Change

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© 2010 by Eric Parks. Used by permission of monvee and NavPress. All rights reserved. Not to be copied or distributed beyond this limited use. This preliminary draft may not the be final version that will be published.

Unless otherwise identified, all Scripture quotations in this publication are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version ® (niv ®). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. Other versions used include: the New American Standard Bible ® (nasb), Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission; THE MESSAGE (msg). Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group; the Holy Bible, New Living Translation (nlt), copyright © 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved; and The Holy Bible, English Standard Version (esv), copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

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God is the author of change. Just as He thought you up — your hair, your eye color, and your DNA — He thought up change. And it is through His power that you and I are able to change. But make no mistake, there is something you and I must do in order to unleash God’s transformative power in our lives. Dallas Willard said it this way: “You must act and you must act intelligently, for without intelligent action, nothing happens. In effect, Jesus says, ‘Without me you can do nothing, but if you do nothing, it will be without me.’”

What are you to do? What’s your role? That’s what this book is all about.

It’s all about transformation: what it is, what it isn’t, and how you and I go about the process of change.

Change: The Transforming Power of the Principle of the Teeter-Totter will release from NavPress in September 2010 in concert with monvee.

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change | sample chapter | by Eric parks

Change hooked on change Christmas 2007 opened my eyes to the reality of the human condition and what it means to change that condition. For months leading up to the holiday, my wife, Chrissy, and I had been searching for the perfect gift for our four-year-old son, Grae. Our plan was simple: ask lots of leading questions, watch him during the commercial breaks — and if this doesn’t work, ask Daylie, his ten-year-old sister. We both felt that our plan could not fail.

As Christmas Day sped toward our home, the plan for Grae’s big gift had been carefully laid out. It seemed clear through all our detective work that Grae was a budding basketball star. Before I go on, I must say that this was not a father’s pipe dream for creating an NBA star. In fact, we had been watching Grae at church for some time, trying to draw a bead on how he liked to play. For months, the first thing he did after we dropped him off at kids’ church was head for the Nerf basketball hoop. His teachers let us know that he would stand in [read | step 2]

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front of the hoop shooting baskets for as long as they would let him.

“He’s a little baller!” I told Chrissy. Chrissy encouraged me to try to stay composed and not get too excited about the gift or about Grae’s reaction.

“Whatev . . .” I responded. “I know my boy — this is my son, and he will LOVE this gift. You watch, woman.” (I didn’t say that. I said, “Okay.”)

This Christmas was shaping up to be pretty cool. Not only was it clear what the perfect gift was, the payoff seemed exciting too. My boy was going to be Dwyane Wade — I’m just kidding. I am not that kind of parent, but I do think he could totally get a scholarship to my alma mater, Kansas.

We knew what to get Grae, so Chrissy and I headed out that same week to a local sporting-goods store and purchased Grae his very first real basketball hoop. It was portable and adjustable. It was just like what the big boys play on, and it looked so sweet when it was wrapped. It was huge. Every time I would think of Grae’s reactions, I could feel my chest swell. I could see it:

ush.

6:30 R Grae’s little body springing out of bed, rushing into our bedroom, yelling, “It’s time; it’s time!”

6:31 Whirlwind shooting down

the staircase

like a caged beast

expecting his first

meal in days.

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6:32 Mass hysteria as he rounds the banister and sees the biggest freaking present of all time.

It is

twice his size

but only half his excitement.

6:33 Bedlam.

Grae rushes the present and attacks it like a drunken English soccer fan after a losing match with the Irish.

6:33.30 Dizziness. That little guy sees the dream gift emerging with each tear. His heart is racing, mind whizzing. He is thinking, How did Dad know?

6:33.45 Euphoria. The gift emerges. Just as the morning sun breaks through the clouds to waken the dawn, a small ray of light catches the rim and twinkles off Grae’s eyes. They are wet with moisture. He doesn’t know what to say or think. He is probably wondering how he is so lucky to have a father like me.

6:34 Embrace. Grae runs into my arms, weeping tears of joy. He’s shouting, “I can’t believe you thought of this for me. You are a wonderful father. How could I have been so lucky?” I lift him up in the air, spinning him ever so slightly, and pronounce to the world, “This is my gift, with whom I am well pleased . . . Where is your sting, ole Christmas? I have defeated you and conquered all by providing the best Christmas . . . gift . . . EVER!!!”

I would like to say I am dramatizing what went through my head . . . I really would like to say that. I would also like to tell you that this daydream is what happened — that my well-planned and thought-out Christmas gift was a huge success. I would also like to tell you that I have been working out regularly for six months and I now have a sixpack . . . You get the point.

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All that work, time, and effort ended up to be for naught. Sure, on Christmas morning Grae rushed downstairs, opened his large gift, and liked his gift that I had spent so much time dreaming up and planning, but it took only the draw of the next gift for Grae to move on.

Here is what is interesting to me. There was one gift that stood out to Grae among the many, one that was even more impressive than the basketball hoop, one tiny, seemingly insignificant present that actually did trigger a strong reaction. And the sad thing was, it came from his aunt. His aunt from Pennsylvania had won the heart and mind of our four-year-old, and she hadn’t seen him in over a year. How embarrassing. But truthfully, she had Grae pegged. You see, Grae is a sucker for comic books. He loves superheroes, and I have come to understand that a $15 pair of Superman pajamas creates more excitement in Grae than a $150 basketball hoop ever could.

It should have been obvious, because the love for superheroes is an affection that most of us share with a little boy like Grae. We have never really grown out of our fascination with people who can rise above their drab surroundings and achieve something grand and wonderful by making their lives supernatural. Why do I say this? Just look at the box office. In just the last three years, these five comics-inspired superhero movies (Watchmen, The Dark Knight, Iron Man, Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer, and Spider-Man 3) combined for $2.8 billion in worldwide ticket sales.1 Face it: We still love superheroes, young and old, men and women. We are hooked on the idea of radical change.

Much has been made of the fact that Spider-Man was the first post9/11 blockbuster, and the conventional wisdom is that the film was a phenomenon because America needed heroes again. But maybe it’s something more. To the rest of the world, the superhero symbol of the United States is Superman — broad shouldered, unconflicted, and virtually indestructible. For decades, we’ve preferred to see ourselves that way, too. Spider-Man is none of those things. He’s burdened by self-doubt. He wants to do the right thing, but he isn’t always sure

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what that is. He’s constantly forced to choose between helping others and helping himself. He looks tough, but he’s easily injured. Superman is who we want to be; Spider-Man is who we are.

I Can’t Change Peter Parker’s story is our story. It’s a story of someone trying to live up to an ideal and finding it impossible. I think one of our deepest desires as human beings is to be different, to be transformed, to be changed.

And yet there is a quiet desperation that lies just beneath the veneer of hope. It quietly whispers, “You can’t do it!” Some people can, but not you. You’re too much like your mom; you always say the wrong thing at the wrong time and most likely you always will. You are too dumb, too slow, too stubborn, too prideful, too undisciplined to ever experience anything remotely close to what God had in mind when He created you. Face it, you changing is highly unlikely. Maybe some people change, but real, lasting change is rare. And sadly, that has become the norm for so many Christians — a tragically unchanged life.

If only we were superheroes. If only we could transform. But we can’t. Transformation is for fairy tales and comic books. It’s for dreamers — for those who have no grasp on reality. Transformation is magic.

It isn’t real. It isn’t accessible — not to you and me. But what if that is not true? What if transformation is not only possible for the average, ordinary earth dweller, but it is meant to be. What if we are supposed to transform, if that dream of being changed is like a piece of a big puzzle that we are trying to solve?

G. K. Chesterton, a great theologian of the last century, viewed this world as a sort of cosmic shipwreck. He saw a person’s search for meaning and hunger for change as resembling a sailor who awakens from a trauma-induced sleep and discovers treasures strewn about the beach, relics from a civilization he can barely remember. One by one, he picks up the relics and tries to discern their meaning — or, rather, his meaning, because he still bears traces of his original purpose. But

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amnesia mars the image of God in us. Chesterton believed that our hunger to change is proof that change is what God had in mind for us.

Our job isn’t to question our potential but to try to discern how the scattered pieces get put right again.

Change Is the A Plan Your life with Jesus should be marked by change. This is God’s A Plan for you. The apostle Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians that if you are in Christ, you are a new creation (5:17). But just before that, he said, “Though outwardly [you] are wasting away, yet inwardly [you] are being renewed day by day” (4:16). God’s goal is to change your heart to such an extent that you become the person that you know you could be, the person He had in mind when He thought you up.

In Romans, Paul said that we are not to be conformed to the world around us but transformed (see 12:2). This word is metamorphoo in the Greek, from which comes our English word metamorphosis. John Ortberg said, “A creeping caterpillar is transformed into a soaring butterfly — yet as the children of God, we are to undergo a change that makes that one barely noticeable.”2 The primary goal of the spiritual life is, as Ortberg put it, “the reclamation of the human race.”3 It’s reclaiming who we were meant to be. Spiritual life is about transformation.

Your ability to change has nothing to do with your bank account, the church you go to, or what side of the tracks you grew up on. None of these things matter. You are made to change — that is your destiny.

The truth about your life with Jesus is that you are supposed to be changed. And He is not interested in just improving how you look, how you feel, or even how others see you. You being put right is about a change on the inside. God is intent on transforming your inner being to such an extent that what radiates out of your life makes mere behavior modification look like child’s play. God is interested in your heart.

The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil

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stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks. (Luke 6:45) For better or for worse, we live from the heart. What Luke was saying is that all we say and do — the good, the bad, and the ugly; both the private actions that make up our everyday lives and the very public actions of nations and governments — ultimately have their source in the human heart. That’s why Jesus didn’t come to change political or economic or educational systems. His revolution to change the world was aimed squarely at changing human hearts. The Bible makes it clear that God’s primary concern is the human heart: The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart. (1 Samuel 16:7) God’s A Plan is to radically change your heart.

You Have a Role God is the author of the kind of “heart change” we all are hungry for. Just as He thought you up — your hair, your eye color, and your DNA — He thought up change. And it is through His power that you and I are able to change. In Galatians 5:1, Paul said, “Christ has set us free to live a free life. So take your stand! Never again let anyone put a harness of slavery on you” (msg). But make no mistake, there is something you and I must do in order to unleash God’s transformative power in our lives.

Dallas Willard put it this way: “You must act and you must act intelligently, for without intelligent action nothing happens. In effect, Jesus says, ‘Without me you can do nothing, but if you do nothing, it will be without me.’”4 In other words, we have a role to play in the process of our change.

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The best analogy I have heard about this change goes something like this: Imagine a sailor who has a beautiful sailboat, rigged out with all that makes a sailboat a sailboat — ropes, a harness, pulleys, and sails. Now, a sailor can tie all the fancy knots he likes; he can hoist as many sails as he has; he can work from sunup till sundown; but ultimately, if the wind doesn’t blow, the boat won’t move very far.

On the other hand, the wind can howl — it can be gale force — but if that same sailor doesn’t come up from below deck and tie the fancy knots, hoist his sails, and do all that a sailor is expected to do in order for a boat to set sail, then again the boat won’t go very far. As it relates to the transformation of our hearts, you are the sailor and God’s Spirit is the wind. He is the one who blows those winds of change our way, and it is our job to act intelligently to catch them.5 So if change is the A Plan for your life — and you have a role in that change — then it begs a question: What are you to do? What’s your role? And, even before all that, how does change begin for us?

Where Change Begins Suppose one of you had a hundred sheep and lost one.

Wouldn’t you leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the lost one until you found it? When found, you can be sure you would put it across your shoulders, rejoicing, and when you got home call in your friends and neighbors, saying, “Celebrate with me! I’ve found my lost sheep!” Count on it — there’s more joy in heaven over one sinner’s rescued life than over ninety-nine good people in no need of rescue.6 — Jesus

When I was growing up, my family had a few traditions that were part of who we were, and those traditions were sacred. So much so, it was clear that violating one was as bad as burning the flag. There was

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one — the holy grail of family traditions, if you will — whose defilement could mean eternal damnation, or at least damnation from ever eating at the adult table again. This “unmissable” tradition was coming home for Christmas — back to the Texas ranch. If you missed this one, you were screwed.

In many ways, my family was an odd assortment of hundreds of aunts, uncles, and second cousins I didn’t really know. But in other ways, it was pretty much a perfect stereotype — thick accents, cowboy boots, bolo ties, broad cowboy hats. A defiant Texas swagger ran from head to toe in almost every person. Even if you didn’t live in Texas anymore, it was there. And Christmas was “census time” for all us Texans — everyone traveling back to the homestead to be counted.

Over a two-week period in late December and early January, my great grandmother’s ranch became home for me, my parents, my sister, and what seemed like two thousand cousins.

This was a very large gathering of human beings, and while the ranch was quite a spread, not everyone could sleep there. Heck, not everyone could even stand. So while days were spent at the homestead, you were on your own at night. We always chose to stay at my Uncle Lloyd’s house.

My Uncle Lloyd, Aunt Cindy, and cousins Heather and Brandon moved into a new housing development the year I turned eleven.

Their development was built during the Texas housing boom of the 1980s, where every home looked just like the next one. There were rows and rows of brand-new houses stretching for miles in every direction, all virtually identical. Of course, people tried to distinguish their little piece of heaven with flowers and landscaping or the occasional wooden mailbox, purchased at a local craft store, but for the most part the neighborhoods were monotonously uniform.

This particular December morning I sprang out of bed, eager to see what secret this new neighborhood had in store for my cousin and me. Knowing we would be heading to the ranch that afternoon, my cousin and I pounded down our breakfast, and we asked our parents

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if we could take an unsupervised trip to the newly constructed playground several blocks away. Asking turned to begging, as we desperately pled our case to all the parental units involved. With some trepidation, my mom conceded — or tired of our persistence — and allowed me this small journey of manhood, as long as I promised to stay with Brandon at all times. I agreed, and we were off.

Now, I am no expert on the male psyche, but this I do know: Men know how to turn anything into a game — anything! From an early age, men want to play and WIN!!! And men don’t just compete against other men — they compete against machines, clocks, animals, mountains, walls, ideas, doors, fountains — yes, even fountains!

Let me digress a moment. My mother learned a painful lesson about my drive to compete one hot July afternoon at the St. Louis Gateway Arch. As a three-year-old male, I yielded to the spirit of competition.

“What are you doing?” my mother screeched, swiveling her head back quickly and grasping her mouth in the cup of her hand.

“Nothing,” I innocently replied.

“Jim, do something,” Mom shouted.

“What do you want me to do, Joy?!” my father shot back, as he tried to pretend he wasn’t actually part of this three-ring circus.

“Well . . .” said Mom, searching for a good reason to interrupt my conquest, “we had better do something. Eric is peeing in the fountain! You can’t just stand there when your son is peeing in a public fountain!”

“No, Joy — stand there is pretty much all you can do!” my father conceded.

Truth was, I wasn’t peeing in the fountain. Okay, technically I was peeing in the fountain, but it was more than that. I was peeing against the fountain. Namely, against one particular stream of water that was arching from the outside ring of cement into the middle of the pool, where it met other streams from forty-five degree angles around the perimeter. I saw the bowing stream of water racing from the outside

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to the center of the pool. And at three years of age, I scowled and thought (thanks to potty training), I can pee faster than that — and better yet, mine is a different color. BRING IT ON, FOUNTAIN! And so back in Texas, with this predisposition to competition in mind, my cousin Brandon challenged me to a race to the park.

“Sure, I’ll race you. Do you have a bike for me?”

“Yep, right there.” He gestured toward a bike that was leaning against the side of the house.

“Seriously . . . I’m not riding that!”

“What . . . are you afraid?” Brandon said scoldingly.

I was afraid, but not of racing Brandon. I was afraid of being seen on that particular bike. My cousin had graciously allowed the use of his sister’s bike. That’s right, my cousin “punked me” by giving me a girl’s bike. An ordinary girl’s bike would have been bad enough, with its dipping crossbar and flowery Barbie sticker pasted on the side. But this bike was tricked out, feminine style. It had a glistening pink banana seat, white wicker handlebar basket filled with every doll my cousin Heather owned, and a tall pink flag attached to the rear. For an elevenyear-old boy, this flag screamed, “Come kick my butt, please.”

I’m sure this was Brandon’s plan, to use a distraction in order to gain a psychological advantage over me. And for a few moments it worked. As I stood and inspected this pink monstrosity, a battle roared in my soul. I had been challenged by my younger cousin to the battlefield — summoned, if you will — and I was required by honor to answer this challenge. But on the other hand, my gear for battle was much less than perfect. It was severely compromised. I reasoned that no wellrespected eleven-year-old would enter this fight.

Why Should I? Because this is your cousin, whom you must defeat.

What if someone sees me?

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This is all very explainable.

What if someone takes a picture and sends it back to the other guys at school.

What the heck am I talking about . . . who has a camera?

How would they even know where I lived?

No way.

I don’t have to.

I won’t, and I won’t hang my head.

He didn’t beat me; he cheated.

He stacked the deck.

That’s it, I have decided — I’m a bigger man than this!

“What . . . are you chicken?” Brandon yelled at me, looking over his shoulder.

“Oh, that is it — game on. Get ready to get your butt kicked by me and Barbie!”

Brandon took off. I reached down, grabbed the bike by the back of the seat, and began running alongside. But I didn’t notice the direction of the long pink flag attached to the rear. I inadvertently got this flag entangled in the front spokes. As I ran forward, I could feel that something on this bike wasn’t right, and by about the tenth step it became abundantly clear what the problem was. The flag worked itself free

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and sprung backward toward my head.

I jerked to my left, avoiding a laceration to the face. But my quick motion caused me to briefly let go of the handlebars. Before I could regain my grip, the front wheel swerved hard and sharp to the left.

That wheel was now at a ninety-degree angle to the rest of the bike, which came to a screeching halt — but I didn’t. Nor did I let go of the seat. In one huge crash, I pulled the back end up and over, right on top of me. My back on the pavement, the bike on top of me, Brandon laughing — and winning! — and me trying not to cry with a girl’s bike lying on top of me.

I jumped up from the cement, straightened the bike, straddled the banana seat, and with all the might of a rushing stream began to pedal — I pedaled my brains out!

By the time I reached terminal velocity for a human, Brandon had pedaled far out of sight. I knew he had turned left at the street ahead, so I scurried for the cross street. I knew I had a very small window of time to get my next glance of him. As I sailed into the first turn, I saw Brandon one hundred yards ahead. But within ten pedal strokes he turned.

Faster, Eric, faster. Catch him. Show him how we roll! Barbie and all. I was determined to make up ground, and in my head I was playing the Rocky theme song, imagining that with every two pedal turns I made, Brandon was making one. I was convinced I was far superior to my cousin in every way. Especially because I knew almost every line in the Rocky movies, and that went a long way in eleven-year-old currency. Pedal, pedal, pedal. I am almost there. When I make this turn, I will have made up half the ground I need to cover. I turned — I looked up . . . he turned.

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Eric, you’re losing him. How could you lose him? “Come on, Eric!!!”

I coaxed myself. “You can’t let this happen.” I reached down deep into my soul, and with all the energy of a young boy, I pushed my will to win into my legs and lungs, and I went for it. There was no time to think, to wonder, to hope — only to pedal. I could feel my pace quicken as my heart raced to keep up with my legs. I swung hard to the right and then leaned into the next left turn. I looked up to see how much ground I had made up — but Brandon was gone. I quickly stiffened my back and straightened to see if this could be true. My legs slowed as I swiveled my head back and forth in a vain attempt to find my cousin’s silhouette.

No dice. He was gone — long gone.

I coasted to the end of the intersection, braked quickly, and came to a creeping halt. As I lowered my foot and straddled the Barbie crossbar, I looked around. But I didn’t see Brandon. I didn’t see the park either. All I saw was a road that forked in three different directions. I really wasn’t sure what to do now. You see, in the frenzied excitement of competition, I had forgotten the small detail of directions to the park. In retrospect, I realize how stupid this little omission was — not just because I was lost, but really, how could I expect to beat my cousin to a park whose location I didn’t know? “Great — he’s smarter than me, too!!!”

As an aside, retrospect often feels just like that for me. You know, “Wow . . . I was a complete idiot!” How often I look back on decisions that seemed perfectly logical and defensible, but in retrospect I see my sinful ways. The problem is that most of these “looks back” include remembering that someone, probably one of my parents, had told me so — or maybe would have told me so if I had only asked. I don’t consider myself a bad person; I am just like the rest of us — and my hindsight is 20/20. I need the jolt of a reminder when it comes to making bad decisions. It would be like when my mom pinched me on the leg in church for something. Sometimes I just need a jolt to get my attention.

The race was lost. I had been beaten fair and square — kinda. Since I had no clue as to my cousin’s whereabouts or the direction of the

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park, I turned around and headed home. I cruised up a few blocks and began to backtrack to my cousin’s house. My mind surfed through ideas, past girlfriends, homework assignments, and playground kickball games. In just a few short blocks, the intensity that had surged through my veins had faded, and my self-disgust was replaced by distraction and wonder. I jumped from one unconnected question to another: Why do birds get to fly? Why do they fly south? I wonder if they like worms? I wonder if worms like fishing?

I pulled into my uncle’s driveway, laid my pathetic yet very comfortable bike on the ground, and glided toward the front door . . .

I wonder if fish ever get waterlogged or pruned skin . . .

I pressed my hand against the door and twisted the handle. As the door cracked open, I squeezed through like I was trying to keep the last thirty minutes outside.

What is soap?

I wonder why Michelle Springer likes Jimmy McCatchin?

I meandered past the couch, turned sharply left, and drifted toward the refrigerator.

I wonder who invented the refrigerator . . .

I hope I don’t ever die inside of a refrigerator.

My mom would remind me on occasion that many a child had been trapped inside an old refrigerator and suffocated. It was her way of immunizing me from an unnecessary death via suffocation. It worked.

I have yet to venture into the belly of an abandoned icebox. I still see refrigerators as comforting yet terrifying.

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I wonder why Michelle doesn’t like me . . . maybe it’s because I am not as good at soccer.

I grabbed an apple, slammed the door, rattling a picture resting gingerly against it, and circled back toward the living room.

I wonder where everybody is?

“Mom, hey,” I yelled into the hallway, “can you take me to the park?” I peeled past the corner of the couch into the hallway.

I wonder who moved the couch?

“Mom, can you take me to the park? Brandon left me!” I passed the bathroom and headed toward the guest room.

I wonder who listens to country music?

“Mom, where are you?” I swung by the empty guest room and turned back toward the noise of running water echoing out of the hall bathroom.

I wonder why someone is in the shower?

“Mom, MOM!” And just then, like an urgent fax coming across the president’s desk announcing the facts behind the Cuban missile crisis, bullet points began posting to my mind: • Couch not in same place • Picture next to fridge is one I don’t recognize • Country music • Cowboy boots

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“Hello . . . who’s there?” a deep voice bellowed from behind the hall bathroom door.

• Strange man’s voice

• Strange man’s voice

• Strange man’s voice

• Strange man’s voice Oh no . . . this is not my house. Holy cow! THIS IS NOT MY HOUSE. OH MY . . . THIS . . . IS . . . NOT . . . MY . . . HOUSE! And then my thoughts turned into just random nonsense. I felt as if everything that was in my mind was like the computer screen in The Matrix, that my thoughts were running at the speed of sound, but I could make almost no sense of them.

This is vbeel;c not [nhtio[‘ my rei;arieophj house njfasjfklhjl holy jfkl;dsahjkljfkd;aruio; help jkl;hjkl; me fjdkla;sfkdl;athis fjdas;jfksi not my3ieoq[qalcxeopkpv house jkfd;asjkfl;jio; milk carton fhjdklas;hj jfk;jiureit nhwaldfi I am dead fjjked;rnbm; I won’t see jkdi jkfjeiuo crap fjkwopt *$&# tyup398 SORRY GOD. 90reipur ie90 bad code uriudjl gjtui major malfunctionnnaioi89)))(>><K<><><L>K<L KOP<><><><>>>>>>>>>>…………HELP me!?!?!?!?!?

“Hello,” the man repeated as he craned his neck around the cheap plastic shower curtain.

Have you ever seen someone panic because they have lost something or forgot an important project, a birthday or anniversary? Some call this the “deer in the headlights” look. The person’s eyes grow two sizes larger than their eye sockets; their mouth creeps slowly open and stays open. Sometimes you will see drool begin to fall from both sides of this now-monstrous opening where his mouth once was. You can feel your heart sink deep into your stomach, and it stays there. If you haven’t experienced this, imagine you are eleven years old, and you realize that you are in the house of a person you don’t know. You have

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no idea how you got there and even less of a clue how to get out. Take a moment . . .

I couldn’t scream, cry, blink, or breathe. Every functioning component that required energy shut down and redirected all useable resources to getting the heck out of this house before I became one of those kids on a milk carton. I was gone.

I flew out the door, straddled my bike, and, with every once of energy and emotion I had left, tore a swath from this poor man’s front porch to the next block. And as I scrambled from disaster, I was screaming bloody murder.

Within moments of blurting out these awful noises, tears welled up in my soul and flooded my eyes. I began to cry like I had never cried before. Water poured down my face like a river rushing over watersoaked banks. I felt despair like I had never experienced before, and the more I cried, the harder my body pushed out emotions. I seemed to convulse with each breath, sucking back air into my soul — trying to regain each exhalation with the same intensity my body had expelled it. Soon, it was just too much to take, and when I was sure I had pedaled to safely, I stopped my bike and dismounted, letting the frame lunge into the dirt. And I just stood there. I looked around . . . and I was lost — completely, utterly lost.

I had no idea where I had come from or where I was going. I had been frantically wandering for only a short time, but home seemed like a distant memory. I had no Plan B, no back-up system, nothing but a girl’s bike and a broken spirit. I was a mess of a man. Little as I was, I was wrecked.

In his book Dynamics of Spiritual Life, Dr. Richard Lovelace said that there are two preconditions for change, for personal and social renewal. One is the acknowledgment of the depth of our sin . . . our lostness. And I can tell you that being lost isn’t half as bad as realizing that you are. You look around at your world and realize that absolutely everything you thought you knew, every thought you are having, every relationship you have known seems different, and in the same breath

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you realize they haven’t changed — you have. This is being lost.

I grabbed my bike, clutched the pink plastic grips on the handlebars, and began to walk the bike. I wasn’t sure where I was walking, but anywhere seemed better than just standing there. I thought, Well, Eric, you have really gone and done it now . . . eleven years old and homeless. I imagined that some news magazine would soon be reporting on the case of the homeless child who — in an attempt to show how cool he was — lost everything, and all he had to show for it was a stupid pink banana-seat bicycle.

I imagined my mom and dad being devastated when they discovered I was lost, gone from the family flock. I figured they might look for a while but not forever, and soon they would move on. I reasoned: This is why parents have more than one child, just in case one gets lost in Dallas. They’d have a back-up plan.

I knew they wouldn’t want to carry on with their lives, but in that moment I thought, But I want them to move on without me . . . I’ll make it. I’m eleven years old. I’ll tough it out on these cold suburban streets, because a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

I remember thinking about my beautiful mother — that I would never see her again — and I wanted her to feel my release. As I slowly shuffled past the mailboxes, driveways, and newly planted trees, I thanked God for what He had given me — and I thanked God for what He had given my parents. And for the first time in my young life, I was truly grateful for my sister.

“You knew this was going to happen,” I said softly as I gently raised my eyes toward the clouds. “This is why my sister was born — so that when I got lost, my parents would still have a child. That was smart, God.” I don’t know how long I walked. It seemed like days, but just as I was about to turn the corner from one street to another, I heard something that sounded like screeching brakes. I stopped and whipped my head back to see the brake lights of a passing car

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fully illuminated . . . then a clunking sound of a moving car being jerked into reverse, white reverse lights.

Gravel flew around the car and ricocheted off the underbelly of the blue family sedan.

The car sped up rapidly, then slammed on the brakes in the middle of the intersection.

I could not make out a face, but I did not need to. I knew who it was. I recognized the frantic shifting of a panicked mom — my mom — looking for her son.

I did not wait for her to drive up the suburban block and rescue me. I dropped the bicycle and, with every last bit of energy I could muster, began running toward my mom. “Sweet chariot . . . coming for to carry me home.” I ran like crazy.

My mom got a glimpse of her baby, threw the car into park, and jumped out the door to meet me in the street. It was like a movie: the wayward son coming to his senses and being ushered back home to the loving embrace of his wonderful mother. As I reached my mom, I grabbed her waist and began to sob.

I thought of The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy awakens from her long trauma-induced dream, a dream that takes her on a journey both wonderful and terrifying, and opens her eyes to the reality of what matters most. For me, it was as if I now saw in color what was previously only black and white. My mother came and rescued me.

“Mom, I’m so sorry,” I blurted out. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know.

I thought I knew the way; I thought I understood. I didn’t. It’s not Brandon’s fault; it’s mine. I did it. It was all me. I love you . . . I love you so much.”

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My mother didn’t say much; she just lovingly embraced me until it seemed right to walk hand in hand and reclaim the device that seemed to be the evil thing that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

“Mom, let’s just leave it. Please, let’s leave it.”

“I think we should grab it,” my mother said gently.

“I won’t ride it. I am never riding a bike again — ever.”

If it weren’t for the bike, I reasoned, I never would have been lost.

But my mom knew better. She grabbed the bicycle and, with one arm around me and the other on the handlebars, walked us both back to the car. We lifted the bike together and quickly set it in the trunk. As my mom closed the hatch, I lowered my head, stuck my hands in my pockets, and turned toward the passenger side of the car.

“Eric,” my mom said.

“Yes?” I mumbled.

“Are you okay?”

I rested my hands on the side of the car and gingerly said, “I’m just so glad you found me. I didn’t think you would notice I was gone, and when I realized how long I had been away form Uncle Lloyd’s, I thought you would be mad . . .”

“Baby, I’m not mad at you, and I would never have stopped looking for you — ever. Do you understand? You are my special boy, and there is nothing that you can do, no place you can go, that I won’t be there looking. I love you.”

She paused, and then she softly said, “You know . . . I have been looking for you for almost an hour . . .”

As Paul Harvey used to say, here is the rest of the story. As soon as my cousin turned the final corner that separated the two of us, he realized that a race is no fun if there is only one person. So in an effort to ridicule me, he doubled back to his house. And when he found that I wasn’t there, he went in to tell my mom and dad.

I was unaware of my predicament for 13 minutes.

I had realized I was lost for 16 minutes.

I was terrified for 9 minutes.

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Remorseful for 7.

And resolved to my future for 11.

I had been lost for a total of 56 minutes.

My mother had been searching for me for 56 minutes.

Before I was even aware of how lost I was, she was looking. When I was scared, tired, terrified, hopelessly resigned, she was looking. And I am convinced that she would still be looking to this day if she had not run into me on that stretch of newly asphalted road in the suburbs of Dallas, Texas.

I jumped into the car, and we began the slow ride home, a drive of salvation that took me past the street I was so scared on, the house that symbolized my predicament, the park that was once the goal of my adventure, and back home. I came full circle in this short car ride, and I was home — I was saved. I was found.

Remember that Dr. Lovelace said there are two preconditions for change, one of which I mentioned earlier: understanding the depth of our lostness. The other precondition is realizing the greatness, the holiness, and the glory of our wonderful God. It has been my experience that nothing can show the greatness of our wonderful God more than to reflect upon the beauty and brilliance of His grace in our Savior, Jesus Christ.

Your heavenly Father will not stop, He will not waver. He is enduring, His patience is perfect, His love is pure — and He is interested in you!

A wonderful God. A lost humanity.

A beautiful Savior.

A search that started for you — even before you knew how much you needed Him. Before you knew you were lost.

God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not

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a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. For we are God’s masterpiece.

— Ephesians 2:8-10, nlt | | | | |

So once we have begun to grasp how great God is and how great we are not, this begs the question: What should we do now? We know we are given the righteousness of a holy God by our faith in Jesus Christ. But where is the change? What’s my role — in cooperation with the Holy Spirit — so that genuine change can happen? In other words . . . what am I supposed to do?

For as long as I have been going to church, this single question has been at the very core of my experience, and unfortunately for me, it is the single biggest reason faith took so long to catch hold in my life. But I was finally able to wrap my head around my role one day on a playground. Some of life’s best lessons happen on playgrounds.

A playground was the first place I was allowed to venture off on my own, to experience my first breath of freedom. I bounced around the enclosed area, kicking rocks, swinging sticks like swords — fully protected by my father, fully free to swing as long as I liked and to pick whatever piece of equipment I wanted ride.

Freedom!

A playground was the place I first experienced courage. I felt an urgent need to face down a much larger boy who had crossed a line I could not ignore — a line my father had told me couldn’t be ignored.

And so at 3:00 p.m. on a Thursday, long after the last school bell had rung, I rode my bike back to the playground from my house to right a wrong — to stand up to a boy much larger than me, because you don’t touch girls.

Courage.

A playground was the first place I experienced deep pain. In the light chill of a midwestern evening, a friend and I slowly swayed on

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swings and pondered the imponderable: How is it that someone we both knew, that we played with most days of our lives, could one day leave this planet so quickly and quietly? And how could she have made her exit by her own hand?

Pain.

A playground was the place I first experienced the thrill of love — puppy love though it was. Behind a slide, I met the most beautiful creature I had ever seen up to that point in my young life. And without a word spoken, she reached out and touched my hand and looked in my eyes. And with a perfect innocence, she slowly leaned in and kissed me.

Love.

And on a playground I experienced a lightbulb moment that would change everything for me. Watching my young daughter, Daylie, scurry around a nondescript playground in Rockford, Illinois, I realized that her favorite thing to play on was the key.

Change. | | | | |

So, here is the picture: As I was walking Daylie to the park for an afternoon of goofing around, I was thinking about the nature of personal change — and my lack thereof. Two words from the apostle Paul that I had read that morning rattled around in my head: “put off.” Now, I’m not always sure what will stick in my mind or why it sticks there, but on this day the words “put off” just seemed to echo around in my mind, through my chest, and back out of my mouth — put off.

“That’s easy for him to say.”

“Put to death . . . how do I do this?”

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“I want to be peaceful.” “‘Where Is the Love’ . . . good song.”

“I want Chrissy to be proud of me.”

“I wish I gave more.”

“Put to death.

Put off.

Puuuutttt offfff.”

And there I was, standing on a playground. Daylie was swinging and running and jumping from one well-used piece of equipment to the next as I ran all of these thoughts through my head.

“Hmm . . . put off. “ I walked over and grabbed my backpack, unzipped the front pouch, and reached in slowly to find my newly purchased black-andwhite stitched Bible.

Put off

I flipped to Galatians 5, reached back into my bag Put off and pulled out a pencil and a legal pad . . .

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Put off I sat, slowly brushing the eraser of the mechanical pencil against my temple, thinking about those words.

Put off I scanned Ephesians chapter 4 again and slowly read: Surely you heard of him and were taught in him in accordance with the truth that is in Jesus. 22You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; 23to be made 21

new in the attitude of your minds; 24and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.

I slowly worked my way over to Galatians chapter 5 and read: 17 . . . good intentions.18But when you are directed by the Spirit, you are not under obligation to the law of Moses.

19 When you follow the desires of your sinful nature, the results are very clear: sexual immorality, impurity, lustful pleasures, 20 idolatry, sorcery, hostility, quarreling, jealousy, outbursts of anger, selfish ambition, dissension, division, 21envy, drunkenness, wild parties, and other sins like these.

put off . . .

I looked up to see where Daylie was — she had worked her way back to the slide — and then I refocused my attention on the Bible.

I licked my finger, flipped over to Colossians chapter 3, and read . . .

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Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry. 6On account of these the wrath of God is coming.

7 In these you too once walked, when you were living in them. 8But now you must put them all away: anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk from your mouth. 9Do not lie to one another, seeing that you have put off the old self with its practices 10and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge after the image of its creator. (emphsis added) 5

put off I refocused my mechanical pencil to underline every word that seemed to fall into the “put off” category, or as Paul stated in Colossians, “put to death.” That phase kept coming back to me.

Put off

Put off I rested my chin on my hand and glanced back up to see where Daylie was headed next, and in that moment it happened — clarity!

I tilted my head like a dog does just before it becomes obvious that the treat in your hand is for him. “That’s it — that is what Paul is talking about. That’s how you grow!”

And watching as Daylie saddled one side of a particular piece of playground equipment, I realized that simple apparatus held a secret that had eluded me for so many years. Growth.

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It’s like a teeter-totter, I thought. | | | | |

The reality is that as Christians we should be more than simply changed, because we need to change in the way the Bible indicates: “For you have been born again, but not to a life that will quickly end” (1 Peter 1:23, nlt). The fact is, if we were to look at someone who claims faith in Jesus, there should be certain signs or characteristics that would indicate significant, God-inspired change. The apostle Paul began to lay the groundwork for our role in this process of change when he said, “Throw off your old sinful nature and your former way of life . . . Instead, let the Spirit renew your thoughts and attitudes. Put on your new nature, created to be like God — truly righteous and holy” (Ephesians 4:22-24, nlt).

There are two other passages where Paul used language similar to Ephesians 4 and the idea of “putting off”: Colossians 3 and Galatians 5. And if you took these three passages and picked out the different things Paul listed as items to consider throwing off, you would see a remarkable list.

Paul didn’t just show us the evil of our ways; in these sections of Scripture he also laid out a separate set of ideals that we, as followers of Jesus, should be pursuing. We have come to know them as the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control! 7 On a playground, with my black Bible in one hand and a mechanical pencil in the other, I wrote “the principle of the teeter-totter” in the margin next to Paul’s words in Ephesians. I then quickly sketched out the three underlying core concepts of this idea.

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Teeter-Totter Core Concept #1: Inverse Relationship The principle of the teeter-totter is built on three core concepts that are crucial to understand. The first is that there is a direct inverse relationship between what Paul said we should put off and what we should put on. This inverse relationship is key to understanding the entire process.

In Galatians, Colossians, and Ephesians, it is almost as if Paul is saying, on the one hand you have all this stuff to put off, and on the other there is stuff to put on — and the two don’t belong together. But here is what is interesting: While these are two separate lists, they are actually connected. They are inversely related. In other words, by putting on something from one side of the list, you are taking off something from the other — just like a teeter-totter.

Teeter-Totter Core Concept #2: Grounded In every elementary school, there are late bloomers (me) and early bloomers (Chris Ringle). Chris was like a teddy bear. He was kind and cuddly, with a sweet disposition, but he was abnormally big for a fourth grader. Now when I say “abnormally big,” I mean that in a “he was a man” sort of way. Chris had unmanageable whiskers that sprouted from his chin that were obviously unkempt. But why would they be kempt? The kid was in fourth grade — and who shaves in fourth grade?

I didn’t shave until I was a freshman in college. Come to think of it, if Chris would have been allowed to advance based on the size of his body, he would have easily passed for a sophomore in college. I actually think if, as a sophomore in college, I had run into Chris as a fourth grader, I would have run. He was a really big kid.

If you put me on one end of the teeter-totter and Chris on the other, it was awesome. When Chris’s full weight came bearing down on that wooden plank, I felt for a moment that I was going to be shot

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into orbit. And a few times, Chris did shoot me into a tree or a bush.

That was cool.

Because Chris outweighed me two to one, I would be up in the air just hanging and Chris would be on the ground — he would be “grounded.” My weight relative to Chris’s weight would dictate which end of the plank would HIT THE GROUND — AND STAY THERE. The heaviest side wins, and that is what I call “grounded.”

In terms of the inverse relationship between “put off” and “put on,” if something is grounded, it can become rooted. And whatever is rooted is what is real in our lives. By the very nature of the inverse relationship, if one side is grounded, then by definition the other side cannot be.

Have you ever struggled with a negative pattern in your life — for example, prolonged anxiety or fear? If you have, then you know how true this law of the teeter-totter is. If anxiety is grounded and becomes rooted, the inversely related fruits of peace and joy are unattainable.

And while they may reside on the other side of the teeter-totter, it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like the path to peace and joy is next to impossible.

Teeter-Totter Core Concept #3: The Fulcrum A teeter-totter is what is known as a “class 1 lever.” A class 1 lever has the fulcrum between the force and the load. It is possible to attain a lifting advantage by simply moving the fulcrum toward the heavier end, thus providing a significant mechanical advantage through a class 1 lever.

This advantage has been used throughout time to do what might not be possible without a lever. With a class 1 lever, it became entirely possible for someone to leverage a weight that might not otherwise be “liftable.” And the secret of the class 1 lever is not about your effort or how strong you are. The secret is in the fulcrum. By moving the fulcrum toward what is grounded, it doesn’t matter how much

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that load weighs — you can lift it.

So if God’s A Plan is for you to be changed, and you have a role in doing so, it’s pretty clear what Paul was saying: Move that fulcrum toward what is grounded in your life. He urged us to have the uncompromising courage to identify the thing that is inhibiting the life Jesus has planned for us and to consistently . Think of it this way: The fulcrum is the point of equilibrium, the balancing point, where the work of God’s grace and our surrender come together in one marvelous action. This Scripture passage gives us a clue: “For momentary, light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison” (2 Corinthians 4:17, nasb).

Knowing that God is God and we are not, we also recognize that our natural tendencies can block God’s redemptive power in our lives.

But imagine what would happen if, in moments throughout our day, we took some practical steps to put off those spiritual inhibitors. This is how we move our fulcrum. It simply calls for the humility to recognize our patterns of sin and the discipline to take small steps to put them off. We don’t have to work harder or become stronger; we just have to recognize our weaknesses and put those things away.

put . . . it . . . off

Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. (2 Corinthians 12:9, nlt) So does it work? Well, as with any analogy, it is certainly imperfect.

But at its core is a truth that has the potential to answer one major question we have about our role in God’s process for us: What do I do?

Just ask my friend Jeff.

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The Change in My Friend Jeff I had known Jeff for almost ten years. I met him when I was in my second year of student ministry, and he was one of my students. From that point on, Jeff and I were part of each other’s lives. I was there when Jeff graduated from high school and when he made the decision to pursue ministry as his vocation. I was part of the training program he enrolled in through our church, and I was there when he graduated.

I didn’t see Jeff’s wedding because I was living in a different part of the country, but every few months we talked on the phone. I was there as he and his new wife took a youth-pastor job in Newark. I shared in many of Jeff’s hopes and dreams, and I celebrated in all of his accomplishments. But there was a stretch of time that I wasn’t part of Jeff’s life — not because we wanted it that way, but because sometimes it just has to be. Sometimes our journey through life has to be taken alone. The story as Jeff told it to me began in the spring of 2001, but it had its roots in the previous summer.

Jeff and his new bride, Ellen, had moved east from the Midwest to picture-perfect Newark. (I tried to convince Jeff that no one was going to buy the idea of Newark as “picture-perfect,” but he insisted.) As I was saying, picture-perfect Newark, in June of 2000.

Jeff and Ellen had accepted a position as youth pastor in a Newark suburb, but within a few short months it became clear this position was a less than perfect fit. Jeff and Ellen had moved everything they were and everything they owned to the East Coast to pursue what was so clear to them both — God’s will. Blame it on unclear expectations or on youthful naïveté — either way, Jeff and Ellen saw the writing on the wall, and the dream job slowly slipped from their grasp. And almost as soon as it had begun, it was over.

The landscape for this couple was seismically shifting. On the heels of their decision to leave the local body they were serving, Ellen found out she was pregnant. But their joy amid the insecurity of a changing vocational life was short lived.

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They miscarried.

“That was a very turbulent time for us,” Jeff recalled, “as it is for any family. But for us it was particularly difficult because of everything that led up to it. We had moved out to Newark, we were away from our families, we went to work at the church, but that didn’t work out the way we expected. Our faith was shifting and growing, changing and evolving. Our spiritual lives and our everyday lives — these two things were not connecting. And Ellen and I were really drifting apart.”

The confusion of their vocational disappointment, the pressure of finding a new job, and their lack of connections in the Newark area led to a sense of isolation for both Jeff and Ellen. Their time in Newark took a major toll on their newly minted marriage.

“There is a part of me that felt like the baby was an attempt to save our relationship,” Jeff said. “So when we miscarried, there was not only a sense of loss for our child, but loss for our marriage as well. Ellen was mad at God. She was mad at me. And things began to change.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well, it wasn’t like she was treating me terrible, yelling and screaming at me. She just grew indifferent to being married. She started building a whole new life apart from ‘us.’ I had no clue what she was up to most of the time. I watched her drift, and eventually she started living like I wasn’t there.”

“This is your wife. Did you do anything?”

“No. Me being the wimp that I was, I didn’t really say much, thinking it would pass. On top of that, I got some bad advice” “What advice was that?”

“To just go about my business. To let her be, and this will pass.

We had made plans to go to Manhattan with another couple. Ellen didn’t want to go, so I decided to go without her, to give her space.

I thought it might help. What is the old saying? ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ But it didn’t. When I got back, it did the opposite.

It had sealed the deal. She moved out of our bedroom into the spare room. I tried to figure out how to fix this, to no avail.”

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In less than a month after that fateful trip to the city, Ellen and Jeff — this couple who had pledged to always be together — put their house on the market, sold it, and became two single people living on their own.

“I met with her a couple of times and tried to convince her we needed to get into counseling together.”

“Did you ever say, ‘Let’s get back together’?”

“Yeah, I would tell her this isn’t right; we need to work this out.

But she treated our divorce like a high school breakup — and she was always trying to get me to agree we should get divorced. But I didn’t want that,” Jeff lamented.

When you marry someone, you really do think the best, hope the best, and believe it will all work out. As I talked to Jeff, I could see that through all of his confusion, he really thought it would pass. Even when Ellen moved out, Jeff had a deep-seated belief that they really were going to make it work. I don’t think it was because he was a fool but because she was home for him, even if that home was somewhat skewed. This was where he felt he belonged. I have seen many people try to hold on to relics of the past, to clutch whatever they can get hold of. They hold on not because the situation is perfect — often it is so obviously flawed that the outside world can see the impending doom — but because it is all they have. Ask anyone, and most would choose to hold on to what they know. The alternative is terrifying because it is the beginning of feeling displaced, of feeling alone.

“Do you remember when she left?” I asked.

“I don’t; it’s blurry. I don’t remember dates very well. March, I think. Yes, it was March for sure. It all seemed to hit home for me one Friday night. I was hanging out with our friends Christine and Mark.

Mark said, ‘Hey, let’s go for a ride.’ I thought, Oh my gosh, what is he going to tell me? We were in the car, and he said, ‘You know, Jeff, Ellen is dating another guy. She told Christine she was seeing someone else, and she is bringing him home to meet her parents. I just thought you should know.’

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“That’s when I knew it was over. With everything inside of me, I knew it was over. I cried hard that night. I felt my lowest. After that, everything was a blur. It didn’t even feel real; it was like I was walking in a dream. I felt utterly lost.”

Jeff continued, “I remember thinking, We are really going to get divorced . . . what are people going to think of me? I was a pastor at a church, and I can never do that again. I don’t have a career, I don’t have a wife, I don’t have a house, I don’t have anything. If I go back home, people will be talking about me . . . My life seemed over . . .”

Jeff let those last words softly roll out of his mouth, and they seemed to hang in the room — I could feel it echo in my ears. I could imagine the moment in the car he was describing, and I could feel the life being sucked out of him. And then I imagined the teeter-totter in Jeff’s life begin to swing toward all that would keep him down — toward bitterness, pain, and fear. He could feel it too, reliving that time, as he said . . .

“. . . my life seemed over . . .” “. . . my life seemed over . . . ”

“. . . my life seemed over . . .”

“. . . my life seemed over . . .” “. . . my life seemed over . . .”

“. . . my life seemed over . . .”

“. . . my life seemed over . . .” “. . . my life seemed over . . .”

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We were both transported back to the event Jeff was telling me about — the point at which he knew it was over with Ellen. It was in that moment that bitterness became grounded in Jeff’s life. And because of the inverse connection to joy, kindness, and forgiveness, those three things swung off the ground and into the air, no longer real in his life. And Jeff didn’t even know. By putting on bitterness and letting it become grounded his life, he was at the same time putting off joy, kindness, and forgiveness — the very things he so desperately needed and wanted.

“So then what? Where did you go from there?” I asked quietly.

“I hit as low as I could go. I wasn’t using drugs or any of that stuff, but I hit bottom and my spirituality was gone. At least what I thought was spirituality — and spirituality to me was my shield. It was what I used to protect myself. It was my image. It was everything.

“That was when I told God I was done with Him. As I said, I really never thought I would come to that place — but I did. I blamed God for the whole mess. I felt like He had snatched the rug from beneath my feet, and I was still falling, tumbling, spiraling out of control. In that moment, I told Him, ‘I’m done with you . . .’”

“So were you done with God?” I asked.

“Yes, I was. Well, sorta . . .

“I tried to tell God He didn’t exist — but it was funny. I made sure to address God when I told Him that He didn’t exist.

“But there were distinct times when I could feel God whisper back, ‘No, you’re not alone.’ Even in the car that night I could feel Him.” Jeff went on to explain how real bitterness became in his life. And he would be the first to say that it stayed grounded for a long time.

He struggled to find a place of peace, to find some sort of joy, but it seemed impossible. He was always faking it. He grew cold inside, and the longer bitterness stayed embedded in his heart, the darker life grew.

“I tried to be happy . . . I just wasn’t. All I could think about was how badly I had been hurt. How stupid I was . . .”

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But after a while, Jeff began to realize that if he was ever going to rebuild his life, he was going to have to free his teeter-totter of bitterness. He needed to start with God, then with the church that hurt him, next with his ex-wife’s family, and, most importantly, with his ex-wife.

“It took time, but eventually I began to make some decisions about my life, about my future, and about forgiveness. I quit pretending I was okay; I just got comfortable with the fact I wasn’t okay.” Jeff figured out he couldn’t fake happiness and he couldn’t just think happy thoughts. He needed to put off the thing that was in the way of a new life . . . bitterness.

Jeff recalled, “I remember starting by just picking up a few books and tapes. I grabbed The Purpose-Driven Life and read it cover to cover. I became really open about my brokenness, my troubled spirituality. But I also had to deal with my bitterness toward my ex-wife. I began asking for forgiveness. I asked God. I asked those around me. If I felt I had wronged someone, I asked for forgiveness. And it was crazy; I started feeling the power to forgive.”

“Were you able to forgive your ex-wife face-to-face?” I asked.

“After some time had passed, we met in a restaurant to sign the divorce papers. I felt like God asked me to tell her I forgave her. I sensed Him saying, ‘Regardless of what she says or does, you need to forgive her.’ So, I signed the papers, gave them back to her, and then said, ‘I want you to know that this was very painful, but I forgive you.’

She didn’t say a word, but I could feel a release — I felt some peace.

The only way to put off bitterness was to forgive.”

The teeter-totter began to move. Joy, kindness, and even forgiveness swung toward the ground and crashed into Jeff’s heart like a thousand pounds of concrete embedding itself deep within his soul.

That’s the “weight of glory.” And wouldn’t you know it — like a balloon filled with helium, the bitterness that seemed almost inescapable floated to the margins of Jeff’s life. That is the teeter-totter. It is all connected, all beautifully connected. | | | | |

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Change happens. Every single day, people are becoming more of what they were made to be, and while the process is different for each of us, the outcome remains the same — reclaiming the life Jesus had in mind for us.

Our task, in the power of God’s Spirit, is simply to turn our attention away from the things we want to put on — and direct it toward the things we want to put off. While at times it may feel that putting off is impossible, as we surrender to God the ultimate outcome and focus on what we can do through God’s power and His Spirit, we find that it is possible. And as we surrender to the Lord and begin to move the fulcrum of our lives, it is His grace that helps us become grounded in the fruit of the Spirit.

Maybe you have destructive habits in your life that are far too prevalent, far too dominant, that are — well, blocking the way of change. If you have a weakness that is really weighing you down, then you are in good company, and you are in a great place to begin to see change.

“My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.”

So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.

— 2 Corinthians 12:9, nlt

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Notes 1. “Factbox: Comic Book Movies at the Box Office,” Post Chronicle, March 4, 20009, http://www.postchronicle.com/cgi-bin/artman /exec/view.cgi?archive=123&num=212756.

2. John Ortberg, The Life You’ve Always Wanted (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2002), 21.

3. Ortberg, 21.

4. Dallas Willard, video interview from the monvee gathering, February 2009.

5. Marjorie J. Thompson, Soul Feast (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2005), 9.

6. Luke 15:4-7, msg.

7. See Galatians 5:22-23.

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Bio to come

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