The other night as I was driving out of Baltimore, I passed a young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He was missing one leg. He hobbled from car to car at a stop light looking for money. It’s impossible at this point to know what his story is. But it’s unlikely that he was a hustler of some kind. It was nearly 11pm on a Sunday night and it was cold.

Between the temperature and lack of heavy traffic, I think it’s pretty safe to bet that if he had a place to go, he’d be there.

There’s something deeply unsettling about seeing someone (in many ways) very much like yourself subject to an entirely different set of life situations. No one chooses the life and family they’re born into. The life I was born into has been ripe with opportunities and relative safety and security. The young beggar in Baltimore was born into a life that, in one way or another, has left him without all of his appendages and without a warm, safe place to stay.

It leaves me grateful for what I have received, but also a bit perplexed—even a bit guilty. I’ve been toying with returning to the location in hopes of finding the young man and talking to him. But either way, I must believe that the young man has been afflicted to a noble end. Perhaps not his own, but one appointed in God’s wisdom—which is not always ours to understand.

Sometimes when Christian’s attempt to square away man’s absolute free will with the doctrines predestination, the argument is made that since God knows all things, he predestined people to salvation based on who would or wouldn’t believe.

This seems to solve the problem at first. Because it makes us feel like we can understand God and his decisions—and in a way, gives us back our sense of control.

But Paul makes it crystal clear in his second letter to Timothy that grace was given in Jesus to the elect even before the beginning of time. And even that was not based on what anyone would eventually do, but what God would do.

2 Timothy 1:8-9:

“do not be ashamed of the testimony about our Lord, nor of me his prisoner, but share in suffering for the gospel by the power of God, who saved us and called us to a holy calling, not because of our works but because of his own purpose and grace, which he gave us in Christ Jesus before the ages began…”

People may continue to disagree with the reformed doctrines of predestination on understandable grounds. However, this attempted compromise simply doesn’t hold water.

In the end of 2 Chronicles, Sennacherib the king of Assyria attempts to turn the people of Judah against king Hezekiah with a power play to win over the fortified cities. He tries to reason with the people of Judah using an argument that, in some form, prevails even to this day in the 21st century.

Sennacherib argues that the Assyrian army has defeated countless other peoples, all of whom entreated their many gods to save them. None did. So, he argues, why should the people of Judah believe Hezekiah when he says their one God will save them? He appeals to their doubt in their leader and in their God using the very same reasoning we have today. (2 Chron. 32:9-15).

Of course, today it’s not a political power play. But the argument still remains.

1. We’re pressed to doubt our leaders. Can you really trust this guy who’s telling you that you should give up everything for “Jesus”? Can you really trust that the Bible wasn’t tampered with? Can you really trust that Jesus was really who everyone says he was?

2. We’re pressed to doubt God himself. There are many religions in the world. How can you be sure you picked the right one? There are many religions in the world, is there really only one right one? Maybe you should believe, but only as a back-up in case everything else is wrong.

Sennacherib’s argument that assails our faith today doesn’t come as plainly as it was delivered to the people of Judah, but it does come and in the chaos and uncertainty of life, it is tempting to believe.

But, like Hezekiah, we should also pray that our faith stands firm and conquers our doubts. And, like he did for Hezekiah, we can expect that the Lord will prove faithful.

I’ve been reading C.S. Lewis’ space trilogy. I’m on the second book right now, Perelandre. The concept of the trilogy is basically that God created, not only earth, but other worlds as well. He deals and communicates with each of them in unique ways, although always in line with his character.

Today, I was thinking about what we know of the universe, and more existentially, what we know about existence—what we know about knowing things, even. And it occurred to me that it seems borderline insulting, even arrogant, to assume that we would be the end of God’s creation. That he would have retired after creating us.

We believe that God is all powerful. The he is sovereign. That he’s creative. But most importantly, that he’s passionately devoted to bringing glory to his name. Well, what great human artist do you know of that only painted one thing and stopped?

I mean, think about it, God has already created at least once before creating us: angels. Who’s to say there weren’t other beings created before us—maybe in existences other than our own. I don’t know.

But it does seem to me, that if God has the character that we believe he does—that he’s revealed to us—it would more probable that his creative impulses wouldn’t be spent on us. Maybe nowhere in our universe or realm of existence, but it seems likely to me that God would have more than one egg and more than one basket, that he would go on creating and gleaning glory from all of it.

Of course, as to our own interaction with God, this is all pretty inconsequential. If God has continued to create capacities other than our own, I don’t really need to know about it. I may never actually have an answer. But it sure is interesting to consider.

I’ve always had a number of questions about Jesus. Not huge philosophical or historical questions. More like, practical life questions. I think if most think hard enough, we’ve all had these questions.

For example, we understand that Jesus was both God and man. Fully God, yet fully man. And we understand that is a mystery which we may never understand—possibly even in eternity. But it still makes me wonder. Jesus was born to a woman, he was a child. He had a natural birth and went through the same ordinary functions that any other human being would.

We know that as a child he knew who he was. But what about as a toddler learning to walk? Did he know then? Did he know anything then? Or what about puberty? Did Jesus have the same natural inclinations that other human boys experience at that time, or are those experiences a part or by product of a fallen nature that Jesus never experienced?

These are questions that I find fascinating. In them are quietly embedded some of the most intricate understandings of what it means to be human. It’s unfortunate that the answers to those questions simply aren’t answered anywhere in this lifetime.

I started thinking of all this today because of the passage in Luke I read. Jesus is chased out the synagogue to a cliff which the people intend to throw him off of. He gets away of course, but this is what it says:

And they rose up and drove him out of the town and brought him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they could throw him down the cliff. But passing through their midst, he went away.

“But passing through their midst, he went away”? Huh? I’m forced to read this as if it said, “Somehow he got away”. We know that he was fully a man, but being fully God also, did he wield some power of the crowd that they just let him walk by? Or did some temporary metaphysical change take place and he literally walked through people?

This is one of those passages—peculiar enough to make me wonder—but offering too little information to ever come to a satisfactory conclusion.

I suppose as with many things that will be the case in this lifetime and maybe in the one to come. But if I ever get the chance, I’ll ask him about it. If I’m able, I’ll report back here and let you all know what he says!

Over the past couple weeks, I have been pondering very old questions of my faith. Questions that I had before coming to know the Lord. The difficulty is not one of intellectual assent, but of emotional concurrence.

The questions have namely circled around the concept of original sin. As Christians, we agree that each person is hand crafted by God in the womb of his or her mother (ps. 139:13). Yet, each one of these people have some mystical connection to their father Adam. Adam’s sin is imputed into his children

Now, in the process of God forming each one in the womb, he makes no mistakes in permitting this mystical connection. In fact, since there is no governing force outside of God controlling the formation of his creatures, it  must be God creating creatures in, not only his own image, but also the fallen image of their father, Adam.

Many people will become very upset with me at this point. Probably because it sounds as if I’m ascribing evil to God. I’m pretty certain that I’m not.

However, we must be in some web of denial when we affirm the belief in an all powerful, sovereign God, yet somehow claim a force exists that acts outside of his control. Like the spiritual imputation of sin from one generation to another. What kind of twisted logic could we possibly subscribe to that would say God is sovereign, but the imputation of sin happens on its own?

Trouble is, the answer isn’t easily stomached. At least not in the United States, and not in the last 150 years of theological landscaping.

therein lies the up-rise in my questions. The answer is not theologically difficult to grasp. It is emotionally difficult to grasp. In John 11, Jesus has the opportunity to save Lazarus, but chooses to allow him to die instead. This is what he says:

"This illness does not lead to death. It is for the glory of God, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it."

Lazarus didn’t stay dead, but for the glory of God, Jesus permitted Martha and Mary and Lazarus to suffer deeply. He allowed Lazarus to die. And, if we look farther back into the Old Testament, we find historical events taking place for God’s glory that don’t have such a happy ending.

My spirit cries out when I think about this. It feels like injustice. It feels bad—at least at first.

However, the reality of a situation isn’t usually decided by feelings. Therefore, despite what it may feel like, I must accept that a reality exists regardless of how I feel about it.

As I read, reluctantly, in the book of Mark today, Jesus was in the Garden of Gethsemane. There he prayed that the death before him could be avoided. Mark 14:35-36:

[Jesus] fell on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. And he said, "Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will."

Jesus’ prayer here always used to be a little unsettling. Read narrowly and it seems as if he’s saying that he doesn’t want to atone of the sins of the world and that he’s asking for a way out.

I don’t that’s the case.

Jesus acknowledges that God can do anything. He is asking God to remove the guilt of people’s sin in a way other than the one he has chosen. We know what God’s response was. Jesus was crucified, according to plan.

I think that this puts a period at the end of the question about the imputation of sin.

Within the limited scope of understanding we have, God’s commitment to his glory seems to come at a great cost to humanity. But, as Romans 8:28 says, “for those who love God all things work together for good”.

This in mind, as I take the scriptures in faith and believe God at his word, the question begins to change. Perhaps the real question is, what would be the cost of God’s commitment to anything less? Far more devastating, I think.

James 4:4 says,

“You adulteresses, do you not know that friendship with the world is hostility toward God? Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God.”

In the past couple weeks this verse has become a bit haunting to me. I know that it doesn’t speak directly to my situation, but the principals apply nonetheless.

As I’ve been developing a discipline in prayer of the past couple of months, one of the things I’ve tried to make a priority is prayer for the lost. Specifically individuals in or around my life that don’t know Jesus yet. I think this has begun to deepen the seriousness of their plight in my heart and mind. When I’m around them, their spiritual condition is more on the forefront of my mind than it was in the past.

The trouble is, though my mind is there, my actions aren’t following yet.

It was recently that I was out with a handful of believers and about as many non-believers. At some point during the evening, I looked around and noticed that we weren’t too much different from them. At least not obviously. I don’t mean to imply these were particularly rough people. They were friendly, nice enough and weren’t even especially vulgar. But they weren’t loving either.

Neither were we.

And that’s the problem. Not especially loving to each other, to them or obviously to anyone else. I can’t help but wonder how we expect questions about “the hope that we have” when we’re not even obviously different.

Now, please, don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting that we dawn exclusively black and white attire, with big hats and belt buckles. Nor am I really suggesting that there should be frivolous encouragements thrown around. I’m simply saying that our choices and actions should be shining with love for each other. That is how the world will know we are Jesus’ disciples–heck that’s how I became a believer.

I can’t help but feel like God is often working in spite of his Church, rather than through it.

It seems that people often read verses in the bible about the way God works through believers and assume that it’s true of them. But simply because the bible says that God does it, doesn’t mean he always does it. And, judging my what I’ve seen throughout most of my walk, in me and in my brothers and sisters, it seems unlikely that those verses are talking about us!

I would like to see, through prayer and Spirit lead sanctification, my own choices and my own attitudes, along with the whole church, shift. So that when the world sees us they will actually have a reason to wonder.