I know we have spent a lot of time talking about doubt here, and I promise to take a break from the subject over the next few weeks. (Perhaps I should consider giving it up for Lent!) But a few things made another post seem like a good idea.

The first was your response to last week’s post about “Embracing Doubt.” Several of your comments really got me thinking. The second was a blog post written by Mike Duran in which he fairly and respectfully criticizes me and other “emerging” Christians for glorifying doubt. The conversation that followed his post made me realize that perhaps I need to be clearer about what I mean when I talk about doubt.  And the third was an absolutely fantastic post by Dr. Richard Beck entitled “Faith and Doubt After the Cognitive Turn,” which was brought to my attention by a reader. I highly recommend reading the whole piece, but here a few highlights:

…Intellectual doubt has become particularly acute for many Christians due to the fact that there has been a hollowing out of faith in many sectors of Christianity. More specifically, for many Christians faith simply means "belief." Further, "belief" is taken to mean "I think proposition x is true.”…Faith becomes an abstract, intellectual, cognitive, and rationalistic process. And the implication is that if you can't get your intellect in line then you don't have faith...In the bible faith is never understood to be unshakable intellectual confidence. In the bible faith is more similar to perseverance, obedience, covenant faithfulness or worship.

When I read those last few words, I felt as though Beck had said what I’ve been trying to get at for years—that the most important indicator of unhealthy doubt is not having intellectual questions about your beliefs, but failing to obey.

As I’ve said before, the line between healthy doubt (doubting one’s beliefs about God) and unhealthy doubt (doubting God Himself) often gets blurred. Having been through both, I know from experience that one can lead to stronger faith and one can lead to sin.

So with that in mind, I compiled a list of six indicators that can help us measure the health of our doubt.

Three Indicators of Bad Doubt

1. Disobedience

My friend Dave puts it this way, “Belief is always a risk, a gamble—an adventure, if you will. The line between faith and doubt is the point of action. You don't need certainty to obey, just the willingness to risk being wrong.”

When I allow my questions about God to stop me from taking the risk of obedience, I am guilty of sin. When I let intellectual certainty dictate whether I continue to love my neighbors, care for the poor, fellowship with other Christ-followers, study Scripture, pray, serve and love, I become “like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind” (James 1:6), for I am slave to my cognitive whims.

For example, it is not a sin to have questions about my interpretation of Genesis in light of the science that supports evolution.  It is a sin to allow these questions to kill my prayer life or keep me from reading the Bible altogether.

2.  Entitlement

Entitlement happens when I start demanding answers from God, as if he owes me an explanation for everything.

In the book of Job, God rebukes both Job and his friends. Job was rebuked for his entitlement, for acting as a “faultfinder contending with the Almighty” (Job 40: 1).  Job’s friends were rebuked for claiming to know all the answers about why Job was suffering (Job 42:7). Job repented. His friends did not.  It seems to me that we have to avoid both the sin of entitlement (demanding an explanation) and the sin of pride (assuming we already know it all). Unfortunately, I’ve spent far too much time bouncing between these extremes.

3. Cynicism

As Jeff noted in the comments last week, “I have found it important to not pair up cynicism with my doubt. It's easy to do that, and it does more bad than good, only leading to more restlessness.”

Boy, I can relate to that! There have been times when I have allowed my intellectual objections to some of the tenants of conservative evangelical Christianity turn me into a bitter, argumentative person, eager to play the devil’s advocate at every opportunity. I become cynical of everything evangelical, and I look for ways to belittle those with whom I disagree. This is clearly a sin. Even if I’m right about something, without love, I become nothing more than an annoying, clanging symbol (1 Corinthians 13:1). When I am cynical, I am rendered useless in the Kingdom of God, which is inherited by the poor, the gentle, the meek, and the merciful.

Three Indicators of Good Doubt

1. Obedience

One thing I love about Mother Teresa is that, despite experiencing many days of dark doubt, she continued to serve the people around her.  To me, obedience in the face of doubt is perhaps the strongest kind of faith there is.  

2.  Humility

The best kind of doubt is the kind that springs from humility—from an acknowledgment that we haven’t got God figured out, from a willingness to admit we can be wrong, and from a commitment to think critically about our beliefs. We doubt with humility when we recognize that our theology is not the moon, but rather the finger pointing at the moon.  In this way, I think it is essential that we doubt, for we are not doubting God, but rather ourselves. If we do not learn to question our beliefs, we will grow arrogant and prideful, unwilling to change our minds even when it’s the right thing to do.

3. Love

Love should be our motivation behind everything, particularly doubt. The person who loves God will often choose to struggle through intellectual objections rather than ignore them or succumb to them. The person who loves his neighbors and his enemies will often ask serious questions of himself, of the Church, and of God about how to truly care for them. 

The Apostle Paul wrote, “For now we see in a mirror dimply, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known. These three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” (I Corinthians 13:12-13)

In order to embrace the tension between knowing fully and being fully known, we must learn to abide in love. It is even more important than faith.

So, what would you add? What are some other indicators that your doubt is hurting your faith? What are some other indicators that your doubt is strengthening your faith?

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I had so much fun interacting with those of you who participated in the “Ask Me Anything” post. The best thing about blogging is the opportunity to connect with smart, fun, and interesting people, and I’m convinced my readers are the best in the blogosphere!

So today I thought I’d turn the tables and ask a few open-ended questions that will give you the chance to share whatever’s on your mind.

Feel free to take the opportunity to pimp your blog, to make Super Bowl predictions, to share with us the challenges you face, to tell a story, to express an opinion, to let us know what you’re reading, to include a link or two, to vent, to celebrate. Think of it as open mic night on the blog.

So,

What have you been thinking about?

What have you been writing about?

What have you been praying about?

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Today you can ask me anything, and I’ll answer.

Well, almost anything. Obviously, I won’t answer questions that are wildly inappropriate or in any way related to math.  I will not give you money, adopt your pets, or pitch your book to my agent unless we have already talked about that. Also, you should know that Dan and I have yet to watch last night’s season premiere of LOST, so theories will have to wait until tomorrow, after we’ve seen it on Hulu.

Besides that, you can ask me anything—about writing, about theology, about politics, about small-town life, about the blog, about The Mission, about monkeys, about Alabama Crimson Tide football, about doubt, about faith, about music, about movies, about publishing, about life. 

Just leave your question in the comments and I'll use the reply feature to respond.

(I’ll answer each question just once, so as to avoid overly lengthy discussions about predestination and free will.)

As Jason said in his post, “If you don't ask any questions, this will be the worst blog post ever. So I'm counting on you.”

Ask away!

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Quiz—

When I am presented with a new idea or proposal, my first question is more likely to be ...

___A. Is it acceptable to my religious/ideological community or belief system?
___B. Is it possibly true, valuable, and worth exploring?

According to McLaren, if your answer is ‘A,’ you are a fundamentalist, and if your answer is ‘B’ then you are curious.

McLaren draws his inspiration from Seth Godin’s definitions for fundamentalism and curiosity. In his excellent book, Tribes, Godin writes:

A fundamentalist is a person who considers whether a fact is acceptable to his religion before he explores it.  As opposed to a curious person who explores first and then considers whether or not he wants to accept the ramifications.  A curious person embraces the tension between his religion and something new, wrestles with it and through it, and then decides whether to embrace the new idea or reject it.

When I first encountered the quiz, my reaction was, Why of course I’m not a fundamentalist! At least not anymore. I approach every new idea with an open mind and a willingness to embrace the truth no matter the consequences. I’ve voluntarily studied the science behind evolution, despite being told my whole life that it’s incompatible with my faith. I’ve read Richard Dawkins, Thich Nhat Hahn, and Friedrich Nietzsche. I’ve re-evaluated my position on politics, on homosexuality, on biblical inerrancy, on religious pluralism, and on church. I may be a person of faith, but I’m no fundamentalist!

But upon further reflection, I realized that if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that my first question when encountering a new idea is almost always, Does this fit with my faith?  It’s my default—perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of fear, perhaps because it’s part of the human condition to be wary of anything that might upset one’s current paradigm.

In fact, I have the same initial reaction when I am presented with a new perspective on politics or theology. My first question is almost always, Does this fit with what I already believe?  I hate to admit it, but my enthusiasm for exploring a subject is directly proportional to the degree to which I want to change my mind.

The difference, I suppose, is that over the past few years I’ve learned that my faith is strong enough to withstand new ideas and hard questions. I no longer let the question Does this fit with my faith? stop me from exploring. If all truth is God’s truth, then I figure I’ve got nothing to be afraid of.

I love Godin's perspective on fundamentalism and curiosity, and I'd like to think that I’m the kind of person who “embraces the tension between [her] religion and something new, wrestles with it and through it, and then decides whether to embrace the new idea or reject it.”

But this is a learned response for me, not a natural one. I’m afraid that my gut reaction will always be A, not B. I'm afraid that, deep down, I'm a fundamentalist at heart.

What about you? Based on this quiz, are you a fundamentalist?

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So Jason Boyett and I have been talking about the fact that we’re not the only ones writing about doubt these days. In addition to Jason’s memoir, O Me of Little Faith (due out in May), and my memoir, Evolving in Monkey Town (due out in July), Zondervan has re-released John Ortberg’s book on the subject, now entitled Know Doubt.

Either the folks at Zondervan are having a collective faith crisis, or the evangelical community is finally opening up about doubt.

On the blogosphere this week, Scot McKnight posted a letter from a young adult wrestling with doubts about his faith. Scot’s response was absolutely fantastic, and something I desperately wish I had encountered five years ago, when I first started asking serious questions about Christianity.  He recommended a few books that I plan to order on my oh-so-old-school Kindle: The Myth of Certainty by Daniel Taylor and Faith at the Edge by Robert Wennberg.

Also online, check out John Frye’s piece entitled “Doubters Arise!” and the very cool illustrations of David Hayward at NakedPastor.com, from where I got the illustration above, (after buying David a beer, of course). 

And finally, I thought the conversation that followed Monday's post, "Does God Speak to You?" was one of the best we have ever had here, and I was so moved by your stories, many of which included your struggles with doubt.

All of this points to what I hope is a trend toward talking more openly about doubt and acknowledging the vital role it can play in shaping our faith. As I’ve mentioned before, doubt can take two forms—questioning God and questioning what we believe about God. Having experienced both, I know that the first can be destructive, while the second can be enriching and beneficial, though admittedly the line between them can sometimes get blurred.  But I remain convinced that serious doubt, the kind that leads to despair, does not begin when we start asking God questions, but when out of fear, we stop.

What do you think? Are Christians developing a more nuanced attitude toward doubt? Do you feel it is becoming less  taboo to talk openly about your questions about Christianity? Is this a good thing?

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Here’s a fun way to get to know one another better.

Send a “postcard” from:

1. Your current hometown.

2. The most far-away place you have ever been.

3. The place you would most want to be if you could snap your fingers and go now.

Feel free to include as many details as you please!

I’ll start.

1. Dayton, Tennessee—home of the famous Scopes Monkey Trial of 1925.

2. India—where the sights, sounds, colors, tastes and smells are impossible to describe. (I took the picture at the Red Fort in Delhi.)

3. Glacier National Park, Montana—the most beautiful spot in America, though I would want to wait until summer to be there!

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“I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do because I notice it always coincides with their own desires.”

- Susan B. Anthony

There are two things that make me feel out-of-place among my fellow Christians.

The first is my tendency to ask a lot of questions.

The second is the fact that God doesn’t speak to me—at least not the way he seems to speak to other believers.

We’ve talked a lot about the first. But until now, I’ve been afraid to talk about the second.  I guess I’ve been afraid of being judged, afraid of being told I need more faith, afraid of getting kicked out of the club, afraid of spending another sleepless night worried that I’m not among God’s chosen after all.

I probably would have kept quiet were it not for the nagging feeling that maybe I’m not alone. Maybe there are other Christians out there who are trying to follow Jesus without the advantage of play-by-play instructions.

In Funeral for a Stranger, Becca Stevens put it this way:

To be honest, I am not sure how people have conversations with God, where God has an actual voice. I’m not saying it isn’t possible, but it’s always awkward for me to listen as people report these conversations…There have been beautiful and faithful people who have said God tells them what to get at the grocery store, whom to date, and what to wear. That God has a voice different from theirs is hard for me to grasp. The God of their understanding is much more detailed than the God of my understanding. Sometimes the stories leave me feeling as though God is less than God and not the author of life and love. I am a little cynical and skeptical about it all. (p. 12-13)

Like Stevens, I know a lot of good, godly people who believe that God tells them where to live, who to marry, what jobs to take, what books to write, and which people to serve. I love these people dearly, but sometimes I get frustrated with them because, in claiming God’s calling, they often close themselves off to the wise counsel of friends.  When questions about a particular decision are met with “God wants it this way,” dialog shuts down and the community is stifled because no one wants to come across as arguing with God.

I’ve watched in dismay as people have made terrible decisions with terrible consequences, all in the name of God’s calling. Often these dear friends express confusion and anger upon realizing that maybe they were wrong, maybe God didn’t tell them to this specific thing after all. It’s sad because God comes across as looking like a bad communicator at best, and fickle and unreliable at worst.

This may be one reason why, like Stevens, I have trouble swallowing the idea that God has a different voice from our own, giving us real-time directions about what to do next.

For me, it works more like this:

I already know what God wants me to do. He wants me to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with him (Micah 6:8). He wants me to love him with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love my neighbor as myself (Matthew 22:36-40). He wants me to go and make disciples of every nation (Matthew 28:19). He wants me to imitate Jesus (Ephesians 5:1).

Remaining faithful to this broad calling seems challenging enough on its own without having to read tea leaves about the specifics. So when I pray, I generally pray for the wisdom to apply these principles to my life, openness to opportunities that may come my way, and sensitivity to the Holy Spirit, which convicts me of my sin and provides peace when I obey.

Aside from that, I guess I just assume there is a degree of freedom and choice when it comes to decision-making, and I’ve never had a burning-bush experience that resulted in a more specific calling. I can think of maybe one or two times in my life when I have felt a strong, perhaps supernatural, pull toward something…but even then, I did not announce it to be God’s will, mainly because I am distrustful of my own motives and I want to remain open to input from others.

And yet, there are many wonderful people in my life who seem to have a different kind of relationship with God—one in which he gives them very specific orders about what to do. They enthusiastically tell me about how he led them to buy a certain car, take out a certain loan, attend a certain church, go on a certain mission trip, even get a certain parking space.

Part of me wants to dismiss the phenomenon as little more than the human tendency to project our image upon God and read into things. But part of me wonders if I’m missing something, if I’m supposed to hear God the way that so many of my friends and family hear God.

Sometimes I wonder if something’s wrong with me.

Does God speak to you? How?

And how do you respond when someone tells you God told them to do something that you think might be a bad idea?

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The directions from Zondervan are pretty simple.

“Please read through the proofs, marking any changes or corrections in red pen or red pencil.”

But every time I sit down to work on the 200-page galley proof for Evolving in Monkey Town, I suddenly think of something more important to do—like check my email or play guitar hero or finish off the rest of that ranch dip left over from Sunday night.

Galley proofs are an author’s last chance to make significant changes to a book, so I’m having some separation anxiety, knowing I’ve been given just a few more days of shaping and molding before sending my five-year-old “baby” out into the world.

The strange thing about editing a memoir is the fact that, in a sense, I’m editing my life. Part of me wants to take that red pen and mark out all the embarrassing stuff, circle all the good stuff, and add lengthy annotations in the margins about how I’ve thought more about this or changed my mind about that. Part of me wants to add a disclaimer to the front of the book and an apology at the end of it. Part of me wants to draw a big red ‘X’ across the whole thing and start all over again. 

But I don’t. Instead I focus on killing those passive verbs and catching those pesky typos.  The story remains the same because it’s true and because I think it’s helpful—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Finishing a memoir puts a very clear period at the end of this chapter of life. When I’m finished with these proofs, I get to put the past five years into an envelope, mail them to Michigan, and start on the next book. I guess I’m just a little nervous because I’m not sure how the next chapter will begin.

Questions for you:

1. If you were to write a memoir about the last five years of your life, what would the title of your book be? What stories would you tell?

2. What do you envision for the next chapter of your life?

P.S. To learn more about my “dirty laundry,” check out my friend Wendy’s blog, where I’ve written a whole post about it.)

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Is it a branding thing? A feminist thing? A nostalgic thing?

I have a feeling that the lady at the social security office wondered the same when, looking incredulously at my beaming, newlywed face, she asked, “You telling me you want to drop ‘Grace’ and keep ‘Held’?”

“Yep.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

“Alright, honey. Whatever you say.”

So, for her benefit and for yours, here are ten reasons why I made that decision:

1. I’m a writer and my name forms a complete sentence. Do you really need nine more reasons?

2. “Held” means “hero” in German.

3. Growing up, I didn’t really like my last name. It sounded like a swear word, and as the smarter bullies liked to point out, it turned me into an unfinished thought—“Rachel held what?”  But I made the best of it, sometimes even turning the joke on myself. In college, when I ran for student senate, I made my campaign slogan, “Want Your Voice Heard? Go To Held.” So eventually I grew to love my strange name…enough to want to keep it. Besides, who wouldn’t want the chance to say that her husband literally “completed” her!

4. I’m incredibly proud of my parents and their reputation. I love seeing people’s faces light up when they find out that I’m Peter and Robin’s daughter. Their response is usually, “Oh, she was my son’s favorite teacher!” or “He really helped me through a hard time.”  As Solomon said, “A good name is more desirable than great riches.”  My parents made my name valuable, and I am so thankful for that.

5. I’m enough of a feminist to believe that women shouldn’t have to trade in their identity at marriage if they don’t want to. (Though I'm not enough of a feminist to go the hyphenated route.)

6. A loving husband, Dan supported the idea from the start. A smart businessman, he immediately urged me to claim the domain name, rachelheldevans.com. 

7. Search for “Rachel Evans” on Facebook and you’ll find 1,700 results. Search for “Rachel Held Evans” and you’ll find 1 result. 

8. I’ve been writing since I was in third grade and publishing since I was in my teens. A lot of readers know me first as Rachel Held, and I want to remain recognizable to them.

9. Google likes “Rachel Held Evans” a lot more than “Rachel Evans.”

10. It’s interesting enough to warrant an entire post, which saved me from having to write about Massachusetts politics.

Okay, your turn. Tell me something interesting about your name.

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[Note: If you have theories regarding polar bears, the Dharma Initiative, or time-travel, please bring them to another forum so that I won’t be tempted to spend the rest of the day debating predestination and free will, island-style.]

Anyway, one of my favorite scenes in Lost history occurs down in the hatch, between John and Jack. 

Arguing about whether or not to press the infamous button on faith alone, John demands, “Why do you find it so hard to believe?” to which Jack furiously responds “Why do you find it so easy?”

It’s a classic moment in Lost history because it perfectly encapsulates John and Jack’s characters, and because it points to a predicament to which we can all relate: Some of us really struggle to accept things on faith, while others seem to find it easy.  And occasionally we get on one another’s nerves.

For example, I relate more to Jack in the sense that I’m a skeptic. I think critically, challenge authority, and ask tough questions about my faith. Many of my friends,on the other hand, rarely wrestle with doubts about Christianity, and can’t seem to understand why I would.

“Why do you find it so hard to believe?” they ask.

“Why do you find it so easy?” I want to shout.

There are several reasons why their confidence bothers me. 

First of all, deep down I’m jealous of the fact that they don’t lie awake at night worrying if everything they’ve been taught is a lie, if God is good, or if He exists. I hate to admit it, but I envy their certainty and serenity.

Second, I’m perplexed because the things that move me to ask questions—disasters like the one in Haiti, religious pluralism, heaven and hell, science, poverty, injustice—don’t seem to bother them like they bother me, and I wonder if it’s because they are less compassionate or less intelligent than me.  I wonder sometimes if they are in denial, if they’ve checked their brains and their hearts at the door in the name of blind obedience and easy peace.

And third, there’s that nagging fear that the John Lockes of this world relish in the opportunity to judge me for my lack of faith.  We all have the tendency to return judgment with judgment, so the moment I feel vulnerable to attack, I put on the armor of resentment and pride and inform my perceived enemies that they’ve got it all wrong, that my faith is actually stronger than theirs because it can stand the test of scrutiny while theirs remains weak and unchallenged.

Clearly, my frustration with those who find it easy to believe has more to do with my own insecurities and fears than it does with them.

Perhaps this goes both ways. Perhaps the John Lockes of this world don’t find it as easy to believe as I think, and they get frustrated with me because my questions don’t make it any easier.

After all, John ends the conversation with, “It’s never been easy.”

So, to whom do you relate the most—Jack or John? Do you find yourself frustrated with the people who find it hard to believe or frustrated with the people who find it easy?

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I thought that was a fantastic piece of advice, so I added it to my growing list of mantras—short, easy-to-remember words of wisdom that help me focus, keep things in perspective, cast out my inner demons, and make good decisions. 

We’ve all got a few of these mantras tucked away in our back pockets. The ones I find myself using most often include:

• “Simplify, Simplify” (Henry David Thoreau)
• “If it was easy, everyone would do it.” 
• “The worst enemy to creativity is self doubt.” (Sylvia Plath)  
• “Perfection isn’t an option.” 
• “Love God. Love people.” (Jesus) 
• “It’s okay to say, ‘I don’t know’ when that’s the truth.” 
• “Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly with God.”  (Micah 6:8) 
• “Everything seems worse when you’re tired.” (Mom)

What are some of your favorite mantras?

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For years, questions like these threatened to unravel my faith. In the aftermath of the Asian tsunami of 2004 and the Pakistani earthquake of 2005, I found myself struggling to believe that God was good, present, and real. When well-meaning friends told me that these disasters were just God’s way of punishing sin, I recoiled at the thought of God finding honor and glory in the suffering of little children.  For a time, I came close to giving up on the Christian faith.

While I haven’t found answers to all of my questions, I have since come to believe that if the God of the Bible is true, then He loves his creation and no one is forgotten or disposable to Him. He doesn’t desire sin, pain, and destruction. These things are the result of a broken world, filled with broken people, harassed by a broken yet powerful Enemy. 

This shift in my perspective was accompanied by a greater sense of responsibility.  I was moved by Mother Teresa’s simple response to the question of God’s goodness in light of suffering. “If sometimes our poor people have had to die of starvation,” she said, “it is not because God didn’t care for them, but because you and I didn’t give, were not instruments of love in the hands of God, to give them that bread, to give them that clothing; because we did not recognize him, when once more Christ came in distressing disguise—in the hungry man, in the lonely man, in the homeless child, and seeking for shelter.” 

Saint Teresa of Avila put it this way:

Christ has no body on earth but yours,
no hands but yours,
no feet but yours.
Yours are the eyes through which Christ’s compassion for the world is to look out;
yours are the feet with which He is to go about doing good;
and yours are the hands with which He is to bless us now.

You might wonder how this applies to something like a 7.0-magnitude earthquake, something so entirely out of our hands.

Well, in an interview with CNN, Haiti’s ambassador to the United States described his country as “a catastrophe waiting to happen.” Haiti has the lowest per capita income of any country in the western hemisphere.  More than three quarters of the population live in extreme poverty. In addition to suffering from disease, malnutrition, illiteracy, and political upheaval, the people of Haiti deal with one of the worst infrastructures in the world. Most live in flimsy, breakable homes, homes incapable of withstanding an earthquake of this magnitude.

These people have been living in abject poverty right under our nose—less than 700 miles from our shore.

While we spent millions on weight-loss pills, our neighbors were dying of hunger. While we bemoaned the fall of our inflated financial institutions, our neighbors were struggling to find shelter for the night. While we filled our homes with Christmas presents in celebration of Christ's incarnation, our neighbors watched their children slip away into despondency, as hunger and sickness overcame their little bodies.

Christians love to debate whether homosexuality is a sin and if gays should be allowed to marry. Perhaps it is time to debate whether such gross inequity is a sin and if we should allow ourselves to continue to grow richer while our neighbors are so poor. 

(We need only look to Isaiah 58 for our answer.)

Now, I’m not trying to take anyone on a guilt trip. These are things I thought about last night, as I looked around my living room—at my TV, my Wii Fit, my shelf full of books, and my Alabama Crimson Tide Snuggie. I wondered how many Haitian children I could have sponsored, how many vaccines I could have paid for, how many sturdy homes I could have built.

In Richard Stearns’ excellent book, The Hole in Our Gospel, the president of World Vision explained, “It is not our fault that people are poor, but it is our responsibility to do something about it.”

As the Apostle Paul put it, "Our desire is not that others might be relieved while you are hard pressed, but that there might be equality. At the present time your plenty will supply what they need, so that in turn their plenty will supply what you need. Then there will be equality, as it is written, 'He who gathered much did not have too much, and he who gathered little did not have too little.'" (1 Corinthians 8:13-15)

We have already failed Haiti. The question is—Will we do it again?

**

Help the victims of the Haitian earthquake.

Some questions for you: How do you process disasters like these on a theological level? How do you respond to disasters like these on a practical level?

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My friend Micah was the first person to introduce me to Anne Jackson.

“You should check out this girl’s blog,” he said in a Facebook message with a link attached. “You have a lot in common. She’s basically living your dream.”

I stiffened a little, wondering what made Micah think that I wasn’t living my dream.

So I went to Flowerdust.net to find that, like me, Anne Jackson described herself as an “author, speaker, blogger,” with Zondervan as her first publisher.  Like me, she was a twenty-something living in Tennessee. Like me, she cared a lot about global poverty and had even travelled to India.

Micah was right. We did have a lot in common.

Unfortunately, having learned to write the infamous “compare and contrast” essay in middle school, I immediately began scouring the site for our differences—Anne Jackson vs. Rachel Evans.

This task proved easier than the first.

Unlike me, Anne Jackson already had a second book deal. Unlike me, Anne Jackson had one of the most popular Christian-life-themed blogs in the country. Unlike me, Anne Jackson had 7,997 followers on Twitter. Unlike me, Anne Jackson had an actual speaking career. And unlike me, Anne Jackson had a super-hip nose ring that I could never pull off because my nose is so flat and wide it looks like someone accidentally sat on it when I was an infant, and I have no intention of drawing more attention to that fact.

I began to wonder if what Micah meant to say was, “You should check out Anne Jackson. She’s like you, but better.”

And so I began nursing a grudge against someone I’d never met.  I nitpicked her writing. I looked for ways to disagree with her posts. I responded to encouraging news about my Web traffic and social networking stats with a sigh and, “I bet Anne Jackson’s are better.”  It drove me crazy that Anne wrote a series for Flowerdust encouraging young writers not to worry about building a platform, when both my marketing director and editor specifically told me to look to her as an expert on platform-building!  She wasn’t even trying to be successful.  She just was.

The grudge continued to fester and ooze until one afternoon, when I received an email from a reader. In it, the reader mentioned the fact that sometimes she felt insecure about her decision to pursue a family life before a career, explaining how challenging it can be to find time to write amidst the craziness of having young children at home. Humbly and candidly, she admitted that it was hard not to compare her accomplishments to mine.

Suddenly it struck me—I was this girl’s Anne Jackson! 

And then—What if everyone has an Anne Jackson? What if even Anne Jackson has an Anne Jackson?

Little did my reader know that as she wrote “compare and contrast” essays about me in her head, I was writing “compare and contrast” essays about Anne Jackson in my head. Little did she know that published authors are just as insecure and jealous and frightened as unpublished authors, sometimes even more so.  Little did she know that my relative success in this business had not made me any happier with myself.

It seems the Anne Jacksons in our lives are not really “out there,” but rather “in here”—in our hearts and in our heads, when we look to other people to define us and to temporal standards to measure our success. How sad that we continue to believe in VIPs, when we all share unlimited access to the Source of all joy, peace, and life!

And so I decided to stop resenting Anne Jackson. She certainly did nothing to deserve it. I figure that no matter where we find ourselves in our various journeys, there will always be someone up ahead who has gone a little farther. Sometimes the distance between us is real; sometimes it is just a mirage. Sometimes we are right to try and follow; sometimes we need to go our own way. But every day, we have to make the decision to either learn from our fellow travelers or glare at the back of their heads.

My guess is that, should we catch up, we will find that even our most intimidating companions have been walking over footprints all along.

So, who is your Anne Jackson?

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1. We don’t need it.

2. Glen Beck lives in there.

3. The average American sees over 3,000 advertising messages a day, and we don’t want to be average Americans.

4. With Hulu, Netflix, and our new Roku Box, we can still watch our favorite shows—Lost, 30 Rock, The Office, Modern Family, Fareed Zakaria, Christian Amanpour, The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, Mythbusters—only without the ads and on our own time.

5. When we watch football at my parent’s house, we get steak.

6. We already know too much about “Speidi.”

7. Couples without a TV in the bedroom apparently get more sex and more sleep. We like sex and sleep.

8. The money we normally spend on TV each year can be better spent.

9. The time we normally spend on TV each year can be better spent.

10. Did I mention that neither of us has a 9-5 job?

What measures have you taken to keep the TV from running your life?

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Let's talk about this so-called "masculinity crisis" in the Church.

In recent years, it has become popular for evangelicals to lament the noticeable absence of men in the pews. Citing a mountain of statistical data that shows women are more inclined than men to remain faithful to their religious affiliation and participate regularly in communities of faith, some folks—like controversial West Coast pastor Mark Driscoll—have declared the situation a "crisis," concluding that the Church has failed men by projecting a "Richard Simmons, hippie, queer Christ" instead of the true, “Ultimate Fighting Jesus.”

[For Driscoll’s full quote and an excellent evaluation of the “masculinity movement,” check out Brandon O’Brien’s 2008 article in Christianity Today.]

According to Driscoll, “Sixty percent of Christians are chicks, and the forty percent that are dudes are still sort of chicks."  Driscoll blames the” masculinity crisis,” in part, on women, who he believes have been given too much power in the Church.

I believe that Driscoll’s response to these statistics is not only impractical but also unbiblical and irresponsible.  

Here’s why: 

First of all, the discrepancy between male and female religious fervor is not a new thing, but has shown up for as long as Pew and Gallup and other research institutions have been collecting data.  If this is a “crisis,” then it’s certainly not a new one. In fact, some would argue that it’s existed for as long as we’ve recorded history! So to blame the “masculinity crisis” on the few women who have managed to ascend to significant leadership positions in the Church in recent years, especially when men continue to dominate the field, grossly overstates the amount of power women have over the institution and turns them into unnecessary scapegoats. 

Second, most analysts agree that the numbers have as much to do with societal roles than anything else. For example, mothers tend to spend more time raising and nurturing children, which includes overseeing their participation in church activities. Women tend to have more flexible schedules than men, allowing them more opportunities to get involved in church life and to build close relationships with others in their congregations. Driscoll and other complementarians can’t have it both ways. If women remain at home raising children, they will simply have more time, more opportunities, and more incentives to become a part of a church community, and the stats will continue to be a little lopsided. (For more info on the stats, check out this article from Gallup, this piece by Lauren Sandler, and this from Thaindian.com.)

Third—and perhaps most importantly—Driscoll and other leaders in the “masculinity movement” have made a terrible mistake in combating the perceived “crisis” with an image of Jesus that conforms to the world’s view of masculinity, rather than the image of Jesus we actually find in Scripture. 

According to Driscoll, "Jesus was not a long-haired … effeminate-looking dude,” but rather an “ultimate fighter” with “callused hands and big biceps.” According to Driscoll "real men"—like Jesus, Paul, and John the Baptist— are "dudes: heterosexual, win-a-fight, punch-you-in-the-nose dudes." According to Driscoll,“I cannot worship the hippie, diaper halo Christ because I cannot worship a guy I can beat up.”

The problem, of course, is that there is no record of Jesus, John the Baptist, or a post-conversion Paul, punching people in the nose. The problem is that Jesus, John the Baptist, and Paul were all martyred, all “beat up,” if you will. The problem is that Jesus did not teach his followers to conform to the image of masculinity and power presented by the world, but instead explicitly taught the opposite— “Blessed are the meek,” “Blessed are the merciful,” “Blessed are the peacemakers,” “Blessed are those who are persecuted.” The problem is that Jesus did not teach us to take revenge, but instead declared:

You have heard that it was said, 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.' But I tell you, Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles…You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven…If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that?

Perhaps Dirscoll is ashamed of the Gospel and embarrassed by the message of the cross, but that is no excuse to ignore it, or worse, to belittle those who try to follow it. (It's wrong for me to judge Driscoll's motives here.) I think it's important that we consider both the theological and practical implications of the cross before belittling those who try to imitate Christ through non-violence.

Dan and I were talking about this yesterday, and he said to me, “The truth is, as a guy, it is more natural for me to want to take vengeance on people, to respond with violence and anger when I’ve been wronged. It’s easy to buy into the culture’s view of masculinity, which glorifies power and payback. It’s so much harder to take Jesus at his word and forgive as I have been forgiven and serve the way that He served. It’s harder, and it takes a different kind of strength.”

We do ourselves a disservice when, in response an excess of women in the church, we fill the pews with men who have been drawn to the message that following Jesus is easy.

What do you think? Is there a “masculinity crisis” in the Church? What does it look like for a man to faithfully follow Jesus?

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The other night, Dan and I were talking about church drama and how to avoid it.

Impossible, right?

It seems inevitable that any community, be it faith-based or not, comes with its fair share of squabbles and gossip, jealousy and resentment, personality clashes and misunderstandings.

Even as we dream big dreams for The Mission, we can’t help but wonder how long it will take before someone hurts someone else’s feelings or someone feels God leading in a different direction than someone else or someone spills the beans and admits she watches “The Bachelor.” 

As we talked, I confessed to Dan that I’m not always the victim when it comes to drama, that often I let my own insecurities make me into a judgmental, fearful person, eager to perpetuate the gossip, form a clique, or get offended. 

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” I asked, not really looking for answer. “Why do we get involved in these silly tit for tat controversies that only make us miserable?”

In response, Dan said something worth writing a blog post about:

“People are made to solve problems,” he said. “We thrive when we have challenges to overcome and things to care about. The problem is, the things we care about aren’t really that important, and so we get all worked up over nothing.”

“It’s like allergies. Allergies happen when the immune system, which is supposed to fight off disease, suddenly turns on itself. Some folks even think that living in an environment that is too sterile, where the immune system doesn’t get enough exposure to pathogens, can cause it to respond negatively to harmless things like tree nuts or dust or…”

“…anything with paws and hair,” I finished. It had never occurred to me to blame my allergies on my mother’s obsessive-compulsiveness.

“It’s like we have emotional allergies,” he said. “Our sterile lives leave us nothing worthwhile to fight against, and so we turn on ourselves and each other.”

His words reminded me of Paul’s admonition to the Ephesians:

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” (Ephesians 6:12)

This got me thinking that perhaps if we rallied around something more important, if we decided to take on truly significant challenges—like addressing poverty, pursuing racial reconciliation, defending immigrants, sharing the gospel, caring for the lonely, living simply, embodying the Kingdom—we wouldn’t have as much drama.

...Or at least our drama would be about more important things, like kids who are falling through the cracks in school, families that can’t afford to healthy food, a teenager who doesn’t have anywhere to sleep at night. 

If I’m going to get worked up about something, I want it to be over something that matters. And this might mean getting a little dirty now and then.

What about you? Do you suffer from emotional allergies? How do you deal with them? (And don’t say Benedryl, because that stuff will knock you out.)

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3 Questions for you:

1. Which fruit of the spirit did you learn the most about in 2009? (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control)

2. Which fruit of the spirit do you hope to focus on and grow in 2010? (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control)

3. What’s your favorite fruit…to eat?

2 Prayers for a new year:

1. Attributed to St. Francis—

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.
Good Master, grant
that I may not so much seek to be consoled
as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
it is in dying
that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.

2. Covenant Prayer—

I am no longer my own, but thine.
Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt.
Put me to doing, put me to suffering.
Let me be employed by thee or laid aside for thee,
Exalted for thee or brought now by thee.
Let me be full, let me be empty
Let me have all things, let me have nothing.
I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal.
And now, O glorious and blessed God,
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, thou art mine, and I am thine.  So be it.
And the covenant which I have made on earth,
Let it be ratified in heaven.

1 Winner of Wednesday’s Haiku contest:

amyb with—

Bailouts, flu, scandals:
All the news that's fit to print
Gets tweeted instead.

I had such a hard time choosing, I had to consult with Dan, who didn’t know the names associated with each entry.  You guys are really creative.  Amy, I’ll drop you an email so you can send me your mailing address. Sorry you have to wait until July to receive your prize! 

Happy New Year, Everyone! (Don't forget to leave a comment about your fruit)

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Here’s mine:

2009

“Opposite Marriage”
Hiked the Appalachian Trail,
Got mauled by Tiger.

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Every student of literature  goes through a phase of romanticizing the Romantics—memorizing “The Raven” even when it’s not been assigned, keeping a copy of Leaves of Grass on one’s person at all times, feigning interest in Moby Dick,  resolving to name one’s first child Pearl, writing Emerson quotes on note cards and sticking them all over the place.

While my phase came and went before I graduated from high school, there was one American Romantic I never fell out of love with.  So obsessed with Henry David Thoreau that I convinced my parents to take me on a pilgrimage to Walden Pond in Massachusetts, I vowed never to live anywhere without keeping his famous quotation in a place of honor.

And so about this time every year, I go into my office, stand before my cork board, and read Thoreau’s most celebrated words:

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

Then I ask myself, am I living deliberately?

Living deliberately doesn’t necessarily mean living alone in a cabin in the woods. (Little known fact: Thoreau’s cabin was within walking distance of his home, and his mom did most of his laundry for him!) Living deliberately means living on purpose, living with intention, living mindfully. It means refusing to simply accept things as they are or bow to convention. It means asking hard questions of yourself and your culture, resolving to intentionally do away with those things that are not life-giving, important, and meaningful. It means actually choosing to live rather than just letting life happen.

This is why every year, my New Year’s resolution is to lose ten pounds and live deliberately.

The living deliberately part takes on a different shape each year. One year it meant finishing my book. Another year it meant quitting my job. Another year it meant trying to take Jesus more seriously.

This year I want live deliberately by reexamining the things I think I need.

This is what I mean: It seems to me that there are all of these voices telling me that I need certain things—privacy, boundaries, a 3-bedroom house, a two-car garage, clean neighbors, cool friends, fashionable clothes, TV, junk food, exercise equipment, a plan, a religion, a career, certainty, approval, stacks and stacks of books, and lotion that gives my skin a healthy-looking glow. Rarely do I stop, take stock of how I spend my money and my time, and ask myself—Do I really need this? Is this really essential? What is its purpose?

Donald Miller put it this way:

The ambitions we have will become the stories we live. If you want to know what a person’s story is about, just ask them what they want. If we don’t want anything, we are living boring stories, and if we want a Roomba vacuum cleaner, we are living stupid stories. If it won’t work in a story, it won’t work in life (A Million Miles in A Thousand Years, p. 124-125).

Shane Claiborne said it like this:

One of the things I think Jesus is doing is setting us free from  the heavy yoke of an oppressive way of life. I know plenty of people, both rich and poor, who are suffocating from the weight of an American dream, who find themselves heavily burdened by the lifeless toil and consumption we put upon ourselves. This is the yoke we are being set free from. The new yoke is still not easy (it’s a cross, for heaven’s sake), but we carry it together, and it is good and leads us to rest, especially for the weariest traveler (The Irresistible Revolution, p. 137).

I think that perhaps the biggest hindrance to living deliberately is allowing the invisible strings of perceived needs to move us around like puppets. My New Year’s resolution is to shake free of those strings—even if it means losing my house, losing my routine, losing some of my privacy, losing some of my stuff, losing some of my friends, losing my pride, losing my fortune, gaining my soul. My New Year's resolution is to front only the essential facts of life so that when I come to die, I will know that I truly lived.

...That, and lose ten pounds, of course.

What are some of your New Year's resolutions, both grand and simple?  And what do you think it means to live deliberately?

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The Sign

You will find Him wrapped in swaddling clothes
Wrapped in flesh
Wrapped in blood
Wrapped in bone
Wrapped in the calloused hands of a carpenter’s son
Wrapped in scandal
Wrapped in genocide
Wrapped in poverty
You will find Him

You will find Him lying in a manger
Lying in stench
Lying in sweat
Lying in forgotten places
Lying in a disheveled heap on the street corner
Lying in newspapers
Lying in garbage
Lying in urine
You will find Him

You will find Him
Wrapped in swollen bellies
Aching for food
Wrapped in wrinkled hands
Clinging to subway seats
Wrapped in dimpled skin
Shivering, exposed
Wrapped in flesh
Wrapped in blood
Wrapped in bone

And this will be a sign to you
You will find Him

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