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Daniel Hochhalter Posts

Facing down fear with faith

4f0115cde03fb27ee24be46deda8454fThe holidays are over, and the new year is here. Traditionally, the masses welcome it by drinking champagne, singing “Auld Lang Syne,” watching the ball drop in Times Square, and kissing or getting kissed by total strangers. There’s a sense of relief in having made it through the old year, and a sense of hope in anticipating the new one.

As for me—well, I am usually in bed by 9:00 p.m.

It’s the classic head-in-the-sand approach: if I can’t see something coming, it’s not really there.

While I absolutely love the Advent season, I always seem to face the new year with apprehension. What I am trying to understand is why. Actually, I am pretty sure I already know why, though I am reluctant to admit it: I think the reason is fear. And part of that fear is not having any choice, any control—because I don’t have any choice or control over the new year; I must go forward into the future, even if I’d rather not.

To me, the unknown new year is a wide, gaping chasm, and I have no other option but to step into it. I feel like Indiana Jones in The Last Crusade, standing before an abyss, with his father’s notes telling him he must “leap.” But the void is too wide to leap across, even with a running start, a good pair of Air Jordans, and a pole vault. Indy has no choice: the only way forward is to step off the cliff, into thin air.

Yeah—it’s like that.

I can’t help but wonder as I face this year: What surprises might be in store? What catastrophes might befall? When the phone rings unexpectedly, will it bring news that is happy, or horrific? And at this time next year, what will life look like?]

Just like every other year, I know this one will include both tears and laughter, gains and losses, but I don’t know how or when.

And that is what scares me—the unknown.

I fear it.

It’s the fear of a roller-coaster ride in pitch blackness—when you can’t see the track in front of you.

The Israelites faced a similarly unknown future at the edge of the Promised Land. They had sent twelve spies to scope out the land, to see how fruitful it was and to assess the military strength of its inhabitants. And the results were positive, at least regarding the land’s fruitfulness. But the inhabitants were, you might say, a big issue. Ten of the twelve spies reported: “All the people we saw there are of great size….We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them” (Numbers 13:33).

And their words struck fear into the whole nation of Israel.

But two spies, Joshua and Caleb, disagreed:

‘Then Caleb silenced the people before Moses and said, “We should go up and take possession of the land, for we can certainly do it.” (Num. 13:30)

I can see it now – ten spies, rushing wide-eyed back to camp with the terrifying report: “You won’t believe these guys. They are GI-NORMOUS! They’ll smoosh us like bugs.”

Then the minority has the guts to step up and say, “We can take ’em.”

Fortunately Joshua, the Israelites’ future leader, listened to faith, not fear. Later, when he commanded the people to cross the Jordan River and enter the Promised Land, the thought of smooshed grasshoppers littering the desert was probably still in their minds. But just before they crossed, God gave Joshua this assurance:

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9)

And based on Joshua’s faith and God’s promise, they did cross over.

So how can we move from fear to faith? There is only one way: like Indiana Jones and the Israelites, we must close our eyes and step into the void, acknowledging that anything—anything—could happen. This year could be the greatest year ever, or just another average rotation around the sun, or an absolute disaster. It’s a roll of the dice.

Well, correct that. It’s not up to the dice. It’s up to God. With each new year, and each new day, we must consciously remind ourselves to place our lives yet again into his hands—no matter what happens, good, bad, or ugly—and proclaim: “God is good.”

Simply put, the only way to move from fear to faith is to obey his command and absorb his promise:

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

uncertainty-ahead

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The paradox of the bells

01f3de4d7e0148b5b4f93d30cdc65338At Christmas I often reflect on the incongruity of peace amid conflict, hope amid despair, light amid darkness. I am reminded of the simple paradox that light can push back darkness, but darkness cannot overcome light.

And nothing expresses this paradox better than Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s 1864 poem, “Christmas Bells,”  later set to music as the carol “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”

We seldom hear the peal of church bells anymore, but in Longfellow’s time it was prominent in every town—especially at Christmas.

On Christmas Day 1864, our nation was enveloped in the darkness and despair of the Civil War. Yet Longfellow was struck by the joy and jubilation of the Christmas bells.

 I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
     And wild and sweet
     The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
     Had rolled along
     The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
     A voice, a chime,
     A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!*

A couple of years earlier, Longfellow’s wife had died due to injuries from a fire; and more recently, against his wishes, his son Charles had joined the Union Army and had been critically wounded in battle.

Overwhelmed by grief, Longfellow struggled to reconcile the joy of the bells with the hopelessness of death and the destructiveness of war.

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
     And with the sound
     The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
     And made forlorn
     The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!*

In 2012, I experienced similar incongruity when America was rocked to its core by a string of December shootings.

On December 14, a shooter killed his mother and then, at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, killed 20 children and 7 adults, including himself.

On December 21, another shooter in Frankstown Township, Pennsylvania, fatally shot three people and then was killed in a shootout.

But before either of those events, on December 11 a gunman opened fire in Clackamas Town Center—a mall just a couple of miles from my home in Portland, Oregon— killing two people and then himself.

I remember standing on my front porch, surrounded by Christmas lights, watching the police and press helicopters circling overhead in the dusk.

The innocence of Christmas was lost for me that night.

Christmas is supposed to be a time of anticipating Christ—the one who came to save humanity once and for all. It is supposed to be a time when schools and malls are filled with laughter and singing and visits from Santa.

Not a time of screaming and running for cover.

Not a time of of loved ones grieving over bloodied bodies.

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said:
     “For hate is strong,
     And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!” 

The next day I drove over to the scene of the shooting, just to be there. As I drove, the radio was playing “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” (Casting Crowns version). It wasn’t the first time I had heard it, but this time it struck me at the deepest level.

As local folks tried to comprehend and grieve the ravages of the shootings, I thought of Longfellow struggling to understand and grieve the ravages of war, including his own son’s injury.

Then I thought of the very first Christmas—a time that was equally dark. In first-century Palestine, there was suffering, oppression, and terrorism. There was prejudice, hatred, and violence.

Just as in 1864.

Just as in 2012.

Just as in 2014.

Since Adam left Eden, it has never been any different.

Yet in the darkness, the bells proclaim that Christ was born to deliver the world from sin, and to set all things right.

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
     The Wrong shall fail,
     The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Longfellow never lost faith because of the paradox of a beautiful world torn by war and violence. Instead, he listened to the bells. And in their joyous clamor, he found hope.

For those glorious bells proclaimed that God is here; he sees pain and injustice; and one day he will reconcile all things to himself.

“In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:4-5).

In ancient Eden, in first-century Palestine, and in America today, the darkness and self-destruction of this world was, is, and always will be overcome by Jesus, the Light.

Casting Crowns Perform ‘I Heard The Bells.’ from casting-crowns on GodTube.

 

* From the database of Longfellow poems at www.hwlongfellow.org/poems_front.ph (a website of the Maine Historical Society). It should be noted that when the poem was set to music as a carol, Longfellow’s third stanza (“Till, ringing, singing on its way…”) was moved to the end and his fourth and fifth stanzas were omitted.

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The gifts of the star

Of all the symbols related to Christmas, the most meaningful for me is undoubtedly the star. 

The star radiates majesty and mystery. Perched high atop a roof or tree, silently overlooking the frenzy of the season, it doesn’t judge, coerce, or demand attention. It is just there, waiting patiently for the world to look up and receive its message of hope. 

sheperd_star_born_jesusMentioned in only one passage of scripture (Matthew 2:1-12), the star seems to appear with purpose and move with intelligence, almost like a living character in the story. When the promised Messiah is born, the star appears to the Magi, but it does not at first lead them to him; instead it apparently disappears or is hidden for awhile, because they have to go to Jerusalem and ask where to find “the king of the Jews” (v. 2). After they learn the prophets foretold he would be born in Bethlehem, the star reappears, to their great joy (v. 10). Matthew says it “went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was” (v. 9). 

It went ahead of them, and then stopped at a specific spot? What kind of star does that? It almost seems to have a mind of its own. 

To me, its rare behavior indicates that the star was a supernatural phenomenon, ordered by God to mark a supernatural event—an event like no other in history: the coming of the Savior. 

The first-century Jews were in desperate need of a savior. They were oppressed from without by a Roman empire that neither understood nor cared about what was important to them. They were oppressed from within by a system of religious laws which were impossible to keep. It was a time of uncertainty, violence, and hopelessness. God had been silent for four centuries since the last Old Testament prophet. The promise of the Messiah was ancient history, distant and forgotten. 

They must have wondered if God had abandoned them—or if he even cared. 

Then Jesus was born, and God sent the star to point the way to him. 

The world today is also in desperate need of a savior. In our human arrogance, we think we are doing okay—but look at the headlines. We are not okay. We are lost in darkness and brokenness. 

But how does that relate to the star? Isn’t the star just an irrelevant symbol of an ancient story? What difference could it possibly make in our dark world today? 

I think the star still matters, because it shows God’s love and care. He used it to provide three gifts that are always desperately needed: anticipation, guidance, and the fulfillment of his promise. 

First, the star created anticipation. Apparently the Magi had studied prophecies about the Messiah and had connected the dots. They recognized the appearance of the star as such an epic event that they eagerly packed their things, left their home, and traveled for about two years (according to the report in Matthew 2:16) to follow it to the place where he was. Imagine their excitement as they got closer and closer to finding him. 

Anticipation creates excitement that God has something good in store. Without anticipation, we have nothing to look forward to. 

Second, the star provided guidance. It led the Magi from far-off lands to the promised Messiah, just as the pillar of fire led the Hebrews (Exodus 13:21) from the Red Sea to the Promised Land. Both the star and the fire led their followers to a specific destination, chosen by God. And metaphorically, both showed the way of deliverance, out of darkness and into the light. 

Guidance provides a sense that God is leading. Without guidance, we wander aimlessly in the dark.

Third, and best of  all, the star marked the fulfillment of God’s promise. From the prophecies, the Magi knew about the promised Messiah, and they recognized the star as the supernatural sign of his birth. The star proved that God, who had seemed to be absent or oblivious for so long, not only makes promises; he also keeps them.

Anticipation, guidance, and the fullfillment of God’s promise—we need those three gifts now more than ever. For the Magi, the star was the light which guided them to Jesus. For us, it is a reminder that God will accomplish his plan for deliverance, even when we cannot see it.

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New life in the zombie apocalypse, part 4: Spiritual weapons and sustenance

Note: I love zombie apocalypse stories because they are a great metaphor for life crises. This blog series on the topic has four parts: 1) waking up in the crisis; 2) defining “alive”; 3) abandoning self-sufficiency; and 4) spiritual weapons and sustenance. All scriptures are NIV unless otherwise noted.

To conclude our journey through the zombie apocalypse, we’ll discuss the two most important keys to survival: What about weapons for self-defense? And what about sustenance (food and water)?

So, what about weapons?

ZSNTransparent3a3fd3-300x285Would I choose a projectile-type weapon (for example, a gun or crossbow), or a melee weapon (such as a hatchet, sword, or dagger) for close, hand-to-hand combat?

There is no better reassurance than having a gun hanging off one shoulder—the bigger, the better. However, a gun is loud (zombies can hear, you know!), bullets could be hard to find, and a lot could happen in the moment it takes to reload. In fact, in a 2013 television episode of Mythbusters, Jamie and Adam took on the question of weapons in the zombie apocalypse. They compared a melee weapon (an electronic axe that registered fatal hits) to a projectile weapon (a gun which did the same) and found that the former kept a person alive longer, because the latter took too much time to reload. So if they say so, it must be true.

Similarly, in our daily spiritual battle against evil, the Bible recommends a melee weapon—the “sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God” (Ephesians 6:17) against Satan’s projectile-type “fiery darts” (Ephesians 6:16). This sword (the word of God) is silent, precise, and strategic. It requires getting up close and personal, rather than rushing in with guns blazing and possibly attracting more enemy attention. And, although this sword must be kept clean and sharp through regular maintenance (that is, scripture reading and study), it never requires a reload.

Finally, what about sustenance?

zombie kitFood is a huge question—so big that I won’t even try to touch it here. But water—water is everything. Even with the best living space, the greatest community, the strongest defenses, and the most inexhaustible food supply, no one survives without water. And the lack of it can drive people mad with thirst.

Without water, the Hebrews in the wilderness cried out to return to slavery in Egypt, arguing that being slaves with water was better than being free people without it (Numbers 20:5).

Without water, Hagar abandoned her own son, Ishmael, in the desert because she could not bear to watch him die of thirst (Genesis 21:13-16).

Without water, Elijah became so depressed that he didn’t want to live (I Kings 19). He was also suffering from lack of food, rest, and encouragement; but water is such a basic physical need that I’m convinced the lack of it was a factor in his depression.

In the same way, water is the top priority in the zombie apocalypse. And again, there is a spiritual solution: Christ, the living water.

During the insanity and desperation of my own personal apocalypse, I was pulled every which way from thirst. I was in a spiritual desert. I wasn’t living; I was merely surviving, just trying to get by. But somehow Jesus quenched my thirst. I never asked him to do so; I never even thought to ask. But in mercy and love he got me through each day, giving me just enough hope to keep going. I see that now, but I couldn’t see it then. It is difficult to see his goodness in the midst of the apocalypse. Somehow, you just have to know that it is. That he is.

As Jesus told the woman at the well: “[W]hoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life” (John 4:14).

We Christ-followers must continually drink of Christ himself, the living water.

So, from this post and my last one, let’s recap the conventional wisdom on how to survive the zombie apocalypse: Leave the “city” of self-sufficiency and learn to live “in the country,” depending on God every day. Join a small, close-knit community for support. Keep the sword of the Spirit sharp, clean, and ready to strike at the enemy. And above all, stay close to the source of living water, which is Christ Jesus.

I’m living proof that, if you do all of these things, when you awaken in your own personal zombie apocalypse you will get through it.

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New life in the zombie apocalypse, part 3: Abandoning self-sufficiency

Note: I love zombie apocalypse stories because they are a great metaphor for life crises. This blog series on the topic has four parts: 1) waking up in the crisis; 2) defining “alive”; 3) abandoning self-sufficiency; and 4) spiritual weapons and sustenance. All scriptures are NIV unless otherwise noted.

The Walking Dead, a zombie show based on a serialized graphic novel, is one of the most-watched shows on TV, while other zombie books and movies continue to sell like hotcakes.

Why is the zombie genre so popular?

I think one reason is the compelling question at the heart of it: In a zombie apocalypse, what would I do? Or more specifically, excluding the suicide option, what would I do to survive?

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This question faces all fictional people in zombie stories, and stirs such passionate interest in actual people that a real-life industry has grown up around it. Amazon.com sells a survival manual, and other websites offer real-life training camps on the topic. In 2011, even the History Channel aired a special (Zombies: A Living History) about outlasting a zombie takeover. The History Channel!

The question of survival can be broken down into more specific questions, such as: Where would I go? With whom would I associate? What about weapons for self-defense? And what about sustenance (food and water)?

Each of these questions has spiritual applications. Let’s tackle them one at a time.

First, where would I go?

Would I go to a city or to the country, and would I settle into a secure, well-equipped home base or stay on the move?

A city contains more scavengeable resources for greater self-sufficiency (or the illusion of it), but it also has more zombies. To get around the zombies to the resources, I’d need massive courage and ninja-like stealth – attributes rarely possessed by a guy of my size and agility. Also, in the city, there’s more danger of getting trapped in tight spaces (narrow streets, tall buildings) with no escape, whereas in the country there are fewer zombies and more escape routes. As for establishing a well-equipped home base, doing so could attract other survivors who’d kill for it; better to stay mobile.

Zombie wisdom says: Don’t follow the crowd to the cities, and don’t settle in one place. It’s safer to keep moving through open country and live off the land, even though resources might be scarce. At least, according to my sources.

In the Old Testament, the dichotomy was the same. As people built cities, they began to “follow the crowd” and develop wealth, resources, and delusions of self-sufficiency, all of which laid the foundation for many evils. Think of the people of Babel building a tower, seeking to become almost godlike: “Come, let us build ourselves a city, a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves” (Genesis 11:4). Or think of the Hebrews establishing cities in the Promised Land, then rejecting God as their leader and demanding a human king like “all the other nations” (1 Samuel 8:5).

In actuality, a city in itself is not evil. But symbolically, it is a monument to human strength. Living in a “city” (metaphorically), we can forget our dependence on God and find ourselves trapped in dangerous places, like in the delusion that we are self-sufficient.

Perhaps this is why, before the Hebrews became a nation, God led them away from the cities and toward complete dependence on him in the wilderness, where they had to trust him to provide manna every day (Exodus 16).

Personally, in the real world, I prefer books and computers to rugged outdoor life. But metaphorically, I believe that living in daily dependence on God’s provision – to me, represented in zombie literature by living off the land in remote places – is the way to go.

165c_aluminum_zombie_shelter_signSecond, with whom would I associate?

Would I remain a lone individualist, join a small group, or become part of a large group?

On one hand, a loner requires fewer supplies and can escape more quickly and easily—again, creating an illusion of self-sufficiency—but she has no one to watch her back or cover her blind spots. On the other hand, a large group poses logistical problems and offers little sense of true closeness. The third choice, a smallish, close-knit group, offers real interconnectedness and the best chance of survival.

Zombie wisdom says: Go with a small group. Small groups are stronger and safer than large groups or loners.

Jesus supported this model by forming a small group of disciples who knew each other intimately. He prayed that they, and we, would experience true unity (John 17), which is essential for spiritual strength.

I’m an introvert and I’m also from Montana, where personal freedom is a core value, so I tend to favor being “on my own.” When my world imploded in 2008, I just wanted to withdraw and be by myself. Thankfully, though, my church stressed the scripturally-based point that everyone, even an introvert like me, should join a home community for close relationships. So I found the nearest one and started attending. And this ragtag band of Christians surrounded me and lifted me up. They bound my spiritual wounds and defended me from further attacks of the enemy. They cared for me through prayer, encouragement, and many other forms of support. Had I stayed alone, I might still be living, but I probably would be more dead than alive. In the zombie apocalypse and in real life, living in a small, caring community is best.

So depending on human self-sufficiency, whether in a “city” or on one’s own, is not the best way to survive the zombie apocalypse. Instead, it’s better to depend on the strength of God and a few believers who know you very well.

In my next blog, I’ll wrap up the last two questions: What about weapons for self-defense? And what about sustenance (food and water)?

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New life in the zombie apocalypse, part 2: Defining “alive”

Note: I love zombie apocalypse stories because they are a great metaphor for life crises. This blog series on the topic has four parts: 1) waking up in the crisis; 2) defining “alive”; 3) abandoning self-sufficiency; and 4) spiritual weapons and sustenance. All scriptures are NIV unless otherwise noted.

As we continue our spiritual journey through the zombie apocalypse, let’s consider the zombies themselves. To me, the most intriguing aspect of zombies is the nature of their existence (I know, zombies don’t really exist – but it’s a metaphor, so hear me out).

Zombie-EvolutionZombies, in contrast to human survivors, are often described as the “living dead” – subhuman beings who seem to be alive, yet not alive. How can they exist in two incompatible states at once? Yet in a zombie story, they do. The story pulls us “outside the box” and hands us a paradox. It twists what we know. It forces us to consider the definition of life: What is life? What is living? And what does it mean to be truly alive?

The definition of life is, of course, endlessly debated. However, if we stay “inside the box,” we might define life by simple measures – such as, say, the presence of brain waves and a heartbeat.

But there are huge gray areas. For example, both zombies and humans may exhibit brain waves and heartbeats, yet without being fully alive.

In the opening credits of Shaun of the Dead, a zombie comedy (a paradox in and of itself), the camera pans across several routine scenarios – commuters waiting for a bus, cashiers scanning groceries, hoodlums shuffling down the street – all on autopilot, without thought or awareness.

All of these people are technically alive, engaged in what some might call the drudgery of everyday existence. Yet they look no more alive than the zombies who appear later in the film. They intentionally beg the question: is there really any difference between the living dead and the living dead? What is the difference between a live person working mindlessly for some-thing to eat, and a dead person searching brainlessly for some-one to eat?

A spirit.

This was illustrated in the first season finale of AMC’s The Walking Dead. At the Center for Disease Control (CDC), the last remaining scientist shows visitors a brain scan of his last test subject as she dies and slowly turns into a zombie. He explains that all parts of the brain that “make you you” become black on the screen, indicating death. However, after a few minutes a tiny part of the brain that controls basic motor functions begins to show renewed activity. Conclusion: the spirit—the personality, the humanity—has left the body. The only part “living” is the body, the shell. And its only goal is to find sustenance. For some inexplicable reason, that sustenance consists solely of the living.

This is a profound concept, indeed, when we consider God breathing his spirit—life—into the first human. It tells us we humans are unique, special, created in God’s image. Without that God-breath, there is no true life.

However, as shown in Shaun of the Dead, even the living can be fully alive or only partially alive. After getting off the plane from my disastrous postgraduate oral defense, I was technically “alive”—I had a pulse and a few readable brain waves; my basic motor functions worked, though with more effort than before; and Jesus was still living inside me.

Yet like a zombie I shuffled through the next few years, numb and dead, attacking innocent people to feed my inner monster of rage and self-pity. My existence consisted of moments of anger, followed by bouts of weeping. Finally, my days devolved into standing at the edge of the abyss, staring into the blackness before me. I was certain the previous seven years were the climax of my life, and I was now just waiting to rot.

But one question haunted me—a typical job interview question: “What do you see yourself doing five years from now?” How does a zombie answer that question? I really needed a job, but my self-confidence was flushed down a British loo. The real answer—the answer I couldn’t say—was: “I don’t know. I am just trying to survive to the end of the day.”

I had a spirit, but I wasn’t living.

So I will take the definition of life one step further. Life is more than brainwaves, a heartbeat, and a spirit. It also requires vision, passion, and hope.

That’s what I lacked: hope. A voice to guide me, to snap me out of my trance of hopelessness and pull me away from the edge of the abyss. Sadly, we often can’t do this for ourselves. Maybe you too have been killed by hopelessness and rejection. Maybe you too have settled for “good enough”—which is often not that great.

So how does a zombie come back to life? I can’t answer that for everyone, but I can relate a few things that have been helpful for me personally. Here is what I suggest.

First, find within yourself a seed of self-awareness to acknowledge, to yourself and God, exactly where you are. Denying our zombie state will only entrench it, so we must first admit it. Remember, God is not bothered or intimidated by this admission.

Second, take one tiny step of repentance away from the abyss and toward Christ, who is true life. One step, however slight, is enough to shift our focus off our own anger and self-pity and onto Christ.

Third, commit to an intimate community of Christ-followers who will pray for you, support you, and allow you to heal in God’s time.

Fourth, don’t waste time asking, “Why?” In a zombie apocalypse, that question almost never gets answered. Ask instead, “What now?” In other words, whatever happened is now in the past. It can’t be undone and the “why” question only amplifies the hopelessness. You are in a new reality. It’s uncharted and scary. But God is there also. To paraphrase Henry Blackaby: Find out where God is working (and believe me, in this zombie apocalypse, there are oodles of places where he is at work), and go join him.

In the zombie apocalypse, the zombies are not ill; they are truly dead and cannot be revived. However, God is a God of resurrection. I am proof that God can resurrect zombies and breathe new life into them.

In Christ, death is never final.

Not even in the zombie apocalypse.OCREk

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New life in the zombie apocalypse, part 1: Waking up in the crisis

Note: I love zombie apocalypse stories because they are a great metaphor for life crises. This blog series on the topic has four parts: 1) waking up in the crisis; 2) defining “alive”; 3) abandoning self-sufficiency; and 4) spiritual weapons and sustenance. All scriptures are NIV unless otherwise noted.

In the 2010 pilot episode of AMC TV’s “The Walking Dead,” Rick (the protagonist) awakens from a coma to find his city deserted except for a horrific new reality: flesh-eating zombies. He dodges them for awhile, trying unsuccessfully to find his wife and son, but the need for safety finally drives him to seek refuge in an abandoned military tank.

In the episode’s final shot, the camera points directly down from above to show several zombies climbing around on the tank, looking for a way in. Then the camera slowly pulls back, widening the scene to reveal hundreds more zombies shuffling toward the tank from all directions.

And then the scene fades to black.

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From AMC’s “The Walking Dead” – pilot episode

It is one of rare shots in film that conveys total terror and hopelessness.

That closing shot, that whole episode, resonated with me on a deeply emotional level. It all served as the perfect metaphor for how I had been feeling for over two years—alive but trapped, temporarily surviving but with absolutely no way forward.

In 2008, my world collapsed in utter failure. When I got off the plane after a day’s travel from London, still numb from having my doctoral dissertation rejected just days before, I realized I was facing a whole new reality—one where nothing made sense, every moment was uncertain, and every dream I had tried to form was gone, with a finality for which there was no cure.

I had stepped into my own personal zombie apocalypse.

For months after I returned home, I barely shuffled through the days. I don’t know if I was a zombie or a survivor, but in a zombie apocalypse, both could be called “the walking dead” (the zombies actually are dead, and the survivors’ future is so bleak that they might as well be). So every day I had to choose whether to be a zombie, feeding on baser animal instincts like rage and self-centeredness, or a survivor, determined to cling to higher spiritual values like faith and love.

I had been living in this strange existence for over two years before that “Walking Dead” premiere. And that hopeless, terrifying final scene captured every single feeling I experienced at the time.

Zombie stories are my guilty pleasure. I can relate to the desperate plight of the survivors, and the fascinating “what if” questions—questions such as…

– If I were trapped in a zombie apocalypse, what would I do?

– Could I survive? Do I have what it takes?

– Would I choose to “opt out,” as some characters do, by committing suicide?

– What would I look like with a zombie face—would it hurt or help?

It’s not the inevitable gore that draws me to the zombie genre—that would just be weird. Instead, it’s the scenario itself that intrigues me.

Zombie stories almost always start with the protagonist (typically a male, though it could be a female) inexplicably waking up in a zombie apocalypse and slowly realizing that something is not right. Numb and disoriented, he staggers through the landscape, passing through new stages of awareness and struggling to interpret what he sees and hears in this dangerous new world. Suspense builds due to fear of discovery—discovery of new horrors. As the mental fog begins to clear, panic rises at these new realities, then desperation as he remembers his family and determines to look for them. Finally, sorrow sets in as he realizes the finality of it all: his old familiar world is gone, and only this horrific new one remains.

The zombie genre rarely, if ever, explains what caused the apocalypse, or what might happen next. There is no big picture, no answer to “how?” or “why?” Instead, there is only an individual or a small group of survivors just trying to get by. The only question is, “What now?” The protagonist must simply accept the new reality, and learn to survive and remain human within it.

Kind of like life.

The truth is, you will probably never, ever have to answer the questions that confront the protagonist in a zombie story. But we each have to face our own apocalypse. The catalyst could be anything, from a divorce to a serious illness to an unexpected death. Whatever the cause, we awaken in a new reality. We are numb, foggy, angry, desperate, and saddened as we try to put the pieces together. We are forced to get past the “why” question and start to answer “what now?” as we trudge through the new chaos.

However, the zombie apocalypse—whether real or metaphorical—is never completely without hope.

The next episode of “The Walking Dead” opens with Rick still in the tank—but something unexpected happens: a voice suddenly crackles over the radio. Someone is watching the whole scenario from a higher, safer vantage point, offering to guide Rick out of his desperate situation. Immediately, he decides to trust that voice.

Like Rick, we too have a voice that speaks into our situation. It’s the voice of the Holy Spirit—unexpected, higher than we are, and able to see the whole picture. If we are to survive our own apocalypse, we must learn to know and trust that voice without hesitation.

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Somehow, I have survived my apocalypse for nearly seven years. My survival skills are far from perfect. But that voice—the wise, loving voice of the Holy Spirit—has helped me limp along.

So get up, clear the cobwebs from your brain, and allow the voice to guide you too.

Welcome to the zombie apocalypse!

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I am Jonah

Photo by Daniel Hochhalter

It’s been almost two decades since I left my home state of Montana and moved out to Portland, Oregon for seminary. When asked where I’m from, I still answer, “I am from Montana, but I live in Portland.” After eighteen years, I still don’t see myself as being from here. I still consider myself an outsider. I just don’t seem to fit in.

I think I’m too rural for the city; I feel claustrophobic here. My horizons are blocked by the neighbor’s fence behind me and the tall apartments in front of me. I always seem to be jostling against people and bumping into things. Even the parking spaces are smaller. It’s hard to ignore the chaos and clamor—the yelling, the car horns, the police sirens (one is screaming past right now). Whenever I get chance to return home to Big Sky country, my body decompresses. My breathing slows. My heart rate goes down. My natural movements become, well, more natural.

And there’s culture shock. I just don’t fit in with Portland culture. If you’ve ever seen the cable TV show Portlandia (I watch it for training, to help me understanding my surroundings!), you know this city has a culture all its own.

Unlike many Portlanders, I am not a hipster. I don’t sport trendy scarves, tattoos or facial hair. Skinny jeans make me look like a sack of organic flour, its lower half caught in an ever-tightening vise. I don’t hike or run marathons. I don’t drink gourmet coffee or designer microbrews; in either case, I wouldn’t know a good batch from a bad one.

I do share Portlanders’ love of books and bookstores, especially our legendary Powell’s City of Books—the world’s biggest independent bookstore of new and used books. But as the city keeps growing, I find I seldom have the stomach to fight the traffic, crowds, and parking fees to get there.

So I hunker down at home and gaze longingly at pictures of spacious vistas—like seascapes along the coast or landscapes of the majestic mountains and plains in Montana.

Naturally, this begs the question: why don’t I just move?

Ah, there’s the rub. For multiple reasons, it seems clear that God wants me here for now. I am called to reflect Jesus and show God’s love to this city; yet for my own selfish reasons, I’d rather flee.

I am Jonah.

Jonah, too, was called to go to a city against his will. God told him to head east to Nineveh, but Jonah headed west to the ocean. God wanted him to call Nineveh to repent, while Jonah wanted it destroyed. God said go, and Jonah went—the other way. He shipped out to sea, and because of his disobedience, God sent a storm that threatened to sink the ship and everyone in it. So the judgment Jonah had desired for Nineveh was now brought down upon his own head.

After being thrown overboard by his shipmates, then swallowed and puked up by a fish, Jonah finally obeys. He goes to Nineveh and calls its residents to repent. But when they do, he is even more contrary than before. In fact, he actually throws a tantrum because things didn’t go his way.

Yep, I am Jonah. Oh, I am not so callous that I want to see my city destroyed. It’s just that I wish God would call someone else to live where I live, and let me move away. It feels like I never fit in here, and I don’t want to step up and try. I just want to take my toys and go home.

But I also don’t want to be a reluctant prophet, trying to pick and choose where I am called to go. I don’t want to insist on reflecting Jesus only where I feel comfortable – and pitch a fit when I end up somewhere else – because the gospel is for everyone, everywhere. Jesus said “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself” (John12:32). Paul said he must “become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some” (1 Corinthians 9:22). Peter said we Christ-followers are “foreigners and exiles”—called to “live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us” (1 Peter 2:12).

Those scriptures apply to me too.

But how can I authentically reflect Jesus’s love to this city when a part of me still wants to leave?

It comes down to grace. In grace, Jesus sought me out; so I need to pay it forward. If I truly understood the depth of his love toward me, I think I’d be more than willing to share it wherever I go, even if part of me doesn’t want to be there.

Maybe one day, God will allow me to retreat to a wide-open space where I can breathe. But until then, I—a twenty-first century Jonah—am called to represent Jesus every place I go. Even the places I’d rather not be.

1200px-HawthorneBridge-Pano All scriptures are from the New International Version (NIV) unless otherwise noted.

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Ice bucket justice

 

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August 2014 was a rough month.

Israel and Hamas exchanged missiles. The ebola death toll in Africa cracked four digits. ISIS slaughtered Iraqi Christians and started beheading journalists. Russia invaded Ukraine and claimed the video footage of their advancing tank columns came from a video game. A St. Louis suburb exploded in race riots, with some elected leaders promising more if the system doesn’t go their way.

And Americans responded by dumping ice water on their heads.14848289439_dfbc1f961f_z

It was difficult not to feel paralyzed by all of the insanity. Instead of dousing my head with ice water, I wanted to bury it in the sand like an ostrich. I was worried about all that was going on, and frustrated by my own smallness. What could I possibly do to affect even one of those headlines?

Should I tweet something—the twenty-first century equivalent of passing out flyers? Post a shocking photo on Facebook and express my sadness? Join a street march? Or perhaps send money?

But send money to whom? We don’t always know.

I understand that people of faith must respond to these crises, must work toward social justice. However, on some of these issues, I am not exactly sure which parties to support, or how. I believe our response should be based on the truth, but sometimes the truth isn’t easy to ascertain. So what can I do to bring good to those around me?

This brings my back to the ALS ice bucket challenge. At first, I dismissed it as pointless and superficial. I mean, what’s the point of over two million people braving a bucket of ice? And what are the odds that ALS will be forgotten again by Halloween?

But then, like a photographer adjusting a camera lens, God adjusted my focus. I saw that in a world of seemingly unsolvable problems, these chilled folks at least did something. What they did was small, but heartfelt. They didn’t do it to assuage their guilt, or to show their moral superiority. They simply turned on video cameras and poured ice water on their heads. That was it.

But together, their individual acts raised over a hundred million dollars (http://time.com/topic/als-ice-bucket-challenge-2/).

I felt as if God was saying to me, “I’m in control. I’ll worry about the big stuff. Just do what you can for those around you.”

This is how I as a Christian can advance God’s kingdom on earth: not by measuring other Christians to see if they are doing “enough” by my yardstick, but by doing something myself.

In the middle of all the craziness last month, I was impressed by something that happened in Ferguson, Missouri. As tensions flared white-hot, the police asked local pastors and church leaders to step in and help calm the situation. I have no idea what any of those pastors felt about the events leading up to the riots—perhaps some were just as angry as the protesters. However, each chose to imitate Jesus and bring peace. I deeply respect their simple acts of love that were underreported by a media hungry for explosive violence.

We will never be able to stop every crisis or heal every disease. And if we try, we will quickly feel overwhelmed and burned out – as I did in August. But we can each reflect Jesus to our own little corner, whether by bringing peace into chaos or by dumping ice water on our heads.

We can still accomplish great good—one ice bucket at a time.

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A fowl reminder of grace

rooster-crowing-2A rooster’s crow aroused me from sleep during a campout / speaking engagement last weekend. Normally that sound is pleasant to me, but this time I was annoyed. This rooster’s morning song apparently was on Eastern time or earlier, because here in the Pacific Northwest it wasn’t morning; it was only 1:30 a.m. Not only was the day not about to break, but I was pretty sure the sun was still hovering somewhere over Europe.

So for about half an hour, I lay listening to a time-challenged bird, desperately hoping to get some sleep before I had to speak in the morning. Then I caught the irony: my topic was the apostle Peter—who, after insisting he’d die for Jesus, in truth was so afraid to die that he denied Jesus three times before the rooster crowed, just as Jesus had predicted he would (John 13:38).

Peter denied knowing Jesus to a servant girl.

Then again to someone else.

Then a third time.

Finally, in the night, as rooster crowed.

And Peter, knowing he was guilty, stood reprimanded by a dinner entree.

Whenever I hear a rooster crow, I always wonder how that sound made Peter feel after his three denials of Christ. Did it remind him of that shame? Did it make him feel condemned? Maybe even hopeless?

The stereotypic rooster image is that of a rooster perched atop a fence by an old barn, welcoming in the sun on the horizon, waking the world to the start of a new day. But like the rooster near my campsite last week, Peter’s may have been time-challenged because some texts imply it was still night when the rooster crowed (for example, in Luke 22:56, shortly after Jesus’ arrest, people were gathered around a fire to keep warm). That premature crow proclaimed the darkest hour of Peter’s night: the arrest and trial of his Savior, plus a triple failure in denying that very one.

Yet the rooster also brought clarity. During the previous three years, while Peter kept falling all over himself trying to prove what an awesome disciple he was, the only thing he proved was his ability to get in the way of God’s work. Now, the shrill cry of a rooster confirmed it: Peter was a screwup, a failure.

And for the remainder of that night, Peter could only stand alone in this condemnation. The Messiah was on trial and surely headed for execution. Now there was no one who could save Peter from himself.

But that crow, in the dead of night, also announced something Peter didn’t yet understand: a new day was coming. Like the sun, the Son (an old pun, but still true) would rise again!

And unlike Judas, Peter hung around for that event. The rising sun was not yet visible, but it was coming. And with it came the risen Son, full of forgiveness and grace, who met Peter on the lakeshore and asked him three times, “Do you love me?” And each time, Peter said, “Yes.”

Scripture says Peter was grieved (John 20:17) that Jesus kept asking the same question. But Jesus was giving Peter a do-over—three affirmations, one for each denial.

In fact, within just a few weeks, Peter the cowardly screwup was bravely proclaiming the good news of Jesus’ resurrection to thousands. He even confronted the same religious group who had crucified Jesus by telling them, after a healing: “It is by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom you crucified but whom God raised from the dead, that this man stands before you healed” (Acts 4:10).

What changed in Peter? Nothing, really. Peter was still Peter, a sinful screwup badly in need of grace. The only difference between Peter the denier and Peter the proclaimer was Jesus’ resurrection and forgiveness—a new day, announced by the rooster in blackest night.

After that, I believe that whenever Peter heard a rooster crow, he was reminded of his failure, but in a context of grace.

Fast forward two millennia, to a happy camper in a tent near Rainer, Oregon. At first I was annoyed that the crow of a stupid bird had awakened me from a deep, much-needed sleep. Then I thought of Peter, hearing that same sound during the worst failure of his life—and then hearing it again later, after Jesus’ forgiveness. And the crowing sweetened to a tune filled with grace. The same grace which had poured over a screwup like Peter.

I drifted back to sleep with a new song of grace in my ears.

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