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To the world, it’s foolish to choose peace instead of war. It’s foolish to forgive. It’s foolish to be kind. It’s foolish to hope. It’s foolish to offer grace and conversation. It’s foolish to care for our weaker brothers or sisters, let alone change our own behavior to accommodate their growth and discipleship, their freedom and their journeys. It’s foolish to live without legalism and “clear boundaries.” It’s foolish to make it our business to pursue a quiet life. It’s foolish to lay down our power. It’s foolish to be silent and listen to others instead of rushing to make our own point. It’s
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Foolish things will confound the “wise” of our world. Those things all do seem foolish to me. So much of what Jesus and the early church calls me to in Scripture seems foolish to the world. They confound me. They often go against my very real instincts to burn down bridges and shut down dissent and pick fights and turn over tables and draw lines in the sand. But I think that when we are foolish in the ways of a disciple, we live prophetically in the Kingdom of God.
have hope because I believe in the power of the grass roots, because I believe in the little ones and the little ways. I have hope because of the unnamed and unnoticed and uncelebrated disciples in our world who simply get on with it. We are engaged in the reality of living out the hope of glory in our real, right-now lives in the trenches.
Hope isn’t withdrawal or blind ignorance; it’s not burying our heads in the sand and singing about Gospel ships coming to take us away, nor is it pretending that it’s fine, we’re fine, everything’s fine. Many things in our world are not fine. Hope dares to admit that.
In Israel, leaders were set apart by anointing, by rules, and by expectations. But in the early church, this system of leadership was dissolved by the Lordship and Headship of Christ. “As God intended to be Himself king over Israel, so Christ has come as God’s king over His newly constituted people. As head of His church, all others, including leaders, function as parts of one body both sustained by Christ and growing up into Him.”4
Over the years, we have had to learn the hard way that everything we do can be for the glory of God. Our work, our play, our advocacy, our lives both inside and outside Sunday morning church. Truth is truth, and it will set you free. Everything we do can be infused with the Spirit.
One soul is as valuable as thousands, millions. One soul is as important as ninety-nine. One soul is worth leaving behind everything to rescue. If there is one soul in your care, one face in your loving gaze, one hand you are holding, then you are holding the world. The work you do today, the love you give and receive and lavish on the seemingly small people and tasks—all of these “little” things tip the scales of justice and mercy in our world. Everything we do, from the mundane to the glamorous to the difficult and all points between, can testify.
Few theologians have influenced me the way that Walter Brueggemann has—perhaps N. T. Wright and Dallas Willard are up there with him—from my political and economic engagement to my vocation as a writer to even my personal discipleship. His work on the “liturgy of abundance” versus the “myth of scarcity”11 is primarily for the big picture—the empire, economics, justice for the poor, war—but because I am one
We’ve got to hustle, hustle, hustle to get ours and then to keep it. But in the liturgy of abundance, we can practice Sabbath. Exhaustion and burnout are symptoms of our fear of scarcity, but wholeness, joy, and rest are hallmarks of a life lived within abundance. In fact, Brueggemann calls the practice of Sabbath an act of resistance because we are saying no to “the culture of now.”
Jesus was the full embodiment of what it means to be human in the way God intended. He uplifts instead of tearing down, He heals instead of wounds, He lays down His life instead of fighting to survive, He chooses compassion instead of numb acceptance, He is water to a thirsty soul, bread to the hungry, oil of joy for mourning. And instead of death, He is life. Life!
don’t mind the little ways. I find God in the ordinary quotidian rhythms of my life, I do. Breaking bread and pouring wine happens in my living room. Few things restore my soul like ordinary work—cleaning, walking, cooking. The real transformations of my life didn’t come about at a conference or a Sunday morning service or during a mountaintop moment; the real transformations in my spirit and my character and my life were born and tended and raised in the daily mundane habits and faithfulness of my life. I like the idea of being planted in the house of God, of putting one’s roots down into a
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The heavy burdens of our evangelical hero complex, our identity, our questions of worth and being used by God, all of it—in that moment, we surrendered them. We laid them down on the altar, set them on fire, and stood back at last. They burned down to ashes before our eyes, and yes, some younger version of ourselves ached with the loss of it. But the exhaustion disappeared, the feelings of worthlessness, the crippling misidentity went up in smoke.