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The deepest envy desires to take from the other what they possess in order to bask before their humiliation.
Striving is always a noisy activity. It generates heat, din, and bluster. One can almost always tell important people by their chronic commitment to keeping time and moving the agenda ahead.
Whenever one is in need of more and operates with the noise of striving, there will be a senseless surrender to addiction.
Most people who have affairs say it was not for the sex or because life at home was lacking—they simply wanted companionship without commitment and a touch of sassy wildness to spice up their humdrum life.
The creation is an orchestral oratory arranged as an invitation to bring our voice to the song as praise.
Belden Lane tells the story of the French bringing a handful of desert Bedouin leaders to Paris to see the glory of their culture. They saw the Eiffel Tower and other architectural delights with polite boredom. But when taken to see a waterfall in the countryside, they stood in utter amazement. They waited for the surging flow to stop. “They refused to leave, adamantly declaring to their French guide that honor required waiting . . . waiting for the end. Knowing the water could not last much longer, they awaited the moment ‘when God would grow weary of his madness,’ when this wild extravagance
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Abundance is not about possession; it is utterly, completely, and solely about gratitude.
Regret returns us to the burned-down remains of the past with sorrow that has no end or point.
Regret makes no attempt to learn from the past, or even to replay it with an eye to understand what processes were involved, in order to address those same recurrent issues. Instead, regret wallows in despair, assuming fate has pointed its fickle finger in my face and that I am bound to this moment and nothing can be done to change it. Regret drinks despair as a solace against true hope.
Worry takes on a life of its own and parasitically devours us as it thrives. Worry is the fear of emptiness.
Worry makes no attempt to move into the unknown with conviction and courage. Instead, it obsesses about how our life will be ruined if certain factors outside of our control do not change. Worry extends regret to the future as it anticipates a sorrow too great to endure.
regret and worry assume there is no God, or at least not one who loves and pours himself out for his children.
Despair refuses to grieve the mistakes of the past and be grateful for the finished work of Christ that opens a new vista for my future. Despair refuses to anticipate and dream the new future for fear that it will simply go awry again. Hope opens us to the future and seizes opportunity to redeem dreams.
Depression almost always involves some degree of regret and worry, yet it is first and foremost a biological issue that needs to be treated with antidepressant medication. In addition, those who are depressed must enter the terrain of their hatred of hope.
Cynicism breeds contempt and greater alienation, or division. It leads to a greater need to control life so the innocent wonder of gratitude never opens the heart to want to serve. Cynicism never needs to labor for goodness; it is too busy deconstructing all pretenders.
Conventional behavior is living life as a prepackaged, paint-inthe- numbers craft kit. It requires no creativity or hope, only dutiful obedience to whatever “truth” or “leader” or “truth leader” that enables one to escape the onus of freedom.
Often the “truth” provides a set of parameters that shape nearly every dimension of life, including dress code, acceptable art, and use of time and money. The benefit is that the adherents get to live vicariously through the lives of their heroes rather than getting dirty in a game that requires deep-rooted hope to play.
Consumerism hope is about realized desire that can be worked for without any need to labor.
Despair rises as repeated purchases end with boredom rather than gratitude.
Cynicism, conventionalism, and consumerism—and all other forms of despair—are at war with gratitude. The more I receive every dimension of life as a gift, the less likely I am to feel entitled and irritated when I don’t get what I want.
I believe there is a profound correlation between gratitude and joy and the absence of gratitude and despair.
Despair is like an endless drive on a cul-de-sac. One sees the same terrain again and again with no hope o...
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Despair robs the heart of imagination.
We see the character of God whenever we are grateful. Gratitude opens the heart not only to wonder but to freedom. Anything that stirs gratitude opens our eyes to a world outside our seeing.
When a gift is received, it conceives a debt in us that must grow full-term before the debt can be birthed and the gift given away to another.
There is a burden of gratitude that, if it is not returned, will crush our spirits or splinter them.
Gratitude must grow full-term before the gift can produce joy.
Do you want joy? Then open your heart to suffer. Suffering involves the ruthless paring away of all that will keep joy at bay.
Joy must be chosen, but the deeper conundrum is that it can’t be controlled or cajoled as to when it will come or how long it will stay.
What is joy? I can no more define joy than I can beauty. Perhaps it is best to say that joy is a touch of sweet madness that comes when we sense God is closer to us than our own heartbeats.
Joy has little to do with moments of success, reward, or honor. It is related to circumstances, yet it is not centered on something working out well. In fact, most of my joy has come within the frame of dark and troubling times. It has come in the midst of heartache and confusion. It seems uniquely related to death—death of a friend or even a friendship, the death of dream or an illusion that masqueraded as a worthy desire. Death has been the inevitable frame for joy.
Sabbath is the promise that death doesn’t win. Sabbath is not a turning from death and pretending it doesn’t mar us; instead, we are to act before death as if has no ultimate power.
Our joy in Sabbath is almost entirely bound to those with whom we spend the day.
What is our Sabbath joy? We are gifted to enter God’s delight in spite of the debris of death. Our joy is in celebrating that love is stronger than death; and the madness of God is saner than the wisdom of man. Joy is in being a drink offering, poured out to give life. Death not only doesn’t win; death becomes the only framework for freedom. Our heartache is a drama that tells not only our story, but also the story of the death and resurrection.
We are to clear away on this day all the debris from the past week and the week ahead—and turn our ears to his delight.
It is not presumptuous to ask, “What is it that you see in me that brings you delight?”
God intends for us to see our lives in the light of an eternal drama.
Whatever the role God chooses, he enlivens, disturbs, and sets us into motion to engage both his absence and presence.
Seldom do we honestly ask, why wouldn’t I want to take a day to delight in goodness?
Peace is not an absence of conflict or tension; it is the union of distinctly different things into a whole that is far, far greater than its parts.
Peace calls not for agreement, but hospitality and care; not debate, but sufficient care and curiosity to listen to the different paths people have taken to find meaning.
Abundance is waiting to be plucked like lush fruit on a tree—all it requires is the willingness to delight in its plump fragrance and eat.
We can taste peace in music, abundance in food, and happiness in success or good favor—but joy, at its core, is relational and redemptive.
Joy recognizes in the face of the other the presence of God. Those with clear sight can see God’s face in strangers and enemies; most people barely see the face of God in those we love.
Joy requires setting aside work for wonder and worship for worry—in order to see the sweetness of what is rather than the disappointment in what is not.
We don’t like quiet, until we are glutted with cacophony and need a respite.
The drama of silence is that it is the stage where God shows up more frequently than in the bustle of our busyness.
The contempt of others is often joined by our self-contempt. We judge ourselves even more severely than our enemies.
Grief is similar to vomiting. At its deepest convulsion it exhausts, nauseates, and relieves. It empties us, weakens us, and prepares us for food that in due season will strengthen us. But in its immediate aftermath, we need rest.
Grieving releases the toxins of loss and invites comfort. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” is not a principle, it is a promise (Matt. 5:4 NIV).
