Even though I don't agree with his ideas, I must admit Christopher Hitchens is a talented writer.  Here he writes an interesting account of his battle with cancer. 

What I find highly interesting, and inconsistent, is Hitchens' presumption of meaning.  Hitchens is an atheist.  In his worldview, any objective transcendent meaning to life or its events is utterly illusory.  No purpose here.  Just a random collision of atoms in this cold dark universe we call home.  Hitchens implies as much:  "To the dumb question 'Why me?' the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply:  Why not?"  "Why me?' is indeed a dumb question when there's nothing or no one to answer.

It quickly became chaos. Before I knew it, people were interrupting each other and nearly yelling; and then, someone through a shoe. (Well, the shoe part didn’t happen, but I thought that was next.)

Some Question and Answer sessions go smoothly. Some are a bit dicey. But others are just plain chaotic. The one I conducted this week was chaotic.

I used to get frustrated when shoes were thrown, but I don’t anymore because I have realized that when chaos ensues, something incredible happens.

What Happens? There are few things that make us more uneasy than asking: “What’s going to happen next?” We all know people who read their horoscope every day, or regularly see a fortune teller. (Perhaps this is why the ancients were fascinated by prophets.) The question “What’s going to happen next?” leads to anxiety, fear and worry. It can even lead to being dishonest with ourselves. And we know: worry is like a dancing bear and dishonesty is like a monkey with clanging cymbals.

In the days of Herod, king of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, of the division of Abijah. And he had a wife from the daughters of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. And they were both righteous before God, walking blamelessly in all the commandments and statutes of the Lord. But they had no child, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were advanced in years.

Luke 1:5-7

When I read this passage this morning, I stopped and wrote in the margin of my Bible, "Sometimes the righteous are barren." 

Why did I feel the need to point this out? Why did it strike me as notable?

Because prosperity theology is ubiquitous in Christendom, and it's destroying people's lives.

We all know being dishonest with others is wrong and unacceptable: enough said. But there’s a kind of dishonesty we usually don’t talk about: being dishonest with ourselves. It happens when we’re unwilling to admit our personal faults and weaknesses. We convince ourselves that we can overcome our greatest weaknesses on our own. We go on without accountability. Eventually, either by force or surrender, though, we have to come to terms with who we really are.

If worry is like a dancing bear, then dishonesty is like a monkey with clanging cymbals. I’m a drummer—while we’re being honest, I prefer to be called a percussionist; if you’re a musician, you will get the joke, if not, I’ll just say I do more than bang on trash cans—so I love the toy monkeys with clanging cymbals. And I love the videos of monkeys trying to play with percussion instruments. (That stuff is make your ribs-hurt funny.) But when the monkey with clanging cymbals comes on the scene, we have a hard time hearing anything else. While that monkey is telling us lies about good music, like a garage-band drummer, we can’t hear the real melody. We can’t tune for the life of us. Eventually, we end up playing punk rock and having black hair, and calling ourselves an artist. (I did that, for the record.)

Many of the problems in Christianity are rooted in assumptions.

We assume that the Bible is inerrant and infallible. (Have you looked for yourself?) We assume God is good. (Have you read Joshua?) We assume that anyone who even questions those beliefs is a heretic. (Are you thinking that about me?) Some of our assumptions are correct, but the fact that we make assumptions is not.

I used to fail in my attempts to tell people about Jesus for one simple reason: I worked from my assumptions about the Bible. It wasn’t until I really examined where the Bible came from that I was able to effectively communicate what I believed about Jesus with other people.

An entrepreneur’s book recently reminded me of this lesson. Seth Godin, in Tribes: We Need You to Lead Us, says:

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“And then she told me, ‘Your father, your girlfriend, and your brother were run off the road. They didn’t make it. They’re dead.’ I didn’t know what to say. How do you respond to hearing those words over the phone?”

As he told me this story, my friend began to subtly cry—one small tear at a time. I didn’t know what to say either. But I quickly realized, there’s nothing to say—just listen. In listening, I learned something profound.

The art of listening alone is profound. But I learned something else from my friend on Tuesday night. After telling me his story, he began to talk about something that is shockingly taboo: Christ is mystery.

The words of Paul suddenly rang in my head. Paul says to the Ephesians:

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Would you rather be ashes or dust? 

Jack London is most famous for his books (think Call of the Wild), but for me, his most compelling work is a poem (Credo) that poses a simple question – ashes or dust – you choose.

As with all things interesting, there is some debate as to the authenticity of the text, but in the poem London touches on a point that has been a driving force in my choices for a long time. 

I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out
    in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom
    of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.
     Jack London (1876-1916)

Vision casters desire that the roots of their vision grow deep and wide. They want to see their vision catch on and grow in the hearts and minds of others like weeds. But it's easy to stray away from a central vision, and before you know it, you're growing a different kind of tree entirely.

Part of my backyard looks like this right now. My flowerbed in the back is growing ginormous weeds. You know, the type that could take over the planet if they want to. (I could personify them further, but I'll leave that to you.) As my wife and I (well mainly her) began conquering the green monsters in the backyard, I wondered, "What kind of weeds are growing inside of me? The kind of vision (the kind that bear fruit), or ones that will kill out all that is good? For this reason, I often pray, "God, help me to see the good in others today." I have realized that if I don't look for the best in other people, my vision of a better world -- a world where people search for God in everything and make him known in all parts of their lives -- will never come to fruition. 

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