Reflections on Full-Time Christian Ministry

I stepped into the venue a bit drunk from a very heavy dinner. It was a special day, my first day in my new company. I had succeeded in entering the organisation I admired, to do a role I desired. The compensation was great, and I knew the people there who would make the job a really good workplace. 

Two weeks prior, I had my first long break in years. I spent my time doing what I loved the most. Reading, perfecting my swim technique, practicing jazz piano, cycling new roads around the island, hanging out with close friends. Though I ran myself ragged at times squeezing too many activities into a day, I was thoroughly satisfied with life. Nothing needed to change. 

Until that night, when Denesh spoke: “I’d bet that 90% of your objections to full-time paid ministry are due to fear or comfort, or a mix of both.” Fear of what would come and whether we’d cope. Love for comfort and the good life. He posited that most of us were likely to be seen by our friends and families as having respectable jobs and leading enviable lives. 

To make things even more attractive, we had nothing searing our conscience, as we had done our best, given our free time to do church work. Leading studies, serving others. We gave financially, and tried our best to help where we could. 

But rarely did we give sacrificially. Barely did we love our enemies. And unwillingly we would be to give up the respect owed when listing our illustrious careers, photographs, or any inkling of our occupations. We want our cake, and we want to eat it too. 

On days that I’m bored, I’d sometimes dig into my past; look at people who I once considered close friends. Read abandoned blogs and pull up snapshots of time gone by. One would naturally feel some sadness, especially when the trail goes cold, and we don’t know what has happened to the person. Many go offline because they aren’t doing too well. 

I was surprised when I found myself shaking off the melancholy by looking at what I had now – the new, relevant, and real. I’d swing the door open and find my smiling wife and give her a hug as an appreciation and embrace of the tangible present, which is infinitely better. 

A part of it definitely makes sense, for I can only appreciate who and what I currently have. Yet looking at current circumstances and privileges betrays a love for my current life. What I had learnt in Romans, about God’s incredible mercy, and about the privilege to be unashamed, participating in God’s grand salvation plan was not something that came easily to me. 

And whenever my mother tells me of each so-and-so from my home church who has upgraded their life or had any noteworthy achievements, I couldn’t help but be peeved and think, “is there all there is?” Not out of jealousy I think, but it seemed almost irksome that Christians around seemed to always be pursuing life upgrades. Yet here I was.

The truth is, I have never seen anyone who was successful in the world, and who was also sold out for the gospel. As written ad nauseam previously, I had encountered a lot of wonderful well-behaved and well-mannered Christians who you’d think as ‘godly’. But it always seemed that godly talk was a special sacred language they were adept at speaking at certain conventions, but not in other areas of their life. 

They were never sold out for the gospel – making difficult and counter-cultural decisions for the sake of gospel proclamation. They excelled at being a great support in church, but also a connoisseur of the good things in life. I must stress that these are not necessarily opposed. What I’m insisting is empirical and anecdotal: I have never seen. Make of that what you will. 

However, to insist that we should be counter-cultural as a rule is as pharisaical as one can get. That is no different from finding another means of distinguishing ourselves socially – to be successfully godly in the midst of terrible Christians. That is not the point. 

The point is that God expects believers to be sold out for the gospel. The key is that Jesus demands everything of us – that foxes have holes and birds have nests but the son of man has nowhere to rest. Jesus conveys an expectation of what life will be like following him, not a fact of our actual assets, that we’d must be homeless. To be sold out is not about what we have, but about what we do about what we have because of who we are. My concern should not be interpreted as cultivating an aversion to anything remotely expensive or luxurious, but about whether I still believe the truth. It’s not about the amount of money I have in my bank, but an awareness of how that affects my heart, and how much I realise that if I were being honest, it all makes the words of Jesus slide by smoothly with little effect. 

And anecdotally, again, I have never seen a Christian who had everything but who was still sold out for the Gospel. 

Taking an honest look at my life. I had nothing to offer but excuses for why I had delayed thinking seriously about full-time Christian ministry. While that is not the means to be ‘sold out’, I realised I was trained, and I had much more desire to proclaim the word than others. The only thing that held me back was my love for comfort. I realised that for all my life, I had never sacrificed anything for the gospel. Slight inconveniences are not sacrifices. I struggle to be faithful when my life is smooth sailing. 

At the core of it is about what we believe to be true. Is the future really infinitely more glorious and beautiful than what I see now? Is the approval of King Jesus really the greatest thing to seek? Are our heavenly possessions worth anything at all? 

“But many who are first will be last, and the last first.” Mark 10:31

Fitting in, in heaven

I once met Hudson Taylor’s great grandson (or great great?). It was a very small prayer meeting. Somehow, when I saw him in attendance, I knew he was a Taylor, though I don’t remember how. Maybe I had seen him before; but he needed no introduction. When he was finally introduced, my jaw dropped. I remember wanting to take a picture with him, though being too shy to ask. I didn’t want to make him feel like he was a celebrity, but it was just really cool to be in his presence. A good brother actually helped me to ask because I was simply too shy, and I went home that night as if I had met a superstar.

Reading through a book today made me think about the many ‘saints’ that I may have the privilege of meeting in heaven one day. The book of Hebrews tells us that they are all waiting around us, perhaps like a cloud of witnesses; and they will not be made perfect without us. Yet, realistically imagining what heaven might be like with these many saintly people around didn’t sound all that positive.

I imagined heaven to be filled with saintly men and women, maybe they were all dressed in different garb. Perhaps their garment signified a certain status. Maybe some were popes, some were nuns, others were from a particular culture or country. Maybe there would be a large contingent from a certain area, and they would simply talk among themselves. Maybe those from farer off places would just turn their back to the rest, and simply engage in their own practices.

Maybe these saintly people wouldn’t communicate much, perhaps the atmosphere might even be a little cold. Why would it not be? They spoke different languages, understood their faith in different cultural contexts and periods in history, and suffered particular pains that no one but their own kind would understand. On a more sinister note, perhaps some would look at others and find themselves surprised, or even be affronted, for they never felt any good would come out of a certain denomination, or place, or church.

Worse still, I imagined a place where these men and women looked on each other in proud comparison. They spend their days above doing things only they knew were helpful for themselves. Maybe it involved praying in a certain manner, or repeating this or that as a mantra, or to kneel or prostrate oneself as a ritual. In any case, aren’t they likely to view the spiritual disciplines of another as foreign – both literally (in terms of language) and metaphorically? Even inferior? Would they not even sneer at the practices of some?

It didn’t take me long before I realised I had gotten too far. Men and women of faith cannot be petty people who think they are in heaven because they are somebody. As a matter of fact, if they were there in the first place, they probably looked to their predecessors for encouragement, whether or not these ancient men and women spoke a different tongue or practised disciplines differently.

It comforted me to know that one shouldn’t expect an awkward party of dissonant souls. For how could it be, if all we do is out of gratitude for our great shepherd Jesus? Heaven must be a place filled with souls with the hearts of little children, for we all have been redeemed by his blood, and our gazes are all placed longingly on his glorious face, little ones pleased to do the bidding of their father. Such a heart must betray no hint of the self, of the earthly days engaged in one-upmanship, of reminiscing after sensual pleasures.

At this point, everything that we have done before in our previous lives prepare us for the work that we will do for eternity. Heaven is not a place of ceaseless harp-playing, it’s a place where we are given glorious work. And our years of training in godliness and righteousness during our mortal days will finally come to good use, no matter what language or style we said our prayers in. We wait. We wait for our bridegroom.

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

On Determination

Several times during the course of our viewing of the visually spectacular Planet Earth II, my mother would comment, “how pitiful!” It is interesting how stories are spun and woven in ways that force us to empathise and take sides – the cute against the menacing, the devilish against the innocent. Obviously the best storytellers add more nuance, so much so you can even sympathise with predating lions because their cubs would starve to death if they don’t kill the buffalo. But if we can see through these excellent attempts to weave stories, then we know that there ought not be much sympathy. There’s only the Darwinian adage: our world accommodates the survival of the fittest. There’s only that singular determination to edge out others.

And so it’s no different in the human world. There are only the determined, who often find ways to succeed and make a living, and the less so, who must often rely on redistribution and the benevolence of the successful. I know people who are so remarkably successful but constantly feel the pressure and heat from those materially better off. Even in courtship this is a repeated theme; and those that remain single are often assumed to be bums with little direction in life. And given that I don’t have a desire to duke it out with the world’s best, to be entrepreneurial and try to solve global problems, in the terms of the animal kingdom, I guess I would be breakfast for predators still yawning and stretching out their paws at dawn. If I’m lucky then I could be dinner instead.

And so determination and grit are highly valued, whether it is plainly for survival in a rough world, or to fulfil a long-held dream. Some people want to make ends meet, to put food on the table, others want to overcome the odds to make the impossible possible, to be handicapped yet capture the world’s attention. Some want revenge, to turn the tide in the game of oneupmanship. And of course there are those who are determined to make a dreamy visualisation a reality, to make a fantasy story come to life, a process worthy of retelling. In all these different forms, all these demonstrations of determination serve only the person in question, even if it’s for a good cause. As bystanders, we often observe and judge, docking points for successful individuals who are nevertheless self-serving and vain; and cheering loudly for ambitious projects that come at great personal cost but with many derivative benefits for others. But there’s one kind of determination different from it all.

There is one kind of determination that is counter to our brightest and finest intuitions. It is done without any hint of service to the self, and is contrary to Darwin’s old adage. For this reason, it is impossible for mere humans to cook up such a story that makes no sense from a human perspective, yet it makes all sense precisely because of that. And what is this determination? It is the determination of Jesus to suffer, be rejected, and die on the cross.

For this reason, we need to temporarily put aside ideas of pity and a sense that Jesus was wronged and maligned, because, while true, they may distract us from Jesus’ grit. In other words, Jesus came into the world as human determined to bear the suffering of the cross for our sake, to endure the burden of our sins past present and future on his shoulders, and to suffer the rejection of his father so that we may be delivered and so that the father may be glorified.

How do we know? We know because he foretold his death three times in Mark. We know because he declares that the Son of Man – an image of glory and power – came not to be served but to serve, to give his life as a ransom for many. In John, Jesus questions “Now is my soul troubled. And what shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? But for this purpose I have come to this hour.” John 12:27. Stott observes: the hour for which he had come into the world was the hour in which he left it.

Jesus came for one purpose – “the hour”. And his crowning hour comes the moment he dies. What irony, what mystery, what a paradox! Jesus came here determined to die. He grew up as a child preparing to die. He walked through various obstacles in life and overcame them in ways so that he could finally die for us. That is a kind of determination the world has never seen.

It is no wonder that Paul says this is a secret and hidden wisdom, and without the help of the divine, the natural person will only think this as folly. Because it is folly. It turns the maxims of existence, survival, and success on its head. And if we see it, we, as Luther described, worship the crucified god. No caps. The idea of God we have is an all powerful one that is beyond our imagination, a reigning hero who answers all questions of pain, suffering, and brings peace and happiness. But we worship a godforsaken man on a tree, one who, rather than take away hardship and suffering, was more concerned about our perfection and determined to pay the price for our imperfection. It is, as Stott described, holy love. Holiness that demands justice, love that sees him reach out in determination. He determined to die for us: we worship a crucified god.

There is no so-called ‘weakness’ in Christian love. Weakness in the sense of flaccidity, passivity, a nonchalant or resigned and fatalistic acceptance of our hardship. This is not a description of Christian love, as Machiavelli and Nietzsche caricatured. I find only resilience and dogged perseverance, a resolute steadfastness to a cause. And what cause? And what method? A dauntless, indomitable will to die, so that others might live, not as a final option, but as the only plan. It a strong and conquering force through personal weakness; not weakness of the mind, but a weakness of the body and of selfish dreams. Where else will you find this but in Christ? He does it wholly for our good.

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

Remembering to forget

I think those that have the gift of forgetfulness can be some of the most blessed people. To them, every day is essentially a new one filled with endless possibilities. Baggages, emotional or mental or anything else are left at the doorpost of yesterday; and they give each experience, each person a new chance, even if they have done the selfsame thing or met the same people every day for years.

The forgetful person is thus not stuck in the cyclical trudge through life, he forgets the hard work of yesterday and leaves past accomplishments in dusty cabinets. He sees each day as a new one to be productive and fruitful. He doesn’t, on account of being seasoned, treat certain aspects of work with less respect or care, neither does he calculate upon seeing a coworker, ‘she didn’t treat me too kindly yesterday, how shall I measure my countenance towards her?’ for he treats them all with the equal warmth shown on his first day at work.

Best of all is if one is forgetful enough to forget himself, so that each day isn’t a struggle to maintain one’s dignity. He doesn’t try to say something funny in gatherings because he doesn’t need to stand out, neither does he need to dissemble his foibles, weaknesses, or imperfections. He celebrates the achievements of others as if it were his own, and often forgets to pout even when wronged.

In contrast, a person who remembers too much is prone to be sulky. Weighed down by baggages of the past, he is unforgiving and pessimistic. Work is never fulfilling because he has learned the tricks of the trade, he has uncovered the pathways to significance and at the same time, those that lead to deadends. He will thus put all his energies to those that propel him, and view as contemptible the people or duties that lead to nowhere. Even at his moral best, he remembers to do good so that people will see him as a good person.

The forgetful person must then be a blessed person.

But what if we struggle to forget? What if some hurts go so deep they take hold? Shall we be haunted by them forever? I realise that these are usually the result of hopes dashed in promising situations, or when promises were made but not kept. Thus we are unable to forget not necessarily because we continue to ‘live in the past’, so to speak, but because we are expectant of something in the future.

In other words, we cannot countenance a future in which something we previously expected and imagined doesn’t come true. Isn’t this the same reason why we are only ‘grieved’ but never ‘hurt’ by the deaths of our loved ones? Because, with regards to those that die, we always knew they would leave us; but with unkept promises, we can remain bitter till our deathbed. In such scenarios, I know of only two ways forward.

First, declare the sovereignty of God. We often say in hindsight that something happened ‘for a reason’, or that God ‘allowed’ this or that to happen. This is often after we have looked back and seen some element of personal growth or a great blessing. We thus need to – without surrendering due diligence – quickly entrust our disappointments to God.

Second is to remember the right thing. I often saw forgetfulness as simply being forgetful, or having poor memory. But what if forgetfulness is a wilful attempt to remember some things over others? If this is true, then as paradoxical as it seems, remembering God’s saving grace may be the only way for us to forget ourselves, and to leave heavy and unwanted baggages behind.

The story of the returning prodigal son has been a helpful tale for me. How often do we resolve to make a mark on our own, trusting in nothing but our own might, spurning our Father and chasing significance? Yet he embraces us as we return shamefully; only we do not return to shame, but to glory. No guilt-trips or condemnations. Some people look at this story and say that God is simply a figure of forgiveness and love, there’s no cost involved. In resolving this, John Stott cites the reenactment of Dr. Bailey, who teaches in Beirut; and Bailey takes a look at Luke 15 through the fresh perspective of Middle Eastern peasants.

“…the whole village would know that the returning prodigal was in disgrace, and that punishment of some kind was inevitable, if only to preserve the father’s honour. But the father bears the suffering instead of inflicting it. Although ‘a man of his age and position always walks in a slow, dignified fashion’, and although ‘he has not run anywhere for any purpose for 40 years’, he yet ‘races’ down the road like a teenager to welcome his home-coming son. Thus risking the ridicule of the street urchins, ‘he takes upon himself the shame and humiliation due to the prodigal’.”

John Stott, The Cross of Christ, p. 259

Stott argues that the cross “can be seen as a proof of God’s love only when it is at the same time seen as a proof of his justice.” There is no more condemnation, for it has been borne by Christ, and now He can look upon us with favour. Our Father runs to embrace us, what else matters anymore? His love not only unrequited, but spat upon and rejected, yet he dies for a wretch such as I. What else matters anymore?

Oceans may sweep, mountains may fall, we may go through the worst torture and seen the cruelty of man. We may have been abused or traumatised. These are all difficult to forget, and neither should we carelessly forget them. But so long as God opens our eyes to our fallenness and sin, then we may claim, as David did in Psalm 32, blessed is the one whose sin is covered. When we remember God’s forgiveness, then we are blessed. And so the more we remember, the more we can forget. Our Father ran to embrace us, may we remember…

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

What a worm is

As I got about on my business today, I realised that even though I declared myself a worm, I am far from one. I would venture to say that most of us are rarely, if ever, metaphorically squirming on the ground. Sure we’d all like to admit that we are wretched and undeserving of grace and worthy of only judgment; sure we sing out our unfaithfulness and lack of faith. But deep down, it is such a rare thing for the human to realise his abject worthless. A true belief in our wretchedness is in want today.

Even in material poverty, we must make up as a substitute. One might say: sure, I have no money, but I went to good schools. And if we didn’t attend brand-name schools, perhaps one would say: sure I didn’t go to good schools, but at least I’m musically inclined and I know how to play many instruments. Or that I have a warm, cozy family, or that I have a good physique, or that I have pretty clothes, or that I look better than average, or that I have good friends close by, or that I have a precious child. You’ll then realise that every time we are faced with an insecurity, we invariably find something to give us a step to stand on, a level to hold on to – some thing that demonstrates our life is of value.

It’s hard, and even the disciples of Jesus didn’t see this. They weren’t people of high status to begin with, a menagerie of fishermen, tax collectors, and the like. The disciples exercised the ability to heal and cast our demons, walking with a powerful man with great authority. Following Jesus gave their lives value, they were part of the inner circle of the one who was to fulfil the prophecies, the one who would be king of the jews, the one who was beyond reproach. Therefore, they wanted him to stay, they didn’t understand his foretelling of dying on the cross; they even wrestled for a place next to him on his future throne.

Yes, sometimes even godliness provides transactional value. Many Christians professed to be wretched, but they really want to be exalted worms. They are content with moments of worminess as long as it can be seen. That’s because in this modern world, what it means to be a crawling worm is just too far-removed from us. Ironically, we aren’t that different from biblical times. We still value riches and recognition. We all want to be worth something. And we won’t realise it until we recognise the true meaning of worminess.

What does it mean to be a worm? To be a worm is to be naked. It is to be silent on questions of value or worth. The worm realises that nothing, not even a happy family keeps him secure. He is unhinged to earthly value, untethered, he has no security, yet he will find full security in Christ. It is to have nothing to fill the blank when we are asked to prove our worth. And I think it’s true to say that unless we live in a hole, we are asked to prove our worth everyday.

Proving our worth enables to live with some kind of dignity. And it is this that determines what is “below our dignity”. And it is also dignity that determines whom we serve. In our deepest moments of humility, we ought to ask tearfully, “who are you, that you should wait upon me?” Alas, most of the time, we ask differently; for years of stepping over and upon others make it hard to kneel down for the unworthy, and tailored shirts and golden watches do not make for good ol’ dirty labour.

Humility that comes with a heightened sense of self-worminess is hard for the young person – for he is constantly taught that he must fulfil his enormous potential, be great things, do great things, and perhaps change the world so he can be remembered. In this way, even though he starts at the bottom, his sights are only skyward, knowing that any humbling is temporary. He is a master of modesty, a hungry peacock dressed like a worm.

I hear the old struggle as well. D.A. Carson spoke of reading his father’s journals. The preacher’s father had been a church planter. He began preaching to ‘crowds’ of 15-20 people, and at the height of his ministry, preached to perhaps 50-60 people. This was difficult to comprehend. I sometimes think going into pastoral ministry can be exciting, preaching to crowds, having people talk to you and even needing you. Going to great conferences, enjoying nice lounges and meeting great people. But here there was one who was faithful to simple tasks, never dreaming or aspiring to be anything more than his true state.

D.A. Carson shared that one of his journal entries prayed that he would not commit the sins of an old man, of being jealous of the vitality and vigor and youthfulness of young ministers. Here was a man who only wanted to serve his master better. Here, D.A. Carson testifies that his dad was indeed, an unextraordinary man:

“Tom Carson never rose very far in denominational structures, but hundreds of people … testify how much he loved them. He never wrote a book, but he loved the Book. He was never wealthy or powerful, but he kept growing as a Christian: yesterday’s grace was never enough. He was not a far-sighted visionary, but he looked forward to eternity. He was not a gifted administrator, but there is no text that says “By this shall all men know that you are my disciples, if you are good administrators.” His journals have many, many entries bathed in tears of contrition, but his children and grandchildren remember his laughter. Only rarely did he break through his pattern of reserve and speak deeply and intimately with his children, but he modeled Christian virtues to them…

When he died, there were no crowds outside the hospital, no editorial comments in the papers, no announcements on the television, no mention in Parliament, no attention paid by the nation. In his hospital room there was no one by his bedside. There was only the quiet hiss of oxygen, vainly venting because he had stopped breathing and would never need it again.

But on the other side, all the trumpets sounded. Dad won entrance to the only throne-room that matters, not because he was a good man or a great man–he was, after all, a most ordinary pastor–but because he was a forgiven man. And he heard the voice of him whom he longed to hear saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant; enter into the joy of your Lord.”

Memoirs of an Ordinary Pastor: The Life and Reflections of Tom Carson

Here was an excellent worm, a wretched man who was silent on questions of value, and one that excelled in maintaining silence. We ought to loosen our grip on all things save Christ. The first will be last and the last will be first.

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

A glimpse of your smile

People that know me quite well will know that I’ve this tendency to deprive myself of good things if I know I have to endure bad things in between. Sometimes this sort of delayed gratification can be seen as self-flagellating. I wouldn’t deign to enjoy something for even a minute if I know that I have to enter a state when that joy will be removed from me. This means that I care more about ‘now’ than what has been. If an impending ‘now’ is going to be rough, then I shall put off any brief enjoyment and just endure through any difficulty.

This was most pronounced when I had to do my military service. I hated the farewells and the feeling of good company right before I went in for good. Because it made me feel so warm and fuzzy inside and that I had such good friends. I could bask in their presence and enjoy their laughter and their jokes. I knew I was alive to them, I was often the subject of their conversations. Yet when the time came to enter the army for the first time, it almost felt as if we never met. The separation was so thorough I struggled to think of them as real people in my life; and I soon forgot their smiles.

And this would go on for two years. Every time I had to report back, it would seem like I’m desperately soaking in any form of encouragement and positivity. Yet my heart was quite dead, distancing myself from it all, knowing that no matter how much I was encouraged, I couldn’t bring a friend in. You bring nothing in. And before long, you face that dreary walk into that dusty bunk, hidden away from civilisation. A place faraway from kindness, individuality, spontaneity and sometimes even hope. I remember the first time I came out I was so moved just to see grandmothers and middle-aged ladies walking about and getting on with their lives.

As I read through scripture this week, I realised that eternal separation is a big deal. And we don’t take it seriously because we don’t think hard enough what it truly entails. In some ways, what I faced doing serving in the military was a little shadow of what eternal separation might be like. It reminded me that perhaps I like pleasuring myself so much now, perhaps my exams/relationships/work assignments/interviews are life-defining at the moment, but when it passes, will it be worth it losing sight of God then, given what will be ‘now’? The ‘now’ of eternal separation?

As it has been since the earliest of days, since the time the Jews were exiled in Babylon, it was prophesied “And many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt.” What great woe if I arise but face everlasting contempt!

If you thought depression was bad, if you thought having a bad day at work was bad, wait until you experience death, death that signifies eternal separation, of having the wrath of God consume you, of having the father turn away from you, of seeing the Jesus not as merciful saviour but with eyes of fire ready to separate with you for eternity.

Even in our worst days, even when we think of death, even if we find no hope, there always is some hope, there’s always something worth living for. It’s a pity that we resort to cheap thrills to cheer us up. Yet consider this, there’s so much we can do, there’s still so much that is left to help us cheer up, brighten up, to enliven, to lift us, to comfort us, to make us smile. Yet consider what eternal separation entails, everything that could be remotely positive loses its function.

There is no encouragement, no good news, no respite, no cheerfulness, no reward, trust, no words that can provide a semblance of hope, no sympathy, no consolation or reassurance. One cannot be brave, resilient, forward-looking; cannot have endurance or perseverance that comes from some kind of determination. You will not suffer in silence, because there’s nothing to hold out for. Even your senses grieve you, you see fire and suffering, feel the biting of worms, hear the gnashing of teeth and smell burning sulphur. There is nothing that will stop your crying. Your tears will flow on for eternity, for you have been rejected God.

At that moment, you know you stand condemned, without any answer. You know that you deserve this shame and contempt, your life is a living testimony of an active rejection of God. O that I gave up something, anything! For these pleasures are alien to me now. I don’t remember the smell of sweet buns, the taste of luxury or the feeling of sensual pleasure. I was first and envied in the world, and all my heart’s deepest pleasures I didn’t deny; but now I am last.

Yet though being sinless, this was what Christ endured for us. Sometimes we think, “how could Jesus possibly know what I’m going through? How could Jesus possibly sympathise with me?” Well, he can, and not because he went through the same suffering you did, but because he went through the ultimate form of suffering, when His father would turn His gaze away from Christ.

Consider then the future glory that awaits. How everything that could ever hint at darkness does not make sense for those who are raised with Him. There will be no more tears, compromise, caveats; no misfortune, bad news, falsehood, gloom and annoyance; no more obstacles, challenges, antagonisms, no more naysaying. And we stand justified in trial, not looking at what we’ve done in our lives, but by that free gift on the cross. We look back wishing still we had done things differently. I knew it, I knew it! I knew it was worth it; alas, if only I had trusted Him more in my weakest moments! If only I had been more faithful. Yet, I waited and endured for His name in bitterness, and now I taste goodness and sweetness all my days. I was a servant, and now I am first.

Notwithstanding his theological flaws, Charles Wesley wrote many great hymns. And his last one went like this:

In age and feebleness extreme,
Who shall a helpless worm redeem?
Jesus, my only hope Thou art,
Strength of my failing flesh and heart:
O could I catch one smile from Thee,
And drop into eternity?

A dying man, a helpless worm. O for a glimpse of a smile, for a hint of favour, and that is sufficient for an eternity of comfort. The future is clear, and we can partake in the most joyous marriage supper of the Lamb, or we can forget the meaning joy and goodness, knowing only death. As my pastor once said, the book of Revelation sure is apocalyptic, but it is really filled with ethics: worship God, worship God.

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

Carefully fearing God

I remember weeks ago, as I turned the yellowed pages of my book on Narnia for a second time, a thought went through my head: “oh my, who would have thought such a rich and imaginative story that brings so much hope and joy would lay hidden and unopened for so long on my shelf.” And it’s amazing to think how bookstores can be storehouses of alternate worlds; mysterious, to be sure, but capable of bringing us to tears, or changing our worldview, or adding colour into our lives. If only we would look.

This week, I started watching a series by my favourite preacher (stylistically) on how to teach the book of Job. The clip ran on for almost 2 hours – far too long to retain the attentions of the average youtube surfer. Yet, once it started playing, it was too compelling to stop, and I went on to listen to the next two clips in the series. It was powerful in imparting beautiful biblical truths of Job, providing exegetical wisdom and insight into what is considered part of the bible’s wisdom literature. Yet, it was sad to see that there were a paltry 10 views.

Isn’t that the struggle of the modern Christian today? Sometimes we do our best to want to desire God, but these wonderful things simply get crowded out by catchier tunes, appealing visuals, and pure entertainment. It’s a hard struggle, and I find myself naturally gravitating towards content that is most highly viewed, the sort that receives the validation of the public. When I open youtube, my recommendations are either more sermons or classical music – recommendations that seem fitting for an old man. I admit, I always feel an urge to scroll further down to see if anything popular catches my eye, something that could give me a quick chuckle.

Yet, if there is anything that I’ve learnt from living in this world, it is that we ought to get suspicious whenever something transfixes us. That means to say that we should begin to feel worried whenever something soaks up all our attention and absorbs us entirely with little effort. It is an easy comparison. While we may find ourselves fully engrossed in reading a book, it certainly takes effort to pick it up and reenter another world, especially when we are tired. But realise how easy it is to spend hours upon hours watching shows and playing video games even if we are pooped out beyond imagination!

One reason why Christ will never humanly transfix us like these fleeting lights is because we come to taste and see His goodness experientially. And we experience Him only when we trust in His words, which produces a twofold effect: a realisation of our sinfulness and a healthy fear of God. And when do we most often run to Him except in our most desperate moments? And even then, we seek to lick our wounds more than to cast our hope on that eternal God, for to pray and ‘trust in God’ really isn’t what one would consider to be ‘practical advice’.

How then, shall we continue to work out our salvation? How will we keep our hearts and minds upon our true love? It is almost as if we are dating Christ long-distance: he’s too far away from our reality; or that Sundays are always just that distant light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I think that there’s no other way than to consistently pray for a healthy fear of the Lord, so that we may keep away from sin. Perhaps only then, may we begin to see more acutely the formation of a hardened heart, and then do all we can to flee.

This may mean we must be brave and honest to admit that we are so often sinning against God – whether by commission or omission. And sometimes that means we need to admit that our television choices are not pleasing to Him, and hence sinful, even if they give us something to cheer about. Sometimes it means that we need to reflect upon mindless scrolling, perhaps because we invite almost anything that catches our eye to educate and edify us. Sometimes that means confessing that we have become conceited, even if the world thinks that one was just being confident. After all, didn’t Augustine define sin as loving the wrong things? We can never be too careful. Here, I paraphrase D.A. Carson:

“You don’t resist temptation by being a nominal Christian, floating along in the comfort zone of the church, but flirting on the outside as far as you can go. Careless in your prayer life, careless in your bible reading, careless what you feed your eyes on.”

What he means by flirting, I believe, is that we so often toy with sin, wondering how far we can venture outside and yet still consider ourselves Christian. We try to push the boundaries and see how much we can get away with it. We think that as long as we don’t compromise on the minimal tenets of being a Christian, we shall be okay to bask in His grace. We protest and say: “well this doesn’t affect my church attendance/morning bible reading/treatment of others.” But that’s exactly what it does – make us minimal Christians.

The problem is that it is likely true that minimal Christians are unaccustomed to the fear of the Lord. In fact, we probably are only reminded to fear the Lord when we hear it in sermons. If so, then we ought not be surprised if minimal Christians are rejected on that final day. The Christian life is not “let go and let God.” We need to stay vigilant and be on our guard at all times, having the fear and reverence of God be at the forefront of our thoughts, just as Joseph had when Potiphar’s wife tried to seduce him. “How can I do such a wicked thing and sin against God?” Joseph asked. “But,” we protest, “I’m not committing adultery!” Not physically, yet haven’t our eyes too often strayed from our true love? Truly, Satan is prowling about, ready to sift us like wheat.

The Christian life is like sailing a ship. As we seek our maker over the boundless horizons, losing sight of our destination leads us to accumulate things that will only increase our load. Eventually, we may find ourselves too content with circling the waters, being blown about wherever the wind takes us. Inevitably, we find that there’s too much cargo that’s too precious to overthrow, and it’s almost impossible to imagine a life without A and B and C. Then, we shall not be surprised that after decades, we still struggle with the same issues, never growing closer to Christ and never making progress on sanctification. How ironic, we mortals, ever still full of folly and stubbornness.

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

A new chapter

Returning home for good has been more than disorienting and I have yet to fully comprehend why. Even as I have yearned so much to get my ‘real’ life back, I thought about how much I had lost. While I can be smiling almost deliriously when I’ve finally tasted food familiar to my upbringing, there has been far less joy than I had expected. Even as I have traded so many undesirable things for orderliness, cleanliness, and unparalleled safety – something I had been seriously pining for – there’s still a part in me that wonders if it was worth it. When I stepped out of the house for the first time, I almost felt embarrassed, abashed for my little foibles, however unseen they were, and it was a curious sort of anxiety.

Maybe it’s just me indulging in this reverie, as I sit and stare at familiar sights, I can’t really figure out where I had been or what I had been doing over the past year. It’s almost as if I never left, and the birds never stopped chirping, nor did anything really change in my absence. Well, not that I was expecting it to change, but the sameness of it all left me wondering if I was actually alive and well in the past year or so. All of a sudden, all the friends and people I was fond of now seem dead to me; well, metaphorically at least, for time now places such a great distance between us. But maybe there’s more.

Perhaps in returning home there’s this startling setback to the new life that I was happy to lead. All of a sudden, I was back to where I grew up in, where I had inculcated years of brattiness and wanton licentiousness. The moment I stepped back home, I saw ever so clearly the old pathways and patterns of sin that were beckoning to me and telling me to let down my guard. It’s almost as if I had gone on a pilgrimage, so painstakingly shorn myself of the worldliness of an old sinful life, and returned home to luxury and royalty – the very things that would burden and distress me. And this, I guess, was the existential anxiety that truly gripped me, now much more than ever before; and I can’t help but question the reality of any growth I had experienced, even my newfound identity in Christ.

And there goes the story of my travels in the ‘land of the free’, as transient as a short holiday and leaving no mark on me as I resume old patterns, revive old networks, and recollect train routes. The truth is, many of us place so much emphasis on travelling and international experiences, thinking they change us so much; but the reality is that they don’t. All these changes are but window dressings, good stories to tell and interesting perspectives that may or may not shape our worldview; but they do not change our cores. If anyone is expecting that going abroad will dramatically change them as a person, then they are underestimating that assimilating effect of home, engulfing us as a sure and wholesome tide, swallowing any other inherited quirk or bohemian tendency. Very soon, we realise our social media worthy rhapsodies give way to the realism of what I call ‘village life’.

Yet, thankfully, that’s still not all. Amidst the near anguish I felt at having ‘lost’ everything to an almost imagined world that I hardly could ever access again, amidst the self-doubt that ensued from this reorienting process, I had been silently reassured: my heart has changed. Even as the things around me are the same, even as my home culture constitutes the core of what it means to be familiar, I cannot believe that I’m the same person who left. And this is not because of the magical properties that the dust of a foreign land had on my poor soul; It is nothing more than the reanimating effect of the word that breathes new life into jaded lives. If anything, I have not ‘inherited’ something from this land that makes me stand out in an incongruent way, I have merely continued the pursuit of a glorious vision I had received. If I yearned for continuity, I would find that my bible remains by my side, and the God that I pray to remains unceasing in His faithfulness.

That itself was sufficient to remind me – amidst all the things that I have lost, never to return for good – that I was living, and it was not some dream. The question for me now, and my present task and struggle is: how do I live that life in an old environment? And I shall find that the answer to this question is that it’s no less of a fiery spiritual battle, out of which, complete reliance on God will result in the surety of deliverance and victory, now and forever.

signing off,

Fatpine. 

Ands & Buts

There seems to be several unique inflexions in our state of self in different periods of our lives. And these different states of being all invite us to respond to God in very different ways. As a newborn we cry out for attention; and, in our solipsistic states, we can only believe we exist, even if we see other beings. There is no empathizing, and we need to be served, to have our needs met by others. Yet when we grow far older, when we mature into adults and are capable of exercising our own judgment – when we are declared as citizens and capable of being responsible for our deeds, we become a far different creature altogether.

It’s easy to accuse a child of acting like a baby, demonstrating outward petulance and lack of concern for others. But adults are just as able to demonstrate the same concern for themselves, only that it’s a more sinister sort, a kind that is less willing to yield to another authority, a kind of concern that is willing to refuse all reformation or rehabilitation. It is no wonder that Jesus calls us to be like children – not babies – for the guileless candor of childhood has a unique orientation: it seeks, and it will inevitably find.

I’ve been wondering for a while about why there are few middle-aged men in the vicinity whose lives are worthy of emulating. It’s only when I stepped abroad did I find more models of Godly men and women in their middle-ages. And these men were like little children. What differentiates children from toddlers or grown adults is that they realize that the world is not about them. They begin to realize that they are without authority in this world of big people; yet adults have long cemented their authority and are happy to listen to no other people but themselves.

Yet life is not so straightforward. What comes with adulthood is added responsibility. It’s easy to have the innocence of doves and the nature of a child when I’m on my own. When I miss my flight, I still experience peace like a river. When I’m hard done, I simply shrug and walk away. But then when you are not alone, you realize there are some things that you have to be aggressive for, or people will go hungry, miss their flights, or be lost in the stampede. It’s hard to look at a few other familiar faces looking back at you for answers, and it’s hard to say: it’s okay, let us pray, let us be content with possessing God. It is no wonder that adulthood may change many of the most well-meaning Christians, for it is easy to turn to everything else we know, everything but God.

And so we must resist that kind of adulthood that presumes to know all things and has a ready solution for everything. We must resist that life – even when we are responsible for other lives, so that at all times, we possess a steady and peaceful demeanor, one that is beyond the reach of other men and circumstances. In the same way, we must be ready to propel God first in our thoughts, not just the highest ones, for in doing so, we simply reserve thoughts for God for certain occasions, confining God to some monastery or quiet place.

But it’s not only during situations of duress, or when we have lives to tend after that we lose sight of God. It is already present in our daily goings-on, as long as we would pay attention. Accustomed to a life distant from hellfire and brimstone, we have learnt to add more conditions – what Tozer calls “god-and”. And this is most evident in our ministries. When we become accustomed to everything-but-God, our own services to Him in whatever ministries we are apart of inevitably becomes God-and. What makes us think that our work style in church is so dramatically different from that in our own lives? God-and, as I have written before, assumes that God is the center, but it does merely that. It does not cherish it; neither does it tend towards magnifying it. Tozer is sharp to point this out – if we omit the “and”, we shall soon find God, and everything else in our lives that we have been secretly longing.

For the longest time have I been living such a life of “God-and”. Perhaps I don’t believe that I will be fully satisfied with the knowledge of God’s blessed assurance. Perhaps I look on with envy at others and want similar lives. I have unknowingly built a long list of ands – of friend to know and be fully known by, of one to walk the rest of my days with, of career fulfillment, of a happy family of my own and so on. Yet I may never enjoy any of these blessings.

Even so, as we look at children who momentarily feel a loss of purpose when they are denied an object of desire, we must also look at ourselves from a higher perspective. We may have lost our toys, but we have something better. Just as the tribe of Levi was not given an inheritance in Canaan, they received the Lord Himself. If it seems almost like a cold comfort, then this is the revelatory of our heart’s condition, a condition that will find contentment in God and a ton of other irrelevant things.

Such a state of mind reduces God to a consolation: “yes, we have God, but…” or, “yes, we need God, and…” Yet, is He not our main prize? Is he not our abiding possession? Will we not rejoice even when our property is plundered save our everlasting treasure? When living conditions went awry in the cold winter months, several missionaries turned their backs on the Chinese and left. Hudson Taylor said this:

 “I do not envy the state of mind that would forget these, or leave them to perish, for fear of a little discomfort. May God make us faithful to Him and to our work.”

We may lose our toys and our great desires, but we never lose God. We must be like children and yearn and seek for one thing in all circumstances great and small, on our own or with others, so God help us. Yet, we shouldn’t presume to foist this on others. For it is a consolation to tell a hurting soul: yes, you lost this, but you still have God, so don’t forget! For God will surely judge the hardness of our hearts in such a situation.

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

Vanity, possessions, and other thoughts

I finally set out on my travels, which is always exciting at first, until I begin to realise that I’m slowly dying inside, as if something is whittling away. Is this what it looks like to live as if bitten by ‘wanderlust’, as many young moderns call it? If so, there is hardly anything admirable about it. Maybe it is addictive only because it gives others something to talk about.

As I told my travel companions, part of what I’m learning in these recent days is also about my travel preferences, about what I actually get energised by. For this reason I have been open to trying just about anything. But then I finally realised that I really love looking at the wonders of nature, especially if these places are difficult to access. By that I mean that it requires a trek through slippery stones before we encounter a majestic waterfall, enduring through arid and dry heat before we are treated to the sloping gradients of a canyon, and to have to climb a steep hill before we take in the breathtaking view of the wide ocean – so wide and vast that its gravity we feel through the subtle tremors in the ground.

There are two reasons why these appeal to me. Firstly, we savour the things that require much effort to achieve; secondly, there is nothing more beautiful and more good than God’s creation.

Yet, in our own ways, we sully these beautiful moments – indeed, we disregard and steal the glory from our creator – when we allow ourselves to be distracted by our own vanity. How often have I been too eager to capture the moment, to be too concerned with representation of artistry from one angle to the next that I fail to soak it in, to imprint it in my minds eye. In our rush for time, I decided that it might be more profitable to take great photos of the famed horseshoe bend than to just marvel at its profound beauty.

Indeed, it was beauty beyond any description of words because it knows no human standard of artistry. It is not a mere symmetric blend of the right colours and the subtle touches that tell some queer story of the artist’s technique or even life story. It just is. It is beautiful. And perhaps Genesis will remind us – it’s beautiful because it was created good. But we try to transpose it so that it becomes a measure of something for our vanity’s sake. It becomes a been-there badge of pride, and in all our obsessions to show it to the world, it is reduced to a digital myriad of colours.

My short travels has also given me some thoughts about finding security in things we own. Here I sit in a great hall of a large house by the ocean – the house of the chancellor of a famed university that I can now call my temporary home by virtue of a friend of a friend. When we first stepped in we all had our mouths agape because it was no less of a resort. Aside from the luxurious carpets that spread across the wooden floors, there were thick beams of mahogany that lined the ceilings, original paintings by Dr. Seuss, great halls with premium leather couches and even a spacious patio that overlooks the far blue ocean. I’m told that this house is even a heritage site, and a week ago was graced by the Dalai Lama.

Impressive. At first, maybe. Beyond the initial awe, I quickly realised that the chancellor owned none of it. In fact, he owned nothing at all. Which is an odd feeling isn’t it? I wonder what really happens when we own anything at all. In fact, I think having a stake in something is more profound than we think. Ownership is not merely a matter of legally appropriating an object, there is almost a noumenal, spiritual, connection to the object; and it profoundly affects the state of our soul.

In a unique way, living as chancellor almost invites one to live fruitfully as a sojourner in this world. Even as these things are made of the finest craftsmen and are bought with the most precious jewels, we feel no attachment to it at all. Indeed, a diamond means nothing to us if we do not own it, even if left in our possession for the longest time.

If we can extend this view of stewardship to all areas of our lives, even the things and the people we can rightfully deem as ‘ours’, then we might be more fruitful in our devotions to our king – and the true owner of all the heavens and the earth. It would also then become clear what we are striving for, because nobody strives to live in the house of a chancellor; they strive to be the head of a reputed university, and the house is a mere perk, a little icing, a complimentary gift, if you will.

This puts to bed the idea that we need to live the austere life of a puritan constantly denying ourselves additional pleasures – so long as they do not serve as distractions. Likewise, if we find ourselves in luxury as a result of striving after God, we should be able to enjoy it fully knowing that it is merely complimentary, it is a grace, a blessing, but incomparable to blessing of being known by God. The difference is clear as night and day, and we needn’t make modest excuses of “struggling” with having the right motives, as some disingenuously claim.

If ownership matters so much then, what do we make of that which we own – our abiding possession of salvation? It is a difficult thought. Yet, as a read Mueller, it becomes slightly clearer to me.

Having given his life and all his possessions in service to God through his ministry to the orphans, one kind sir attached some money in a letter to him one day, asking that this money not be used for maintaining his ministry as is often the case, but be used to maintain himself and his family. But Mueller saw this as a temptation to put his trust in something other than God Himself. This was his reply:

My dear Sir,

I hasten to thank you for your kind communication… I have no property whatever, nor has my dear wife; nor have I had one single shilling regular salary as Minister of the Gospel for the last twenty-six years, nor as the director of the Orphan House… When I am in need of anything, I fall on my knees and ask God that He would be pleased to give me what I need; and He puts it in the heart of someone or other to help me. Thus all my wants have been amply supplied during the last twenty-six years, and I can say, to the praise of God, I have lacked nothing. My dear wife and only child, a daughter of twenty-four years old, are of the same mind. Of this blessed way of living none of us is tired, but we become day by day more convinced of its blessedness.

I have never thought it right to make provision for myself, or my dear wife and daughter, except in this way, that when I have seen a case of need, such as an aged widow, a sick person, or a helpless infant, I have seen the means freely which God has given me, fully believing that if either myself, or my dear wife or daughter, at some time or other, should be in need of anything, that God would richly repay what was given to the poor, considering it as lent to Himself. Under these circumstances, I am unable to accept your kind gift… towards making a provision for myself and family, for so I understand your letter…

What a great example indeed! May we live full and blessed lives, if not as chancellors, then as high priests of God, to own nothing but that one treasure, and have the knowledge of this possession condition our actions in our remaining fleeting days.

signing off,

Fatpine.