They say it takes three weeks to create a habit. It's been three weeks since my last blog post -- a reprehensible length of time -- so I thought I better post immediately so non-posting doesn't become a habit.
It's been a very full three weeks. Come to think of it, when are my weeks not full? I've seen many examples of leadership and followership over these three weeks, both good and ill. I'll try to touch on these in the next few, short, blog posts.
I keep coming back to the NCAA basketball tournament. I was in Denver two weeks ago to watch the 2nd and 3rd rounds and saw six games in two days. Some very good stuff ... and some dreadful stuff.
Jimmer Fredette was the nation's leading college scorer this year, and I could see why in the two games I saw him play. Against poor little Wofford, he had the ball about 90 percent of the time: he took what seemed like every other shot, dribbled the ball upcourt and held it long each possession, made a series of ill-advised drives looking for fouls. Just a terrible display of selfishness and basketball. He looked like the kind of leader who feels he has to do everything himself. He scored 32 points on 10-for-25 shooting (team 24-for-61).
In the second game, against Gonzaga, he was a mostly different player. He passed a lot more, set up his teammates for open shots, and hit some amazing long-range shots at just the right times to tear Gonzaga's heart out. He looked like the kind of leader who is comfortable in front and comfortable supporting and serving in the background. He scored 34 points on 11-for-23 (team 31-for-59).
I just looked up the stats and was stunned to discover that the stat lines were basically the same. In the first game, it felt like he took every shot; in the second, it felt like he rarely shot.
And that might be the most important leadership lesson of Jimmer Fredette: it's not all about the results ... it's about the people, and the process.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Assumptions of David
I've found it to be a truism that good leadership and followership both avoid assumptions. Except when they're appropriate, of course.
We've likely all heard about the dangers of assuming: it makes an A-- out of U and ME (spells assume). And yet the paradox is that we have to build our lives on assumptions. Evangelist Cliffe Knechtle always used to talk about how our daily lives were based completely on faith: the faith that cars would stop at a red light so we could cross the street and the like.
I live my life assuming that I'll wake up tomorrow, that my car and house will still be here, that I'll have electricity and Internet and fresh water and enough food or money to buy food. We take out 10- to 30-year mortgages and 3- to 6-year car loans. We lay out 5-year personal and professional development plans. Our lives are built on assumptions that we don't even think about.
Recently my senior pastor spent a month in Malawi and blogged about this idea. Here is what he said that struck me: "We in the U.S. take a whole lot of stuff for granted - hot showers every morning, the ability to flush the toilet every time you use it, the ability to jump on a computer and have internet access. Or the fact that your children are not reading and doing their schoolwork by candle light because the power is out. It sounds romantic, but it really is not. I hope to return even more grateful for all these daily things and not take them so for granted. I also pray for the ongoing development of nations like Malawi, who enjoy the comforts as much as we do, but have also learned how to live without them much of the time."
"Comforts" is a great word choice here. We so often assume that God wants to bless us materially. By materially here I don't simply mean physical stuff, but things in the material realm. This would include all those non-essentials which we think of as "essentials" to the good life. I currently have the luxury of choosing to leave my high-paying job and am now trying to reorient my eyes, my brain, and my calendar and checkbook around this new, more obviously dependent reality.
There are many in the world who do not have this luxury, for whom there is no choice but simply the daily reality of living with less. And, curiously, they are often living more full, more satisfied lives. What is this paradox? How can this be? Could it be that the abundance of our lives is not just disconnected from, but potentially inverse with, our earthly comforts? Could this be the foundation of the beatitudes from Matthew 5: Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven? Could it be that when we have the kingdom of earth, we don't desire the kingdom of God enough?
And, therefore, maybe we won't inherit it after all? Sobering thought, is it not?
We've likely all heard about the dangers of assuming: it makes an A-- out of U and ME (spells assume). And yet the paradox is that we have to build our lives on assumptions. Evangelist Cliffe Knechtle always used to talk about how our daily lives were based completely on faith: the faith that cars would stop at a red light so we could cross the street and the like.
I live my life assuming that I'll wake up tomorrow, that my car and house will still be here, that I'll have electricity and Internet and fresh water and enough food or money to buy food. We take out 10- to 30-year mortgages and 3- to 6-year car loans. We lay out 5-year personal and professional development plans. Our lives are built on assumptions that we don't even think about.
Recently my senior pastor spent a month in Malawi and blogged about this idea. Here is what he said that struck me: "We in the U.S. take a whole lot of stuff for granted - hot showers every morning, the ability to flush the toilet every time you use it, the ability to jump on a computer and have internet access. Or the fact that your children are not reading and doing their schoolwork by candle light because the power is out. It sounds romantic, but it really is not. I hope to return even more grateful for all these daily things and not take them so for granted. I also pray for the ongoing development of nations like Malawi, who enjoy the comforts as much as we do, but have also learned how to live without them much of the time."
"Comforts" is a great word choice here. We so often assume that God wants to bless us materially. By materially here I don't simply mean physical stuff, but things in the material realm. This would include all those non-essentials which we think of as "essentials" to the good life. I currently have the luxury of choosing to leave my high-paying job and am now trying to reorient my eyes, my brain, and my calendar and checkbook around this new, more obviously dependent reality.
There are many in the world who do not have this luxury, for whom there is no choice but simply the daily reality of living with less. And, curiously, they are often living more full, more satisfied lives. What is this paradox? How can this be? Could it be that the abundance of our lives is not just disconnected from, but potentially inverse with, our earthly comforts? Could this be the foundation of the beatitudes from Matthew 5: Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven? Could it be that when we have the kingdom of earth, we don't desire the kingdom of God enough?
And, therefore, maybe we won't inherit it after all? Sobering thought, is it not?
Friday, February 25, 2011
Belonging
It is said in leadership circles that one cannot lead in a vacuum, and that one cannot lead without followers. In other words, leading and following both happen in the context of a relationship.
I've been thinking about this lately related to the work I'm doing with AllOne and with SEED. In both cases, the hardest part of my work is getting people to recognize a relationship that may not appear obvious or beneficial (or sometimes exist at all).
I was talking with a good friend a couple of months ago about a group of churches in a specific geographic location and denomination. Probably half of these churches have stopped participating in any meaningful way in the fellowship of this larger denominational body.
It is always tempting to think that we don't need others in our own local church, or other churches in our community, or in our denomination. In my conversation with this friend, he said something insightful about how the minute we consider "that group" separate from ourselves, we create space that allows us to distance ourselves from it. Hence the "District" or "Conference" or "Collaborative" or any such entity can be ignored because our identity is not invested in it.
This is illogical in any context.
Jesus says in John 15 that so long as we remain connected to him, we will flourish, but as soon as we cut ourselves off from him we die. A branch that is cut off from a tree is dead: it may still look alive but it cannot live on its own. And if, as Paul says, we are now the body of Christ, then cutting ourselves off from the rest of the body means that we are dead, even if we still look alive for a time. This is the same as Genesis 3, where God says that the day Adam and Eve eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil they "will surely die." By eating the forbidden fruit, they died that day, even if they still looked alive for a time.
Why do we even want to keep ourselves separate, distinct from, those others in our company, our neighborhood, our family, our church or denomination? Because we think by keeping ourselves separate we can be safe, secure from being hurt. As if.
We are still connected, whether we like it or not. By pretending we are not part, we are guaranteed to die. By recognizing and living out our connectedness, we are almost guaranteed to get hurt ... but we are also guaranteed to receive fresh nutrients, the inflow and outflow of what is good and necessary for life. I know many, including close friends and family members, who are mere shells because they have cut themselves off from the world, from those who might (or have) hurt them. What they don't realize is that they have cut themselves off from life.
We were made to belong, and we do belong. Do we try to avoid it, pretend it isn't so, or do we acknowledge it, recognize that pain will come, and commit to being in relationship anyway?
I've been thinking about this lately related to the work I'm doing with AllOne and with SEED. In both cases, the hardest part of my work is getting people to recognize a relationship that may not appear obvious or beneficial (or sometimes exist at all).
I was talking with a good friend a couple of months ago about a group of churches in a specific geographic location and denomination. Probably half of these churches have stopped participating in any meaningful way in the fellowship of this larger denominational body.
It is always tempting to think that we don't need others in our own local church, or other churches in our community, or in our denomination. In my conversation with this friend, he said something insightful about how the minute we consider "that group" separate from ourselves, we create space that allows us to distance ourselves from it. Hence the "District" or "Conference" or "Collaborative" or any such entity can be ignored because our identity is not invested in it.
This is illogical in any context.
- In an organization, for example: simply because someone works in another department or business unit, that does not mean their actions do not affect me; work flows in streams, and even if someone else's work is never directly connectable to my own, the culture and company reputation are partially formed by each other employee's actions, which affects me.
- In a neighborhood, the actions of my neighbors impact me. The color they paint their house, the state of their yard, the volume of music and hours they keep ... all these things affect me even if I try to avoid it all by hiding in my house all day and night
- In a family, the interplay between various family members impacts them all. It is often said that you don't marry a person, you marry a family. Even if I have no contact with anyone in my family any more, I still came out of that family, and you can't understand why I do (or intentionally do not do) what I do without recognizing the effects of growing up in that family
Jesus says in John 15 that so long as we remain connected to him, we will flourish, but as soon as we cut ourselves off from him we die. A branch that is cut off from a tree is dead: it may still look alive but it cannot live on its own. And if, as Paul says, we are now the body of Christ, then cutting ourselves off from the rest of the body means that we are dead, even if we still look alive for a time. This is the same as Genesis 3, where God says that the day Adam and Eve eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil they "will surely die." By eating the forbidden fruit, they died that day, even if they still looked alive for a time.
Why do we even want to keep ourselves separate, distinct from, those others in our company, our neighborhood, our family, our church or denomination? Because we think by keeping ourselves separate we can be safe, secure from being hurt. As if.
We are still connected, whether we like it or not. By pretending we are not part, we are guaranteed to die. By recognizing and living out our connectedness, we are almost guaranteed to get hurt ... but we are also guaranteed to receive fresh nutrients, the inflow and outflow of what is good and necessary for life. I know many, including close friends and family members, who are mere shells because they have cut themselves off from the world, from those who might (or have) hurt them. What they don't realize is that they have cut themselves off from life.
We were made to belong, and we do belong. Do we try to avoid it, pretend it isn't so, or do we acknowledge it, recognize that pain will come, and commit to being in relationship anyway?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Posting Pressure
This blogging thing is a pretty fascinating experience. Surreal in many ways.
There is the fact that I (and many other bloggers) essentially use cyberspace, open and public, the way an 18th century American girl would have used a diary.
Then there is the fact that bloggers have the audacity to think that others are interested in reading our diaries when they aren't forbidden. (Surely that was always one of the attractions of reading someone's diary, right?)
Add to that the pressure to produce something interesting to keep people coming back, and to expand who might be reading your diary. (If you kept a secret diary, someone stole it to read once and then put it back, never caring to read it again, you'd likely presume that your life wasn't worth reading about, even the top secret parts.)
A college friend of mine writes a terrific blog, and I've told her so. This week she posted that my compliments actually added pressure to her. Now she felt like she had to come up with something great every time she posted. I understand that, too.
I've had many ideas for blog posts but don't want to simply dash off a quick note. I want each post to have something substantial, profound, existential, transformational, to it. I think I've confused two things: interest and worth.
See, I often focus on the externals, and so piquing the interest of others -- especially, I admit, those I hold in high esteem -- is consistently high in my priority list. It's why I incessantly make jokes, though half of them (or more) bomb miserably. I am working very hard to have people perceive me as clever, as interesting. I face the same thing with the blog: I must post often, and every post must be perceived as terrific.
But worth is more important. It's so obvious, right? Given a choice between a post that someone else finds interesting or amusing, or a post that actually means something (more on that in a moment), wouldn't we almost always choose worth over interest? Sometimes, if we're honest, we'd rather have someone be interested in our blather than disinterested in our profundity. That's relationship talking, and it is ironically, worth considering. But by and large, we should be opting for importance over interest.
But how does a post "mean" something? I suppose this gets back to the purpose of a blog. If it's supposed to be a money maker or an attraction, then I'm a slave to being interesting. Which means I may or may not be honest, or substantive, or beneficial, when those things don't make me interesting.
If, on the other hand, a blog is more of a diary -- a way of processing externally what is happening to me internally -- then the worth is the honesty, the personal substance, the beneficence to the reader. The worth is intrinsic, because it's about the person doing the blogging and not the grammar, syntax, or clever turn of phrase or storytelling of the blog. That's the kind of blog I'm hoping to write here.
(Of course, then you have the fact that if I write this blog to let people see what's going on inside me, and no one is reading it ...)
There is the fact that I (and many other bloggers) essentially use cyberspace, open and public, the way an 18th century American girl would have used a diary.
Then there is the fact that bloggers have the audacity to think that others are interested in reading our diaries when they aren't forbidden. (Surely that was always one of the attractions of reading someone's diary, right?)
Add to that the pressure to produce something interesting to keep people coming back, and to expand who might be reading your diary. (If you kept a secret diary, someone stole it to read once and then put it back, never caring to read it again, you'd likely presume that your life wasn't worth reading about, even the top secret parts.)
A college friend of mine writes a terrific blog, and I've told her so. This week she posted that my compliments actually added pressure to her. Now she felt like she had to come up with something great every time she posted. I understand that, too.
I've had many ideas for blog posts but don't want to simply dash off a quick note. I want each post to have something substantial, profound, existential, transformational, to it. I think I've confused two things: interest and worth.
See, I often focus on the externals, and so piquing the interest of others -- especially, I admit, those I hold in high esteem -- is consistently high in my priority list. It's why I incessantly make jokes, though half of them (or more) bomb miserably. I am working very hard to have people perceive me as clever, as interesting. I face the same thing with the blog: I must post often, and every post must be perceived as terrific.
But worth is more important. It's so obvious, right? Given a choice between a post that someone else finds interesting or amusing, or a post that actually means something (more on that in a moment), wouldn't we almost always choose worth over interest? Sometimes, if we're honest, we'd rather have someone be interested in our blather than disinterested in our profundity. That's relationship talking, and it is ironically, worth considering. But by and large, we should be opting for importance over interest.
But how does a post "mean" something? I suppose this gets back to the purpose of a blog. If it's supposed to be a money maker or an attraction, then I'm a slave to being interesting. Which means I may or may not be honest, or substantive, or beneficial, when those things don't make me interesting.
If, on the other hand, a blog is more of a diary -- a way of processing externally what is happening to me internally -- then the worth is the honesty, the personal substance, the beneficence to the reader. The worth is intrinsic, because it's about the person doing the blogging and not the grammar, syntax, or clever turn of phrase or storytelling of the blog. That's the kind of blog I'm hoping to write here.
(Of course, then you have the fact that if I write this blog to let people see what's going on inside me, and no one is reading it ...)
Friday, February 18, 2011
Poverty is a mental thing
I live a very rich life, and yet so often I am frustrated at my own poverty.
My rich life is evident for all to see: I own a home (well, the mortgage company and I sort of co-own it), a minivan, furnishing, clothing, books (lots of books), and the like. I have immediate, extended, and in-law families that love and support me. I have many friends all over the world, including many of my neighbors, current and former coworkers, and classmates. I have an active life, with many worthwhile things to do. I never lack for anything I need, and almost never for anything I want.
And yet I am poor.
I am poor because it never seems enough. There is always something more I want to own, to do, to, well, I suppose to be. I suppose that gets at the crux of the issue, doesn't it? I want more friends, more goods, more knowledge, more ... because I am not satisfied with who I am.
When I go through a buffet line, or even open my own refrigerator and cupboards, and I see a limited quantity of something, my instinct is to grab it because it will soon be gone. My instinct, that is, is to get mine while I can, because there isn't enough ... and the implication is that I must have it. If four of us go out to eat and there are only three items on the appetizer plate, someone must go without it, and it shouldn't be me. Not because I "deserve" it, really, but because I'm afraid I don't deserve it.
Where does this attitude come from? What insecurity do I have, and is it unique to me? I imagine -- though the theologians reading this might beg to differ -- that this is some of what James 4 is talking about. He says that no one who is a friend of the world can claim to be a friend of God. God owns it all, and never runs out. Jesus was the same way: the heir of God, and he never seemed to lack.
Romans 8.17 says that we are co-heirs with Christ. So that means ... that I also have everything, and lack nothing. But I don't live that way. I am stingy, not generous; hoarding, not free-giving; always noting what I don't have rather than what I do have.
Could it be that poverty is not determined based on my bank account? Or my balance sheet? Or my closet? But instead based on my mind?
And if so, and I am poor, then that means ... my poverty is a lack, not of funds or things, but of faith. And that's going to be much harder to deal with.
My rich life is evident for all to see: I own a home (well, the mortgage company and I sort of co-own it), a minivan, furnishing, clothing, books (lots of books), and the like. I have immediate, extended, and in-law families that love and support me. I have many friends all over the world, including many of my neighbors, current and former coworkers, and classmates. I have an active life, with many worthwhile things to do. I never lack for anything I need, and almost never for anything I want.
And yet I am poor.
I am poor because it never seems enough. There is always something more I want to own, to do, to, well, I suppose to be. I suppose that gets at the crux of the issue, doesn't it? I want more friends, more goods, more knowledge, more ... because I am not satisfied with who I am.
When I go through a buffet line, or even open my own refrigerator and cupboards, and I see a limited quantity of something, my instinct is to grab it because it will soon be gone. My instinct, that is, is to get mine while I can, because there isn't enough ... and the implication is that I must have it. If four of us go out to eat and there are only three items on the appetizer plate, someone must go without it, and it shouldn't be me. Not because I "deserve" it, really, but because I'm afraid I don't deserve it.
Where does this attitude come from? What insecurity do I have, and is it unique to me? I imagine -- though the theologians reading this might beg to differ -- that this is some of what James 4 is talking about. He says that no one who is a friend of the world can claim to be a friend of God. God owns it all, and never runs out. Jesus was the same way: the heir of God, and he never seemed to lack.
Romans 8.17 says that we are co-heirs with Christ. So that means ... that I also have everything, and lack nothing. But I don't live that way. I am stingy, not generous; hoarding, not free-giving; always noting what I don't have rather than what I do have.
Could it be that poverty is not determined based on my bank account? Or my balance sheet? Or my closet? But instead based on my mind?
And if so, and I am poor, then that means ... my poverty is a lack, not of funds or things, but of faith. And that's going to be much harder to deal with.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Love of money, part II
Apologies to those who don't want to read about money :) it's been on my mind a lot the past few months as I have set out on giving up a high-paying job for completely uncertain (from a human standpoint) financial prospects.
Dave Ramsey says “money is amoral.” And he quotes the famous verse about “love of money.” It's interesting that any time someone quotes that verse, and emphasizes the fact that it's not "money" but the "love of money" that is a root of all evil, their intent is to anesthetize us to money's power over us. The intent is never to put out a bold challenge as to whether we should value money at all but to assuage our consciences so that the acquisitiveness, the lust for possessions (or bargains?) doesn't come under close scrutiny. We can then tell ourselves -- very likely deceive ourselves -- into thinking that we don't love money and therefore are safe.
But I believe Ramsey is misguided: money does in fact exert a power, and it seems to me that it is toward addiction, toward more, toward the values of the world. Richard Foster's brilliant work Money, Sex, and Power (republished with the sanitized title of Challenge of the Disciplined Life) states this outright. Money does not just lay around. It preys on my mind and worms its way into my soul.
Think of it this way: how much of my time do I spend making money? If I work a "regular" full-time job, I spend 40 hours (one-fourth of my weekly allotment) making money. Add to that the time I spend shopping, financial planning, tracking my finances, and caring for the stuff I have spent my money on. Likely I'm spending about 100 hours a week on money and its accoutrements. And I'm always thinking about what comes next. What's the next thing we should buy when we have the money? When I get my tax return, what will I spend that on? If I get a bonus, or have a month with three paychecks, what will I do with that money? My impulses, my thoughts, and my emotions are all tied up with money.
That doesn't sound amoral to me.
Foster's solution is to fight the power of money by intentionally and freely giving it away. Not so much by planned giving, but by treating money with disdain, with contempt. I'm reading a biography of John D Rockefeller, in his time the richest man in the world. Into his 50s, he personally read or talked with every person who wanted some of his money. He was very thoughtful and (one gets the impression from the biography) prayerful about where God wanted him to use his wealth.
That's admirable. And we like to think that's what we do. We don't want to waste our money. We call that "bad stewardship." As though giving money to a panhandler who might use it on alcohol is worse stewardship than spending 10 percent of my income on buying a big-screen TV and cable and cell phone bills.
"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and dust destroy and thieves break in and steal." (Matthew 6.19) As I look at my own house, my own life, I sure see a lot of stuff that I've spent my money on, that moth and rust can (and do) destroy. Wouldn't it be better to "freely receive, freely give"? Or to "give to the one who asks you" without thinking of how it might be used?
Of course, stewardship comes into play.
Notice what I just did? This whole blog was wending toward hard, significant challenges, and instinctively I typed a line that undercut the whole argument. For just a second, we all felt safe again, didn't we?
Why is it so important for us to feel safe about our spiritual and moral and social selves when it comes to money? Could it be that we recognize the hold money has on us?
Dave Ramsey says “money is amoral.” And he quotes the famous verse about “love of money.” It's interesting that any time someone quotes that verse, and emphasizes the fact that it's not "money" but the "love of money" that is a root of all evil, their intent is to anesthetize us to money's power over us. The intent is never to put out a bold challenge as to whether we should value money at all but to assuage our consciences so that the acquisitiveness, the lust for possessions (or bargains?) doesn't come under close scrutiny. We can then tell ourselves -- very likely deceive ourselves -- into thinking that we don't love money and therefore are safe.
But I believe Ramsey is misguided: money does in fact exert a power, and it seems to me that it is toward addiction, toward more, toward the values of the world. Richard Foster's brilliant work Money, Sex, and Power (republished with the sanitized title of Challenge of the Disciplined Life) states this outright. Money does not just lay around. It preys on my mind and worms its way into my soul.
Think of it this way: how much of my time do I spend making money? If I work a "regular" full-time job, I spend 40 hours (one-fourth of my weekly allotment) making money. Add to that the time I spend shopping, financial planning, tracking my finances, and caring for the stuff I have spent my money on. Likely I'm spending about 100 hours a week on money and its accoutrements. And I'm always thinking about what comes next. What's the next thing we should buy when we have the money? When I get my tax return, what will I spend that on? If I get a bonus, or have a month with three paychecks, what will I do with that money? My impulses, my thoughts, and my emotions are all tied up with money.
That doesn't sound amoral to me.
Foster's solution is to fight the power of money by intentionally and freely giving it away. Not so much by planned giving, but by treating money with disdain, with contempt. I'm reading a biography of John D Rockefeller, in his time the richest man in the world. Into his 50s, he personally read or talked with every person who wanted some of his money. He was very thoughtful and (one gets the impression from the biography) prayerful about where God wanted him to use his wealth.
That's admirable. And we like to think that's what we do. We don't want to waste our money. We call that "bad stewardship." As though giving money to a panhandler who might use it on alcohol is worse stewardship than spending 10 percent of my income on buying a big-screen TV and cable and cell phone bills.
"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and dust destroy and thieves break in and steal." (Matthew 6.19) As I look at my own house, my own life, I sure see a lot of stuff that I've spent my money on, that moth and rust can (and do) destroy. Wouldn't it be better to "freely receive, freely give"? Or to "give to the one who asks you" without thinking of how it might be used?
Of course, stewardship comes into play.
Notice what I just did? This whole blog was wending toward hard, significant challenges, and instinctively I typed a line that undercut the whole argument. For just a second, we all felt safe again, didn't we?
Why is it so important for us to feel safe about our spiritual and moral and social selves when it comes to money? Could it be that we recognize the hold money has on us?
Monday, February 7, 2011
Which God do I serve? The Lord, or money?
One of the most interesting facets of my movement away from my well-paying job into directing and co-directing two different nonprofits is the uncertainty of income.
You'll note I didn't say the absence of income. I am quite confident that we will have income sufficient to cover our needs. I am, however, uncertain where it will come from.
I had many conversations with people from my old job, from church, through the nonprofits where I serve on the board, from my contacts in the community, my neighbors, and my family. Everyone I talk with, it seems, has one central question: how will you pay your bills? (Closely followed by: what about health insurance? That's another blog post for another day.)
My answer is as simple as it is hard. I believe the Lord will provide to pay the bills. If indeed he has called me, called us as a couple and a family, to do what we are setting out to do, then how could I do otherwise than to trust him? I'm reminded of Psalm 20.7: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God." In my early 20s I trusted this way, but somehow over the past 15 years that seems to have changed. Now I'm getting back to it.
Many don't believe me about security and trusting. But I recently, on many folks' recommendations, started listening to Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University talks. There is much sense in there, I agree ... but to me, it sure seems like human wisdom and not God's plan. Let me briefly explain.
Ramsey talks about saving to create "financial security." How is this different from trusting in horses and chariots? Am I really to save money so that I will be secure? And how much money is "security"? As John D Rockefeller once famously said when asked how much was enough: "Just a little more." No amount of money is ever enough; there is always something more we want, something more we want to do. And even if we could reach a set amount ($5k? $10k? $1m?) where are we going to draw that definition? Shouldn't we be going to Jesus to see what he would have us do with our money?
I'm not saying saving is a bad idea, but when I save so that I have "security" I make it a human, Pharisaic rule. Does want me to be "secure" in my finances, or in his provision? Does he really ask me to "build wealth"? To "pay myself first"? Is it more important for me to own my own home, for me to have $5k in the bank ... or is it more important to use all I have so that others might have food, water, clothing, shelter, opportunity?
I'll continue to process this topic over time. I currently think and speak like only a black-and-white new convert can. I have thoughts of selling all I have and giving it all to the poor, trusting in God to provide for my needs in the future. Are we all called to do that? No, I suppose not ... but I bet some of us are. And I bet many others of us are called to take in, to provide for, those who do.
Where is your security today? In your possessions? Your bank account? Your job, which provides that income and (likely) insurance? Or are you trusting in the Lord to take care of things regardless of your job, income, housing, and bank statuses? May we learn better how to follow the one true God.
You'll note I didn't say the absence of income. I am quite confident that we will have income sufficient to cover our needs. I am, however, uncertain where it will come from.
I had many conversations with people from my old job, from church, through the nonprofits where I serve on the board, from my contacts in the community, my neighbors, and my family. Everyone I talk with, it seems, has one central question: how will you pay your bills? (Closely followed by: what about health insurance? That's another blog post for another day.)
My answer is as simple as it is hard. I believe the Lord will provide to pay the bills. If indeed he has called me, called us as a couple and a family, to do what we are setting out to do, then how could I do otherwise than to trust him? I'm reminded of Psalm 20.7: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God." In my early 20s I trusted this way, but somehow over the past 15 years that seems to have changed. Now I'm getting back to it.
Many don't believe me about security and trusting. But I recently, on many folks' recommendations, started listening to Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University talks. There is much sense in there, I agree ... but to me, it sure seems like human wisdom and not God's plan. Let me briefly explain.
Ramsey talks about saving to create "financial security." How is this different from trusting in horses and chariots? Am I really to save money so that I will be secure? And how much money is "security"? As John D Rockefeller once famously said when asked how much was enough: "Just a little more." No amount of money is ever enough; there is always something more we want, something more we want to do. And even if we could reach a set amount ($5k? $10k? $1m?) where are we going to draw that definition? Shouldn't we be going to Jesus to see what he would have us do with our money?
I'm not saying saving is a bad idea, but when I save so that I have "security" I make it a human, Pharisaic rule. Does want me to be "secure" in my finances, or in his provision? Does he really ask me to "build wealth"? To "pay myself first"? Is it more important for me to own my own home, for me to have $5k in the bank ... or is it more important to use all I have so that others might have food, water, clothing, shelter, opportunity?
I'll continue to process this topic over time. I currently think and speak like only a black-and-white new convert can. I have thoughts of selling all I have and giving it all to the poor, trusting in God to provide for my needs in the future. Are we all called to do that? No, I suppose not ... but I bet some of us are. And I bet many others of us are called to take in, to provide for, those who do.
Where is your security today? In your possessions? Your bank account? Your job, which provides that income and (likely) insurance? Or are you trusting in the Lord to take care of things regardless of your job, income, housing, and bank statuses? May we learn better how to follow the one true God.
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