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What I know about Robin Williams (in which I consider life, death, truth, and grace)

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For three days now – while in Iraq people huddle on a mountaintop in fear; while in West Africa people shudder at the widespread atrocities of disease; while in Gaza people hold their breath for fear a tenuous truce will shatter; while in St. Louis confusion, anger, and unrest reign; while in Venezuala doctors and patients fear gunmen as much as illness; while in New York two young girls are suddenly missing from a roadside; while in Ukraine the weight of power tips precariously on its axis; while in every corner of the world there is measurable suffering and sadness, wickedness and worry – the death of Robin Williams has loomed large.

The death of any single human being should indeed loom large. Death – like so many other things in life – reminds us how very broken and ill this world actually is.

But I do wonder why this particular death has loomed so large for so long, three days being a virtual lifetime in the technological universe. Certainly others have died under similar circumstances, have waged similar battles, and have enjoyed similar degrees of friendship and fame. 

(Which is not to say that this particular death is any less real or poignant or significant because it has a certain degree of similarity to any other. Indeed the world becomes a more broken place than it already is when we overlook even a single death. But alas, when deaths are “similar” in whatever degree – 6 millions deaths in that genocidal war, 3000 deaths in that coup, 400 deaths from that disease, 6 deaths in that crime spree – we tend to overlook the individual for the masses, to our own dehumanizing detriment.)

In a world filled with tenuous truces, devastating disease, atrocious hatred, unspeakable crime, and unstoppable war, we especially mourn the loss of someone who was able to make us laugh. Really, truly laugh. Belly-roar laugh. Gut-bust laugh. Understandably, we love someone who can make us happy (with generous portions of brilliant antics) and in a world that makes us sick (with heaping platters of putrid sorrow).

Yes: we are all sad to lose a man who brought so much laughter to the world. And while many have aired their opinions about mental illness and depression and addiction and suicide, we would all do well to remember that not a single one of us really knows how Robin Williams may have suffered deep in his mind or what Robin Williams may have believed deep in his soul. None of us. Not even those who live with and fight similar battles every day. Judgmental lecturing in response to judgmental lecturing is equally empty of grace.

We are a people who love to know things – everything – which might be a grim reminder of how the world went wrong in the first place. So for three days, while the world has collectively posited and theorized and sermonized and declared what it knows about this particular situation and its larger context and its underlying facts, I too have wondered what I actually know – and not just know as fact but rather know to be true. 

It is simply this:

Robin Williams was indeed a source of life-giving laughter for many, me included, But real life depends on deep-seated joy, whose source is infinite, everlasting, and freely given to all.

Robin Williams was indeed a performer of incomparable talent that wowed many, me included. But more importantly, he was created in the image of God (as we all are) and the true value of his personhood (and all personhood) resides in that single breathtaking fact.

Robin Williams was indeed a man of many sorrows and suffering, as he himself repeatedly said. But he (and we all) are loved beyond words by the incarnated God whose sorrow and suffering went deeper and wider and higher than we can possibly imagine.

Robin Williams was indeed a soul who believed things (as we all do), things that were known only to him. It is none of our jobs to decide, determine, and pronounce what anyone else believes. But we ourselves must intently seek out and pursue truth so that we can confidently know what we believe and why.

In fact, I know very little about life and even less about death – Robin Williams’ or any other.

But I do know this: there is a God – a loving, powerful, almighty God – who created human life and imparts each one with meaning, and who offers Real Life both now and forever to those who would have it. And oh my gracious sakes alive – such an offer to such as I is so far beyond what I deserve that it cannot help but take glorious precedence in a world full of heartbreaking news.

Calm hearts (in which I consider Psalm 131, contentment, and the sins of self)

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Do we trust like this? (Photo: CKirgiss)
(Photo: CKirgiss)
Contented calm is not my natural status quo. I fret. I worry. I fuss. I fume. I meddle. I creep my fingers into the very middle of things and discreetly (or not) try to move the players and control the outcomes. That kind of life, as some of you may know, is an exhausting killer of joy, love, peace, relationships, trust, grace, and hope. Life itself becomes both a dead and deadly thing.

I do not want to live a dead and deadly life, or be the exhausted killer of all good things. So contented calm is one of my deepest desires, and has been for many years. Pursuing it is a long and painful process requiring penitent prayer, sacrificial surrender, and a willingness to embrace humility as one of the highest virtues of life in Christ. Repentance, sacrifice, surrender, and humility are as entirely unnatural for me as contented calm.

In other words: this process has high potential for total failure and minimal possibility for significant life-change. Except for the fact that I follow a powerful, forgiving, and transforming Savior. Otherwise, contented calm would be the least likely of fairy-tale endings for my life (and “they all – every single one of them –  lived contentedly calm” is a much better ending than “they all – meaning the prince and princess – lived happily ever after).

I want to be a Psalm 131 child (so much more than I want to be a Proverbs 31 woman, I confess). I want the Psalmist’s words to be a true description of me:

LORD, my heart is not proud (I do not presume that its motives are pure – I’ve dug down deep and seen the rot);

My eyes are not haughty (I know that I am not better or higher than other people – though I’ve often believed and behaved otherwise). 

[Note to self: a proud heart and haughty eyes are not just a “thing” to be worked on; cf. Proverbs 21:4.]

I don’t concern myself with matters too great or too awesome for me to grasp (in other words, I don’t play God because, Lord knows, every time I switch into control mode and try to orchestrate things to my own liking, it turns out badly. FOR EVERYONE. EVERYTIME.)

INSTEAD (an unexpectedly profound lexical marker of transformation)

I have calmed and quieted myself (not by my own power, to be sure, but by my own willingness to be shaped and molded and humbled by the Almighty God and Loving Father),

like a weaned child who no longer cries for its mother’s milk (nothing against nursing-on-demand, something of which I’m a big fan – but a weaned child has moved beyond the need for immediate gratification and comfort).

Yes, like a weaned child is my soul within me.

[Note to self: we never outgrow being a weaned child, even when we have weaned children of our own. Weird.]

O Israel (and you too, Crystal)

put your hope in the LORD (not in money, success, fame, appearance, or really smart dead British authors)

now (this very day, this very moment)

and always (you know…ALL THE TIME).

Amen. And amen. Oh dear God – please let this be true of me.

***What are the traits of a content and discontent child – of any age – that can help you understand the deep truth of what the Psalmist is saying? For example: content children are trusting, know how to share, and enjoy discovering new things. Discontent children quickly become angry, are demanding, and often withdraw. I’d love to hear your thoughts on these lists – add your own words or phrases in the comments.

Psalm 23 for Young Lives camp (in which I consider how childcare workers reflect the character of God)

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Precious Young Lives childcare worker (Photo: CKirgiss)
Precious Young Lives childcare worker (Photo: CKirgiss)

[If a shepherd can reflect and illuminate the character of God, then surely a Young Lives childcare worker can too.]

Psalm 23 (repurposed) –

The LORD is my childcare worker, I lack nothing.
He travels from far away at his own expense to spend time caring for me.
He helps comfort me when I am separated from those I love.
He holds me near his heart where I can hear his love beat strongly.
He rocks me to sleep when I am tired while cradling me in his gentle arms.
He patiently listens to my sobs and never tells me to “just get over it” or “stop that now” or “quit being such a baby!”
He keeps careful track of when I need to eat and sleep and makes sure they happen.
He checks the weather and dresses me appropriately.
He cleans up my messes – no matter how horrid – with a gracious and humble attitude.
He holds me tightly and safely while we ride on a flatbed trailer through the countryside.
He strolls me up and down the sidewalk so I can breathe fresh air and see the beautiful creation.
He takes care of me faithfully and joyfully, as though I were his own child or grandchild.
He laughs at my silliness and encourages my attempts to learn new things.
He makes me feel safe as I experience things that are not part of my daily life.
He welcomes me sincerely and enthusiastically each and every day.
He expresses joy and excitement and grace when I recognize him and hold out my arms to be held.
He makes me feel loved and safe, each and every moment of each and every day.
He does many unexpected and fun things to make me smile and laugh.
When I reject his care and love, he is disappointed and hurt, but he does not reject me in return.
He is available all the time to provide whatever I need without asking for anything in return.
He is wise. He is loving. He is comforting. He is humble.
Amen.

 

Bring fo(u)rth freedom (in which I consider a better reason to celebrate)

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Friday. Fourth of July. This date couldn’t fall on a better day. Because, you know, Friday. The weekend. Stuff. Duh.

Rejoice! Be glad! We are a nation of freedoms (an increasingly debatable point). We are a nation of prosperity (also debatable, depending on one’s definition of that slippery term). We are a nation of rugged individualism that celebrates the self-made and the successful (indeed).

I do love a good BBQ, parade, and fireworks display – and also waving those little stiffly starched flags.

But so much more than that do I love freedom. Freedom. Freedom from brokenness. Freedom from hopelessness. Freedom from darkness. Freedom from self-centeredness. Freedom from self, period.

If you set aside time today to read any important historical national documents about the true significance of this national holiday (and let’s see now, who wouldn’t set aside time for that, between the BBQs, the parades, and the fireworks, hmm?) – and even if you don’t – please do set aside time today to read another short, brilliant, piercing lyric that celebrates the freedom that really matters.

Psalm 32 (CKirgiss)
Psalm 32 (CKirgiss)

Celebrate forgiveness – for confessed sin is set aside, put out of sight, erased, blotted out.

Celebrate righteousness – for those who are forgiven are cleared of guilt, washed clean, made new.

Celebrate a powerful Lord – who is our hiding place, our protection, our glorious song of victory.

Celebrate a wise God – who reveals the best path for life, advises us, watches over us.

Celebrate a loving Father – whose unfailing love surrounds those who trust him with pure hearts.

In truth, it matters little that today is Friday or that today is July 4th. What matters is that today is today, and so all God’s children can, and should, celebrate.

Rejoice! Shout for joy! The Lord reigns supreme, and we are made free.

"Unfailing love surrounds those who hearts are pure." (CKirgiss)
“Unfailing love surrounds those who hearts are pure.” (CKirgiss)

 

“The story of my life…” (in which I consider what it means to live a better story)

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[Last night, campers roared the lyrics of One Direction’s “The Story of My Life,” which was stupendous to hear and mighty to behold – but my musings about the collective roar led me far beyond the walls of camp, so for today, I digress.]

Stories are the thing right now. (For bookish, literary folk, stories have always been the thing; so in at least this one way, the bookish, literary folk are ahead of their time – even though many of us love stories that are in fact before our time.)

In today’s narrative culture, “Tell me about yourself,” is entirely passé. Anyone who knows anything (and who is even the least bit Christo-hipster) knows that “Tell me your story” is the singular way to start a legitimate conversation.

And telling one’s story is, in truth, a meaning-full act. Our stories do matter – just maybe not in the way we think or have been told.

Teenagers (all of us) are bombarded with stories, each one more exciting and colorful and dramatic than the one before. And while it can be exhilarating to be bombarded with exciting and colorful and dramatic stories, it can also be depressing and dangerous. What if my story pales in comparison? What if my story doesn’t measure up? What if my story is entirely unexciting, uncolorful, and undramatic?

The world (and sometimes those in the Church) would say: well then, go out and write a better story for yourself – as if an ear for narrative and an eye for revision are the answers to what ails us.

Having a better story sounds lofty. Noble. Spiritual, even.

But I think that having – (or rather living, which is not quite the same thing as having) – a real story is the thing that actually matters, and real stories – however unexciting, uncolorful, and undramatic they may seem on the surface – are the only stories worth living.

The problem with ‘writing a better story for ourselves’ is that we are all of us pitiful life-story authors. We fumble around with plots and conflicts and settings and characters, hoping to somehow weave them into a tale for the ages. But we are not life-story authors, not a single one of us. Rather, we are one character (a character who does not get to determine the actions and attitudes of other characters, which is a bitter disappointment, indeed) in a much larger Real Story (a story into which we are graciously invited as a full-fledged and beloved player but not the major protagonist, which is a beyond-bitter disappointment, decidedly).

Though personal stories matter, and though desiring to live a better story is perhaps a fine goal, it is exceedingly trite for people of faith to reduce God to being merely the Author of My Story, or more grandly The Author of Life. Rather, God is the only Authority of life. All of life. Every single life. Life now and forever.

Further, inviting God (humbly, no doubt) to be the author of my life leaves open the door (very, very wide open) for me to then be the eager editor of my life who will zealously reorganize, revise, and rewrite the story more to my own liking. If we are pitiful life-story authors, we are even more surely blundering life-story editors.

I will live a better story – a better life – only if I recognize God’s authority, fully embracing it with both heart and mind (Christ abiding in me), and both heart and mind being fully embedded in it (I abiding in Christ).

On paper, it may not sound like much. But we are not paper stories. We are living stories. And a living story composed and centered around the Authority of Christ is, indeed, a story for the ages.

 

The light shines in the darkness (in which I consider the importance of tiki torches and water balloons at middle school camp)

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It is 11 pm on the first day of camp as I write this.

The beautifully explosive middle school descent (also known as Day One of Camp) was a smashing success. They are here – all of them, in all their glory. And because they are here – all of them, in all their glory – it seemed wondrously wise to celebrate. Late at night. In the dark. Long after dinner, games, gathering, and discussion.

Because what could be better than a late night celebration (aka obstacle course) in the dark? Look here and see what I mean:

Night games (Photo: CKirgiss)
Night games (Photo: CKirgiss)

Can you see it, the wildly energetic celebration of life (extended across one parking lot, two football fields, one patch of woods, a forest path, and a beachfront) right there in the very dark of very darkness? Those blue lights on the left are flashlights, guiding small groups of the larger raucous crowd across a hilly field. Those two lights on the right are tiki torches, also known as The Official Starting Line. There are lots and lots of people there, mingling in the darkness, so ready to take off running. Look.

Night games in detail (Photo: CKirgiss)
Night games in detail (Photo: CKirgiss)

There. Do you see them? Masses of middle schoolers, lined up politely and patiently (relatively speaking).

Truth: the world is full of people living in the very dark of very darkness. They run from one light to another, hoping to arrive safely, hoping to find friends along the way, hoping to find something worth living for. Mostly they are hoping to find a place where the light  is more than just a tiny spot of world-centric bobbing and weaving.

They are looking for the only light that satisfies, the only light that pierces the darkest of dark, the only light that is steady and constant and true, the only light that embraces wholly, the only light that breathes love.

They are looking for Jesus, even if they don’t know it yet. And we are desperately hoping to reflect his light in the very dark of very darkness – rather than reflecting ourselves, which is an ever-present danger in a world that celebrates self.

And though the very dark of very darkness can sometimes overwhelm and suffocate, it does not have the last word because
the Light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness can never extinguish it.

We are for Jesus. We are for light. And against all reason and rationale, Jesus is for us.

Sing! Shout!  Let the celebration begin!

 

 

 

The Best Week of Your Life (in which I consider the miracle of summer camp)

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Michindoh Day 0 (photo: CKirgiss)
Michindoh Day 0 (photo: CKirgiss)

The miracle that is summer camp defies description on so many levels, even before summer camp has begun.

In 24 hours, 300+ middle-schoolers will descend on a little plot of sacred space in the mitten known as Michigan. So in fact the miracle we await will be twofold as miraculous summer camp collides with miraculous middle-school and creates a breathtaking explosion of awesomeness.

The excitement and anticipation and energy and total stupendousness of what’s to come is almost too overwhelming.

But not quite – because there is work to do. The miracle that is summer camp, you see, does not happen on its own. Not even close.

So today – 36 hours before campers arrive and the collision begins, and 8 hours before the full staff arrives – a small group of people started to work. Hard. Even though the work doesn’t officially start yet. Because that’s how things happen at camp. People step in. People step up. People step out, marching to the sacramental beat of an incarnated Savior who fully embodied and faithfully modeled humble service and grace and joy and love.

Welcome to camp, Day 0. We look ahead. We anticipate We catch our breath in sweet expectation.

And we work. Because without work – sweet, sacred, blessed work – the miracle that is summer camp cannot happen.

Let us rejoice and be glad!

That foot-washing thing, reconsidered

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During this Holy Week, I’ve thought quite a lot about Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. I’ve worked my way through some tricky Greek words, wrestled with the exasperating response of Peter (who can always be counted on for that kind of thing), and contemplated the gravity of the coming days.

But mostly, I’ve just thought about Jesus – the son of God, the Almighty incarnate- kneeling down in willing service to wash 24 dusty, dirty, calloused, cracked, leathery, worn, and smelly feet.

It was an insignificant and lowly job, that foot-washing thing, worthy of nobody beyond the lowest servant. It’s a task that doesn’t get noticed, an action that doesn’t get lauded, which is perhaps why the three earliest gospel writers don’t even record it: because it wasn’t something people paid attention to; because its significance was completely lost on those who were right there to see it and experience it.

That’s the thing about foot-washing. When done in the right spirit, for the right reasons, people aren’t likely to take notice. That’s because most foot-washing jobs are entirely inglorious. Entirely. They are not the stuff of headline news or award ceremonies or viral retweets.

They are the dusty, dirty, calloused, cracked, leathery, worn, and smelly jobs. The jobs that absolutely no one wants to do. Ever. Not even a tiny little bit.

Except Jesus – who consistently throws a wrench in the way humanity would choose to live were it left to its own devices.

Like many others in a ministry community, I have washed another person’s feet – one set, anyway, after a month of really hard work during which some of us didn’t perhaps love each other quite as well as we should have all the time, so, you know, we washed feet to make things right and to publicly express unity and grace, forgiveness and humility, which, though beautiful in its own way, isn’t really the point of that foot-washing thing.

What Jesus did when he washed those 24 feet – two of whom belonged to a traitorous friend – certainly embodied unity and grace, forgiveness and humility. But more importantly, it displayed an attitude that says:

  • I will do the task that no one else will do.
  • I will do the task that most others consider to be beneath them.
  • I will do the task that promises no rewards or accolades or notice.
  • I will do the task that goes unnoticed and unappreciated.
  • I will do the task that others overlook.
  • I will do the task that everyone else takes for granted.
  • I will do the task that leads to nothing bigger and better and grander.
  • I will do the task that is unpleasant and messy and sometimes even disgusting.
  • And I will do it quietly, discreetly, and humbly, to the best of my ability, with a gracious spirit.

As moving and beautiful and sincere as our actual foot-washing ceremonies may be – whether in the context of summer camp, large ministry communities, or intimate small groups – washing feet isn’t Jesus’ real challenge for us. Rather, it is to have a foot-washing attitude. In every situation. All the time.

We are all incapable of this on our own. Entirely. A foot-washing attitude cannot grow except in a soul overflowing with the Spirit’s love and grace and strength. A foot-washing attitude cannot thrive except in a life that is totally surrendered to the Lord’s sovereignty. Even more elemental, a foot-washing attitude cannot even be except in those who know their true identity in Christ, know their purpose, and have an eternal perspective – just as Jesus did.

Jesus knew that the Father had given him authority over everything, and that he had come from God, and would return to God. SO – he got up from the table, took off his robe, wrapped a towel around his waist, poured water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples’ feet.

During this Holy Week, when the cross proclaims his immeasurable love and the empty tomb proclaims his infinite power, that foot-washing thing that Jesus did proclaims his wholly servant-minded and humble attitude. We would do well to remember it and do likewise.

 

Purdue, Day Three: the hard realities of death and life

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Purdue Memorial Mall, Day Three (Photo: CKirgiss)
Purdue Memorial Mall, Day Three 1-23-2014 (Photo: CKirgiss)

It was sunny today at Purdue. Sunny and snowy. Sunny and snowy and freezing. Sunny and snowy and freezing and beautiful. Which is to say, it was a day pretty much like every other wintry day on campus the past two weeks.

Except that it wasn’t,

because two days ago, Tuesday, January 21, 2014, someone was killed here. Most people know this already. The world is like that these days – something happens one minute and the world knows the next. And the world graciously and kindly and sincerely mourns and aches and supports from both near and far, until another tragedy strikes, which it will, because that is the kind of world we live in.

Things are quite back to normal here today for many people. On the surface, at least. It’s not always easy to know what’s going on underneath the surface, in the private corners of peoples’ minds, in the silent spaces of peoples’ souls. Sometimes we are not aware of those things even in our own selves because those private corners and silent spaces can be daunting, overwhelming, and (we might think) better left alone. Who has time to ask those questions? To face those fears? To navigate those emotions? Worse yet, what if there are no questions to ask, no fears to face, and no emotions to navigate?

I fear that on this Day Three of what has been called The Purdue University Shooting Tragedy – because we must have a way to refer to it – too many private corners of peoples’ minds and silent spaces of peoples’ souls will be left undisturbed, pushed aside because of busyness, or fear, or nonchalance, or something else entirely.

And that would make what happened just two short days ago doubly tragic.

It would surely be a mistake to contrive meaningless questions, conjure false fears, and navigate non-existent emotions just for the sake of being able to discuss one’s “personal grief process” or one’s “difficult emotional journey.” After all, not everyone has questions or fears or tangled emotions surrounding what happened here two days ago.

And that is absolutely fine. It really is. It is not a direct measure of one’s compassion or empathy or humanity.

But everyone, absolutely everyone, should know without a shadow of a doubt that what happened here on Tuesday was indeed a tragedy. Not because it happened at Purdue. Not because some of us were in the vicinity. Not because some of us were directly affected. Not even because some of us knew the people involved.

What happened here on Tuesday was a tragedy simply because it happened at all. Every single time a life is taken, regardless or where or when or why, it is a tragedy of unspeakable magnitude.

Every single time –

because life is inherently miraculous. Mysterious. Amazing. Wondrous. Breathtaking. Sacred.

If it were not, there would be no reason to mourn what happened here just two days ago.

If life matters, then certainly we must mourn its loss. (And oh my gracious, I cannot begin to imagine what that mourning and loss looks like for families, those who love longest and deepest.)

But more importantly:

If life matters, we must live out that reality each and every moment of each and every day with each and every person. Period.

If we do not, then how dare we presume to mourn a lost life? How dare we presume to struggle with death’s sorrow? How dare we band together in a show of support and solidarity for a life cut short?

Someone I greatly admire said today, through heartbreakingly wrenching tears, “I feel as though I have lost a child.” We should all feel that way — not because this is about us or how we feel, not because our sadness is what really matters, and certainly not because we are in a position to understand the pain of those who in reality did lose a child — but rather because a life was taken. And when a life is taken, we all lose something.

Please: in the normalcy that defines so many Third Days such as these, do not fail to stop, to think, to contemplate, to listen, to reflect, to consider the reality of what has happened. Do not make this tragedy worse than it already is by missing the indescribable magnitude and significance of a single lost life. And do not make this tragedy worse than it already is by failing to pay close attention and learning something.

For we all have much to learn. Not just about death, but also about life.

The only thing that really matters this year

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January the first has passed, which means that approximately 99.9% of the resolutionary-minded demographic has already called it quits.

Calling it quits is so terribly easy to do. It requires nothing of a person except, you know, quitting, stopping, and giving up –unless the thing being quit is something one habitually does, in which case calling it quits requires nothing of a person except, you know, carrying on, maintaining the status quo, and not quitting.

I’ve called it quits enough to know that I hate being a quitter. It causes my soul to feel empty, my spirit to feel abandoned, and my selfhood to feel compromised.

But as surely as I was born a sinner, I was born a quitter – which sounds so sadly pathetic when it’s put into words that I’m tempted to stop writing right now, to crawl back into bed, and to (sigh) call it quits.

And that’s exactly what I probably would do if it weren’t for Jesus —

  • sinless Jesus who refused to quit a task that was beyond absurd, i.e. redeeming the lives of each and every sinful quitter that ever did walk on this earth —
  • loving Jesus who refused to give up on the least deserving and the most pitiable of us, i.e. each and every human being
  • selfless Jesus who willingly abandoned his rights and privileges for countless individual reasons, i.e. you… and you… and you…and you…and me.

Too many Christians think that the opposite of quitting is doing, accomplishing, being active, living busy. We are often expert (and frenetic) doers. To be sure, it is supremely important to be more than simply hearers of the law. The proof, says Jesus, is in the doing.

But the saving is not in the doing. The value is not in the doing. The being is not in the doing.

By all means, do. Often, it’s exactly what’s needed.

But doing isn’t the goal. Nor is it the antidote to quitting. For that, we need something more. Something bigger. Something bolder.

For that, we need finishing.

On the seventh day of creation, God had finished his work of creation, so he rested from all of it. He stopped working — which might look the same as quitting but in fact is sacred stillness.

One day during his public ministry, Jesus finished teaching the people, so he returned to the quiet countryside. He stopped being with people — which might look the same as standoffishness but in fact is sacred solitude.

In the ninth hour of his crucifixion day, Jesus cried out, “It is finished,” and hung his head upon his chest. He stopped breathing earthly air — which might look the same as death but in fact is eternal life.

Because of all that, today we can be certain that God, who has begun his good work within us, will continue that work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns — which might look entirely impossible (being the sorry sinners we all are) but in fact is the blessed assurance upon which we build our lives.

For as long as I walk on this earth, I will wage battle against being a self-deprecating quitter just as much as I will wage battle against being an over-zealous doer. In the end, they are equally empty and destructive.

This year, we would all be wise to confess the quitting, admit the over-doing, and stop obsessing about both. Ditch the resolutions and instead, ask God for a gracious portion of wisdom, strength, and humility as he transforms us into people who finish the race set before us.