It seems to me that a lot of people think following Jesus comes down to exterior compliance. Performance. Behavior.

We tend to equate discipleship with activities first. Attend this event. Participate in this program. Learn this material. Practice these five steps to maturity. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

But, in teaching folks to work, give, go, do, we’ve neglected the simple fact that this is not how Jesus taught people. This is, quite simply, one of the most frustrating things about Jesus: He rarely gave us an outright command. More often than not, Jesus told us how things are and expected us to internalize that thought and adjust our behavior accordingly.

Jesus taught people to follow him from the inside out.

In that order.

Adjust the inside, address the disorder of your heart and mind first. Then, with a new heart and a renewed mind, allow that internal reality to work its way out through your behavior.

The sad truth is, performance-driven discipleship has not produced courageous, healthy, self-starting followers. Instead, it’s created disillusionment and apathy.

The gospel must first be allowed to impact the inside of us — the self, the ego, the libido, the imagination, the ambition, the passion, the soul — what Gordon McDonald calls “the life below the waterline” — if it’s ever going to provide the lasting change it promises.

We must wean ourselves from this obsession with superficial, performance-based cosmetic changes and learn to follow Jesus again from the inside out if we want to be that city set on a hill like Jesus wants.

But how do we do that? And why is that so counter-intuitive?

We’ve talked about this before around here, but let’s re-visit that conversation.

Why do so many preachers fail to teach the way Jesus did? Why are sermons so full of tips on how to change your behavior but so empty when it comes to new ways of thinking?

When it’s all said and done, it all comes down to leadership. Show me your leader, and I can know an awful lot about you — even if your leader is yourself — which is what most of us prefer.

Clearly, one of the problems in our world today is a lack of real leadership. Strong, courageous, competent, visionary leaders are so few and far between they almost seem non-existent. And there may be some societal reasons for this. The biggest reason is probably the shortage of people willing to be followers.

We live in an age of 51% majorities. Increasingly, it would seem that public opinion polls determine policy. Politicians who are not leaders stick their fingers in the air to see which way the winds of public opinion are blowing on nearly every issue. It seems like this is what makes a person electable nowadays: their willingness to follow the lead of the people back home. Consequently, leaders have become followers, and followers have become leaders.

Should one of our elected officials suddenly sprout a spine and stand in opposition to one of our whims — even if it is the right thing to do — we’ll just run that person out of office at our earliest convenience.

This is not good. It’s created a state where leaders no longer trust their followers, and followers don’t trust their leaders. With a few rare exceptions, the only thing either side can be counted upon to do on any kind of consistent basis is to do what they feel is in their own best interests.

What is terribly alarming to me personally is that this is not limited to the realm of politics. It has seeped its way into churches — the one place in all the world where we should be able to find a healthy example of how leaders should lead and how followers should follow. Following the greatest Leader of all is what Christianity is supposed to be all about, after all. When Christians can’t get leadership and followership right, what’s the world to do?

Let’s talk about this for a while. Let’s take our time and be courteous and respectful, please. But let’s see if we can figure out what’s going on with this issue. And let’s start with the most basic premise of Christianity:

Have we misunderstood what it means to follow Jesus? What do you suppose following Jesus looks like? And how have churches and Christians missed the mark on this one?

Today I’m thinking through this story in John 11 from the perspective of Lazarus.

When this chapter is busted out in church, we typically think about what Mary and Martha are thinking. Sometimes, we think about the disciples and their feelings. We may even think and talk about Jesus and his experience here.

But we don’t often take the time to ponder what’s going on with Lazarus.

After all, he was Jesus’ friend. He’s referred to as one of Jesus’ loved ones. They’d spent time together, hanging out, eating, talking, laughing. They had history, and I’m pretty sure Lazarus figured Jesus had his back. He got sick, but probably thought he’d get better like usual. But he actually started getting worse. Eventually, he’s in bed and it must have occurred to him that he might not get better.

Did it ever cross his mind to ask Jesus for help? Did he think Jesus may be too busy? Did he assume, once his sisters had sent a message to Jesus, that the one who’d walked the countryside healing total strangers would certainly come rescue a close friend?

What must it feel like to know your life is ebbing away and one of your best friends has the power to fix it? What must it feel like to have that friend not show up?

It’s probably not that hard for you to imagine what Lazarus must have felt. You’ve probably felt it at some point in your life. You believe God could fix things, but he delays his arrival. While you wait and wait and wait, well-intentioned people say things like, “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Or, “I’m sure he’d be here if he could. Something must have come up.”

But he said he was your friend. Was he just saying that? Did he say that to everyone? Why would he help people he didn’t even know but not help you now?

And then you die….

Something’s not right about that. Something about it rubs us the wrong way. Sure, we may pretend it doesn’t bother us, or we may pretend like we’re not supposed to ask questions like this. The Psalmist didn’t carry any of those illusions. In fact, the psalms can be divided into several categories — different kinds of psalms — and the largest category of psalms are the psalms of lament (which is a fancy theological way of saying “psalms of complaint”).

Maybe Lazarus quoted some of those psalms on his deathbed. Jesus sure did.

Regardless, Jesus didn’t show up to help Lazarus until it was (from our perspective) too late. Lazarus was dead for four days. He closed his eyes and stopped breathing.

Then the next thing he knew he heard a familiar voice. It was Jesus telling him to come out. Did Lazarus know where he was or why he was all wrapped up? Was he consciously aware of being dead?

I don’t know about you, but I’ve got lots of questions about this.

At some point in time, the dots must have gotten connected. Lazarus either figured it out or was told that he’d been dead and brought back to life. But did he realize that it was just temporary? That he’d have to go through death all over again at sometime in the not too distant future? I wonder how that would make you feel.

How would you live if you knew you’d already died and been brought back to life on this earth for a finite period of time?

In some ways, that’s the challenge to all of us. Those of us who have died to self and been brought back to a new kind of life know that our remaining time on earth is short. So, as much as I’m called to live like Jesus, I’m also busy being Lazarus over here — wondering why Jesus didn’t show up when and how I wanted him to but thankful for another chance — brief though it may be — to really live before I die.

The other day I began telling you a story about Jesus. A good friend of his (Lazarus) is sick — really sick — like about to die sick. Lazarus’ sisters (Mary and Martha) send word to Jesus in the hopes that he’ll come see Lazarus and heal him.

But Jesus doesn’t do that. Jesus stays where he is. Jesus does nothing.

Or so it seems.

Then, after two days of staying put, Jesus announces to his disciples that he’s going to Judea.

His disciples, however, are not keen on the idea. The last time they were there, some folks tried to kill Jesus. As if he’d forgotten that episode, his disciples remind him and suggest that they stay where they are until the heat blows over.

“No,” says Jesus, “Lazarus has fallen asleep, and I should go wake him up.”

They think Jesus means literally “asleep” instead of dead, so they say, “Let Lazarus wake up on his own. Let’s stay here where there’s no trouble.”

Jesus says, “Did I say ‘asleep’? I meant ‘dead’ — Lazarus is dead, so let’s go.”

And Jesus leaves.

Thomas looks around the room and says, “Well, come on, let’s go die with him.”

This is where the story I told you the other day comes in. Martha sees Jesus and runs out to him, dropping a guilt trip on him. “If only you’d been here, maybe he wouldn’t have died.”

Then her sister Mary comes to Jesus and says the exact same thing (Jewish women…oy vey…the drama!).

Jesus gets emotional seeing his friends in pain, but he’s got a little surprise for them.

At this point, the sequence of the story is really important. Jesus and his followers, along with the two sisters and several other people from the village, are standing there at the grave-site (which was most likely a cave with a large stone blocking the entryway (to keep animals out). Jesus tells them to remove the stone. They object. He’s been dead for four days now, and, in that climate, there’s going to be a smell. A bad smell. In the King James vernacular, “Lord, by this time he stinketh.”

Jesus insists. The stone is moved. And then Jesus prays an odd little prayer. He says, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me” (emphasis mine).

Have heard — as in past tense.

Then he shouts, “Lazarus, you can come out now!”

And, in what must have been a sight that was at least a little bit funny, Lazarus shuffles (or maybe hops) out, bound tightly from head-to-toe in his burial cloth.

Lots of stuff to talk about here, but this is what struck me today: Jesus uses the past tense in that little prayer — indicating that he had prayed about this earlier — probably while everyone else thought he was doing nothing. Everyone — Mary, Martha, Lazarus, the disciples — assumed Jesus was just staying put, laying low, doing nothing.

But Jesus was praying. For what we’re not exactly sure. But it probably had something to do with asking his Father to preserve Lazarus’ body — maybe keep it from beginning to decompose so he could come out of the tomb intact. After all, it’s after the stone is rolled away that Jesus seems to know for sure that his prayer had been heard (no stink?).

Here’s the point (and this is extremely relevant to me given the 100 days of silence from which I am just now beginning to emerge): Jesus does some of his best work immediately after it would appear he has been doing nothing. Buckle up, folks, I believe we’re in for the ride of our lives, because miracles start to happen when Jesus does “nothing”.

It’s been said that the two saddest words in the English language are the words “if only…”.

If only it hadn’t been raining.

If only they had said that.

If only she’d stayed.

If only you’d been here.

If only….

We’ve probably all felt the longing that prompts those words at least once. It’s a strange kind of nostalgia — not just for a different past but for a different present. This is what prompts stories about time travel. We’ve all wondered what it might be like to go back and undo some things we did or do some things differently. What kind of present could we engineer if we could change the past?

If only….

Jesus heard these words. One time he went to visit his friends Mary and Martha. It was just after their brother Lazarus had died, and Martha — busybody and strident and loudmouthed — saw Jesus coming down the walk and ran to him with these words. “If only you’d been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.”

Mary — the quiet one who liked to sit and listen — came at Jesus with these same words, too. Perhaps they’d repeated these words to each other over the course of the past few days. Perhaps they’d each taken a turn saying, “If only Jesus had been here, he could have done something to help.”

If only….

Jesus’ response to Martha is familiar to anyone who has read the Bible or heard a few sermons. He says, “Your brother will live again.”

Martha, being a good Jewish girl, believed that a resurrection would take place one day in the distant future. She says, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”

But Jesus knows that dreams of a far-off future can be cold comfort to those who suffer in the present. Still, he also knows that the present can never be changed by going to the past.

He tells Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life.”

Now think about this. Jesus didn’t just come from heaven to earth. In a sense, he came from the future to the present. He didn’t just come from God’s presence to ours; he came from God’s present to ours. In God’s present, the resurrection has already occurred. The old is gone; the new is now. Rather than trying to bring an altered past to bear on our current situation, Jesus wants us to know that he’s come to bring the future back to the present.

Jesus says the way to change the present is not to go back in time but to go forward in time and realize that — in him — the future is breaking into the now. The kingdom of God is at hand. Life has come to life. The Resurrection is among us.

So, the next time you’re tempted to say, “If only…”, force yourself to say, “If Jesus…”.

If Jesus is who he says he is….

If Jesus is here….

If Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever….

“If only” may be the saddest words in the English language. The two most hopeful words may be “If Jesus”.

Until I’m done with the book I’m currently writing (which should be before the end of the year), I’m posting some of my favorites posts from years past. Here’s one from 2006:

Now What?

If your home is like ours, the post-Christmas hangover is in fullswing. We spent most of yesterday (and by “we” I really mean “my wife”) digging out from under all the boxes and bags and paper that managed to pile up in every imaginable nook and cranny. We cleared a path to the television first. Then we cleared a path to the fireplace. Then we actually got to where we could see the floor. It’s amazing how much space wrapping paper can take up!

One of my girls had a slight fever, so we spent a lot of time yesterday laying around and not doing very much. It was cold and damp most of the day, so there wasn’t much of an opportunity to go outside and play. There were a few games learned. There was a new movie watched. There was lots of doing nothing. Believe it or not, there were few complaints about being bored.

There was, however, a slight sense of anticipation. Christmas is over, now what? What’s next? When’s the next big event?

I went out to the grocery store for some juice, and I found all the New Year’s decorations up everywhere. Champagne and finger foods. Party hats and confetti. I guess that’s what’s next, and the world seems ready to move on now. Traffic was thick with post-holiday shoppers out trying to redeem gift cards or find that perfect item at the annual after-Christmas sale.

But I couldn’t get into any of it. I’m not ready to leave behind Christmas just yet. It’s like the feeling when you’ve eaten something wonderful right before bed. You’re not ready to brush your teeth and banish the aftertaste just yet. You want to linger over the taste and texture for a few minutes more.

My mind went to something in the Christmas story I’ve never thought of before: the day after. The Bible is silent about what happens after Jesus is born. Nothing more is known except that he was circumcised on the eighth day and redeemed in the temple in Jerusalem sometime before the one-month anniversary of his birth. There are a lot of gaps there for someone with a healthy imagination.

We know he was born. We know shepherds came to see him the night of his birth. I imagine they must have stayed in Bethlehem for a few days — Mary was probably not in any condition to climb back onboard a donkey for the trip home to Nazareth. I guess Joseph would have spent some time trying to find them better accommodations. Perhaps he found some family where they could stay.

It was traditional for family and friends to gather round and sing and celebrate for most of the first-born son’s birth week. They would slowly build towards the day of his circumcision — the day on which he would be officially named as well. Then they would throw a big feast.

We don’t know if anyone came to see the firstborn son of Mary and Joseph. The circumstances surrounding her pregnancy were suspect. Maybe the shepherds brought some of their friends. Maybe there were others who saw or heard the angels. Maybe Elizabeth came with her newborn son.

We just don’t know.

What probably happened was something normal. Jesus’ early life was remarkably normal. That’s one of the reasons people didn’t believe he was who he claimed to be. He was too much like the rest of us. His life smelled too mundane.

The day after Jesus’ birth, Joseph probably cleaned up the cave. After all, two unprepared novices would have made something of a mess trying to bring their baby into this world. He would have gone looking for food. He may have gone in search of something suitable to dress the boy in. Perhaps Mary needed a change of clothes as well. He would have seen something of the same hustle-and-bustle I encountered yesterday. People on the go. People looking for deals. People moving about, searching for whatever comes next without realizing that something miraculous, something earth-shattering had just happened.

As a society, we’re not very good at the day after. We’re too quick to tear down the decorations and move on to what’s next. As soon as the champagne corks pop there will be people somewhere putting up Valentine’s Day decorations. As soon as the Valentine cards are opened, there will be people somewhere putting up pictures of shamrocks and leprechauns.

St. Patrick’s Day will give way to Easter. Easter will give way to Memorial Day. Memorial Day fades into The Fourth of July fades into Labor Day gives way to Halloween and Thanksgiving and we’re back to Christmas before we know it.

But were we ever really at Christmas in the first place?

In our haste for what comes next, in our search for an answer to the never ending question (“Now What?”) I wonder if we’ve missed what just happened.

I hope not.

“Welcome To Our World” by Chris Rice

Tears are falling, hearts are breaking
How we need to hear from God
You’ve been promised, we’ve been waiting

Welcome Holy Child
Welcome Holy Child

Hope that you don’t mind our manger
How I wish we would have known
But long-awaited Holy Stranger
Make Yourself at home
Please make Yourself at home

Bring Your peace into our violence
Bid our hungry souls be filled
Word now breaking Heaven’s silence

Welcome to our world
Welcome to our world

Fragile finger sent to heal us
Tender brow prepared for thorn
Tiny heart whose blood will save us

Unto us is born
Unto us is born

So wrap our injured flesh around You
Breathe our air and walk our sod
Rob our sin and make us holy
Perfect Son of God
Perfect Son of God

Welcome to our world

In the beginning, God created absolutely everything, and it was all perfect. When everything was ready, he took a deep breath and said, “Watch this.” A man and a woman blinked their eyes at each other, and the grand romance was set in motion.

But people ran away for some reason. And God spent the next several thousand years chasing down his beloved. Every time he’d catch them, they’d cry and have a grand reunion. But it never lasted long. Pretty soon, people would get bored or just tired of the same, old thing.

But this God — he never gave up.

And when the time was perfect, he actually came down here — wrapped himself in an earthsuit and planted himself as a tiny seed in a teenage girl. It was a rough and bumpy landing, to be sure. Nothing would be very smooth for him during his brief stay here. But he did it.

And because he did, people — not all of them — but some of them — finally relented. He has won our hearts, this tiny baby born in Bethlehem.

Tonight, I pray that you will enjoy perhaps the greatest gift of all: to sleep in heavenly peace.

Until I’m done with the book I’m currently writing (which should be before the end of the year), I’m posting some of my favorites posts from years past. Here’s one from 2007:

A Baby?

God does a lot of things — many of them seem strange to our admittedly limited perspective. Without a doubt, the single most unsettling, irrational, illogical thing he ever did was come to earth…as a baby!

If God came to earth as a fully-grown man, we could understand that a little better. If he came to earth as an angel, a ghost, an apparition or a disembodied voice, it might make more sense or fit our expectations a little better.

But a baby? He was totally helpless. He couldn’t feed himself or talk or walk or control his own bladder.

And have you ever been to a live birth? There’s blood and sweat and mucous and screaming…and that’s just the dads! The whole process is uncomfortable to say the least. It’s unseemly. It’s unsanitary. As much as we may not want to think about this, birth — for all of its wonder and amazement — is a yucky process, and there are parts of it that we don’t even like to think about, let alone imagine.

This is how God chose to enter the world.

He could have chosen any way he wanted — something miraculous and exceptional, regal and majestic. But he chose the ordinary way.

Worse than that, he chose the peasant’s way. He could have chosen a major city with doctors, nurses or midwives and their sterilized equipment. Instead he chose a barn in a backwater town with no one but a carpenter’s rough and calloused hands to usher him into the world. There were probably more animals than people present at his birth.

No, this doesn’t make much sense to many people. The God of the universe humbling himself in such a way, emptying himself of so much to gain so little in return.

We would understand if royal officials were there eagerly awaiting his arrival. No one important showed up save a few dirty shepherds — oh and some strange men from the east that got there several months later.

But the Bible leads us to believe that this is exactly the way God wanted it.

A young couple, miles away from home, are unable to find a decent place to sleep. They’re forced to spend the night in a stable when she goes into labor and delivers this baby that has caused so much pain and would cause even more in his attempt to bring true peace, true healing, true joy. She wraps him in strips of cloth to keep him warm as her husband makes room in the feed trough. They’re both unaware that magi are headed their way or that shepherds are receiving the shock of their lives in the form of a heavenly chorus.

This is our God, this tiny baby with fists for hands and squinting eyes, depending upon and trusting in two scared newlyweds for his survival. He risks everything in order to maintain his own integrity and rescue the people who have never been able to keep their promises to him.

The storyline doesn’t make much sense to us, because it is we who are so out of synch with the way things ought to be.

Until I’m done with the book I’m currently writing (which should be before the end of the year), I’m posting some of my favorites posts from years past. Here’s one from 2005:

The Shortest Day of the Year

The sun went down a little while ago here in Atlanta. It’s completely dark outside, and it happened earlier today than any other day this year. It’s the Winter Solstice — the day with the least amount of sunlight. Every day for the next six months will gradually grow longer and longer.

The early church faced some big decisions with what to do about certain pagan holidays. These holidays were so deeply embedded in their culture that people who had left behind their pagan ways and converted to Christianity would often revert to pagan revelry on these special days. Church leaders thought that if they could establish new holidays to paste over the old ones, maybe that might help.

And so the idea of celebrating the birth of great people in the Bible came about. But where on the calendar should they put something as significant as the birth of Jesus?

They actually decided on it a little backwards. First, they decided to celebrate the birth of John the Baptist on the Summer Solstice. It’s the longest day of the year. Every day after that has gradually fewer and fewer hours of sunlight. This reminded them of John’s statement that “I must decrease so that Jesus can increase” (John 3:30).

If Jesus is the light of the world, it makes sense to celebrate his entrance into this world on the shortest day of the year. The Winter Solstice fell on December 25 in the Julian Calendar. Christmas — the celebration of the birth of Jesus — was placed on that date.

I know all about the Feast of Saturnalia, and I’ve heard all the theories about early Christians just wanting to Christianize the population. But after this week, there will be gradually more and more light in our world. At least there’s supposed to be. Today has been the shortest day of our year. I am looking forward to more sunlight tomorrow and more the day after that.

I am looking forward to seeing how this Christ-child born in such a lowly estate is going to continue to increase in my own life and eventually light up the sky of this darkened world.

So, in one sense, today has been dark. Children are going to bed tonight hungry and cold. Disease is tearing apart an entire continent. People are lonely and afraid and bound by rigid legalism that robs them of their joy.

But in another sense, we could say that we have made it through the darkest part. The light has broken through and may only exist in small pockets here and there — slivers of light shining through the cracks of the walls. But broken through it has. And tomorrow will have more light than today.