I called my former teacher to talk. My confession came quickly: “I don’t think I’ve liked myself much over the years.”

His reply startled me. “Son, I don’t think many people like who they are. At least if they are being honest. That is why Jesus offers to make us new creations.”

Is this true? I wondered. So many others appear so composed, so at ease in their lives.

Then I thought about friends whom I love dearly, but who don’t always love themselves so much.

I deeply want to experience all of life. I want to fall in love; marry; have children; build a career; attend my kids’ football games; eat dinner with them; send them to college; renew my vows with my wife; attend reunions; visit old friends; and sit on my porch on a large piece of land in the South with lemonade in my hand. I've painted pictures in my head, I want this so badly.

We all want something. The problem is that we don’t want the greater things as we should. We want the visible, the things that prop us up in the minds of others, despite the greater reality of the invisible.

Jesus encountered this problem. He called men to follow him and they responded, "I’ve just gotten married. Let me go be with my wife. I’ve wanted this and I finally have it. Let me enjoy this for a while.” Men said to him, “I’ve finally attained financial freedom. Let me know it and bask in it.” Other men said, “I need to honor the memory of my father. The duties of my family call to me.” To which Jesus replied, “You are not worthy of my kingdom. Go your own way.”

Driving across the country, endless expanses of America pass by my window. Farmland. Desert. Lakes. Pastures. A continuity establishes itself in the repetition of land: a mundane movie with no visible plot and scenery with no scene. As a kid, seatbelt strapped, I watched with steady disinterest, my mind calculating the remaining minutes before I could pose the question again, “Are we almost there yet?” 

Some destination existed ahead, someplace known as “Grandma’s house” or “Colorado.” Each exact location remained a mystery to me. I believed Chicago was a country. The rock quarry we drove over was undeniably the Grand Canyon. How disillusioning for me to discover that Arizona was thousands of miles from our drive along the Lake Michigan coastline.

Eve heard the serpent speak. The problem wasn’t the hearing. The problem lay in Eve’s choosing to listen. Since then, every person’s story entails a competition of voices. To what voice will we bend our ear, listen and believe?

 

“A Beautiful Mind” depicts this struggle for a person’s mind. John Nash befriends his freshman roommate at Princeton, Charles Herman. Fast friends, they talk often and visit regularly over the years and into their adult lives.

There’s just one problem: Charles doesn’t exist. Nash’s wife and others reveal to him that this longtime friend only exists because of his mental illness. Though a genius and an eventual winner of a Nobel prize, Nash’s intellectual horsepower cannot maintain a grip on reality, and deny the voice of Charles.

That Jesus remains in me?  That I remain in him? 
That he cares more about love and mercy than service and sacrifice? 
That he believes in me?  That he believes I can be like him? And calls me to be like him?

That God’s Spirit leads me, guides me, comforts me?                                                                                                 

 That he considers me a friend? That the world will know I follow him if I love others?
That people will persecute me for following him?
That in him I have peace?
That believers can truly become one?
That he has given us his glory as he received it from the Father?
That he is in us as a body?
That love bears, believes, endures and hopes all things?
That he is with me in the midst of my pain?

What kind of employer is God? Compared to the world, he offers abysmal pay and benefits.

 

Working for the world pays. We receive insurance, stock options, pay raises, bonuses and vacations. This in addition to steady income, clothes, cars and housing. Our names show up in print, in conversation. Professional and social cliques woo us. Our influence grows. The better we become at our work, the more we attain. The clothes turn designer, the cars’ interiors leather, and the houses sit on larger lots. 

Why do I believe A+ grades make me a person who passes muster? 

Why do I believe my fraternity/sorority’s letters make me acceptable in general?
Why do I believe I’m better than someone because my clothes are from Kenneth Cole or Dolce and Gabbana?
Why do I believe I’m innately more cultured and civilized than the girl I work with who comes from the boondocks?
Why do I believe my job makes more me more qualified to understand life and the world than the cashier at grocery?
Why do I believe my involvement in campus ministry says I am more spiritual than those who aren’t involved?
Why do I believe these things wait for me right after this life moment: school, job, engagement, pregnancy?

One of our primary desires is our desire to be right. If others don’t believe us, we’ll try to prove them wrong, ceaselessly. 

 

Few desires trump this one, this need to prove what we believe to be true. We must have others believe us. And the closer the beliefs are to our heart, the more dire the need.

A friend worked with children at a church. He always wanted to help others, and he gave away much of his time to do so. After some involvement with the first-graders, he found out one child had accused him of inappropriate touching.

In the beginning, Adam and Eve chose not to believe. Our lives have been toil since. But not just in the physical and material realm.

 

Our fall in the Garden of Eden incurred the curse of work. The earth resists us, and we labor for enough food to eat today. Tomorrow the cycle recycles and we begin it again.

No day arrives when we say, “I have done enough. My work is finished.”

We always need more.