When Jesus was arrested, his disciples fled in fear for their lives. In fact, much of their time doing ministry with Jesus up to that point was marked by fear and uncertainty.
The resurrection changed them, though. The resurrection transformed them from fearful followers to bold proclaimers. After Jesus rose from the dead, he immediately visited his disciples. During that visit, the disciples inherited a newfound boldness. A boldness that would put their lives at greater risk than they'd ever been before. And yet, the disciples marched on, fearlessly. The resurrection transformed them from a group of disheartened followers into a group that would go on to be the foundational leaders of the Christian Church. Jesus delivered us many messages through his resurrection. Among them: The story is never over. I am who I have said I am. Today, you can all claim the promise to live with me in eternity. Those are all powerful messages. But maybe another powerful one, at least as powerful as those, is I have left an empty tomb behind for you all to go bury your fears in. Forever. The bible tells us, God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and love and of a sound mind. Too often, though, we dispute that claim when we feel fear. But what if our fear isn't a reflection of the spirit, but more of our unwillingness to exercise the power to bury our fears in the empty tomb? Did Jesus rise from the dead to send us a message that all is good now, or to help us understand that no matter how bad things get, there is no longer anything to fear? And this new new church the disciples went to building, is its foundation built on a place to go to escape fears, or to discover that we've never had anything to fear all along? I love that Easter offers me the promise of eternal life. I love that the promise comes from a man who went to great lengths, including death, to prove that he breaks no promises. I also know this. I'm surrounded by people in this world who can't begin to grab hold of a promise of eternal life when they are constantly fighting to find any source of life in THIS life. People who can't afford to have me walking around disheartened or uncertain or fearful about my own life. And I'm constantly feeling Jesus urge me, I can't afford to have you doing that either. It's why he left the tomb. It's why he left the stone quite visibly rolled away in front of it. Yes, so I'd know he left it like he said he would. Yes, so I'd know the tomb is a once upon a time story and not the end. But also yes, so I'd know the tomb is empty now but I'm not supposed to leave it that way. I'm to go there. Unload my fears. And roll that stone back in place so they never escape again. The resurrection transformed the disciples lives from fear and uncertainly to boldness. The resurrection offers me the same transformation. In fact, I think it demands it of me. Easter Sunday is a great day to visit the tomb. To be reminded of what walked out, and to be encouraged to leave something there in his place.
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In the aftermath of Jesus' crucifixion, his followers went into hiding. Many hid in fear of the rulers who'd just killed Jesus; others hid to be alone with the grief of losing the one they'd come to follow and deeply love.
Even though Jesus told them many times that he was going to rise from the dead, his followers either didn't get what he was saying, or they did and didn't believe it, but none of them were counting the moments until Jesus would reappear. They were all waiting, they just had no idea what they were waiting for, or maybe they didn't know they were waiting at all. Can any of us relate to that? Have any of us experienced an upending life event that leaves us feeling suddenly lost? We feel like we're waiting on something, maybe, but we just have no idea what it is. Well, we Christians, we DO know. We know that God comes through on his promise over and over again to work all things to the good of those he has called, to the good of those who love him. Sometimes we know exactly what we're waiting on. Sometimes we've been told of the beauty we can expect, like the disciples, but we don't believe it. And sometimes we have no idea what we're waiting on other than a general promise for goodness. Waiting is hard, but maybe it's only hard because we don't trust those truths in the waiting. We don't fully believe what we've been told; good will rise again in our lives. I don't know about you, but it is indeed the pattern of my life. Death and resurrection. Death and resurrection. It's why the Easter story is so easy for me to believe. To cling to. I confess, it's taken me a lot of Easters to get to this point in my faith. It's taken a lot of crucifixions in my life to fully come to trust that the stone will roll away, once again, and that beauty will once again emerge. How many times is God really willing to keep rolling away stones? But here I am again, in a Saturday of waiting, but the waiting is no longer hard. It's not, because I know. I know beyond a doubt that beauty will rise again. It always has. It always does. It always will. God never tires of rolling away stones. Life changed for the disciples when they discovered that empty tomb. It changed when Jesus showed up and made goodness out of fear and grief. It changed when the disciples discovered the beauty in the waiting. It changed how they lived; it changed what they shared with others. I want to share something with you. If you are in a period of waiting, knowing or unknowing, you can trust that beauty is on the way. The story of my life assures me of that in a way that I can confidently offer that assurance to you. The story of Easter assures me of that; Jesus died and rose to assure all of us of that. We are waiting, but waiting can be a beautiful thing. If you don't believe me, just wait until tomorrow. You'll see. You'll see Easter once again. To me, it's the most incomprehensibly loving conversation ever.
Jesus, the savior of the world, a man who'd spent his entire life healing and offering love and light on one side, and next to him a bandit, a man who had spent most of his life plundering victims, leaving behind a shadow of darkness everywhere he went. Two men, hanging side by side on crosses, both of them fighting for their last breaths, yet both willing to expend a portion of those breaths for one of the most loving conversations in history. For Jesus, it was the last of many he'd experienced in his life to this point. For the bandit, maybe it was the only loving conversation of his life? As Jesus is dying on the cross, the crowds are mocking him. The bandit and his criminal friend on the other side of Jesus are among the mockers. Maybe Jesus hears them loudest. But the bandit is the one among all of the mockers who stops and reverses course. Why? Why does he reverse course? I have no idea, really. Maybe he heard Jesus publicly ask God to forgive all of his killers and mockers. Maybe he saw the inscription above the cross declaring Jesus the king of Jews. Maybe he was simply overwhelmed by the humble innocence of a man dying between two notoriously loud mouth and evil criminals. I have no idea why, but the bandit did reverse course, he told his criminal friend to shut up, and then said to Jesus, "remember me when you come into your kingdom." And Jesus replied, "I assure you, today you will be with me in paradise." Those are three powerful words in Jesus' response: I assure you. Are there three more loving words than: I assure you? Remember, this is a dying man fighting for the strength to offer any word at all. Yet, instead of simply saying you will be with me, he adds, I assure you. I think Jesus knew just how hard it would be for the bandit to believe anyone could ever love him. Especially the king. Maybe a simple king would have said, you will be with me. But it was the friend in Jesus, his loving nature, his empathetic heart, the savior that said, I assure you. For many, the cross signifies an answer: yes, death can be overcome. But maybe Jesus was also using the cross to ask me a question? Can you be a friend to the broken? Can you turn to the lost and the hurting and the incarcerated and those who may be mocking you at every turn. Can you turn to them when they come looking for hope, and point them to it? Can you be it? Can you climb up on a cross to be close enough to the broken for the simple chance to inspire the desire within them to reverse course? Was the most loving part of Jesus' conversation the lengths he was willing to go to have it? Was the conversation between Jesus and the bandit an answer to the bandit's prayer, yet at the same time an invitation for me to say one? Jesus was born among animals and died among criminals. In between he was always a friend of the broken. Am I? Good Friday opens the door to the greatest answer in this Christian's life beyond this world. But maybe Good Friday is also asking this Christian some very important questions about my life in this world. Good Friday answers a very important question about death. Maybe as important, though, it's inviting me to explore how I'm doing my living. I'm leading an experience this week during which we spend a lot of time processing the impacts of our pasts. For many, those pasts include regrets.
It wasn't lost on me yesterday that in the context of this Holy Week, yesterday marks one of the more heartbreaking regrets in human history. For yesterday, a couple of thousand years ago, Judas made an arrangement with the high priests to betray Jesus. A betrayal that ultimately led to Christ being crucified. But the bible tells us that shortly after that arrangement: Judas, the one who betrayed him, realized that Jesus was doomed. Overcome with remorse, he gave back the thirty silver coins to the high priests, saying, “I’ve sinned. I’ve betrayed an innocent man.” They said, “What do we care? That’s your problem!” Judas threw the silver coins into the Temple and left. Then he went out and hung himself. Yesterday, listening to others wrestle with some of the experiences of their past, I found my heart breaking for Judas. Because yesterday, as strongly as ever, I realized betrayal is never as simple as an evil act carried out in hatred or disregard for the people in our lives. Sometimes, betrayal involves confusion and wrestling with the unresolved stories of our pasts that sadly play out in dark ways toward people we actually love. It's often assumed that Judas loved Jesus less than the other disciples because he was the one who betrayed him and sent him to his death. Is it possible that Judas loved Jesus just as much as the other disciples - or more - but never quite understood it until looking at him through the dark shadows of betrayal? Does a man go off and hang himself because he simply made a choice he regrets. Or was that regret compounded by other challenging stories of his past. And was it intensified by a deep love for that man? I don't know, but I do wonder. What I do know is we can sometimes beat each other up for choices we make in life without ever knowing the stories beneath the choices. Knowing those stories doesn't make harmful choices less harmful but knowing them does open our hearts up to understanding. And compassion. Maybe even more destructive - we beat ourselves up over our choices without ever exploring the stories beneath them. Knowing those stories doesn't make our choices less destructive but knowing them opens us up to showing ourselves compassion. And grace. I feel incredibly blessed to spend time with folks walking them toward compassion for others and grace for themselves. I feel incredibly blessed that in that walk, I myself walk too. I walk toward grace. I walk toward healing. My heart breaks for people like Judas for whom the wrestling becomes too much. Because it doesn't have to be. Not ever. There are alternatives. Compassion. Grace. Healing. I told one of my sons the other day, don't perfect procrastination, because once you do, it's a skill you'll fall back on all your life.
Does that sound like a voice of experience? It should, because it absolutely is. All my life I have thrived under the pressure of a deadline. That can be a good thing, until you come to NEED a deadline to thrive. Ryan Holiday talks about a sense of urgency at the other end of the clock. Holiday says, "We don’t control the clock, but we control when it begins ticking on our projects and pursuits. Every moment of hesitation delays the outcome and diminishes the potential for success." The key word there for me is success. Often, when driven by a deadline, just completing the project or turning the assignment in on time feels like success. Not nearly as much importance is given to quality in a deadline mentality as there is given to just getting it done. Thriving at completing work is not always the same as thriving at producing meaningful work. Writing has taught me a lot about shifting the point of urgency. I've always been capable of putting something good together as the clock expires to meet a deadline. But these days, I wake up with a sense of urgency to begin writing so I have ample time to create something I hope will be more meaningful than good. I look back on my life and I'm afraid my gift of procrastination has probably been more curse than gift. I wonder how many things I never started because I thought there was plenty of time to get that done? I wonder if some gifted procrastinators - like me - become so dependent on deadlines that they begin imagining deadlines somewhere way out there that ultimately stand in their way of getting started on something in the here and now. Something that might have made a difference in someone's life. Oh, I still need deadlines. But today, I try to use them for things that HAVE to get done, like work assignments at the bottom of my to-do list that would likely never make it off the list without the pressure of a deadline. For things I want to get done, though, for things I dream about and imagine leaving to the world as part of a legacy, for those things I try to focus more on starting the clock and not waiting for it to expire. Whether it's with my parenting or writing or teaching or sharing my faith, I'm trying to feel more pressure to get started on something meaningful than waiting around for pressure to arrive that implores me to just get it done. How about you? Do you wait for the ticking of an expiring clock, or are you reaching to hit the button that gets that clock ticking? If you're waiting to start the clock on something meaningful, a hope or a dream or a project that might change or shape someone else's life, maybe today is the day. Maybe today is the day to start the clock. The biggest risk of not knowing who you are is it gives others the constant opportunity to decide that for you.
I used to be obsessed with people thinking favorably of me. So, I spent a lot of time trying to figure out the things I could do to make people think favorably of me. I'm not sure I always knew that's what I was doing. But it WAS what I was doing. We all need to feel valued. It's a non-negotiable. And we seek that value in one of two places. We seek it from within us or outside of us. Since I was awful at finding any value inside me, I tried to seduce others around me into valuing me. I was great at it. Until the day I realized I was better at making other people love me than I was at making me love myself. I didn't know it at the time, but fighting for the approval of others destroys self-confidence. When you're value is found in what other people think about you, and since you never have full control of that, you are always at risk of losing your value. And you are always in a place of wondering, am I enough today? Today I am in a place where I no longer have to wonder if I am enough. I am never at risk of losing my value again. Because today, precisely none of my value is dependent on what someone else thinks about me. It's totally dependent on what I think about me. That hasn't been an easy road. I didn't wake up one day and proclaim that I am so confident about me that I can no longer be influenced by you. It just doesn't work that way. It's taken me years to discover my own identity. It's taken decades for the challenges and hardships and my own reckless pursuits of external meaning in my life to beat me up and strip me down to just me. Strip me down to just me and the question: who in the heck am I? I am a Jesus follower. I am a dad. I am a writer. And I am someone who is passionate about influencing the value of human connection in this world. That's who I am. Every day, I get up and go to work trying to sharpen those four areas of my identity. And when I feel like I've done something well in those areas, I tell myself I am proud of the work I've done. When I am done writing this article, I will tell myself, I am proud of you for writing it. Whether anyone likes it or doesn't like it, that won't influence how much I value me. I have found value in being a writer. I honor my identity when I get up and write. I build a self-confidence in my identity that can't be stripped away if I continue to honor that identity. I value me for being who I have come to know me to be. And as a result, I am now solely in charge of my value. Who are you? That's the question. Not who do others say you are, but who are you? Find the answer to that question. Find the things about you that you can value about you. Then go to work growing the value of those things every day, and tell yourself you're proud of yourself for doing it! I also need to add, I am blessed to have people in my life who regularly value the things I do, the things that reflect my identity. That feels good. It feels good because people valuing me is a natural consequence of me valuing myself, and not of me pursuing people's value. I don't think there's been a healthier shift in my life. We can all make that shift. In a world often consumed with status, we Christians often overlook one of the greatest status symbols of all: a donkey.
Today, Palm Sunday, marks the beginning of Holy Week. The day Jesus rode into Jerusalem on his way to the cross. The cross that put him into the tomb he would walk out of on Easter Sunday. The Easter miracle that has become the foundation for our faith. But when it comes to the foundation of our faith, maybe we shouldn't so swiftly rush from Palm Sunday to Easter. Maybe we shouldn't focus so intently on the cross and the rolled away stone before spending some time reflecting on the donkey. For just as the scriptures predicted, Jesus came riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. Many in the crowds waiting on the arrival of the savior who would set them free from Roman oppression would have expected to see a king coming to town on a horse. The horse in those days was more typically associated with war and conquest far more than a donkey. But contrary to what many expected, Jesus wasn't coming into town to overthrow a worldly kingdom, Jesus was riding into town to introduce heavenly peace. A peace, that if you follow the story of Jesus, always starts with humility. It always starts with a donkey. By riding into town on a donkey, Jesus was telling the world that he is here for everyone, not just the elite and the powerful. By choosing to ride on a lowly donkey Jesus rejected pride and power and status. By riding into town on a donkey, without saying a word, Jesus made one of his finals sermons a message on inclusion. He wasn't there to save just those being oppressed by the Romans, he was there to save all who are oppressed. By riding into town on a donkey, Jesus demonstrated that Christian leadership and authority are rooted in service and humility, not domination and extravagance. By riding into town on a donkey, Jesus let us know he was here to fill the role of a spiritual king and not just another worldly leader who would soon come and go like all the others. By riding into town on a donkey, Jesus was inviting us to peacefully and humbly follow him to the cross and to the grave and to eternal life. Follow him, that is, on a donkey. Follow him by ditching our need for status symbols and embrace lives of simplicity and humility. Follow him by persistently proclaiming Jesus as a peaceful king for all people and not just a chosen few. Follow him by knowing our faith isn't something that comes to life when we rise from the grave, it's something that comes to life every single day when we live out the example of the king on a donkey. Humble. Peaceful. Accepting. Serving. Our graves, no matter how we get to them or rise from them, will do very little to point others to a more hopeful life. How we ride to our graves, on the other hand, has the potential to change people's lives in beautiful ways. I encourage us all to follow Jesus' example as he journeyed to his grave on Palm Sunday. I encourage us to do it on a donkey. It's been a challenging week. On the way out of the office the other day a co-worker and dear friend said, hang in there. I told her, don't worry about me, hang in there's my middle name.
I wasn't dismissing her encouragement. It meant the world to me. And the truth is, in many ways, my response wasn't a short response to her as much as it was a big reminder to me. A reminder that my life is a story of fall into the pit, jump into the pit, get pushed into the pit, but always, no matter how I got in that pit, mine is a story of always rising from the pit. Tim Ferris says, "as good as it feels to have a plan, it's even more freeing to realize that nearly no misstep can destroy you." I think we all have perceptions of how life would go in our ideal world, but the more we chase that perception the more we come to realize we don't live in an ideal world. It's inevitable, either we misstep or life missteps, but one way or another our plans are constantly facing pits. There's surely value in having plans that help you avoid as many pits as possible. That's wisdom. But I've come to believe there is also value, maybe even more value, in developing a mindset that doesn't fear the pits. Having a mindset that declares, no pit has swallowed me whole yet, and today won't be the first pit to do so. If you had a hard week, celebrate. Not that you SURVIVED the week, but that you BEAT it. You did. The pit had a chance to swallow you whole, but you declared over it that hang in there is your middle name. Hanging in there is NO small deal. We sometimes underestimate just how giant the force in life is that is constantly encouraging us to call it quits. Call it quits on our dreams and plans and hopes. Call it quits on our will to do life at all. So if you had a hard week, celebrate. Look life in the face and say nice try, but hang in there is my middle name. Don't you know that about me by now, life? You woke up today. Go make something of the day. What's the worst that can happen? I don't know, but chances are you already beat whatever it is. You'll do so again. Because hang in there is your middle name. I have felt like a new person the last year. That has little to do with my circumstances. In many ways my circumstances are as challenging as ever.
But how I approach my circumstances? Well - that has changed significantly. I'm assured of that this week in giant ways. I've had car struggles. I took my car in for what I'd been led to believe was going to be a routine repair. It hasn't been routine. It's actually been quite expensive - and the expense grows on. My car is still in the shop, the auto repair experts are still trying to figure out what's wrong with it, and a time or two in our communications I've sensed they don't feel the same angst about my circumstances that I do. That last part has been particularly challenging, since I've been taking my car to the same place for a decade with nothing but positive and helpful experiences. One night earlier this week, after a hard conversation with the team at the shop, I felt anger. As I drove off in a loaner car, which was the most rickety reminder ever that I was NOT driving off in my car, I started plotting ways to make their lives as miserable as they were making mine. Oh, I can't wait to get home and blast them on social media. I'm going to sue them for doing work on my car they weren't sure would solve the problem. I'm going to stand out in front of their shop for weeks holding a protest sign that warns people against getting their car worked on here. Anger knows no bounds when it comes to creative revenge.... Then, I felt something stop me in my tracks. That something was me. The new me. The new me who realizes so much of the emotion I was experiencing in that moment was connected to feelings I carry with me from past experiences, not car experiences. Anger being a big one. That's how emotions work, you know. Psychologists tell us emotions last about one or two minutes. So what I felt about that conversation regarding my car passes pretty quickly. What I feel and think about it, though, well that can go on a long time. And if I let it, it can go in some really negative directions. The new me knows that. The new me knows that in the aftermath of so many emotions in my life, my thinking and my feelings can unknowingly be fueled and directed by events in my past. My lashing out at car people can look and feel like lashing out at my past people. Over time, lashing out just becomes an automated pattern of my brain. And whether holding it in or openly expressing it, lashing out just becomes who I am. So there I was, in a space I've become much more familiar with this past year, a space of recognizing that I was letting events in my life dictate the level of joy I was feeling in my life. Was I happy about my car troubles? No. I am still not. But sometimes joy doesn't look like happy. Sometimes joy looks like not being overcome by an anger that no longer looks like the person you want to be. Sometimes joy looks like NOT lashing out where you once would have. Sometimes joy is owning the power that comes with not having full control over your emotions, but having absolute authority over what you think and feel in the aftermath of them. That's not always easy. I had to pull that loaner car into a parking lot. Take some deep breaths. Quietly pray, not for a better circumstance, but for a healthier way of thinking and feeling about the circumstance I was in. I didn't drive away happy, but I did drive away in peace. There was joy in that. A joy, thankfully, the new me experiences more and more these days. Sometimes we can trust the process all the way to our own demise.
I used to trust the process. At least that's what I'd tell myself I was doing. This will all work out. This too shall pass. This is but a blip in time. I suppose some of those chants helped me at times. But when you do more chanting than fixing, all chants quickly become unhelpful. Today I know I used to spend far more time avoiding the process than fixing it. Fixing it and building a process I could TRULY come to trust. Nowhere has this been truer of my life than in relationships. Almost all relationships originate with emotions. Emotions that draw us in and make us feel like this relationship is a good idea. Sometimes a great idea. Maybe it is. But it won't be those feel good emotions that hold the relationship together; it will be processes. Processes that help you know which emotions are helpful to the relationship, and which ones are bent on destroying it. Processes that help you build on the beautiful emotions, and at the same time find ways to navigate the emotions that are more sledge hammer than building blocks. Because if you don't have THOSE processes, processes that navigate and fix the broken navigation, the sledge hammer will always win. Always. Processes are good. They are. Not because they ensure success, but because they help us identify where the process might be standing in the way of success more than it's pointing us there. That requires us to know that trusting a process needs someone in it we can trust to say, this process needs fixing. This process that was once leading us somewhere is now dragging us down. Many things start good. Many things can grow from good into better. But it will usually be because someone fixed the process along the way far more than they trusted it. Maybe you have some processes in your life you've been trusting that might need fixed. It's worth considering. |
Robert "Keith" CartwrightI am a friend of God, a dad, a runner who never wins, but is always searching for beauty in the race. Archives
February 2025
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