In a comment to yesterday’s post, Tammy made this confession:

Until I was desperate for HIM, He was just Savior, not Lord.

“Just Savior, not Lord.” That’s a sad but accurate and common description of Jesus for many of us. It’s also a terrible distortion of Jesus’ message as recorded for us in the Bible.

Nowhere in the Bible will you hear Jesus giving instructions on how to get into heaven or avoid hell. You won’t hear much from him in the way of instructions for salvation — at least not salvation as it’s come to be understood today.

What you will hear him talk a lot about is our need to enter and live in the kingdom of God. He understood that it’s in our best interests to follow his lead, rather than be led by our own misguided passions or (worse) some other fallen person’s agenda.

In other words, Jesus’ command was “Follow Me!” Salvation was understood to be a byproduct of that — a means to that end but not the end in itself.

This is, in my opinion, where we got off track: Presenting salvation as the goal allowed us to bypass any notion of actually doing what Jesus would have us do.

So, if you could put yourself inside the skin of a Christian who trusts Jesus as their Savior but not their Leader, what would your life be like?

When I was growing up — which is a phrase I find myself using more and more often the older I get — the phrase “The Lord’s Day” was interchangeable with the word “Sunday”. No one questioned what it meant. It was understood and obvious. No one said, “Oh, wait, which day is that again? Is that Thursday?”

The Lord’s Day was Sunday.

And The Lord’s House was our church building.

And The Lord’s Church was our brand of church.

There could be no mistaking these things. They were portions of our common vocabulary, and, as such, they created a sense of community and belonging when used properly.

But what are the implications of these statements?

Having a day that is The Lord’s leaves us with six others for our own use, right?

And giving him a house meant he didn’t have to live at ours.

And branding ourselves his church allowed us to treat other churches with disdain.

Clearly, this wasn’t the intention when the phrases were first coined, but the implications were inevitable.

God has his day, and as long as I honor him on that day I can do pretty much whatever I like on my days.

God has his house, and as long as I don’t run in it or shout in it or build a kitchen in it (though building a bathroom was acceptable) we’ll know where to find him when we come to visit him on his day.

This makes life easier to manage — cordoning off portions, reserving sections for various purposes, allowing God to have a place but not to have run of the whole place.

But what if there is no set Lord’s Day? What if, in fact, every day is The Lord’s Day?

What might be the implications of that idea?

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”.

Not too long ago I went to a big Christian conference. There were speakers and musicians and classes and keynotes. There was also a giant room filled with Christian products. Everything you can imagine from puppets to communion trays to computer software to t-shirts with terribly cheesy slogans printed on them like “Christians aren’t perfect, just forgiven” and “His pain, your gain”. Christian candle makers were there, as were Christian architects and Christian painters.

And there was a bookstore. All the usual suspects were well-represented. Max Lucado. Chuck Swindoll. John Ortberg. Andy Stanley. Beth Moore. Liz Curtis Higgs. Tons of Christian romance novels. Lots of sanitized, age-appropriate Bibles for the kiddos.

It was there, tucked away in a bargain bin, that I saw a book I’d written a few years ago, Hearts and Minds: Raising Your Child with a Christian View of the World (Tyndale, ‘06) on sale, 50% off.

I remember when that book came out. It had taken two years to research and write. I’d been thinking about that book for so long that when I finally held it in my hand, it seemed so perfect — like one of my children almost. All the contracts and editing and marketing and distribution. All the radio interviews and speaking engagements. All the prayers and hopes and efforts converging into that one amazing moment when I at last received that first copy from the publisher.

But I’ll tell you a secret: the same feelings I’ve been describing the past couple of weeks, those feelings of fullness and emptiness, that combination of happy and sad, sweet and sour simultaneously — that’s what I felt when I held that book initially.

As good as it felt, it wasn’t enough. It certainly didn’t satisfy me forever. It didn’t take away all my fears or quench my thirst once and for all. I still had longings and desires and insecurities. I wasn’t fulfilled by holding that book.

And now here it was reduced for quick sales, on the clearance shelf. My baby in a bargain bin.

In that moment, I was really glad that our accomplishments and triumphs aren’t all there is, that they are not the highest heights we’ll ever know, that the moment of my book’s unveiling will not be as good as it ever gets. I was glad because it also means that our tragedies will not have the last word. That my book’s failing does not destine me to failure.

I do not have to rise and fall with my Amazon.com ranking, if I just keep remembering that I’m made for something bigger, something better, something this world cannot provide because this world cannot contain it.

I was made for heaven, and, in heaven, there is no bargain bin.

There’s an interesting moment in the history of Israel. The people return from exile, wondering if God may have finally had enough, wondering whether he still intends to keep his promises to them, wondering if they may have blown it all. The temple is a heap of rubble, and they can only assume that means one of two things. Either God himself has been defeated, or he has abandoned them.

Neither prospect is good.

But the people are back, and what else are they to do? They begin to rebuild the temple. They clear away all the debris, and their goal comes into sight as the foundation is laid.

This moment calls for a celebration, and, if there’s one thing Jewish people know how to do, it’s throw a party. Here’s how it’s described in the Bible:

When the builders laid the foundation of the temple of the Lord, the priests in their vestments and with trumpets, and the Levites (the sons of Asaph) with cymbals, took their places to praise the Lord, as prescribed by David king of Israel. With praise and thanksgiving they sang to the Lord: “He is good; his love toward Israel endures forever.” And all the people gave a great shout of praise to the Lord, because the foundation of the house of the Lord was laid. (Ezra 3:10-11)

Such a great sound that must have been! Like all of those times I’ve been describing lately — times of great singing, times of great rejoicing, times of wonderful fellowship.

And yet….

There was something wrong with the celebration; something was missing.

But many of the older priests and Levites and family heads, who had seen the former temple, wept aloud when they saw the foundation of this temple being laid, while many others shouted for joy. No one could distinguish the sound of the shouts of joy from the sound of weeping, because the people made so much noise. And the sound was heard far away. (Ezra 3:12-13)

Weeping and laughing and singing and crying and shouting and sobbing all blending together in a great cacophony of sound, indistinguishable from one another. That’s precisely what I have felt during all those Sunday night singings and days of praise and concerts of worship. I scale the heights of joy, but I also feel the pains of sorrow.

I am happy and sad simultaneously, because I know — deep in the marrow of my bones — that no matter how good it gets here on earth, I am not home yet. I am still in exile, and all the foundations I lay are merely a shadow of what I really crave.

For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling. (2 Corinthians 5:1-2)

That’s eternity that’s been set in my heart. Programmed into my DNA is the knowledge that I’m made for something earth cannot contain.

I grew up among singing people. The first church I remember attending was in West Monroe, LA. Alton Howard was one of the elders there. He’s the man responsible for the hymnal that had 728b in it.

That’s an inside joke for all the folks who grew up in my heritage: the non-instrumental Churches of Christ.

He was a singing man. He led singing at church most Sundays (back then we didn’t call it “leading worship”). He wrote new songs and rearranged old ones with people like Peggy West and Ben Cumnock and Pam Stephenson (she was my piano teacher once upon a time), and he knew how to get a church full of working-class folks on their feet singing with full voices. I think it’s largely because of Alton Howard that I love to sing and that some of my favorite songs are great, old hymns of the church. I’m honored to have my next book published by a company that still bears his name, Howard Publishing (which is now an imprint of Simon & Schuster).

When we moved to California, we found another good-singing church. Glen Stice was the song-leading elder at this one. He’d led a traveling gospel quartet at one time, and he led a chorus that rehearsed every Sunday night before evening services. That was really smart on his part, because it ensured that the people who did come back for Sunday evening services would at least sing well. Some Sunday nights we’d do nothing but sing. And once a year we’d do a Top 10 hymn sing, taking votes for weeks leading up to the main event.

My father worked with church leaders throughout Southern California for a few years to host an event called The West Coast Soul-Winning Workshop on the campus of Cypress College. It was there, under a tent outside and in one of the two gymnasiums, that I remember hearing Keith Lancaster and his singing group Acapella. I remember Jerome Williams. I remember huge choirs from African-American churches in Los Angeles. Over the course of Memorial Day Weekend, it seems like we must have sung every song we knew…twice.

When I got into student ministry, the church I served liked to sing and liked to learn new songs. We were among the first to use a praise team — a small group of singers instead of one solo worship leader — and in those pre-PowerPoint days, we used an overhead projector to show the words on the wall. I led worship a lot back in those days — on Sundays, at youth rallies, church camp. I loved putting together an order of music that flowed from contemplating the holiness of God to recognizing the sinfulness of humans to celebrating the forgiveness found in Jesus. I just loved doing that.

I remember when my roommate, Ben Wall, first told me about this event he wanted to put on. It would be called “Day of Praise”, and it would be six-hours of singing. He brought in Ken Young and his worship team, Hallal. He rented out the Bren Events Center on the campus of UC-Irvine. We sang until our throats gave out, and then we sang a little bit more.

One of the great joys of the past year was being a KidStuf singer in California, getting back up in front of folks and leading them in song. The music put out by The reThink Group and Integrity’s “Shout Kids” line is really fun to sing. I hadn’t realized how much I missed singing until I started doing it again.

And yet….

After each of these times of singing — whether it was outside under the stars or in a hall with perfect acoustics — whether it was Sunday morning or Friday night — whether it was with acappella or with a full band or with tracks — when the music died down and my heart was filled to overflowing with emotion — I felt like something was missing.

I used to think something was wrong with me. Singing was supposed to bring joy, but it had a funny aftertaste in my mouth. I figured I was just insatiable, ungrateful, incapable of feeling fulfilled, chronically discontent.

I don’t think that way anymore. I’ve come to believe that this is not so much a flaw in my design as it is a designed flaw from the manufacturer. God knew what he was doing when he made us this way.

We experience such joy as a foretaste of glory divine. An appetizer meant to awaken an even deeper hunger. A preview of coming attractions. Something even bigger and better than any of our gatherings here on earth awaits us, and something deep inside knows this.

Warning: This post is likely to be fraught with clunky church-speak.

I have a friend, and my friend has a dream. His dream is to introduce everyone on planet earth to a particular lifestyle that I would describe as a “Kingdom Lifestyle”. Using a sophisticated psychological model, he is trying to help people live lives characterized by the peace that passes all understanding, lives of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

And he’s been quite successful at this. He’s written a best-selling book. He’s appeared on nationally televised broadcasts. He speaks to large groups of people all across the country and is beginning to travel abroad, taking this message of peacemaking with him everywhere he goes.

He is also very discrete in his language. He is a Christian — a strong one at that. He went to a Christian college. He’s involved in his local church. He reads his Bible, and he prays before meals. But he doesn’t always sound like a Christian when you hear him speak. You won’t hear any Bible verses or biblical references. I’ve never heard him talk to an audience about sin or repentance or the need to be “born again”. Consequently, doors have opened for him to take his message into communities that might be hostile to more explicitly Christian speakers (like me).

He believes he is partnering with God in a mission to spread the message of peace and peacemaking. He is merely doing it covertly. I don’t think he’s ashamed of the gospel or denying Jesus or any of that. I believe he is authentically and intentionally choosing words that won’t present obstacles to his hearers.

And yet….

I wonder about attempting to persuade people of the rightness of living a “Kingdom Lifestyle” without also introducing them to the King. Granted, some of this is a result of my modernistic upbringing. I was raised in an environment that was very linear and compartmentalized. There was regeneration first. This was followed by sanctification. First, one must be born again. Then one learns to live the Christian life. We were very concerned about salvation as an event and not very concerned about salvation as a process.

Every sermon turned into an altar call. Our message was explicit and unmistakable: Without Jesus, nothing else mattered. In fact, we overstated things, giving the impression that only your relationship with Jesus matters. Better parenting, financial responsibility, good work ethic — none of that matters in the long run. Just make sure you’re going to heaven because all this other stuff is temporary anyway.

I know all of this, and I’ve learned over the years to focus my attention more on the process involved in following Jesus here and now. But I still have some — what? — qualms with the notion that we can separate Jesus’ Kingdom from Jesus’ Kingship.

Enough of my ramblings. What do you think about all this? Is it okay to be “discrete” or even “sneaky” with our Christianity in order to introduce people to the teachings of Jesus without them realizing it’s actually Jesus’ teachings? Is that deceptive and unethical? How explicit should we be?

One day, when the liberating good news of Jesus has been spread throughout the entire world, Jesus himself will return to raise the dead, judge the world, renew the universe and bring God’s kingdom into its fullness. Pain, sin, sickness, shame, sorrow, fear, frustration, decay and death will all be banished. We’ll live forever in the presence of God, and we’ll finally know true intimacy with one another. Everything that’s broken will get fixed. Everything that’s upside down will get turned rightside up once and for all.

In the meantime, we live in between times, between kingdom come and kingdom coming, between the “now” and the “then” of redemption, between the “already” and the “not yet”.

This is our true hope — not that one day God will rapture us out of here like some bad science fiction trick (“Beam us up, Jesus!”) — but that Jesus’ words in the Lord’s Prayer will finally come true: “Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” We don’t hold our breath and wait for God to take us “up there”. Rather, we work and pray for God to bring “up there” “down here” among us.

That’s precisely what he’s promised to do.

The Kingdom of God is the reign and rule of God. It broke into this world in a new way through the life, teaching, death and resurrection of Jesus. It confronts, combats and overcomes evil, holistically spreading personal and communal well-being. It takes hold of God’s people, blessing them completely and demanding allegiance from them.

A local church is supposed to be a community of people who live as citizens of God’s kingdom, a model of what a group of people look like when they come together under the reign and rule of God, being rightly related to their Creator and rightly relating to one another for the good of the whole world. It should be a startling alternative to any other community available.

For now we eagerly await a time when this kingdom will be completely fulfilled even while we celebrate those places where it has come and is advancing. At that time in the future when the kingdom is fully consummated, our bodies, our society and our universe will all be renewed. Sin, pain, frustration, anxiety, disease and death will all be forever eradicated. Life characterized by love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control will be our experience for the rest of eternity.

Salvation is a bigger and broader concept than we often communicate.

Why in the world do you think we so often reduce it to being let off the hook for our sins?

We had some great definitions of salvation in response to the last post. Thanks to those of you who were brave enough to play along! I don’t have a completely definitive definition, but these days I like John Stott’s statement:

“Salvation is a radical transformation in three phases, beginning at our conversion, continuing throughout our earthly life and brought to perfection when Christ comes.”

This fits well with the New Testament’s teaching that — in some mysterious way — we already are saved, we are currently being saved and one day we will eventually be saved.

One of the ways Christians have minimized and trivialized salvation is by separating it from the Kingdom of God. We’ve made it sound sometimes as if the two are different things entirely, but in the Bible it’s not so. In the Bible, Isaiah 52:7 for example, we read that those who declare the good news (i.e., gospel) of peace are also those “who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, ‘Your God reigns!’”

In other words, wherever God reigns (kingdom), God also saves (salvation).

That this was the common understanding during Jesus’ teaching ministry is made obvious when Jesus told his friends, “How hard it is to enter the kingdom of God” and they responded by asking, “Who then can be saved?” (Mark 10:24-26).

They equated entering the kingdom with being saved.

But if salvation means entering into God’s Kingdom, well, that’s a much bigger and broader concept than we tend to discuss during the altar call on Easter Sunday.

So, if salvation means entering into the Kingdom of God, maybe we should talk about exactly what that is. Anyone want to take a shot at that?

What is the Kingdom of God?