PearlS | The Average Pearl

Social Deviant

There is a trend heating up that I can’t ignore or even articulate. It’s attractive and feel-good. No, it’s not Jimmy Fallon, baked donuts, or tattoo removal (though I’m a fan of all three).

My dad always said “if the whole world is running toward it, it’s best to stay far away”, something I detested as a teenager. But his discretion–my teenage freedom–was always marked by wisdom, and it suited his children well to heed his warning. I am grateful for parents who swam upstream when the current was moving decidedly in the other direction.

Maybe it’s because I’m thirty-five (that’s halfway to seventy, by the way) and turning into a version of my dad. Maybe it’s the mom in me, the future men in my house, the future woman with her tangle of curls, sitting in my lap. Or maybe it’s because screens are everywhere all the time, feeding us a constant stream of news, and I can’t look away from the train wreck. But it’s disconcerting. I aim to pin down this wiggly matter and proclaim it to the next generation.

The culture of my beloved country is changing. Any wild idea can be lassoed and tamed into some different, made-up flavor of truth. Twelve years ago I took a college level course called Social Deviance. We picked apart behavioral anomalies and wrote research papers on everything from crossdressing to obesity. It was a legit, junior-level class, and none of my classmates blinked twice when it came to sorting out social deviants from their counterparts. I don’t think it is too ridiculous to assume now that that particular psychology class has been deleted from the curriculum. Look around, and social deviance is the new norm. In fact, you will be taunted and your good name destroyed if you even attempt to disagree with this new weirdness smelling up the air. It’s lauded in the media and paraded through our schools, libraries, workplaces, and churches.

At our local library, children’s museum, and science center, employees wear rainbow colored nametags. I’m sure they do this with dignity, not batting an eye, convinced they are open minded, bolstering inclusivity. Do they think this is loving like a neighbor? For sure! Do they consider this is part of LGBTQ propaganda? No way.

Is it hospitable or appropriate for them to declare their opinion on sexual rights to my children? I think it’s pretty unnecessary. Most of the kids I see roaming these places aren’t yet old enough to understand the sex talk.

I’m trying to view this through a lens of love, while trying to understand the seriousness of the situation. These “ambassadors” think they are loving like a neighbor. They don’t know Jesus, or they’ve so ignored Him that they’ve come up with a new definition of love.

I’ve been having a hard time sleeping at night because I’ve been thinking about this. How do we navigate life for our kids when the most outrageous deviant behavior from twelve years ago is now commonplace? Christians are to reflect the love of Jesus, but now we are the enemies, the deviants of current culture? What is love, and how do I show it?

I’ll admit; sometimes I dole out some heavy judgment at the ridiculousness that plagues our American lives. Men that “feel” like women, gender nonconformity, obsession over appearance, and a sexual revolution are really only indicative of confused self-worship. It feels heavy, but it is nothing new.
Oftentimes fury over the state of our country clouds my vision. But when I sit in judgment, I condemn myself. I consider myself a healthy, logical, clear-thinking person, but Jesus said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Mark 2:17)
I forget my need for Jesus, and that we are all, every one of us, wasting away with sin disease in our hearts. I forget that I, too, have struggled with sexual sin, abuse, obsessive behavior, hate, pride. I have had doubts that God really loves me.

When I have been humbled by this fact, it is much easier for me to look at people with love. To the woman with the buzzed head, to the man who paints eyeshadow on his lids: I care more about you than your nametag. If you are sick and want to know the Physician, I won’t look away, won’t feel ashamed. I’ve sat in the waiting room myself, hoping for the doctor to cure what ails me.

Still, there are some who are sinsick and don’t want relief. Jen Hatmaker, a well-known Christian author, announced she finished writing her newest book, a “manifesto” for LGBTQ rights. Glennon Melton Doyle tweeted, “If you want to know where a church stands on inclusion, do not ask who they invite to attend. Ask who they hire to LEAD, If there are no leaders who are people of color, women, queer–you have your answer.”

This is a twisting of the gospel, an angle that equates sin with diversity. It is yet another half-truth, the worst kind of insidious lie. It claims that the Savior is just good juju, and your worst nightmare rush hour traffic accident is really just a fender bender. Folks who believe this are solidly convinced by their own self-righteousness. You really can’t be changed because this is your identity. Jesus warned his disciples of people like this when he said, “the time is coming when anyone who kills you will think they are offering a service to God. They will do such things because they have not known the Father or me.” (John 16:2-3)
Their words are venom doused with expensive perfume.

Words will fly–let them. It doesn’t mean we ought to shut up and mind our own business. After all, we are all displaying nametags, rainbow-colored or not. I can’t hide my Christian stripes, for I, like Paul am “unashamed of the gospel of Jesus Christ” (Romans 1:16). 1 Peter 3 reminds me to “be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect, keeping a clear conscience, so that those who speak maliciously against your good behavior may be ashamed of their slander.” I’ve never come up with beautiful conversation on my own, but somehow “letting your gentleness be evident to all” (Phil. 4:5) is enough for a stranger to become a friend.

It is time for believers to speak out with boldness, without fear of repercussion, not unlike Jeremiah did back in his time. He lived among his Jewish people who were whoring themselves out to the idols of their day. His introverted heart was broken at the ugliness, but he loved his people more than he feared speaking to them. We, like Jeremiah, must claim a similar territory, with burdened hearts pounding and fire in our bones. The liberal person of today thinks they are doing folks a favor by approving of self-seeking, what-feels-good behavior, but they are ultimately confused on who Love is. They are searching for sparkly, temporary salve. They are like little children plugging their ears, ignoring their daddy and toddling out into traffic. But God is so loving that He has sent His Son into the mess of rush hour to take the blow for us. And this is the miracle above all miracles: we aren’t being coerced, forced, or pushed into accepting a Savior. Real love only rescues you from the mess when you are good and ready to shout help me!
I ask the Lord to replay again and again the story of how He has snatched me from the danger of self-love and obsession. It is life to me–a song of pure, abounding energy. Love saved me. I’ll never get tired of telling others, and this is the very thing the Lord asks us to do. Not to condemn, but to point to Jesus.

I was sinking deep in sin

Far from the peaceful shore,

Very deeply stained within,

Sinking to rise no more;

But the Master of the sea

Heard my despairing cry,

From the waters lifted me,

Now safe am I

Love lifted me

When nothing else could help

Love lifted me

(James Rowe, Howard E. Smith)

the big table.

Here, I am going to talk about writing, sort of. Nothing else consumes me as much as the need to put things on paper, for better or for worse. And maybe most of it won’t make it past my notebooks in scribbled form. But there are a thousand beginnings and endings, and I need to untangle the cords if only to wrap it all back into a tidy ball. It feels urgent. What if I die in a car accident tomorrow? What if someone else writes my book instead of me? We’re all working against an enormous clock.
I wrote one children’s story today and sent it off with another older manuscript to a literary agent. I used the word ‘hag’ in one of the picture book works. I quickly texted my friend Megan to ask her opinion of the word, and she gave me slight confidence in the matter, so I crossed my fingers and kept it in the script.
I have an outline and several chapter beginnings of a book, all on papers scattered through the house. There’s a narrative nonfiction saved one Google doc, and cozied up to it only a tab over is a fiction manuscript.

Joe brought home a big Reader’s Digest full of short stories by Fitzgerald and Dorothy Parker and the like, and so I’m underlining sentences such as

He was as dogmatic as Mr. Kelada and resented bitterly the Levantine’s cocksureness. The discussions they had were acrimonious and interminable. (Mr, Know-All by W. Somerset Maugham)

Does anyone even want to read this kind of stuff anymore? I do. I want to write it, too. I could open a tab right now for a short story…and I’d want to put twelve-letter words in it like I was getting ready for a spelling test. I’m a puzzler. Nothing satisfies like locking the perfect word into place.

I have a notebook and pen on every flat surface in the house, should the need arise. I wrote today as my little girl stood in my lap, combing my hair straight into my eyes at the kitchen table. “Good,” she’d murmur, “it looking good.” Then she would brush it out of my eyes with her hands and stare at her handiwork. She was completely unperturbed by my need to scrawl notes. She repeated the process: comb flat into my eyes, brush and pat away the hair to reveal my face, stare in satisfaction.

How could I stop someone so sincere?

I’ve always been occupied with other things–I mean, since I’ve felt writing so urgent. It didn’t come along until after the babies. I am the main caretaker of the kids around here, of course. Sometimes I get the feeling other people can do kid stuff with their hands tied behind their backs, but I cannot. Even when the children are talking to my attentive face, I feel guilty for not following the conversation, My mind is always occupied. Focus is a struggle, and I understand the same issue in my own kids. They are all humming and reading all day and night. It has to be hereditary.

I remember, as a teenager, my dad driving me around to various meetings. He would always, always miss the turn. He simply was too bound up in his own thoughts to keep his mind on the road. It frustrated me when I realized I was the same. When boarding a plane, I need to look at my ticket seventy billion times to remember the flight and seat number. When I call the doctor to make an appointment, I jot down my own phone number so that it will be in front of me when the receptionist asks me for it. I constantly doubt my ability to speak in public, as if it is ad-libbing, as if I’m a liar and as soon as I open my mouth everyone will know.

With good intentions, I enrolled in an online English teaching class. I have texts to read, papers to write, and tests to take. The course is useful, and I hope to become certified in something other than being a homebody, but truthfully? I might be doing it to prove to myself I don’t need to write all the time. That some sort of fulfillment must come with a degree of professionalism.

My heart is not convinced.

Deep down, I’m waiting for a seat at the table, the grownup one, and not the kids’ card table. I’m waiting for an invitation, because my mind won’t believe it’s a legitimate work until I get a nod from somebody up the ladder. I timidly send off proposals and articles, yet before I’ve clicked the send button on the email, I’m sure I’ve flubbed it so badly, I shouldn’t have even wasted the time. The guilt of vanity weighs so heavily on my conscience, I cannot bear to be looked in the eye. They will know I’m a phony.

No, I’m waiting for a seat at the table. I think about how Jesus told his followers to not take an important seat until they were invited, lest they be embarrassed when a more distinguished guest arrives. Not to rely on themselves, as if they had any importance, but to remain humble. I wonder what this means for my own life, as I sit in my own kitchen and let my little girl brush my hair into my eyes. I suppose I won’t miss out when it comes my turn to move to the big table.

But I’m still anxious for it.

In the fire.

Today, a scary thing happened. A man in our neighborhood (a couple blocks over) began shooting at random houses on the street. As police surrounded his house, he fled in a truck, firing bullets at them as they pursued him. Eventually he was shot by law enforcement. He crashed his vehicle into a neighbor’s yard. The police dragged him out and took him to the hospital, where he died of his injuries.
This incident called for a lockdown at our school nearby. Kids huddled in dark closets, hushed to silence by their teachers. An emergency notice went out to families of students. I was glad to have walked them to school and return home an hour before the shooting began. I was even happier to pick them up after school no worse for the wear.

I imagine this could cripple a person for hoping in the future. Disaster struck, but not close enough to leave burn marks. I’ll walk my kids to school again in the morning and the day will begin fresh. When I get home, I’ll work on my online class, do some laundry, listen to GK beg me to hold her as I do a workout video (always during the workout videos, hmm, and a snuggle is always the best excuse to not finish Core de Force), scrub the toilet.

How is it that we aren’t promised tomorrow, and how is it that life is beautifully mundane? How can horror coincide with the daily, the get-up-and-eat-breakfast, without devastating us? How could one ever be prepared to lose a loved one when love is only a rhythm, a baseline, an extra cup of coffee in the coffee pot for me to warm in the microwave after he’s already left for work? It’s the unspoken promise that I’ll never be too busy for them, that I’ll be home when they come home, and there will be clean piles of clothes to wear. We can’t not take the beauty of life for granted; it is all we know.

We’ve been reading through the book of Daniel with the kids at night. (Not every night, just so you know. Some nights it’s Ribsy by Beverly Cleary. And some nights they wrestle on the floor until I get fed up and send them to bed.) It thrills me to read aloud the story of other brave young men to my boys. Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego–now they had a story. When they arrived in Babylon as slaves, Nebuchadnezzar was king. He had a penchant for saying things like “do such-and-such or I will have you cut into pieces and your houses turned into piles of rubble.” (And you thought Trump was slightly egocentric and fanatical.)

The Jewish boys held their ground, though. They were level headed, self-controlled (Dan. 1:8) and smart (Dan. 1:17). They spoke “with wisdom and tact” (Dan. 2:14). They prayed fervently (Dan. 2:18) and were firm in their conviction that their God could handle anything. “We do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter,” they politely informed the king as he threatened to throw them in a furnace for not worshipping one of his idols.

Man, I want to be like that. I want my kids to be like that, and I think we’ve got to start preparing them to plant their feet on this soiled world and not budge an inch.
To keep their head when everyone around them is losing theirs.
To hold their bodies and minds in check when temptations are swirling around them.
To remember Who is spinning the world and breathing air into our lungs.
To not argue and pick senseless fights, but to shake their heads and say, “We do not need to defend ourselves to anyone.”

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego knew this: fiery flames aren’t reserved for just a blazing furnace. Nebuchadnezzar could cut them to pieces or roast them like hot dogs, it didn’t matter.
The world is ablaze, folks.
It is on fire and feeding us a confusing mix of misinformation. In sneaky, American terms, it says we can have everything we want and not lose our souls. It tells us we are just born a certain way, and our only hope is to follow our heart. It says money can buy happiness. That morality is a mere suggestion. That we can avoid pain and disaster. That it’s impossible! to destroy ourselves simply by becoming comfortable. That my spouse/kid/neighbor is a major hindrance to my self-actualization. That if we just got the right person in office, got our bodies into shape, if we just let people live without feeling shame about anything.

The lies keep licking at our feet. Flames flicker at the soft spots in our character, eager to melt it into puddles of indifference. “Let’s eat and drink, for tomorrow we die!” quickly becomes our attitude (1 Cor. 15:32). For the Christian, there might be a temptation to hunker down, keep our mouths shut, close our eyes and cross our fingers.

But there was someone else in the fire with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. If they had kept their eyes shut then they wouldn’t have beheld Him. They wouldn’t have noticed their Rescuer was close enough to touch. No, their eyes were open in the fire, their hearts steady and full of hope.
When the Jewish trio came out of the fiery furnace at the command of the king, the Bible says they weren’t harmed in any way, not even a singed hair on their heads. There was no smell of fire on them (Daniel 3:27). If I barely fry bacon, I smell like it for a day. But these guys came out of a fire not even sweating.

I wonder at the world where my kids are growing up. Inevitably, if we do our job right as parents, they are going to be scorned by the majority. We are training them to defer to one another out of love for Christ (Eph. 5:21), which is diametrically opposed to the world’s advice of following your heart. We’ve been telling them to keep their eyes peeled for wolves in sheep clothing, when the world seems to think it’s perfectly acceptable to dress up evil as good (if you need an example, look no further than your local bookstore’s drag queen story hour for children). We’re talking to them about the poisonous claws of marijuana and porn, among other things that are legal and destroying lives. We’re pointing out the lies of our culture, particularly the notion that a person’s worth is tied to their age, beauty, strength, and ability to contribute to society.
Our goal is for our kids is to worship, with their whole lives, the One who created us. This means sacrificing our “God-given right” to do whatever the heck we want. This means facing a furnace that’s been heated ten times hotter.

Will they stand up in the fire with their eyes open? I don’t know. It’s easier to pretend the fire isn’t blazing. At the very least it is in our nature to run away from fires.

Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego–they were unapologetic in their intensity to live as godly strangers, even as slaves to a merciless king. The only way they made it out of the fire was by keeping their eyes fixed on the Savior. Jesus–He who is in the furnace with us–is able to help us through the fire without getting burned. He wants us to train our eyes on Him.

He wants us in the fire and unafraid.

Biggest Loser

Back in the day, before we had kids, when we were wild (j/k!) and free and our jobs only tamed us from seven to five, we watched gobs of TV. This seemed an obvious, choice hobby, considering that early on in our marriage we were scrambling to pay the rent. Long days of college classes were eclipsed by various entry level careers–carpentry and warehouse duties (him), temp agency work and kitchen management (me). Before we hardly knew it, we were grownups and trying very hard to earn the title. Both of us were fairly unschooled in the realm of pop culture, thanks to a sheltered youth. We had little in common, but we were untethered, free to explore. Unlimited television–well, at least what the three local channels had to offer–was surely a mark of maturity, no?

Hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty. We should’ve been exploring the world, volunteering, tasting exotic food, pushing our physical limits, bonding over co-adventures. All those “quality time” moments that seem wasted fifteen years later, when wrinkles and bad backs settle in. However, we were your average poor twenty-somethings, and it was the awe-inspiring decade of reality TV. We were regular fans of Survivor, American Idol, The Amazing Race, The Apprentice. Around 8 o’clock, slothdom-guilt and self-loathing would kick in and I’d go for a jog around the neighborhood–strenuous enough to break a sweat, easy enough to keep an eye on my watch…I’d be home in time to watch Rock Star: INXS at 9pm.

My hands-down favorite was the tear-jerking Biggest Loser. We would pile ice cream in our cereal bowls and watch as contestants tried to resist temptation as they spent five minutes in a room filled with cupcakes.

Watching the transformation of folks who used to hide in their cars, shame-eating fast food out of greasy paper bags, into hard-bodied athletes was astounding. It was inspiring. Their selfie videos, where they confessed all sorts of feelings to a greater American audience (to the tune of ten million) viewers, pulled heartstrings. One woman had lost her entire family in a car accident. Talk about overcoming adversity. Let them have Ranch on their salad! I’d inwardly scream. Let them call their mom on the phone!

I (secretly) wept for them as I stretched out my hamstrings post-run on the floor where Joe couldn’t see me.

At the end of each episode, barefoot contestants weighed in on an oversized scale, the number above their head flicking like a slot machine, building suspense. As the number slowly came to rest–hopefully smaller than last week’s–the screen would split and a before photo would appear on the left, juxtaposed with the newest version of the “loser”. Our celebrities of the hour were shrinking before our eyes.

Amazing, that’s what it was. An undeniable transformation we could all see. It made anything seem possible, even if it was a slightly harsh, extreme way to induce weight loss. The pictures don’t lie.

At the time, I happened to be working as a personal trainer, acquiring clients with wishlists. “I want to lose weight,” they’d explain, but as I got to know them better, I realized what they truly wanted, and lacked: motivation. It was frustrating to design individualized workouts for people who ignored them and then showed up the following Monday, joking how they “fell off the wagon.” They were stymied by the convenience of the world around them, the Burger King on the way to the gym, the couch in front of the TV. I was limited in succeeding, and so were they, because ultimately I wasn’t cut out to be their motivator. I offered reason and proven theories of cause-and-effect, but I wouldn’t stand above them on the treadmill and scream like Bob or Jillian. They could always choose to ignore my instruction. Plus, I had my own hurdles to jump. I was 22 years old and in no position to play the wise elder.

It bears resemblance to just about everything else in life, doesn’t it? Aren’t we always looking for some spectacular before and after pictures, somebody to notice that we are changing for the better? That we aren’t stagnant or forgettable, but wholly capable of newness?
What, exactly, does it take to become a massively improved version of my former self?
Who can I turn to? Who can help me train my eyes on the prize?

It’s evident we are all yearning for a transformation. Look around and you can see it: identity is everything. It is doubt or security. Chains or freedom. When you are young and inexperienced, or old and foolish (having lived a bitter life with a clenched jaw and unrequited desires), you think identity is something that can be determined on your ability to muscle it to the ground and stick a nametag on it. If we are naturally strong, beautiful, confident–well, bonus points for already having skin in the game. In our culture today, there’s a constant yammering to find our identity, to not conform to any one size, gender, race, religion. We are now applauded if we howl at the gallery for acceptance. We are encouraged to expose and berate folks that don’t agree with our current obsession. If we demand to be accepted, maybe we can supercede the urge to be transformed.

But this is contrary to our very nature, and in the end doesn’t leave us looking much different than our “before” pictures. It just changes the angle at which the photo was taken. We’re still mired in our old self, our old ways. Our deepest desire (if we dare take a peek) is to transform.

Jesus knew this when He walked the earth. The Bible describes us as sick people in need of a Physician. In fact, we were dead.

As for you, you were dead in your trespasses and sins, in which you used to walk when you conformed to the ways of this world…
Ephesians 2:1

Do you understand this? We were dead. Without a heartbeat. Expired. Not alive.
We all lived like this, the Bible says, “gratifying the cravings of our flesh and following its desires and thoughts.” (Eph. 2:3) We thought we were living, but we weren’t.

But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ, even when we were dead in our trespasses.
Ephesians 2:4-5

God removes a stone organ from our chest and replaces it with pulsing, beating heart of flesh. The real picture is transforming from death into life, a gift offered because of His great love for us. Not moving the sin stain around or reinventing ourselves, slapping lipstick on the proverbial pig. The fact is, we can’t raise ourselves to life. No, only a heart surgeon can perform such a transformative operation. Only God can. Nothing but the blood of Jesus can.

I wish I could say I just turned off the television and started living life, but it has taken me a lot longer than I’d like to admit to living as my “new” self. I was so comfortable in that fat suit of mine, lugging around pride, bitterness, laziness, blame, and secret desires. I didn’t know that if I just let that life burn to the ground I could really start living. There is a word Christians like to toss around–sanctification–the idea of being made, over time, more and more into the image of Christ. It took, for me, a husband vastly different from me to realize I had nothing to offer my marriage. He would just have to take me as I am. It took a bunch of crazy kids to wear my pride down, to make it obvious I couldn’t possibly blaze a perfect path for them. It took the discomfort of feeling alone with nobody but Jesus as my friend to realize He is what makes a heart truly beat for life. He quieted my anxieties and let me pile the burdens high on His shoulders so I didn’t have to carry them anymore.

He is still pointing me around unknown corners, leading me through that abundant life where His kingdom is here on earth like it is in Heaven.

I didn’t know it before, that there was nothing to fear.

When you see a Christian, you should see a person who is alive.

Friend, if you know Jesus–are you walking around in your newness, or are you still taking photos of that old self, switching the lights off and on, trying to get the best angle?

Friends who don’t know Jesus, what is stopping you from transformation? I promise it’s worth it.

Take Captive

I passed this board in the hall on my way to volunteer at the elementary school. “Take Captive [of] Every Thought” it says, with heart eyes and little emojis sprinkled around. The smiley face thought bubbles say things like, “I don’t have to act the way I feel” and “I can be worried and still choose to be in control.”

I pulled out my phone to snap a picture. My heart did a little jump, because this, my friends, is straight out of my favorite book, the Bible.

2 Corinthians 10:5
…we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

This little gold nugget has been mined out of a powerful paragraph, so allow me to back up.

2 Corinthians 10:3-5 says For though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The
weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary,
they have divine power to demolish strongholds. We demolish arguments
and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we
take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

I don’t expect to see Bible verses taped to walls at school. I don’t even expect the Bible to be very welcome on a desk during Sustained Silent Reading. It doesn’t hurt my feelings; I have come to expect it. John 3:19 says that Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness more than light. The Bible has some powerful words, and you’d better think twice about reading it if you don’t want to be changed. It cannot be read and ignored or forgotten; it is living and active, sharper than any double-edged sword, dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow (Hebrews 4:12). I understand perfectly why some folks at public school don’t want Bibles in our backpacks.

But how interesting to see it on the bulletin board, even in its edited form! The world wants to take God’s word and water it down, puree to baby food consistency, but the funny thing is this: it is still God’s word. Any good saying or advice we’ve been given or tried to pass on to our children is from the Bible.

Don’t judge others. (Matthew 7:1)
Be kind. (Ephesians 4:32)
Bad company corrupts good character. (1 Corinthians 15:33)
Choose love, not hate. (Matthew 5:44)
We are all equal. (Galatians 3:28)
Don’t gossip. (Ephesians 4:29)
Pride goes before a fall. (Proverbs 16:18)
Treat others the way you want to be treated. (Matthew 7:12)
Be a peacemaker. (Romans 12:18)

People who are intelligent and worldly must very intentionally avoid the Bible. Stephen Hawking and Carl Sagan knew this. It appeals too much to conscience and the broad belief that folks are capable of good behavior. In short, the Bible makes sense. Hawking and Sagan may have made a life out of proving science a god of its own–laws of nature are, after all, non-negotiable–but they themselves were still subject to a moral code. No one would’ve even listened to their theories on the greater universe if either one of them had been a murderer or thief, because a man’s conduct is a level baseline. We fool ourselves if we think humans are the ones who made up morality and rules like “Honor your mother and father”, “do not commit adultery”, “do not murder.” No, it is written on our hearts, born of the Creator’s own image. God sits on a higher throne, and it doesn’t crumble when we (who are below Him) throw rocks at it.

A few nights ago, I sat and watched the State of the Union address on PBS. I watched it for several reasons. A) I feel like politics has become such a circus that sometimes it is beneficial to hear straight from the horse’s mouth, b) I want my kids to see what a room full of politicians looks like, and c) I feel like it is my duty as an American to bear witness. It doesn’t matter the man or lady at the top–it is a privilege to listen, to be a part of the crowd that gets to chant “U.S.A.!” (Oh, and I also wanted to watch Nancy Pelosi and Mike Pence sit next to each other for an hour and a half.)

I can’t watch things like that without tearing up a little, even if Donald Trump is president. I cry about abortion laws and border walls. I get choked up over stories of World War II rescues and criminal justice reform. It is deep in our bones: we Americans are aware of injustice. But the switch flips both ways, because I am also stirred to anger when our president (in the same fashion as his predecessors) boasts in himself, as if he is some super strength duct tape holding America together. Our president’s speech reminds me of Proverbs 17:27-28,

The one who has knowledge uses words with restraint, and whoever has understanding is even-tempered.
Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues.

It also reminds me of me.
We are all such two-faced people, so very prone to draw sweet and salty water out of the same well. Am I not just as quick as Trump to jump to conclusions or spout anger and opinions? We aren’t to examine the splinter in someone else’s eye without first removing the plank in our own eye (Matthew 7:3-5), yet here I am, a veritable Pinnocchio, wood shavings piling up around my feet. On my most altruistic days I only slightly care about anyone but myself. This is evidenced by nice brick house, the refrigerator holding a bumper crop of leftovers, a subscription to Netflix, my cozy position under a blanket on the couch. The thermostat is set at a comfortable 70 degrees and my bill is being automatically withdrawn from my bank account. My biggest concern is a slight head cold, and I have three brands of decongestant sitting on my kitchen counter. Let’s face it: I don’t really care who is in or out of prison or who is on what side of any so-called wall. It doesn’t affect me until someone picks a fight and I’m bored enough to engage.

Carl Sagan is right to paint us as pitiful wanderers on a pale blue dot in a vast universe. We are so small and finite. He writes,

“In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.”

Sagan recognized it, too, that we need to be saved from ourselves. As insignificant as we might appear from outer space, the problems that come with living on this dot are enormous, big enough to swallow us. Maybe this is because the battle comes from within us, our deep desire for things to be fair as long as it doesn’t interrupt our comfort and Netflix habits. We actually think we can poke our fingers in our ears and pretend sin isn’t devastating the human race. Sagan goes on,

“There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”

He beckons as a scientist, but his words are curiously Christian. Be kind to one another. We need a savior, someone bigger than ourselves, who can save us from ourselves. And here is the force, the overwhelming, crushing power in Christ:
For though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The
weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world.

We who find Christ find forgiveness, which sprouts love. Love is, at its core, self-denial, which bears the fruit of kindness and joy. We can remain even-tempered and we can hold our tongue because God doesn’t change. We can share our bounty, we can sacrifice comfort for the sake of others. We can focus on spiritual growth in our own lives while loving others right where they are. We can fear God, respect men, and tell the truth, because
The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary,
they have divine power to demolish strongholds.

This is how we live in a world as meek, people-loving Christ followers. It’s how we show up day after day in secular workplaces. It’s how we take steps away from gorging ourselves on the things of this world. It’s how moms and dads put down their cell phones and engage with their kids. It is how the addict walks away from addiction. It is why we speak boldly of our hope in Christ.

We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we
take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

Gravity holds us to this pale blue dot. This is His law, as much as His moral code is written on our hearts. His power to set us free from sin is unequivocal. His love for us is bigger than the whole universe. He can speak to us by the language of incomprehensible stars and planets, the lips of an agnostic scientist. We can only doubt His goodness as much as we can comprehend our own smallness spinning around the sun on a little blue ball. But He is writing valentines, little love letters amidst the haze of our self-absorption. It’s evident in the notes he is sneaking us in the carpeted hallways of the local elementary school, in the baby food wisdom of the world. We just have to open our eyes to see it.

Off the mountain.

I gave the boys haircuts tonight. Since we’ve lived in the city now for awhile, and since they go to a pretty mixed school (where being white makes us a minority), they’ve started caring a little more about hair. Every Latino boy with caramel skin has good hair, made perfect for gelling up and slicking over to the side. I’ve only every buzzed the boys’ hair, so I didn’t know exactly what would happen when they decided to grow it out. I can’t say I was surprised that Jubal’s tendency was to grow bangs straight down his forehead. “Just trim the front, Mom!” he begged, but I couldn’t make him see that it wouldn’t work that way, wouldn’t make his hair any thicker or darker. I had to give it to him straight–his hair, like his skin, eyes, heritage–it’s all different than his friends. It isn’t a bad thing! I told him, it’s just different! He eyed me, dubious.

They want so badly to fit in. I remember it all exactly, mostly because I’m only a couple years on this side of not caring. Oh, I pretended I didn’t care for a long time, probably from the time I lived in a group home with ten foster kids. When someone spit in my hair on the bus in kindergarten. When I realized I wouldn’t get the fringed Roper boots in third grade like everyone else.

But I realized as an adult I still did care a lot about identity. Why is it we morph into the people around us so easily? I began looking like everyone else in southwest Colorado–eating organic, unprocessed food, growing my hair, buying “natural” deodorant, giving birth unmedicated, homeschooling. I ordered my life needs off Amazon and pretended I was still a great steward to the earth when I flattened and recycled all the boxes. I cloth-diapered and ran half marathons and tried to be nonchalant about it all. It wasn’t a bad way to live except for the fact that it was costing me my sanity. It took four babies to realize how unrealistic it was to live on the side of a north facing mountain seventeen hours away from my mom and thirty minutes from the nearest grocery store. How insane it was to wake up in the morning to three feet of snow trapping my un-garaged car in the driveway. I had snow tires on my Pilot year round and a bad back from hauling kids up the road in an Ergo carrier while pushing a double stroller.

Still, the whole package of mountain living had an admirable sheen, we weren’t willing to yet trade it in for anything less shiny. My kids could grow up to be skiers and ultra runners or mountain lion trappers and wear flat brimmed hats and have summer jobs getting tan as rafting guides. We lived a dream, snow dumping on our cozy home, staring at the mountains while sipping coffee near the woodstove. The kids might’ve blissfully never known what it was like to share Doritos with a hungry kid at school (too many preservatives and unnatural coloring). We would’ve been fine, and we could’ve convinced ourselves for awhile we were happy. Pride leads you up that sort of mountain where it becomes something to conquer–the idea of making it to the top before you’re satisfied that the people around you know you never took the easy route. Before you know it, you’ve left the valley and forgotten your redeemed self, the one who knew by heart that “whoever loses their life for [the sake of Christ] will find it.” (Matt.10:39)

Identity can be forged, sure, in enjoyment of the mountains, in the unspoiled idea of “living our best life.” If you can keep yourself busy enough, you never really come face to face with how empty you feel. It’s an illusion, a trick as old as the hills. It was Satan’s first words to Eve, the first deception breathed into God’s perfect creation, “Did God really say….?” (Gen.3:1) A serpent planted that seed of doubt in a heart that previously only knew the Lord’s provision. She took the bait–what if God isn’t really good? Why would He keep things from us if He is good? She gambled the only identity she knew, her pure-hearted, unblemished reflection of God’s love–for the lie that if she knew more, she could really and truly be living her best life.

In 2017, southwest Colorado had the highest suicide rate in the state, more than twice the national average. It wasn’t druggies or alcoholics. It was kids and moms and grandpas. Every death in the local newspaper dealt a shocking blow. Why? Everyone in town whispered. But the unspoken questions were louder: How could you be unhappy in a place like this? Joe and I looked at each other, and we knew. If identity points to who we are truly and factually on the inside, then pain will always eventually overflow from inner self to outward expression. No rocky mountain high, season ski pass, or any amount of self-actualization can hide a broken heart. The liar from the garden lures people up the mountain even today, his voice sweet and compelling. The Bible says Satan disguises himself as an angel of light (2 Cor. 11:14) and he is prowling around like a lion, looking for someone to devour (1 Peter 5:8). He has his bachelor’s in psychology and his master’s in business, selling us on the idea that one’s identity can be found in something other than knowing the Creator.

Fitting in can be dangerous; living our “best life” can send us right down the path of self destruction.

These old roots under me have expanded the soil like a big maple tree ripples a sidewalk after decades of growth. I tripped right over it–Joe did too–and we stared down at the ground in front of us. This wasn’t the direction we were supposed to be walking. Something in our past made us remember. That skinny little 4-H boy with the huge glasses. The little girl who was poor and ashamed. Those kids didn’t know it, but their biggest blessing was their disadvantage. It stamped a longing in their souls to be known and loved fully as they were. It protected them for a long time from the love of money and prestige, and it led them back home when they strayed.

We want our kids to have it, too, an identity deep inside pointing them home. A warning system flashing red when they care more about what others say than what God says. We sit and talk about how to grow discomfort in their lives so they might know their Father in heaven, the true Comforter. I’m certain this isn’t popular. Who am I kidding, it sounds absurd. But discipline, the goal of being intentional, isn’t to harm. It is to train to prevent a greater injury. I can’t think of a worse outcome than suicide, which is the ultimate act of despair in masking hopelessness.

God, may they be poor in spirit, so they might recognize the kingdom of heaven. May they hunger and thirst for righteousness, that you might fill them up.