There is No One Like You (Adv, Days 23/24; HelloGoodBye 09/10) [REPOST]
“I want men everywhere to lift up holy hands in prayer.”
–I Timothy 2.8, NIV
There are these days, when it is so difficult to find words that wrap around concepts, that, no matter how concrete in one’s mind, find it impossible to find substance in the barrier we use to communicate called language. In those moments, it seems that experience does precede existence and existentialism, for a moment, seems fun (and fun is clearly the wrong word, but for to-day, for this beautiful-day-before-Advent, will have to do).
Mr. Crowder crowed through the speakers “There is nooooo-one like You…” and in the seconds that followed slivers of eternity slipped through the wall of sound. The elders bowed, the beasts bellowed and the saints sang in holy adoration “Holy, Holy, Holy…”
Hope leaks into life in the most unexpected ways, ways that we’d never ask for, but cannot do without. We’d never ask for them because they hurt oh-so-badly; we cannot do without them because they are the pearls of great price, treasures to be cherished.
—
I’ve been more intentional about writing lately (and the reason for that is coming…). The past two-and-a-half years have been epic, at the very least. The genesis of the journey was in March of O-Six, high-lighted by a late-night {spiritual} beat-down in July {thank you, Mark Driscoll}, and punctuated with new life that October. Two months later, on a frigid Friday in December, Pittsburgh was finally in view. Six apartments, three cities, and 80,000 miles on the Interstate later I landed just where I jumped from. I didn’t expect it, honestly, to be back here so soon, if ever…
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the pursuit of proverbs 31.30 (+ one who loves distance driving and semi-colons)
It burns in my soul like few other things. And it has for as long as I can remember. In kindergarten, while all the other boys were afraid of cooties, I was tackling girls on the playground so I could kiss them despite the fact that they did not, for one second, care for that sort of thing. And now, going on 23-years, I’ve been awkwardly and unsuccessfully (so far) chasing her down.
My Grandfather was the Grandson of an Austrian immigrant who came to Western Pennsylvania by himself at 19 years of age just before the turn of the 20th Century. Francis Karl Schrott was born December 1, 1928, fought in Korea and retired from the struggling U.S. Steel industry just before its out and out collapse in the mid-80s. He bought his first house in 1959 for $15,000 and lives there to this very day. His story is nothing out of the ordinary for middle-twentieth-century life in post-War America — substitute his name with any other and not much changes.
In ‘52 and ‘53, he came home from Korea, met Anna Ramach (a Czechoslovakian immigrant who emigrated through Ellis Island with her family as a child) and married her. The engagement ring (with all five diamonds still in tact) that he gave her nearly sixty years ago is pictured above and to the left; one of their few remaining wedding day photos to the right. My Father was born in February of ‘55 and when my Grandmother became pregnant with her would-be second child (against doctor’s recommendations), she died in ‘57.
Something was certainly started in those tumultuous fifties for our family — a legacy, undefined, was slowly emerging. My Grandfather eventually re-married and my Father’s relationship with his step-mother was less than warm. He was a trouble-maker and drug-dealer, engaging in the very activities that would lead him to meet my mom. In the fall of the bi-centennial, he gave my Mother the very same ring that Francis gave Anna twenty-some years earlier. Like the glass slipper, it fit perfectly and didn’t even need the standard re-sizing. They were married in September of ‘77.
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bright as yellow
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Time has had its way with me, my broken, tired hands can’t build a thing…
Coffee’s a murdering bitch, you know? It started with the arrhythmias, sometime in Oh-Three. They were added frustration on top of everything else: photo-synthesis, the commute, the roommate. Only she was my safe haven. Nothing more.
The idol of my days has won, the empty I have fed has made me numb…
It got worse sometime in the spring. A resting heart-rate under fifty is beautiful but not, when because, the ventricular muscle is shutting itself off every ten seconds. Thirty beats, maybe. Death was imminent one of these nights. You knew it. Falling asleep was hard and staying there even worse. Three hours a night was a good sleep. The contractions knifed from pectoral to shoulder-blade. Shallow breaths and bad dreams. Would I see her one more time before I was snuffed out and cast to Hades?
She was no Saviour — no matter how much you wanted her to be.
Save the nights your hollow dreams revealed the sweet release of death…
A scant twenty hours ago this idol was threatened. Despair sweeps in, rustling restlessness from its slumber while six-dollar nicotine bathes your grey lungs at eighty-five-miles-per-hour. The interstate is clear and the wash of sleep still seems so far away. To-morrow is ruined. Who cares about to-morow – what about to-night? Will it ever expire?
In the emptiness of broken flesh, the mercy of the thorns…
Along the river. Finally. This is where you wanted to be from the get-go. It only took ninety minutes of frantic free-way driving to find a place only a mile from home, if that. One more smoke while you let Him have it. Trust is your flaw; at least with this man-made god. It becomes so weak that the vapid space in your chest now desires to cease its rhythmic ticking. The near fatal flaw of six years ago would be a welcome addition right about now. The cherry draws near and you’re out of words. Soon there will be peace and welcome sleep.
death and titans/death and taxes (an ode to zwan and crassness)
Everything just feels like rain…
There are these days, the cold and lonely April days (this reminds me of oh-seven) when a cigarette would be really nice. Had I not been so close to one hundred days, I surely would have smoked it. Maybe even a pack; all at once. Or one after the other. Seven minutes a piece. Done in one hundred and forty minutes.
That’s a lot of smoking. I coffee’d instead. (Prince, Bucks, Coffee Co – the girl there was cute. She liked my Bible.)
Lars loves Schrott crassness; it is no secret that none of us have tact.
There are days when you just wanna say it. They’re that shitty. But it’s always been true that when things go low, redemption is at hand and Christ is made sweet(er) than before. It is difficult to see though the fog that is now and it becomes suffocating. Time slows its high paced rhythm and seconds drag like months.
Tick. Tock. Tick…
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4.14.2009 (Reflections on Kalas and Easter) [a myspace import]
Facebook is too public for private matters. Everyone’s there. Even those who pay me. They should not be privy to the private. (Did I just say myspace is less public? Truth. No one’s here. That’s why).
Mr Kalas passed yesterday (I prefer not to euphemize, but, to-day, I will). He was the voice that was larger than baseball itself; at least for the Philadelphia area. Even I, a Philly-Sports hater and diehard fan of all things Pittsburgh loved the voice of Summer. I loved him even more than our own dear Fratare, and he was special in my 10, 11 and 12 year old heart (think: Bonds and Bobby-Bo). Yet even when someone that special leaves us, the world does not stop its spin, the game goes on, and though we grieve, their vapor has passed. The world and yes, even the game, stops for no one. What a humbling thought this is. We are only specks in the theatre of life; life that has stretched countless millennia. Our span is nothing.
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There is No One Like You (Adv, Days 23/24; HelloGoodBye 08/09)
“I want men everywhere to lift up holy hands in prayer.”
–I Timothy 2.8, NIV
There are these days, when it is so difficult to find words that wrap around concepts, that, no matter how concrete in one’s mind, find it impossible to find substance in the barrier we use to communicate called language. In those moments, it seems that experience does precede existence and existentialism, for a moment, seems fun (and fun is clearly the wrong word, but for to-day, for this beautiful-day-before-Advent, will have to do).
Mr. Crowder crowed through the speakers “There is nooooo-one like You…” and in the seconds that followed slivers of eternity slipped through the wall of sound. The elders bowed, the beasts bellowed and the saints sang in holy adoration “Holy, Holy, Holy…”
(more…)
praise christ for pudendal neuralgia (advent, day 9)
The world just screams and falls apart
–Jeff Magnum, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, 1998
Thank you God for food. I love to gorge myself on it.
Thank you God for friends. I love to slander them behind their backs.
Thank you God for family. I love to use them for too many things to count.
Thank you God for my bed. I love to sleep when there are more productive things to be done.
Thank you God for money. Can’t forget money. I love money. What would I do without money? I couldn’t buy shit I don’t need without money.
So many generic Thank Yous we offer up. And, while these are not horrible things to be thankful for, though perhaps our reasons for loving them so much are. Rather, these are wonderful things to be thankful for (well except for maybe an abundance of money – unless we are giving it away – but we’re probably not because if we were really thankful for it, it would be our top priority to see others enjoy the very same blessings we have been gifted), but there seems to be a disconnect in our weak minds. When do we praise Christ for the miserable things in life? After all, these are the things that will draw us near him. These are the truly valuable things — the priceless things.
When disaster strikes, the cry of “Where was God?!” self-righteously rings out among the masses – as if we feel we have some hold on how God should behave. Nevermind the countless circumstances that have gone our way as we smugly think to ourselves that we somehow had something to do with it (when, in most/all cases, we did not). We will take all the credit when things go our way and we will defame the name of the One who spoke us into being when major (or even minor) tragedy strikes. The injustices we strike on our fellow man on a daily basis are ignored as insignificant, at least until we are the one who we feel has been treated unjustly.
Let us plead for the mercy to praise the One from whom all blessings flow, for, in reality, our blessings are most often the very things we count as our miseries, not the other way around.
eleven months, one day and a thorn in the flesh (volume one)
To-day, we marvel at the wonder of the overcast day. Blankets of grey clouds fill the sky and through them rains down soft, beautiful, and perfect light. Thank you dear Sun for hiding your face and until Spring, let it remain anathema.
To-day, we also marvel at the wonder of the India Blend at Prince St Cafe, the barely 2 year old coffee shop on the the corner of Prince and King Streets, across from the Opera House and parallel to the Market House. While we’ve definitely had better coffee in the past (as long ago as 2004 that made its way from State College to Philadelphia while inducing sleepless nights and heart arrhythmias) it is the best the small (but strong) city has to offer. When India is on tap, you know you are Home.
Home is a funny thing (and by the way, I/we think I/we use the word funny all too glibly, but I/we will continue to do so until reprimanded by someone of higher authority). Just under two years ago, Pittsburgh was about to become our home and in the early part of this year, Richmond, Virginia was supposedly the very same. Pittsburgh tried to spit us out with its uncommonly warm March and subsequently snowy April (Who wants to watch a Pirates game in sub-30 temps? And to be honest, who wants to watch a Pirates game all?), but by Steelers’ Season, the city had etched itself on our hearts and it’s six-month winter (Halloween through Tax Day) was shortly seen as endearing rather than brutal; the drunk Uncle you can’t help but hug, even as he cusses you out and spills beer and cigarette ash on you. Richmond posited a different set of problems – primarily a lack of consistent income and a rare and diffcult to treat neuralgia – home was a word it never wanted to attach to us; not to mention the coffee was far below mediocre.
And now, almost two years to the day (12.8.06) and after thousands of miles on the Eisenhower Interstate System we are Home, sitting gently, with jittery-coffee-hands, in the very same coffee shop where the decision to leave was made.
So we grew up in cultural-Christianity, where church was somewhere you went, not something you were. Where information preceded belief and ultimately behaviour. Where alcohol and tobacco were not used in gentle moderation not because the Bible said so, but because the church covenant deemed them immoralities that would damn you to The Pit. Where dresses were demanded of the women and missing mid-week service for a Little League game was the unpardonable sin. Where community was a thing based on likeness, not diversity united by Christ and everyone kept up their facade because, apparently, Sanctification, like Justification was once and done; cracks were not permitted here because we’re no longer broken people. And that’s why we don’t listen to rock devil music, smoke, drink or cuss and that’s what gets us to Heaven, of course, if the Rapture doesn’t happen first.
Fear of eternal Hell cannot produce true saints, and we lived in that misguided preconception up until age twenty-six. Jesus was our get-out-of-Hell-free-card and we used him for what he could give us, rather than love him for who he was. This smacks of as much idolatry as the false gospels that have other names attached to them (ie: prosperity) for it forces us to love things rather than Christ and use him to get to our very own ends. Living in the blood-soaked atonement changes us and we will never be the same.
We had seven hundred dollars in our pocket and nothing more. Rent was due on 95 South 22nd Street in just four weeks and that was more than half of our available funds. Saving one dollar on Brillo Pads at Giant Eagle was something to be jazzed about; so was keeping the gas bill under eighty and electric under forty. Internet was free if the wind blew just right, especially at night. There was no Farmer’s Market or coffee-shop of our liking but this was the price to pay to flip a city on its head we arrogantly and naively thought. We thought this was our purpose here, but time revealed that it was only Training for Utopia.
Humility was Session One and its Lecture is far from over.
“In Him, we live and move and have our being” says the great Apostle. The Body, to function properly, needs to function with the thickness of blood. Anemia will not do. Thick authenticity comes only with superior sacrifice. Our propensity to go wide but not deep shelters us from the penetrating cuts that will bind us to-gether more tightly; that will weave into us the spirit of Shalom and healing. When we go brother-to-brother and sister-to-sister emptying our souls to and for them in prayer, the blanket is woven with chains. When people matter more than possessions or power the Body scabs its wounds and another step toward Shalom has been taken.
Seven days short of two years later and we’re only crawling.
my eyes are small but they have seen the beauty of enormous things
Art & Article by David Schrott
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O, Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of Death? Thanks be to Christ Jesus our Lord.
–Rom 7.24, 25
But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; … always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh.
…So do not lose heart, while the outer self is wasting away, the inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light, momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.
–2 Cor 4.7-9, 11, 12, 16, 17
So, here I sit, in the fifth apartment I’ve lived in in the past 20 months, where Spruce meets Pine in the West End of Lancaster City, skipping church (and the coffee shop) because I simply don’t feel physically up to it (this weekend has been rather difficult). If, a year ago, I thought the early part of 2007 was a tough year, it was only preparation (mere child’s play, perhaps) for 2008. I frequently am left second-guessing the decisions I made at the end of last year and “what if…” pops up daily in my confused thought process. But when grounded with the reality of the Truth revealed to me in the Scriptures, and when confronted with that Truth by friends, I realize such sentiments are only selfish pursuits aimed at the questioning of God’s providence and sovereignty — why me? why now? Instead of such questions, I think, perhaps, the best posture to assume would be that of Job: Naked I came from my mother’s womb and naked I shall return. The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away — Blessed be the name of the Lord (Job 1.21). In fact, the better question, in the midst of trying times, should be “Why not me? Why not now? If those of us who claim Christ are to magnify Him in all things, should we not accept our present condition, whatever it may be, to make His name more glorious? If there are those who will not magnify Him in times of great duress (and curse Him instead, or ask the natural, but near ridiculous, question “where was God”?), will not we, his faithful people, be willing to make his name great in our similarly difficult scenarios?
As each year passes, the more I realize that life is brutal and that the reality of the curse remains evident. This reality could so easily lead us into those dark nights of despair where everything is hopeless and where we are lead to believe that nothing will ever get better or change. And they might not. At least in this life (Psalm 30.4-5). But, as I learn, year by year and day by day, there is much to hope for. We are granted all that we need in this life which leads us into godliness; participation in the Divine Nature (2 Peter 1). Daily, thru the difficulties and trials this present, physical age brings upon us, we are made more like Him. The change we oh-so-long-for is happening and is coming. In this life and in the next. We can second guess our decisions and lament this present age, but the power to see real transformation and real change is at hand, and while we tarry for the night, our joy will come in the morning (Ps. 30.5). Paul pleads with us to see thru this lens; it is our only hope of remaining faithful when life collapses on us. When we hold onto His promises, the bleakness of this existence is worth pushing through and on til the end. Creation groans. Restoration will come.
Expectations will remain unmet. This is a reality we have to accept and not become disappointed and angry with God when the reality of this hits. We need to see this as an opportunity to draw near to Him and let him change us in our disappointment — which often reveals to us that we’ve let good things become ultimate things [idolatry]. When I left Pittsburgh for Richmond on Saturday January 5th of this year, there was a lot that I expected to happen. Some did and some did not. Other difficulties seemingly came out of nowhere, and because of the many disappointments I faced while there (and am still dealing with – most of you know of my ongoing medical confusions that I frequently blame on happening only because of my time in Virginia), I fall into regret and into lament. But, as reminded by one of my closest friends the other night, there was purpose in it. Had I not ventured into the Confederate Capital, I would not have had the privilege of meeting three of the godliest Christian men I know (and attended the Vintage21 Men’s Conf, which I can’t describe with words how valuable it was). I learned so much from them in my brief time there that it is near impossible to say that it was a mistake to go (though I often do).
We undervalue the importance of Community (and in that Accountability and Confession). We cannot continue to be Lone Christian Rangers. It will not work. And it was not meant to be that way (Acts 4.32-37, among others). This may have been the greatest lesson that I learned in Pgh and Rva. After visiting and/or attending at least 13 churches in just under two years, I’ve come to learn that it is impeccably foolish of us to think we can go on without community, fellowship and accountability (some of the very factors that ignited the early church and its exponential growth upon growth). We’ve become so individualistic in the West that we think we’re exempt from the commands in Hebrews and elsewhere and that if we show up on Sunday, slip out the backdoor and never come together the rest of the week that this is somehow okay. I think to some degree I am speaking more of Lancaster here than of Pgh and Rva, because these were the great and grand lessons I learned during my time away, and to come back and realize what a gap there was/is here is to some degree frightening. It is all well and fine to come together and spend time hanging out with each other — but are we ready, willing and able to get beyond surface conversations and interactions with each other? Are we serving each other (the local body) and are we serving others (our community) with the hopes of reaching them too with the gospel? I hope and pray that we can begin to foster more and more of this here and throughout our (small) but great city! Doing life deep together builds strength, encouragement and transformation not otherwise known. We absolutely must get beyond keeping each other at arm’s length. The body of Christ cannot fulfill its mission in such a way.
I’ll end with this:
And I heard a loud voice from the Throne saying “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with men, He will dwell with them and they will be His people…and death shall be no more; neither shall there be any more mourning, nor crying, nor pain, for the former things have passed away”…And He said, “write these things down, for these words are faithful and true.”
–Rev 21.3-5
everything was designed for my losing (4) {kind of; a recycled post from october 2007}
10.17.2007; 14th and E. Carson, Pgh, Pa (if i wasn’t a calvinist, i’d hate women)
even among your heart’s great durress, you want to scream, shout and dance (huh?!) in your joy. this all-consuming joy that only shows its face in those dark hours. it’s those days when you are brought so low that there is only one to be reached out to, and in that great distress, that horrible despair, even, is the one who ordained that misery – those weaknesses – to fight for perfect glory. and in that is the great comfort.
five months ago in this very coffee shop, you scribbled down those words about all things being made new – from Death comes Life, right? right. and in these tragedies (or so we see them) lie our daily-mini-deaths. and borne out of those deaths are new mini-lives. and in the redemption from that death, to this life – what joy!
in deepest despair one cries out – and in that cry, there is sustinance – that greatest joy.
what foolishness: to look to the grandest times of sorrow + suffering with the strongest sentiment of nostalgia + yearning. don’t you taste redemption? it is near. and in fact, it is here. suffer again; there is no fear.
death begets life. sorrow begets only the purest of all joys.
and here you are, young + naieve. what grand tragedy have you endured? you are a fool to write such ugly words. you cannot fathom the heart-break of the most awful tragedies. how can you so boldly proclaim that you yearn for them? in those most tragic of kingdoms that you have found yourself (though they know nothing of the depths of some – or most, for that matter!) always sustained by the power borne of such weaknesses.
if you must boast and delight in anything, delight in weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions and difficulties. when you are weak, then you are strong.
the best way to spend time on the PATurnPike
Portable Bible-study with Mark Driscoll in the back seat of a VW Jetta:
everything was designed for my losing (3) {on the misfortunes of life}
I am often left thinking/wishing that I could go back in time, just a few months, just to December, and make a few little changes. Maybe I’d re-read the email I’d sent out to all of my friends in early November which declared Pittsburgh to be the center of the Universe and that everyone I knew should move there and that I’d never leave. Or maybe I’d take a hint that after a few different sublets fell thru in Richmond that maybe I shouldn’t just up and leave – at least not yet. But no, I was persistent. I was gonna fight for this one, no matter what the cost and January 7th was the cut-off date.
That hasty decision still haunts me. That hasty decision still brings tears.
If I’m being honest, if I could take it all back, I would. I never would have moved, despite all the riches that moving there provided. If not moving would have spared my this physical and psychological pain, I’d take it back without thinking. I lay here facing mounting medical bills and am generally in pain all of the time. It’s almost impossible not to think about. It’s most-of-the-time overwhelming and the first question that comes to mind is “why”?
Why did I have to meet So and So and move to Richmond?
Why didn’t I see a doctor sooner?
Why can’t life return to normal, you know, like it was in the fall, when everything finally smoothed out?
Everything was designed for my losing. Even my comfort.
A few weeks ago, two of my dearest friends in the world were visiting from Illinois. The morning before they left we had coffee at Prince Street and talked about the “problem” of pain. Why does pain, in many cases, point one to Christ and in others, drive some from him? Why am I given the grace to see the joy in this misery, when I’ve seen others choose against that joy and rail against God? A few nights later, in Pittsburgh, I met a girl named Charis (Greek meaning Grace) who’d recently come to the States to have hip replacement surgery. She is younger than me. Not only had she just had a hip replaced, but she’d previously had two organ transplants and just by looking at her it was obvious she was ill. I don’t know all of the details of her situation, but she is presumably in more difficult circumstances than I, but there she was, playing Dutch Blitz with the girls from her Bible study. Smiling.
Jesus moves on us to change us. He really will show us that everything was designed for our losing. My comfort’s been ripped out from under me and in nearly constant misery, I have to fight for joy. I have to lean on the grace of God to show that my joy is in Him and not in my comfort or any other temporal thing; this is hard and usually not evident from my exterior behavior. And, to be honest, I hate the reality of this. Why can’t it be different? But that’s the wrong question. If, as part of its mission, the church is to serve, and if I am part of the church, it is most certainly my job to serve, and if, in this pain, I develop perseverance and hope and joy, then down the road, it is my job to help someone else find those very things in the midst of pain and suffering as well.
The better, real question is: Why NOT me?
everything was designed for my losing (2)
It’s funny, not ha-ha funny, but ironic funny that the very thing I’d meant to address last night was not really the thing that I ended up addressing. Somehow, I ended up walking down that “god-shaped-hole” argument (which I won’t deny as valid, but that most certainly was not the direction I intended to head). I suppose when making the argument that materialism promises functional saviors you end up toeing that line.
Bygones.
‘ “All things are lawful for me,” but I will not be enslaved by anything.’
- I Cor. 6.12, ESV
Despite the fact that Paul here is addressing sexual immorality, the lesson he is teaching can be provided and applied for a larger context. Nothing material (or even immaterial in this world) will enslave us if we are to lose ourselves for Christ and the Gospel. In the freedom of the Gospel, we are given responsibility to use and enjoy the blessings of God while at the same time not allowing ourselves to become slaves to them. This sounds right and good, and it is, but as with all-things-sanctifying, application becomes the difficult part.
Previously, I talked about the fictional-messiahs that we create to be our fictional-saviors from our fictional-hell (oh, there’s a fun topic — soon to be addressed, by the way). Fictional-messiahs present themselves in all forms and in the end, they are nothing more than idols that enslave us. They enslave us because they promise salvation from whatever fictional-hell we’ve deemed ourselves needing salvation from.
What is it that you cannot, will not, and must not live without?
You’ve just named your fictional-messiah.
Let’s be honest. Well, how about I’ll be honest? I’ll be twenty-eight in just under two months and for as long as I can remember there’s nothing I’ve wanted more than to find a girl, get married and settle down (and as I inch towards thirty, it seems as though the pressure to find those things is ever-increasing). I’m looking for salvation in a relationship and a career. Not only will those two things not save me, they make terrible gods (messiahs). One will fail me, sin against me, hurt me, etc and etc (and vice versa); the other will ultimately end when my physical or mental capabilities are no longer what they once were. Not only will both leave me utterly frustrated and disappointed at times; they will also at some future point cease to exist. Where is my salvation then? What will I cling to when the spouse dies or when the career ends or when the house or apartment is too much for me to keep up with? Who will save me then? Who will save me when my messiah has failed me? (Do I/we not see the foolishness in this?).
Everything was designed for my losing.
I love cigarettes, coffee and chocolate. On many days I am enslaved by the latter two, and on others by the former-first. Last night, I was thoroughly restless and in that state between semi-consciousness and deep sleep, I had this terrifying dream that I was diagnosed with lung-cancer despite the fact that I almost never smoke anymore. That put to rest my desire to smoke from this point forward, but on that day when I am bored, and nicotine kisses my toes, will I abuse my freedom (and more-likely my health) or will I realize that they are just one more thing that are designed for my losing? (Much of the same can be said for coffee and chocolate abusing my health and my wallet and this begs the question: Am I a good steward; a faithful servant, or have I enslaved myself to something else, something other than the Authentic Messiah who offers life (and salvation) to the full).
Everything was designed for my losing. Will I lose it?
Ask yourself the same.
everything was designed for my losing
Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.
- Matthew 10.39, ESV
Just under a month ago I was driving to a photoshoot in Pittsburgh; near where the Blue and Green Belts meet just north of the Allegheny River and just west of my old neighborhood, Lawrenceville, when one of those subtly-almost-profound moments (almost) happened. The shoot was in Oakmont, the tiny suburb that hosted last year’s U.S. Open where twenty-seven-year-old Pittsburgh-Mayor Luke Ravenstahl made semi-national news by sneaking into the country club wearing an un-authorized American Express Polo-shirt to get Tiger Woods’ autograph. It was a typical almost-spring-day in Western Pennsylvania: cold, foggy, overcast and rainy and as I made my way along Allegheny River Boulevard while these lyrics (“everything was designed for my losing, i am the loser, i am a loser…”) nestled out of my crackly speakers (or head-unit) the above Scripture began to make a little sense.
In our sin-saturated physical (and temporary) domain the material presents itself as our daily and functional savior. Every new savior we acquire leaves us hanging and as the excitement of the new wears off the need for a new salvation appears in the next material object that we’ve deemed will save us; a functional and fictional messiah. Jesus in his claim of authentic-Messiahship tells us that we must lose everything and be willing to lose everything, for his sake and the Gospel (Mark 8.35). Everything was designed for my (and your) losing. Our Creator, in His sovereignty, has placed before us the material world and in that we can choose to be rescued by a material-messiah or an authentic one.
Everything was designed for my losing.
The things we encounter on a daily basis seem like such a huge deal. Do you ever notice how the smallest things make the youngest children cry for seemingly no good reason? Much can be made from this illustration as we too, even as adults make much of nothing. And as C.S. Lewis famously said “We are far too easily pleased”.
This reality was made even a little more clear for me in the past few weeks. Desires I so longingly want to see fulfilled felt compromised a few days before my doctor’s visit last week. Maybe this was designed for my losing, but was I willing to lose it? And in the potential possibility of losing it, the bigger question emerges – “Will I remain faithful” or will I “Curse God (and die)” as Job’s wife so lovingly encouraged him to do.
Daily, the physical realm preaches to us that it can offer us salvation. Time and time again salvation comes and goes and the next iPod (No matter how much those Apple freaks love Steve Jobs, he, by no means, is any messiah) or the next relationship or the next job will really save us. Functional (fictional) Messiahs are all around, but will we come to the realization that everything really is designed for our losing? Jesus told us this must be so – when will we take him at his word?
Only then can we sing with joy “i am the loser, i am a loser” (oh, the irony).
