The Impressive Factor

Strolling through the check-out lane, the glossy cover of Seventeen doesn’t arrest my interest. The magazine I would be tempted to open isn’t in the racks, because it doesn’t exist. GodlyGirl, it’s called.

There are beauty tips galore within those fascinating pages. "Top 10 Breathtaking, Must-Have Character Traits." "How To Get A Gentle, Quiet Spirit In Three Easy Steps." "Insider Secrets To Eye-Catching Righteousness." "Helpful Hints: Learning The Art Of Cheerful Servitude." "43 Ways You Can Start Becoming The Perfect Help-Mate Today, Before You Meet Mr. Right!"

It’s a fact: Godliness is highly attractive, deeply respected, and greatly admired. We honor those that possess it. Proverbs 31:10 says that a virtuous woman is worth far more than rubies—who wouldn’t desire to be lauded that way? I’d rather have my character praised than receive a flattering remark on my appearance, any day.

And yet, with so much stress placed upon inner beauty, something is easily overlooked. Godliness can be just one more route to gain attention and approval.

How so? Take this real-life situation, for example. It's a common occurrence at our house.

I’m sitting at my desk, doing my homework studiously. Suddenly, the door flings open, and my little sisters run into the room. They want to talk with me, play with me, or ask me questions. Awesome. There's just one difficulty-- I’m engrossed in my work. Their presence is a minor blip on my radar screen of annoyances, but a blip nonetheless. A response is required.

If any of you were watching me, I would smile sweetly, pat their darling little heads, kiss their adorable little cheeks effusively, kindly sacrifice my time for their dear little sakes, thank the precious blessings for interrupting me, and then return to my studies—after singing a hymn, praying over them, and gently dropping them a nugget or three of priceless biblical wisdom. Okay, not really, but you get the general idea.

Alone, however, there is no one to impress. No one to dazzle. I can easily mumble something about “not now”, cast a significant look in their direction (by “significant”, I mean “daggered”), and then proceed to ignore the impudent creatures who dared to disturb Her Highness. None of you would ever know; my reputation wouldn’t suffer any stains.

These everyday, private choices will only known by me, my Maker, and my immediate family members. And yet, it is these everyday, private choices that reveal my real character. Remove the pressure to impress, and you're left with the brazen truth.

We may not obsess over our physical appearances, but obsession over character is no better, when our motives are the same. If you’ve ever said or done something, knowing perfectly well in the back of your mind that it looked… well, that it looked really good, then perhaps you know what I’m talking about.

We may as well screech, Look at me! I’m so beautiful inside! When you get right down to it, that's the issue. Three words: "Look at me." Not "Look at Christ", but "Look at me." Our hearts can easily be filled with proud, attention-seeking thoughts while our mouths are busily forming words that avow the greatness and glory of God.

In Matthew 6, Christ warns the Pharisees against this very kind of false godliness:

“Be careful not to do your 'acts of righteousness' before men, to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven. So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.”

If there is a discrepancy between our eagerness for godliness in public, and our eagerness for godliness in private, a heart check is in order. GodlyGirl can stay on the shelf where it belongs.

Popping My Watermelon Head

Yesterday afternoon, in between bites of lunch, I chatted casually with a new acquaintance sitting across the table. One thing led to another, and our conversation took on a more serious turn. “I believe that all people are inherently good,” the friendly woman commented, smiling widely.

A few minutes later, this pleasant lady revealed that she was unconcerned about what would happen to her after she died. She shrugged, “Some questions can never be answered.” Morality is grey, she explained, not black or white. All religions are equally valid. Then she handed the discussion off to her friend, an animated young man in his twenties, who had been listening to snatches of what we were talking about.

He jumped into the conversation eagerly, and we began to discuss Christianity. It was immediately apparent that I was speaking with a highly intellectual and well-read individual. He had perused the entire Bible, to conclude that the Old Testament God was inconsistent with the God of the New Testament. Paul, he claimed, could have very well been a homosexual. And as for Christ? Well, He was certainly an “enlightened being”, but we cannot possibly know if He actually claimed deity. Perhaps, he suggested, the Lord’s Prayer can be interpreted to mean that we are all God. Ultimately, we must each fashion truth for ourselves.

"For the time will come when men will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear. They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths." 2 Timothy 4:3-4

This is our world. These are the people you pass by on the produce aisle—the cousin at a family reunion—the neighbor next door. And they need answers—answers that require a thorough knowledge of Scripture. Never before has our culture seen so many competing ideologies vying for attention. And yet, beneath all the clamor and chaos, our world is starved for truth.

My friend's father loves to pose thought-provoking questions. As we’re discussing some attribute of God, he always asks, “Now, tell me: how does this doctrine effect your neighbor?” It’s a pivotal question to consider. If we can talk at length about the omnipotence of God, but cannot draw the connection to real life and real people, there is a serious problem.

Why? Because if theology is simply loved and studied for itself, the knowledge is not only futile; it is dangerous.

Like the Pharisees, our heads will swell up like ripe watermelons, as we grow increasingly enthralled—not with God, but with ourselves. Intoxicated with the staggering grandeur of our own high contemplations, we’ll miss the point altogether.

Incredibly, instead of falling flat on our faces in adoration and worship, Christians are easy prey to pride within the enticing web of lofty knowledge. Rather than being unspeakably humbled and awed, we can even have the audacity to approach our Maker as if He is a grand scientific specimen—dissecting His words, toying with them carelessly, and twisting them whenever it suits our theological purposes.

And then, I'm tempted to be impressed. Not with the Holy One, who I examine detachedly, but with my own meager intellect. Astounding, isn't it? Unless our hearts are postured in humility, a dose of good theology will only inflate our egos. Once infested with pride, even the study of theology becomes detestable in God’s eyes. But when theology is studied truly, the very opposite is true. It is impossible to evade being humbled, as the pages of the Bible trumpet the truth about our Lord, and ourselves.

Studying theology is not enough. It must also be studied for the correct reason: To magnify the name of our God, and show others how to join us in doing so.

Volkswagen At Heart

"Ashley" is a girl with many talents. She's a sharp public speaker, avid musician and could probably have a future in the theater. However, where Ashley has experienced great success academically, she has also had amazingly little success in the area of making friends. You'd think that a girl with her talents would have many opportunities to develop relationships; but there is one characteristic that Ashley lacks: she cannot speak of anyone but herself. She can tell you about her latest musical triumph, but if she asks how you are doing, don't expect your response to be heard. To be honest, Ashley probably doesn't realize how cocky others perceive her to be. I don't profess to know her heart; but I do know from personal experience that pride can be so pervasive, we may not notice how it dominates our lives.

A man with a bulldog’s jowl and a trademark cigar once said, “We are all worms. But I believe that I am a glow-worm.” I was always frustrated with Winston Churchill for saying those words. Ironically, both cigar and jowl have turned to dust. The comment was pompous when first spoken and now is only sadly mocking of that once-influential now-dead man. However, the sentiment remains close by. I wonder how many of us have felt the same way—that we are somehow less wormy, less sinful, with more potential than the rest of the world.

My mom tells the story of a man she knew in school. He was the proud owner of a shiny Ferrari...or at least appeared to be. Cruising around in his bank-statement-on-wheels, no one would have guessed that his car was actually a kit. In other words, the car was assembled using the body of a Ferrari but the engine and guts of a much cheaper vehicle. While maintaining the impression of luxury, in essentials his car was just like any other “loser cruiser” on the roadway. He didn’t want to be a worm. He wanted to be a glow-worm.

For a greatly personal example: I clean, scrub, study, cook, drive, babysit, repeat. And with glamorous work like this, I’m unhappy. It may be satisfying for other people and many other young women my age, but as for me, I want better. I'm a glow-worm, got it? Why should I demean myself with the mundane? C.J. Mahaney defined “pride” as “when sinful human beings aspire to the status and position of God and refuse to acknowledge their dependence upon Him.” (p. 31, Humility) “Refusing to acknowledge” is not only over-estimating our value, but underestimating Him. Backpedaling on His plan for my life the moment it strikes me as a humbling experience is a part of the “glow-worm” mentality. It’s second guessing His sovereignty. It’s pride.

Instead of putzing around in Ferraris with Volkswagen engines, God created us to revel in His glory—not our own. He created us to be ambitious—for His name. He created us to excel in the mundane--for His name. Contentment starts here. Patience starts here. Purity can even be related to this, for when I’m content in God, purity is a lot easier to grasp.

The humble circumstances we are called to embrace will probably feel more wormy than scintillating. "But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life. Who is sufficient for these things?" (2 Corinthians 2:14-16) Be it ever so humble, that's one glorious calling.

Confessions of a Teenage Hypocrite

This past week brought word of a friend’s fall. The run toward abstinence was too much for her feet to bear alone, but after spurning her God-given authority, her own feet were all she had.

It began in the little things—miniature mutinies only the heart knows. But then her family noticed the difference: a few sharp words, an occasional discontent remark. Sin starts small, but it grows like a pathogen on steroids. Heartbreaking and yet-oh-so-typical for the human race; the fall of this conservative, homeschooled Christian girl is only one of the latest in a long series since the beginning.

“You will not surely die,” the serpent said to Eve, a sweet yet naïve, God-worshiping girl. He offered her a piece of the juicy, luscious--forbidden--fruit. With a hiss of his forked tongue, the serpent sowed suspicion: "For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil." (Genesis 3:4-5 NIV) With a little movement, Eve stepped nearer the tree. In a few short moments, she rationalized the situation. What could a little taste hurt? Certainly the end (becoming like God) would justify the means, and if she ended up regretting it, God would surely overlook such a miniscule mistake. Without another thought, she took a tiny bite.

Eve’s decision is the kind I make flippantly each day, yet her fall remains one of the most pivotal actions of all history. Her dirty little secret led to the Holocaust, mass murder in Darfur, the shootings at Virginia Tech and…my quick temper yesterday.

Choices—even seemingly insignificant thoughts concealed deep in the heart--can have a more profound affect than we realize. James wrote that sin starts small as a dormant desire, then grows. “Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.” (James 1:15) My soul, take note: “Insignificant” desires can grow to big sin. Little choices matter.

In spite of this truth, after hearing of my friend’s fall, the serpent’s same old story was repackaged for my consumption: “You will not surely die by merely patting yourself on the back,” the serpent said. “Be proud that you did not choose her path.” Oops. That lie sounds familiar. A white lie here and there, a little curse word when I stub my toe, and just a dab of self-righteousness as icing on the cake; although my stray arrogant thoughts seem small compared to my friend’s fall, they’re of the same significance as biting forbidden fruit. Look at the cost of Eve’s mouthful.

Examining my friend’s situation, the temptation for self-righteousness was replaced by a throbbing sense of shame as the realization hit: I am equally guilty. “All our righteous acts are like filthy rags,” Isaiah said, “….and like the wind our sins sweep us away.” (Isaiah 64:6) Although she may have leaped off the cliff, haven’t I equally flirted with the edge? Although she’s embraced sin, haven’t I given it a sly wink more than once?

There is no compensation I could possibly offer for my crimes. If Eve’s fruit was all it took to bring death into the world, I’m certain my numerous “little sins” are enough to purchase my own execution. Yet the whispering resumes: “You will not surely die,” the serpent said. “Surely you can redeem yourself. Try following Mosaic Law, donating to a charity, volunteering in the community or attending church to assuage your guilt.” But I’ve attempted to connive my way into God’s favor enough to know it’s impossible, and these whispers are yet another lie.

C.S. Lewis painted a telling picture of my own attempts to “earn grace.” In Till We Have Faces, Istra, a beautiful, patient and loving girl, is ordered to be executed. As the best the land has to offer, Istra must die as a human sacrifice on behalf of her people. Her sister, Orual, of course, cannot bear the thought of Istra’s death, and implores the King to intervene. In desperation, Orual pleads: “You are right. It is fit that one should die for the people. Give me…instead of Istra.” The King then grabs poor Orual by the wrist and drags her until they both stand before a massive mirror. There, Orual sees the full extent of her own ugliness. The offering called for “the best in the land,” the King says, “And you’d give her that.”

Now, reality sets in. I’m an Orual. My righteousness (which is actually “filthy rags”) is not a worthy offering for a Holy God. Who am I, to dare to even attempt to settle up my actions with Him? When Job demanded God speak, His voice arose from a storm with words that knocked Job to his knees. Job, humbled and awed, replied, “I am unworthy—how can I reply to You? I put my hand over my mouth. I spoke once, but I have no answer—twice, but I will say no more.” (Job 40:4-5) If Job could barely speak to Him, how do I expect to negotiate my pardon?

As Orual found, the cost for redemption is the death of the Perfect One. My sin stands, along with my friend’s fornication and all other evil acts throughout history as a debt I am powerless to pay. Yet in this sorrow, I find the deepest joy. Jesus’ words ring true, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.” (Mark 2:17) It was the sin of the fruit-eaters, fornicators, liars, thieves and hypocrites that gave need for the Cross, and to us broken sinners the Cross was given.

This is the Gospel, that the One we owed paid our debt. At the foot of the Cross I have no excuses to offer. My sins, big and small, have condemned me. I can only echo the words of John Bradford, who, when witnessing a criminal’s execution uttered, “There but for the grace of God go I.”

With my sin in perspective, my friend and I are equally debtors. Any anger at her sin must eventually melt into prayer on her behalf; a request for her to see her own evil and embrace the God whose blood was tangible grace for us.