 Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briers.
-Luke 6:44 This past Sunday I was teaching on a short, enigmatic parable that Jesus tells in the book of Luke. There's a vineyard with a fig tree in it that isn't bearing fruit. The landowner is ready to chop it down and move on, but the vineyard caretaker pleads with the owner to wait, and to let him attend to the tree for a full year. He'll actively care for it-- aerating the ground, adding fertilizer and everything else it needs to see if it bears fruit. You can tell that the hopeful caretaker has confidence that fresh figs will emerge. There's more cultural context to explore, of course. But the beauty of many of the parables is that they can speak to us in different ways over the years. This parable is never unpacked by Jesus, so there's some freedom for how we may understand the symbolism represented. We had a vibrant discussion together. One of the things that I keep coming back to is the simple idea that a fig tree is never supposed to be static. It exists to bear fruit and change with the seasons. If it's healthy, there's always some sort of growth happening, whether that looks like storing up nutrients in a season of rest, or bringing forth goodness for the world with a new crop of sweet, sticky figs. And today it has me thinking about discipleship as becoming. When I speak of discipleship as becoming, I mean that in our lives of faith, following Jesus is intended to make us different--new--in each season. I don't simply mean newly forgiven, though that is beautiful. I mean new understandings, new depth, and new actions of care. There is no arrival, only the "long, slow obedience in the same direction" (Peterson). Becoming looks like a constant humility to allow God to shape us and form us in the way of love with each new season. As we get older and more established (in life, in faith, in whatever), that sort of openness to growth can be very difficult. We either think we know so much that we don't sense the need for new growth (we're comfortable), or we've been through so much that we don't have the energy to bring forth a fresh crop of fruit (we're exhausted). We've borne enough fruit in the past, so we're good... and we'll sit this season out. But we don't know everything. We don't even fully know ourselves. And if we are on an ever-growing trajectory of trusting and following Jesus, we will be becoming something new every season of our lives. This is the problem with a faith that values certainty over love, exploration, and relationship. Once you're certain about everything, you'll be less open to the ongoing becoming of faith. And if exhaustion is why you are feeling fruitless, well, we're still in Lent, friends. A time of acknowledging barrenness. A time of stretching out hands of need. A time to re-align our own spirits with the spirit of Christ. It's a time to put to death our need for self-sufficiency and the need to keep up with systems of power, prestige, and domination that kill our roots. It's a chance to re-ground ourselves in the values of the upside-down kingdom where power is brought to life through weakness. As Jesus says, it's in the giving away of our own lives that we find a deeper life. When my fig-tree faith feels dormant and dry for too long, it's an invitation to be open to new growth in new ways. My ground (and my heart) may be hardened, making it difficult for water and nutrients to get to the roots. Or I may have lost an imagination for all the wonderful things God wants to offer others through my life because I'm just so exhausted. In either case, today is a good day to be reminded that becoming is not an isolated process. Thankfully, we have a gardener committed to working the ground, pruning the branches, and watering our roots at their deepest depths. And we are drawn into community so that others can nurture, call out our gifts, restore our faith, and encourage us to become something new once again for the season ahead. What is God helping you become in this season? Jesus, break up hard soil and bring life to my roots so that fresh fruit emerges. Thanks for your patience. Peace, Keith
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 You have made my life no longer than the width of my hand. My entire lifetime is just a moment to you; at best, each of us is but a breath.
-Psalm 39:5 A friend and I had a conversation the other day about what is or isn't ours to do with all that is going on in the world. We spoke of the 24 hour news cycles, local needs in our area, and the draw of social media and mobile applications, tempting us to endlessly stare at flickering pixels that direct our focus. At one point the phrase "paying attention" came up. When someone says "pay attention!" they want to direct your focus to whatever they feel matters the most. But have you noticed how phrases like "paying attention," "spending your time," and "buy a little time" are all economic images? They reflect something that we all know but rarely acknowledge: every minute of our lives is valuable and limited currency. Unlike money, you can never earn, accumulate or manufacture more time. That's what makes me so frustrated with the "spending" I see -- both around me and within me. So many unnecessary battles drain our time and energy. News cycles churn the same headlines over and over just to make us more smug, angry, or fearful. National leaders use their time to manufacture hatred and animosity toward others who are simply trying to exist peacefully. People stew over personal conflicts for years when grace and forgiveness could free up hours of their lives. The list goes on. And oh, the things I spend my own time on! There are times that my own thoughts are dominated by what I have no control over, causing me to miss the things that I can affect. I take my attention, and spend it on things that offer no goodness or redemption in return. I can spend minutes or hours on whatever voice might be the loudest that day, or whichever algorithm is effectively engineered to pull me in and give up my valuable resource of attention. It's maddening, exhausting, and bankrupting. It makes me feel right in line with the Apostle Paul when he is really frustrated with his lack of focus and goes off in the book in Romans 7 and yells, Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin and death? (I know technically he wrote it, but that's the sort of phrase that you shout out loud, with a lot of frustration, as you write). Thankfully, we trust that there is indeed a path to freedom in the barrage of options begging us to pay attention at a steep cost. The Spirit of Christ in us is here to give grace, strength, and wisdom for what is deserving. We can resist, redirect, and choose what is best. I like thinking about Mary intentionally spending her time to sit at the feet of Jesus, and Jesus saying she's spending wisely (Luke 10:42). Discipleship calls us to invest in three distinct things: transformative connection with God, deep relationships with others, and active work for goodness in the world. These are simplified further in the directive from Jesus: love God with all you are, and love your neighbor with the same value and dignity as you deserve. That leads to life, according to Jesus himself. Clear. Unequivocal. Love God, love others. Love God, love others. That's the call. That's the way. Love God, love others. That's not dumbing it down. That's the framework for using our most valuable resource on the most valuable of expenditures. Ironically, when we pay our attention to these things, we never lose a minute of time. Instead, we multiply it in a treasury full of goodness and love that lasts into eternity. I honestly don't love these economic metaphors. But if we're going there, let's go there. We are investing in what will one day have an enormous return in the kingdom of God. Each thing we "pay" our attention to comes at a cost. So with an ear to the Spirit and a posture of love, we ask: Who are we paying, when we pay attention? Jesus, direct my energy toward things truly worth spending my life on today. Peace, Keith  He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.
Psalm 147:3 I have shared frequently about how I enjoy running long distances on trails. It's a way I explore my limits, but it's also something that keeps me grounded in a world that I often find overwhelming. I'm back in a season of preparing for some really long runs, so I'm constantly aware of how my body is feeling right now (tired, mostly). Because the season of lent involves the willingness to step into vulnerability and growth, it's got me thinking about something that happened several years ago. I ran a very painful 30 mile race that involved intense cramping in my right hamstring. Like, excruciating, fall-on-the-ground type of pain. I made it to the finish, but I was hobbling by then. I rested for a few weeks and did some easy running the following months, but I found that after that horribly painful experience, every time I would try to run fast or do a big climb up a hill or attempt a longer distance, my right leg had issues. It would start to send little painful shockwaves through my muscle as if to yell, "a cramp is coming! Back off!" So I did. It was frustrating. A friend recommended I go see a unique physical therapist that works with some of the top runners in the country (so, not people like me). It was pricey, but I decided to do it. I had no idea what to do. He did a number of tests on my hamstrings, checked flexibility, and compared my legs. He asked about how it felt when these "warning signs" popped up on my runs. Was my leg actually cramping? No, just tingling. Then he told me that all the tests showed that my leg strength wasn't the issue. Both legs were equally strong. The muscle damage itself was not really there anymore. But the muscle was still "afraid." Does it do this on hills? He asked. Yes, nearly every time. Ok. I need you to do a hard workout of hill repeats. What? You need to get that feeling, and keep going. If you cramp, of course, stop. But I have a feeling that your body is afraid of something from the past, and you need to help it beyond this moment. You have to increase the load. What. The. Actual....? But I did it. Pushing hard up those hills over and over again was literally step after step of faith, and really scary when those little tingles came. I felt weakness at first, but it never buckled. In fact, it tapped into new strength as I realized that my leg wasn't actually going to seize anymore. It was timid, but I could trust it. Sometimes we have to go ahead and have a bit of faith in our healing. Many of you reading this are a part of our local church here at LifePath. And I know that one of the things Jesus has called us to be is a compassionate community for people who have been through some deep pain. Often, that pain has come from harmful church experiences. And our church is certainly not the only one that often functions a bit like a hospital for the wounded. I expect that so many reading this can relate in some way. We can feel weary and beaten. And major injuries make us walk into the future with extreme caution. And that's fair and appropriate. But the season of Lent is a time of invitation to step out courageously in both vulnerability and hope, trusting Jesus. Is it possible that you are stronger than you realize? More ready than you realize to step deeper into loving community? More healed than you think, to start using your gifts for the good of God's kingdom? More prepared for what's next, but still scared? The world needs disciples of Jesus who can be honest about their wounds, yet full of hope about healing. In fact, those are the people in the best position to offer sensitive care to others who are hurting terribly. We need people with fresh energy to build beloved community and reveal the goodness of God to a world who is increasingly confused about what "Christian" actually means anymore. Is it time to take some steps of faith? To use your hands and head and heart in new ways? To be unafraid to open the deepest places within you to Jesus? To be a beautiful expression of God's church once again, even when you were once harmed by poor expressions of God's church? You may find newfound strength as you move. Who knows what adventure is on the other side? Jesus is with you. Jesus, today is all about trust. Keep moving me ahead in my healing. Peace, Keith *Metaphors are always incomplete. There are indeed times that deep wounds need major time and space to heal. I am also not suggesting that someone step back into an environment that is harmful for their mental or emotional health. I'm inviting trust that your past wounds need not limit how God wants to work in and through you now.*  "From now on, let no one cause me trouble, for I bear on my body the marks of Jesus."
-Galatians 6:17 We've begun a spiritual journey that can be painful! Lent is underway. In one of Paul's statements in Galatians, he warned the church that some around them were pushing a faith that looked very impressive and full of religious activity. There were grand gestures to prove its validity, like meticulously following Jewish law and practicing circumcision. Yet it actually cost them very little. He contrasts that with the way of Jesus, who laid down his life for the sake of others to bring freedom, not more laws. And in the midst of persuading them that his faith was genuine (they were accusing him otherwise), he asked them to take a look at his own "marks." He'd been through a lot following Jesus, and his scars were living proof (2 Cor. 11:24). It wasn't religious gestures (circumcision), but rather the cost of faithful love, that proved his faith's legitimacy. Yes, he had actual marks from snakebites and shipwrecks. But he also bore the marks of a life of chosen poverty, a life that had led to his imprisonment. I did some work in our woods a few evenings ago with my machete, hacking back some thorn bushes and trying to keep the wisteria at bay. Regardless of my attempt to avoid pain, I still got ripped up a bit. If you look at my forearms, they bear the marks of a day in the thorns. The Greek word for "marks" that Paul uses is stigmata. It literally means "scar marks." Stigmata was used in several ways in the ancient world. Runaway slaves who were found were branded on their foreheads. Soldiers of famous commanders had their names tattooed on their faces. And worshippers of a pagan goddess had her name branded on their foreheads as well. So Paul re-envisions the words and says... "my stigmata, my scar marks, are my sign that my life is wrapped up in Jesus." We are now in the journey of Lent, traveling with Jesus toward the cross. During this time we embrace the frailty of our own human experience, and the need that we have for God's redemption. Some of us found meaning last evening in being "marked" with ashes, symbolizing our own brokenness. Entering Lent marks the willingness to walk with Jesus in the giving of our lives in order to walk with Jesus in the living of our lives. As disciples of Jesus, we are all "marked" people. We are people who follow a scarred savior. And we bear scars ourselves, though often they are not physical. Some of our scars are reminders of the cost of following the countercultural way of Jesus. Some of them are symbols of pain that God is healing and redeeming. Some of them are reminders of trauma and injustice that we are crying out to God for. But they are also a reminder that God is in the business of redeeming our pain. The marks we carry as we follow Jesus proclaim that our wounds are not the end of our story, nor are they to be hidden as a source of shame. They are glimpses that we understand the suffering savior, that he understands us, and that we trust him. I want to be marked this lent. Marked as one who belongs to The Way. Marked as one who will lay down my life in humility and love, even when it is costly. Marked as one who follows the path of peace that my teacher walked, even in a world that celebrates aggression. Marked as one whose compassion extends beyond the thickly drawn lines of our philosophical echo chambers and out toward the isolating confinements of all who suffer. Marked as one willing to proclaim that the United States is not the only group of people that matter. Marked as one who embraces sorrows and limitations and mortality, yet still glimpses a hope that death cannot extinguish. Marked as one whose scars show that I belong to Jesus. Lent is a powerful season of being marked, and embracing our scars. Many of us have "stigma" about being the people of Jesus. We have stigma about belonging to God's Church. I get it. The reputation isn't good right now. We also have stigma about bearing our hurts and being uncomfortable. But let's trust that God can take the scars we bear and transform them into reminders of God's redemption and healing. Lean into lent this year, my friends. Jesus, help me be willing to be marked as I trust and follow you. Peace, Keith |
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