Category: Anxiety

Shoehorning Jesus into the great mask debate

Published by Daniel on July 17, 2020

These days, across the nation and throughout Christendom, there’s a white-hot theological debate on a topic that I’m sure has been debated for centuries: Would Jesus wear a mask?

This issue is due to the novel coronavirus—a troublesome virus that proves, once and for all, Tommy Lee Jones’s statement from the movie “Men in Black”: “A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals, and you know it.”

But I digress.

The great controversy of Coronapocalypse is: Are you pro-mask or anti-mask? Which do you value more—personal liberty, or corporate safety? Do masks really help even if people use them improperly (which, it seems, almost everyone does), or are they just a symbolic tool to make us feel proactive and safe?

And this is a flaming hot issue. Both sides claim to have definitive data on their side. Some people defiantly go out with no masks, causing scenes or attacking store employees who ask them to put one on. Others follow the offenders and post videos of their egregious sin while trying to shame them into compliance.

Pro-mask or anti-mask: which one are you? (I will pause here so you can choose a team.)

And now, not to feel left behind, the body of Christ has entered the fray, leading us back to that burning question which has troubled philosophers since I believe the Council of Nicea…

Would Jesus wear a mask?

Anti-maskers might say: “Of course he wouldn’t. He’s, like, God. Why would he? COVID can’t kill him. And it can’t kill me, either, unless God allows it. So I’m just going to live my life, and follow Christ’s example of trusting God.”

And that actually makes sense.

But pro-maskers might say: “Of course he would. It’s the compassionate thing to do. Even if it doesn’t slow the virus, at least it shows others that we are not selfish; we do care about their safety.”

And that actually makes sense too.

Me? I don’t wear a mask. But it’s not because I’m an anti-masker. It’s because covering my face gives me great anxiety, sometimes almost to the point of panic attacks. I just can’t cover my face, not even to keep it warm in subzero weather.

I’m not proud of this weakness, especially in this era of COVID-19. But I just can’t tolerate face coverings. And it’s not something I can turn on and off. Anxiety doesn’t work like that.

Before anyone says I should do it anyway, let me ask you this: What is the situation that creates the most anxiety for YOU? Is it heights, caves, family? Think of a time when you were in that situation, or imagine that you are in it at this moment. Now do you see how crazy it sounds to just get over it?

This week I had to visit my doctor’s office, which I knew would require me to wear a mask. The mere thought was so stressful for me that I slept only three hours the night before and only after taking some Benadryl. All night long I thought about that visit. I feared I might panic and hyperventilate right there in the office, which would cause a spectacle and embarrass me half to death.

Fortunately, at the office I was given a cloth mask and, when I told them about my panic attacks, the doctor and nurse allowed to use it my own clumsy way: instead of strapping it behind my ears, I held its top edge against the bridge of my nose and let the rest of it hang down in front of my mouth. The doctor and nurse were perfect examples of how to be adaptive and gracious—much more so than most other examples I’ve seen.

And this is what troubles me about shoehorning Jesus into the great mask debate. Jesus is more than a rhetorical point to support either side of any issue. Those who label any given action as “not like Jesus” or “unChristian” are generally missing the complexity of his nature—how gracious he is, how understanding. They are shrinking Jesus into a flimsy, feeble figurine that might be rubbed for good luck.

So what WOULD Jesus say in this debate over masks? First of all, if you think what he would say is directed at the other side, you’re not hearing him.

I believe he would meet each of us exactly where we are.

To the militant anti-masker who sees this as a fight for liberty and personal choice, he might say: “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Luke 25:40).

To the aggressive pro-masker who appears to focus more on the act than on the heart, he might say: “You tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders” (Matthew 23:4).

To the one with anxiety issues who wants to wear a mask but is overwhelmed by panic, he might say: “Then neither do I condemn you” (John 8:11).

Jesus is bigger than any issue you can name.

In the great mask debate, as in all of life, what would he say not to others but to you?

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The safest place in a storm

Published by Daniel on April 2, 2020

On my office wall hangs a vivid photograph entitled, “Phares dans la Tempete, La Jument.[1]” It shows a lighthouse keeper at La Jument reef, standing in the door of his lighthouse just as a towering wave nearly engulfs the structure from behind.

Original photo by Jean Guichard, http://www.jean-guichard.com/

As retold later in Celtic Countries magazine,[2] the story of the shot goes as follows.

On December 21, 1989, a powerful storm smashed into the area, hitting the lighthouse with gale force winds and with waves reaching up to 30 meters (nearly 100 feet) high. During the night, the massive waves crashed through the lighthouse’s lower windows, flooding its living quarters and forcing the keeper to escape to the lantern room at the top of the lighthouse.

The next morning, despite dangerous flying conditions, a photographer named Jean Guichard hired a helicopter so he could photograph the dramatic storm from the air. The lighthouse keeper, Théodore Malgorn, heard the approaching helicopter and thought it was his rescuers. So he opened the door and stepped outside.

That was the moment the giant wave slammed into the lighthouse.

That was the moment Guichard took the shot.

Fortunately, the keeper was able to slip inside and shut the door, just before it was completely covered.

Original Photo by Jean Guichard, http://www.jean-guichard.com/

This famous picture of safety in the storm was given to me by my wife, shortly after life swept me into chaos. As I endured the greatest turmoil of my life, I took solace in looking at it, wondering what the lighthouse keeper felt that night. Did he shake with fear as the wind and waves whipped into a deadly frenzy, crashing again and again into his tiny stone tower? Did his heart pound in his chest as freezing water shattered his windows and poured into his home? Did he pray to God for survival as he fled to the lantern room—the very last refuge he had?

That night in the lighthouse, the keeper must have felt very unsure of his own safety. Yet in the whole vast ocean, the lighthouse was the safest place of all.

Like the lighthouse keeper, Jesus once faced a violent storm. After a day of ministry beside the Sea of Galilee, he and his disciples set out by boat to cross to the other side. But according to Mark 4:37-38:

“A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, ‘Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?’”

Note the sequence of the disciples’ reactions. Like most of us, first they panic; only later do they ask the God of the universe for help.

But Jesus does not punish them for this lapse by withholding that help; instead he immediately commands the elements to “Be still!”—and they obey. Only then does he turn to his disciples and ask, “’Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?’” (v. 39-40).

The truth is, it is one thing to trust God when things go well. But it is another to trust him from the center of the storm, when our world is upended.

And our world is upended now. Every day during this surreal COVID-19 pandemic, we get hit by wave after wave as we lose travel autonomy, small businesses, and loved ones. Our lives will be changed for months, if not forever.

I have not yet been touched directly by the virus, nor by the escalating death rates, so I have not felt explicit fear—but I do feel unsettled and anxious in this storm of uncertainty, as I’m sure the lighthouse keeper did at La Jument.

When life is like this, we must take refuge in our Creator, who is far bigger than any virus, news reports, or ventilator shortages.

No matter what happens—even if we experience sickness or death—we are not spiraling helplessly through stormy seas. Instead, we are secure in our lighthouse as the storm rages around us. We are safe in the arms of Christ.

By Falken – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3503077

[1] This French phrase means “Lighthouse in the tempest [at] La Jument.” La Jument (“the mare”) is a treacherous reef near the isle of Ushant in the Iroise Sea, off the northwest coast of France.

[2] Celtic Countries magazine, January 18, 2011, https://celticcountries.com/culture/245-la-jument-brittany-most-famous-lighthouse.

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Battling demons and finding God on the ash heap

Published by Daniel on December 31, 2017

2017 finally comes to a close, and I am ringing in the new year firmly ensconced upon a pile of ashes.

This is definitely not the place others flock to when welcoming in a new year. Dusty, bleak, a place of exile and uncertainty. You don’t count down the final seconds of 2017 on the ash heap; instead, you wrestle with endless questions about how you got there with a God who seems more interested in the annual ball drop in Times Square. You wait, trying to understand the rationale of another who is infinitely above your pay-grade.

Kind of like Job after the Accuser chopped him off at the ankles. As part of what looks like a mysterious cosmic bet, Job loses his children, his livestock, his wealth, and eventually his health over a short period of time. He retreats to the mound of ashes where he sits quietly with friends, saying nothing for a week. Then the characters engage in a misguided debate about the cause of suffering and its relation to sin before God himself finally enters the discussion with one of the most beautiful and frustrating responses to humanity’s suffering in the entire Bible.

Most of the book of Job takes place on this gray, arid mountain of ash.

Admittedly, the events that brought me to my ash heap were nowhere near as dramatic as Job’s suffering. In most ways, my crisis pales to those others face. Shortly before the holidays my wife and I were informed that, due to cutbacks, our primary means of household income was coming to an end after a ten-year run. At our age, this can be especially disconcerting as Human Resource Departments seem more interested in terms like “fresh” and “new” over others like “skilled” and “experienced.”

So, at the start of 2018 our household sits upon an ash heap of uncertainty, caught in a strange vortex between the present and the not-yet. I am not sure what the next year will look like, or where. I can only be certain it will be different. Perhaps better, maybe worse, but definitely different.

Living in limbo is a life of distraction. It is difficult to concentrate on just about everything. We hold our breath, waiting to see if or how all those promises in the Bible will work out in our lives. Lacking focus or energy, everything seems on hold. The speed of life hits a wall. The world runs in slow motion. Nothing seems important.

Unfortunately, this includes even my writing, or more accurately, trying to maintain my fledging writing career. This has been my first attempt to write something since Thanksgiving. I’ve got all kinds of ideas swirling around in my head as my wife and I work our way through the uncertainty. But the words don’t come. My mind cannot generate more than a sentence or two before being distracted by the next shiny thing. Maybe it is simply because the heart is not there or anxiety crowds out the passion.

However, not only do I sit upon an ash heap of uncertainty but also one of self-condemnation. Questions about my lack of any marketable skills and abilities that haunted me years ago suddenly return with a fiery vengeance. The Accuser whispers in my ear words that reignite feelings of self-loathing that I had wrestled with a long time ago: worthlessness, failure, washout. At times, the Accuser’s words seem terribly convincing. Too convincing. My heart knows these words are untrue, but my head isn’t so sure.

It becomes yet another throw-down between my spirit and my flesh. My spirit reminds me that my value comes from God and his love for me. However, my flesh counters, nobody cares about that on a resume. God thinks I have worth isn’t a very marketable skill. My spirit won’t answer that point. Not because it has no answer, but because it stands solely on its initial premise and doesn’t see any need to repeat itself.

Finally, my ash heap is built on distrust. Not necessarily toward others, but specifically toward God. I want Jesus to come and move in my life, yet I also hopes he doesn’t. I never liked my life’s direction, but that doesn’t mean I would like to change it either. Then the realization hits me that even after decades of direct evidence to trust God, I still don’t really trust him. At times, I am not sure he has my back. Is he really looking out for me? Does he want what is best for me, or does he merely want to teach me yet another lesson I will never understand? Has my life used up its quota for miracles? Am I going to be truly thankful for the ending of my current ordeal?

Silly questions for a “mature” Christ-follower.

Oh how I wish I could be a Super-Christian. Heck, at this point, I would be happy just being Super-Christian’s clueless comic sidekick.

So, I watch the world’s new chapter from the dusty mountain of ashes. It’s a place of boredom and discomfort, of uncertainty and fear. It’s a place to battle my personal demons.

But it also seems to be the usual place for God to enter into my story. Like he did for Elijah in the wilderness (1 Kings 19). Or Jonah in the desert (Jonah 4). Or the shepherds in the chill of a night (Luke 2). Or Peter in the dungeon (Acts 5). Or Job on the ash heap (Job 38).

The ash heap—built upon uncertainty, self-condemnation, and distrust—is where my spirit battles my flesh, but it is also where I am sure God will once again enter into my story.

God’s objective is not to bless my household with wealth or certainty or even courage. He comes to the ash heap to remind me exactly who is in charge of the universe as well as who is really charge of, and thus responsible, for my life.

On the ash heap, God throws out a list of questions that point only to his power and sovereignty as the correct answer (Read those questions for yourself in Job 38-41 and see if you can answer them any differently). God’s objective is not to get me or my wife a good job. It is to get me to once again admit what is truly important.

So, as 2018 begins, I will find myself still ensconced on a pile of ashes.

However, this year also begins with Job’s final confession ringing in my ears and filling my mind and heart:

“I know that you can do all things;
no purpose of yours can be thwarted.
You asked, ‘Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?’
Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,
things too wonderful for me to know.
“You said, ‘Listen now, and I will speak;
I will question you, and you shall answer me.’
My ears had heard of you
but now my eyes have seen you.
Therefore I despise myself
and repent in dust and ashes” (Job 42:4-6)

I pray Job’s confession remains on my—as well as your—lips and heart all year long, whether in a new location or career or even while continuing to grieve on the pile of ashes. Whatever new challenges or chapters that come our way, God wants us to know that he is the one in control of the universe and that he is the one who controls our lives.

No what matter what ash heap we find ourselves on, that is the only outcome God wants.

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Nine years later, the pain remains, but God is still good

Published by Daniel on February 20, 2017

Today marks one of the two worse days of my life. Nine years ago this morning, in a span of one hour, my postgraduate dreams and career in academia evaporated and my life cartwheeled into a world that was–and somewhat remains–unclear, unknown, and undefined.

This was the day I sat across from my doctoral examiners and was told in no uncertain terms how much they hated my dissertation. I remember vividly the final walk of humiliation–barely able to breathe–down the path and out of the university, the phone call home telling my wife it didn’t go well, and the day I left England for the last time only to return to word weeks later that a contract for a job I loved would not be renewed.

The first couple of years were the darkest. I was numb, lost, and filled with self-loathing. I couldn’t sleep, my blood pressure skyrocketed, and my whole body ached. I had frequent anxiety attacks. Yes, there were times I prayed that my heart would mercifully stop beating or that my brakes would fail just before my car slammed into a retaining wall. As time crept on, I started writing, saw a counselor, and tried to somehow move on from the complete mess that had become my life.

Nine years later, with a book published and hopefully at least another couple to follow, I have gained some perspective. Time doesn’t heal, but it can serve as a buffer. This year, however, the emotions flooded back with more intensity. This ninth anniversary is the first I had to face at the age of 50. I still wonder what God is doing with my life. And I certainly don’t have a career or a ministry at this point that would carry my wife and I into retirement (which seems ominously closer at 50 than it does at 49). In many ways, my life’s trajectory remains uncertain.

As of now, writing is the only thing I have got. I am so thankful for the publication of Losers Like Us (from a real life publisher no less)–that truly was a miracle. And I truly am thankful for every sale to this day. But rarely does writing make a sustaining career. It offers no guarantees. Yet it remains the only path God has shown me.

The future continues to look uncertain. Not bleak, just uncertain. I would be lying if I said I have not grown weary of the uncertainty. I truly wish God would reveal his plans even just a little. But God is not obligated to fulfill my wishes like a genie freed from a lamp. He is a big God. And he is good.

Like a single candle flickering in the darkness a thousand feet a way, I have hope. I hope that my life has clarity even though I myself might not see it, that we will be somehow taken care of as the days march on, and that my wife’s sacrifices caused by her husband’s chaotic life will be honored.

Nine years after the horrible day in England, I can say I have hope in this big, good God.

But I still feel the pain.

As good as God is, I will always feel the pain.

2002, my first visit to the British University for my postgraduate studies.

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Why we need Advent now more than ever

Published by Daniel on December 2, 2016

Advent—beginning with the first of four Sundays before Christmas—is usually my favorite time of year. I start anticipating it around June 21, when the days start getting shorter. I love the lights and colors, the smells of Christmas trees and warm fresh-baked cookies, the sounds of bells and carols, and the sight of Rudolph and Charlie Brown running across my television screen. But there’s a deeper reason for my love of Christmas.

For years, I have wrestled with my broken life, and Advent is a season to remember how God stepped into humanity’s story—my story—and lived among us for the sole purpose of saving us. Have you ever suddenly realized that you find more excitement in the days leading up to Christmas than the actual day itself? That is Advent. The “secular” Christmas season of anticipating Santa Claus is merely a shadow-like reflection of what Advent is. Advent is waiting, knowing Jesus will come. So for me, Advent is a reflection and celebration of the magnitude of Jesus’s birth, and what it means in the mess that is my life.

Yet this year, despite my love of Advent, the temptation has been strong to just sit in the darkness and be sad over a world gone mad.

I tried to start this blog on the first Sunday of Advent, because I wanted to give a warm, meaningful introduction to this season of hope.

Yet no words came.

I was in a sour, bleak mood. This year has felt like an episode of the Twilight Zone – or, more accurately, like the overall plot of “The Walking Dead”: There is no way this story can end well.

Like many people, I have been reeling from a painfully long and ugly presidential election which divided families, friends, and even the body of Christ. I celebrated the day after, not because of the outcome but because it was finally, mercifully over. Then came weeks of riots and accusations, and as if those weren’t enough, the election that will not go away is about to be stretched out at least another few weeks because an official recount was requested in three states. The uncertainty continues.

As I continued trying to blog, a Somali refugee plowed his car into a crowd of students at Ohio State University, then jumped out of his car and began stabbing everyone he could before he was shot dead by law enforcement.

Yet another tragedy. Yet another reason why I could find no heartening words to say.

The hope of Advent seems pushed out by a dark, broken world, extinguished by the pain of daily life.

Perhaps it’s just the cumulative weight of 2016 in my psyche. Granted, there have been many things to be thankful for in this year; I can’t pretend there were no blessings. But it has been a year unlike any other in my lifetime. Globally we are overwhelmed by issues and evils, knowing that no one – not even the talking heads on TV or the self-proclaimed experts on social media – can solve them. Nationally we are shattered by politics, nursing suspicions and firing accusations against our closest friends and family members because of who we did or didn’t vote for. And personally I celebrated my 50^th birthday this year, which reanimated deep questions about life’s meaning and God’s plan.

I have felt so many raw emotions and scary uncertainties this year that I just want to tap out for a while.

So instead of anticipating Advent with joy, I did so with numbness and dread—as if it were just another task to get through.

As I watched the horrible events at Ohio State scroll across my television screen, I got into a pretty frosty (bad seasonal pun intended) debate with myself over whether it was worth it even to get a tree. But I knew that if I didn’t, I’d keep debating the question and be unable to move on to other things – like finishing this blog.

So despite my Grinch-like heart, I ventured out.

Barely thinking or caring about anything, I drove to a nondescript tree lot, grabbed the first decent tree I saw, secured it atop my car, and headed home. Within an hour I had fixed it in a stand, strung it with lights, and thrown some decorations on it.

And although my initial intent was simply to get that chore out of the way, the result changed me.

In the daytime, my tree was just an odd, temporary living room decoration, giving off barely visible light. But as darkness fell, it became truly beautiful.

I sat in the warm glow of my new Christmas tree, a glow which brought remarkable contrast to my darkened living room. And I began to feel the hope that Advent brings.

That morning I had been reading Ann Voskamp’s new book, and now one sentence she wrote explained my experience: “The way you always find the light in the dark is to make your hand reach out.”[1] My sparkling-new Christmas tree was suddenly the symbol of Advent for me. It was light invading the darkness. But I needed to reach for it, and invite the hope of Advent into my own heavy world.

I am grateful I chose to go buy a tree despite my sour disposition. God used that tree to show me that we remember Advent not despite the world’s darkness, but because of it. The anticipation of Advent shines brightest in a dark world; it is when the world is darkest that the anticipation is most needed.

In 2017, there is no guarantee of a better year. We will still be living in a dark, fallen world. And that is exactly why Advent is more important than ever. The world’s darkness is exactly why we must remember Advent—which holds within it the anticipation of Jesus’s birth, the power of his sacrifice, and the hope of knowing that one day he will come again.

[1] Ann Voskamp, The Broken Way, p. 57.

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Will we ever find utopia in a broken world?

Published by Daniel on July 18, 2016

I just returned from a week in Helena, Montana.

It was utopic: silent mornings, sitting alone on a wide deck overlooking Hauser Lake; loud middays, talking and laughing with family under the big Montana sky; and brilliant evenings, watching the horizon erupt in a blaze of colors as the sun dropped below the western mountains.

The scenery was fresh and spacious. The air was tranquil and clean. And most important, I was out of the city.

The whole time I was there, I fought back dread of the day when I would have to return to the city where I live – Portland, Oregon.

But before that day came, something worse happened. Shortly after the Fourth of July, the country exploded with violence, protests, and domestic terrorism. Two videos went viral, showing police officers shooting African-American men in St. Paul and Baton Rouge; then five officers were gunned down in Dallas. The nation cracked in two, and the schism spread wide. I knew—absolutely knew—the next several days would be filled with raging debates and groundless conclusions made from hundreds or thousands of miles away, based on a few seconds of unclear video.

And I was not let down.

It was like wading through sewage. Before anyone knew the facts, hashtag activism erupted from those who weren’t even there. People spewed half-baked answers which they were sure would usher in a national utopia. Even Christians rushed to “out-compassion” one another with simplistic solutions, subtly accusing other believers who disagreed with them of being uncaring.

My Montana escape suddenly seemed so distant. Instead of being grateful for all of the blessings God has given me, I grieved over the tension and strife. I wished I could stay in Montana and never return to the city. But duties called, so I returned.

Then, more shocking events: On Bastille Day, a truck-driving terrorist in Nice, France, mowed down scores of people, injuring hundreds and killing over 80; and a college student was shot dead in the streets of Helena, Montana. The Nice attack was stunning in its unspeakable scope and depravity; the world reeled from the shock. But for me, the Helena attack was even more personal. Helena was my utopia, my retreat. And just like that, my little self-made haven crumbled into dust. I realized that even there, evil is present. Even there, tears flow and hearts cry out to God. Even there, despite my best attempts to get away from it all, none of us can escape a broken, sinful world.

In fact, as I write this (Sunday, July 17), even more tragedy has erupted in Baton Rouge, leaving several police officers dead.

So why do we all try so hard to find utopia? Some fight to create it politically, by working to pass laws and elect leaders they believe in. Others, like me, seek it by physically fleeing to some place we hope will be better (we all know that tired old threat, “If so-and-so is elected, I’m moving to ____!”).

But for Christ-followers, utopia is not the goal.

Jesus is.

Following Christ isn’t about “what’s in it for me” – it’s about being in an intimate relationship with Truth. And it seems that the closer we get to him, the easier it is to step into the brokenness with those who suffer.

During all of the violence and chaos, I did see something good this week. It was a video, apparently filmed the day after the shooting in Dallas, of people stepping up and hugging police officers. As one hugger turned to walk away, the camera caught his t-shirt message: “God must matter.”

That grabbed me.

The brokenness of remote Montana is no different than the brokenness of inner-city Portland. If Jesus matters in Montana, then he matters in Portland. And if I cannot be a Christ-follower here in my city, then I cannot be one anywhere.

If God does not matter—regardless of where we are—then all we are doing is fighting for a utopia that will never come, or trying to flee to a utopia that doesn’t exist.

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Why I am already giving up on 2016

Published by Daniel on January 8, 2016

When things are beyond our control, we tend to “give up” in one of two ways. The first way, which does little good, is to appear to give up by saying, “I’m done” – and throwing up our hands in disgust. The second way, which I recommend, is to truly give up.

Let me explain.

In 2015, I tried the first way.

I immersed myself in the news, trying to get my mind around the emerging crises of city riots, global terrorism, leadership vacuums, and the uneasy feeling that we may be headed toward another world war.

I couldn’t discuss these issues on social media, because the response there is always character assassination from angry people with pat answers which they (wrongly) believe will solve everything. So I internalized my concerns and frustrations. But that choice led to worry and despair. Many nights I couldn’t sleep because my mind raced with headlines, talking heads, and complete nonsense I had heard during the day.

Finally, I defiantly told the world (well, at least, my little world): “I’m done.” Done with the chaos that appeared to multiply with each passing day. Done with not being told the truth, or being told that the truth doesn’t matter. Done with the idiocy of social media. And definitely done with elections –all of the posturing, defending, promising, accusing, and denying.

Done.

I threw up my hands, gave the world the finger, and plunged my head into the sand. I chose ignorance over awareness. I pretended that since I couldn’t see or hear all the madness, it had disappeared.

On the surface, this approach had some merit: it gave me a moment of peace.

Unfortunately, though, the harder we try to ignore something, the more we think about it. Announcing “I’m done!” can never change the soul. Inside, I was still as uptight and stressed as ever.

So my moment of peace was an illusion, because it never healed my inner turmoil. It didn’t eliminate my frustration and anxiety, or their cause; it only drove them underground. My mouth said, “I’m done” – but my heart continued to pump vinegar. The fire – the fight – was still there. I was just denying the problem, yelling, “LA-LA-LA-LA-LA!” with my ears covered – and then washing my hands of the whole situation.

But in doing so, like Pontius Pilate, I missed the Truth himself – standing right in front of me.

I realized that, despite every attempt to withdraw and hide, I was still overwhelmed by the vitriol, the violence, the threat of war, the lack of direction, the uncertainty in the world. No matter what I did, I could not escape the insanity all around me.

At about that time, 2015 ended and 2016 began.

So I decided that in the new year, I would work on trying the second approach: truly giving up.

I would quit fighting. Raise the white flag. Tap out. Accept my total helplessness to affect world events. Understand that the issues before us have no simple solutions, no easy answers.

Truly giving up doesn’t mean washing my hands of the whole mess, but rather admitting it’s out of my hands. Embracing my inability to fix things. Acknowledging that there may be no earthly solutions at all.

Truly giving up may seem like a hopeless response – but it is not, because it shifts my focus back to the Creator of the universe. And staying focused on him is the most hopeful response there is.

Since 2008, when “hope” was used as a campaign slogan, the word has lost its power. Just as in every other election, we placed hope in a finite man who made many promises, but things didn’t get better. In fact, one could argue that they’ve gotten worse. And now we have a new batch of candidates stepping up to the plate, again asking us to place our hope in them.

But by truly giving up, I am choosing to place my hope in God, who is far bigger than any candidate or cause.

When I do that, my peace returns. When I focus on Jesus, the Prince of Peace, I find peace that can’t be quashed by parliamentary procedures, executive orders, or judicial override. Peace that can’t be won or lost in an election. Peace that can’t be stomped out by terrorism.

Then I don’t have to work so hard to ignore all of the unraveling going on around me. I don’t have to fret, stress, or worry over it. Instead, I can give it up to a Creator who thoroughly understands every problem – and holds every solution.

And he is GOOD.

So that is why I choose to give up on 2016.

In other words: surrender.

Take it, Savior. It’s all yours.

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Asleep in the boat, part 2: The “reverse ABCs” of anxiety

Published by Daniel on April 24, 2015

[This post is continued from “Asleep in the boat, part 1: When God is the cause of anxiety.”]

As I studied the story of Jesus sleeping peacefully in a storm-tossed boat (Mark 4:35-41), I realized how much I want to experience that same peace.
I don’t know exactly how to develop it, but I do know I’m sick of being worried and anxious. I want to kick the worry habit, but wanting and doing are two different things. And even scriptures urging us not to worry (Matthew 6:25-27, Philippians 4:6-7), which should soothe me, can increase anxiety because they create a new problem: a load of guilt for being unable to obey them.

Maybe you too have experienced this cycle. I mean, there are plenty of things to worry about, many of them far beyond our control. And for true anxiety addicts like me, even when life is good we’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

So my prayer is that I can honestly surrender my anxieties to Jesus and, in my imperfect way, claim the true peace of Christ.

Toward that end, I’ve been trying to practice three steps I call the “reverse ABCs of anxiety”: Cry out; Be thankful; Ask for help.

Here’s what I mean…

Cry out to God. First, I’ve discovered that willpower can’t stop anxiety, because willing myself to stop my worrying only increases my focus on it. (For example, try not thinking of the color red. Go!) Instead, the key is to pour out all my anxieties to God: my career (or lack thereof); political issues; global injustices; fragmentation in the body of Christ; my book sales and readers’ responses; ideas for future books and blogs; and all the rest. Confession is the beginning of repentance and healing, so I bare all my worries to God and nail them to the cross.
Be thankful. Following a sermon suggestion, my wife and I started listing five things each day for which we are thankful. My wife can hardly stop at five, but I can hardly even start because doing it “on purpose” every day feels like a superficial routine to me. Yet through this practice, I’m learning that thankfulness is not based on emotion; it is based on reality – the reality that God is good and trustworthy. No matter how I feel, God is still God. So I am learning to intentionally enter a state of thanksgiving and praise regardless of my feelings. Being anxious focuses on the future – but being thankful acknowledges God’s goodness in the present.
Ask for help to do small things. The disciples could not calm the furious winds and waves – but there was one small thing they could do: they could wake up Jesus in the boat. Like them, I can’t calm my overwhelming anxiety – but I can at least wake up Jesus. I can ask him to help me think of a new blog idea, write for an hour without distraction, or post a quote on social media. After completing that task, I can ask him to help me complete another. Trusting God becomes easier when I focus on the next small thing before me. Focusing on big issues beyond my control only makes me more anxious.

These steps are something I need to do every day, because giving our cares and concerns to God is not a simple one-time prayer but an ongoing process that continues throughout our lives. So every day, we cry out to God and lay our anxieties before him. Every day, we acknowledge his goodness by giving thanks even when we don’t feel like it. Every day, we ask for his help to complete the next small thing in front of us. And every day, we repeat the process again.

I won’t pretend these steps are easy or that I have mastered them. I still stumble and feel overwhelmed by anxiety, just as the disciples felt overwhelmed by the waves. And that kind of overwhelming anxiety tends to create more.

But I have grace on my side—the grace of Jesus, fast asleep on a cushion (Mark 4:38a). When he asked his disciples why they had so little faith, I don’t think he was chiding them. Instead, I think he was challenging them. He wanted all of his followers to trust God so deeply that we, like him, can sleep through a storm.

The storms will come—but God’s peace will guide us through.

And as I learn to practice the steps above, I’ll let you know how it goes.

You can read more about wrestling with God and his grace in my book, Losers Like Us – Redefining Discipleship After Epic Failure. For details, see my book page.

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Asleep in the boat, part 1: When God is the cause of anxiety

Published by Daniel on April 22, 2015

What if God, who comforts my anxiety, is also the cause of it? I don’t want to feel broadsided by him again…

As I sat down to write about anxiety, almost immediately I began to experience it. I couldn’t think how to approach the subject, so I started worrying. My struggle led to mental paralysis, which led to more anxiety. The harder I struggled, the darker things looked. I froze (“Come on, brain!”). I spiraled (“This blog is going down the crapper”). I globalized (“The universe sucks!”).

Finally I saw the irony – I was anxious about writing on anxiety! – and I had to laugh.

Good thing I hadn’t planned to write on serial killing.

The problem of anxiety reminds me of a story in Mark 4. Jesus, sleeping soundly in a boat almost overwhelmed by high waves (Mark 4:37-38a) is accused of indifference by his terrified disciples: “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” (v. 38b). But Jesus simply quiets the storm and asks: “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” (v. 39-40)

Traditionally, the point usually taken from this story is that the disciples shouldn’t have worried because Jesus was right there in the boat with them, and was (presumably) on their side. As Paul writes later in Romans 8:31: “If God is for us, then who can be against us?”

However, I’m an anxious cynic. If I’d been there, I’d be thinking: Yeah, Jesus, but you walk on water – even if the boat sinks, you can just saunter safely to shore!

So apparently I can trust him for salvation, but not for daily care and protection.

How nuts is that?

Well, maybe it’s not as nuts as it sounds – because despite Paul’s reassurance, I know from experience that even though God is for us, sometimes he still allows us to go through very hard things.

For example, the stunted twelve-year-old boy inside me wants to know, Why did God let my parents divorce? Later, the wounded teenager inside demands, Why did God let me suffer from so much rage on the inside, and rejection on the outside? The young adult in me asks, Why did God let me stumble from one low-paying job to another, unable to establish a career? Finally, the academic washout in me asks, Why did God lead me into a doctoral program and then let it blow up in my face?

That last sucker-punch was the worst of all. As soon as the shock wore off, anxiety was the first emotion I felt. I started worrying like crazy about how I could ever have a future again. And that question has yet to be fully answered.

That’s when it really hit me: What if God, my comforter in anxiety, is also the cause of it? What if I’m anxious because part of me still feels he hasn’t always “come through” (whatever that means) in the past, and fears he won’t always in the future?

The truth is, I don’t want to be broadsided again. I don’t want to be let down anymore. And sometimes, putting our trust in God does feel risky like that.

So what about those times when we actually don’t trust God? Does our distrust contradict the truth of the freedom and grace we have in Christ?

Well, maybe not. Because on a deeper level, the only way to reflect his freedom and grace is through our weaknesses. In fact, the longer I think about it, the more I do believe the traditional point of the story in Mark 4: If Jesus is right here with me, sleeping peacefully through the storm, then maybe even I, weak and anxious as I am, can learn from him how to have peace too.

[Continued in Asleep in the Boat, Part 2: The Reverse ABCs of Anxiety

You can read more about wrestling with God and his grace in my book, Losers Like Us – Redefining Discipleship After Epic Failure. For details, see my book page.

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