You cannot hold anyone accountable, and you cannot hold yourself accountable for growth, unless in advance you’ve determined your mission and goals and the criteria to measure them.
—Gordon MacDonald
When I was in college, I participated in a campus ministry whose aim was the evangelization of the whole world. The audacity of the dream ignited new passion within my personal faith, and for that I’m grateful. But sometimes I suspect the motivational approaches went a bit too far.
One day, for example, a staff member read us a story from the biography of C. T. Studd, one of the great English missionary pioneers of the nineteenth century. We’d all come to revere Studd as one who gave up everything—including a great sports career —to evangelize the nations. We listened intently for further insights that would enable us to imitate this man and his faith.
As I recall, Studd went off to Africa and remained there seventeen years without seeing his English homeland. He never saw his wife, either, since she remained in England to assist the supporting mission organization. For reasons I cannot fathom now, we assumed this willingness to accept marital separation was admirable, the epitome of commitment.
Now here’s the story we heard that day: Studd’s wife eventually came to Africa, but only because it seemed prudent for her—get this—to visit the various mission outposts. So her husband’s mission station became part of the itinerary.
As I remember the story, she came up a river by boat to the place where Studd was living. He met her and walked her to the front porch of his house. There they stayed for thirty or so minutes, visiting about the progress of “winning the lost” and then having a time of prayer. Then she returned to her boat and continued her tour.
We students were breathless when we heard this story. “What extraordinary dedication!” we said to one another. “This is what it’s all about. If God is to use us, these are the kinds of people we’ve got to become.”
As far as I know, none of us ever became those kinds of people, and that’s probably good. I still admire C. T. Studd, but not his perspective on marriage.
Occasionally, I’ve pondered the wisdom we employ in choosing role models. In this case we simply didn’t know the whole story. We selected a “sound bite” out of a good man’s life and used it to exemplify sacrifice and dedication. The possibility never occurred to us that C. T. Studd may have had a substandard marriage, or that what Studd and his wife did might have been just plain wrong.
Maybe the fact that he didn’t rush to the river—after all, he had been an athlete—and scoop her up in his arms and smother her with kisses (even though we are talking about a Victorian culture) says something that’s sad. At age 531 now know something I didn’t know at 19: there’s no way I would leave my wife for seventeen years. And if something had necessitated a separation of that period of time, I wouldn’t have chosen to spend the thirty minutes sitting on a front porch talking about missions.
The faith tradition in which I was raised was built on the crusader model. It is shaped, first and foremost, by the belief that we have a message of salvation to give to the nations, which must be proclaimed at all costs. It follows, then, that the heroes are those who proclaim that message at whatever sacrifice is necessary. Studd is an example of this apostolic lifestyle: preach the gospel with nothing held back.
Our teachers seldom made clear to us that apostle-types tend to be strange (if wonderful) people. They are not always good husbands or wives, good parents, or specimens of good health. They are often poor at team-building or team-playing. Get too close to them, and you discover that their strengths are awesome—but so are their flaws.
But since we rarely hear about the flaws—and those brave enough to tell us about them have usually found their comments unwelcomed—we conjure up images of superlative people who set the standard.
We grow discouraged when that doesn’t happen. We want to be like C. T. Studd, but then we also want to be a good spouse, a good parent, a good team player, a good preacher, a good caregiver, and on and on. It doesn’t work, because there is probably no such thing as a well-rounded hero. So more than a few of us live lives of quiet dissatisfaction because we do not measure up to the standards we’ve set for ourselves.
Today, the heroes may be different: not the missionary pioneer of yesterday but the entrepreneurial leaders who have unusual gifts and build megachurch institutions that attract, evangelize (I think), and mobilize thousands of people. Some of these I am fortunate to call my friends. I admire them; I don’t think I envy them.
But I must be candid. I would have twenty years ago. At the age of 30, I would have hungered for that sort of effectiveness. I would have brooded on what it might take to offer such leadership. I would have studied these entrepreneurial leaders as carefully as possible so that I could be like them and experience their success.
If there are virtues to growing older, one of them is to slowly lose the need to be like everyone else—especially the most successful heroes. To gain a bit of maturity is first to see that “the Spirit gives gifts to whom he will,” and to see that with all the success and privilege comes significant “bondage.” Being a leader is wonderful. But it is not without its price.
There is enormous spiritual pressure in the seduction of pride and competition. There are potential “soft addictions” of sensation, excitement, applause, and being the center of attention. There are the desperately lonely moments when one in the spotlight realizes that there are many acquaintances but few friends and little time for friendships.
For leaders there is the anxiety of wondering what this notoriety is doing to the family, especially the children. The bondage goes on and on.
No, there is little to envy or copy among the heroes. God knows which ones are his, and he knows why they are successful. And most of the time I’m glad it’s them and not me.
As I said, there were times when I measured myself against the heroes of the past and the present. Then I realized one day that there were one or two young men measuring themselves against me. I wasn’t measuring up to my models, and they were upset because they weren’t measuring up to me.
This measurement stuff—when the criteria is someone else’s achievements or personality—has to be seen for what it is: a sure menu for misery.
My father had been a successful pastor in his younger years, a hero to more than a few in his time. So in the first years of my pastoral life, I measured myself against him. I’d think, When my father was my age, he was preaching to seven hundred people. I’m preaching to only one hundred. What’s wrong with me?
Later on, I found myself in a congregation several times the size of his largest, and I remember having an empty feeling. I’d exceeded his numbers. Why didn’t I feel better about it? And why was I now measuring myself against someone else (always with bigger numbers)?
One day my dad and I were comparing notes about the contrasts between his ministry and mine.
“You guys have to worry about so many programs today,” he said. “You are all glorified CEO’s. There’s not a one of you in these large churches who can honestly call himself a pastor. Pastors care for people; you run programs and build institutions.”
“You didn’t worry about programs?” I asked.
“Oh, there were a few,” he said.
“How many?”
“Basically three,” he answered.
“Three?” I was leading a church that had 137 programs (we counted them one time), and he had only three?
“Yeah, three,” he said. “I was responsible for Sunday services, calling on people during the week, and leading the prayer service on Wednesday night. I spent my time with the sick, the unsaved, and the men who were trying to build strong families.”
“What about Christian education?” I wondered.
“Some of the women took care of that.”
“Didn’t they bring you their recruitment problems, their circular debates, all their—”
“No, none of that was considered a pastor’s responsibility. I told you; I led people to Christ, called on the sick, and every once in a while, had to go out to the local bar and bring a drunk home to his wife and help him sober up.”
Maybe my dad was right. The new CEO pastor is a marketer, a manager, a publicist, a systems analyzer, a small-groups mobilizer.
Then again, the pastor is expected to communicate like Campolo, lead like Criswell, think like Packer, and theologize like Stott, be prophetic like Colson, and evangelize like Graham.
Perhaps we’ve made a dangerous move by sizing up ourselves on the basis of our ability to grow large, impressive organizations. We hear less and less about the quality of a leader’s spirit. The conferences—for the most part—are all about the “market,” the institution, the program.
Perhaps this is not all bad, except when it is compared with the amount of time on the subject of soul and its capacity to be prophetic, perceptive, and powerful.
Typical Illusions
For two of the years I was in seminary, I pastored a tiny country church 175 miles east of Denver. For a year, Gail and I saved money by living in the church’s small parsonage. That meant on Tuesday morning at 4 A.M. I would leave the house and make a three-hour drive in our Volkswagen Beetle to Denver.
The drive along Route 36 from the Kansas border to Denver was almost a straight shot. As you looked westward to the horizon, you sensed that the car could go in any direction and never run into a barrier. It was smooth sailing.
Life is sometimes like that. No barriers. You feel, I can do anything I want if I am willing to work hard enough. And pray hard enough. And study hard enough. I once believed that myself.
But back to Route 36. Just beyond the town of Last Chance, Colorado, you suddenly see three mountain peaks on the horizon—Pike’s Peak to the south. Long’s Peak to the north, and Mount Evans directly to the west. Instantly the illusion of a barrier-less journey is pricked by the realization that three solid and rather large obstacles represent a reduction in options.
Sometimes in ministry we also reach a “Last Chance.” The day comes when we discover personal barriers and limits: I cannot do this as well as … I don’t actually have the gift of.… This task requires something that simply isn’t my strength.
Obligations are accrued, perhaps a spouse, maybe a child or two, perhaps responsibilities to extended family members. They wouldn’t be complimented by being called barriers. But they nevertheless cut down on other options.
This can be a tough moment for some young leaders. The once dizzying dreams are slowly modified by reality. And little by little we begin to discover why we’re really in this “business” of serving God. We’re probably not going to be heroes, and the world is not going to beat a path to our door, begging for our insights. And that’s okay.
But let me finish my parable.
On the trip to Denver, as you near the city, there comes a point where the long stretch of the Rocky Mountains rises up like an impenetrable wall. Where once only three barriers, evenly spaced apart, interrupted the horizon, now barriers fill your vision. You get the feeling you can’t go anywhere. You’re trapped! The illusion of barrierlessness is inverted.
That’s the perception of more than one midlifer in ministry. The freshness is gone; the fears of mediocrity, of ineffectiveness, of being lost in the shuffle are malignant.
Penetrate the curtain of quiet thought of many 40- and 50-year-old pastors, and you will find this wall is a very real perception: Where can I go? And to whom can I tell this fear that 1 can’t go anywhere? And why do I feel ashamed that I even worry about these things ? Would my heroes, then and now, worry about walls? What’s wrong with me?
When you get to your own “Rocky Mountains,” you have three choices: (1) try going back to your point of origin, “youthful-ness,” where the dream of no limits still exists, (2) try driving in circles, cursing the wall and moaning that it’s impossible to go back, or, and this is the important possibility, (3) try going up to the wall and find the passes or tunnels that lead to a healthy, spiritually vigorous, and personally effective last forty years of life.
I’m at the point in life where I’m traveling through the wall and enjoying the process! Now I know that life in the “barrierless” days was nice but terribly unrealistic.
No wonder that in those days, the older men never sought me Out for wisdom and counsel. They were kind to me, listened to my sermons, followed me when I had good ideas and enthusiasm. But now I know what they were thinking: He’s a good kid who needs to grow a little before he’s ready to know our hearts.
I took my turn driving in circles for a while. In a moment of great personal failure and sadness, I had to drive in circles while Gail and I sought the voice of the Lord about our future—whether one actually existed or not. These were some of the darkest days of our lives. But they were also days of unforgettable tenderness as God taught us some things through pain that we might not have otherwise learned.
Because God is a kind and gracious God, and because I was surrounded by some men and women who believed in restorative grace, I discovered the future up in the passes and tunnels that lead through the wall.
Elsewhere I’ve written about the day I was hit with the question: What kind of an old man do you want to be? And I opted for growth and grace as my old-age lifestyle. I love the words of Tennyson in his poem “Ulysses.” He imagines the old, travel-worn Ulysses brooding on what one might do for an encore after having seen the world:
Tho’ much is taken, much abides: and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
That spells it out for me—”strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” Here’s an old man who has chosen growth for an old-age lifestyle when other old men were opting to go to Greece’s version of Florida and the shuffleboard courts.
Or perhaps I could have used Paul’s words—”though our outer man wastes away, our inner man is renewed every day.” Again, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race.” I love the enthusiasm of Tennyson’s Ulysses and the feisty Paul.
So at midlife I asked God for a rebirth of spirit and mind. And I found a wonderful liberation: liberation from expectations of the system in which I’d grown up, liberation from feeling I always had to be right and to please everyone’s definition of orthodoxy, liberation from always having to be more successful this year than last year, liberation from fearing that some people wouldn’t like me—a slow and certain liberation that said. Be content to be a pleasure to Christ, a lover to your wife, a grandfather to your children’s children, a friend to those who want to share life with you, and a servant to your generation.
In part that liberation came from the grace and kindness of Jesus and, second, from having to clean up after failure. Those who knew me knew now my worst moments, my most embarrassing failures. I was free now to open my life and be what I was: a sinner who survives only because of the charity of Christ.
Now there is freedom to talk about fears, doubts, disappointments, and weaknesses. Because anything good that comes from someone like me actually comes from God. Paul said it best: “When I am weak, then I am strong.”
So when one decides to go through the wall, where do you begin?
A Place to Start
In Christ-Followers in the Real World, I wrote about a Sunday morning several years ago when I was in my circle-driving period of life. There was no going back to earlier years, and there was no clear direction for the future.
That Sunday morning I turned on the television and found myself looking at Robert Schuller. The first thing I heard him say was, “I want to talk about enthusiasm.” I remember thinking sourly, The man rarely talks about anything else!
Then Schuller said, “Most of us think that enthusiasm is the result of circumstances around us. But enthusiasm is that which you choose to generate from within yourself regardless of circumstances.”
That was an epiphany moment for me. Instantly I was aware that, for the previous three or four years, I’d been living bereft of any enthusiasm. I had been going through the motions as best as I could. I may sound as if I’m exaggerating, but I felt like a boxer who’d been knocked out but didn’t have the sense to fall to the canvas and rest for a while. I presented myself to people as if I were enthusiastic, but a search of the soul revealed that the genuine article just wasn’t there.
In that moment I also realized that in our home Gail had been the source of any enthusiasm in our lives for quite some time. And, like a parasite, I’d been drawing energy from her.
I thought about this for a while and then went to Gail.
“I have an apology to make,” I told her.
“About what?”
“I’ve decided to become enthusiastic again.”
“Huh?”
“I’m serious. I’ve been living off your enthusiasm for the last few years, and I have made a decision to become an enthusiastic man again. As of now I’m taking back my share of the responsibility to be enthusiastic in our marriage.”
Gail didn’t have the slightest idea of what I was talking about, although she had been aware that some life had gone out of me. But she took my word on it. And I went to work to overcome the naturally melancholic, brooding, introverted person that I am. So in my journal I recorded a commitment: to generate enthusiasm from within and spread it.
A Sense of Direction
But being enthusiastic is only a start. The world is full of enthusiastic people. The San Diego Chicken is enthusiastic. So are the guys on television who sell electric juice makers, auto polish, and investment schemes. The question is. What are you going to be enthusiastic about?
As a Christ-follower, the answer is about following Christ, growing in godliness, being a servant in his kingdom. But it had to be more specific. What was there that would capture my imagination and generate passion?
I began to wrestle again with the question mentioned earlier: What sort of an old man do you want to be? I took a look around and discovered I didn’t know many old men who impressed me with the same traits mentioned by Tennyson’s Ulysses.
Why? Maybe because most men and women never build a growth plan for the old years. And if you don’t plan for the kind of man (or woman) you want to be when you are 80 (God willing) and begin building that when you are 40 or 50, it’s not likely to happen.
That’s what drove me to define my personal mission. Without a mission, people live by reaction rather than initiation. I’d written a few mission statements for organizations—why not one for myself?
Today my mission statement sits on page two of my journal, where I read it each morning as I start my day. It defines my direction and channels my enthusiasm.
My life is focused on serving God’s purposes in my generation so that the Kingdom of Christ might be more firmly established wherever I go. In my dealings with people, I want to be a source of hope, encouragement, enthusiasm, friendship, and service. As a man I seek the daily enlargement of my spirit so that it might be a dwelling place for Christ, a source of wisdom and holiness unto the Lord.
It is a functional statement, describing in broad, macroterms what I want to do with my life. It calls for me to grow by being on a constant search for the purposes of God for the times in which I live. And it puts me squarely on a mission of kingdom building: calling people to the kingdom of God, doing my best to press kingdom conditions into the world in which I live.
It is a statement of quality, reminding me every day of what kind of man I want to be, what I believe Jesus has called me to be: a servant. I know the words are lofty. They’re meant to be. A mission that isn’t lofty isn’t worth pursuing. I want my mind and spirit to be rechallenged every day with what Paul called “the high calling of Christ.”
It is also a relational statement. It calls me to high standards as I interact with people, and it describes some of those standards. It outlines what I want to offer in my relationships. More than once I’ve awakened in a less-than-best mood and grumped a bit at Gail. And then, having successfully grumped, I have turned to my mission statement about hope, encouragement, enthusiasm, friendship, and service. Repentance usually follows.
I’ve heard people groan about mission statements. “Too managerial,” some say. “Not my temperament,” says another. “Too broad, too general, too ethereal.” But I’m fascinated by a little-known instruction in Deuteronomy 17 where Moses spoke of future kings. Kings, he said, should be careful to do certain things and not do other things (such as have many wives, acquire horses, accumulate gold and silver, or send people back to Egypt).
Then, having issued that warning, Moses said this: “When he takes the throne of his kingdom, he is to write for himself on a scroll a copy of this law, taken from that of the priests.… It is to be with him, and he is to read it all the days of his life so that he may learn to revere the Lord his God and follow carefully all the words of this law and these decrees.”
Isn’t that describing a mission statement? Interesting that he would say the king should “write this for himself.” He is to read what he’s written every day. Why? Because a king’s life is open to all sorts of internal and external seductions and deceits. He needs reminders of where he’s supposed to be going and what he is to avoid. Both kings and Christian leaders should construct for themselves such a statement, a covenant of growth.
A Mission Is Not Enough
But a mission statement may not be enough. Early in this quest, I began to think about “sub-missions,” equally-lofty goals for each major area of my life. I identified seven areas I really needed to bring under discipline.
Physical: To keep my body healthy, through good habits, regular exercise, prudent nutrition, and weight discipline.
Relational: To love my wife in the pattern of Christ’s love, to enjoy her friendship, and to make sure that her quality of life is the best I can make it. It is to be as faithful a family man as possible to my children and my grandchildren. And, finally, to be a vigorous friend to a small circle of men and women to whom I’m drawn in community. Beyond that I want to be a contributing member to my generation, always giving more to people than I take.
Intellectual: To steepen my learning curve whenever possible through reading and exposure to thinking people and disciplines of the day.
Financial: To be generous, debt-free, moderate in expenditure, and careful to plan for the years of my life when income production may be difficult.
Vocational: To represent the purposes of God for my generation and to teach/write as well as model all aspects of “quality of spirit.” I would like to make this happen both inside and outside the Christian community.
Spiritual: To be a focused, holy, obedient, and reverent man before God and his world; to discipline my life so that it is controlled by the Spirit within me and so people are drawn one step closer to Christ because of me.
Recreational: To seek restoration in this world by enjoying creation, caring for it, and seeking its reconciliation to the Creator.
I read these statements almost every morning as part of my personal meditations. Several comments about them:
First, they reflect what I personally think God wants from me. I don’t compare myself with the apostles and the heroes any more. Their achievements were and are unique, but so are mine. My submissions excite me. I seek a certain nobility in them. They motivate me to a higher way of living.
Second, they represent a variety of dreams, reflecting my life as a whole person: in touch with my body, my friends, my mind, my skills, and my world.
Third, they’re flexible. Over the years, I’ve fine-tuned these statements as I’ve discovered new interests and abilities.
Finally, they’re not crippling dreams. They are open-ended. And they do not produce guilt when I slip backward a bit. But you can be sure that I’m sometimes chided and rebuked when I read them.
Operating Values
The front pages of my journal include one more addition to the mission and sub-mission statements. And these I’ve come to call my “operating values.”
I think Paul was giving Timothy some operating values when he scattered through the epistles those little zingers that give insight into Paul’s concerns for his protege: “Let no one despise your youth.” You can tell where Paul felt Timothy was weak and vulnerable, where Timothy had some growing to do.
Frankly, there are some habits and weaknesses in my life that are constantly erosive to my pursuit of character. And now that I know that I’m not simply going to outgrow these characteristics, I have to keep preaching to myself with my own set of zingers.
My list of values would not be helpful to anyone else except as samples of what you might want to write for yourself. I don’t normally show them, but a few look like this:
- Assume that you are ultimately powerless to manage your life and that you must surrender to heavenly power.
- Live as transparently as possible, resisting image-building.
- Derive self-value from the Creator and not from people or achievements.
- Renounce the instinct to slander or devalue others.
- Insure that your words are positive, seminal, motivational, and lovingly candid.
- Deal ruthlessly with self-deceit and unearned applause.
- Content yourself with “littleness, biddenness, and power-lessness.”
- Resist a competitive spirit; permit no inner resentments; rejoice in the success of others.
- Persevere with quality: don’t give up or quit easily.
- Keep your “inner springs” clean so that you can “water the earth.”
Frankly, a lot of this is difficult to measure. It makes it difficult for us ever to feel as if we’ve achieved a satisfactory level. (When we’re told, “If you think you’ve arrived, you haven’t,” I don’t know what to do. But I do know that focusing on our values will help us grow.)
Journaling
Over the years I’ve introduced several other activities to my spiritual disciplines. The first and foremost is journaling.
My journal carries a starting date somewhere in 1968. And since then I’ve managed to keep a record of almost every day of my life.
I began journaling because I discovered that many of the saints found it profitable. I guess that’s one of the times I copied the heroes. The saints and mystics lived without tv, phones, and all the other scintillating interruptions we’ve allowed into our lives. I found that a commitment to keeping a journal forced me away from the distractions. And it pressed me to think, to evaluate, to reflect, and to remember. It provided a way to look at events and impressions and interpret the presence of God in it all.
Today I write my journal on a laptop computer, a concession to technology. It enables me to write more, do it faster, and to overcome my repugnance toward my own handwriting.
The journal becomes a tool for measuring short-term and long-term growth. The short-term measurements are daily. I frequently end a daily entry into the journal with: “Results today will be measured by …” and then I list the things I believe I should accomplish and what it would take to consider those accomplishments as finished. There is a sense of well-being when I go back to that list the next day and type in done after each one.
Sometimes I write something as simple as “Enjoy a great afternoon with Gail,” or “Review travel schedule and make sure your calender is up to date.”
For long-term growth, I use the journal to inquire about the state of my soul (to use older language). What has Scripture been saying to me? What is God saying through my meditations? What feelings, themes, attitudes are predominant these days? Am I fearful, preoccupied, moody, angry? What sensitivities are being stimulated? What new thoughts and concerns might be God’s way of directing my life? This stuff has got to be written down in my world, or it just sails right through the conscious mind and leaves, having no effect.
Then I use the journal approximately every four months to evaluate growth and progress. New Year’s Day, my birthday (in April), and the end of vacation (August 30) are usually times to look over the past months and ask the great “Sabbath questions”: Where have I been? And has the journey been fruitful? Where should I be going? And do I have the resources to get there?
Are We Ever Fail-Safe?
After all these words about ways of pursuing growth, I must admit there is no guarantee against failure. Some of the best people in biblical history failed—terribly. We love to herald the exploits of those heroes; we need to give equal attention to their ordinariness as sinners. What set them apart, more often than not, was not their great achievements but their repentant and broken spirits. And wasn’t it a broken spirit that God said he loved best?
I need to go one step further and note some things about personal growth that seem at first bleak. I’ve learned the hard way that having a mission statement, a series of sub-missions, goals and values, a process of journaling and evaluation is not a promise of success. I know failure, and I can tell you that there is no human way to insure against it.
The older I become the more I realize my condition as a barbarian loved by my Father. And this may be the most important insight that comes with aging. Almost all old people who are growing have certain common traits. One of them is that they know without equivocation that they are sinners. And they’ve come to appreciate the central importance of grace.
I once had a friendship with a man in his seventies and eighties. Lee was a godly man who brought the most unusual people to Jesus.
One day we were having breakfast, and Lee told me about a recent trip he’d taken to Boston. “As I drove toward the city,” Lee said, “I realized that I was going to be parking my car and walking through the combat zone (Boston’s notorious red-light district). So I pulled into a rest stop and had a time of prayer so I could ask God to protect me from temptation when I walked past all those pornography stores and massage parlors.”
“Wait a minute. Lee,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to offend you, but you’re 78 years old. Are you telling me that you’re concerned about sexual temptation at your age and after all these years of following the Lord?”
Lee looked at me with an intense look in his eyes. “Son, just because I’m old doesn’t mean the blood doesn’t flow through my veins. The difference between we old men and you young men is this: we know we’re sinners. We’ve had plenty of experience. You kids haven’t figured that out yet.”
Now, years later, I understand a bit of what the old man was saying. And I understand why old men and women who are growing are among the most gracious and forgiving people there are.
Growth cannot happen without a powerful respect for the reality of indwelling evil and its insidious work through self-deceit. It leads us to lie to God, ourselves, and one another. The spiritual disciplines are designed not only to lead us into the presence of the Father but to sensitize us to the lies we can find so easy to believe.
The leader is constantly the target of the temptations of deceit. We are never far from the statement King Nebuchadnezzar made on the walls of Babylon: “Is not this great Babylon I have built as the royal residence, by my mighty power and for the glory of my majesty?” Look around at some who have been deceived by the success of media ministry, success in fund raising, the sensation found in fast-growing institutions, the money capable of being accumulated through large fees and “love offerings.”
Questions That Fight Deceit
Growth cannot happen when the success is superficial and the heart is deceived. In the Bible, deceit was almost always challenged by the power of hard questions. To Cain: “Why is your face downcast?” To Hezekiah: “What did you show the Babylonians in your house?” To Judas: “Why are you here?” To Ananias and Sapphira: “Why have you lied to the Holy Spirit?”
Gail and I have compiled some tough questions to ask ourselves when we think about growth, questions such as:
1. Am I too defensive when asked questions about the use of my time and the consistency of my spiritual disciplines?
2. Have I locked myself into a schedule that provides for no rest or fun times with friends and family?
3. What does my Daytimer say about time for study, general reading, and bodily exercise?
4. What of the quality of my speech? Am I doing a lot of whining and complaining? Am I frequently critical of people, of institutions, of those who clearly do not like me?
5. Am I drawn to TV shows and entertainment that do not reflect my desired spiritual culture?
6. Am I tempted to stretch the truth, enlarge numbers that are favorable to me, or tell stories that make me look good?
7. Am I blaming others for things that are my own fault, the result of my own choices?
8. Is my spirit in a state of quiet so I can hear God speak?
In Rebuilding Your Broken World, I recounted the story of Matthias Rust, the young German who piloted a rental plane into the heart of the former Soviet Union and landed in Moscow’s Red Square .I’ve always thought that to be an apt illustration of what can happen to any Christian leader at any time.
The Soviets were sure they had the best systems of air defense in the world. And a teenager penetrated their airspace and taxied up to the front door of the Kremlin. No Christ-following man or woman can feel the confidence that they are growing if they are not living in a perpetual repentance, a holy sorrow that acknowledges that apart from the power and grace of Christ we will succumb to the evil that abides within until the day Christ returns.
Mastering personal growth depends little on our measuring of ourselves against the saints and heroes. There is value in learning from their lives and witness. But they are among the cloud of witnesses about whom the writer in Hebrews spoke. They remain in the stands as we run our leg of the race. We cannot match ourselves against their performances. Rather, our eyes are to be upon the one who runs with us. Thanks be to God that he is alongside when we run, that he hoists us back up when we fall, that he redefines direction when we are lost, that he cheers us on when we grow fatigued, and that he presents us to the Father when we finish the race.
Copyright © 1992 by Christianity Today
