Slap Me Down and Pick Me Up

Slap Me Down and Pick Me Up

I don’t know which to share first. Since I am not known for humility (except among those whom I can fool, not my family, for sure) I will do the upbeat first and then the downbeat.

Pick Me Up!

For whatever cause, when I come to place like New Theological College here in north India, I feel a pickup. A cynic would say, “Sure – anybody would. You get your room cleaned, your meals to order by a chef, and people who copy your syllabus and deliver it to your classroom, others who prepare tea twice a day (one good legacy left by the British Raj), with no telephone to bug you. You get to go to a clean desk and use a computer with tech people ready to troubleshoot for you, and people who smile every time you look at them.”

But that’s not it, really.

Did you see the old movie about missionary Eric Liddell called Chariots of Fire? He was an Olympic champion runner from England—the one who would not compete on Sunday because it was the Lord’s Day. (I really wish I had that kind of courage. But I don’t. I know I would have found some way to rationalize to save embarrassment. I have the philosopher’s gift: find a plausible reason for anything!) Eric was conflicted about his commitment to running and his call to serve the Lord. Explaining to his sister his passion for track he said this memorable line: “When I run I feel the pleasure of God.”

When I am in a place like this using my gifts in a small way (but not insignificant) I feel the pleasure of God. There is a deep satisfaction there. It’s beyond happiness. It’s a kind of spiritual joy hard to describe. As I walked to the Guest House under the moon the other night, this moment of elevation picked me up. I knew, despite all the expense and hassle of flying half way around the world, that this was where I was supposed to be. Making a difference, no matter how small, is such a satisfaction. I was telling my students yesterday that on those days when I want to get away from everything and do something just for me—to pamper myself a bit (they tell me I deserve it)—I usually feel pretty good. But not great. But at the end of a day where I went out of the way to make difference for good in someone’s life—be it doing a chore or taking someone to the store or fixing loose bolt—I feel great. That’s why we were put on earth—to help each other in joy and in times of sorrow.

So that’s the “Pick Me Up!”

Now for the “Slap Me Down.”

I look at the students here and I am chastised. I listen to their stories. Many have little help when they are ill—medicines are too expensive, even here in India where everything is halk price to me. Fees are always a challenge. Some face rejection by their families. Yet they work at their tools for ministry. They yield to God’s call to a life that for many is one of hardship and risk of bodily harm, even death. They know what it is to walk by faith. This cuts my soul.

I have so much more than they. I have more stuff. I have opportunities that my education and my wealth afford me. I can shield myself, protect myself. I can play it safe. I hardly know what sacrifice means when I look at these followers of Jesus, let alone Jesus himself. These students rise at 5 a.m. for a voluntary prayer service of their own making. They gather after supper at 7 p.m. and ask for Dave Walker or some other visiting minister to talk to them about Christ and the Gospel. The limit of my devotion is to pray for a while in shadows of the dawn from the warmth of my bed.

I know that asceticism and fanaticism are over the top. I learned that studying church history. But I’m coming clean. I do not know much about following God with true passion. It’s in my head—I truly do grasp it. I can teach it preach it. But true religion is emptying myself and my treasure in the real world.

So I am “slapped down.” It’s something I need to pay attention to. I know I am thought to be a generous, caring, and giving person. But that’s in the eyes of men. Before God I have along way to go. And I need to go on my knees. I fear that American followers of the Way (such as myself) know next to nothing about walking the talk. We give a lot. But there is small sacrifice in it.

I always tell my students that there are no U-Hauls on hearses. But am I really living in the light of this old Gospel-song truth: “This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through, and I cain’t feel at home in this world anymore.”

Will Somebody help me? There’s nothing wrong with enjoying life—sure thing. But is the danger to my soul that I will not spend enough time enjoying the good life? Yeah, right!

Slap me down: then you can pick me up.