Frank Powell
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Frank Powell

Frank Powell

Faith

Expectations

by Frank Powell November 26, 2022
written by Frank Powell

Advent is an alarm, alerting us to the dangers of expectations. You think you know what God will do. You think you know how he will act. You think you know what will happen next. Then, he wraps his own likeness in a coat of flesh and sends him to earth. Here you go, world. Not a king on a throne. Not an all-powerful demi-God. A baby. A vulnerable, helpless baby.

Expectations are resentments waiting to happen. You’ve heard that before, I’m sure. If you haven’t, you should write it down because it’s true and can save your life from a legion of suffering. Expectations are the root of most suffering and all unnecessary suffering. 

What are expectations? Underlying beliefs about how you think the world works, how future events will play out, how you think people should act, respond, and so on. We rely on expectations for happiness, for hope, even. And, left unchecked, we will force everyone and everything through the filter of our expectations, choking the life out of them as we do. 

Think about all the times you thought your spouse would say or do something, and she didn’t, and you became angry. Or maybe not angry, but sad or disappointed. Nothing serious, though. And you got over it. But then it happened again. And again. And over time, the small disappointments grew into something larger, resentments, and cynicism, and separation.  

If you have kids, think about how your expectations for them create dissension and friction, both in your life and theirs. I have kids, and I’m thinking right now about how much energy I spend forcing them to conform to my ways. I don’t give them enough freedom. I don’t ask them enough questions. And this leads to suffering. 

But we’re not here to talk about marriage and kids, are we? We’re here to talk about Advent, about Christ, the Messiah. But, in a way, we’re also here to talk about marriage and kids because how you see anything is how you see everything. The expectations you have for your spouse are the same ones you have for Christ. 

If you read the story of Jesus’s birth, you will see a lot of characters. Mary. Joseph. Shepherds. Wise men. A king. And so on. But one group you will NOT find in the birth narrative? Religious leaders. And, friends, in this story, we are the religious leaders. We are the ones who are in grave danger of missing the presence of Jesus in our midst. 

The religious leaders, you see, had expectations for the Christ. They knew the Scriptures. They knew about Immanuel’s coming. Yet, when Jesus arrived, they missed him. How? Because their image of Messiah wouldn’t allow him to be born in poverty, in nothingness, in destitution. Their expectations for the Messiah blinded them to the actual skin-and-bones Savior in their midst. They were the experts on God. They left no room for uncertainty, for curiosity. 

This is troubling. It’s troubling because most Christians I know, myself included, also believe they know how God interacts with his world. I mean, honestly, who would expect the Savior of the World to arrive in a manger, in some backcountry hick town? I grew up in Mississippi. There are more Bethlehems than sand grains in the Sahara, small, insignificant towns with a single gas station at the intersection of a 4-way stop. I mean no offense to people who inhabit these towns, but I could never live in one, and the thought of God allowing his son to breathe his first in a podunk village offends my sensibilities. 

Advent season is meant to offend our sensibilities, so that we might relinquish our attachment to the status quo, and begin the journey to Bethlehem, which is the journey to True Life. 

Advent has a provocative, offensive message, especially to those who think they know how God is going to act, where God is going to be, what is going to say. 

And here it is: You don’t. 

And what’s more, the people you think know nothing about God, might actually have a leg up on experiencing Christ. They might actually know him better than you. That’s a scandalous thought, isn’t it? 

So, as we start this journey, we start by crucifying our expectations. We start by laying down our thoughts about God and asking him to infect our hearts and minds with a fresh imagination, with the vision of a novice, with the awe of a child. We stop assuming God will only show up in the familiar places and begin looking for him in the places we least expect. We stop all this non-sense about how the world must come to us if they want to know Christ. 

“You must follow these steps if you want to know the love of Jesus. You must come to church on these days and read the Bible in these ways and act in this way. Then, you will know God.” 

Stop it. Just stop. Our pride hinders us from the Messiah. He is not in here, among the religious elite. He is out there, beyond the realm of familiarity and certainty and….expectations. 

God can and will reveal himself to those we least expect, in ways we least expect. So, as Advent begins, as we embark on this season that culminates in the single most important moment in the history of the world, will we lay down our expectations, will we dare to see God outside the walls of our current understanding? If we do, something transformative waits for us, something that will change us forever. 

And that something is True Life is here. Joy beyond comprehension. A life you never thought possible. 

But you must lay down your expectations. 

SCRIPTURE

JOHN 1:9-13

The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world. He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him. He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him.  Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God— children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God.

PRAYER

Father, we want to know you. Awaken us, God. Give us eyes to see your glory in new ways. We don’t want to miss Immanuel. We want to know True Life. We long for a deeper understanding of Love, Hope, Joy. Don’t allow us to stay as we are. Don’t allow us to settle for a half-hearted experience of you. Crucify our expectations. Forgive us for constructing boxes for you, for not looking for you outside the walls of our certainty. Lead us to Bethlehem. We want to praise the Messiah. Amen.

November 26, 2022
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Faith

Perseverance Is Essential To Knowing God (Any Why Most People Give Up On Everything)

by Frank Powell November 4, 2022
written by Frank Powell

Every day, I wake up around 5:30 a.m., sit down at my desk and write. This is my oasis. My sanctuary. My time to commune with my Creator. And most days, it goes quite well. I sit down and words come out and all is right in the world. 

But three weeks ago, something happened that I’ve never experienced. I sat down at my computer, and nothing came out. The mysterious well from which my thoughts flow had dried up. I stared at my screen, and my mind was empty. Hollow. An oasis turned desert. 

I’ve read books on this. It’s called writer’s block, and the best way to combat writer’s block is stream of consciousness writing. You don’t think about anything, in other words. Just write. I’ll try that, I said. And I did. 

And nothing happened. 

I couldn’t put sentences together. True story. I would jot down a word – Dog, Jimmy, Book – and follow it up with a verb – ate, ran, read – and then…crickets.

Dog…ate…sandwiches? No, no. Let me try this again.

Jimmy…ran…run? That’s the same word in a different tense, Frank. You imbecile. Are you going insane?

I wasn’t going insane, I told myself. Just a bad day. Everyone has bad days. No worries. I got up from chair, dusted off my shoes, and moved on. Tomorrow will be better, I said.

The next morning, I sat down at my desk, and do you know what happened? I’m sure you do. Nothing happened. My mind was blank. And the next day? Same thing. This went on for nearly three weeks. 

I tried everything to unclog the well. I diffused essential oils. I exercised. I meditated. I yelled at the heavens. I karate-kicked my wall. I tried it all. Nothing worked. Was this my new life? 

No, no, Frank. This is a phase. A sucky, terrible phase. But a phase. You can string words together. You can write. Shoot, eight-year-olds can write. Don’t give up. You must keep showing up. 

So, every day, for three weeks, I showed up at my desk, stayed there for at least an hour, and got up, without a word on the page. On day nineteen – and I remember this vividly – I cried. The tears dripped on the keyboard. I wiped them clean. I pleaded with God to restore my vigor, my clarity of mind, my desire to scribble words on a page. 

Then, on day twenty, the dam broke. The words flowed with such force that I couldn’t contain them. I wrote and wrote and wrote. And that’s the end of the story. Thanks for listening. 

It’s not the end, though. 

In the days since, I’ve thought about why this happened. I’m not the kind of person who thinks everything happens for a reason. Everything doesn’t happen for a reason. But everything provides an opportunity for growth. I mean, I teetered on the edge of despair. I was depressed. Anxious. For a week or so, darkness covered the landscape of my soul. The situation was bleak, guys. Eight-and nine-year-olds can string sentences together. And on a whim too. Without much effort. And I went three weeks without the ability to string sentences together. You might think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. I’ve never experienced like it. 

But either out of stubbornness or stupidity or both I showed up every day. I sat down in the same chair, at the same time, and prepared myself to write. I wouldn’t give up. I couldn’t. Writing means too much to me. 

And I trusted that if I continued to show up, something good would happen. Even if the dam never broke and the words never flowed, I would learn something about God, about not giving up on things you love. 

YOU MUST KEEP SHOWING UP

Here’s the reality: anything you commit to for a long period of time will go through lulls, seasons of apathy and disconnectedness. Whether it’s your relationship with God or your spouse, a craft like writing or painting, if you engage in something that requires you to show up every day for a long period of time, you will go through days or weeks or months where you feel nothing. Or you feel something, but what you feel is boredom. 

Listen, anything – and I mean anything – that’s worthwhile, that’s important, that has lasting and eternal value, will experience these seasons, and in these seasons, you must – MUST – keep showing up.

You feel disconnected from God. You’re not even sure you believe in God anymore. Your faith is in shambles. You know what? You’re in the wilderness. Welcome. Every man or woman who has committed to God for the entirety of their lives has been in this place. And, yes, it’s scary and lonely and painful. You know what, though? This place is necessary. It’s a spiritual cocoon, of sorts. A place where transformation occurs, where you have the time and space to let go of old, faulty, unhelpful ideas about God and embrace new ones. The wilderness is where God refines you before he releases you to a new and better reality.

Or maybe your marriage is stagnant. You’ve been at this for a few years, and those years were great. Incredible. But now, the waters of time and stress and jobs and maybe kids have quenched the passion. You don’t feel it anymore. And you haven’t felt it for a while. The questions begin to take root in your mind. Should I leave? Should I look for someone new? 

And the answer to both is no. Your marriage isn’t over. More than likely, your marriage is on the verge of something incredible, but you must endure the wilderness to get there. 

THE DEMON THAT WANTS TO KEEP YOU FROM SHOWING UP 

Christians for centuries have recognized this desire to give up as a spiritual problem. The early church fathers recognized this lull, this absence of desire, as a form of evil. They had a name for it, and that name was acedia. 

In fact, of all the sins a person can endure, acedia is the worst, the most detrimental to your spiritual well-being. The early church father Evagrius once said other sins like pride or greed only infect part of the soul, while acedia isn’t content with just a part, but desires both the soul and the spirit. 

This season of apathy and listlessness, in other words, is more than just a season. It has spiritual significance. This ancient demon, acedia, is at work. It recognizes you have something special here, something that might draw you near to God, something that might grow you in love and peace and joy. Acedia knows you’re on the cusp of the Promised Land, and it doesn’t like that. So, it rises up to destroy that which will transform you. 

If you believe in spiritual things, the answer to this season of life where you feel disconnect from your spouse or your children or your work or your craft or your church isn’t to abandon them, but to keep showing up. You keep putting your butt in the chair. You fake it ‘til you make it, because what heals acedia is staunch persistence, stick-to-itiveness, perseverance. If you keep showing up, trusting that the thing you’re showing up for still matters, you will break free from the chains of acedia. 

Your desire will return. And what you experience on the other side of the wilderness will blow your mind, exceed anything you could imagine. 

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU STOP SHOWING UP

Sadly, though, in a world that champions fleeting emotions and says if something doesn’t feel good don’t do it, we rarely get to experience the Promised Land. We settle for cheap imitations. We’re addicted to the emotional high of new relationships, riding the good vibes of our new circumstances or new partner or new church, and we assume this will give us lasting joy. 

It doesn’t though, does it? 

And it doesn’t because eventually acedia comes for the new thing as well. And now it comes with more bravado because it knows it won before, and once acedia wins once, the chances of it winning again grow exponentially. Just ask the people who’ve been divorced three or four times. Just ask the people who hop from church to church. Just ask the ones who abandoned a God-given calling, like writing or painting or starting a non-profit. 

Give up once, and you will likely give up again. 

People who don’t learn to endure difficult seasons will never experience the fullness of God. I’m convinced of that. They end up mistaking God for the mountaintop moments, which is a cheap substitute for the God of the Stars. They end up riding the ever-changing winds of good feelings and emotions. And this yields a very shallow, unstable, addiction-prone existence. It just does. 

People who don’t learn to endure difficult seasons will never experience the fullness of God. I’m convinced of that. They end up mistaking God for the mountaintop moments, which is a cheap substitute for the God of the Stars.

SHOWING UP REFLECTS THE CHARACTER OF GOD

You find God In the highs and low, ups and downs, joy AND stresses. 

God is found in perseverance, in other words. God is found in our refusal to give up on the things that matter, and God is found there because perseverance reflects the character and nature of God, who refuses to abandon or forsake us. Is this not the narrative of Scripture, that over and over, God’s people turn their backs on him, and over and over, God forgives them? God never gives up. He keeps his butt in the chair. 

Perseverance is another name for God. Perseverance might be THE name for God. 

Perseverance, then, is how we become like God. See what I did there? 

So, whether you find yourself in the throws of acedia right now or sometime in the future, may you have the wisdom to recognize and name what you’re facing and the courage to keep showing up. May you not become a slave to your feelings. May you allow Perseverance to lead you, so you may reap the fruits of a God-filled life, so you may know God on a deep and intimate level, and those around you might recognize this knowing and the world might be saved. 

Grace and peace, friends.

November 4, 2022
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Faith

What Purchasing A Vehicle Showed Me About Comparison And Silencing The Voice Of God

by Frank Powell October 27, 2022
written by Frank Powell

I bought a new truck last week. For the last thirteen years, I’ve driven a Honda Accord. Tiffani’s dad bought her that car before we got married. Not long after, we purchased a more family-friendly vehicle, and just like that, the Honda Accord became my primary mode of transport. 

It was a great car for a long time. I loved that car. In its final days, though, the thing began to fall apart. The writing was on the wall, and had been for some time, but I refused to let go. I didn’t want a new car. The raggedy old metal box was part of my identity. It fit me, you know? Not flashy, but gets the job done. Doesn’t pass the eye test, but reliable. Flies under the radar, but always gets from point A to point B. 

The tide turned, however, when Tiffani was forced to use the Accord for a work trip to south Alabama. When you drive a raggedy vehicle everyday, you don’t consider its legion of problems. You know they exist. You know the air conditioner says, “Nah, I’m good” when temps rise above 85. You know the tires are dry-rotted and the headliner has detached from the ceiling and the car pulls hard to the left. But those things exist in your sub-conscious. You have an unspoken bond with your “little engine that could.” You just assume you will always get where you’re going. 

But when someone you love assumes the wheel, it’s like a spotlight shines bright on every single problem. You see problems you didn’t know existed before. My mind rehearsed all the ways Tiffani’s commute could go bad. It was a dark, stressful day for me. I prayed a lot and paced a lot, and by the grace of God, she returned safely. 

That night, we both decided it was time to say good-bye to Alfred (that’s right, my Accord has a name. Don’t you dare judge me.) 

Car buying has changed, guys. In a short time, too. We bought a swagger wagon three years, and I stayed at the dealership for the better part of a day. By the time I crossed the final t’s and dotted the final I’s, I despaired of life, and couldn’t care less if we bought the darn van or walked home on foot. 

I decided I wanted to buy my truck at 2:30 p.m. Tiffani rode up there to take a look. They got the paperwork together, I left work at 5:00. Arrived at 5:30. By 5:50, I left the lot, with a new vehicle. It shouldn’t be that easy. 

WHAT WE PAY ATTENTION TO MATTERS

When I left the lot, I was on a high. The first time I’ve updated my primary mode of transportation in a decade-plus. Immediately, my perspective changed. I never noticed the plethora of trucks burning tread on the roads. There are so many trucks. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? 

And I realized that what we pay attention to shapes our worldview. Our brains can’t process all the stimuli around us. It must choose what gets our attention, and what gets our attention shapes who we become. 

So, what gets your attention? What are you paying attention to? If you look for a world of fear and mistrust, you will find it. If you look for a world of love and peace, you will find it. You choose your reality, in other words. And you choose it by what you give your attention to. When you see people who live differently, who live with love and hope and joy – Do you know people like that? If you don’t, you should find some – it’s not an accident. God didn’t give these people something you don’t have. No, they’ve chosen to see a hopeful world. 

This seems too simple, doesn’t it? 

But here’s a hard and fast rule: spiritual growth will always be simple, but never easy. 

If someone tells you spiritual growth requires a master’s degree to understand, it’s probably not from God. Likewise, if someone sells you a simple three-step process that ensures overnight success, that’s probably not from God either. 

Spiritual growth is for everyone, except those who want a quick fix. 

So, yes, this stuff about awareness and paying attention to the right things is simple. But it’s not easy. Go ahead. Try it. You’ll see. 

For example, I have critical eye. One that borders on cynicism, especially when I’m unhealthy. This isn’t from God, and I know it. So, I try to practice seeing everything through a lens of optimism, and my goodness is it hard. It’s so hard. But every time I do it, I feel closer to God. 

So, this is a huge challenge. But an essential one. To pay attention. To focus on the things of God. 

COMPARISON INCREASES WITH UPWARD MOBILITY

I already talked about how I began to notice how many trucks filled the roads after I bought one. But here’s something else that happened, something I didn’t expect. 

Even though I had a nice, new truck, I began to compare my trucks to others. I became hyper-focused on all the things my truck didn’t have. I saw a GMC that had Denali slapped on the side and thought, that truck’s better than mine. Rather than enjoying what I had, I became trapped in what I didn’t. 

I never did this with my Accord. Not once. Why would I? Every vehicle was nicer than mine. But here lies the danger of chasing the Joneses. It breeds comparison. So much of the shame and anxiety and restlessness that plagues middle-to-upper class society comes from comparison. I’m convinced of it.

We get that new job, with the nice salary, so we go buy a house. And we love that starter home, because it’s our first abode. But we’re not content, are we? So, we purchase another home, a bigger one. And now the game has begun. 

Purchase a home. Notice the Smith’s nicer residence, with its multiple floors and two-car garage. Become discontent with our current home. Start looking for one with multiple floors and a two-car garage. But that new house costs more money, so we have to ask for a raise or find a job that makes more money. But with more money, comes more responsibility and less free time. You see the cycle? With every new and larger purchase, we decrease our margins, and as margins decreases, so does the voice of God.

And look, some of us don’t care about houses. Some people don’t care about cars. But comparison can manifest in a myriad of ways. Job titles. Clothes. 

Oh, and here’s one that’s rampant where I live and probably where you live too: kids. 

So many parents use their kids to feed their addiction to comparison. Our children become pawns for own game, and I know this because I do it. And because I see the parents on social media who only post when their kid wins an award at school or a baseball tournament or something like that. 

The caption goes on about how proud and blessed the parent is about Timmy’s award or trophy and proceeds to give all the reasons he deserves the award. 

And maybe these parents are blessed, but underneath it all I sense a need to prove to the world that they have great kids. These parents want everyone to know they did a great job – they need everyone to know – and they do this by turning their children into show ponies. They’re trapped in the same game, and maybe in a worse way, because rather than using stuff to feed their addiction, they use people. Their own flesh and blood. 

Because I struggle with the temptation to use my children to prove my worth to the world, I’ve made a conscious decision not to advertise their accolades. I’m not perfect, of course. For all have sinned and fallen short. Before I post something about my kids, however, I look hard in the mirror and ask if I’m doing this to validate myself or to uplift my child? Since my children don’t have social media and therefore don’t read what I write, the answer is almost always the former. 

Comparison is a dangerous game, one that has no end and no winners. Because even if you somehow succeed in having the nicest and largest and most immaculate house or car in all the land, you sit down on your leopard-skinned couch and realize you chased a mirage.

You spent so much time and energy running this race and now you have your prize, and it’s filled with poo. It smells, wreaks of shame and loneliness and so on. That’s what comparison does. Comparison retards growth of all kinds, especially spiritual growth. 

YOU CAN’T FOLLOW GOD AND UPWARD MOBILITY

I want to say this as clearly as I know how: you can’t chase upward mobility and follow God. 

The cost of upward mobility is the loss of freedom, the inability to take risks and follow God’s promptings. Most of us, myself included, don’t think God calls us to make radical decisions because we have two car payments and a house payment and we pay for private school and day care and private lessons for piano or guitar or baseball. 

Is it that God doesn’t call us to make radical decisions. Or – and hear me out – is it that God can’t call us to make radical decisions because we’re shackled to our upward mobility? We don’t have enough margin in our lives to hear from God. So, we settle for a watered-down version, a God who praises us for attending church and tithing and not cheating on our spouse. 

We read the stories in the Bible, the ones about Abraham abandoning his family and Noah building an ark and Moses rising up against Pharaoh, and we think “Wow, that’s unreal” and we never consider that God still wants to speak to us that way. But we don’t listen. We can’t. We’re enslaved to our standard of living. 

So, we settle. 

And the grace of God is that he remains present in our lives and continues blessing us, even though we neuter his presence. 

Over and over in the gospels, Jesus tells us that the poor and outcasts are better off than the rich and privileged. And now I know why. The poor have unfiltered access to the voice of God. They have nothing, so nothing can keep them from hearing God. 

I’m just as guilty as anyone. I’m enslaved to upward mobility. I have a nice home and two cars and kids who play multiple competitive sports. It’s hard, nay impossible, for me to discern the voice of God. And I don’t know what to do about it.

These are all things I pondered since buying a new vehicle. Welcome to the interior workings of my brain. Always wear a seat belt.

Sometimes I write things with a clear “this is the application” type endings. Most times I do that.

This isn’t one of those posts. I wish I didn’t feel the need to compare myself, to keep up with the Joneses, to live a marginless life. But I do. And I don’t know the answer. 

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe there is no answer. But instead an awareness and a willingness to wrestle. To live in the tension, to tug and pull on the dangers and beauties of our present circumstances. So, that’s where I’ll leave this. 

May you have the courage to see where comparison manifests itself, and take action. 

Grace and peace, friends. 

October 27, 2022
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Faith

Why We Need More Non-Conformists (And Why The World Hates Them)

by Frank Powell October 14, 2022
written by Frank Powell

For as long as I can remember, which isn’t that long – I have the memory of a baboon – I’ve asked a lot of questions. I’m a seeker. I’m curious. I’m sensitive. I wish I weren’t. I wish I didn’t care. I wish I didn’t feel the angst of the world’s brokenness. I wish humanity’s injustices didn’t burden my soul. I wish the flaws in our institutions, flaws that marginalize and wound real people, didn’t light a fire in my bones. I wish I could fall in line. Keep my mouth shut. Go with the flow. I wish I could fit in. 

But I can’t. I must ask questions, traverse the edges and see what’s out there. If I don’t, my spirit dies. I don’t want my spirit to die. 

There’s a cost for living like this, though. And the cost is belonging. People label you – troublemaker, heretic, and so on. I’ve been called those things. And worse.

You struggle to find a home. Groups require conformity. Loyalty is oxygen. There’s nothing wrong with loyalty. But loyalty isn’t more important than integrity, which involves asking hard questions and looking honestly at your flaws. Every group, at some point, must choose between loyalty and truth. Most groups, even Christian ones, choose loyalty.

I’m a non-conformist, and God’s people have never taken to non-conformists. In the Bible, they’re called prophets. Prophets disrupt the status quo. They see the world through the lens of injustice. They’re sensitive to the oppressed and the hurting and the marginalized. 

The list of prophets stretches throughout time, from the earliest pages of Scripture to this very moment. 

Abraham left his family to follow God into an unknown land. We don’t think much about this in our modern-day world. But family was everything during Abraham’s time. Everything. To leave them was to abandon them, a disorienting, shameful open-hand slap to everyone he loved.

Noah built an ark. He was a fool, a laughingstock. But he heard the voice of God, and to abandon that voice was to abandon Truth. Non-conformists never abandon Truth.

Then, of course, you have Jesus. The foundation of our faith. The cornerstone. Jesus, from the first moment of his ministry, called out the powerful, the religious elite. He refused to fall in line, to continue with business as usual. Jesus transformed the world. But he was also abandoned by his own people, by almost everyone, in fact, even his followers. Jesus was a non-conformist, and it cost him his life.

I could leave the pages of Scripture and move closer to home. Ghandi. Nelson Mandela. Martin Luther King. Shall I go on? I don’t think it’s necessary. You get the point. Today, these people are heroes. We build statues in their likeness and name holidays after them. In their time, though, they were disruptors. Troublemakers. Antagonists. They dared to challenge the status quo. The dared to lean into their curiosity, to hope for a better future. And they paid a price for it.

Why We Need Non-Conformists

Why am I saying all of this? Who even cares? 

I say this for two reasons, and they’re both important.

First, telling the truth still matters.

Telling the truth is, in a very real sense, all that matters. Non-conformists are humanity’s moral compass, its voice in the wilderness. A community without non-conformists breeds a culture of idol worshippers. And we have no shortage of idols in modern-day America. Comfort. Cash money. Country. The list outnumbers the sand grains in the Sahara.

We need non-conformists because we don’t gravitate towards truth. We gravitate towards the status quo. Non-conformists are the ones swimming upstream because we’ve seen what lies ahead. It’s a ferocious waterfall, and though your ride the River of Life feels tranquil right now, destruction is around the bend, if you don’t continue riding the current of conventional wisdom.

Truth hurts. Truth is a sword. It pierces the soul. It demands we look in the mirror and change. We would much rather crucify Christ than change. 

Second, the price for choosing non-conformity has always been high, but it seems higher than ever right now.

Our modern-day culture, where social media has replaced the town square as the center of human interaction, has no place for non-conformists. You must choose a side, defend your position with absolute certainty. No fence sitting. No doubting or second guessing. You must attack and dehumanize everyone who doesn’t believe your ideology. 

And non-conformists don’t choose sides. They’re loyal to Truth, and no group owns the deed on truth. Because they see things as they are, they’re neither conservative or liberal, Republican or Democrat. If you believe your group is always right, you can be sure you’re not defending the truth. As Anne Lamott says, “You can safely assume you’ve created God in your own image when God hates all the same people you do.” 

Non-conformists call people away from their bandwagons and towards the Truth. They challenge the idolatry of blind allegiance, of toxic loyalty, of building large walls around like-mindedness. They stand against all forms of power and greed. They stand with the least of these.

Here’s a trustworthy saying: you can determine a group’s spiritual condition by how they treat those who have nothing to offer them. That’s why the first thing prophets do, when they arrive on the scene, is chastise the people for their neglect of the poor and the widowed.

If this is true, and I believe it is, our country is in trouble. Spiritually, we’re in shambles.

The Cost of Non-Conformity

We need non-conformists more than ever. But our fractured and polarized society has no tolerance for people who refuse to take sides. So, you end up in the wilderness. And that’s scary. The wilderness is lonely and barren, and those first steps away from belonging are the most frightening steps of your life. I tell you from experience. They shake you to your core. You turn around in tears and shame at the kingdom of belonging. 

You shake your fists at God. Why did you create me like this? Why am I so sensitive? Why do I feel the pain of the world’s brokenness? Why can’t I fit in? Ignore injustice. I want a home, God. I don’t want to be alone.

“Keep going, my child. The wilderness is scary. But things aren’t always as they seem.” 

And, of course, God is right. The wilderness isn’t barren. It’s filled with people just like you. Artists, poets, activists, and pastors. People who see the world as it is, who refuse to allow power and injustice to trump people. We gather out here, and we dance and pray and write and paint. We also cry and lament and bear one another’s burdens. 

The Higher Cost of Fitting In

Every time I feel the tinge of pain that comes with non-conformity, every time I look in the mirror and say, “Maybe it is me, maybe I am a troublemaker, and my actions have caused my own demise,” I turn on the news or return to social media, and I see how we treat one another. I see how the privileged prey on the weak and vulnerable. How we turn immigrants into pawns for political points. How the church turns a blind eye to blatant abuse. We would rather convert people for Jesus than protect the people in our communities. I see how we cling to our ideas and doctrines even though they leech the humanity from the very people Jesus told us to protect.

And I remember that I’m not crazy. I’m paying attention. The problem with our world isn’t that I reject it. The problem is everyone else surrenders to it. 

I will never return to the kingdom of belonging. I’ve made peace with that. The cost of citizenship is too high. And, yes, there is a cost to live inside those fortified walls of conformity. Here it is. You can’t be fully alive inside conformity’s gates. You can’t tell the truth, which means you can’t be human. You must ignore your longings. That voice inside you, the one that says this isn’t right or you shouldn’t treat people like that or whatever, that voice grows softer and softer, until it becomes mute. And the only voice that remains is the voice of the status quo. 

So, I’ll take up residence in the wilderness and endure a few wounds along the way, I’ll risk being misunderstood and labeled because the cost of living any other way is too high. The illusion of belonging is not worth losing my life. And it’s not worth yours, either. 

Grace and peace, friends. 

October 14, 2022
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Faith

5 Distorted Images of God That Hinder Spiritual Growth

by Frank Powell September 23, 2022
written by Frank Powell

What you believe about God is the most important thing about you. More important than going to church, reading the Bible, or joining a small group. More important than what you do or don’t do.  You can commit to thirty days of prayer and fasting. Shoot, make it sixty or ninety. You can move overseas and spend two lifetimes helping the poor. But if you don’t purify your toxic and unhealthy thoughts about God, you will never change. 

A.W. Tozer said it this way: “Were we able to extract from any man a complete answer to the question, ‘What comes into your mind when you think about God?’ we might predict with certainty the spiritual future of that man.”

This is why so many people who claim to love God look nothing like God. This explains why, for decades, white Christians continued to support laws that dehumanized black people. This explains why pastors sexually and verbally abuse people. This explains why good Christians, people like me and you, remain angry, cynical, greedy, fearful. It’s not because we don’t know the Scriptures. It’s not because we don’t go to church or serve the poor or tithe weekly. It’s because we have a distorted image of God. 

You can’t become a loving and kind person if you have a toxic, unhealthy image of God. Spiritual growth, then, is not about what you do. It’s about Who you see. 

There are so many toxic, unhealthy images of God. Too many to name. But I want to address a few that loom large in our world. Here are some distorted images of God that hinder us from spiritual growth.

1. A PUNITIVE GOD

This toxic image is the by-product of a wrathful God who had to kill Jesus on the cross. An angry, vengeful Father who killed his son so he wouldn’t have to kill us. When this God looks at us, he sees a dirty, sin-saturated human, and he prefers not to see that (I guess), so he hangs Jesus on a cross instead.

A punitive image of God creates punitive people. If God can kill his own son, I can kill as well. And maybe we don’t say it like that, but we don’t have to. Look at how flippantly we enter into war. Look at how many guns we own. Look at how we treat outsiders. 

Underneath the overt violence, though, is an unseen attitude of human carelessness. People with a punitive image of God struggle to care for people who don’t look like them. And you see this among so many Christians in America. They live with a seething anger, attacking any group who doesn’t think they do. Rage is their identity. They don’t care how their words and actions impact actual people. Where do you think this attitude comes from? You got it. From their image of God, the God of wrath, the God who fulfills his purpose through brutal violence. It worked for God, why wouldn’t it work for me, too?

It’s not working. Look around. Our world is disconnected, lonely, anxious, broken. Our punitive image of God isn’t healing the world. Christianity dominates the American landscape. But we’re not bringing the kingdom of heaven to earth. 

So, maybe the answer isn’t more church services or Bible reading. Maybe we need to stop evangelizing people and start addressing our image of God. 

2. A DISTANT GOD

Where is God in my suffering? Why does an all-powerful being allow human atrocities? Why does he remain out there, perched on a mountain top, peering down on our plight, and do nothing? Why doesn’t God care? 

This image of God is so toxic because if God doesn’t care then why should you. Answer? You shouldn’t. And many people don’t. Apathy is a great disease in modern times. People don’t care about the things of God. People don’t care about much all, except how their football played last weekend. 

A distant God has a devastating effect on the human soul. It breeds indifference, which is the opposite of love. Indifference is the penultimate sin. Once you stop caring, you lose your humanity. Shoot, you lose your divinity, too, meaning you lose access to your Creator. You become a tin man, a hollow shell of skin and bones. Just look at Auschwitz if you want to see the end result of indifference. 

Is this who God is, though? When someone sees God as distant, what they really see is injustice. God is all-powerful. People are not, yet people inflict harm on others. God should step in and use his power to prevent human suffering. 

He doesn’t, though. Which means one of two things. Either God is apathetic and cruel, or we have a false image of God. The answer is the latter. 

The cross is God’s response to suffering. It’s not that he doesn’t care. The opposite, in fact. God cares so much, he’s willing to throw off the cloak of heaven and endure pain, so he might be able to walk with us through ours. 

The God we serve is not one who takes away pain, but one who dwells with us through it. God is not distant. He knows the depth of human pain. Where suffering exists, God is found. 

3. A DEMANDING GOD

Growing up, I heard this verse so many times I can’t count. “Be perfect, as your Father in heaven is perfect.” This was almost always used in the context of morality. You must work as hard as possible to sin less. This is the goal of the Christian life. 

And this stems from a hard, no-nonsense view of God. A God who isn’t satisfied with your current level of effort. He’s disgusted with it, in fact. You lie too much. You missed church twice in the past year. You were sick both times, but who cares. You weren’t there. You cursed three times yesterday. And so on.

You see the problem here, right? A demanding God breeds a life of shame. You can never measure up. You can never get it right. You carry this nagging feeling of brokenness, like you don’t have some divine willpower that the rest of the world has. You compare your morality to others. 

God doesn’t desire perfection. God desires intimacy. God desires wholeness. You can stop it with all the do-goodedness. You’re already loved and accepted. There’s nothing you can do to change that. Rest in God’s loving presence. Everything is okay. 

4. AN EXCLUSIVE GOD 

This image of God leads you to build walls and dehumanize anyone who doesn’t look like you. This is the God of win/lose. Believing the right things is most important. And if you don’t believe what I believe, you need evangelizing. You need me to show you the correct path. 

This is the God of Christian nationalism. The goal isn’t to bring the kingdom of heaven to earth. The goal is to make Christian clones. The goal is to convert every human on earth to your worldview, which is often a worldview of patriarchy, power, racism, and – that’s right – violence. Christian nationalism is the anti-thesis of God. 

Walking with God has nothing to do with being right. It has to do with humility, with recognizing we’re limited. I can’t possibly have all the facts about God. What kind of God am I really serving if I do? 

5. A SUPERFICIAL GOD

This view of God dominates much of American Christianity. People who have this image of God allow external metrics to determine their righteousness. There’s no emphasis on the inner journey and self-care. It doesn’t matter if you’re an angry or bitter person if you read your Bible every day and tell other people about Jesus. 

We’ve seen the devastating consequences in our churches. Real people hurt and abused at the expense of church growth. Telling someone about Jesus is more important than becoming like Jesus. 

God is more concerned with who we become than what we do. You see this throughout the Bible, culminating in the life of Jesus. Let’s be honest, if Jesus’s goal was to evangelize the world, he failed miserably. His rhythm of rest and retreat would not go over well in most Christian communities today. We would label Jesus as unproductive, lazy, even irresponsible. 

It’s fair to ask, though. What has our obsession with busyness and productive cost us? Look around. Are we healthy right now? Conspiracy theories, anxiety, loneliness, disconnection run rampant. Megachurch pastors falling left and right, the by-product of a culture built on superficiality, not self-care. We’re busier than ever, mostly doing stuff that doesn’t matter, which leaves us empty and burnt-out. 

This doesn’t sound like a healthy image of God. 

_______

All these words flow from my own experience of a toxic God. For years, I wondered why I did all the “right” things but remained angry and cynical. Why didn’t I care for outsiders like Jesus? 

Then, I lost my health (and my almost my life) unexpectedly. I was bed-ridden with a mysterious illness. In the darkness of my pain, I was forced to look at my life. I discovered that I didn’t need to do more stuff. I needed to examine my own heart and mind. I needed to heal lifelong wounds, wounds I suffered from my father and a legalistic Christian upbringing, among others. As I addressed these, my image of God changed. 

This is how we become more like God. Not by doing spiritual things, but by purifying our thoughts about God. 

Grace and peace, friends.

September 23, 2022
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Faith

A Reconstructionist’s Creed: What I Believe About God After Losing My Faith

by Frank Powell September 8, 2022
written by Frank Powell

I have a shed in my backyard. The shed is older than I am. I’m thirty-seven, so you can imagine the state of my shed. The walls are dry-rotted. The floor’s caving in. The door doesn’t shut. Every time I watch tv, that eye sore of a shed stares at me, and I stare back, and I tell it to enjoy its final days in my backyard and its smirks and says, “You don’t have the guts.”

I do have the guts, though. I plan on deconstructing that shed in the near future. 

And I will enjoy every second of the dismantling process. I’m going to buy the largest sledgehammer Home Depot has to offer and puncture the hideous structure over and over until it falls to the earth. I might even recruit my two boys to take a couple of whacks. And when I load the final shard of wood onto my trailer and transport the remnants to the dump, I will look at the pad where my eye sore of a shed once stood and smile. Good riddance. 

Unfortunately, the attitude I have about my shed is the same one many people have about their faith. Deconstruction, to many, is a detached, flippant, throw-a-grenade-in-the-thing-and-walk-away attitude towards faith. That’s why I don’t like the word. It’s void of feeling, of connection. 

When you say it, deconstruction, you feel the void, don’t you? I do. 

What’s happening to your relationship with God is more like a cocooning than a dismantling. More a changing of states than a pile of rubble. You aren’t losing your faith as much as you are re-membering it. 

And, look, I get it. Deconstruction is hard. It’s disorienting. Embarrassing. You were so sure, so certain. About God. About Jesus. About church. You were ho-humming along, content and happy and zealous.

Then something happened. Another Christian wounded you. Someone you love breathed their last. You got cancer or a chronic illness. Life pulled the metaphorical rug from underneath your feet, leaving you on flat on your back, writhing in spiritual pain. And there’s hardly a more agonizing pain. Spiritual pain sees inflammation and broken bones as child’s play. Spiritual pain goes straight to your core and threatens to infect your soul. It’s not content with bones. It consumes your whole being. 

The goal of deconstruction, though, isn’t to leave God behind. The goal isn’t to funeral your faith. The goal is to re-imagine it. God isn’t the one dying. Your faulty, unhealthy God-images are dying. Your attachments to certainty and rigidity. 

When you deconstruct your faith, you’re not moving further away from God. Your drawing nearer to Him. And as you draw near to something who’s love is so immense, you have no choice but to change.  

And as you change, something new begins to emerge. Your theology is no longer oppositional. It doesn’t derive its power from being against something. You also don’t need to be liked. You’re free. Free to follow where the Spirit leads. 

After years of cocooning, of reshaping, reworking my ideas about God and Jesus and church, I’m beginning to settle on a new theology. I want to share that theology with you. 

Here is a Reconstructionist’s Creed. 

We believe that God is alive and active in our world. 

We believe in a personal universe where the divine image shines through ALL things. 

We believe no single person or group or religion has a stranglehold on God. God is Truth, and Truth exists outside the bounds of theology and doctrines. 

We believe Jesus is the image of the invisible God. He is the firstborn of Creation, the Word that was with God in the beginning. Nothing in the Bible or outside of it contradicts the Son of God. 

We believe the Son of God came to earth and died on a cross to expose our broken systems, to show us that non-violent resistance is the only answer to humanity’s problem of escalating violence. The cross is the salvation of the world. The death of Jesus released the stranglehold of sin by revealing its modus operandi: scapegoating. We change the world by changing ourselves.

We believe in Original Goodness. We’re created in the image of God. We aren’t inherently broken or sinful or separated from God. God’s face is turned towards us.

We believe God is generational. The decisions we make today impact the generations of tomorrow. We must steward our minds and hearts, our communities and creation. Our personal and communal growth is not for us alone, but also for our children and grandchildren. 

We believe that heaven and hell are present realities, not future destinations. God gives us freedom, the power to choose, life or death, blessings or curses. Right now, in this very moment, we can experience True Life. 

We believe that God is just and loves justice. God stands with the oppressed and against the oppressor, and as the hands and feet of God on earth, we will not rest until every oppressive and dehumanizing system has been dismantled. 

We believe the church is the reflection of God on earth. The church exists, not as a collection of ideas or an institution or a compilation of brick and mortar, but as the living, breathing extension of the Divine. The church exists wherever love abounds and broken lives find healing and anxious hearts find peace. The church exists to reflect the image of God and for the redemption of humanity. 

We believe God uses everything. Even our sin. Especially our sin. We don’t need to run from the darkness or wallow in shame. We remain in the presence of God and trust he will transform our transgressions. 

We believe the Bible reveals the evolving narrative of God’s relentless pursuit of humanity. The Bible isn’t a roadmap to eternity. It is a collection of stories about how to be human. 

We believe Love is the final and ultimate and definitive quality of God. All theology and doctrines must be filtered through love. Words that do not heal are not from God. 

______________

The beautiful thing about this creed is that it’s fluid. It’s evolving. On this side of reconstruction, the goal of walking with God isn’t certainty or certitude. It’s change. You have no choice but to change in the presence of the Divine. So, I will look at this creed in a year or so and some of these statements will feel outdated. I will add one or two here. Take away one there. And that’s okay. 

I pray you find hope in this creed. More than that, though, I pray you find hope in the God to whom this creed describes. 

Grace and peace, friends. 

September 8, 2022
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Faith

Jesus Didn’t Die On The Cross To Take Away Our Sins

by Frank Powell September 2, 2022
written by Frank Powell

This morrning I’m sitting outside a Starbucks not far from mi casa. It’s a beautiful summer’s morn. The sun is rising in front of me, the rays fighting their way through some a.m. clouds. 

I don’t see the sun rise often. It’s calming, centering. I should see the sun rise more often. As the fiery blob appears to ascend to the top of the sky, I think about how we used to believe the sun actually did ascend. For most of human history, we thought the earth was the center of the universe. Weird, right? And when Galileo tried to convince people otherwise, he was put on trial and forced to live the final years of his life on house arrest. Why would people cling with such vigor to something that isn’t true? 

I’m glad we don’t do that anymore. 

I’m being facetious, and you’ve probably gathered that. We do, in fact, cling to faulty and outdated ideas, even if they no longer serve us. 

I believe this is true of the cross. Our dominant view of the cross no longer serves us. More than that, it’s not healing the world. It’s not bringing the kingdom of heaven to earth. Look around. Look in the mirror. The penultimate moment in the history of Christianity, the death of God’s son on a tree. A moment so ridiculous, so radical. It should transform us. It should heal the world. But it hasn’t. 

Why? Could we have it wrong? Did Jesus really die on the cross to pay the penalty for our sins?  Did Jesus really absorb the wrath of God? Is this who God really is? 

That’s what I was taught and probably what you were taught. It’s the dominant narrative of the cross, especially in American Christianity and has been for a long time. 

It’s time to change the narrative. 

JESUS DIDN’T DIE ON THE CROSS FOR OUR SINS

Jesus didn’t die on the cross to pay the penalty our sins, to balance the cosmic scales, to wipe the divine records clean. This view of the cross is hugely problematic, for a lot of reasons.  

First, it’s not in the Bible. That’s right. Sure, if your heart so desired, you could find verses that support your view. But the language of Jesus paying the price for our sins isn’t there. 

Second, and piggybacking on the first, this view of the cross is NOT – and I repeat, not – the historical view of the cross. For the first thousand or so years of Christianity, the death of Christ as payment for our sins was not the dominant view. Not until 1098, when St. Anselm penned the infamous “Why Did God Become Human?” did this idea begin to take hold. The payment for our sins view of the cross is not ancient Christianity. It’s not traditional Christianity. It’s less than a thousand years old.

Third, though, and most troubling, are the implications of this theory on our view of God. 

One of the most important questions you can ask is this: Who is God? I contend it’s the most important. Show me your image of God, I’ll show you your future. Your operating image of God shapes everything about you. Your thoughts, behaviors, everything.

You become what you behold.

 This is why what we think about the cross matters. The events at Golgotha lay the cornerstone for Christian faith, so what we think about the cross determines what we think about God.

OUR VIEW OF THE CROSS SHAPES WHAT WE THINK ABOUT GOD

So what does the Jesus-paid-the-price-for-our-sins view reveal about God? 

If Jesus had to die on the cross to pay the penalty for our sins, then God is wrathful, angry, and quite frankly, petty. He’s a God who must kill his own son or else we’re going “down there,” to the eternal basement, where the door is locked and the key tossed away for all of eternity. That’s a long time. The penalty for sins view of the cross legitimizes violence. If God killed Jesus, then it’s okay for us to hurt or kill other people, especially if those people threaten us. And we have. Christians have killed people under the banner of progress or self-defense for centuries. Violence is more than okay. It’s godly. Virtuous. You’re protecting yourself. Your family. Your country. You become what you behold.

If this is your view of God – and it is for most Christians – fear will dominate your days. You will never draw near to a wrathful God. Does he even want you to draw near to him? I’m not sure. But even if he did, why would you? He killed his own son. That’s freaking scary, man. I don’t want to be near a God like that. Intimacy is impossible.

If this is your dominant view of God, you spend your life in a never-ending cycle of trying to prove yourself. When a price that great is paid for you, whether you realize it or not, you spend your days trying to pay it back. I was worth it, Jesus. See all the good things I’ve done. I’ve read my Bible…twice. I tithed last week. I haven’t lied today. You try to earn your salvation through your behavior. So your faith becomes more about what you do (or don’t do) than who you become. Have we not seen this in our churches, from sea to singing sea?

If this is your dominant view of God, you will always believe your identity is flawed. And most Christians do. I hear it all the time: I’m a wretched, sinner. I’m broken sinner. These are identity statements. And, as any good psychologist will tell you, if you believe your core is flawed, you will never change. You will ruminate in shame all of your days.

If this is your dominant view of God, you will elevate the death of Jesus over the life of Jesus. I mean, honestly, if the cross is where Jesus paid the penalty for our sin, does the rest of his life even matter? Who cares what happened before the cross? The cross is all that matters. You substitute worshiping Jesus for following him. 

To summarize, then, if the cross is where Jesus absorbed God’s eternal wrath, the dominant image of God is an angry, petty, punitive Presence who believes violence is necessary for healing, who’s distant and unconcerned about your daily life and who’s apathetic (at best) about allowing most of humanity to dwell in torment for all of eternity. 

It sounds bad to say it like that. I know. But if I’m honest, that’s the God I’ve served most of my life. I served God out of fear, not love. The God I described above is the God of the American church. We can change, though. We must change. Because, again, I sound like broken record, but you become what you behold.

GOING BACK TO THE CROSS

We need to return to the cross, again, for the first time. We need to sit with the scandal of it, the injustice of it, the travesty of it. We need to see it for what it is: the murder of an innocent man at the hands of an angry mob. We assume Jesus had to die, had to go to the cross. He didn’t, though. He chose the cross. God chose to allow humans to nail him to a plank of wood. This, first and foremost, should disorient us. It should shock us. Who is this God? This crucified God. Who is this man that would allow such a thing? I sure wouldn’t. No chance. But God did. Why? 

Let’s start here: the cross reveals the nature of God. The cross is the supreme act of love in the face of heinous evil. The cross doesn’t reveal what God does. It reveals who God is. The cross reveals the pattern of God’s love, the depth to which he’s willing to go to dwell with humanity. He’s willing, even, to submit to our patterns of violence and injustice. 

The cross is the supreme act of love in the face of heinous evil. The cross doesn’t reveal what God does. It reveals who God is.

WHY JESUS DIED ON THE CROSS?

So, if Jesus didn’t die on the cross to pay the price for our sins, what is the point of the cross?

THE CROSS SHOWS US THAT DEATH IS THE ONLY PATH TO HEALING. 

Jesus did die on the cross to save us from our sins. I don’t think there’s any doubt that. Jesus didn’t die, though, to take away our sins. Jesus died to show us the only path to healing sin: death. You must die. You must let go. The cross shines a light on all the silly and futile we go about purging sin from our life. We modify our behaviors. We try scapegoating. Blaming. Victimizing. But the only way to save yourself from sin is to die. What’s dying, you see, is your false self, the part of you that needs to be separate, special, set apart. We don’t like that, though, so we throw our energy somewhere else.

As Richard Rohr says, “The crucifixion of Christ was a devastating prophecy that humans would sooner kill God than change themselves.” 

The only way to experience True Life, a deeper feeling of joy and peace and love, is to stop demanding everyone else change and start changing yourself. 

THE CROSS IS THE FINAL WORD ON THE GREAT SINS OF HUMANITY – PRIDE, VIOLENCE, WAR, PROGRESS. THEY WON’T WIN OVER LOVE. 

Jesus’s death exposes all the ancient sins of humanity – pride, violence, greed, war, exclusion, and so on. They won’t win over love. Love is more powerful. You can’t bring peace into the world through coercion or power. Leaders throughout history have come and gone. In their prime, many of these leaders built large kingdoms and threatened to take over the world. Now, they’re all six feet under, and their kingdoms lay in rubble. Love is stronger than any form of earthly power. You can’t kill it or destroy it. Love WILL overcome all evil in the end.

The cross is a searing indictment on our love of empire, how we put our trust and faith in its false claims of security. How we continue to take up arms, fight violence with violence, and place self-sufficiency over self-sacrifice. Christians claim we want to bring the kingdom of heaven to earth, but we’re not willing to go the way of the cross. We’re not willing to walk the path of non-violent love. We’re not willing to divorce ourselves from empire. We place more faith in political systems than in Christ.

The way of the Cross, which is the way of Love, can and will heal the world.

The question for us is this: will we echo the cries of the mob – Crucify Him! – or will we take up our cross and die ourselves? Will we play a part in the kingdom coming to earth or we will cling to our comfort?

Will we echo the cries of the mob – Crucify Him! – or will we take up our cross and die ourselves? Will we play a part in the kingdom coming to earth or we will cling to our comfort?

THE CROSS DESTROYS THE FINAL WALL SEPARATING GOD AND HUMANITY

As you move through the pages of the Old Testament, you see the many plights of God’s people. Starting with Noah and the wickedness of the people. Then Moses comes along and God uses him to free the Israelites from slavery, but the Israelites grumble and complain. Then you have the period of the judges, culminating in the people wanting a king, like their neighbors, a divine gut punch to their ultimate King. On and on I could go, but it’s a different chapter in the same story: there’s a large gap between God and humanity. God tries everything to fill the gap, but nothing works. 

God’s not content with disconnect, though. God desires complete solidarity with humanity, with you and me, so he fully immerses himself in the human experience. The Son of God puts on a coat of flesh. He doesn’t exempt himself from any part of the human experience, not even death. The cross, then, shows the depth to which God is willing to descend to unite us to him.

The implications of this love are legion. This one truth alone should cause you to stop and weep, to fall on your knees and worship God. What kind of God would do such a thing?

___________

So, there you have it. The cross. The point here isn’t to agree with me or disagree with me. The point is to look honestly at the cross and ask whether our dominant view of Good Friday is transforming us, healing humanity, bringing the kingdom of God to earth. 

I can’t make that decision for you. But I’ve made it for myself. 

Grace and peace, friends. 

September 2, 2022
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Why I Struggle Being A Christian in the Christ-Haunted South

by Frank Powell August 25, 2022
written by Frank Powell

I’ve never felt comfortable as a Christian in the south. Wearing Jesus like a badge you slip on and off when you need it. Oh, it’s Sunday? Where are my Jesus credentials? Oh, this client or friend or whatever is a Christian? Just one second while I put on my Jesus gear. 

I’ve never been comfortable with an on again, off again relationship with God. That’s why I wasn’t baptized until I was 22. Even though in my Christian circle, the unbaptized went directly to hell. Every member of my family sat me down at some point during my teenage years. They begged me. Sometimes in tears. Please, get baptized. I thanked them for their concern. But I couldn’t. 

I wasn’t committed. I wasn’t all in. And somehow I knew that an infinite, all-powerful Creator didn’t care for half-hearted, inauthentic commitment. A willy-nilly devotion to the God of the Stars would make me miserable. One foot in, one foot out. If the God tucked between the pages of Genesis and Revelation was and is the actual God, he deserved my full devotion, my entire heart and mind and soul. And until I was prepared to give it all to him, I would stay on the sidelines. I would – and this sound ludicrous – rather flirt with the gates of hell rather than flippantly follow Christ, which is, in a sense, to flirt with the gates of hell.

Flannery O’Connor, one of the greatest prophets of our time, once wrote that while the South is hardly Christ-centered, it is Christ-haunted. 

When I read that for the first time, I was struck. 

WHAT IT MEANS TO FOLLOW JESUS IN THE SOUTH

Following Jesus in the South isn’t the same thing as following Jesus in the Scriptures. To follow Jesus in the South means you vote a certain way. It means you’re generally a nice person. You say yes ma’am and no ma’am. It means you follow the rules. You don’t lie and cheat and steal. 

Following Jesus in the South is about image management. The most important thing is to appear self-sufficient, to make everyone think you have it together and your kids have it together, that they’re polite, smart, rule followers. Look at my family, all buttoned up and successful. Thank you, Jesus. And my marriage? Rock solid. #Blessed. 

Who cares what’s actually going on underneath the hood. It’s all about how you appear, how your neighbors perceive you. 

At my church, almost every Sunday the same lady goes forward and every Sunday I sigh and think why does she ask for prayers every week? No one needs that many prayers. I’ve never gone forward to ask for prayers, I think to myself, as if that’s a mark of Christian maturity. 

It’s not, in case you’re wondering. 

Maybe this lady has it figured out. I think she does. She’s not enslaved to a false notion of self-sufficiency. She’s not wearing Christ like a badge. She NEEDS him. I need to make everyone believe I have it together.

In the South, your relationship with God is judged by external metrics. How much you do for the kingdom. Checked boxes. It’s not about the condition of your heart. It’s not about integrity. You can be a terrible human and a faithful Christian in the South. You can hate black people and immigrants and abuse your spouse as long as you know the Scriptures and pray and show up for church every week.

CHRIST-HAUNTED, NOT CHRIST-CENTERED

If you live in the South, the ghost of Christ hovers around, though. The real Christ, one who challenged a rich, young man to sell all his possessions. The Christ who bumped elbows with the kinds of people our suburban neighborhoods try to keep away. The Christ who said that God would one day separate people into sheep and goats (followers and fakers) and he would do this based on who fed the poor and cared for the sick and things like that. I don’t feed the poor or care for the sick. Am I a goat? I think so. 

I’m uneasy being a Christian in the south. The uneasiness is the ghost of Christ, nagging me, haunting me, refusing to allow me to settle into comfort. 

The ghost of Christ is that feeling you get, the one that arises every now and then, and asks you to step out of your comfort zone, to re-examine your worldview.  

The ghost of Christ is that feeling that shows up when you try to pass off church attendance for actual faith, when you leave the building and think there must be more to following Jesus than walking inside four walls for an hour. 

The ghost of Christ is the emptiness you feel after you buy that new car or purchase that larger house, thinking either or both will make you happy. 

The ghost of Christ is that voice you hear when you’re so busy you can’t breathe and you wonder if there’s something more, different, better, than a hurried existence. 

The ghost of Christ is the gut punch you feel when you assume you have God locked neatly into a box and life throws you a curve ball. Oh, you don’t think you’re privileged? You think everything you have is because of your hard work? What if you wake up one day and, in the prime of your life – Poof! – your health packs its bags and goes MIA?  

Yes, that happened to me. 

The ghost of Christ is the homeless man you pass on the way to wherever you’re going and you wonder if maybe this man has something to teach you, a lesson you need to learn, that he’s not a stench to society, but the presence of God. 

The ghost of Christ is the reckoning of injustice in our land, the kicking over of the rock to expose the myriad of ways we’ve mistaken Southern ideals for Christian virtues. And how those ideals have wounded actual people. And how our churches love progress as much as they love people. Maybe more.

THE RELENTLESS GHOST OF CHRIST

The ghost of Christ haunts this land. 

Most Southerners know how to ignore this ghost. I do. Construct our personal gods – success, comfort, busyness and so on – so large that Christ has no room to penetrate. 

But ghosts don’t easily give up. They follow us, waiting for an opening, a crack in the ivory tower. 

When the ghost of Christ penetrates, I’m haunted by the pain and loss around me, and I can’t imagine how the world can continue with business as usual. Look. Right there. An elephant. In this very space. Don’t you see it? The elephant is the status quo, the risen Christ turned into a trophy, something we can worship rather than follow. It’s right there, clear as day. You see it, right? 

I tap person after person on the shoulder. You see it? You see it? You see it? No one sees it. I feel alone. People look at me like I’m crazy. When I walk over to tap the trophy, though, everyone becomes angry. They do, in fact, see it. 

No one wants me to remove the trophy, this hollow, lifeless replica of Christ. They like the trophy. It asks nothing from them. They can worship it when they want, then leave it right there and go home and live however they want. Everyone sees the elephant, and they’re just fine with it. 

After a while, tempted by the crowd, I fall in line. I return to business as usual. I worship the trophy too. 

Meanwhile, the ghost of Christ hovers. May the hovering never cease. May the ghost of Christ haunt us day and night, until we wake up and begin to see the world as God sees it. 

Until we become a land that doesn’t need the ghost of Christ because we’ve resuscitated the real thing, we’ve brought Immanuel back to life through our thoughts and words and deeds. 

I’ve never felt comfortable as a Christian in the South. And I pray I never do. 

August 25, 2022
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Relationships

Thank You, Teachers

by Frank Powell August 11, 2022
written by Frank Powell

School starts this week in Birmingham, and it couldn’t come soon enough. I love my kids. I really do. But I’ve reached the point where I get frustrated with them for waking up. “Are you up already? It’s only 9:30. Ugh.”

A few days ago, Jannie Rose, my sweet 7-year-old daughter, looked at Tiffani and with a straight face and a matter-of-fact tone said, “I need a break from you.” She wasn’t frustrated or emotional or having a bad day. It was a fact. Tiffani looked at her and said, “Same,” and they both walked off. Whew, friends. I’m telling you. If you could bottle up the mental fortitude of those two humans, America could once-and-for-all end its reliance on fossil fuels. 

It’s time for my kids to go back to school. That’s my point. We took our first steps in that direction yesterday when we met their teachers. And that’s what I want to talk about. Teachers. 

Here’s something I know because I have friends who are teachers and because I’m a normal, self-aware human: teaching is hard. Teaching is hard to the third or fourth power. It drains you. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. For 7 or 8 hours a day, you serve multiple roles. Yes, you’re an educator. But you’re also a friend. A counselor. A role model. A mother or father figure. A mediator. And, at times – Lord, help us – a social worker. 

Then you have the part that teachers must hate the most: parents. Last year, I asked Micah’s teacher how much of her day she spends responding to parents questions and complaints and so on. Twenty percent, she said. I gasped. That’s too much. I might’ve called her bluff, except I know she wasn’t bluffing. I was a youth pastor for several years, and I spent at least twenty percent of my time responding to parents. 

But that’s how the butter’s churned, as my grandma used to say. Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. Parents gonna be parents, and most parents think teachers exist only for their kid.

________

Teaching is hard, but it’s also thankless. Put those two together and you have a recipe for burnout. I can imagine every teacher at some point in his or her career has turned off the lights on an excruciating day, plopped in the car, and asked, “What’s the point? Why do I keep doing this? Does any of this even matter?”

Well, I want to tell you it does. Here’s a personal example to prove it. 

A year-and-a-half ago, I was lost. I wasn’t far removed from a seven year battle with a chronic illness that took everything from me. I had a job, but that job made me work 50-plus hours a week. I was exhausted. I had no purpose, no direction. I wanted to quit work and crawl in a hole and live as a hobbit for the rest of my days.

Then, one night I was at my mom’s house and found a box of stuff from my childhood. Little paintings from third grade. A collection of poetry from middle school. A football program from my senior year. Random stuff that should’ve found the trash years ago. I reminisced for a while, and I liked that. I’m big on reminiscing. 

I was about to close the box when I saw a note. The note was from my third grade teacher. I won’t tell you her name because some people like their privacy, and she might be one of them. Here’s what the note said:

Look at the third paragraph. Can you read it? If not, here’s what it says: 

“Never stop writing. Some day you are going to be famous.” 

When I read that, something awakened inside me. Like the words were fingers that reached into my soul and reconnected a cord that was unplugged. I felt alive. I knew she was right. I should never stop writing. 

I had, though. I had stopped writing. For as long as I can remember, writing has given me joy. Even as a young lad, I wrote stories. When I was bored or sad or whatever, I scribbled on computer paper. I still have some of those stories. I’m holding one in my hand right now. It’s dated 12/9/95 – I was 10 – and it’s called The Ghost of Hillsbury. I read it, and it’s terrible, and you would think it’s terrible too. But who cares? When I was 10, I didn’t write to win awards or approval or atta boys. I wrote because it gave me life.

Writing has always been my sanctuary. When I write, I feel connected. Grounded. Centered. Whenever I’m lost, writing brings me back home. Everything seems to make sense when I’m holding a pen and a pad. But at this stage in my life, as an adult recovering from a chronic illness and working too many hours at a job I didn’t like, I had no time to write. That’s what I thought anyway. I didn’t have the time or the energy. And what would I write about? 

When I read my teacher’s words, though, I knew why I was lost. I had abandoned my first love. I sat down on the floor and cried and thanked God for my teacher. I needed those words like a drought-stricken flower needs the rain. 

I wrote them on a notecard, placed them in my office, and started writing again. I’ve written everyday since. And my life has improved. Drastically improved. I feel more alive. I’m more engaged with my family. I even found a new job. It’s funny the universe works for you once you begin to work for yourself.

I share this story for one simple reason: teachers alter the trajectory of lives. 

Even 30 years later, I read the words on that note pad as though they came from Buddha’s tongue. Or Jesus’s. I loved my teacher, all of my teachers. I had a deep respect for them. I knew they loved me. I knew they wanted what was best for me. I know that still today.

And, so, when a teacher makes a statement like the one above – Never stop writing – you listen. Teachers know – and I apologize for getting all spiritual – things about your soul, things you can’t see because you hide them behind layers of shame and regret and pride. They see your true self long before you see it. They see the man or woman you can become.

__________

Here’s a strange mystery: whatever hurts you the most also heals you the most. They’re two sides of the same coin. 

So, yes, teachers, what you’re doing is hard, thankless, exhausting work. You carry the burden of preparing actual humans for a beautiful, but cruel world. But you also have the opportunity to alter the trajectory of actual humans. And that has no price, no dollar amount. You can’t measure it or track it. 

So, on behalf of all kids, those who’ve gone before and who are soon to come, thank you. Thank you for investing in us. Thank you believing in us, for encouraging us, for seeing who we could be, not who we are right now. We need you. Teachers, you show us the way. And when we lose our way, you lead us back home. 

Even thirty years later. 

August 11, 2022
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Faith

Goodbye Evangelism

by Frank Powell August 5, 2022
written by Frank Powell

Dear evangelism,

I’m saying goodbye to you. I can’t do this anymore. Often times when one side wants to sever ties with the other, that person will say something like, “It’s not you. It’s me.” That doesn’t fit here, though. Full disclosure: it is you. I’ve tried to hang on, to rally the man in the mirror, to convince him to hang around, to be “a force for change” or whatever. But you don’t want to change.

I must say though, and you know this, evangelism, the sermons preached from your pulpits awakened me from my slumber. They turned a shy, slumbering young man into a pastor, one with a voice and purpose. So, yes, I’m leaving you now. But I must also say thank you. Thank you for giving me a purpose, for challenging me to live for something, anything other than myself. That message changed my life. Would I be nestled in my office scribbling these words without you? I doubt it. I really do. 

So, what happened? A valid question that deserves a valid response. Here it is.

Why I’m Leaving You

Everything began to crumble when I got sick. 

My plight arrived without warning, and leeched the life from my every cell in my bones. In a  short time, I went from pastoring a church and running marathons and all that to writhing in pain, fighting to get out of bed. 

The God you sold me, evangelism, is a God who blesses people. God heals, you said. I liked that God. He worked fine when my life worked fine. But when I lost everything, the God you sold me couldn’t deliver. He failed me. 

I prayed without ceasing. I prayed on my knees. I asked the most faithful men and women I knew to pray for me, and they did. I had someone pour oil on my head and pray for me. I prayed upside-down and right-side up. But God didn’t care. Or he wasn’t listening. Or I wasn’t praying correctly. 

I became angry with God. Pissed off. Why. Was. God. Not. Answering. My. Prayer? Why? 

He saw my agony, right? I’d lived a faithful life. I gave up a stable career for full-time ministry – the opposite of a stable career. And when I needed God, how did he respond? Crickets. Silence.

I became depressed, cynical and bitter. Can I keep it real, evangelism? Of course I can. This is my letter. I thought very seriously about taking my own life. 

I didn’t, though. And here’s why. I realized the God you sold you me was a lie. I realized a deeper, truer, more meaningful God existed beyond the one whose primary goal is to bless your life. I realized that the true image of God is Jesus, who breathed his last as blood spilled down his corpse. Your God rests at the top of the ladder. He loves upward mobility. He loves the construction of massive shrines. A large church building is the mark of God’s blessing. 

The God I found in Scripture exists in the depths of my despair. In muddy pits, not ivory towers. Robes and crowns? Pssh. This God wears rags and shards, and he places his arm around my shoulder while I weep in pain and he says, “I can’t remove it, but I’m right here with you, and I’ll stay with you as long as it takes.” 

I eventually recovered my health, but I never recovered the relationship we had. There are a lot of specific reasons I’m leaving. I won’t name them all. But I will name the big ones. 

You leave no room for doubt or uncertainty. 

The two largest wounds I’ve suffered in my life came from inside your walls, evangelism, from leaders, men selected by the people inside your communities. I was young and curious and naive. I didn’t know asking questions made me a bad leader. But it did. The moment I traversed outside the box you created for God, people told me I was a bad leader. One called me a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Another said my family was in danger of spending eternity in hell. Still others said I was leading their community astray. One person even threatened to hurt me. All because I dared to ask questions, to venture out in the abyss of the unknown. 

Evangelism, you’ve given people a place to belong, an on ramp to a spiritual life. That’s a good thing. Praise-worthy. Three slow claps for you. 

But the very thing that makes you a healing balm for new believers makes you a cancer for curious Christians like me, people who must ask questions and explore. You shame people for asking questions, make them feel less than, unworthy, unfaithful. And that’s not okay. 

If God is who God says he is, who we proclaim him to be, then we’re just touching the outermost tip of his beauty and love and grace. And I don’t want to touch the tip. I want more. That means leaving the status quo behind. That means embracing the unknown. 

I used to tame my curiosity because I thought a curious mind was a dangerous mind. You taught me that. I no longer leash my curiosity. It runs free, and I follow it, and it leads me to strange and new and unknown places. But that’s okay. Because I believe God is found outside the walls of my certainty. 

You want to convert the world without converting yourself 

Evangelism, you’ve commissioned people to the ends of the earth to “convert” every nation and tribe. And, again, I must confess that this hasn’t been all bad. You’ve given people hope. You’ve built homes and villages and wells for clean drinking water. You’ve transformed communities. For that, you deserve praise. 

But, you’re braggadocios posture has created as many problems as you’ve solved. You’re convinced you have the only “true” message, which means you have no desire to learn or grow or understand the needs of the community. I’m not even sure you care about the people. The only goal is to convert them.

You assume this is “God’s plan,” the only right way to go about the Christian life. Meanwhile, you have no desire to convert yourself. You remain shallow, superficial, self-righteous. What I’ve come to see, evangelism, is that you want to convert every human on earth into Christian, but you don’t want to convert yourself. 

You think that as long as you convert people, God is okay with the way you treat your spouse or the addiction you have to porn or whatever.

You also can’t fathom that the people you’re going to evangelize might already know more about God than you do. 

Gasp. 

That’s right. If you stopped and listened, you might realize God exists in a myriad of forms. And in a myriad of ways. And just because someone hasn’t learned the five steps of salvation doesn’t mean they don’t know God. 

Pride abounds in you, evangelism. Pride abounds in me as well. But I recognize it. And I want it purged from my every cell in my body. I’m not sure you can say the same. 

You would rather convert the world than protect your flock

Evangelism, you’ve built a model of church that allows Christian leaders, mostly white and mostly men, to serve the masses without accountability. Because these men can spin gold with words, you raise them above us, where they can meander to and fro, untethered from the actual lives of people. This is a dangerous and toxic thing to do to a person and to the community that person leads. Its bound to create leaders who hurt others. 

And it has.

In the wake of your belief that great speakers are great leaders stands a growing pool of abused, shamed, deeply wounded humans. I’ve read the stories. I’ve seen the headlines. I’ve heard people describe the horror of sexual abuse at the hands of their pastor. I’ve heard the stories of verbal abuse from the mouth of a man they trusted and followed. 

These are real people, whose lives are forever changed, who will take the shame from the abuse they received and transpose it onto God. How could they not? These men were supposed to speak for God. It’s despicable. The level of evil exceeds the human capacity for language. 

Leaders are supposed to protect their community, not prey on them. Leaders are supposed to walk with the community, to live as one of us, as Jesus did, not hover above us. 

I can no longer stand idly in the wake of these hurt and wounded souls and say nothing. My heart hurts for them. Their lives damaged at the hands of your “leaders.” It pains my soul. 

You value competence more than character. 

Evangelism, your Sunday mornings are spectacles. They’re powerful and emotional. Your musicians have incredible gifts. I’ve already talked about the pastors and their ability to spin gold with their words, powerful enough to awaken a bear from a winter’s nap. 

Your Sunday mornings send a clear message: worship is for professionals. Only the best of the best make the final cut, which is fine, except that’s not at all the model Jesus used to gather and grow his community. You believe corporate worship must be engaging and without flaw or else people won’t turn to Jesus. 

So, the goal then, becomes competence over character. Excellence over integrity. Who cares what kind of person the musician is when she’s off stage. When she’s on it, her voice can summon angels. Bring dry bones to life. And maybe that’s true. Maybe her vocals can summon the dead. That’s not the point. The point is you’re sending a message to the rest of us, the other 99%. We don’t matter. Integrity doesn’t matter. Humility doesn’t matter.

And they do. They matter far more than excellence or competence. Those aren’t spiritual virtues. They’re your virtues, evangelism, and we’ve worshipped at your feet for so long, we’ve equated them with godly virtues. 

You value self-sacrifice more than self-care

I’m nearing the end of my scribbling. This point is personal. Evangelism, you told me that sacrificing myself for others was a great gift to God. So, I did that. I crucified my well-being on the altar of service. 

My body tried to warn me. “Hey man, this is not okay. I’m not doing well. I’m tired. You don’t have unlimited stores of energy. You need to take time for yourself, to rest and regroup. Go for a walk. Say no. Please.” 

I didn’t listen. You told me not to listen. You told me that sacrificing my body glorified God.

Then, my body broke down. It collapsed in spectacular, mic-drop-style fashion and it’s deeply ironic – at least to me – that my stunning decline left me unable to serve in your church. Evangelism, I spent the next seven years of my life in total hell. I lost everything. I writhed in pain, an indescribable pain that I’d never felt before and wouldn’t pray on my worst enemies. Yes, that includes the entire state of Texas. Prideful bunch, they are. 

Self-care, evangelism, is not more important than self-sacrifice. You lied. Self-care is the anti-thesis of selfish. Self-care is the greatest gift I can give to myself, an act of worship to God. Self-care is good stewardship of the first and most important gift we bring into the world: the reflection in the mirror. 

What good is it if we build up everyone around us but destroy our body? Tell me, evangelism, what good is that? It’s not good. How you treat your body reveals what you believe about God. God created your body, after all. 

You need us to sacrifice our bodies to keep your machine running. You need more converts so you can bring in more money so you can build larger buildings so your pastors can brag to their peers about how much their church has grown. 

You leave no space for self-care. And self-care is the foundational of a thriving spiritual life. I must listen to my body because I believe its language is the voice of God. I trust its longings now. And I will never again sacrifice myself to save someone else. 

__________

I’m still a Christian. I still have a desire to share my understanding of Jesus with others. Is that not why I write? 

But I can no longer follow you, evangelism. 

Thank you, again, for laying a good, solid foundation for my faith. But we must part ways. 

Blessings, 

Frank Powell

August 5, 2022
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