Christian currencies

As I confidently sang some of my favourite hymns one Sunday morning, I noticed a latecomer enter the hall. I didn’t know him very well, but from my brief interactions with him, as well as in observing the reactions of those around him, it seemed that he wasn’t the most popular person. Well, it’s not that he’s unpopular, but maybe he’s just not as sociable, and quite lacking in the “it” factor that popular, perfect Christians have. Yet as I eyed him walk in, I noticed he took a detour to shake the hand of a girl sitting in the row in front of me. The girl was a paraplegic sat in a wheelchair. After he left, she strained her body backward so that she could see her benefactor for one more time.

This girl was the beneficiary of acceptance, and it struck me that so few have been so humble to receive others like that. In Mark chapter 10, the disciples rebuked people who brought children to Jesus. But Jesus was indignant, declaring, “Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.” This wasn’t the first time. Back in Chapter 9, right after the disciples discussed about greatness, Jesus picks up a child and says, “whoever receives one such child in my name receives me, and whoever receives me, receives not me but him who sent me.”

Right after this event in Chapter 9, the disciples want to oust a man from this imagined spiritual superworld, because they were not of their inner circle. This exorcist was casting out demons by the name of Jesus. The disciples were jealous for their name: they were the kosher disciples of Christ. They had gathered a name and reputation for themselves. They had no time for people who, by their status, could not bequeath any glory to the disciples, neither could they stand others who tried to be like them. Unbeknowst to themselves, they were slowly cultivating the hard hearts of the Pharisees in the start of Chapter 10, who were so well-versed in the law, but did not understand its purpose.

And then comes along an earnest young man who kneels before Jesus. “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” He asks. This man must be the real deal. He has done everything right from birth, and he appears to be such a godly person. We are not unlike them, we know and like and celebrate the “perfect” Christians in our churches. We court them, pursue them, want their friendship, delight in their company. Their presence makes us feel good, closer to God perhaps. They have so much to offer us. But hidden deep in this young man’s heart is an idol he will not relinquish: his great wealth. He walks away dismayed, thinking he had done what was sufficient, but he had nothing to offer God in return for righteousness.

These sequence of events must have dealt a heavy blow to the disciples, as it has for me. “Then who can be saved?” they ask, exasperated. They thought they were in the right circles, and even when they saw someone more perfect then they, they were disappointed to discover that he fell short. Jesus tells them, with man, it is impossible, but with God, anything is possible.

We know that there’s nothing we can bring to God in return for salvation; yet we secretly think we are still of some value. It shouldn’t surprise us that even Christians amass for themselves some kind of ‘spiritual currency’, thinking that being good at understanding the bible, attending the right talks, serving in the right ministries, doing the right disciplines, hanging in the correct circles, should earn us enough to be accepted. In favour of these currencies, we are often too happy to make split-decision evaluations of the people we want to include, and those we want to exclude, just as the disciples did, looking on with envy at the rich, moral man, looking on in disdain at children, and people who weren’t ‘first-raters’.

But relooking at what it means when Jesus said that, “whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it,” one way is to see it as Jesus making some obvious qualifications to entering heaven: have the attitude of trusting, dependent children. I learnt that another way is to read it like so: you will not enter the kingdom of God unless you receive it like how you receive children. In other words, only those who are humble enough to receive children (who are of low status), will truly receive the entry. This speaks to the person’s attitude. Are we completely surrendered, having nothing at all to offer? This is humility, and only having emptied our hands can we truly receive this gift in full.

I have dabbled too long in this Christian trade. No matter how tamed I was by a camp, sermon, book, spiritual high, I could never escape this hidden thought at the back of my head: surely, I have something to offer. Surely, I am of some value. For this reason, it was far too easy for me to stay within Christian circles, cultivating friendships with popular, godly people; yet I had little time and patience for those who did not put God first. I thought, perhaps, I was just being rightfully focused on God’s kingdom. But little did I realise that I was filling up my hands with these currencies and looking to Jesus for a fair trade.

Nothing in my hand I bring, simply to the cross I cling.

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. 

Tales of a worm

Let me write about what I’ve been doing and thinking of recently.

Sweet sweet fellowship

I started classes in a preaching course a month or so ago. And it’s on nights when there are classes that I feel most recharged and refreshed. It’s a wonderful fellowship that encourages me. Even though we don’t have much time to talk about life or struggles, the small conversations we have always make me feel that I’m not alone in my walk with God. Every Monday, one sister will rush in, slightly late from work and sit on my left. And during breaks we’ll share a joke or two and chat a little. Greg, who’s probably old enough to be my father, sits beside me as well, and will tell me about his work and his opinions of the passage. Graham, a wonderful full-time ministry worker, will ask me every week how my week went, and how I did for my interviews with genuine interest. It didn’t feel like they had somewhere else to be, we were just around one another, and even for such a short moment, I enjoyed it, and give thanks for that.

A passionate preacher for Christ

Perhaps due to the number of books I read and my pensive disposition, sharing my thoughts in a more formal setting has never been too difficult. Yet, in retrospect, my sharings were no different from my blogposts, too often lacking in real, biblical content. And it’s really exciting to be able to learn how to teach the bible and to say what it’s saying. It’s as exciting as solving a puzzle as one attempts to unlock hidden treasures with the help of the spirit.

Over the past weeks, I was greatly impressed by a classmate of mine. Both of us are of the same age, the youngest students in the class. The first week we met, he was a quiet and unassuming, almost bashful guy, even if he told me he had intentions of going into seminary. Yet, when all eyes were on him as he assumed centre-stage for his turn at exposition, he spoke with fiery passion and utter conviction that it almost terrified me. My heart warmed to know that future generations of passionate preachers are now in the making, and just being in the presence of such people is greatly encouraging and edifying.

Love and truth

One theme over the past few months has been the struggle between love and truth. As a Christian, it’s easy to think that we ought to let truth lead the way most of the time. Yet, I’ve been reminded again and again that it is love that should lead the way. That doesn’t mean that we tolerate untruth and just cast a blanket over all things. It simply means that not every thing is about asserting the truth.

And this, I think, might also be one aspect of what it means to count others more significant than ourselves. Because sometimes we aren’t really fighting for the truth, but for our integrity. In other words, our pride. The bible doesn’t say: defend me always, must have the last word. On the contrary, it says to deny yourself. And sometimes it means not having the last word, for to win the argument but lose an opportunity to love is a pyrrhic victory.

Disqualifying myself

I think one of the greatest struggles of engaging in word ministry is in being a hypocrite. My supposition is that the more pastors preach, the more they realise how wretched they are. Even though I’m not a pastor, nor do I have a congregation to preach to, reading the bible with others too often can feel like I’m simply taking on a different persona, like filling a role.

Add to the fact that you may read the same material with different people again and again, and it almost feels as if you’re simply going through a lesson plan. Every Christian thus needs to be preached to, for the struggles of those who engage in word ministry are even greater. Just as Paul said in 1 Corinthians 9, there’s a need to run to Christ often and beat one’s body into submission, lest one is disqualified by one’s preaching. A great struggle indeed.

Work

Finding work has been a trial in itself. Having gone to a handful of interviews, I oscillate between great anxiety and having immense patience for God’s plans. Yet, the reality is that I think I’m not even worried about really finding work; I’m more concerned about finding good work. And the true reason why I’m anxious is only because of pride. But anything that humbles me is good for me. My greatest gain I count as loss. It really doesn’t matter if people think poorly of me. That’s what I try to tell myself anyway. I trust it will come, even if it must utterly humble me.

My abject worminess

There are some days that I look back at what I do and ask despairingly: shall there be any redemption for a worm like myself? Thankfully, the final answer is always: yes there is, yes there is! Is that not the most comforting thing? Ironically, I especially enjoy the days that I feel the most wretched, because there is nothing that clouds my sight and I see clearly who I am and whom I need.

Shall I tell you what it’s like to feel like a worm? Don’t be mistaken, it’s not a crisis of self-confidence or an attempt at sulking over my pitiful self. Curiously, when I feel like a worm worthy of damnation, it is not a coy admission of guilt, because at that moment, I feel that even if people hurl the worst abuses and accusations or even rocks at me, I will have no strength to answer. The paradox is that it leads to a renewed view of hope and a glimpse of glorious splendour.

If I wake up every morning realising what a wretched worm I am, I would believe that I’m one of the most blessed people on earth.

Signing off,

Fatpine.