Safety is Overrated

I've been home sick the last two days, which gives ample opportunity for watching daytime TV. One of the programs I watched was a Star Trek episode in which Captain Picard dies and meets a character named Q in the afterlife. Q is kind of an omnipotent pain in the butt, a member of a race that studies humanity and includes members more omnipotent than he.

Q talks to Picard about his life and regrets. Picard says that he does, indeed, regret his impetuousness as a youth and that if he had it to do over again, he'd do it differently. Q allows him the opportunity and Picard takes it. At the end of the exercise, Picard is whisked back to the present, only instead of being a Captain, self-confident and bold, he is a meek junior lieutenant, solid and steady and completely unremarkable.

When tells Q he wants it put back the other way, Q says Picard should be happy because he has set his past right and can now live in safety.

Safety. I'm a parent and a mortgage holder. I'm a Cubmaster and a mid-level functionary with a passionless job that pays the bills, all while I long for something more meaningful. I think I am capable of more, but I have never really put it all together to do more. Along the way, I've started to believe that maybe I can't do more. Results, after all, are results.

I've got responsibilities. I can't stop what I'm doing right now and start over in radio. But I can pursue the things that will bring me closer, and I can do the things I need to do in order to stand out.

In short, I can stop being afraid and yearning for safety.

We don't often think of boldness and courage in talking about being a good steward of what God has given. We think more of meekness and compassion, love and tolerance.

Jesus didn't die so we could be nice. He didn't die so we wouldn't upset people and worry about our every move.

I'm halfway through life. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that safety is overrated. If only I can remember what I've learned and have the wisdom to apply it.

Fasting for Peace

Worrying about the way the world's going to be when your children grow up isn't new. Past generations have had legiitmate worries. Parents in the 1930s must have wondered if their children would ever know prosperity. Certainly, the parents of the 1940s had their own worries about whether their children would grow up in a Nazi world. From the 1950s to the late 80s, parents worried about whether there would be a world or just a nuclear wasteland.

And so here were are today. There's a man in Iran who may see nuclear weaponry as the key to the return of the hidden Imam. He has openly questioned the right of a nuclear country to exist. Weapons of mass destruction seem easier to get and disseminate every day. And Russia and China wait in the wings.

Odds are that we will navigate through all this. At least I think they are. Probably. Maybe.

My daughter is starting to think about colleges and her future. A growing part of me has joined the legion of parents through the ages who feel concern about what that future will be. I don't know what it was like to be a parent in the 30s, World War II, or the Cold War. But I know what it is to be a parent now. I see where we sit and wonder what things will be like in 15 years, and for the first time in my adult life, I see significant doubts.

I want my daughter's world to be at least what mine was, preferably more. Increasingly, I don't see that as being possible without some significant prayer.

I know this will sound stupid to some. I know it will sound like self-flagellation or alarmism or any number of other things, but I have felt a growing inclination to fast on Fridays for the world my daughter will inherit. So that's what I'm going to do. If you want to, please join me. If you don't, that's okay, too. There's nothing I can do to change what will happen in the Middle East, short of praying. So I might as well do that.

Not peace, but a sword

"Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I came to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man's enemies will be the members of his household." -- Matthew 10:34-36 (NASB)

I've always struggled with this passage. I mean, God is love, right? And Jesus was the embodiment of love here on earth. He loved us so much that He died for us. He gave His very existence for us that we might have a shot at eternal bliss. So how can someone so loving, so willing to give it all, bring a sword?

Have a discussion some day with a diverse group of Christians about faith and works. Look at the history of the Catholic Church, or to a smaller degree, any other church. Look at what we do to ourselves over what we believe the Bible to say.

When I was laid off, one Scripture verse stuck with me: the one about how a believer who doesn't provide for his family being worse than a non-believer. I hanged myself on that verse. I didn't want to be worse than a non-believer. Of course, I did provide, and even if I hadn't, I did the best I could. I forgot the part about being worth more than sparrows.

The point is, if people can't even stop themselves from being conflicted, from having their selfish part battle with the part that wants to serve God, why should we expect to be different in reference to others.

Jesus didn't say that he wields the sword. We're good enough at doing that for Him.

Measuring Up

As I think back over the things I've written, I sense a level of smugness. After all, I assume that what I write is worth reading by someone. I assume my words carry enough meaning or wisdom that they are worth someone's time and attention. Having someone read and appreciate what I've written is a great complement.

Sometimes I wonder, though, about my supposed wisdom. I stand before a God who knows as well as I do what I've messed up and really have no standing to lift my head to Him. It is not so much that I am useless, as He is great. But I have some pretty big flaws. Can wisdom be gained from someone as imperfect as I am?

Or maybe it's imperfect that builds wisdom. Maybe it's the process of trying and failing and then trying again. And then repeating the process when you fail again.

I don't know. I guess the beginning of wisdom is that even though I fall short of what God wants of me, He lets me come to Him and continues to bless me more than I could ever deserve, not out of obligation, but out of love.

That's pretty cool.