I have no wisdom to offer

On Monday night, my wife and I sat in our suburban St. Louis family room and watched St. Louis County Prosecutor Bob McCullough tell reporters and the world that the grand jury did not return a true bill against Ferguson police officer Darren Wilson, who shot and killed 18-year-old Michael Brown. In other words, no charges would be filed.

Since the death of Brown in August, I have heard and read much about the case, and early on I understood one thing.

Tell me how you vote, and I will likely be able to tell you your opinion on the Brown case.

I first saw it two days after Brown’s death. A good friend published a blog post, which was as extreme as any I have seen since that time. Anyone who gently pointed out that we didn’t yet know the facts to draw any conclusion was rudely dismissed – this happened because of endemic and institutional racism, and because white police officers are by definition racist.

My friend is an otherwise gentle soul. I like his writing and his books. I’ve reviewed his books, and favorably; in fact, that’s how we introduced ourselves to each other. I wasn’t surprised at his feelings; I was shocked at the absolutist way he responded to even mild criticism. He seethed with anger.

Many people have been writing about Ferguson. The writing is largely predictable, even among most Christians. I’ve seen lots of feelings, beliefs, arguments, and advice. What I have yet to see – from any sector or individual – is wisdom.

And let me say right here I have no wisdom to offer. This is not the time for wisdom.

Yesterday I watched the press conference by the mayor of Ferguson, followed by the press conference by the governor of Missouri trying to explain why the National Guard wasn’t sent into Ferguson last night until after the business district was looted and burned. (Looters hit corporate targets like Walgreens, McDonalds and Toys R Us; they also hit a cake shop, a beauty supply business, a Chinese restaurant, a public storage facility and the convenience store where Michael Brown was filmed stealing cigars minutes before his death). I did not watch the press conference by Attorney General Eric Holder.

It was the Ferguson mayor’s press conference that has stayed in my mind. With the mayor were ministers from local churches, urging calm and an end to the violence. One, an African-American woman whom I bet can blow out the windows when she’s in the pulpit, gave a mini-sermon. None of them offered words of wisdom.

They offered something more: love and hope.

If our community is to find our way through this to something better, it won’t be politicians, who have generally made the situation worse, who lead us. It won’t be the anarchists who seem to have arrived by the busload from out of town. It won’t be the media, and it certainly won’t be the editorial writers at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

It will be the church.

Not  churches collectively, but “the church,” the Christians who belong to various denominations and attend various churches. I saw them at the mayor’s press conference, and I recognized them. I see them at my own church, which is still a buttoned-down Presbyterian kind of place. I see them at a lot of churches in St. Louis, and I see some who don’t attend church at all.

In The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, authors John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall say this: “We’re learning to live with a community of people who trust God and others with what is true about them. We discover we’re part of a destiny bigger than our own. While we have an individual destiny, the community we are part of also has a destiny, and we are intertwined with it.”

It will be the church who leads us, the church led by the Spirit.

Politicians will not be able to do this.

Only the Spirit-led church can do it.

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been reading The Cure. To see more posts on this chapter, “Two Destinies,” please visit Jason at Connecting to Impact. This concludes our discussion of the book.

Photograph by Ken Kistler via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Desires, Dreams and Destiny

We see a lot of advice these days about following your passion. Determine what your passion is, pursue it, and you will find happiness. Huffington Post even has a whole section on the subject. It ‘s a subject usually but not always associated with “Gen Y” or millennials – those who were born roughly between 1980 and 1995. Yet I’ve heard Gen X-rs and Baby Boomers embrace the same idea. It’s usually tied in with the idea of quitting your existing job and pursing that desire or dream that’s been rattling around in your head.

However the idea got started, the inevitable pushback has followed. “Follow Your Passion is Not a Career Plan,” says Business Week. George Washington University professor Cal Newport says it’s bad advice. Mashable reposted the Cal Newport video and then elaborated on why it’s bad advice. So did the Minimalists. So did Fast Company. (That Cal Newport fellow has had a considerable influence.)

The appeal of the idea of following your passion is understandable. You find yourself in a boring job, or a job that’s taken turns you didn’t expect, or the organization reorganized itself three months after you walked in the door, or that great new boss you were working for suddenly quit, or the company was acquired and layoffs are coming. Or perhaps the layoffs have started. None of this leads to happiness, and it is happiness that has come to be the main goal of life in Western culture.

What I think we do is confuse passion with desire, or even dreams.

I have a great desire to spend more time in London, seeing cool stuff, like we did on our recent vacation, and preferably staying at the hotel we stayed at. It’s a desire – and a quick way to spend a lot of money.

I have a dream of being a full-time writer, writing what I would like to write. It’s been a dream since I was in my 20s (it’s an old dream). I didn’t begin getting really serious about it until about 10 years ago. Yes, I’ve authored two novels and a book about the poetry of work. I won’t be living off the royalties any time soon. The dream is still a dream, and one that I believe I’ll be closer to realizing in a few short months, when I retire from the day job.

Ideally though, you never quite realize the dream. You keep reaching for it. The reality of the dream is in the reaching.

And then, say John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall, the authors of The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, there is destiny.

Their definition isn’t what you might expect. Most of us today would define destiny as fate or perhaps providence. What The Cure suggests, however, is that we typically look at this from the wrong end of the telescope.

“Destiny,” the authors write, “is the ordained intention God has sacredly prepared with your name on it.”

That’s the desire we should have, the dream we should reach for, and even the passion we should follow.

Yes, it’s about you, but it doesn’t start with you.

And it won’t end with you.

But you do have a destiny.

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been reading The Cure. To see more posts on this chapter, “Two Destinies,” please visit Sarah at Living Between the Lines and Jason at Connecting to Impact.

Photograph by Anne Lowe via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

A Tale of Two Committees

I have just completed a one-year term as a member of our church’s officer nominating committee. I was one of two deacons appointed to it; I served alongside four elders and eight members elected from the congregation.  

If you’ve served on such a committee, you know the real possibilities for conflicts, misunderstandings, politics, undue influence by the staff and pastors, and all the other things that can go along with the assignment. That didn’t happen this year. It could have, and easily; our church has been going through a rocky patch for the past two to three years. 

It could have happened, but it didn’t. It was one of the most positive church experiences I’ve had. People were respectful, willing to listen and heed, asked good questions, and searched out candidates’ hearts (and often our own). We had one visit by a pastor, who led us in a study of a Bible passage. Every meeting opened and closed in prayer.  

We had differences, to be sure, but the difference never overwhelmed the work we were doing. And we had experienced people leading us through the work. 

I had had some misgivings about serving. I had had one experience years go as one of the members of a nominating committee at another church, and it was not a good experience. I had been elected by the congregation, an “at-large member,” one of several so elected working with others appointed by the elder board. Our church was growing, hiring staff, expanding into new programs – doing all the things one expects from a healthy church. 

I did not expect what happened on the nominating committee. Conflict. Anger. At one point a pastor joined the meetings, concerned about some of the people who had been suggested. One elder on the committee said he would resign and leave the church if we nominated one individual and he was elected.  

Our discussions more resembled corporate people reviews than they did meetings of a church nominating committee. The one question remember being asked over and over again was “Is he a team player?” Meetings were tense.  

Somehow, we got through the work, but it was not a good experience. It certainly wasn’t one expected from people who were supposed to be known by their love. 

In The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, by John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall, the authors talk about relationships in a way that seems taken directly from these two experiences I have had with church nominating committees. “Somewhere along the line,” they write, “we needed to trade relationships of love for strategic management of others. That shift frightened us away from each other. That shift forfeited the only distinction Jesus asks us to be known for: Loving and allowing ourselves to be loved." 

They’re writing about individual lives; they could just as easily be writing about church committees, and church nominating committees. The bad experience I had is the kind of thing that turns people away from churches, because no one expects them to behave like a secular organization. But they can, and often do.  

Churches can behave like the world, and when they do, it doesn’t end well, either for the church or the world. 

Or churches can behave like churches, and change the world.

 

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been reading The Cure. This week we finish the chapter entitled “Two Friends.” To see more posts on this chapter, please visit Jason at Connecting to Impact. 

Illustration by Piotr Siedlecki via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The Qualities of a Good Friend

In our weekly discussion of The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, by John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall, we’ve reached a chapter entitled “Two Friends.” It’s about the positive and negative influences in your life, and what the differences are between them, especially when the differences may not be immediately apparent. 

My mind began to drift. I asked myself, who are the influences in my life, aside from family? Who are the people I consider friends? Not just casual acquaintances, but real friends, people you feel you can trust, go to advice for, stand by you, and who know they can expect the same from you? 

I have to admit my list is rather small. 

Five years ago, I could name several people at work, where I spend most of each waking day. But retirement has claimed some; others have left for better opportunities, including one in just the last few weeks. The individual asked me for advice about whether to accept a job offer from another company; I listened more than I talked, but it was obvious the offer was better than the existing job at our company. This was a leaving that hurt; I think I’m down to one close friend at work now. 

I consider friends at church. The situation is complicated by the question of which church – the one we attended for 15 years and poured a lot of ourselves into, or the one we attend now where we’re both have been rather “gun shy.” One couple whom we were particularly close to moved away; another went to another church; others drifted away with the change in churches (we went in one direction, they in another).  

We have neighbors we have great regard for, but I can’t say we see them on a social basis except once or twice a year for neighborhood get-togethers. And there are virtual friends, people I have met online, some of whom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting face-to-face but many, perhaps most, I have not. I will say this – for those virtual friends whom I have actually met face-to-face, I have not been disappointed – they were the same in person as they were online. One day I hope to meet an online friend who lives in another part of the world; we missed meeting each other in London in October by a few short hours. 

The question in all of these examples is, what makes a good friend? What makes another person a good influence? The Cure has some answers that resonate with me. 

A good influence, a good friend, the authors write, is one who asks permission to earn trust, to be let in to your confidence. 

A good friend sees you as a saint – a saint who still fails. They see behind the façade and love you anyway. 

A good friend wants to see you grow more, and give love more. They’re not interested in changing your behavior as much as they are in seeing you love more. They’re don’t try to “fix” you, or correct some behavior or thinking they believe needs fixing. You feel accepted. This doesn’t mean you won’t need occasional reproving, but when they do it, they do it in love, and you know it. 

A good friend is something we all hunger for, and something we all need.

 

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been discussing The Cure. To see more posts on this chapter, “Two Friends,” please visit Sarah at Living Between the Lines. 

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Repentance is Not Remorse

Last week, in our discussion about The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, by John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall, we considered the issue of what happens when Christians hurt each other (and why), and the experiences of too many people when the hurt comes not from an individual but from a church.

Aside from the hurt, the problem worsens when we become preoccupied with it, dwell on it, and work it over and over again in our minds. That’s when the sin done to us becomes our sin.

Every one of us has examples of being hurt. And while I can only speak for myself, I suspect every one of us has examples of turning the sin into our sin.

But we can choose a different path, say the authors of The Cure, and it starts with weariness, when we become so weary of dwelling on the hurt that we do the only thing we can do.

We turn to God.

We repent.

And perhaps for the first time ever, I understood what repentance actually is.

“Repentance isn’t doing something about my sin,” the authors write. “”It is admitting I can’t do anything about my sin. It is trusting only God can cleanse me, and only He can convince me that I’m truly cleansed.

“God never tells me to get over something and just get past it. Instead, He asks me to trust Him with every circumstance.”

Even the circumstances when we’re hurt.

Especially the circumstances when we’re hurt.

Repentance isn’t remorse or regret. It is an active word, a turning over all of the hurt, the sin, the problems, all of the baggage from our lives, including our recent lives, and admitting we can’t do anything about it.

So that hurt from the busybodies’ gossip at church?

That time when the church nearly wrecked itself trying to become the next Willowcreek?

When the choir was unceremoniously dismissed and replaced with a rock band?

That time when a pastor failed, or was failed by the church?

Or when the elders made a dumb decision and ran over anyone in their path who raised an objection?

Or when you found out you wouldn’t be seeing a live pastor during worship but only someone on a video screen?

Or when the hymnals disappeared from the church pews, replaced by repetitious choruses on a projector screen?

Or when the Sunday School classes were reorganized into demographic interest groups?

You can name more. I can, too.

I can name so many that I’ve come to the point of weariness.

The point of repentance.

It’s time to trust that God knows what He’s doing, and he doesn’t need my valuable input to do it.

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been discussing The Cure. Today concludes our thoughts on Chapter 5, Two Healings. To see more posts on this chapter, please visit Jason at Connecting to Impact.

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission. 

Does it always have to be this painful?

This week at The High Calling, Mark Roberts has had a series of daily reflections that speak directly to what has been creating considerable turmoil for a considerable period of time for many churches – the worship wars. He started the week by asking a fundamental question: Who is the audience for worship? On Tuesday, he talked about avoiding the temptation of audience worship, and today he continues that discussion.

Before we older church members get too smug, “audience worship” isn’t only about worship services that seem more like rock concerts (usually aimed at being more relevant to a younger “demographic”).  It’s also about getting caught up in thinking that worship is about whether or not the pastor had a good sermon today, the quality of the playing of the organ and the singing of the choir, and why was the order of service slightly different this week, since the congregation sang three hymns instead of the usual four.

Yes, the worship wars have two sides. And both can be wrong, especially when they forget that worship isn’t about being culturally relevant or how good the pastor’s sermon was.

Reading Mark’s reflections happened at the same time I was reading chapter five of The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, by John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall. The chapter actually has two titles – “Two Healings” and “Two Solutions.” It addresses a very real issue – when Christians hurt Christians, and how Christians can sometimes make a cottage industry of their hurt by other Christians.

I know; I’ve been there. My expectations of Christians have always been higher than for non-Christians. I forget that Christians are sinners, too; Christians fail and Christians screw up. And I am a Christian, too.

The Cure has what is almost a cookbook recipe for what happens (which tells me this happens a lot). You get hurt, and it causes pain. You become preoccupied with the event. You become a “prosecuting attorney, consistently building your case.” You become obsessed with the record getting set straight. You become unable to love well and neglect the needs of others. And the steps go on as your anger builds, alienating others and finally questioning God’s motives.

The authors are directly addressing what happens when a Christian is hurt by another Christian. But reading those reflections by Mark Roberts, I understand that it isn’t just a problem between individuals; the local church itself can be the offending party.

The cause may be the worship wars. It may be part of someone’s idea to be more culturally relevant and become more attractive to younger people, “because we’re aging and losing our future.” It may be that a handful of people (usually including the pastor and a few elders) decide the church needs a “new model for growth” and communicate that vision badly (or, in some cases, with stealth, because they know they will meet opposition). Or someone decides that the church has much to learn from the management and marketing of corporate America.

We attended a church that we loved for 15 years; the last five were difficult and the last two were agony. All of these things were happening. It didn’t end well, for us, other members of the church, and the church as a whole.

We found a new church, and experienced the pain of breaking relationships from our old church (leaving a church in these circumstances always has a cost). But we worked our way into an adult Sunday School class, and began to meet people. I joined the ushering team and then was elected to the deacon board. Six months into my three-year term, I attended a Saturday training seminar. About two hours into it, I realized the same thing was happening all over again. There was a “new vision.” There were outside consultants. Not everyone in leadership or the church staff knew this was happening.

We didn’t leave this time, but I can say that no one at our church today would say it ended well. It was corporate vision, “demographic relevance,” worship wars and bad communication all over again. And it was painful all over again. The cost to the church has been huge. But what happened has been recognized; there has been confession to the church. We’re still not out of the woods. And we may never be out of the woods.

I’ve heard similar stories from friends and people all over the United States (and some in Canada, too), so many that it suggests that this is all too common and that something larger is in play.

The church – the North American church evangelical church – is being split apart and refined. Sometimes it worship wars; other times it social and cultural issues. This “sundering apart” can be seen not only in individual church problems but in popular Christian books, blogs, conferences – everything we associate with the church at large. And it’s easy, too easy, to get caught up in that cycle of pain and personal turmoil the authors of The Cure are describing.

There’s a better way. We’ll talk about it in the second part of this chapter discussion next week.

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been reading and discussing The Cure. To see other’s posts on this chapter, please visit Sarah at Living Between the Lines.

Illustration by Junior Libby via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Breaking the Control Cycle

Last week, we discussed the “Control Cycle,” the desire we all have for control, including the control of sins and destructive behaviors that we all struggle with. The specific sins and behaviors may be different for each of us, but we all have them – they’re a part of our human nature.

John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall, authors of The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, point to what can break and help us escape the cycle.

And it sounds too good to be true. (Note I didn’t say easy; I said good.)

In Protestant churches, we generally don’t do confession. Part of it likely has to do with the fact we believe that only God can forgive sins, and the idea of a person – a priest or minister – absolving us doesn’t fit. The priest in the confession booth acts as God’s agent. Protestants remove the middle man.

Of course, we’re also likely to remove the confession part of the process, too.

The Sunday worship service at my own church includes a time of silent prayer and confession. It doesn’t last long; there are always things I know and things I don’t and hope might be brought to mind. But the time is brief, and then we’re on to a hymn. I don’t necessarily want to dwell on sins, but I also don’t want to give them a quick acknowledgement and move on.

I often fell like I have to do something else.

And it may be that I do.

I need to tell someone.

The secret to breaking the cycle of control, say the authors of The Cure, is telling someone.

Telling someone.

Do I dare call this “confession?”

“The power of sin is broken simply in telling,” they say. And the telling can happen at any point along the cycle. Once you tell it, the cycle stops.

This isn’t “name it and claim it.”

This is more like “name it and break it.”

Tell someone the moment you feel vulnerable.

Tell someone the sin you feel vulnerable to commit. Speak it aloud.

Tell someone, and live in the light.

Led by Jason Stsyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been reading The Cure. This is the second of two discussions on Chapter 4, “Two Solutions.” To see more posts on this chapter, please visit Jason at Connecting to Impact.

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The Worm and the Butterfly

There is a scene in my novel A Light Shining where Michael Kent-Hughes, the junior priest at St. Anselm’s Church in San Francisco, meets with Jason, a 15-year-old street kid who’s been attending Michael’s church. He’s been a thief and a prostitute, doing whatever was needed to survive on the streets.

Michael and Jason are talking, and Jason wants to know why the church cares about him and the other street kinds, and why Michael cares.

“Because you matter,” Michael says. “You matter to God. And because you matter to God, you matter to us. Jason, God sees you as something valuable. You have great value in his eyes.”

“I’m a piece of crap, Father Michael,” Jason responds. “That’s all I am. I steal when I have to. I’ve done drugs, all of them. I hustle tricks to make money. There’s no value here. I’m a piece of crap.” He stares at Michael defiantly.

“That may be what you think,” Michael responds. “And that may be what a lot of people think. But it’s not what God thinks. And it’s not what Father John and I think. Jason, you and maybe others see what’s on the surface. And what’s on the surface may be ugly, to you and a lot of people.But what really matters is what’s inside and what’s in your heart. What God sees is the man He created you to be. He sees that potential, that possibility. He sees the sin, too, the sin in you and the sin in me and in every one of us. And that’s what Jesus died for – He died so that sin in all of us is forgiven and we can become the people God intended us to be.”

I’ve been reading The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, by John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall, and the scene in A Light Shining popped into my head when I read this sentence:

“Your view of you is the greatest commentary on your view of God.”

The authors use a metaphor: we see ourselves as the caterpillar, the worm, while God sees the butterfly.

Even after we believe, it’s often difficult to let go of the past, what has shaped us, the sin in our lives. He’s hard to imagine being forgiven for the things we have done, or said, or been.

We carry a lot of old baggage. What we don’t realize is that God has thrown it out.

All of it.

“You are no longer who you were, even on your worst day,” the authors of The Cure write. “What we believed in that first moments of trusting Jesus affects everything.”

We’re not worms. We’re not caterpillars.

In God’s eyes, we’re butterflies.

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been reading The Cure. Thuis concludes our discussion of chapter three, “Two Gods.” To see more posts on this chapter, please visit Jason at Connecting to Impact.

Photograph by Svetlana Tikhonova via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Playing Poker with God

Ever wondered what a poker game with God would be like?

I’m not a poker player. I know the rules, but it’s been decades since I played poker. And I never played poker for money; I’m not widely known for having a poker face.

But I was reading The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, by John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall, and they talk about the idea of playing poker with God.

My first thought was that he would know every card I held.

That’s because I’m looking at the poker game from my perspective.

The authors of Slow Church take another approach.

In effect, you are in a poker game with God. A very different kind of poker game.

“God has shown you all of His cards,” they write, “revealing breathtaking protection. He says, in essence, ‘What if I tell them who they are now? What if I take away any element of fear? What if I tell them I will always love them?’”

The poker game suddenly changes. It isn’t even a game any more.

What if I tell them I will always love them, no matter what they do, or think, or say? That they can’t lose me, even if they try?

Some of the early church believers heard that, and wondered if it meant that the more they sinned, the more God would love them. The Apostle Paul was quick to point out that they were wrong; they were looking at the question from the wrong end – their end.

Instead, what we should do is look at the question at from God’s perspective.

And God’s perspective is total.

A perspective of total love.

A perspective of total knowledge.

A perspective of total judgment.

A perspective of the price for judgment totally paid.

A perspective of total understanding.

He doesn’t play poker with a poker face.

And he knows that, ultimately, neither do we.

He loves us anyway.

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been reading The Cure. To see more posts on this chapter, “Two Gods,” please visit Sarah at Living Between the Lines.

Photograph by Ariadne ariadnerb via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The Day I Forgot to Wear My Mask

I was walking down the hall at the office. A person new to the department was walking toward me. As I passed her, I nodded and smiled and uttered the usual throwaway line. “How are you doing?” (The variation is, “How’s it going?”)

You don’t expect an answer. You’re being polite. But you’re not committing yourself to anything more than hearing a “Fine” in return. You have work to do, meetings to attend, people to talk to, all of the general busy-ness of contemporary work life.

“Do you really want to know?” she replied in an almost anguished voice.

She knew the politeness-in-the-hallway code. And something had prompted her to step out of it.

I stopped, and said what I didn’t really mean. “Yes. Are you okay?”

For the next 30 minutes (we moved to her office), a story poured out that seemed more like fiction than reality.

She came from a well-known and socially prominent local family. Her parents were always somewhere else, traveling. Her brother was in parts unknown. She was caring for an elderly aunt who alternated between lucidity and dementia, often in seconds. The aunt was terrified that someone would get control of her estate and have her committed to an institution, and for a very good reason: she herself had made a career out of doing exactly that – getting control of elderly people’s estates and then having them committed. To add to the mix, my new work colleague was being stalked by a distant relative, who himself was trying to get control of her aunt’s estate.

And all I had asked was how she was doing.

We became friends, and she became friends with my wife as well. We talked. We shared outside-of-work writing projects. We’d have dinner. It was only after we moved to a new town that our friendship gradually lessened. But our lives, and my life, was immeasurably enriched by that simple exchange in a workplace hallway.

None of us wore masks. My friend was feeling desperate. I decided to listen.

In The Cure: What if God Isn’t Who You Think He Is and Neither Are You, authors John Lynch, Bruce McNichol and Bill Thrall cite three categories mask-wearers fall into.

Those who try to convince others they’re doing “just fine.”

Those who are still searching for the next new technique to solve their issues and problems (and are the target audience of the self-help book publishing industry).

And those who wear the “pedigreed” masks – the postcard-perfect people who have everything together, no problems, no messy stuff in their lives.

The normal answer my work colleague should have made was “I’m fine, thank you” and walked on. But she didn’t. Her response caught me off-guard. I could have immediately donned a mask, probably the pedigreed mask. I could have listened politely and moved on.

But I didn’t. I could hear the desperation and even fear in her voice. So I listened.

And it changed my life.

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been reading The Cure. To see more posts on this chapter, “Two Faces,” please visit Jason at Connecting to Impact.

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.