Uh oh! Michael R. just stole your KOM!

That’s the subject line of an email I got just over two months ago. You can see a picture of the email above.

It still makes me mad. I didn’t lose my KOM, someone stole it. Someone named Michael. A plague on his house, I say.

Lost My KOM

But before you call the police, you should know that while KOMs are valuable to me, they are actually meant to be stolen; before Michael stole it from me, I stole it from a guy named Brian.

At this point, I know most of my readers are lost, so let me help: KOM stands for “King of (the) Mountain.” It’s a cycling term – sometimes a formal designation in professional cycling, and sometimes an informal one.

I didn’t earn my KOM in professional cycling of course, but while using the app called Strava (www.strava.com).

Strava is a combo of Facebook and a personal fitness tracker, but with the ability to compete on designated “segments.” There are thousands of “segments” across the world. And when you ride through one with a GPS, you get timed, and then your time is ranked against all of the other riders that have ridden that segment.

You can see in the email that my KOM was on the “Overton Climb”— stress on the word “was”; Michael beat my time by 8 seconds.

As mad as I was at whoever this Michael guy is, I was thankful for the reminder that treasures on earth do not last. Here on earth, people can steal them. But I am also thankful for the reminder that  Jesus gives: there is a place to keep treasures that is more secure than Fort Knox.

Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Matthew 6:19-21, ESV)

Where is your treasure – on earth or in Heaven?

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Yeah, That Thing I Said, I Didn’t Mean It Like That

When Jesus said, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets: I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them,” do you think he really meant, “But on the other hand, do not think that I have come to completely affirm everything in the Law or Prophets either”?

Or when Jesus said, “For truly, I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the Law until all is accomplished,” do you think he really meant, “By ‘jots and tittles’ I don’t mean every bit of chronology, cosmology, or history”?

Or when Jesus said, “Therefore whoever relaxes one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be called least in the kingdom of heaven” do you think he really meant:

I’m not actually against relaxing some of the more outdated commandments. After all, who doesn’t like relaxing! I don’t want my disciples getting hung up on minutia. As long as you are concerned about love–whatever you understand that to be–I wouldn’t worry about the particulars.”

I don’t.

And neither does Kevin DeYoung.

Of the blogs that I read consistently, DeYoung’s is one of my favorites. I thought you’d enjoy a taste of his writing in the above quotes.

The full post can be found here. In it, the sarcasm might be a little too thick, but then again… maybe it is not thick enough. You decide.

The Lifeblood of Christianity

“The importance of the passion and resurrection for the early church is evidenced by the relatively large amount of space the narrative takes in each of the Gospels and especially in Mark. "Out of Mark’s 661 verses, 128 are devoted to the passion and resurrection account, and a total of 242 are devoted to the last week (from the triumphal entry to the resurrection) of Jesus is life.

"The church obviously had more than a passing historical interest in Jesus’ death and resurrection. These events formed the basis of the church’s witness and worship—the lifeblood of early Christianity.”

- Walter W. Wessel & Mark L. Strauss (commenting on the Gospel of Mark in Matthew and Mark, The Expositor’s Bible Commentary, 2010, vol. 9, pg. 936-7; emphasis added)

Jumping the Shark and the Trajectory of Sin

Where Did It Come From?

Maybe you’ve heard the phrase before, and maybe you have not. Jon Hein coined it a few years ago. If you have an extra 15 minutes, it’s an interesting internet search, but if not, here’s the skinny.

“Jumping the shark” refers to the event within a television show that provides the incriminating evidence that the series is no longer any good. It’s that moment of ridiculousness when plot is so threadbare and the characters so clichéd, that you roll not just your eyes, but your whole body grimaces. Are you kidding me? He just jumped a shark.

The genesis of the phrase comes from an episode in the 5th season of Happy Days when Fonzie, while waterskiing (in his leather jacket!), actually jumped over a shark. I know—full body grimace.

It’s not clear to me if the phrase indicates the moment where the journey uphill is crested, and afterwards it’s all downhill; or rather, if “jumping the shark” is an indication that freefall has already commenced. I suspect the latter.

When I heard the phrase for the first time, it seemed to hold true for the handful of shows I have watched. In comedy sitcoms especially, main characters—over time—invariably become caricature of themselves.

Take a character like George Costanza. At his best, he is a caricature of a tragic, sad, unfortunate man. That’s funny. There is some humor there. But then, over time, George became a caricature of his own caricature. Laughs came only with more difficultly, exaggeration, and convolution.

Think also of the cast of Friends—Phoebe started as a caricature of a quirky friend, and Joey a caricature of a somewhat dim, and overly masculine, man. But over time, they became these things on steroids—caricatures of a caricature. I believe the pattern holds for the Dwight Schrutes and Michael Scotts as well.

Can a Genre Also ‘Jump the Shark’?

The other night I was flipping through the channels and I saw Ted Danson was in a cop-detective show. (Later, I learned it was the latest reprise of CSI. How many seasons and cities have there been?)

Apparently, solid characterization quickly drifts into caricature, not simply with individuals in an individual sitcom, but it also happens in shows across similar genres.

Here’s what I mean: I only caught a few minutes, but it was enough to observe a genre in freefall. Gone was ‘subtly,’ and in its place was ‘overt’; gone was ‘slow-cooked, rising tension’; instead there was ‘fast’ and ‘extravagant,’ and violent twits of plot splashed with sex—in other words, not grill master tenderloin, but McRibs slathered in sauce. An early Law and Order episode (a forerunner in the genre, I believe), would look boring in comparison—better, but boring.

What’s this All About?

At this point, you might be thinking, Here we go—another ‘they don’t make them like they use too’ rant.

Not so. It’s not wise to talk like that (Ecclesiastes 7:10).

I think there is more to all of this than the slow degradation of characters in sitcoms and the degradation of shows in genres—more than the relationship between airtime and diminishing returns.

No, there is more going on here. This is the trajectory of sin.

Sin always promises to taste good (cf., Genesis 3:6; Proverbs 9:17). And most of the time, there is some truth in the promise.

But then, when the meal is consumed, sin is still not satisfied. It continues to consume. It eats the styrofoam plate the food was served on. And then the arm that feeds it.

Sin will eat you until there is nothing left. What looks pleasing to the eye, will end in fig leaves and shame. The original caricature is fun, but at some point, the caricature of the caricature is absurd.

This is the picture of sin in Romans. When people go deeper into sin, when we exchange the glory of God for McRibs, things get bad, then worse. Paul writes of “thinking” that becomes “futile” and hearts that become “darkened” (v. 21), and then of the “degrading” of bodies (v. 24).

This is the trajectory of sin. At some point, it jumps the shark. Sin makes people less human and beast-like, and those watching from the outside can often see it more clearly.

Consider the depths that addiction takes people, and what a person will do for a high—whether one from drugs or career advancement or some other ‘high.’ And consider the way sexual immorality often must keep escalating to offset diminishing returns. And consider the legalism of the Pharisees—it got deeper and deeper into its own rules. These are just a few examples; others could be multiplied.

Is it Different with Godliness?   

But, godliness, on the other hand, does the opposite.

Life with God makes one more human over time, not less. For those who push themselves to grow in their relationship with God, for those who immerse themselves in the gospel, and for those who surround themselves with strong accountability in the form of other Christians in the local church, this tends to make us the types of humans we were meant to be: humble, dependent, and happy creatures of our God.

Or as Jesus said it, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10). Or as Paul wrote in Ephesians, in the coming ages, God will be continually showing his children the “incomparable riches of his grace” (2:7). That’s a show that doesn’t get old because the Glory of God never jumps the shark.

While sin bits off our arm and still wants more, life with God is a life of increasing joy, not diminishing returns.

No, I Don’t Know Everything, but Thanks for the Reminder

Sometimes, pastors give the impression that they know it all. But this is not really a 'pastor thing,' so much as a 'people thing'—or then again, maybe I’m just a pastor deflecting the guilt. Regardless, nearly every Tuesday, the week before I preach, I get a fresh reminder that I don’t know everything.

The sermon may look clean, clear, and compelling on Sunday morning—only by the grace of God, of course—but it does not feel that way most Tuesday mornings. Most Tuesdays, it feels opaque, like a thick, tropical jungle.

I felt all of these sorts of things this week as we are jumping back into a series in the Gospel of Mark. My task, come Sunday, is to expound Mark 13:14-27 in which Jesus discuses the end times. One commentator notes that this chapter is “one of the most perplexing chapters in the Bible to understand, for readers and interpreters alike.” (James R. Edwards, The Gospel According to Mark, 383).

I believe it; when I translated the passage last week, I listed out some of the questions I had about each verse. This morning, when I typed them out, there were 62 questions. And the list will grow before it shrinks.

Better get to work.

But I do so with the confidence that in God’s Word there is life—something that truly is clear and compelling—and with the confidence that if I will only swing a machete in the jungle long enough, asking God to lead the way, he will show me something worth showing others. He always has before.

The Thickness and Beauty of the Canon, Even if Closed

I believe, along with Christians throughout the ages, that the Bible is closed and complete. We don’t add to it, nor should we expect another to do so, at least ways that are authoritative and normative for all the Church. It would take another post altogether to explain why this is a rational belief, and how this is actually what the Bible seems to say about itself. Maybe some other time I’ll write that post.

This post is for celebration.

Think about this: the Bible consists of 66 books, written by many authors over the period of about 1,600 years. The Bible speaks to and tells stories of battles, violence, sex, fractured families, humility, friendships, love, God and gods, mercy, forgiveness, creation and destruction, shame, destitution, rebellion, miracles, salvation, hope, glory, lies, murder, redemption, and far, far more. And all of the wonder, truth, and glory therein will never be exhausted by finite creatures, even in the coming eternity of joyous, unending learning that awaits the children of God.

Yes, the Bible is “closed,” but slice it thick and grill it medium rare. All by itself, it’s a satisfying meal.

Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen diligently to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. (Isaiah 55:2)

With 66 soul satisfying books, we are not impoverished.

Read it; study it; memorize it; trust it; live it—feast on it. That’s what it’s intended for.

I Don’t Need a Boat, but Get Me a Boat

Jesus withdrew with the disciples to the sea, and a great crowd followed… And he [Jesus] told his disciples to have a boat ready for him because of the crowd, lest they crush him. (Mark 3:7, 9)

I take great comfort in the fact that Jesus does not need help doing anything—not mine or anyone else’s. Ever.

In the Old Testament, God says that if he was hungry—say, he wanted a sandwich or something—he wouldn’t ask for help (Psalm 50:12). When he created the world, the only “help” he got was within the Trinity. In the opening verses of Hebrews, the author notes that Jesus “upholds the universe by the word of his power.”

It doesn’t seem like God needs help.

In many ways, this is part of the litmus test of God-ness: If you need anything—food, water, sleep, praise, money, protection, love—then you are not God. If you don’t need, then you are God.

But then I read verses like Mark 3:9, and I take great comfort that Jesus wanted his disciples to help him. In this verse, because the crowd might actually have “crush[ed] him,” Jesus asks his disciples to get the escape boat ready.

Really? Why?

In Luke 4, a crowd wanted to toss Jesus over a cliff, and he just walked through them. I’ve never quite understand how that went down, but it happened. And if this crowd in Mark 3 got too lively, and Jesus needed to bail, then there was water right behind him. He could just walk away on that, right? Wouldn’t that save time and effort? Wouldn’t that even achieve the secondary purpose of showing his God-ness?

This is why, every day, I keep reading my Bible. I want to be tethered to it until I die.

In the Bible, I’m continually surprised—pleasantly surprised—by Jesus. I’ll learn one thing about him—say, he is God and doesn’t need anyone’s help—and then I learn something else—say, he desires the help and ministry of his friends.

I imagine it felt good for the disciples to be told to do something for Jesus, like get a boat ready. For most of those guys, it was in their wheelhouse. I bet they rushed off, their labors fueled with dignity—like EMTs with the sirens whirling: “Jesus needs a boat; let’s go, let’s go; come on, move it; the crowd could push him into the water.”

The tendency, in our human-ness, is to discount either God’s self-sufficiency or that our efforts matter to God. There is mystery, but somehow, these cohere. He is the God-man. And this gives my labors—our labors—for the kingdom meaning, value, and worth.

God doesn’t need my parenting, my preaching, my tithes and offerings, my “quiet time,” my evangelism. But he wants them.

Jesus needs another Christian to start another blog, like he needs a sandwich.

But if he asked me for one, I’d try to make him a good one—a toasted panini with double meat and feta cheese. I think he’d like that.

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