In the Bible there are two words used for “friendship”. The Hebrew word (rea) implies some kind of obligation. Being a friend means helping someone in need, coming to their assistance, providing support in difficult circumstance or even rescuing them in times of despair.

The Greek word (phileo) implies some sort of affection. Being a friend means actually liking someone, being fond of them, enjoying their company and seeking them out for no other reason than to spend time with them.

Now, given these two definitions, it’s relatively easy to see that God is our friend, right? He’s gone out of his way to help us, and he actually seems to enjoy spending time with us. So much so that Jesus was called “a friend of sinners” (see Luke 7:34).

And yet….

Friendship is usually a two-way street, a mutual agreement, a give-and-take arrangement between two people. Everyone knows how awkward it can be to find yourself in a relationship with someone who isn’t as interested in being your friend as you are in being theirs.

Has it ever occurred to you that your actions may put God in that situation — feeling as if he’s more interested in being your friend than you are in being his?

Jesus was a Rabbi — a teacher. He was more than that, but he certainly wasn’t less than that. And to the vast majority of people who knew him in his lifetime, that’s precisely what they thought of first when they thought of him.

Like other Rabbis of his time, Jesus had disciples — talmidim was the word they used. But Jesus was different. Typically, a Rabbi would allow a student to approach him about becoming a follower. The Rabbi might ask the would-be disciple a few questions to see if that young man was serious about learning. Once approved, the disciple would follow his Rabbi everywhere, hoping not only to learn from his teacher but to actually become more like his teacher.

Jesus, however, reversed the set-up. He was proactive in seeking out his disciples. He didn’t wait for them to come to him; he went to them, calling them out of their workplaces to a lifestyle of following and learning and becoming. Mark’s Gospel tells us that he settled on 12 guys who would be his closest followers — his talmidim. And Mark tells us what Jesus’ primary educational strategy was. The plan was that they would just “be with him” — just hang out with him, go where he went, watch, listen, ask, discuss, learn and then, under his watchful eye and careful tutelage, begin doing the same kinds of things he had done (cf. Mark 3:13-15).

Some amazing things happened over the next three years. Sick people were healed. Dead people were raised. Women and children were elevated and dignified. Religious people were confounded. Corrupt people were exposed.

But something else happened. Over time, as Jesus and his followers hung out, their relationship changed. By the end of his life, Jesus didn’t just think of them as his servants or his students.

They had become his friends.

He was still their Rabbi, and there was still much for them to learn from him. He was their Lord, their Master, and he would become their Savior in a matter of hours. But on the last night before his death, he gathered in a rented room and told his talmidim, “You guys are my friends now, and there’s no greater way of showing how much you mean to me than by me making the ultimate sacrifice for you.”

He wasn’t dying as a war hero or a religious martyr. He wasn’t laying down his life for his followers or students or witnesses or servants. This wasn’t just a theological event done to satisfy some mysterious part of God’s nature. This was a personal expression of the deep love Jesus felt for his friends.

Jesus chose them to be his friends.

And now he chooses you.

Why do we have such a hard time thinking of Jesus as a friend?

Maybe you’ve heard or read this piece before:

He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never had a family or owned a home. He didn’t go to college. He never lived in a big city. He never traveled 200 miles from the place where he was born. He did none of the things that usually accompany greatness. He had no credentials but himself.

He was only 33 when the tide of public opinion turned against him. His friends ran away. One of them denied him. He was turned over to his enemies and went through the mockery of a trial. He was nailed to a cross between two thieves. While he was dying, his executioners gambled for his garments, the only property he had on earth. When he was dead, he was laid in a borrowed grave, through the pity of a friend.

Twenty centuries have come and gone, and today he is the central figure of the human race. I am well within the mark when I say that all the armies that ever marched, all the navies that ever sailed, all the parliaments that ever sat, all the kings that ever reigned — put together — have not affected the life of man on this earth as much as that one, solitary life.

– James Allen Francis

I’ve used this before, but I read it again the other day and discovered a word that really bothers me. Don’t get me wrong, the sentiment is great, and it really is a powerful piece. But that one word — the next-to-last word — I can’t get past it. It’s become all I see.

Solitary?

If we mean “solitary” as in “unique” — that I can get on board with. But that’s not what we usually mean when we use the word. Usually we mean “isolated, secluded or alone”. We use this word to describe a recluse or a hermit or someone who is a bit stand-off-ish.

That doesn’t describe the Jesus I read about in the Bible.

It’s not surprising to hear that God expects me to worship him. If he is who he claims to be, that only makes sense. After all, any deity expects and demands worship. He created everything that exists; if I go to the bank and the grocery store in one day I need a nap. He’s bigger than I am, more competent, wiser, stronger, etc. My being asked to worship him is far from surprising.

I’m also not surprised to hear that God has set a very high standard for my life. He calls me to holiness, but it only stands to reason that the one who created me knows my true potential. He calls me to be holy, and he’s fully prepared to equip me for such a lifestyle.

It is not difficult, then, for me to realize that God has provided for me a document describing his character and nature as well as his plans and designs for humans. This document is not only relatively easy to read (sure there are parts that are difficult, but — taken as a whole — the Bible is remarkably easy to understand) but most of it is actually enjoyable to read. I bought my wife a digital camera for Christmas, and it came with a baffling set of instructions designed to show us how to make the best use of the camera. I would be shocked to find that God hadn’t provided something better than the folks at Sony.

None of this is surprising. If God is who he says he is, and if I am who he says I am, this only makes sense.

But what is absolutely jaw-dropping astonishing to me is the length to which he is willing to go just to be close to me.

I’ve written about this before, but when I was growing up, our church would sing a hymn that really creeped me out. It went like this:

All along on the road to the soul’s true abode,

There’s an Eye watching you.

Every step that you take this great Eye is awake,

There’s an Eye watching you.

Watching you, watching you,

Everyday mind the course you pursue;

Watching you, watching you,

There’s an all-seeing Eye watching you.

Cue the scary music. We’re being watched.

There’s an interesting story behind this song. The guy who wrote it (J.M. Henson) was at a revival meeting where he heard the revival leader tell a group of boys who had misbehaved the previous night, “We’re expecting order here and you had better be careful, because there’s an all-seeing eye watching you tonight.”

He was referring to the county sheriff whom he had personally invited to the revival that night. Henson thought of God as the ultimate sheriff and wrote the lyric above.

It’s hard to be friends with a sheriff. It’s hard to feel comfortable around someone whose primary responsibility is to scrutinize your behavior and correct you when you go astray.

Actually, I’ve known a few sheriffs in my lifetime, and they’re pretty likable folks — but you know what I mean. We tend to flinch and get nervous when we notice a police car in the rearview mirror — even if we’re not doing anything wrong.

For lots of people, I’m afraid that the primary reason they never experience friendship with Jesus is because they’re stuck on this image of God as an All-Seeing Eye watching them, just waiting for a reason to zap them.

But what if we could somehow redeem this image of God’s watchful presence? What if, instead of God’s eye being trained on the boundaries with judgment as its focus, God’s eye is squarely directed at you as an object of love, desire and devotion?

What if God loves you so much that he simply can’t take his eyes off of you?

How might that kind of image change a person’s relationship with Jesus?

I think about Jesus a lot. I think about him, write about him, talk about him. I sometimes sit here in my office wondering what it would be like to have actually known him — like I know some of my dearest friends. What would it be like to eat some wings and watch the Super Bowl with him? What would it be like to call him on a Saturday afternoon and say, “I’ve got to run over to Home Depot and get some paint. Wanna come with?”

What would it be like if you could come to know Jesus the way his disciples knew him?

Think about that. What if you could literally walk with him and talk with him the way they did?

Imagine sitting next to him at dinner like the apostle John or having him show up at your brother’s funeral like Mary and Martha. How cool would it be to talk late into the night about your unanswered questions like Nicodemus did? Or what if you could find the courage to discuss your deepest, darkest secrets in the warm light of day like the woman at the well?

How would you feel if he ever looked you in the eye and called you his friend?

I’ve spent the last couple of days pondering these thoughts, and I’ve come to realize — with an ever-increasing astonishment — that this is precisely the invitation that has been extended to those of us who claim to be followers of Jesus. We’re not just called to live better lives. We’re not just called to spread his message. We’re called to enter into a relationship with him — with the understanding that he’ll begin to have a profound influence upon anyone who will spend time with him.

But how is that possible? What does it take to cultivate that kind of a relationship with Jesus?

“I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.”

– Martin Luther King, Jr.

There is power in a dream, especially when that dream is in sync with God’s dream. God longs for justice and redemption, and tells us that one day all the things that are wrong about our world will be set right. Dr. King’s dream was powerful enough to lead people to sit in, stand up, march on, take notice and suffer abuse for the sake of preventing further abuse. He inspired leaders, recruited followers and demanded legislative reform. This preacher man on a plumber’s salary moved people, black and white, because he could envision what was true, good and beautiful, and he refused to give up. He said that justice would one day roll down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream. By his absolute refusal to be silenced, he forced America to deal with the error, the evil and the ugliness of racism.

Martin Luther King, Jr. was a hope-filled and inspirational leader. He was also a dad. While he was in Washington, proclaiming his dream that his children would “one day live in a nation where they [would] not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character,” his wife Coretta was caring for his four children, the youngest of whom turned five months old that day.

King left a legacy of hope…for our nation and for his own family.

What kind of legacy would you like to leave for your family? What are you willing to do to ensure that legacy?

This will be the last post in this series, but I didn’t want to move on to something else before mentioning what has been perhaps the most convicting thought I’ve had in quite a while.

We’ve talked about reading and listening to sermons in a particularly Christian way. I’ve suggested that the goal of such reading should be the same as the goal of the Christian life — which is bringing glory to God by becoming more and more like him, especially in my ability to love and be loved by God and others.

I’ve stated that reading and listening should be done with that end in mind, allowing the text (whether it is the Bible or some other spiritually formative material) to reveal something about God and assist me in my desire to grow in love. I believe such a hermeneutic would eliminate a lot of the bickering and divisiveness Christianity currently experiences. Here, at last, is a way for Calvinists and Arminians to read one another without feeling the need to get all bent out of shape. The Piper-ites and the Bell-eons can listen to and with one another, rather than simply listening at one another.

If those choose to.

Which, sadly, I doubt they will.

But love believes all things, so I will continue to hope towards that end.

And that brings me to my final and perhaps most challenging point: Reading and listening themselves must become an act of love for the Christian.

As I read an author or listen to a speaker, I’m trying to get myself out of a judgmental posture and ask myself, “How would I read this if I loved the author? How would I listen if I loved this speaker?”

I am an author and a professional speaker — that’s what I’ll put on my tax form this year. And I have to say: getting up to speak in front of a group of people is one of the most nerve-wracking endeavors imaginable. A close second would be actually sitting down and putting your thoughts on paper for people to read. I am vulnerable when I do that. I am especially vulnerable to criticism immediately after I’m done. And, having worked with pastors and preachers from Seattle to Orlando, I know that I am far from alone.

There are books I disagree with. There are speakers who spout error of all kinds. There is a time for healthy disagreement and even confrontation and rebuttal. But I have been humbled and convicted by God about the way I read and the way I listen. All too often I listen for a chance to disagree, confront and rebut. I sit, like Simon Cowell, listening for the mistake, hoping they’re off-key so I can appear witty, intelligent and superior.

I’m not rooting for the speaker.

I’m not loving the author.

And that — most assuredly — is not reading Christianly.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been talking about a way of reading that is — in my opinion — uniquely Christian. My premise has been that being a Christian comes down to glorifying God by becoming progressively more and more like him — particularly in my ability to love and be loved by God and others. My point has been that just about anything I read should be read with that end in mind — whether it is the Bible or any kind of spiritually formative material. I should always read with my eyes open to learn more about God’s character and nature, and I should always ask myself how the material I’ve just read can assist me in my efforts to grow in love.

I would hasten to add that this applies as I listen to a sermon.

As a guy who speaks in just about every kind of church you can imagine, I cannot tell you how many people seem to listen at me rather than listening to (or even with) me. They sit there, arms folded, listening for error or listening to make sure I touch all the appropriate bases. They listen to sermons the way an umpire watches a baseball game. They don’t listen for personal transformation. They don’t listen to grow.

These are the people who always want clarification on some fine point of something I said in passing that wasn’t even the point I was trying to make. These are the people who want to know what version I was reading from and why. These are the people who want to know where I went to seminary. These are also the people who wish their brother-in-law had heard the message. They want to get a copy of the CD for someone at work, because it was just the sort of message someone else needed to hear.

These people never come and tell me that it was just what they needed to hear. They never tell me how they could grow from the message or how they plan on applying it to their lives.

Please understand that not everyone does this. There are also plenty of folks who listen well and humbly seek to apply whatever truth they find in my sermons to their personal lives. I love these people, and I wish I were more like them.

I am as guilty of this as anyone else. One of the things I do — as part of my work here with Faith 2.0 — is critiquing sermons. Preachers often ask me for advice or help or coaching in becoming better communicators. Unfortunately, it’s become difficult for me to listen to a sermon for spiritual formation now, because I’m always thinking about how the speaker could have communicated his/her points more effectively.

So, here’s what I’d like for us to discuss: What would change if people started listening to sermons the way we’ve suggested we ought to read? What if they first asked themselves, “What does this sermon teach me about the character and nature of God?” And second, “How can I apply this sermon in such a way as to help me grow in my ability to love and be loved by God and others?”

Finally, for all you preachers out there, how could we train our listeners in the best way to listen to a sermon and get them out of the bad habit of listening at a sermon?

Thus far, our conversation has been limited to Bible reading. We’ve said that the goal of Bible reading should be the same as the goal for all of life: Christ-followers are to bring glory to God by progressively becoming more like him — particularly in our ability to love and be loved by God and others.

So, when we read the Bible, we look first for insight into God’s character and nature. Then we seek to apply this new knowledge to our lives by asking ourselves, “How can I use what I’ve learned in today’s reading to help me grow in love?”

Today’s question is simple: Is it appropriate to read other materials this way as well? What would happen if we read Max Lucado or John Piper or Rob Bell or The Purpose-Driven Life this way?

What if our first question had nothing to do with whether we think the author is right or wrong or agrees with me or not but had everything to do with finding an aspect of God’s character to become enthralled with and learning to love and be loved by God and others to a greater degree — even when that lesson comes from an author we don’t much care for?

I’m not saying we have to mindlessly accept and agree with everything we read, and God knows we need discernment. There’s a time to take a stand for orthodoxy, and there’s a time to confront heresy. But I’m concerned that we all too often approach reading material looking for error. We practice what we could call a hermeneutic of suspicion. Like we’re God’s appointed theological spell-check program, we read things to either confirm what we already believe or to gain ammunition in some sort of war of words.

At least I know I’ve been guilty of that.

But can that be considered “reading Christianly”?