IVP - Strangely Dim

The Rabbit Hopped; The Writer, Flu

It's nearly noon where I live, and I just dragged myself out of bed after an epic night of the flu. To be honest, I had thought it was just bad donuts. Anyway, I'm home sick today, but I couldn't let the first of the month pass without acknowledging our monthly game of "Rabbit," or "Rabbit Rabbit" if you're so inclined. Each month we strive to be the first in our little network to say "Rabbit" on the first of the month, and it appears that this month goes to Andy Crouch, who posted to the "Rabbit Uber Alles" Facebook group at 5:23 a.m. Eastern time, or approximately seven hours before I woke up. Congratulations, Andy! Runner up: Web, with a subtle post to my wall at Facebook.

Good News for Short Attention Spans

Pity the poor seminarian, forced to articulate the totality of Christianity in a carefully worded, highly scrutinized document. I occasionally go to a regional meeting for my denomination where candidates for ordination have to stand there while a room full of people read their faith statements and then saunter up to a central microphone to tell them what's wrong with it. The lines of each faith statement are numbered for the convenience of reading and, more important, confronting: "I think it's wonderful that on line seven you speak so movingly of the love of God, but can you help me understand how, on line eight, you contend that this loving God willfully punishes people eternally for something so minor as failing to believe in his Son?" This litany of back-handed compliments and theological posturing is sufferable only because it's so perfunctory; I've yet to attend such a meeting where the doctrinal hazing wasn't followed immediately by unanimous approval of ordination.

The statement of faith is, some might say, an artifact of modernity. They're inheritors of the creedal tradition, when communities of faith would gather and come to consensus about what God had revealed about himself, his creation and his purposes. Such creeds would then be returned to the faith communities, where they would be declared in unison as part of the service. I grew up reciting the Nicene Creed week after week after week, and never once did someone saunter up to a microphone and argue for or against including a comma in line four.

But statements of faith have served as much to distinguish communities of faith as to unite them. They're invitations to an argument, a shot across the bow of other denominations or organizations to confront perceived slippage in the integrity of the Christian faith. They get longer and longer, with more and more numbers for ease of reading and, more important, for ease of shredding. And they're required for seminary graduation, the theological equivalent of requiring someone to stand on a firing range wearing a T-shirt with a bull's-eye on it.

One countertrend to such carefully crafted documents as the statement of faith is Twitter, a forum for communicating random information in 140 characters or less. A few theologians in the Presbymergent community, most notably Adam Walker Cleaveland and Shawn Coons, have taken up the challenge of twittering their faith: stating clearly and concisely how they perceive the heart of Christianity. You can check out the growing pool of entries here.

I like the idea of twittering your faith; it's not only a good challenge to say what you believe in as few words possible, it's a good exercise to do so and then get on with your day, which presumably is an outworking of what you've just twittered. And even beyond that, to declare your faith in a forum that is necessarily ephemeral--each Twitter entry will soon enough be replaced by the next, potentially something as mundane as "stuck in traffic"--is to acknowledge that we are finite and incomplete, that we're still growing in our appreciation of a faith that precedes us by millennia and will extend far beyond us, even to the end of the age.

How Can I Keep from Singing?

What'd you do this weekend? I ran the gamut of contemporary singalong culture. Thursday night I sang along with people at church, mostly songs that are in rotation on Christian radio. Friday night I sang along with my friends and coworkers in the audience at a concert that featured Christian music legend Mike Roe and unbelievably brilliant cult favorite Over the Rhine. (By "cult," incidentally, I mean loyal fan base, not heterodox brainwashers.) Saturday night I served as MC for "patriotic karaoke night" at my local library, something I still can't quite believe I did. And Sunday morning and evening I sang contemporary praise music with folks from my church. I did all these things while suffering from bronchitis; my apologies to the people who stood in front of me.

This weekend reminded me of an essay by Don Saliers in the book Practicing Our Faith. He observes that, by and large, people don't sing together anymore. Oh, we'll sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" if we're actually at a ballgame, and we'll sing in the shower, if we're by ourselves. We'll sometimes even sing when directed to do so by our pastor or our president or our boss. But spontaneous, voluntary group singing is pretty much reduced to road trips, and only then with the right song, after being cooped up in a car has made the group sufficiently loopy.

Each of my singalong experiences this weekend--from the coerced to the impulsive--was surprisingly enjoyable. The most surprising for me was "patriotic karaoke night." I was nominated for this gig by folks from my church who didn't even show up. But I'm not bitter. It was technically not karaoke; it was a singalong, using a karaoke machine for the lyrics. About twelve people showed up, including one woman from the Ukraine. Not bad for 7:00 on a Saturday night. Most in attendance were well into their retirement years, though there were a few in their thirties. No kids, interestingly enough. We sang about twelve songs together over coffee and cookies, and people shared stories about their history with the songs.

These songs, I came to learn, function as a sort of archive of American culture. There's an explicit connection between the lyrics and the historical moment in which they were written. There's a clear mashup of nationalism and spirituality, from the ubiquitous references to God, on the one hand, to the fact that some of them were composed by seminarians, on the other. There's a nearly universal celebration of liberty as a central ideal, a demonstrated fondness for the American landscape and an outspoken pluckiness that insinuates, among other things, that to be American is to be indominatable--materially, emotionally, spiritually.

In the 1930s and 1940s two songs were championed as replacement songs for the national anthem--"God Bless America" and "This Land Is Your Land." Woody Guthrie, in fact, wrote the latter because he was sick of hearing Kate Smith belt out the former on the radio. The group stood in honor of "God Bless America," at the suggestion of one woman, but "This Land Is Your Land" was the only song we sang twice, at the suggestion of the man who sat right behind her. "God Bless America" might actually make for a good anthem for the red states, and "This Land Is Your Land" befits the blue, but keeping them both in the rotation perhaps best reflects the spirit of the purple.

I'm not a very good nationalist, I freely confess, but patriotic karaoke night was good for me. I was surrounded by people of various ages and life experience, singing songs we all recognized and had somehow assimilated into our subconscious. I came away with a better understanding of the context out of which I sing songs of worship each week with a couple hundred other people, the context that shaped how the songwriters I'm most drawn to put music to their own particular worldviews. I left each event feeling somehow connected to the people I had sung with, and in most cases I continued singing or whistling or humming as I made my way home. You can get a lot out of singing together, it turns out. It's a wonder we don't do it more often.

Lord, Have Mercy

A dispatch from Lisa, who is currently holed up in an undisclosed location.

I know we're all sick of political commercials; signs in yards with names and positions in big red, white and blue letters; phone calls and junk mail from candidates; newspaper and magazine articles on the candidates' past sins, present mistakes and whereabouts, and future vacation plans; the latest political poll; and so on. So I'll keep this short.

Conversations with friends and Paul's words about praying for leaders in 1 Timothy 2, as well as wise commentary from N. T. Wright on that same passage, have reminded me, in the midst of all the hullabaloo, that we're called to pray for our leaders. So, whether or not you voted early at the mall, are going to vote on Tuesday and ask for extra stickers to wear throughout the day so that everyone will know you voted, or aren't going to vote at all and didn't even know there was a presidential election this year--start praying.

I admit, it feels like such a small thing to do for an election that will affect nearly every other country in the world. Voting sometimes feels that way. (As a friend recently expressed, in a broken system can my one vote really make any practical difference for people in need? Will broken, sinful people in power really act out of the best interests of others?) But prayer can feel even a step further removed from Washington, D.C., than voting: If I throw up this prayer for our leaders, will God really hear? Will my prayers for our president and other leaders really bring about change in them, in this country?

Many days, if I'm honest, it doesn't feel like a prayer will affect national and global affairs. But as I talked with friends about the election, it struck me what a dangerous position president of the United States is: in our post-Fall world, few men or women can handle that much power and not fall into sin or greed as a result. So even when we feel like our prayers won't make a difference, I'm convinced we must pray for our leaders.

We're commanded to, for one thing. And prayer moves our focus away from the little power we have to the power of the One we pray to: the only true God, the only all-powerful One who really does hold the kingdoms of the world in his hands. If Paul can exhort others to pray for their leaders while imprisoned by members of his own government, surely we can put his words into action.

Here a few suggestions for prayers you can pray for our leaders, whoever they are:

* Pray for grace to handle the power of their position and wisdom to use that power for the best interests of others, particularly the poor and oppressed.

* Pray for the wisdom and humility to surround themselves with wise people who will help them handle the power.

* Pray that they will be good listeners.

* Pray for their family life.

* Pray for a heart that is compassionate, that longs to see justice done.

* Pray for godly vision.

* Pray for protection from those who would harm them and their families, whether physically or emotionally.

Who knows? As we pray, God may move and empower us to act in some of these areas, to make a difference not for our country or our glory, but for his kingdom and glory.

Forget the Donkeys and Elephants; I Vote for Rabbit!

Today is the first of the month, which means today we once again play our monthly game of Rabbit. And because I'm the only one with remote write access to Strangely Dim, I'm the only one who can create this entry. Hooray for me!

It's not often, actually, that Lisa or I win the Rabbit competition. For the uninitiated, one wins Rabbit by saying, texting, e-mailing or otherwise communicating the word "Rabbit" before anyone else on the first of the month. It's demented and sad, but social.

We also have a Facebook group for this game, of course (Rabbit Uber Alles!), which means we wage our little rabbit battle on multiple fronts. This month avid blogger and longtime friend of Strangely Dim, Rick Stilwell, pulled off a stunning victory from, of all places, the happiest place on earth. Maybe all those giant mice and ducks and nondescript animals walking around the theme park jogged his memory. In any event, congratulations, Rick!

Brian McLaren's Gonna DJ at the End of the World

I heard Brian McLaren present at the Christian Community Development Association (CCDA) annual conference last week, where he led a roomful of people in a chanted prayer for justice after sharing the lyrics to Joni Mitchell's "Woodstock" as a pattern for Christian justice work. Or something like that; I was a bit sleep-deprived. The lyrics to that song, however, are pretty great: as Steve Turner indicates in his book Imagine: A Vision for Christians in the Arts, the biblical image of weapons of war being refashioned into "plowshares and pruning hooks" is given a contemporary translation of bombers becoming butterflies. Sure, the hippies had a thing for butterflies, but it's an image worth praying for regardless.

Today Brian listed some other songs for a redemptive playlist on his blog, among them a video from his newly released worship album, two songs by Ben Harper ("With My Own Two Hands" and "Picture of Jesus"), and John Mayer's "Waiting on the World to Change." A few more songs and Brian will replace Michael Stipe as my choice for "DJ at the End of the World."

Brian's song choices have particular meaning to me; "With My Own Two Hands" was regularly on repeat as I wrote my first book, Comic Book Character, as it sets the tone for a gutsy, shalom-directed activism that resonates with my own desire to be some kind of hero. Harper re-recorded this reggae anthem as a lullaby for the Curious George soundtrack, which would inspire wonderful childhood dreams, I'd imagine. At his workshop at CCDA, Brian employed similar language: our aim is not to be villains or victims but to align ourselves with our Hero--sidekicks of the Savior, as I like to think of it.

"Picture of Jesus" was the song I listened to at the 2003 Urbana Student Missions Conference as the clock passed from 11:59 p.m., December 31, to 12:00 a.m., 2004. Harper has recorded that song twice: once with Ladysmith Black Mambazo (my Urbana version) and once with the Blind Boys of Alabama, the CD for which I have since lost. In any event, the lyric "I long to be a picture of Jesus" was a good, peaceful way to ring in the new year in solitude, and not a bad New Year's resolution either.

"Waiting on the World to Change" was a good organizing idea for me as I wrote Deliver Us from Me-Ville, as it represents an anthem of sorts for Generation Me. I blogged about it here at the time of its release; and Brian's post made me nostalgic for the post. I reprint it here for your amusement.

***

Everybody Needs a Theme Song

I'm not ashamed to admit it: I'm a fan of John Mayer. Sure he's a pretty-boy, sure he dated Jessica Simpson, sure he's on shuffle on my thirteen-year-old cousin's iPod and on the wall in her room, sure he's a little smug and self-important. But I'm a fan, for a number of reasons.

For one thing, when he was a kid he liked to dress up as a superhero, and you have to respect that. For another thing, he plays guitar like he invented it. But more than those reasons is the fact that he dares to speak for an entire generation of people. That takes moxie, and I respect moxie.

He's written about the bitter nostalgia of life after high school, the social awkwardness of relationships, the wonders of sexual intimacy, the perils of vocational uncertainty and the quarter-life crisis. He's a living, breathing discography of early-adult ennui. And now he's written what I hereby nominate as the theme song of Generation Me: "Waiting on the World to Change."

Generation Me, characterized by author and psychologist Jean Twenge as adult survivors of the self-esteem movement, is known for confidence that borders on arrogance and self-importance that borders on narcissism, but also for a profoundly fragile self-image and a low threshold for depression. Twenge argues that where twenty-somethings in the late 1960s were characterized by statements such as "I can change the world!" Generation Me is characterized by statements such as "You can't beat the system."

You could spend forever exploring the origins of this pandemic of fatalism among people born after 1970, but thanks to John Mayer, you don't have to look far to see its impact. In "Waiting on the World to Change" he asserts that "me and all my friends, we're all misunderstood." He doesn't try to overcome the misunderstanding, he just embraces the reality. You can't beat the system. You have to play the hand you're dealt. Fill in your own cliche here.

The self-esteem movement shows its influence as Mayer claims a critical omniscience--"We see everything that's going wrong"--but he then confesses an inability to address the problems: "We just feel like we don't have the means to rise above and beat it." You could understand why a person who sees all the bad in the world and yet feels powerless in the face of it would struggle with depression. And why does Generation Me feel powerless to change their world? Because someone else pulls all the strings: "When they own the information, they can bend it all they want." You can't trust what you know because you can't trust the people who put it in your head.

Mayer and his fellow twenty-somethings are often derided as hopelessly apathetic, which is a pretty hopeless and apathetic thing to say about a group of people, if you think about it. In reality, apathy is an understandable response to hopelessness; a defense mechanism, so to speak. Here's the lyric that jumped out at me more than anything in the song, maybe because it's such a clever rhyme, maybe because it betrays just a hint of attitude by using the word ain't: "It's not that we don't care, we just know that the fight ain't fair."

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the world we inhabit: a chronic sense of helplessness in the face of an unrelenting onslaught of big problems, combined with an ingrained suspicion of authority born out of scandal after scandal across the spectrum of life experience. Our government and industry leaders, our local and international authorities, our priests and pastors, our parents and teachers, our friends and neighbors, have all fallen short of the glory of God--and we see the impact on ourselves and everything around us. It's all too much.

Nevertheless, Mayer is able to muster up some meager hope, and that hope may just be enough to tide him and his friends over: "One day our generation is gonna rule the population, so we keep on waiting on the world to change." There's plenty of circumspection that needs to take place between now and then--particularly that what we are thinking about everybody else, they are thinking about us--but in the meantime let me share words of encouragement from another cynical yet insightful songwriter, Tom Petty: "You're all right for now."

Oops, We Nearly Forgot Balaam's Ass

The donkey saw me and turned away from me these three times. If she had not turned away, I would certainly have killed you by now, but I would have spared her. (Numbers 22:33)

Jehdeiah, Donkey Caretaker

In today's Donkey Tale we dive deep into 1 Chronicles, almost to the end of the book, to find out what we can about a little-known-but-clearly-important figure: the man behind King David's donkeys.

I bet you've never heard of Jehdeiah. His name, unlike Jacob and Matthew and Joshua (all in the top ten for 2007), has never been on the "Most Popular Baby Names" list. I didn't go to school with anyone named Jehdeiah. And I'm guessing even my friend Joel (who knows just about everyone; you probably know him too) doesn't know any Jehdeiahs.

Moreover, 1 Chronicles 27:30 is not the first verse we're generally told to memorize. Not even the second one, after John 3:16. And the whole verse isn't actually about Jehdeiah. He only gets half a verse; Obil gets the first part. But today, in this second Donkey Tale Fortnight at Strangely Dim, I would like to speak for Jehdeiah. But first, like any good exegete, we have to read the verse--well, half-verse--first:

Jehdeiah the Meronothite was in charge of the donkeys.

Simply stated. No bells and whistles and needless braying. Don't you feel like you know him already?

Here's a little context for you since the verse is a touch sparse when it comes to details. At the end of David's kingship, 1 Chronicles 23-27 gives somewhat of a "who's who in the kingdom" overview, almost as David might have told it to his son Solomon in passing over the crown. So amongst the lists of priests and Levites and gatekeepers and treasurers and officers and officials and singers, we find the list of David's overseers--the ones who took care of his property--and amongst the list of overseers, we find Jehdeiah, the one who took care of David's donkeys.

I know what you're thinking. Who cares? Now, granted, in the grand biblical narrative from Genesis to Revelation, this isn't the most crucial verse. I highly doubt the next great worship song will mention Jehdeiah. But I love that this verse is in here, and here's why: It reminds me that people matter to God.

I'm guessing that Jehdeiah's job, while perhaps well-paying for the times, was not the most pleasant or glamorous job. As king, David must have had hundreds of donkeys, and all of them would have needed water and food and places to bed, and, being load-bearing creatures, they most likely had to be saddled and unsaddled frequently, and, being stubborn animals, they most likely didn't always want to be saddled and unsaddled. And he was in charge of them all. It's a job that, while messy and seemingly insignificant (both in Scripture and as we think about it today), needed someone responsible, someone David trusted. And Jehdeiah was the man who got it, and whose name is in the God-inspired Bible for doing it.

So maybe I'm making too much out of this half-verse. Maybe I picked it because we're nearing the end of our second Fortnight of Donkey Tales and it's slim pickins for donkey passages. Actually, no. There are, surprisingly, still plenty of verses left that mention donkeys. I picked this verse because I was intrigued that it's in there at all. As I started to ponder why it's there, though, other people recorded in Scripture started coming to mind--people who, while maybe more familiar to us than Jehdeiah, had positions or diseases that made them undesirable, that made others view them as insignificant and not important: Rahab, prostitute; Bartimaeus, blind beggar; a man covered with leprosy; a woman subject to bleeding for twelve years; Hagar, abused servant; Ishmael, bastard son; Ruth, immigrant. Over and over, Scripture devotes verses--from one verse to whole books of the Bible--to the poor, the cast-off and rejected, the "unclean" (whether literally, like Jehdeiah may have been, or ritually, according to Jewish law, or both).

Our society has a decidedly lopsided and narrow focus of who deserves to be noticed, and who deserves to have their name written down. The rock stars, the actors and actresses, the CEOs (though they're not winning any votes these days), the fashion designers who start the newest trends, virtually anyone wealthy. In comparison, it can be hard to know our own significance, and difficult to work hard at jobs that go largely unrecognized or unpraised by the rest of society.

But the fact that Jehdeiah is listed at all in Scripture reminds me what kind of God we worship--one who who notices the kings and the donkey caretakers, one who views us as significant no matter what we do, one who honors our faithfulness in the little things especially, and in all that we do, whether it's in our work or our play or our relationships. So whatever your title, whatever responsibilities you have--barista, bus driver, professional bowler, sandwich maker--take some encouragement from Jehdeiah, the Donkey Caretaker. Your work matters. And the One whose title is King of Kings and Lord of Lords notices you.

--Lisa Rieck, Editorial Assistant, Peanut-Butter Enthusiast, Introvert and Proud Owner of a Metal Lunchbox

Saddle Up Yer Donkey

How long does it take a donkey to carry a woman twenty miles? I have no idea, but that's what the donkey in today's Donkey Tale does. (Feel free to let us know if you figure out the answer.)

In one of last week's Donkey Tales we looked at Isaac (a.k.a. Miracle Child) and why Abraham (a.k.a. Loving Father of Miracle Child) almost had to kill him. The possibility of Abraham's really having to sacrifice the son he loved so deeply, as well as his faith in God's sovereignty before knowing how things would end, were both hard for me to imagine.

In the days of Elisha, in a place called Shunem, another Miracle Child actually does die. This son is not even named in Scripture, but his birth occurs in similar circumstances to Isaac's. The child's mother and father, apparently wealthy, provide Elisha with a place to stay whenever he needs it. In return for their kindness, he promises the childless woman and her old husband a child within the year. Like Sarah, this woman is skeptical--but also like Sarah, she holds a son in her arms a year later.

We don't know how much time passes (2 Kings 4:18 simply says "the child grew"), but one day the boy complains to his father that his head hurts. By noon, verse 20 tells us, he's dead.

Once again, Scripture doesn't give us much insight into the woman's thoughts or emotional reaction. But it seems safe to say she loved her son every bit as much as Abraham loved Isaac, and I would imagine that his death--a death that occurred in her arms--caused the deepest pain she'd experienced so far in her life.

Which is why what she does next is so challenging to me. After laying her son on Elisha's bed, she immediately goes outside and asks her husband to send a servant and a donkey to her so that she can go see Elisha, the "man of God." He seems confused but obliges her request. So "she saddled the donkey and said to her servant, 'Lead on; don't slow down for me unless I tell you'" (v. 24).

They find Elisha about fifteen or twenty miles away, at Mount Carmel. She falls at his feet when she reaches him, and, through Elisha's statement to his servant in verse 27, we get our first glimpse of her emotional state: "bitter distress." Upon seeing her grief, Elisha sends his servant ahead of them--telling him to tuck his cloak in his belt and run--to try to revive the boy, but the servant's efforts are unsuccessful. So when Elisha reaches the house, "there was the boy lying dead on his couch. He went in, shut the door on the two of them and prayed to the LORD." Elisha then climbs onto the couch and lies on top of the boy. The boy's body starts to get warm. So, after walking around the room, Elisha lies on top of him again. And then, as if waking from a nap, the boy sneezes and opens his eyes: miraculous birth number two.

Here's what gets me: In the deepest grief she's ever known, the Shunammite woman--again, an apparently wealthy woman who most likely has any material item she needs right at her fingertips--saddles her donkey and gets to the man of God as fast as she can. He performed a miracle for her once; he must be able to do it again.

Her faith, like Abraham's, is much stronger than mine. In times of pain and grief, immediately turning to God is not always my first response. In those moments, I don't usually recall all that he's done for me--which includes physically healing me when I was in high school and woke up too feverish and nauseous to play in a regional tennis match. And, when I do recall his gifts, his miracles, in my life, I'm too timid to ask him boldly for another gift or miracle, assuming I've already received my allotted amount from him.

But the fact is, he wants me to come to him as quickly and boldly as the Shunammite woman went to Elisha. And the truth is, he's as eager to help as Elisha was--and his power that caused this boy's birth and resurrection is as strong and active today as it was then.

So, Strangely Dim friends, in your grief, in your pain, in your confusion--get on your donkey and go to him. Which is to say, cry out to him. He already beside you, eagerly waiting for you to call on him, ready to respond in wisdom and power to bring you back to life.

Call It What You Want, It's Still the Jawbone of an Ass

Today's donkey tale proves that donkeys don't even have to be alive to be significant.

This summer my pastor ran a series called "Bedtime Bible Studies Revisited," based on the idea that the Bible, a book for adults, is most often read to kids in an attempt to make them fall asleep. In the process some of the key details and fullest meaning of those Bible stories drift out of the church's consciousness. Tucked into the middle of this series was the subject of today's donkey tale.

Finding a fresh jawbone of a donkey, he grabbed it and struck down a thousand men.

Then Samson said,
       "With a donkey's jawbone
       I have made donkeys of them.
       With a donkey's jawbone
       I have killed a thousand men." (Judges 15:15-16)

Everybody likes Samson; we even name our luggage after him. But truth be told, he's not a terribly likeable guy. Anyone who can kill a thousand men without subsequently spending a great deal of time in somber reflection is lacking a certain amount of spiritual depth. But we knew that already, because by this time in Samson's story he's already effectively violated nearly every element of the promise his parents made to God on his behalf before he was even born.

Before he was canonized as one of the judges, or deliverers, of Israel Samson was born a Nazirite, much like John the Baptist was born a Nazirite before he was labeled a Baptist. Nazirite vows were, for the most part, temporary commitments, but both Samson and John were born into lifelong vows, which involved a series of sacrifices but more notably a distinct lifestyle:

* no grapes or grape byproducts (such as wine)
* no contact with the dead
* no haircuts for the entire length of the vow.

Samson, however, regularly indulged in wine to great excess and regularly came into contact with dead stuff--usually stuff that he himself had killed, often because he was such a surly drunk. He killed a lion and went back later to scoop honey out of its carcass. He set a whole village on fire by tying foxes and torches together. And then he killed a thousand people with the most convenient weapon on hand--the fresh jawbone of an ass (KJV).

In fact, by this point in Samson's story, the only aspect of the Nazirite vow that we haven't seen him violate is the rule against cutting his hair. And we all know how that turned out. But once Samson was shaved bald, the Bible tells us, "the hair on his head began to grow again" (Judges 16:22).

This passing comment is one aspect of what the entire epic of Samson reminds us all: Regardless of evidence to the contrary, you are what God calls you, and you're to do what God calls you to do. God, despite Samson's indulgence in Delilah and drink and death, had called him a lifelong Nazirite and Israel's deliverer (Judges 13:5), and God ultimately, mysteriously delivered Israel through Samson's Nazirite vow (Judges 16).

Like Samson, we can't relieve ourselves of our responsibility to God, but we can trust that even occasionally in spite of us, God will make a way for us to accomplish his will for us. It's the harmonization of our own wills to the will of God--the willful embrace of the calling God calls us to--that makes for Christian maturity. For the way to become mature, however--which is essentially the way to become wise, which is essentially the way to not become an ass--we have to turn not to Samson but to Job:

A witless man can no more become wise
       than a wild donkey's colt can be born a man.

Yet if you devote your heart to him
       and stretch out your hands to him,

if you put away the sin that is in your hand
       and allow no evil to dwell in your tent,

then you will lift up your face without shame;
       you will stand firm and without fear. (Job 11:12-15)

So today, as you consider your path, don't stretch your hands out to the nearest jawbone of an ass, those things you know you're not supposed to mess with. Instead stretch your hands out to God, and you'll discover that you're well on your way to wisdom and maturity with all your necessary parts intact.