dimensions of life together as a family now that they are growing into young adults. I remember the places I’ve lived and the churches I’ve been part of, and how slowly relational roots can grow, and yet how happy it is to know and be known as part of a strong, close community. And as I’ve slowly grown in my abilities at work, I’ve also grown in the satisfaction of knowing that my labour can genuinely help others and contribute positively to the world. 

There are times, of course, when the things I plant and water and work for in the garden, and in life, don’t grow like I thought they would. This world is broken, after all, and it shows. Still, it’s clear to me now that the best, deepest, and longest-lasting sources of happiness I have known are the slow-growing kind, the kind that develop little by little over years. I know that there are plenty of ways to find happiness more quickly, in experiences and holidays and attention-grabbing apps and such, but those highs tend to fade away almost as quickly as they come. A thousand notifications of likes online might give an immediate buzz, but they can’t give the comfortable, happy freedom of laughing with an old friend. A quick romance might make a weekend more entertaining, but a committed love can expand the joy of a lifetime. Holidays in exotic places can be marvellous for a week or two, but they’re no substitute for the happiness of coming home to a community where I know I belong, where I am known and valued and have meaningful work to do. 

The strongest, most potent forms of happiness I’ve found on earth are the ones that took their time growing. Could they grow even better in the future, like the plants in my garden? It’s certainly possible, and exciting to think about. In a world that values youth above almost everything and demands instant gratification always, I’m convinced that there are deep kinds of happiness that can only be harvested after years of slow growth. These are worth waiting for, and worth working for. They are worth sacrificing short-term pleasures for. They are worth planting seeds for, even today, and investing time in over seasons and years—just like my garden. 

To Welcome A Stain (a poem)

I had more than an hour to wait for my flight, so I was happy when I found a corner with armchairs in Manchester airport. The seats were comfortable, but after I sat down I noticed that they were at least as tired as I was. The colour was faded, the edges were dirty, and there was a stain on the armrest.

How long have those chairs been there, in that corner? How many strangers have they welcomed and provided comfort for? Over time, it has made them tired and stained, and I understand that. People can be hard to hold up. Messy. But the chairs are still there, still welcoming new travellers anyway. My hour in one of them reminded me that it’s better to wear out by accepting stains than collecting dust. That’s what this poem is about:

To Welcome A Stain

My seat in the airport is pale, pale green
The armrests are warn from the arms that have been
Waiting right here till the time was right
To stand up and board up and take their flight

On the right-side armrest a ketchup stain
As small as a child’s finger remains
As tangible proof that they really were here
Before they departed and disappeared

My seat in the airport is pale, pale green
Faded with time but still welcoming
Tarnished and tired but comforting
To all who pass this way

And life is an airport, too, you know
And we are the strangers who come and go
And maybe before we take our flight
We could learn how to welcome a stain

The Same Person In Every Room

I was sitting in a meeting this week when a thought randomly crossed my mind about how odd it would be if I had come in wearing the clothes I had on earlier that same day, when I went to swim laps at the pool. My goggles and togs didn’t raise any eyebrows at the pool, but they would have at the meeting. And if I had shown up at the pool with my meeting clothes on, that would have drawn a bit of attention, as well. 

Clearly, there are appropriate things to wear at appropriate times. When I get this wrong and realise that I’m overdressed or underdressed or somehow looking out of place, I’m embarrassed (though I’ve never worn swim togs to a meeting). This is true of clothes, but it can also apply to the demeanour I put on in different settings. In a formal meeting, I try hard to remember to be formal in my manners and speech. I don’t shout in a setting like that. But I do shout at the basketball court, and I’m even louder on a roller-coaster. I happily make silly faces for small children, but I don’t make any faces like that for airport security officers. Clearly, there are appropriate ways to behave at appropriate times. When I get this wrong and realise that I’ve acted or spoken in ways that do not fit the circumstance I’m in, I’m embarrassed. 

I change clothes to fit different settings, and I adjust my behaviour to fit different circumstances. This is all as it should be. Yet all of this changing can conceal a hidden danger—it can tempt me to change more than I should, adjusting not only my clothes and my demeanour, but the person I am underneath them. It can tempt me to adjust my standards of right and wrong according to the consensus of the people around me, instead of sticking to what I know to be true. And it can tempt me to shift those standards all over again whenever I move to a different room, with different people, who have different priorities. I can be tempted to change my values, and adjust my character, according to what will bring me the most advantage in the moment. I can be tempted to betray the trust of people who aren’t in the room in order to win the approval of people who are. I can be tempted to hide aspects of who I am and what I believe, or pretend to be things that I am not. When I give in to this temptation, I begin to split myself and my life into different compartments for the benefit of different groups of people in different settings. In a quest to fit in with everyone else, I lose the ability to fit in to my own skin—too fragmented to even know who I really am apart from the context I happen to be in at the moment. No thank you.

I want to be the same person in every room. I want to be the same person, at the core of me, whether I’m dressed up in a suit or a tracksuit. I want to be the same person with children and adults. The same person when I’m with powerful and influential people as I am with weak, heartbroken, and desperate people. Yes, my clothes will change, and my demeanour will change to suit the circumstances, but underneath all of that I want to maintain the same character and the same integrity wherever I am. I want to act on the same principles and priorities no matter how the people around me react or respond—and I want to still hold on to those same principles when no one is watching at all. I want to live my life in every setting on the solid foundation of real truth, not the shifting ground of situational expediency. 

I already know who I am. I am the creation of God himself. I have been rebellious and sinful, absolutely, but I have been forgiven and adopted into God’s own family through Jesus Christ. Whatever I’m wearing, wherever I am, this is my identity. Whatever I’m wearing, whoever I’m with, I want to live this identity out faithfully in every word and every action.

I want to be the same person in every room. 

Normal Life

The Monday after Easter Sunday is a bank holiday in Ireland, so I slept in. That may not seem very remarkable to you, but I remember when it was impossible. I remember when our children were small, and always woke up at the crack of dawn with bright eyes and boundless energy, ready for me to be the bad guy they could fight or the jungle gym they could climb or the narrator for their books. I remember before those mornings, back to the seemingly endless nights when they fit easily in my arms and I walked countless miles back and forth in their little bedrooms and put them down so gently and carefully and their eyes popped open and we started walking all over again. It didn’t seem possible at the time, but those endless nights ended. Sleeping through the whole night is normal for me now, and when a bank holiday comes, I can stay in bed even longer if I want to. When did that happen? 

Every day seems so similar as it passes that it’s hard to notice how things are changing. It’s only when I look back over the years that I see how different my life has become. These arms, my arms, that used to rock babies now work side by side in the garden with sons who will soon be taller than I am. These shoulders, my shoulders, that used to lift a little girl now twirl a young woman who is as tall as they are. When did that happen?

I love the stage we’re in now. Two teens and a preteen in the house might be some people’s idea of a nightmare, but I thank God every day that I’m living a dream. I love watching our children grow and learn and develop more and more and mature day by day. I love being able to have serious grown-up conversations with them now about serious grown-up topics, and being able to laugh together over years of accumulated family jokes. I love how they read so much faster than I do and how I’m constantly learning new things from them that I never knew before. I love how much I have to struggle to compete with them at games and sports.

When I got out of bed on Monday, I knew what to expect. I know what stage of life I’m in, and I know what a normal day looks like. But as I walked down the stairs it struck me how different my current normal is from what it used to be. The change didn’t happen suddenly, but it happened anyway, and it’s happening still. Every day my normal life changes, just a little. Every day my definition of normal moves imperceptibly forward towards new and different realities that I’ve never experienced before. What will it be like when the children go to university, move away, or get married? Someday, it will be normal. Someday, I’ll walk down the stairs and think back on the stage I’m in now, just like the stages that have gone before. Then I’ll carry on into a normal day that looks very different from my life today, but when it comes, it will be normal, just the same. 

I can lie in on bank holidays now. That’s normal, and I’m thankful for it. I’m thankful for all the early mornings and sleepless nights, too. I’m thankful for the days ahead, with whatever new kinds of normal they bring. As I head downstairs into another day, I remember that every stage of life is a limited and precious gift. That’s normal, I’m thankful for it.

Transcendence, Inc

My children and I were heading home after a swim, when a work van caught my eye. It had “Transcendence, Inc” written across its side, but honestly, it didn’t look very transcendent. It was parked on the footpath between the hotel and the road, just like any regular old non-transcendent work van would be. A closer look at the smaller print confirmed that “Transcendence, Inc” was the name of a company offering high-end decorating and furnishing services.

That’s a clever name for that kind of business. And perhaps it’s true, in the very lowest sense of the word, of merely “transcending” our normal expectations with something a bit beyond them. I’ve seen furniture and decorating that really has gone beyond expectations, leaving me genuinely impressed. For a while.

No matter how high-end Transcendence, Inc is, no matter how luxurious their furnishing are or other-worldly their decorating is, it’s still, at the end of the day, stuff. Nice stuff, made of good wood and soft fabrics and all the best, I’m sure, but stuff all the same. After an initial feeling of being impressed, people will sit on the couches and ignore the pictures and move on with their lives. Eventually, the chairs will wear out and the paint will chip and the fresh, trendy newness will fade.

True transcendence is a glimpse of something greater, something beyond—but if the world was only material and nothing more, that glimpse would only be a lie. In that case, every transcendent thing and experience would eventually fade into the same non-transcendent oblivion. But the fact that we have a word like this at all shows that we know there is more to reality than meets the eye. You may not be able to sell real transcendence out of a van, but it does exist, and that’s why we need a word for it. It exists beyond the van, beyond the decorating, beyond the best of everything we have, because the best of everything we have is only a glimpse of Someone who is truly, ultimately, overwhelmingly transcendent.

“This is what the Lord says:
‘Heaven is my throne,
and the earth is my footstool.
Where is the house you will build for me?
Where will my resting place be?
Has not my hand made all these things,
and so they came into being?’” – Isaiah 66:1-2

It doesn’t matter if you have Transcendence, Inc decorate the greatest temple of all time—none of the materials of earth could ever contain God. He is beyond them all. He created everything we see, including ourselves, and his kind of being is completely different than our own. As A.W. Tozer put it in The Knowledge Of The Holy,

“We must not think of God as highest in an ascending order of beings, starting with the single cell and going on up from the fish to the bird to the animal to man to angel to cherub to God. This would be to grant God eminence, even pre-eminence, but that is not enough; we must grant him transcendence in the fullest meaning of that word. Forever God stands apart, in light unapproachable. He is as high above an archangel as above a caterpillar, for the gulf that separates the archangel from the caterpillar is but finite, while the gulf between God and the archangel is infinite. The caterpillar and the archangel, though far removed from each other in the scale of created things, are nevertheless one in that they are alike created. They both belong in the category of that-which-is-not-God and are separated from God by infinitude itself.”

When we think of God, we must recognise that although we are made in his image, he still belongs to a different category altogether. He alone is completely independent. Every breath we take is a gift from him, but he doesn’t need any gifts like that—he exists by his own power, without beginning or end. When we speak of God, we are speaking of the One who exists not only at the extreme end of every category, but far beyond every category we can conceive of. You can’t measure God, or anything about him—his power, wisdom, love, justice, his timeless, infinite being—there is no end to any of it. There are no categorical boxes big enough to fit him or anything about him. God is absolutely, infinitely, transcendent.

Which makes it even more amazing that he came, himself, to save us.

Happy Easter!

Tea And The Sous-Chef (two poems)

It was my wife Jessica’s birthday yesterday, and these two poems are in honour of her and the many ordinary moments we share together.

Tea

Do you want a cuppa tea?
She said to me
And I said yes—
Because
I always want a tea
If she is drinking it
With me

The Sous-Chef

Jessica works magic
With the chicken
On the hob
While I stand by
And peel the spuds
Because that is a job
That requires little magic
But I like to be
Nearby
In proximity to her
I think that any job will do—
Being with her is the magic,
So now you can call me Sous

Patrick Loved Ireland Before Ireland Loved Patrick

On the 17th of March, people around the world will celebrate Ireland’s national holiday, St. Patrick’s Day. Is there any other national holiday in the world that is celebrated as internationally as Ireland’s? It is truly unique. So as the bunting goes up and the landmarks turn green and the parades are organised, it’s worth remembering the man who inspired this global celebration. 

Like the holiday named after him, Patrick’s life was truly unique. He did not consider himself a great man, and would likely be uncomfortable with the extravagance of the yearly honours we bestow on him. In his autobiography, he calls himself “a simple country person, a refugee, and unlearned.” The reason he calls himself a “refugee” is because his connection with Ireland, which is how everyone remembers him today, only began when he was sixteen—and it wasn’t a good start at all. The first Irish people that Patrick met were the people who raided his hometown (probably in Wales) and carried off thousands of prisoners—including Patrick—to be sold into slavery in Ireland. Our patron saint’s first sighting of Ireland’s beautiful shores came while he was in the chains of human traffickers. In Ireland, Patrick tells us that he was “brought low by hunger and nakedness daily.” His slavery continued until he was twenty-two years old. This is not the part of the story we celebrate on March 17th.

Eventually, Patrick escaped Ireland and made it home. Which sounds like the happy ending to the story, but it’s not the ending at all because Patrick went on to do something completely unexpected by anyone: he chose to return to Ireland. 

What would possess a man who had finally gained his freedom to return to the land of his slavery? His parents wanted him to stay home. His friends warned him of the dangers he would face if he went back, and they were right: he did face many dangers in Ireland. He wrote that “every day there is the chance that I will be killed, or surrounded, or be taken into slavery, or some other such happening.” While it’s true that many responded positively to the good news of salvation that he shared, others relentlessly opposed him. He counts twelve times when he was in fear for his life, and gives examples of times he was imprisoned and robbed of everything he owned. He could have walked away from all of this trouble and returned home at any time. But he never left.

“I bore insults from unbelievers, so that I would hear the hatred directed at me for travelling here. I bore many persecutions, even chains, so that I could give up my freeborn state for the sake of others. If I be worthy, I am ready even to give up my life most willingly here and now for his name. It is there that I wish to spend my life until I die, if the Lord should grant it to me.”

There were no parades for Patrick when he was living in Ireland. No bunting. No rivers dyed green in his honour. Although Ireland would grow to love Patrick greatly, as we see today, it was Patrick who loved Ireland first. He loved Ireland even when Ireland treated him like an enemy, and doesn’t that sound familiar? It’s exactly how God loves us:

“This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.” – 1 John 4:10-11

Patrick lived these verses out with his whole life in Ireland. By doing so, he changed this island—and the world—forever. If he had stayed comfortably at home, he would have missed the suffering, and we never would have heard of him. There would be no parades on the 17th. But he didn’t stay home, and we are absolutely right to celebrate a life and love like Patrick’s. As great as the parades and decorations are, I think the best way to honour a legacy like Patrick’s is to imitate it—just as Patrick himself imitated his Saviour.