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We’ll be left with a church of upstream swimmers, people who cling to their faith identity despite a powerful counter current of anti-Christian sentiment.

For one brief moment last May evangelicals and atheists celebrated the same thing. What had these disparate groups clapping in unison? The Pew Research Center’s report on “America’s Changing Religious Landscape.”

Atheists trumpeted the continuing rise of the “nones,” those who affiliate with no religion. The study showed that, in the space of seven years, the number of unaffiliated had jumped from 16.1 to 22.8 percent of the population.

Read the Rest at

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Ryan Huguley and I discuss how young writers can get better, some challenges facing the evangelical church at large, and the consequences of taming God. Listen here!

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The Reflex of Worship

November 6, 2014 — 1 Comment


Have you ever sensed God in a room?

I think I have.

Sounds strange, I know. But if you’ve participated in enough corporate worship or prayer, you may know what I mean. And hopefully you’ll sympathize with how difficult it is to explain.

The first word that comes to mind is lightness. There’s a certain levity that pervades the room, this sense that you could almost climb into the air.

At the same time (and here’s where things get odd) there’s a heaviness. Not a bad heaviness, like gloom. It’s a good heaviness. The air feels heavy—thick with God, if you’ll forgive the expression. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the Hebrew word for glory, kābôd, comes from a root signifying “weight.”

I know such a description will sound hopelessly subjective to an outsider. I wouldn’t submit it for proof of God’s existence to my skeptic friends. Yet if you’ve experienced it, there’s no denying God’s presence. It’s palpable, vivid. As clear as the nose on your face.

God is always present, I believe. But he doesn’t always manifest his presence in quite the same way. The remarkable thing about those services in which I have sensed his presence, it wasn’t because the music was particularly good or the prayers especially profound. It was because there was a collective sense of God’s power and glory, of his holiness.

I recall standing in a room with three hundred people singing “How Great Is Our God” and feeling like we were blending into heaven. Only an intense appreciation for God’s holiness produces such moments.

We go to great lengths to create atmospheres conducive to meaningful worship. Each year we publish hundreds of new books on worship, hold conferences, and spend millions of dollars on instruments and décor we hope will lead people into the presence of God. None of this is wrong. Atmosphere is important. But I believe that no matter how much we invest, from stained glass to strobe lights, without an appreciation of God’s holiness, our worship is fated to be superficial and, at best, momentarily moving.

“Ultimately transcendence is what makes a worship service meaningful,” writes author Bill Giovannetti.

He’s absolutely right.

When God shows up, worship doesn’t have to be manufactured or drummed up. It happens instinctively.

Worship is the natural reflex of mortals to the presence of a holy God.

“Where there is no vision, the people perish.”

Most people quote the King James Version of Proverbs 29:18. As much as I love the poetic cadences of the King James, this is one instance where the famous translation misses the mark. The context and content of the verse make it clear this isn’t just any “vision” the people need. A better translation would read: “Without a vision of God, the people perish.”

It’s God himself who makes worship meaningful. It’s a vision of his holiness that drives us to our knees. God’s holiness is the heart of our worship.

Theologian Rudolf Otto described the experience of the holy as the mysterium tremendum. That is the phrase that became popular, but his original description was longer. He called it the mysterium tremendum et fascinates—the overwhelming mystery that fascinates or attracts.

These Latin words capture a paradoxical truth about God’s holiness. It overwhelms, but it also draws. It terrifies and captivates. It bows our heads even as it lifts our hearts.

This is an excerpt from YAWNING AT TIGERS: YOU CAN’T TAME GOD, SO STOP TRYING. Click here to read more!

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My wife and I recently celebrated our ten-year anniversary in Kona, Hawaii. It was an incredible trip, though not your typical romantic getaway. The reason? We brought along our eight-month-old son.

It’s amazing how many things you can’t do on the Big Island with a baby in tow. No surfing, no snorkeling, no kayaking, no crater climbing, no late-night luaus.

More than once we wondered aloud whether we should have made the trip with such a young child. But by the end, we were glad we did. There’s nothing quite like watching a child watch the world. And when that world is filled with the vivid sights of a tropical paradise, it’s even better.

On one of our first evenings there, while my wife was getting ready to go out for dinner, I walked our son down to the beach. The early months of his life had passed in the landlocked Midwest, so this would be his first glimpse of the ocean.

As we neared the water’s edge, I was curious to see his reaction. Would he smile? Giggle? Open his mouth and unleash one of his familiar “Gee, gee, gee!” exclamations? Or just stare, wonderstruck?

He cried.

I should have anticipated his response. The tide was in. The waves were high. They sped toward us with a growing roar before slamming into the rocky shoreline, churning up stones and spewing them across the pebbled beach. It was a violent scene.

As my son took it all in, his bottom lip started to tremble. Then he jerked his head from the sight and stifled a scream against my shoulder.

Suddenly I understood how strange and terrifying the pounding waves must have appeared to him. He’d never seen anything like it. What guarantee did he have that the next angry surge would stop before swallowing us whole?

His reaction made perfect sense: the ocean is overwhelming. And not just for children. Truth be told, I’m a little scared of it too. Poets wax eloquent about the ocean’s beauty, its power to inspire serenity and introspection—and that’s all true.

But there’s another side to the sea, a scary side, the side of powerful tempests and deadly creatures and dark depths. There’s a reason swimming instructors tell you to respect the ocean. If you don’t, it can kill you.

When I was about twelve years old, I remember looking out over the ocean at night and trying to imagine what it would be like to swim out into those black waters. It was about the scariest thought I’d ever entertained.

Vast, beautiful, powerful, dangerous—that’s the ocean. It makes me think of God, which is probably appropriate. Both are immense, mysterious. Both can make us feel frighteningly small.

The appropriate response to such greatness is respect and awe, even resignation. Yet often we tend to do something else, something very strange. We devise ways to make them more manageable. We scale them down to our size. We domesticate them. Or at least we try.

The god lagoon
One of the highlights of our anniversary trip to Hawaii was staying in the Hilton Waikoloa Village, a sprawling four-star resort located on the Kohala Coast of the Big Island.

We could only afford to stay there two nights, but it was worth the price. You didn’t even have to leave the 62-acre, 1,240-room resort to have a good time. It featured a dozen restaurants and a variety of shops, boutiques, and galleries.

In the daytime we swam in the pools and dined in the open-air restaurants. In the evenings we strolled the meticulously gardened grounds, taking in the lush vegetation and cascade waterfalls. When our feet got tired or the baby got fussy, we simply hopped on the air-conditioned tram that whisked us back to our room.

But the big draw for us was the lagoon, an enclosure the resort’s website described as “teeming with tropical fish and rare green sea turtles . . . a protected oasis perfect for snorkeling and swimming.”

The lagoon, of course, was man-made. Every min- ute ten thousand gallons of water were pumped in from the ocean. All dangerous marine life was screened out.

There were no jelly fish or barracudas or sharks in the lagoon. Nothing with stingers or poison or fangs. No spiny backs or razor teeth. Just slow-swimming turtles and brightly colored fish.

Beside the lagoon was a perfectly rectangular, white-sand beach, with cabanas for rent. And yes, a Lagoon Grill to fill you up between swims.

After getting situated on the beach, my wife and I took turns swimming while the other parent watched the baby. I jumped into the water first and swam for the other side.

The water wasn’t perfectly clear, but I made out several large fish passing beneath me. When I reached the rocks on the far side, I even spotted a sea turtle. I swam back to the beach, toweled off, and it was my wife’s turn.

The lagoon was enjoyable (it definitely beat a cold night in Chicago), but after an hour or so something unforeseen happened. We got bored.

Why did the initial thrill of crisscrossing the enclosure fade so quickly?

Maybe we had unrealistic expectations. I had been attracted by the promise of an authentic marine adventure, but this felt more like swimming in a large pool stocked with fish and turtles. Perhaps the experience was diminished by the fact that the lagoon was crowded with other vacationers, many riding inner tubes, paddleboats, canoes, and giant water bicycles.

But the problem really wasn’t what was in the lagoon. It’s what wasn’t. There were no waves, no spray from the surf, no tides, no coral reefs, no danger, no depths.

It wasn’t the ocean.

At one point I looked over my shoulder at the sea. It lay about a hundred feet away and seemed to stretch forever beyond the horizon. “You know,” I said to my wife, “we could swim in there.”

I believe there’s a spiritual equivalent to that man-made lagoon. If the ocean is like God, the lagoon is a poor, but useful, replacement. It’s domesticated Christianity. It’s engagement with a lesser deity. It’s the golden calf in place of Yahweh. It’s a life designed to give us spiritual experiences while cushioning us from the reality of a dangerous God.

Just like the manmade lagoon had real ocean water and marine life, this “god lagoon” may contain some spiritual truths. We may even encounter qualities of the true God—but only the ones we deem acceptable. Divine characteristics we find threatening or that clash with our modern sensibilities, we carefully screen out.

Life in the lagoon means never being surprised by God. It means never having to take seriously what he might have us do or ask us to give up. Ultimately, it means we are in control.

The power of the god lagoon lies in its subtlety. It’s easy to think you’re in the ocean when you’re immersed in saltwater and surrounded by sea turtles. And it’s easy to believe we’re encountering God because we go to church, sing the songs, pray the prayers, and interact with Christians. But we can do all of those things without ever having to grapple with the real presence of God.

And it’s not like the lagoon is filled with pagans and heretics. It’s filled with us—well-meaning believers who gladly pay lip service to the central doctrines of the Christian faith. But here’s the rub. Somewhere along the line we’ve distanced ourselves from those truths. We haven’t let them, or the God who revealed them, invade our reality.

In a thousand little ways, we’ve chosen the comfort of the shallows over life in the deep.

Striking off for the deep
So many of us live what one writer called “lives of quiet desperation.” We’re bored to death of living but scared to death to really live.

What if what’s really missing are the deep things of God?

What if it’s not that next accomplishment or superficial thrill? What if only a ravishing vision of God’s grandeur will make the difference? Maybe that’s what it takes to make you want to crawl back into your life.

Maybe only the deep will do.

If we have access to the deep things of God, why would we ever be bored? Why are we so often spiritually complacent?

I don’t think it’s because we lack faith or are more sinful than anyone else. And it’s certainly not because God is boring. But over the years, we slowly lose sight of how strange and splendid God truly is.

My friend Margaret Feinberg wrote about this tendency:

Many of us say we want to experience God, but we don’t look for his majesty. We travel life’s paths with our heads down, focused on the next step with our careers or families or retirement plans. But we don’t really expect God to show up with divine wonder.

Slowly, subtly, God becomes ordinary, commonplace. As our view of his grandeur dims, our spiritual lives become dull. Instead of striking off for the depths, we never leave the beach. We’re like marine researchers, equipped with all the tools and resources to explore the deepest fathoms of the sea, who instead opt to build sandcastles on the shore.

Speaking of the sea, something strange happened next time my son saw it.

The day after swimming in the resort we went down to the water again. Not to the man-made lagoon but to the wild sea itself.

This time my son’s reaction was different. Rather than turning in fear from the pounding waves, he was mesmerized. Craning his neck to see past me, he looked out at the majestic swells.

He wouldn’t stop staring.


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The Op-Ed (Oprah Edited)

September 8, 2014 — Leave a comment

OPED“Drew! Grande Americano!”

I skipped up to the counter to claim my caffeine. But just as I was about take my first sip, I spotted something on the java jacket—a quote from the former Queen of Daytime TV, Oprah Winfrey.

I usually like quotes, but this one was bad—a dreadful cliché masquerading as wisdom. My half-wakened brain reeled. I had a dilemma: go without a java jacket and burn my hand or contemplate Oprah’s “wisdom” all morning. A classic first world problem, you might say. But hey, suffering is suffering.

And my suffering increased. As the weeks passed, Starbucks continued printing Oprah quotes trumpeting a Disneyfied gospel of self-actualization. Then I realized that the solution was right in front of me. Oprah’s quotes weren’t that bad; they just needed a little editing. And guess what I do for a living? I edit stuff! So I applied my craft to make Oprah’s life lessons less grandiose and (hopefully) a little more biblical.

See the edited java jackets at PARSE.

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