This last week I took my 4 year old daughter and 2 year old son to the Green Acres park before taking a nice long trek to Taco Bell or what my kids have recently dubbed, “Cheesy Bells”. They love outdoor adventures and anytime spent with mom and dad is a total win for them. At the massive jungle gym that towers higher than I’m comfortable with, my two kiddos swung on the bars, conquered the rock climbing wall, jumped up and down the platforms, and raced down the two slides opposite each other.

They asked more times than I can count.

You know the question.

It is built into every toddler.

“Daddy, watch me!” “Daddy, look at this!”

My daughter is insistent that I need to witness, from beginning to end, her entire trampoline routine complete with her spin, bounce, and clap combos. If my gaze turns away for just a second, she clamors to get it back.

She does not want me to miss anything she does.

I love this even if the fifty ninth demand for my attention is overstimulating. On my end, I’m learning to stop being so distracted because this is a stage that will not last forever

But for now, they long for their mom and dad’s attention and ours alone.

As a father, I’m learning to value and cherish these innocent moments where all that matters to my young kids is the gaze of their father. They want to see my look of admiration at all the little things they attempt for fun.

Seeing their innocent desire convicts me though.

I’m not quite sure I have the same innocence when it comes to serving God.

I attempt many great things for God and I tell him it’s for him, but my eyes are on the periphery. I’m less interested in his gaze than I let on. I’m really glancing to the side to see who else notices what I am doing.

When it comes to doing things for God, the tragedy is that we need Jesus to correct our motives. As Jesus states in the Sermon on the Mount, the Pharisees were praying, fasting, and giving to receive the wrong attention. They could care less about whether God saw them or not. They wanted others to see their good works.

Our hearts are not naturally inclined to desire God’s gaze. We may perform for God but always with a glance or two reserved for what other’s might see of our ‘noble’ and ‘good’ works.

My kids’ innocent desire for my attention convicts me once again that my desire for God must be child-like and innocent. Too often my desire to serve God is riddled with ulterior, mercenary motives.

Yet, there is a certain freedom in desiring God’s attention over everyone else’s. My kids trust that when I see them do something exciting and cool on the gym set, that daddy will be supportive and affectionate. There is a safety and security in striving for daddy’s affection alone.

I’m all too aware though that this desire will eventually shift to their peers and the broader world around them. The older they get, the more they will look for approval in places less forgiving and loving, less truthful and more deceptive.

That is where the danger lurks.

Likewise, we strive for the attention of others’ less capable of desiring our best. We end up burned out and bitter when our affection for the world is less willing to give it back. Perhaps we were striving for others to look at our great ministry feats all while neglecting the perfect gaze of God our father.

In these moments of disillusionment and loneliness, we realize the tragedy of our neglect of God. We feel conviction and sadness because God’s attention was pure and unconditional unlike the world’s. He alone was worthy of our attention because of His pure, genuine character. How could we have neglected the gaze of a loving Father who knows best and is the best?

My ministry work likewise needs to be fueled by that innocent desire for God’s attention and his attention alone.

This verse in Matthew has everything to do with the discipline of obscurity, practicing righteousness in secret in order to avoid the idolatry of others’ affections. But obscurity is not so much about hiding what we do for God. It is more about being blind to what other’s might notice or not notice about our good works. All we care about is that God the Father sees what we might attempt for him. And these attempts are done in a spirit of joy and delight in who God is.

A mark of spiritual maturity is an increasing lack of self-awareness and a decrease in self-absorption.

No, you cannot just will this sort of desire into existence. You cannot engineer this affection for God otherwise it’s no longer true affection. It requires the Holy Spirit to open our eyes up to taste and see the goodness of God. This lingering gaze on God’s glory and beauty will inspire natural affection. In this beholding of God’s goodness, the natural response of a renewed heart is desire and excitement - a clamor for His attention alone. The very fact that God sees me is eclipsed by any awareness that man is also looking at me. At the end of the day, God’s judgement and evaluation of me is what matters.

Good works are fueled by a desire for God’s approval, not man’s. God’s opinion of me ultimately matters because my salvation is based on his opinion, not others’. But neither is the solution valuing my opinion over others’. The solution is valuing God’s opinion over all others, including my own.

This is Paul’s point in this passage where his ministry work is scrutinized by public eyes. Without Paul’s singular desire for God’s gaze, he would have been swept up in all manner of idolatry and power struggles. He may be imperfect and far from sinless, but he kept on track because God’s gaze mattered most to him.

I look at my kids with a deep affection and love. They may attempt their gymnastic feats with weakness and stumbling, but I love them. They will learn in time. But the sad part is that the more skilled and able they become and the older they get, they will be less interested my attention than others.

I face that temptation too. The more experienced and skilled I become in ministry, the more I’m tempted to pine for others’ attention and not God’s. The more public my ministry becomes, the more I salivate for others’ attentions.

But there has to be a better way. How can I cultivate that innocent desire for God’s attention alone?

I believe it’s remembering that no one can look on you with the same unconditional love and objectivity like God can. He can see you for all your flaws and imperfections and mistakes and still love you. He can correct you with a precision and accuracy unlike anyone else. He alone can judge you far more fairly and truthfully than anyone else and do it out of a true, unbreakable affection - with a desire for your best because He is the best.

This next week, before you start doing any sort of ministry or spiritual discipline, just ask that God look upon you. Ask him for his attention and spurn all others.

I’m praying for that innocent-like desire. I’m praying my heart becomes more child-like. I want to be free. I want God to look at me and that alone will be enough for me.

God, watch me!

I stood there staring at it with equal parts doubt and embarrassment. But, I tried to maintain the illusion that things were going exactly to plan. After all, my sons were watching me.

It had seemed like such a great plan. Our kitchen chairs were becoming a bit rickety and my wife wanted to buy a new set. I immediately and confidently declared that I could build them for half the price.

A few days later, I saw a smile ripple across my wife’s face as she was scrolling through her tablet. “This is the one!”, she exclaimed. “Could you make me chairs like this one?” I hesitated, but finally looked at it. It seemed like a fairly straightforward design.

There were no instructions, just a picture. But, how hard could it be? It’s just a couple pieces of lumber, some screws and wood glue. I owned all of the necessary tools and they were still in pristine condition due to a remarkable lack of use.

My wife also remarked that it would be a great father-son time to spend with my boys. They could learn how carpentry works.

We bought the lumber and set to work. I took measurements and cut the wood. Then, I began to piece it together. It seemed to start well, but when I picked up the back to fix it to the seat, the legs fell off.

“It’s all part of the learning curve,” I told myself. Then, it happened three more times. I finally got all the pieces together, but it seemed dangerously unstable.

My sons wanted to sit in it. That’s what chairs are made for; sitting! But those are chairs formed with a practiced hand. This chair was cobbled together from an uninformed idea.

Pinterest is full of beautiful ideas. It is a catalogue full of only the most desirable results. There is no category for disasters. But it cannot account for how the pictures are interpreted and used. In the hands of the confidently unskilled, an idea is a dangerous illusion.

Unstable Discipleship

The problem wasn’t with the materials. All of the elements for a positive outcome seemed to be present. I had the tools that I needed and I certainly poured a lot of effort into it. I even had a good picture of what the finished product should look like.

What was lacking was the slow, steady process of formation. I assembled the correct elements into something resembling what I wanted. I just didn’t have the ability to bring it all together. When it began to fail, I tried to fix it with a few screws, a little more glue and an increasing sense of frustration.

Frustration. That’s a good word for the discipleship efforts of many churches and families today. We have developed systems to streamline the formation process. But we end up with lives propped up with a patchwork of scaffolding, ignoring their lack of developed roots.

We make sure they attend Church. We give them a Bible. But for many, faith becomes something to manage rather than something to live. Attendance drifts. Identity splits. One version of life for Church, another for everything else.

Much of our outreach revolves around children ministries. There are youth groups, vacation bible schools and summer camps. But many disappear as they begin to leave home.

It hurts. The Church pours serious effort into maintaining these programs because we genuinely care. It’s not a question of caring. It’s a matter of examining our approach.

Spiritual formation is suffering from the Pinterest mentality. It appeals to an eye for the aesthetic with little consideration of how it is formed. Likewise, our attention is drawn to the outer beauty of how things look. Baptisms make beautiful pictures and wonderful celebrations. Long, patient investment in discipleship does not. So, we expose people to Church without a transformation of life. They imitate what they see in spiritual leaders without any real understanding of what it all means. Faith by proxy isn’t faith, it’s just a game.

Formation That Holds Up Under Pressure

The problem of how to build things that will carry weight is not new. In fact, there was a time when things were built differently.

Today, ancient Rome looms large in the cultural imagination. Buildings like the Colosseum are iconic. It’s magnificent. People travel from all around the world just to see it. But the Romans who built it had fewer tools than we have today. Their technology, while certainly impressive, did not reach present standards. And, they had limited design access – they certainly couldn’t find a picture from Pinterest for inspiration.
Yet, it has endured for millenia. It’s not just because of its aesthetic appeal. It truly is an engineering marvel. When it was constructed, it was able to accommodate and sustain the weight of 65,000 people. That strength didn’t come from their resources; it came from their formation.

The Colosseum was not propped up by outer scaffolding. It found its strength in the vaulted arch. An arch is not achieved by simply stacking material on top of each other. Every stone was chosen and shaped intentionally with an eye of how it would fit into the whole. Each piece depended on the other.

The arch can sustain an incredible amount of weight due to its formation. It resists compression, spreading the load through its structure towards the abutments. Due to the way it is assembled, pressure actually strengthens its stability by locking the stones more tightly in place.

That’s very revealing. In an improper formation, pressure exposes weakness as anyone that attempted to sit on my chair would find out. But, the arch is formed to carry the load.

It’s all made possible by the keystone. Scaffolding was used to erect the arch, but the keystone completed it. As its unique shape slid into place, it locked the other stones in position and the scaffolding wasn’t needed anymore.

It was the determining factor of whether the arch would stand or fall. Without it, the arch would collapse every time. If its shape was even a little off, the structure may stand for a while, but it could not bear up under pressure. Everything hinged on the right centerpiece.

A structure can look stable. It can function for a time and even appear strong. But if the keystone is wrong, collapse is inevitable.

Scaffolding Isn’t Formation

We would like to blame the woes of modern discipleship on the difficulty of our day. We’re fighting social media, 24-hour entertainment and convenient opportunities for sin. But it isn’t any of these things. It’s our insistence on erecting scaffolding to shore up what spiritual formation was meant to maintain.

That’s not new. It has been a human tendency throughout the ages. II Chronicles 24 gives us an overview of the life of Joash. He was a godly king when godly kings were hard to come by. He was especially influenced by the High Priest Jehoiada. That influence was so pervasive, that 24:2 says, “and Joash did what was right in the eyes of the Lord all the days of Jehoiada the priest.”

Indeed, Joash did do right. He made many reformations to restore proper worship in Judah. But for all his outward obedience and apparent strength, his faith relied on someone else. He was stable in the moment, but that stability was only borrowed.

Jehoiada was the scaffolding that held Joash up. He instructed him and corrected him, just as a good parent should do for their child. But over time, Jehoiada ceased to be a contributing piece of Joash’s faith and became the keystone instead of God.

Joash’s faith was built around the wrong center. Jehoiada was never meant to bear that weight.

Joash never internalized the formation of a relationship with God in his heart. When Jehoiada died, all of his godliness came to an abrupt and tragic end. Joash fell under the ungodly influence of the princes of Judah. His entire moral center shifted and he served God no more.

Why did this happen? It wasn’t a lack of exposure to God and His Word. It certainly wasn’t for a lack of instruction. He had all the proper resources. His failure was in having the wrong keystone. Jehoiada was not God and when he was gone, Joash’s faith went to the grave with him.

When we perform the autopsy of the Church’s discipleship efforts, we will find the same thing. We had a Pinterest-style idea of what a disciple should look like. We show them the picture but fail to walk with them as a model of how to develop an actual relationship with God. We never stopped to make sure the Keystone of their faith was in place.

Effort, even from noble intentions, cannot replace what only God can do. He has appointed us as ministers to our families and our churches. We teach them to read the Word, memorize Scripture and to pray. But we cannot make these efforts outward scaffolding. They are components that must be governed by Jesus, the Keystone.

The Pinterest approach to discipleship feels right. It gives us exactly the picture that we want. But we cannot reverse engineer results from a picture. The final structure will not be graded for good intentions. It will be judged by its integrity. Integrity demands that Jesus be at the center – not us.

Read “Spectating Desire”

I would have told you that I was starving to death. In reality, I was standing in front of the microwave, waiting for popcorn. I stood suffering with eyes locked on the timer. The numbers were counting down, but time felt like it was stretching out longer. My appetite demanded food and two minutes was more than my stomach was willing to stand.

I love to cook. I have all the modern conveniences that make the process faster, but I prefer the “old way.” I would much rather spend a few minutes kneading than use the bread machine. Instant pots are nice in a pinch, but food is so much better when the flavors can slowly mingle and bond over a matter of hours. Slower is better; but when I’m the one that’s hungry, I want it now.

It’s a paradox: desiring the results of slow formation while demanding that it happen right now. When the tension inevitably rises between the two, I embrace convenience. And I still complain.

Putting A New Label On An Old Attitude

There is a phrase for this attitude today – TL;DR. As a 52-year-old, I’ve lived just as long with the internet as I have without it. I bought my first computer in 1998, complete with a magnificent 28k modem! And it is true that as my modems got faster, my attention span seemed to grow shorter. Was that a result of technology, or did technology more clearly reveal something that had always been there?

I began to notice the phrase, “TL;DR” as I started visiting internet forums. It took me a while to figure out its meaning. When I finally read the full phrase, “Too long; didn’t read”, it all made sense. Nothing is more annoying than verbosity when you want to get to the point. When I look for a recipe for spring rolls, I don’t care to read about someone’s trip to Vietnam first.

That’s really the crux of the matter. Our problem isn’t with waiting; it’s waiting through something that we don’t feel is worth it.

Each generation loves to find the fault in its successor. My generation would say the current iteration doesn’t know how to be still with their thoughts. They’ve never had to stand in a grocery line without a phone to scroll. They’ve never driven cross country without a steady stream of podcasts. That may be true, but I’ll tell you a secret. My generation has no patience outside of their areas of interest either.

That instinct didn’t begin with a smartphone; it has been present since the days of Adam and Eve. They could take daily walks in the Garden with God, or they could eat forbidden fruit. They made their choice, and here we are today; a people who often choose convenience over security and growth.

God has chosen the slow and steady process of formation for the maturation of His people. He shows that to us through the growth of a baby. There are an untold number of movements before it all comes together in a first wobbly step. A million babbling, nonsense sounds pass their lips before they ever cry out, “Mama.”

Salvation comes in an instant. The debt was paid long before we ever asked. But formation is a process – one that we choose to resist.

The Longest Chapter In A TL;DR World

Yes, formation is the work of God, and it happens on His timetable. Thousands of years passed from the promise of the Messiah until the birth of Jesus. He was sure to lay out the clues in hundreds of specific prophecies so that His Son could be recognized. But the ones entrusted with the recording and interpretation of God’s Word took their own shortcuts. They imprinted their expectations on God’s promise. So that when Jesus came, they resisted Him the hardest.

That continues to be the Achilles heel of many believers. We often prioritize our personal interpretation over the actual content of the words. When we assume that we already know what the Word of God says, it lessens our desire to read it more deeply.

We have an embarrassment of riches when it comes to God’s Word. There are dozens of translations, study Bibles, and instant access on our phones. Yet ownership doesn’t guarantee formation.

We have access to the Word. We own copies of the Word. But so few intentionally read it. Even fewer sit and meditate with it. It all becomes a little like wearing the jersey of your favorite team. They’ll sell you one for sure, but they won’t let you in the locker room just because you’re wearing it.

It is interesting that the clearest text in all of the Bible on the beauty and use of Scripture is also the longest chapter – Psalm 119. In a TL;DR world, that makes it one of the least likely chapters to be read, much less meditated on. You can put John 3:16 on a tshirt. A toddler can memorize, “Jesus wept.”

But Psalm 119 is about formation through the internalization of the Word and it requires discipline.

The psalmist took care in its construction. Every Psalm is inspired, but extra organizational work went into this one. It is made up of 22 units, one for each letter of the Hebrew alphabet. In fact, in Hebrew, each verse of the units begin with the Hebrew letter of that section.

Although each section builds on the previous, it is a very slow build. The same themes are repeated with slight variations throughout all 176 verses. In short, it defies quick reading. It demands to be read slowly and meditated on. Like the young child working its way to its first step, it trains us in the proper approach to God’s Word.

What Psalm 119 Teaches Us

Psalm 119, more than any chapter of the Bible, resists summarization. Every verse is integral with no wasted words. Still, we can see some patterns as the psalmist reflects on his relationship with God through His Word. These will help us as we approach it. They reveal how formation actually happens: the Word is stored within, we learn through correction, and we follow one step at a time.

Formation happens through an internalization of the Word. In verse 11, he says, “I have stored up your word in my heart, that I might not sin against you.” For the psalmist, Scripture isn’t something consulted in a moment of need. It is something stored within. Repeatedly, he uses the language of meditation, repetition and memory. Formation comes from allowing the Word to settle deeply in the heart, not from passing encounters with it.

The psalmist does not speak as someone who has always obeyed well. In verse 67, the psalmist reflects, “Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now I keep your word.” He clearly highlights that he wandered at first. Those experiences, especially the painful ones, informed his later devotion to God’s Word. This psalm is filled with the wisdom of someone who learned the value of Scripture through correction.

The psalmist describes God’s Word as, “a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” We never see the complete path of the road ahead by the light of a lamp. Its light is intended to lead us step by step. Spiritual maturity never arrives all at once. It develops through a faithful, steady walk with God.

All of these patterns point to something deeper. More than anything, when I compare my life to Psalm 119, I notice that he took delight in God’s Word. Delight will make us slow down. My favorite meal is Jamaican Jerk Chicken. I have a bottle of spice that I can sprinkle on when I’m in a hurry, but it’s never the same. When I give the marinade eighteen hours to work its way into the fibers, it’s amazing.

I love God’s Word. It has blessed my life more than anything else I can think of. But my flesh still daily resists just sitting with it. It always will. It is the sweetness of communion with God that slows me down. Being in His presence has proven itself worth the cost. Delight changes the pace of my attention.

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It was finally here. Vacation time.

My family and I had been waiting expectantly for our time off together with our family. We were going to Florida for a few days to Disney World. Our kids were beyond excited. I think we spent a an hour or two pouring over the park maps with the kids planning on what we all wanted to see. We couldn’t wait; yet I often feel uneasy about vacations. Often time I doubt it will actually happen, worried that something will come up whether work responsibility, crisis needs, scheduling issues, technical hiccups, or sickness.

I dare to hope but with lots of reservation.

Anticipating vacation can be both exciting as well as frustrating. You count down the days. You feel the excitement slowly build the closer you get. But you also feel time stretch out. Days feel longer and responsibilities feel heavier. Yet the anticipation is what gives you motivation to endure. You know it’s coming and so you push on.

Vacation can be a wonderful thing, but every vacation ends. It can be canceled or cut short, and at some point, we have to return to our responsibilities. A vacation is only a glimpse and a frail shadow of the eternal peace and restoration we ultimately long for. This last vacation reminded me that times of reprieve point to the deeper and long-expected desire for everlasting peace. We like the escapism for a moment, but I’m sure we want to know whether there is a real escape and rescue from this world?

What we need more than a vacation is the anticipation of heaven.

As a disciple of Jesus Christ, I realized how absent the thought of heaven is in my mind and heart. It is even more surprising given how much I work with grieving families and chronically sick or dying patients. Shouldn’t I be the one reminding them of this great hope in Christ? Too often I focus on what God is doing in the here and now and forget that ultimately, we are striving toward that final destination where there will be no more mysteries. The goal isn’t to make this life the best possible life – it is to prepare for eternity in heaven with Christ. Sure, I don’t believe in the prosperity Gospel, but even when I counsel and comfort, I tend to focus too much on the present - perhaps not enough on that final prize in Christ. I need to be drawing others to the wonderful expectation of heaven; and I am only going to do this if I myself dwell on that reality.

This is so important to remember because this world is fleeting. I hear story after story of past memories, lives that have come and gone in the blink of 60, 80, 90 years. I see the reflection in others’ eyes who are just now realizing how fast it all went. In grief, there is the realization that life is fleeting and fragile, but there is also the aching hope that there is something more. And how blessed are we who have God’s precious and sure promises in His Word and its assurance through the historical resurrection of Jesus Christ?!

I struggle with endurance in this life because I don’t have a healthy anticipation of heaven. And when I do endure, I struggle to do so without bitterness and cynicism. Death, suffering, disappointment, tragedy, and failure weigh a lot more when there is no expectation of heaven at the forefront of our hearts and minds. Sabbath and extended time off from work has a way of reminding us that we are working towards eternal rest - a rest from toil, self-proving, and constant spiritual warfare. The disciples’ comfort was not going to be found in this world but in the expectation of Jesus return trip to rescue them. Jesus’ fuels their anticipation when he talks about preparing them an eternal home. What an encouraging and comforting picture for weary saints!

We must meditate on this great hope. As J.C. Ryle once wrote, “The man who is about to sail for Australia or New Zealand as a settler, is naturally anxious to know something about his future home, its climate, its employments, its inhabitants, its ways, its customs. All these are subjects of deep interest to him. You are leaving the land of your nativity; you are going to spend the rest of your life in a new hemisphere. It would be strange indeed if you did not desire information about your new abode. Now surely, if we hope to dwell for ever in that ‘better country, even a heavenly one,’ we ought to seek all the knowledge we can get about it. Before we go to our eternal home, we should try to become acquainted with it.”

When my family and I anticipated our vacation, we researched what we would get to do; we explored travel hacks to make the most out of our experience. In a matter of days, I became an expert on Disney parks, learning how to navigate the crowds, rides, and transportation. We imagined what it would be like to spend time together, eat good food, experience entertainment, and explore fun and exciting places. We were excited. It was the thrill of expectation of something good to come.

I want to bring that same sort of joy and expectation into my relationship with Christ in heaven. Doctrine, discipleship, theology, church ministry, reading, studying, evangelism, and good works are the ways we prepare ourselves to enjoy God and his kingdom for an eternity. If we know this is our final destination, we would want to become familiar with it and the inheritance we will someday gain. Anticipation will fuel our sanctification and motivate our obedience to Christ.

This world is not our home. We are exiles journeying in discipleship. We believe in a new heavens and new earth when the final day of judgement comes. We long and we anticipate the day we will be with Him and the saints forevermore. I’m counting down the days for that ultimate peace and restoration. I’m excited and I hope you are too.

Anticipate heaven.

Somewhere in the recesses of your mind dwells your ideal of beauty. Though it pulls at your heart, it keeps you forever at arms-length. Indeed, its distance and unattainability only serve to enhance its allure. It is given a revered spot on the throne of our heart while offering us no warmth in return.

Why are some expressions of beauty so compelling, while remaining just beyond our reach? The work of Vincent Van Gogh embodies this contradiction. He used impasto – applying paint so thickly that it stood up from the canvas. The technique served as a bridge between image and reality, making the viewer feel the world without being able to enter it.

His craft reached its zenith in Starry Night. This is made all the more incredible when you consider the circumstances under which it was wrought. A mere six months previous, he had mutilated his ear in a mental health crisis. A year after its completion, a gunshot wound would bring a tragic end to a likewise tragic life. From the window of an asylum he was pulled to beauty. His brush could capture it on canvas, but he could never hold it in his grasp.

That is the ethereal quality of the scene. We see peace, but what he painted was longing. The scene appears as delicate as the reflection of a silver moon on a gently flowing stream. With the indelicate brush of a hand it all drifts away into the ether. It is just a reflection demanding to be admired, but always from a distance.

When Beauty Becomes Performance

Think of the way that we choose to consume beauty. People plan their vacations around going to the Museum of Modern Art in New York for the express purpose of seeing Starry Night. It is one of the most reproduced and commercially exploited artworks in the world, with copies hanging in homes everywhere.

But how many people go out of their way to visit that field in southern France; or any field, for that matter? How many walk along its paths and look up at the actual moon and stars in the nighttime sky? Who seeks beauty in its natural setting?

The reflection has become more prized than the experience.

Where beauty is concerned, there is a decidedly human tendency to shift from active participation to passive observation. And ours is the loss. Beauty and allure are increasingly defined by performance rather than experience. We become an audience to our own desires.

This reaches its most destructive form in pornography. It isolates sexual desire from actual relationship. Desire becomes a spectator sport.

It all smacks of aestheticism – the idea that art only needs to be pretty without any pressure to transform or urge to convict. In this way, physical cravings can be entertained without spiritual connections—beauty makes no claims on the beholder. Consumption is elevated at the expense of fulfillment.

Beyond aestheticism lies commodification. Beauty becomes a snack for the eyes instead of nourishment for the soul. It allows sexual allure to be divorced from relational cost and spiritual union. Ultimately, image bearers are reduced to nothing more than consumable experiences.

Why would we choose images of beauty over the substance of beauty itself? Culture has established a framework that is a lie. It tells us that beauty can be enjoyed without the cost of commitment. It leaves us free to escape vulnerability. Then, when everything crashes to the ground in actual relationships – more images await us. They make no demands.

We are offered cheap imitations of beauty so that we never have to endure the cost of possessing the real thing.

The Problem of Pain

Satisfaction requires substance that a mere image cannot convey. What society offers is polished and shiny, but it is a reflection that cannot be embraced. It is all ether, so light and delicate it can only be envisioned but never grasped. It is a work displayed on a canvas too fragile to hold any of its substance.

So, why does personal investment remain so unattractive to humans? Could it be the problem of pain?

Van Gogh seemed so close to possessing beauty at various times in his life. But each time he had almost grasped it, he was overcome with pain. He pursued the ministry in an attempt to follow the path of his father before him. The disappointment of that failure embittered already tense relationships. This pattern followed him in every attempt at love and connection. He mastered his craft but was never recognized. Every brush with tangible beauty was accompanied by pain.

It led him to isolate in an asylum, where beauty could only be captured on canvas—never held in his grasp. In the end, even his art couldn't save him.

Human calculus becomes much simpler when you remove the risk. That isn’t just Van Gogh’s story, it’s ours. People acquainted with pain learn to fear risk, and that is how the reflection becomes more attractive than the substance. The tradeoff is the loss of the reward of companionship and fulfillment.

It all leaves us with a deformed culture propped up by desire. It is defined by longing without covenant. It is overflowing with fantasies that never materialize. And it affords a spectator’s view without requiring any sacrifice. It is an uncaring taskmaster with zero promise of the relief of fulfillment.

We give up on the goal of satisfaction because that requires substance and we fear the cost. In the end, we settle for the reflection. We are entertained but unfulfilled, and that makes us enslaved. It’s a perfect trap. We can’t bear the pain of substance, but the reflection can never satisfy us.

The Beauty That Doesn’t Dissolve

If pain and cost are the barriers that keep us from substance, is there a form of beauty that can survive its contact with reality? Is there an alternative that is worth the price?

God chose relationship as the framework of His creation. He made mankind in His image and walked with them in the Garden. It cost Him. There was the sting of Adam and Eve running from His presence and hiding when He approached them. There was the cost of redemption by the blood of His one and only Son, and He willingly paid it.

He committed Himself to us in a covenant relationship. That means that He didn’t just create us for what we could give. He initiated the giving and held nothing back from us. The world offers fantasies, but He incarnated and lived among us.

Hebrews 2:14 says, “Since therefore the children share in flesh and blood, he himself likewise partook of the same things…” This wasn’t just a surface gesture. The writer of Hebrews continues to say, “Therefore he had to be made like his brothers in every respect, so that he might become a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make propitiation for the sins of the people.”

He entered a relationship with us in every respect and it was painful. It led Him to death and burial. But He leads us from there into resurrection. “For because he himself has suffered when tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted.”

He was able to do this because He saw the joy beyond the pain – the joy of relationship with His creation that He loved. So, He does not abandon us in spite of the pain we cause. He gives beauty for ashes.

Do you see it? Christ is the beauty that does not dissolve on contact. We abandoned Him. We hurt Him. We marred the dignity of His image that He had granted to us. And He is still here and committed. His commitment doesn’t run away at the threat of scars. It stays for the beauty of healing.

That is real beauty. And it is not a trick technique like impasto that gives a perception. It is a base that allows us to bring the image into the real world. As Christ incarnated into physical flesh, so His heart incarnates into ours. It is genuine, enduring beauty. And the Master Painter wants to use us as His living canvases to express that beauty in the world.

That calls us into a world of risk. It demands that we endure the hard conversations. It compels us to forgive when forgiveness is not wanted. It’s vulnerability and, at times, suffering. It is also true beauty.

I sat in the parking lot as my chest pounded. My breathing was ragged and shallow. That morning, my children and I had been united in the excitement of adventure. They had no idea that something was shifting inside of me. Before me rose the tower that we had come to climb. They called me daddy, but suddenly I felt like an 8 year-old boy all over again.

My mind dragged me back forty years to the last time I had sat in that parking lot. I was so excited to climb that tower that I could barely contain myself. My dad led the way, showing me that it was all alright. But when I stepped on that first flight of stairs, panic embraced me for the very first time.

I never made it to the top that day. Now, all these years later I sat in the car, trying to steel my nerves and be strong for my kids. But I already knew that I wasn’t going to make it to the top this time either. The fear that had bullied that young boy was still my master as an adult.

Chaos Demons and Anxiety

Anxiety is relentless and unmerciful. It strikes at our composure and self-control. Its voice refuses every plea to be silent. It pins us down and revels in the torture of squeezing out our breath. It is the chief reason why we often abandon tough conversations, spiritual disciplines, prayer, or even silence.

That is the strength of anxiety; it drains our will to fight. We know that lasting peace could lie at the end of the battle. But anxiety doesn’t just want relief – it demands it by premature resolution. And so, we are left trying to rationalize our inability to face it. Most often this is under the guise of self-assurances that this is wisdom, not fear.

The ancients named it chaos. Nearly every culture had a chaos demon haunting its dreams.

One such legend was from the Norse. It was a serpent so large and fearsome that it lived beneath the waves, encircling the entirety of the world. Its home was in the deep, unpredictable waters where all sailors feared to go.

The Norse god Thor had a long-standing feud with that serpent, Jörmungandr. He found an ocean giant, Hymir, who knew the deep oceans. Although he was an expert in the open waters, he feared the beast. So, Thor tricked him into taking him fishing. 

Once out on the open waters, Thor kept rowing against Hymir’s panicked warnings until he was directly over Jörmungandr. He lowered his line with a massive hook baited with the head of a bull. When the serpent devoured it, he quickly pulled him to the surface. Thor was now face to face with the source of so many of man’s fears. He reached for his hammer in order to strike that final blow. But Hymir, overwhelmed with fear, quickly cut the line. Jormungandr sank once again beneath the waves; still alive and threatening the Earth.

Panic always leads to anxiety surviving another day.

Turning Over Control

The Bible has its own personification for this chaos: Leviathan. It is found in the book of Job. 

Job was in the middle of an existential crisis. What he believed about God – that He is good – was not matching up with how he experienced God. Chapter by chapter through conversations and inner thought, Job’s anxiety rose. Then God stepped on the scene. He did not come to give Job all of the answers, nor did He come to punish him for his disbelief. He came to reorient Job’s vision.

1. He reminded Job of his position. “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?” Job was worrying about things that he could not know nor hope to control. But he was in covenant with the One Who could.

2. He made Job examine his attitude. “Can you draw out Leviathan with a fishhook?” Job’s anxiety was not arising from God being unfair. It stemmed from a visceral distaste for the way that God sometimes does things.

3. He caused Job to see the futility of his complaint. “Lay your hands on him; remember the battle – you will not do it again! Behold, the hope of a man is false: he is laid low even at the sight of him.” There was only One Who could face Leviathan and win. And that was the very same person that Job was bitter against. He was allowing anxiety to create distance between him and his Protector.

Anxiety lies. It says that running away leads to safety. It dares us to summon the courage to face our fears. Then it turns up the heat a little more. But, God is there at our side; He can put anxiety in its place at any time. He brings us face to face with it, so that we can learn to trust His power. But then, ruled by fear like Hymir, we prematurely cut the line. We breathe a sigh of relief while anxiety laughs beneath the surface, plotting its next attack.

God has a different plan. Job is His servant and He loves him. But He does not slay Leviathan here. To be sure – He can and He will. Psalm 74:14 says, “You crushed the heads of Leviathan; you gave him as food for the creatures of the wilderness.” Isaiah 27:1 promises, “In that day the Lord with His hard and great and strong sword will punish Leviathan the fleeing serpent, Leviathan the twisting serpent, and he will slay the dragon that is in the sea.”

Leviathan’s days are numbered. God’s very first act in Genesis was to bring order to chaos. He still maintains that control today. But in Job, God does not yet move to destroy Leviathan. He leaves it alive to fight another day. But this is not an act of panic as with the legend of Hymir. God has a greater purpose.

Job’s story didn’t need an ending yet. God doesn’t have to slay the serpent right now because His rule is not threatened. 

I hate the feeling of anxiety. I understand why the ancients thought of it as an unapproachable chaos monster. I feel it when I try to climb up a flight of stairs on a tower. But I can walk away from a tower.

It’s those other, more intrinsic areas of my life that threaten my peace; my faith. Resentment against God arises when I feel it wrap its coils around me again. I want peace. I want escape. And I want it right now! 

That’s when I’m most like Hymir, ready to prematurely cut the line. God reaches down into the unknown depths and pulls up my greatest fears. He doesn’t do this to torture me. He does it so that I can see the mastery and control that He has over it. In that way, anxiety loses its power.

And day after day, in unexpected moments, anxiety surfaces to threaten my peace in God. It is unmerciful in its attacks on my composure. And I always want to run like a frightened, eight year-old boy.

God has left me in the arena, still facing the beast of anxiety. Only now, I’m not a competitor. I’m a spectator to God triumphing over it on my behalf time and again. 

My life sits upon deep waters. And Leviathan lurks beneath them, whispering threats against my soul. All I have to do is sit still in the boat.

And as I have stated in my first initial post for this journal: writing about chaplaincy is tough. I would lying if I didn’t say that sitting down to write about my experiences feels burdensome after a long week of working in it. I said this would be a rough sketch of my experiences and that means including being honest about the way I struggle with the work itself. I really would prefer to write this journal as someone who has it together and has it all figured out. To write online is to the be expert in your niche right? The truth though is part of my delay in writing is because I had been struggling with feeling confident about my work and I’ve been weighed down by insecurity and too much self-awareness. Ministry work has a way of bringing out your own spiritual struggles. It is hard to do it faithfully without spiritually growing in tandem.

The following entry is more about what chaplaincy has been teaching me about pastoral care and my own journey to become more Christ-like.

“What do I bring to the table?”

I struggle with this question quite a bit as a minister and now as a chaplain. Nothing is worse than feeling weightless, purposeless, and ill-equipped. We like to feel like we contribute to an effort beyond ourselves. We like to feel like we bring something to the table.

This question though becomes urgent when I face a healthcare crisis in the hospital. Let me explain.

A CODE BLUE is called over the intercom. I respond alongside the rest of the healthcare team: the hospitalist, the CARE manager, the respiratory nurses, the pharmacist, the charge nurses, other nurses trained in life support, and security. Everyone has a part to play, everyone ready to respond with their specific skill sets to save the patient. They each have their skills and their instruments to intervene when necessary.

Now what about me, the chaplain? What do I bring to the team?

I don't bring anything physical with me, no medical tools and hardly any medical intervening skills. The work I am employed to do as a chaplain is less tangible than everyone else’s role. In some ways, I feel like I am in the way. What do I bring to the table exactly?

I’ve been thinking and praying about this. But the reality is that my work is spiritual - to be a presence and support to the family members. I am meant to be a stabilizing, non-anxious presence. I am meant to be attentive, compassionate, loving, and caring to the best of my ability. Sure, these other healthcare team members can be compassionate and caring, but that is not their primary role in that situation. They are there to medically intervene and save that person's life. On the other hand, I am strictly there for the purpose to love and to care.

And in order for me to love and care well, I better be sure I’ve brought godly character to the scene.

What I bring to the table is my character - my Christ-like image. My success as a chaplain is wholly reliant on just how much Christ's image has been formed in me. Now when I speak of success, I speak of a spiritual success in which Christ is honored and glorified and others are given a clear picture of Gospel hope. It is a success tied up with Christ’s success in forming me into his image.

The reality is that my preaching skills, biblical knowledge, charisma, writing, and organizational skills are stripped away in the crisis situation. None of that really matters as much as my character - my capability to selflessly love as Christ loved. To succeed in this situation will require the fruit of the spirit - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness long-suffering, etc.

In chaplaincy, I am finding myself in situations in which it is impossible to fake my spiritual maturity. It frightens me. Every opportunity to minister to lost souls is a confrontation with the limits of my godly character. I am brought to the fringes of my spiritual maturity. Indeed, I bring nothing to the table but what Christ has formed in me so far.

You cannot fake true compassion, love, grace, and endurance. It is impossible to exhibit this character without prior formation. I am realizing you can’t be a skilled chaplain without being a spiritually mature chaplain. This might just be the most valuable lesson I've gained from my chaplaincy experience. The quality and tone of your relationships with others is the real plum line for where your spiritual maturity actually is. In chaplaincy, connecting with others who are diverse, different, or even opposed to what I stand for has tested the vitality of the fruits of the Spirit in my heart.

The fact is the majority of the patients I provide care for are completely new people - those I have never met before. Sometimes I see twenty plus people a day - all new. Every time I must start afresh without prior reputation, relational credit, and rapport to go off of. I am out of my element every time and instead of leaning on these other pillars, I find myself completely reliant on God and whatever good character he’s worked in me up to that point. How in tune am I with His spirit? How can I be prepared to give a reason for the hope that is within me, especially when I have no idea what or who I am about to see? How do I know what to say and when to say it? The immediacy and intensity of the situation strips away pretense and leaves bare who I truly am. It becomes more clear: how much of Christ is in me?

It is humbling.

But I am so grateful for these testing grounds. I rather know where I actually stand in my ministry abilities and Christ-like character than fool myself for decades and find out years from now that I’ve hardly run the race set before me. I know for the last few years, I had become pre-occupied with ‘ministry work’ such as preaching, counseling, teaching, studying, and so on that I easily forgot the minister’s premiere service to others is his character in Christ.

But the Gospel-centered Christian might object, “But the message of the Gospel, the name of Jesus Christ, that is your greatest asset!” Yes, of course, I absolutely agree; but a minister of great character is a man not only with the message but a man who has been changed by the message. The former may deter others and prove a snare to their soul while the latter is the one who wins souls.

But that isn’t a truth that applies only to chaplaincy. It is a pastoral reality as well - for any of you involved in the local church and called to shepherd souls. It’s not your skills, charisma, position, authority, or status that you bring to the table. It is your character, the most important piece of evidence you’ll share with another about the power and efficacy of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Every time I show up for my job I have to remember a few things. No, I don’t have a stethoscope; I don’t have any thermometers; I don’t have any IV’s or medical tools from the crash cart; I just have me, the Spirit of Christ in me, and the Gospel message from His word. I pray I’ve been spending enough time with them to be ready for the next spiritual crisis someone faces.

My greatest asset in ministry is my character - Christ formed in me.