If you’d rather listen than read, you can find this TFG on Spotify or Apple Podcasts

He has told you, human one, what is good and what the Lord requires from you: to do justice, embrace faithful love, and walk humbly with your God.
- Micah 6:8​

(As the fall enters full swing and many people are feeling the pressure to accomplish and achieve, I was reflecting this week on a piece I wrote a few years ago. I’ve revisited it for us today.)

I don't know how to talk about distances. 

And that's a problem, because I'm a distance runner and a coach, with kids who love talking about cross country and track stats. 

When I go out for a run, I think about it in terms of miles. But when it's time to race, the standard distance for high school runners is 5 kilometers. Every track race distance is in meters, but yet every time I golf it's in yards and feet. Sometimes I'll ask the kids to grab something from the kitchen counter. "It's only a few feet to your left," I'll say. But a moment later we're hanging a painting on the wall and, "that left corner needs to go up about 1 centimeter." And don't even get me started about trying to figure out if I'm supposed to talk about liquid in gallons or liters?! AHHHH! 

My ways of measuring things are inconsistent at best. I use a whole lot of different metrics. And I'm regularly finding that this is true of life as a whole. 

A few years ago, it became more and more clear for those of us in church leadership that the dominant metric system was inconsistent. Ministry effectiveness was measured by church attendance, budget size ("butts and bucks") and one-time decisions for Jesus. But the sad reality was that all of these numbers could be trending upward, and yet people were not necessarily looking more like Jesus, experiencing a deeper sense of wholeness with God, or caring for the poor and marginalized in dynamic ways. 

None of those metrics were inherently bad. But they also weren't the measurements that Jesus seemed to emphasize. Jesus seemed to think that the most important metrics for our lives were related to discipleship and compassion. He tells his followers that the goal is to make more disciples, not simply converts (Mt 28:19). Disciples are people who are spending their lives as apprentices of Jesus, growing in both grace and active love. He also says that what will matter is not religious sounding words, but lives that look like care and concern for those in need (Mt. 25:34). 

Here's the thing. Those metrics are much less impressive to measure, because they rely on inward posture as the starting point. 

Of course, this isn't simply about church. We are constantly feeling this pull in our lives, aren't we? What units should we use to measure success? House sizes? Growing our salaries and portfolios? A neat and tidy family that appears very impressive to the world around us? A lot of extra curricular community and religious activities?

When we use the metrics of our dominant culture (or dominant religion), we find that we will be constantly chasing after impressive exteriors, but still never feeling like we are enough. And we will rarely take the time to be formed in the deeper places by God and live out of that depth. We will not value how the inward becoming is every bit as important as our outward actions in God's eyes. 

Jesus' metrics do not correspond with the world's systems. They can be messy, unimpressive, and difficult to measure. What is the state of one's heart? Are we helping people walk toward deep healing? Are we serving one another in humble love? Are we learning to give ourselves away and live more freely and lightly with God? Are justice and compassion flowing from our lives? 

But wait-- even these metrics can feel crushing. What good news that they are founded on this truth: God's grace goes before you, and you are loved dearly, independent of any of those metrics. So when we move toward them, it's not from obligation, but because we are living with Jesus in freedom. 

If you're like me, you may go back and forth between which metrics you focus on even in the course of one day. How very human of you! But let me remind you today that so many of the metrics you are tempted to measure your life with are not from Jesus. Your calling today is simply this: rest in grace and seek to be faithful in each moment, reflecting the love you have already been given. That goal is worth pursuing, and those results are worth measuring. 

Jesus, move me toward what matters to you today. 

Peace,
Keith

If you’d rather listen than read, you can find this TFG on Spotify or Apple Podcasts

So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth. 
-Revelation 3:16 (to the church in Laodicea)​

One of the most famous New Testament images came to my mind again recently. If you’ve been around the church or the Bible for a while, there’s a good chance you’ve seen this passage or heard the phrase “lukewarm faith” a few times. 

My understanding of this changed last year, and it seems relevant today. 

The above verse was written to one of the seven churches in the Book of Revelation by the Apostle John when he was exiled on a Greek island off the coast of Turkey, after he had been traveling through the area for years. It was written to the local church in the city of Laodicea. 

Last May I stood in the middle of the ruins of Laodicea with Bethany. You could feel the desert-like aridness of this plateau in eastern Turkey. We were in a New Testament hotspot: just 6 miles away to the north we could still make out the white mineral deposits of the hot springs of Hierapolis (Colossians 4:13). We had just walked through them an hour ago, marveling at the ancient ruins and the otherworldly blue mineral water that formed terraces of white stone around the pools, still to this day. Cleopatra used to visit the pools to soak in them. The hot mineral springs were said to have healing properties. This location was famous across the ancient world. 


Then I turned to my right and looked east. And less than 10 miles away, I could see the snowy peak of Mount Cadmus. The unexcavated town of Colossae was at the base of that mountain (yep, you guessed it—the Colossians lived here). The Colossians got their water from the cold snowmelt coming off the mountain. 

But Laodicea didn’t. In fact, they didn’t have a water source for miles. But rather than relocating, they built an incredible aqueduct system that piped water to the town. They did this because they were super wealthy, so they had the money to do so. We could still see the 2000-year-old clay pipes, and it was truly extraordinary. Their wealth was so great, in fact, that when they had an earthquake in 60 AD (just a few decades before Revelation was written), they actually rejected funds from Emperor Nero and took care of rebuilding the town themselves, taking pride in how they didn’t need any outside help. 

The challenge, though, is that archaeologists have taken apart a bunch of those pipes. And they are full of buildup of hard minerals. When the water got there, it was pretty gross for drinking. The kind of local water that would make people wish they could buy a $3.50 bottle of Dasani. 

So that’s the setting. I’m standing within view of a hot spring on one side and a mountain stream on the other, just like the Apostle John had. And I’m thinking about him writing this critique to the rich, lukewarm church here in Laodicea.

Common interpretation of the hot or cold passage is almost always about passion: to be lukewarm was to be a Christian who wasn’t “on fire for Christ.” It would be better if you didn’t have any faith at all (cold) than to be lukewarm. So you need to get your passion back! 

That’s putting a completely modern take on a very different ancient image. 

Hierapolis was a place whose hot running water brought healing to sick bodies when they soaked in it. Colossae was a place whose cold running water was refreshing and life-giving to all who drank. And Laodicea was a place that relied on riches and self-sufficiency…. and their water neither healed nor refreshed. Their faith had become like that, too. 

The critique of the church in Laodicea wasn’t that they didn’t have passion. It’s that they weren’t actually helping anyone.  

A faith that doesn’t actually bring goodness to the surrounding community is a faith that is not worth taking in. Going to church week in and week out, without being moved by God to become a source of goodness toward your neighbors is a faith that has lost its purpose. Putting your energy into a set of mental beliefs, if it doesn’t lead you to use your hands to care for your neighbors, will never quench your thirst or make you whole. 

The next verse, in 3:17, is this: ”You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked.”

If our churches use our wealth simply to have a nice spiritual system and be easily self-sufficient, we’re actually not well off at al. We’re living in spiritual poverty. If our Christianity doesn’t lead to helping people, we’re blind and naked. 

If you are concerned about becoming a lukewarm Christian, the answer is not to sing louder in a church service (nothing wrong with that, though). It’s to invite Jesus to help you live in a way that brings healing and life to those around you. The world needs our healing presence, and the world needs our life-giving, energizing love. Both emerge from churches centered on living water, coming from Jesus. Not in word, but in action. 

All around us are images of a (wealthy) Christianity that seems to be very passionate these days, but could hardly be seen as a help to others in their region. In some cases, they are the ones harming their neighbors. That movement is a source of unhealthy, gross water.

If you’re standing in the middle of an arid Hierapolis in your own life today, what might it look like to walk back toward where good water is flowing once again, through acts of love and service? This is not a works-based faith. This is a faith that is so deeply rooted in love for Jesus that it cannot be separated from love for our neighbor, just as Jesus taught us. 

Today, may your faith be hot and cold. May your kindness bring healing to hurting souls and bodies. May your love be a refreshing glimpse into what is still possible in our world. And in your own life, may the calcified places in your soul get chipped off and swept away by the living water of God’s spirit.

Jesus, form our faith so that it truly benefits a hurting and thirsty world. 

Peace,
Keith

​If you’d rather listen than read, you can find this TFG on Spotify or Apple Podcasts

For we are God’s masterpiece.
-Ephesians 2:10

I mentioned a few weeks ago that I’ve been living in the Ten Commandments for while as our church is finishing up a sermon series that explores the Exodus commands through a Jesus-centered lens. I have to admit, Jesus is my jam, and sometimes sitting in the OT for long stretches wears me down a little (sorry if that doesn’t sound holy enough). But these weeks have actually been enlightening, expansive, and challenging. We’re nearly through them all, and this past week was commandment nine, which says, “You shall not give false testimony about your neighbor.” More often, weakly summarized as “don’t lie.” 

We talked about the damage in our society that is done by misrepresenting others (you can listen here). Jesus teaches plenty about that. He also talks about the things deep in our own hearts where this process originates. This heart reality led me down all sorts of paths. When we start thinking false things, they eventually come out of us, whether that’s through our words or through our actions. We can bear false witness in a million ways. 

I came to the conclusion that even holding a grudge is a form of “bearing a false witness” because we are actually telling a false story to ourselves about someone else. We cling to an assumption about someone from the past that may no longer be true, and certainly isn’t the ultimate truth. We have decided that because of one moment, someone is a _______ person and they deserve to be kept in our mental chokehold indefinitely. We bypass the bigger truth about another—that they are loved by God. That they are more than a mistake. That their lives are complicated and imperfect, just like ours. 

We can tell ourselves all sorts of false stories about the people around us that we struggle with. That’s giving false witness. The narratives we have in our heads can get pretty twisted. 

And that’s why I was struck when an insightful friend came up to me after the message and suggested that it can go even one step further.

We can give false testimony about our neighbors to our neighbors through gossip and slander. 
We can give false testimony about our neighbors to ourselves by holding grudges and creating a whole narrative. 
“But can’t we also give false testimony about ourselves to ourselves?” 

We have so many issues with self-condemnation in our world today. So many people believe that they are not worthy of love and dignity. So many people believe they have nothing to offer to our world. And for the first time, I’m seeing that as false testimony, too. We lie to ourselves about ourselves. 

In a lot of Christian circles, we have a fear of thinking of ourselves too highly. That’s absolutely fair. But the alternative is not the constant self-condemnation that I see so often among people who have grown up within Christianity. The alternative is walking with a humble conviction that we are beloved by God and worth all the love that exists in the world, as Jesus has made clear. And who are the ones who struggle the most to see themselves as worthy of love? In my experience, it is disproportionately those with a deeply Christian upbringing. The sorrow that this brings me is immeasurable.

The origin story of humanity in the Bible is not that “you are sinful.” It’s that “you are created in God’s image.” And yes, selfishness tarnishes that family resemblance. But immediately God embarks on a history-long project to restore that unity and ultimately convince people that they are not condemned, and that they are God’s joy to be in relationship with. The Psalmist is flabbergasted by God’s view of humanity. You’ve made them a little lower than the angels, and crowned them with glory and honor, he exclaims in Psalm 8. Rabbi Jesus tells his disciples that he loves them so fiercely he can’t even bear to call them servants any longer. He will now call them friends and brothers. The living God says that. It’s remarkable. 

I’m not convinced we’re accomplishing anything by endlessly telling ourselves and others how sinful we are. We already feel that plenty. But internalizing the message that our struggles are seen, and we are loved anyway through amazing grace and an unbreakable commitment from God? A truth like that changes the course of our lives. And believing that the deepest truth in the world is that you, and I, and all of humanity are beloved? That sort of truth, when we allow ourselves to name it, changes not just how we see ourselves but how we see all of the world.

Where have you been giving false witness about yourself to yourself lately? What would Jesus say the deepest truths about you are? I’m almost sure that for most of you reading this, Jesus would have a more grace-filled view of you than you have of yourselves. Will you trust his testimony? Will you humbly live in that belovedness?

If you work hard to not be a false witness against others, may I gently invite you to apply the same loving practice to yourself today?

Jesus, help me tell the truth about myself in the beautiful ways, too. 

Peace,
Keith

If you’d rather listen than read, you can find this TFG on Spotify or Apple Podcasts
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So the eye can’t say to the hand, “I don’t need you,” or in turn, the head can’t say to the feet, “I don’t need you.”
-1 Corinthians 12:21

A few weeks ago, I saw a movie in the theater with my family. That’s the second time I’ve done that in one year, which must be a record for me (thanks to half-price Tuesdays!). But I always enjoy the experience, being able to be so fully immersed in storytelling and human expression. The movie was a blockbuster with an exciting ending. 

Ever since a friend told me over a decade ago that he intentionally sits in reflection for five minutes in the theater after a movie concludes, I've tried to adopt that practice. It allows me to think about the themes and the art of each film without moving too quickly to verbal processing or whatever is next on my schedule. So when everyone stands up to walk out, I like to just stay put. I’ve started doing this at home, too. My family really loves when I do this (that’s sarcasm).

I began by considering some of the themes of redemption and loss that the movie covered. But almost immediately, my eyes were fixed on the screen again. The end credits were rolling. And they just. Kept. Going. Minute after minute of names. Thousands of people were listed. Each time there was a paragraph break, I was sure that it was over, but another crop of artists, stylists, musicians, costumers, or engineers would scroll up onto the screen again. 

It lasted much more than my standard five minutes. I was mesmerized. 

Everyone knew the names of the headlining movie stars. But even the best actor is just a YouTuber with a cell phone on selfie mode until they get a crew behind them. It takes the population of a city to make a movie!

I was at a potluck picnic on Sunday evening with our interfaith clergy group. It was a simple gathering of people from different cultures and religious faiths coming together to share friendship, food, and stories on a summer evening. And my friend who began the picnic with a blessing expressed thanks “for all the hands that made this food—not just the ones who brought it here, but the many who labored to plant it, pick it, and raise it.” 

And I thought of those scrolling movie credits. 

I am continually surprised by how myopic our perspectives are when we think of interconnection. On a national level, we currently act as though we do not need other countries, and that there is no lasting impact if we destroy relationships with other governments that we’ve worked peacefully with for decades. Yes, I’m speaking of our immature battles with Canada (and Mexico), among others. 

And within our own country, half of our farms are understaffed because we are experiencing a national shortage of immigrant labor since the US has begun vilifying anyone not born in the United States—which has ironically created less work for US-born Americans as well. We are so interconnected, even when we deny it. And this impact happens in so many other ways as well. The moment that we think that we are self-made, independent people who do no need others is the moment that we no longer feel a responsibility to love, support, welcome, and advocate for people outside of our demographic. When the actors forget they need the screenwriters, and the grocery store shoppers forget they need the farmers… well, everyone will find out soon enough how that goes. 

These issues should matter to people of Jesus, for several reasons. Our theology requires admitting that we aren’t independent. Core to our identity is the beauty of living in grace and living in trust with Jesus. The Holy Spirit that Jesus breathes on his disciples is a source of strength and love, and a reminder that we do not walk alone. We need forgiveness, love, and encouragement moment-by-moment to live differently in the world. Jesus promises that he’ll be with us, providing that much-needed support. 

But Jesus also gives us the church—a community of people who are learning how to live as radically “interdependent” people. We learn that we belong to each other and it’s not weakness to need each other. We realize that none of us is intended to walk with God alone (BTW if someone told you once that you are ‘married to Jesus,’ that’s a problematic individualizing of a communal faith… and weird). The Scriptures speak of the church together being the “bride of Christ.” We were always meant to be an endlessly scrolling community of shared contribution and relationship. 

That understanding can then help us look around even more broadly and value the contributions of all people, and all the lives out there around us. We need each other to function in a healthy way. We need each other to keep our humanity. And we need each other to learn what God looks like with skin on that’s different than ours. 

Where have you overlooked the value and contributions of people whose names are rarely listed in the headlines? 
Where have you started believing a story of independence when Jesus is inviting you back into interdependence and gratitude? Where can you appreciate and affirm the many ways that God made humanity to work together and care for one another today? 

Let’s keep believing that another world is possible. 

Jesus, thank you for creating us for community. 

Peace,
Keith

If you’d rather listen than read, you can find this TFG on Spotify or Apple Podcasts

Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.
-Jesus, Matthew 6:4 (he says it two more times in verse 6 and 18)​

We're in a family season full of conversations about AP courses and college preparation as our two sons head into their senior year of high school. I find it obnoxious that taking an advanced placement exam for each class costs a lot of money (I mean, I find spending money as a whole to be irritating already). Then I found out that one of the AP classes that my son is taking won't actually lighten his college course load in the future. And I found myself saying out loud to him, "Why would you do that if you're not going to get any credit for it?"

Sometimes our own words are what we need to hear. So for a few days I've been thinking about getting credit for the things we do, and how incredibly difficult it is to embrace the way of Jesus—a way that often calls us to do just the opposite of that. A way that invites us to do things that get us no credit. 

Today I'm considering what it means to have a vibrant "secret life." I know how that sounds. Most of the time it's used to talk about somebody who has a dark past with a fake identity and a second family on the side that no one knows about or something like that. But I'm looking at the other side of it. I'm wondering if we've lost the ability (or the desire?) to do good things that no one knows about? 

I try not to be one of those people who constantly complain about new technology and cultural realities. And yet, one of the trademarks of this current stage of human history is that everything is public. Underneath GoFundMe campaigns there is a scrolling list: Henry V. gave $25! Instagram stories are full of pictures of someone peacefully sitting in the woods: "Just me and God for a little prayer time! #blessed." Snapchat allows people into every moment of another's day. Facebook gives us the chance to share all the good and exciting things we're up to. And of course, don't forget about the timeless, low-tech temptation to drop comments into our conversations about the good things that we've accomplished lately or how hard we've been working or how we helped someone the other day. 

It's fine that others see or hear about positive things that we do. It can absolutely be an encouragement to them sometimes, and there is purpose in letting people see the way that our faith motivates us to live. But there’s great value in doing good that no one ever learns about, and it shapes our egos profoundly. 

In the book of Matthew, Jesus talks to his disciples about giving to those in need. He specifically says "when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets as the hypocrites do...." 
Interestingly, the charity boxes in the temple were shaped and marked like trumpets and placed in very visible locations, so that everyone would notice when someone gave. So it's no mystery that Jesus is referencing this temple offering and reminding his disciples that the point of generosity—the point of goodness—is the beauty of the action itself, not the praise or admiration one receives for the action. 

Jesus uses this refrain three times in the Sermon on the Mount: "Then your Father in heaven will see what you've done in secret and reward you." He says it regarding financial generosity, prayer, and fasting (ie, spiritual practices). Each time he suggests that we intentionally have a secret element to how we live out our discipleship, so that there are things that only God knows. And when that happens, it allows us to receive something beautiful and unique from God, that we simply can't get elsewhere. 

Now, I'm not a big fan of reward motivation. The way of Jesus seems to me to be such a desirable way to live because it is essentially good, with no need of extra incentives. But Jesus does remind us that as we live out the way of love, it will somehow come back to us mysteriously from God. And maybe we need that incentive for this one, because it's just so doggone hard these days to not seek credit for all of our work. 

Are there areas today where you can develop your secret life a bit more? Are there opportunities for generosity that you can do that no one will ever know about? Maybe it's offering kindness to a stranger. Maybe it's going on a prayer walk without telling anyone that you did something so spiritually impressive today. Maybe it's quietly helping with something at neighbor's house (you should get permission though or you might get arrested) or cleaning up trash at a park... And see how it feels to do all of it just because it's the right and beautiful thing to do, with no one to see it but God. See what happens when you trust Jesus to fill those dopamine needs. And watch how God shapes you in the process. 

You may just find that there's freedom in it, and that there's an expanding world under the surface of your life that Jesus wants to work with, that no one ever sees. You might just find yourself experiencing God in a whole new way. And your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. 

Lord, invite me into secret moments with you today that no one else knows about. 

Peace,
Keith