Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.
-Isaiah 60:3

Hey friends. Happy New Year! I’m glad to be back to your inbox, and I hope the beautiful/exhausting/overwhelming/sacred holiday season held moments of real value for you. But now Jesus has been born. And once again we have to figure out what on earth we’re going to do with him.

On the church calendar, this past Tuesday was a day called “Epiphany.” It’s always on January 6th, and it is the day that commemorates the Magi coming from the east and recognizing Jesus as king. Magi were scholars who read the stars and advised their foreign kings. They were the first Gentiles (non-Jews) to experience the revelation of God in Jesus, and the first to respond faithfully to it. For most of us, they are our spiritual ancestors: the first outsiders to find the hope that God was bringing into the world through Jesus.

It’s not only about the Magi seeking, though. God was the one who revealed the star, who brought the curiosity, and who led them to Jesus. In many ways, Epiphany is the moment that God says, “This is who I really am, and I am for everyone in the world, not just a select few.”

For the Magi, encountering Jesus the King was the culminating moment of a major journey. It involved asking questions, reflecting, getting out of their comfort zone, and going on a long and unnerving trek across many lands. There was a leaving behind of comfort and autonomy, and entering a land that they were unfamiliar with, to see a child king that would change their very understanding of power and reality. You can bet that if they made a journey like that, they walked away changed forever. In fact, we can see the spiritual double meaning in Matthew 2:12: “They returned to their country by another way.” It wasn’t just that they were warned to avoid Herod. It was that after encountering Jesus, they could never return the same.

I find it amazing that the name of this holiday so deeply embodies our own journey as well. An epiphany, in common language, is a moment when all sorts of clues finally come together and we get an “aha” moment. We realize something, and it usually changes us. And while it often seems like it’s only a moment, it’s actually the culmination of a long, hard-won journey. It requires a peeling back of layers within ourselves, or looking at something in a new light, or asking difficult questions and wrestling with the implications.

You arrive at an epiphany. You release wrong assumptions and you put lots of things together, and you end up in a new place thinking, “Well, that’s what this whole thing has been about all along.”

That’s what it takes in our own lives (again and again) to experience the epiphany of Jesus, too. I’m finding that in the US right now, it’s often a particularly challenging journey—fraught with slow, hard nights and deep wrestling. To seek out Jesus as true king requires a willingness to move into some discomfort in order to leave some things behind, even without all the answers. We walk like the Magi, who left their familiar lands, drawn by God, even though they weren’t sure what they would find.

Pastor and author Brian Zahnd points out that some of the things that Epiphany calls us to leave behind are things that keep us comfortable and close to power. Lies that keep others beneath us. Lies about God and his kingdom that are particularly hard to let go:

“What are these lies? I can’t tell you. You love them too much. You have to see these lies as lies for yourself. But I can tell you what will happen when you see the lies… 
When you see the lies, you’ll no longer be at home in Babylon.”

That’s epiphany. I know I have a long way to go in leaving things behind and discovering the Epiphany of Jesus. But I do know, without a doubt, that I am no longer at home in Babylon. Most days I feel like a stranger in this country I was born in, not understanding how we can treat people with arrogance and hatred and cruelty and then talk like Jesus is on our side. What a lie. I need the humble king to be my light.

Thankfully, even wrong beliefs about God’s very character are things that we can let go of when the Epiphany of Jesus is revealed to us. When we finally realize that Jesus is exactly what God is like, that Jesus has always been what God is like, and that Jesus is what God will always be like—we arrive at a different sort of peace and begin a different sort of journey.

The epiphany of Jesus will always bring us toward genuine worship, deeper faith, more robust hope, and a consistent ethic of love. It’s not about knowledge or certainty. It’s the hope that God has come and God looks like Jesus, and God has come to bring good news to all—now and forever. That realization may indeed be the culmination of a great journey. But it’ll just be the beginning of an even greater one.

Jesus, bring us to new clarity as we follow you.

Peace,
Keith 

"If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty’s hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up."
-Daniel 3:17-18

So many conversations around faith seem to involve confidence that God will act in our situations in a certain way. 

But what if a mark of genuine faith is that we don't actually need to know what God will do? Or even more radically, what if it doesn't require God to do anything at all? Stay with me here. 

This weekend I taught on one of the most inspiring stories in the Old Testament from Daniel 3, and I'm still stuck on it. One phrase continues to profoundly impact me. It's the final statement that the three Hebrew men tell the death-dealing Babylonian king. Even though he's threatening to burn them to death for defying him, they reiterate that they won't bow to his unholy mixture of nationalized religion and power. 

And they say something along these lines: 
We certainly believe it's possible that God may deliver us from this. But even if he doesn't, we're still not changing how we live and how we believe. Our story is more beautiful than yours, and it always will be. 

That's my paraphrase, of course, but I think it's the spirit behind their statement.

"Even if he doesn't" is a life-transforming phrase. 
For me, it paints an understanding of following God as a way of life, not simply a list of beliefs. It suggests that God may or may not work the way we think. But it trusts one thing: regardless of exactly how we see the supernatural playing out, a life lived according to the character of God is worth living, no matter what.

I can't help but share again this story from The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. In the book The Silver Chair, the Green Witch has kidnapped a prince and plans to invade Narnia. A few children and a marsh-wiggle named Puddleglum go down to Underland to free him. But during the encounter, she seeks to enchant them all as well, trying to get them to doubt that Narnia, the sun, and even Aslan really exist. It's at this point that Puddleglum offers the witch a speech that deserves a place among the great monologues of literature: 

“All you’ve been saying is quite right, I shouldn’t wonder. I’m a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won’t deny any of what you said. But there’s one thing more to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play-world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland."

Puddleglum is ready to live like a Narnian, even if Narnia doesn't exist. Woof! 

There's a lot these days that can cause me to wonder about how God works. I see a lot of pain. And selfishness and rage and greed are on display so prominently that there are pieces of me that are tempted to give up and stop caring. In fact (yes pastors have these thoughts too), sometimes I wonder if this whole Kingdom-of-God that Jesus talks about is even real. 

But.

I cannot shake that this way of life that I've learned from Jesus, who has taught me to forgive, to listen to others, to walk more gently, to hold my money loosely, to release my need to control others, to care about justice--I cannot shake that this world that Jesus painted "could lick the real world hollow," to quote our marsh-wiggle friend. 

Dare I say, I think I'd want to follow Jesus, even if I somehow learned Jesus wasn't real. Because his kingdom is far more real and true and beautiful than any nation, philosophy, or shiny thing that I've encountered so far. The story of a God who loves is the most beautiful story that's ever been told. The story of a church that cares for one another and goes out and loves the suffering and the excluded is better than a story that judges those exact same people and turns them into enemies. So I'm going to keep living in it. Even if Jesus doesn't show up how I'd like him to, I'm going to keep living in it. Even when God seems silent, I'm going to keep living in it. And even when the stories of selfishness and power and money and despair and rage all look attractive, I'm going to keep refusing to bow to them, with the help of my amazing community. 

I do believe God will continue to bring supernatural encouragement and salvation. I believe that God will bring good news to the poor and freedom for captives. But even if he doesn't in the way I want to see it, I will keep "living like a Narnian." Because this story is the most beautiful, and this kingdom is the most real. Where else could I go? 

Jesus, give me a vision of your world that is so compelling it's worth giving all of my life to, regardless of the outcome. 

Peace,
Keith ​

Love does no harm to a neighbor, so love is the fulfillment of the law.
-Romans 13:10

This morning on a short prayer walk on my wooded trail, I encountered a deer. As I turned around to head back on the trail toward my house, I looked up and saw it directly in front of me-- facing me, frozen in place. This is a pretty common occurrence in my life. 

We both stood motionless for about three minutes. Its eyes were fixed on me, ears perked up. Over the years, I've learned that this is the testing period, where a deer seeks to perceive if I'm a threat. Sometimes it will stomp its foot to see which way I will move. But it never takes its eyes off of me. 

I turned to my side, eyes toward the ground, exposing my flank. This is a posture of vulnerability to a flight animal. No longer was this a head-to-head encounter. I kicked the ground gently, rummaging through the pine needles and leaves with my foot, signaling that I was simply dwelling in the woods, with no intent to harm. I glanced out in the opposite direction. I took a few slow steps forward and then backward. Then I looked over my shoulder at the deer, and took a few short steps toward her. After a few more moments, she dropped her head, lowered her ears, and gently began foraging again, walking away. She determined I was not a threat. 

I like when deer slowly walk away from me in the woods without running or shooting their white tails up. It shows that they don't feel endangered by my presence. In that moment, they know I'm not a threat to them. 

It made me consider our posture in the world as disciples of Jesus. It's impossible to miss the uptick in anxiety and hyper-vigilance among people. We humans are very wary of each other these days. 

People encounter us and wonder if we are going to harm them--and we often expect that others may be a threat to us as well. Our eyes and ears are constantly perked up, not to mention our hearts and minds. This has become especially true for many dear ones who are not in the majority culture in the US. And it's not without good reason. Our words, our attitudes, and our actions have done great harm to each other, both in small, personal ways and in grand, systemic ways in our world. 

We have not yet learned the things that make for peace. We have not yet learned how to live gently with others in the world. We have not yet learned how to assure others that we are not a threat. And that's because, so many times, we have been the threat. 
I read another story this week of someone who is terrified of Christians because of abuse she experienced as a teen at the hands of Christian missionaries. They were a threat. She didn't know it. It made me so angry, and so sad. The things done in the dark and the hatred shown in the light have made it harder for people to trust God's goodness that we see in Jesus. 

Jesus was a safe place for those who had learned the world was unsafe. And when others did feel threatened by him, it was always those holding religious and political power, whose postures were bringing harm to others. Those were the ones Jesus challenged head on. 

We have a calling to be agents of healing and reconciliation (2 Cor 5:18). We have a calling to build a reputation of love (John 13:35). In an aggressive and passive-aggressive world of fighting with fists, with words, with keyboards, and with policies, how can we establish that we are here to serve and not to harm? How can we make it clear to others that we are not a threat, when so many people around them have been? 

The way forward involves slowing down with Jesus and becoming wholehearted. It involves releasing the need to control others or constantly try to fix them (even "in love"). It involves slow, trust-building relationships of care and presence. It requires learning why so many people have had to become so vigilant. Being slow to speak, quick to listen, and slow to become angry is a good starting point (thanks for that advice, Brother James).

Like this morning's deer, I wonder who I may encounter today that needs to know that I'm not a threat. Who will need to know that from you? Where can the love and care of God flow gently from our lives, reminding those around us that we are for their flourishing? Friends, let's keep taking every opportunity to be quick to listen, slow to judge, and eager to love selflessly. 

Jesus, may each of my interactions today affirm your gentle goodness. 

Peace,
Keith ​

*Hi, friends. This week I felt especially drawn to share a TFG from the archives, written 5 years ago. I sense the continuing need for the non-formulaic, relationally adaptive love of Jesus more than ever.... ​

Jesus on adultery: 
And if your right hand causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to go into hell. 
-Matthew 5:28-30

Jesus when confronted with an actual case of adultery: 
“Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” 
[...] “neither do I condemn you...”
-John 8:7,11 ​

​When Pharaoh finally let the people go, God did not lead them along the main road that runs through Philistine territory, even though that was the shortest route to the Promised Land. [...] So God led them in a roundabout way through the wilderness toward the Red Sea.
-Exodus 13:17-18 (shortened) 

At our church we're working through some of the origin stories of God's people in the Old Testament, reflecting on how they point toward God’s fullness revealed in Jesus. This week we were in the Sinai wilderness, where the Israelites wandered for forty years. 

If you walked across that same desert at a relaxed pace without trying to push yourself too much, you could cross the largest part of the Sinai Peninsula in about three weeks. 

Forty years seems rather.... inefficient. 

But there might be real value in inefficiency. I have a coffee shop about a mile and a half from my house where I meet with people. Lately I've been trying to walk there whenever possible. It takes around twenty-five minutes to get there, so it's within reach if my schedule isn't too tight. It doesn't happen as regularly as I'd like, but I've noticed that taking my time to get places matters more the busier that I am. 
It's difficult to be in a rush when you intentionally choose the slower way to get there. 

It seems that in the Scriptures, and certainly in the way that Jesus meanders through Galilee and Judea, formation is more important than efficiency.

There's value in taking our time to get places. There's value in not rushing the process of transformation. 

I've been walking with people lately who are rethinking their perspectives on things. They are on a journey (aren't we all!?) and the only way to grow is a long, often meandering process. Spiritual formation would be far easier if we just flexed really hard and popped an apple out of our forehead. But bearing fruit, learning who we are, and developing a non-dualistic way of seeing the world.... these things take a lot of time. And it can be very frustrating. 

We naturally resist things that take time. We praise early adopters. We want clarity and efficiency. We're constantly pressured to have a well thought-out opinion on EVERYTHING-- even things we know very little about. 

There's not a lot of grace for people saying, "I'm not sure, I'm still thinking about how I feel on this. I'm taking my time to get there." 

And yet the way of God is often the slow way of growth. God leads us to places where we have to do deep work, wrestling and rethinking and not resolving quickly. It's like the older brother in the prodigal son story. He's standing outside the party, annoyed at his father's willingness to keep extending grace to his brother. But the story doesn't end with him rejecting it all. We have no idea what happened on that journey. I imagine that he stood there thinking for a long time that night before deciding his next step. And I imagine that he kept thinking about things for the rest of his life. 

That's part of the point. 

When I think about taking my time to get places with Jesus, it stirs me in two directions. The first is grace toward myself. It's okay to not have everything figured out immediately. God's grace is sufficient for me, and discipleship is a long process. I'm allowed to rethink things regularly and slowly weigh ideas before embracing or releasing them. I'm allowed to take my time when the world is clamoring for a strong opinion on everything. I'm allowed to walk instead of driving. It's far healthier. 

The second direction is grace for others. After a process of growth and transformation that takes people years, I often notice how impatient or upset they can still be that others can't get there immediately.

Years of honest wrestling and hundreds of conversations and prayers can't be shortchanged. Many times it took friendships with people vastly different from themselves in order to see the world from a new perspective. You can't take years in the wilderness and shrink it down into a quick drive across Sinai.

The long path is how God shapes us all. So God's patience toward us should transfer into patience with others as they walk, too. Besides, each of us is far from having it all figured out (Lord help us)! 

Where can you embrace the scenic route this week? Where can you take a little more time in forming opinions? And where can you extend the same grace to others as they learn and grow? 

Jesus, give me patience for the winding journey, even as I'm trying to make forward progress. 
 
Peace,
Keith