Tag Archives: Zacharias

Alienation and Restoration – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 14, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

Vincenzo Ricardo. If that name does not mean much to you, you are not alone. It does not seem to have meant much to anyone else except, perhaps, him who bore it. In fact it was not even his name. His real name was Vincenzo Riccardi, and nobody seemed to get it right after the sensational discovery of his mummified body in Southampton, New York. He had been dead for 13 months, but his television was still on, and his body was propped up in a chair in front of it.(1) The television was his only companion, and though it had much to tell him, it did not care whether he lived or died.

Riccardi’s story raises many unsettling questions. How can a human being vanish for over a year and not be missed by anyone? Where was his family? What about his relatives? Why was the power still on in his house? Whatever the answers are to these and other questions, one thing is clear: Riccardi was a lonely individual whose life can be summed up in one word, alienation. You see, Riccardi was blind, so he never really watched television; he needed this virtual reality to feed his need for real companionship. Moreover, his frequent “outbursts and paranoid behavior” may have played a role in driving people away from him.(2)

This is indeed a tragic and extreme tale, but it makes a powerful statement about how cold and lonely life can be for millions across the globe. Even those who seem to have all of their ducks in a row are not immune to the pangs of loneliness and alienation. The Christian story attests that alienation affects us at three different levels. We are alienated from ourselves, from others, and most significantly, we are alienated from God. That is the reality in which we exist. The restoration process involves all three dimensions, but it begins with a proper relationship with God. We cannot get along with ourselves or with others until we are properly related to God. The good news of the Christian gospel is that full restoration is available to all who want it.

This process is well illustrated in an encounter Jesus had with another deeply wounded man who lived in a cemetery. Relatives, and perhaps friends, had tried unsuccessfully to bind him with iron chains to keep him home. He preferred to live among the tombs (alienation from others), cutting himself with stones, his identity concealed in his new name—”Legion” (alienation from self). His mind and body were hopelessly enslaved by Satan’s agents, and his life was no longer his own (alienation from God). It took an encounter with Jesus for the man to be fully restored, “dressed and in his right mind” (Mark 5:15). Only then could he follow Jesus’s command to go back to his family and tell them what God had done for him.

The restoration process remains the same today. Until we are properly related to God, our true identity and potential will always elude us. No virtual reality or gadget can even begin to address the problem, for they only give back to us what we have put into them. They are like the message in a bottle which a castaway on a remote island excitedly received, only to realize that it was a cry for help that he himself had sent out months before. As Augustine prayed, “You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in You.” We are finite creatures, created for a relationship with an Infinite Being, and no finite substitute can ever meet our deepest needs. Trying to meet our real needs without God is like trying to satisfy our thirst with salty water: the more we drink, the thirstier we become. This is a sure path to various sorts of addictions.

But when we are properly related to the True Shepherd who calls his sheep by name, loneliness is infused with great hope as we, with Abraham, look “forward to the city with foundations whose architect and builder is God” (Hebrews 11:10). We become members of God’s extended family. Day by day, we learn to trust God as we travel with others along a heavily trodden path that never disappoints. Friends and relatives may desert us, but we are never alone. We may grieve, but never like those without hope. We have peace and joy within, and even in our own hour of need, others can still find their way to God through us. The alternative is a crippling sense of isolation and alienation within a worldly system whose offerings, however sophisticated and well-intentioned, can never arouse us from spiritual death.

J.M. Njoroge is a member of the speaking team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Erika Hayasaki, “He Died in Vast Isolation,” LA Times, March 31, 2007.

(2) Ibid.

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Journey of Dust – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 13, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

I walked through the neatly laid stones, each row like another line in a massive book. My eyes strained to take in all of the information—name, age, rank, country—and perhaps also death itself, the fragility of life, the harsh reality of war. In that field of graves, a war memorial for men lost as prisoners of war, slaves laboring to construct the Burma-Siam railway, I felt as the psalmist: “laid low in the dust.” Or like Job sitting among the dust and ashes of a great tragedy. Then one stone stopped my wandering and said what I could not. On an epitaph in the middle of the cemetery was written: “There shall be in that great earth, a richer dust concealed.”(1)

It is helpful, I think, to be reminded that we are dust. It seems crucial to take this reminder with us as we move through life—through successes, disappointments, surprises, distractions, tragedy. For Christians, it is also a truth to help us the vast and terrible events of Holy Week. The season of Lent, the forty days in which the church prepares to encounter the events of Easter, thankfully begins with the ashes of Ash Wednesday. On this day, foreheads are marked with a bold and ashen cross of dust, recalling both our history and our future, invoking repentance, inciting stares. Marked with the Cross, we are Christ’s own: pilgrims on a journey that proclaims death and resurrection all at once. The journey through Lent into the light and darkness of Holy Week is for those made in dust who will return to dust, those willing to trace the breath that began all of life to the place where Christ breathed his last. It is a journey that expends everything within us.

There is a Latin word that was once used to denote the provisions necessary for a person going on a long journey—the clothes, food, and money the traveler would need along the way. Viaticum was a word often used by Roman magistrates. It was the payment or goods given to those who were sent into the provinces to exercise an office or perform a service. The viaticum was vital provision for an uncertain journey. Fittingly, the early church employed this image to speak of the Eucharist when it was administered to a dying person. The viaticum, the bread of one’s last Communion, was seen as sustenance for Christians on their way from this world into another. Sometime later, the word was used not only to describe a last Communion, but as the Sacrament of Communion for all people. It is as if to say: our communion with Christ within world is provision for the way home. The viaticum is God’s answer to Jacob’s vow, “If God will be with me and will watch over me on this journey I am taking and will give me food to eat and clothes to wear so that I return safely to my father’s house, then the LORD will be my God.”(2) It is precisely what Christ offered when he said, “Take and eat. This is my body.” The journey from dust to dust and back to the Father’s house would be far too great without it.

The world of humanity is flattened by the realities of death and sorrow. From the invitation to consume Christ’s body and blood in the Last Supper to the desolation of that body on the Cross, we are undone by events that began before us and will continue long we are gone. We are, in the words of Isaiah or the sentiments of the psalmist, like grass that withers, flowers that blow away like dust. But so we are, in this great earth, a richer dust concealed. Walking in cemeteries we realize this; following Christ we can proclaim it. Walking through Lent as dust and ashes bids us to see our need for God’s unchanging provision. God offers us the Cross for the journey, the communion of Christ, the forgiveness of sins, and the life everlasting.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) This is a line from a poem of Rupert Brookes entitled “1914.”

(2) Genesis 28:20-22.

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Into the Wild – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 12, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

Wilderness or wild-land is classified as a natural environment that has not been significantly modified by human activity. The word “wilderness” derives from the notion of “wildness”—in other words a wilderness is a wild area such as a remote forest, or desert, or even an ocean—that is barren, empty, or set aside to grow and to be wild.

These are places where human intervention is minimal and all exists in an untamed and wild state. The word “wilderness” likely derives from the Old or Middle English word wildeornes, which mean wild beasts.(1) This seems entirely appropriate given that most wilderness places are characterized by bewildering vastness, perilousness, or unchecked profusion that is not controllable by humans.

For most, wilderness spaces are both compelling and frightening places. Poets, sages, and visionaries often seek out wild spaces for solitude, creative insight, or desired asceticism. Others have found themselves in wild spaces not by choice, but as a result of circumstances beyond their control—life events, unexpected twists and turns, suffering, or desolation—removing them from all that is comfortable and known.

In the biblical narratives, the wilderness is a crucible of extremes; it is filled with grand visions and experiences of the Divine, and at the same time a frightening place of want and desperation. For the ancient people who would become the nation of Israel, the wilderness is a place of testing. After four hundred years of oppression and enslavement, God sent Moses to deliver the people and to lead them into the Promised Land. The children of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob would be delivered from slavery through a series of dramatic plagues culminating in the destruction of the Egyptian army by the waters of the sea.

But their “promised land” would first come in the form of wilderness. “Moses led Israel from the Red Sea, and they went out into the wilderness of Shur; and they went three days in the wilderness and found no water…. and the whole congregation of the sons of Israel grumbled against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness.”(2) Israel would spend the next forty years, the text tells us, wandering in that wilderness of lament and bitterness, wondering aloud in their complaint what indeed they had been delivered to. A great beginning stalls in the deserts of Sinai.

ike Israel before him, Jesus’s story as recorded in Mark’s gospel, begins with great drama. John the Baptist announces the Deliverer; Israel’s exile was over for the Messiah had come. The Deliverer is baptized by John and in front of the crowds declared “the beloved Son” of God. What a tremendous beginning for the earthly ministry of Israel’s hoped-for deliverer!

And then the narrative takes an unexpected turn. “The Spirit immediately drove Jesus out into the wilderness. And he was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels ministered to him” (Mark 1:12-13). The original language indicates a forceful expulsion of Jesus into this land of wild beasts and adversarial attack. It is even more striking when one reads in the other gospels that Jesus is simply “led by the Spirit” into the wilderness.(3) Despite Matthew and Luke’s gentler version, the force is still the same—the Spirit led Jesus into the wilderness to be tested and tormented. Why would the Spirit compel Jesus into such a wasteland?

Many commentators have suggested that Jesus was reenacting the great history of Israel in his own life and ministry. He understood his mission as Israel’s Messiah, their deliverer, just as Moses had been. Yet, like Israel (and Moses), Jesus would be tested and his test had to precede entry into the Promised Land. He is not ushered into greatness immediately with healings and miracles, or with fanfare, but by being “immediately cast out into the wilderness.” The pathway to promise was through the wilderness.

The human story is a story of wilderness wandering. If we haven’t already spent time there, we will. A day does not go by in which we either experience wilderness pain personally, or hear of those dwelling in wilderness spaces of suffering, disappointment, doubt, or struggle with temptation. For most, these are frightening journeys. For most, these are spaces to avoid and circumnavigate if possible. Yet, perhaps, like Jesus, these are places in which we are compelled to wander. The wilderness is a place of trial and testing, deprivation and doubt. In the wilderness of unmet needs, what do we do? Who will we turn to? In what, or in whom, will we place our trust?

When the Israelites faced their test in the wilderness they wanted to return to the enslavement of Egypt. At least, they fantasized, they had food and drink in that land. Jesus, on the other hand, took nothing with him into that desiccated place. He was hungry and enticed to turn stones into bread to meet his legitimate need. Yet in the face of hunger pangs and thirst, Jesus remembered that the source of his life was in the very word of God and his life would be sustained by “every word that proceeds out of the mouth of God.”

Often, we ask God “why” we are compelled into the wilderness. We grumble and complain in our lament and try to escape the wild places to calmer, more civilized paths. Rather than gain insight, or find God in the midst of the wilderness, we seek the Promised Land as a return to Egypt. Yet for those who seek to follow Jesus, the journey will always take us through the wilderness. We cannot escape it, nor can we go around it. But perhaps, by the God of the wilderness, we can indeed be transformed by it.

Margaret Manning is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

(1) American Heritage Dictionary, 3rd Ed. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1992.

(2) Exodus 15:22; 16:2.

(3) cf. Matthew 4:1; Luke 4:1.

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Hyperseeing from the Towers of Babel – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 11, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

On the influence of media and technology, discussions abound. “Is Google making us stupid?” “Is Twitter bad for the soul?” “Is Facebook changing the way we relate?”(1) In fact, there seems a recent upsurge in articles questioning our faltering minds, morals, and communities (ironically reaching us through the very mediums that are blamed for it). Some note the shifting of thought patterns, attention spans that are beginning to prefer 140 characters or less, information gluttony, news addiction, and so on.

In fact, there is good reason, I think, to step away from the torrent surges of information and hyper-networking to think meaningfully about how it all might be changing us—for good and for ill. For with every new improvement and invention irrefutably comes gain and loss. And just as quickly as I can build a case against the gods of media-and-technology, I can also double check my footnotes on Google, find twenty additional perspectives on Twitter, and watch an interview with the author of one of the headlines mentioned above—all of which came from articles I read online in the first place. There are clearly advantages to having immediate access to such an incredibly rich store of information, inasmuch as this hyper-access to people, news, and facts assuredly has far-reaching effects on cognition, as well as the way we see, or don’t see, the world.

Speaking decades before the debates over Twitter or the wonders of Google, Malcolm Muggeridge seemed to foresee the possibilities of too much information. “Accumulating knowledge is a form of avarice and lends itself to another version of the Midas story,” he wrote. “Man is so avid for knowledge that everything he touches turns to facts; his faith becomes theology, his love becomes lechery, his wisdom becomes science. Pursuing meaning, he ignores truth.”(2) In other words, Muggeridge saw that it was possible to see so many news clips that we are no longer seeing, to hear so many sound-bites that we are no longer hearing, to seek so many “exclusives” that we are no longer understanding.

Speaking centuries before Muggeridge, the prophet Isaiah and the rabbi Jesus described their audiences quite similarly. “This is why I speak to them in parables,” said Jesus, “because ‘they look but do not see and hear but do not listen or understand’” (cf. Matthew 13:13, Isaiah 6:9-10). Undoubtedly, we are living in a time that is complicated by towering opportunities of information and knowledge; news clips, sound bites, blogs, and editorials, all piled so high and wide that we can scarcely see around our fortresses of facts. But perhaps regardless of the era, humanity’s skill in building towers of Babel—built to see beyond ourselves yet ironically blocking our vision—is both timeless and unprecedented.(3) Learning to see in a way that “reaches the heavens,” or, as Einstein once said, “to think the thoughts of God,” is far more about seeing God than it is about seeing facts.

In the art and work of sculpture, there is a term used to describe an artist’s ability to look at an unformed rock and see it in its completed state. It has been said of the sculptor Henry Moore that he had the gift of “hyperseeing,” the gift of seeing the form and beauty latent in a mass of unshaped material.(4) Hyperseeing is a word used to describe a sculptor’s extraordinary gift of seeing in four dimensional space—that is, seeing all around the exterior but also seeing all points within, seeing in a rough piece of stone the astounding possibilities of art.

It strikes me that the exercise of hyperseeing, then, as it might apply to our towering mountains of rough and unmolded facts, is something to which God tirelessly calls us. Far from building towers of knowledge that make names for ourselves, or accumulating sound-bites until we are no longer hearing, hyperseeing (and hyperhearing) the world around us requires God’s vision and voice. “Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know” (Jeremiah 33:3). Far better than a world of mere facts is a world made visible by the wisdom of God.

Perhaps we practice the exercise of hyperseeing as we learn to see the power of the resurrection, the glory of the transfiguration, the gift of the Lord’s Supper, or the wisdom of the parables in the daily facts and movements of our lives in God’s kingdom. To be sure, the resurrection of Jesus—the rising of dead flesh to life again—is no more jarring than every other promise we hold because of him, promises we can now see in part, while hyperseeing the extraordinary possibilities of all they will look like upon completion:

“Every valley shall be lifted up,

and every mountain and hill be made low;

the uneven ground shall become level,

and the rough places a plain.

5Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,

and all people shall see it together” (Isaiah 40:4-5).

Indeed, 5the eyes of the blind shall be opened, the ears of the deaf unstopped; 6the lame will leap like deer, the tongue of the speechless sing for joy; waters will break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert.(5) In a world hyper-filled with facts and knowledge, such are the sights and sounds of a kingdom the pure in heart (with or without the help of Google) shall see.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) cf. Nicholas Carr, “Is Google Making Us Stupid?” Atlantic, (July/August 2008), “Scientists Warn of Rapid-fire Media Dangers,” CNN Health, April 14, 2009, Peggy Orenstein, “Growing Up on Facebook,” The New York Times, March 10, 2009.

(2) From Firing Line, “Do We Need Religion or Religious Institutions” an interview with Malcolm Muggeridge, September 6, 1980, chapter 6.

(3) See Genesis 11.

(4) As cited by Jeremy Begbie in an interview with Ken Myers, Mars Hill Audio Review, vol. 94, Nov./Dec. 2008.

(5) See Isaiah 35:5-6 and Luke 7:22.

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“Life Is Sweet” – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 8, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

C.S. Lewis’s Screwtape Letters depicts a senior devil who is training a junior devil to intercept a man on the verge of becoming a Christian. The young devil is to deter the man from God, or “the Enemy.” The junior devil tries his best to distract his subject, but after a few weeks returns unsuccessful. The frustrated young devil cannot explain what went wrong, but notes that the man did two simple things each day. Every morning he would get up and go for a long walk, thoroughly enjoying the air, the scenery, and all in all, the walk itself. Then every evening, at then end of his day, the man would curl up with a good book, thoroughly delighting in that book, the reading, the time itself. To this, the senior devil notes sharply: “This is where you went horribly wrong! You should have put it into his mind that he had to get up in the morning and take that walk for the sake of exercise. It would have become drudgery to him. And you should have gotten him to read the book so that he could quote it to somebody else. It would have become equally uninspiring. You allowed him to enjoy such pure pleasure that the Enemy’s voice became more audible within those experiences. That is where you went wrong.”

What Lewis calls “pure pleasure” is something that often eludes us. Enjoying the current moment for what it is and for all that it offers is easier said than done—particularly in a world where the making and marketing of “desire” is meant to keep us perpetually un-satisfied. Lewis recognizes both the difficulty and the depth of simple enjoyment, an almost sacred quality which brings us within the reach of God’s voice.

The concluding words of the apostle Paul to the Philippian Church speak of a similar mystery. “Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things….And the God of peace will be with you.”(1) The Christian imagination is filled with the countercultural hope of a far different desire than the ravenous, unsatisfiable appetite for more. How often do marketers encourage delight as an end in itself? How often do manufacturers claim that we can desire what we already have?

An opening proclamation in many liturgical Christian worship services is that God is the maker of all things, the sheer hope of which calls us to worship. There are times when we are given the mind to truly seize this, where simple enjoyments of truth, of beauty, of excellence whisper of the great mystery that a good God is intimately with us.

Now consider an explanation in stark contrast to the words of Lewis, Paul, and Christian liturgies. “It’s hard for me to enjoy anything because I’m aware how transient things are,” said Woody Allen. “Yes, there are times when you think, ‘My God, life is sweet, it’s nice,’ and thoughts of mortality are in abeyance. You know, watching the Marx Brothers or a Knicks game or listening to great jazz, you get a great feeling of ecstasy… But then it passes, and the dark reality of life starts to creep back in.”(2)

We find in this life undeniable glimpses of sweetness, as Allen describes, glimpses and feelings that tell us there is something wonderful about life itself, something profound, something worth our enjoyment in and of itself. Sometimes these moments come crashing like intoxicating waves over us, other times like good secrets that have crept up on us. But how do you interpret these moments of delight? If life itself is meaningless, quite logically, as Allen concluded, such moments are merely trivial and fleeting interruptions of that dark reality. And sadly, even the sweetest moments then become something like cruel tricks played on us by life itself.

The Christian poses a different means of imagining and participating in the world. Truly, there is much that is bad and seemingly meaningless in the universe; King Solomon called it a meaningless chasing after the wind. Certainly, the world is full of those who point this out as reason for unbelief. But instead, the Christian acknowledges that this is a good world that has gone terribly wrong. It is a good world with palpable memories of what should have been. In this, our moments of wonder are exactly that, moments of wonder, experiences of what was and is and should be, visions of God’s presence among us, rich longings for redemption and what will one day be completely so. This is the startling mystery Christ whispers to us in our delights and voices loudly in our desires of what we already possess and yet desire more: This abundant life of which you have thus far only seen glimpses, will indeed, be fully yours.(3)

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Philippians 4:8-9.

(2) From “Lowdown Fulfills a Sweet Dream for Allen,” by Fred Kaplan (Boston Globe) printed in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, 28 January 2000, Q4.

(3) Cf. Revelation 21:3-6.

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The Pitcher and the Cross – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 7, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

The Kumbh Mela is the largest gathering on earth. It is conservatively estimated that around 10 million people will gather in the city of Allahabad in Northern India within a period of 55 days starting Jan 14, 2013. Some even quote a seemingly exaggerated figure of 100 million pilgrims to this religious gathering! The Kumbh Mela (etymologically, “pitcher fair”) takes place every four years in Prayag, Haridwar, Ujjain, and Nasik by rotation. This year the festival is very auspicious and is called the Maha (meaning “Super”) Kumbh Mela and happens only once every 144 years. It is estimated that this Kumbh will cost around 210 million dollars (US), but thankfully will also generate approximately 10 times that amount as calculated by India’s Associated Chambers of Commerce and Industry.

The media reports that even people from far-flung places are helping to make this event a success. Andrew Turner from Australia along with his wife and children are in Allahabad and are building an 18 by 6 feet boat to ferry devotees from one side of the river to the other—free of charge. “I am living a dream at the moment,” he says. “When I heard that this Kumbh was happening after 144 years, I thought, I will never get a second chance…. I joined the locals and landed in Prayag and walked several kilometers with devotees… The zealous faith snapped my ties with logic and reason. It was mesmerizing.”

Hindu tradition says that there was a war between the gods and the demons over divine nectar and four drops of nectar fell from the pitcher. These fell on four different locations, which overlap the cities where the Kumbh is held. One of those drops fell at Haridwar where the river Ganges flows, while another fell at the Sangam. The Sangam is the confluence of three rivers—the Ganga, Yamuna, and the mythological river Saraswati in Prayag. The other two drops fell at Kshipra in Ujjain and Godawari in Nasik. A dip in these rivers on auspicious dates during the Kumbh is said to rid pilgrims of their sins. There are six such days this year for the Kumbh and the most important day is 10th of February.

The reality of sin is clearly expressed in the Bible. The universality of sin has also been declared in Romans as “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” Anyone who reads the newspaper and honestly reflects on it would not be able to deny the reality and universality of sin. Through the ages, humans have tried to rid themselves of sin and its consequences. Religious rituals, idols, journeys, and sacrifices have all tried to assuage and comfort the sinner’s heart, but have been found wanting.

Robert Lowry wrestles with this question in the lyrics of a hymn and arrives at a significantly different answer:

What can wash away my sins,

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

What can make me whole again,

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Oh precious is the flow,

that makes me white as snow,

No other font I know

Nothing but the blood of Jesus

Grace, made available through the death and resurrection of Jesus, is the only font which offers release from the burden of sin and restores our relationship with God. And thankfully, we do not need to snap our ties to logic and reason, but rather embrace an honest and rational examination of evidence. This would lead us to the empty grave of Jesus—the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Death no longer has a hold on him and this victory he extends to us: O Death, where is your sting? O grave where is your victory?

The resurrection of Jesus from the dead frees us not only from the sting of death but also from bondage to sin and our many attempts to assuage it—this, not at any cost to us or anyone else, for God has fully paid the price. Thus, we can confess Jesus as Lord anytime, anywhere, and we will be saved! It makes one gasp in wonder at the overarching simplicity and compelling elegance of the good news.

Cyril Georgeson is a member of the speaking team with Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Mumbai, India.

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Bread in Hand – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 6, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

At the death of Nobel laureate Milton Friedman, the world of economics lost one of its most influential thinkers. He is perhaps best known for popularizing the saying “There’s no such thing as a free lunch,” which is now a common English dictum.

Though consumer-trained eyes, we understand this phrase as Friedman intended: Anything billed “free of charge” still has a bill attached. It is both economic theory and lay opinion. Whatever goods and services are provided, someone must pay the cost. Thus, economically, we see that the world of business is first and foremost about profit and market share. And cynically, we suspect that every kind gesture or free gift has a hidden motive, cost, or expectation attached.

It was strange, then, to find myself thinking of “free lunches” as I was approaching the meal Christians call communion, the Lord’s Supper, or Eucharist—from the Greek eucharistia, meaning thanksgiving. Could my consumer mindset apply to this table as well? Was this really a free meal? Certainly the compulsion many feel to drudge up a sense of guilt at the table could be one sign of its costliness. Theological instinct immediately recoiled at this thought. Is this Christ’s cost or one we determine ourselves? Inherent in Jesus’s invitation to the table is the very freedom he came to offer: “Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away” (John 6:37). And yet, even as we are called to freely come to the meal, to consume Christ himself, are we not asked simply to empty ourselves before the one who calls? Is there a cost to partake of the Bread of Life?

Christ speaks openly that the way of the Cross is costly, but it does not require the kind of transaction consumer-hungry minds are quick to expect. The cost is his, even as he invites us to share in it. As the disciples gathered together in the upper room where they would participate in Jesus’s last supper and the first communion, Jesus told them, “I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer” (Luke 22:15). He is both the Bread of Life and the one who paid the cost that it might nourish his table of guests. Our consumption at the table holds a great deal in which to participate.

Unfortunately, we are at times like the poet Alison Luterman who admits it is quite possible not to see the connection between what feeds us and the one who made it possible. She writes eloquently,

“Strawberries are too delicate to be picked by machine. The perfectly ripe ones even bruise at too heavy a human touch. It hit her then that every strawberry she had ever eaten—every piece of fruit—had been picked by calloused human hands. Every piece of toast with jelly represented someone’s knees, someone’s aching back and hips, someone with a bandanna on her wrist to wipe away the sweat. Why had no one told her about this before?”

Holding the bread of the Lord’s Supper in our hands, we are indeed faced with a costly meal. “And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me’” (Luke 22:19).

Stories of hunger and consumption pervade the world around us. The same theme pervades the gospel story, but in a manner that transforms both our hunger and our ideas of what it means to consume. The consumer of Christ is not stockpiling one more product for personal use and fulfillment. Nor does he or she partake of a free service that requires a minimum purchase or a small commitment. Jesus’s words are neither selfish nor small: “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them” (6:56). Those who come to the table cannot consume with the same disconnectedness with which we consume countless meals and materials. We are ushered into a community, an interconnected life, the Body of Christ himself, and it leaves an entirely different imagination of the world in our grasp. The Christian makes the very countercultural claim that one can desire what one already has. Every broken piece of bread represents nothing less than a Person who was broken for us, who gives everything away to present the hungry with an invitation to join him, to taste and see that God is good.

And he calls us to come willing to empty ourselves as completely as he did on the Cross. For the free meal that is offered in remembrance of Jesus overturns our lives as consumers and turns our hunger inside-out. As Augustine imagines the voice on high saying, “I am the food of the fully grown; grow and you will feed on me. And you will not change me into you, like the food your flesh eats, but you will be changed into me.”(1) Christ is unlike anything else we can consume and desire in this world. For all who are hungry, the Bread of Heaven has come down.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Augustine, Confessions, trans. Henry Chadwick (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 124 [Book VII, 16].

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Giving Forgiveness – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 5, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

“I need to ask for your forgiveness,” the voice on the other end of the phone said to me. This friend from many years ago called to seek reconciliation with me for an old offense. We had worked together and in the course of our working-relationship our friendship was damaged. More often than I care to admit, I am the one who needs to ask for forgiveness. But in this case, I was the offended party.

I was surprised by this phone call, of course, since it came out of the blue and concerned events from quite some time ago. But I was more surprised by my own response. “Of course,” I intoned, “I forgive you.” And for the duration of the conversation, I really believed that I had forgiven my friend. But as I thought about the exchange, I brought back into the present what I had carefully stored away in my memory. Feelings of hurt and betrayal emerged just as if the event was happening all over again. In my heart, instead of feeling relief as a result of my friend’s phone call, I felt bitterness and anger choke me. And the desire to punish my friend—by withholding genuine affection or by issuing words of condemnation—became preeminent in my thoughts and feelings.

As a Christian, I am pained to admit that I have these feelings at all. After all, forgiveness is at the heart of Christianity, and having just come through the Advent Season where we celebrate God’s compassion towards the world in the sending of his Son Jesus, I should be overflowing with forgiveness. Instead, I felt more like the servant in Matthew’s gospel who even though forgiven of an enormous debt—a debt too large to ever repay—in turn, goes out, finds one who owes him a miniscule amount, and begins to choke this lesser debtor demanding immediate repayment. Instead, of extending the same generosity shown to him, this ungrateful servant punishes the other servant by throwing him in prison.(1)

My unforgiving spirit imprisoned my friend. But it also imprisoned me. An unwillingness to forgive locks us all up in bitterness, and throws away the key. It enslaves us to ingratitude, and chokes out gratefulness. It prevents us from experiencing the freedom that comes with free-flowing grace—both received and given—just as the ungrateful servant neither received nor extended grace in Jesus’s parable. The ensuing desire to punish those who have hurt us belies our smug, moral superiority that designates punishment as more fitting than grace.

Jesus tells this parable of the unforgiving servant in response to a question from his disciple Peter. Peter asks the question, “Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me and I forgive him? Up to seven times?” Jesus answers, “I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven.”(2) In other words, Jesus is saying that forgiveness is unlimited, and forgiveness by nature is something that cannot be measured in its appropriation. When we fail to forgive, we fail to recognize our own debt, and we fail to appreciate the reality of the limitless scope of forgiving grace on our account. Peter wanted to know at what point he could cease from offering forgiveness—after the seventh offense. But in answering Peter’s question by telling this story, Jesus demonstrates that none of us are in the position to withhold forgiveness from each other. In the end, we are all in need of forgiveness, and to withhold it demonstrates unparalleled ungratefulness for God’s gracious action towards the debt we could never repay to God.

To be sure, dealing with our human hurts and offenses, and becoming generous people who freely forgive takes time and effort. And for some of us, the hurts we have suffered and endured may never result in phone calls that attempt to reconcile and restore relationship. Nevertheless, the cultivation of a forgiving heart frees us from bondage and opens us to the possibilities of giving forgiveness instead of punishment. For the one who understands first and foremost her own need for forgiveness, and the one who then opens his heart up to forgive others, enters (perhaps even unknowingly) into the very heart of God. “And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven us.”(3)

Margaret Manning is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

(1) Matthew 18:21-35

(2) Matthew 18:21.

(3) Ephesians 4:32.

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Former Things – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 4, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

The last battle had been fought, the final obstacle demolished; the land that was once promised was now land possessed. Joshua called together all the tribes of Israel and standing upon the foreign ground of freedom he announced to all the people: “This is what the LORD, the God of Israel, says: ‘Long ago your forefathers, including Terah the father of Abraham and Nahor, lived beyond the River and worshiped other gods. But I took your father Abraham from the land beyond the River and led him throughout Canaan and gave him many descendants… Then I sent Moses and Aaron, and I afflicted the Egyptians by what I did there, and I brought you out…. You saw with your own eyes what I did to the Egyptians. Then you lived in the desert for a long time.’”(1)

Goethe once penned, “What you have as heritage, take now as task; for thus you will make it your own.” Having fought hard to possess the land God had promised, the Israelites now stood before Joshua looking forward to the life God had promised. On this momentous day, they were given instruction from God in the form of history. The vast majority of the people listening had not personally lived through the miraculous events in Egypt. As the Red Sea was parted and the Egyptians swallowed by sea, they were not standing on dry ground watching with their own eyes as it all happened. And yet, the impact of this history and the continual (and commanded) retelling of the story made it possible for the LORD to say it as such: With your own eyes you have seen almost a millennium of landless slavery redeemed by God’s promise, transformed at God’s own hands.

God continued to speak through Joshua, moving from Israel’s early history into days the crowd would remember first hand: “‘Then you crossed the Jordan and came to Jericho. The citizens of Jericho fought against you, as did also the Amorites, Perizzites, Canaanites, Hittites, Girgashites, Hivites and Jebusites, but I gave them into your hands…. You did not do it with your own sword and bow. I gave you a land on which you did not toil and cities you did not build; and you live in them and eat from vineyards and olive groves that you did not plant.’”(2)

His words told of current events and familiar scenery, while warning against forgetting it was God, past and present, who had brought them there. God reminded the battle-weary Israelites that what happened at the crossing of the Red Sea with Moses was as imperative to their story as the crossing of the Jordan with Joshua. God’s hand throughout their history was to be God’s assurance of plans to give them a hope and a future.

For the Christian, to remember that Jehovah saves even on this day, in this dark valley, in this trying situation, is to remember the story of God in its entirety. God saved the people from Egypt; from God’s hand came each victory across the Jordan. By God’s presence a nation was led into the Promised Land; by the blood of God’s Son, death, the last enemy, was defeated. The Christian’s worldview is historical memory living presently. Today God saves because yesterday God saved.

In his book Life Together, Dietrich Bonhoeffer states emphatically, “It is in fact more important for us to know what God did to Israel, to his Son Jesus Christ, than to seek what God intends for us today…. I find no salvation in my life history but only in the history of Jesus Christ.” As Bonhoeffer led the anti-Nazi Confessing Church, he was moved by the presence of God in the history of Israel, the promise of God in his crucified Son, such that he chose to believe in God’s salvation even unto death in a concentration camp.

At the conclusion of God’s word to the people on that day of promise, Joshua declared, “[C]hoose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your forefathers served beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.” Out of the history of God with the people of Israel comes a story that can instruct one’s own, a rescuer born and wounded for you. With Isaiah we hear God’s plea, “Remember the former things of old; for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is no one like me, declaring the end from the beginning and from ancient times things not yet done.”

God’s people were led into the Promised Land with a leader whose very name confesses “Jehovah saves.” It is not coincidental that the same word marks the name of Jesus, who offered his life that the world might be fully led into the story of God.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Joshua 24: 2-3,5,7b.

(2) Joshua 24:11-13.

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Coming Home – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

February 1, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

There is a line in the story of the prodigal son that is easy to miss. It comes as the transition in the story, but it also seems to mark the transition in the son. The story is familiar. Not long after the younger son demands the right to live as he pleases, after he leaves with his father’s money and gets as far away as possible, and after he loses everything and is forced to hire himself out in the fields, the story reads that the prodigal “came to himself” and, at this, he decides to turn back to the father.

Today it is often translated that the son “came to his senses,” as we might describe a man or woman who, on the precipice of a bad decision or impulsive act, decides to turn around. But the phrase in the Greek literally describes the prodigal as coming to himself, and seems to point at something far more than good decision-making. In a sermon titled “Bread Enough and to Spare,” popular English preacher Charles Spurgeon notes that this Greek expression can be applied to one who comes out of a deep swoon, someone who has lost consciousness and comes back to himself again. The expression can also be applied to one who is recovering from insanity, someone who has been lost somewhere within her own mind and body, only to come back to herself once again.

With both of these metaphors, the son is one who wakes to health and life again, having been unconscious of his true condition. Standing in a foreign field hungry and alone, the son comes to something more than a good decision. He is waking to an identity he knew in part but never fully realized. He is remembering life in his father’s house again, though for the first time.

Human identity seems a succession of inquiry and wakefulness. For some of us, who we are is discovered in layers of life and realization, questioning and consciousness. Essayist Annie Dillard articulates this progression of awareness and the rousing of self as something strangely recognizable—”like people brought back from cardiac arrest or drowning.” There is a familiarity in the midst of our awakenings. We wake to mystery, she writes, but so somehow we wake to something known.

The Christian tells a similar story of waking to life in the most fully human sense of the word. We are like those who have lost consciousness, caught in the madness of our own condition, longing to be released, until we are awakened to life despite ourselves with one so eager for our homecoming. The apostle concurs:

“You were dead through the trespasses and sins in which you once lived, following the course of this world, following the ruler of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work among those who are disobedient… But God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us even when we were dead through our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ.”(1)

Coming to ourselves, we wake to human need, to human condition, to our poverty and our dignity, claiming in our very identities our need for resurrection, our need for home.

One further use of this expression comes out of the old world fables of enchantment. With this metaphor, “coming to ourselves” is like coming out of a magician’s spell and assuming once again our true forms. It is reminiscent of the scene in The Silver Chair where the children are trapped beneath Narnia in the land called Underworld and persuaded to believe there is no such thing as a Narnian. The Queen of Underworld, who is really a witch, has thrown a green powder into the fire that produces a sweet and drowsy smell. In this enchanting haze, their identity as Narnians becomes hazy, and the world they thought they knew begins to disappear. But it is at this moment of despair that Puddleglum makes a very brave move. With his bare foot he stomps on the fire, sobering the sweet and heavy air. “One word, Ma’am,” he says coming back from the fire, limping, because of the pain. “Suppose we have only dreamed, or made-up, all those things… Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one… We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow… I’m on Aslan’s side, even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as much like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland.”

Coming out of their enchantment, the prisoners of Underland remembered they were children of another kingdom. Coming to themselves, they began to realize who they were all along. What if waking to our identities as children of the Father is like uncovering the people God has created us to be from the start? What if coming to ourselves is like remembering we are citizens of a better kingdom, a kingdom we vaguely recall and yet long to return? The prodigal’s awakening came as the startling recognition that there was plenty in his father’s house, and that he himself was starving. Waking to this, we reclaim the very identities given to us in the beginning. And doing so, we come to ourselves because we are setting out for home again. We come to ourselves because we are going to the Father.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Ephesians 2:1-5.

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Making History – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

January 31, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

If you are familiar with the writing of the new atheists, you will notice that they often portray history as if there is an ancient and on-going war raging between science and religion. Why is it that such simplistic ways of viewing the past can become so prevalent?(1) One theory is advanced by Christian Smith in his book Moral Believing Animals. He argues that one of the central, fundamental motivations for human action is the locating of life within a larger external moral order, which in turn dictates a person’s sense of identity and the way in which they act. He claims that, whether or not they realize it, “all human persons, no matter how well educated, how scientific, how knowledgeable, are, at bottom, believers.”(2)

He suggests this is because “human knowledge has no common, indubitable foundation,”and therefore the way people choose to live and the knowledge they accumulate is all founded upon basic assumptions and beliefs that cannot themselves be empirically verified.(3) This includes the Enlightenment ideas of foundationalist knowledge, the autonomously choosing individual and even universal rationality itself, which he argues “always and only operates in the context of the particular moral orders that define and orient reason in particular directions.”(4)

In order to make sense of life, he suggests that all individuals perceive the world according to an all-embracing narrative, in which factual information about different events and people is woven into a storyline that makes an overall point. The Scientific Enlightenment Narrative, for example, is one that has been popularized by the new atheists:

“For most of human history, people have lived in the darkness of ignorance and tradition, driven by fear, believing in superstitions. Priest and Lords preyed on such ignorance, and life was wearisome and short. Ever so gradually, however, and often at great cost, inventive men have endeavored better to understand the natural world around them. Centuries of such enquiry eventually led to a marvelous Scientific Revolution that radically transformed our methods of understanding nature. What we know now as a result is based on objective observation, empirical fact, and rational analysis. With each passing decade, science reveals increasingly more about the earth, our bodies, our minds. We have come to possess the power to transform nature and ourselves. We can fortify health, relieve suffering, and prolong life. Science is close to understanding the secret of life and maybe eternal life itself. Of course, forces of ignorance, fear, irrationality and blind faith still threaten the progress of science. But they must be resisted at all costs. For unfettered science is our only hope for true Enlightenment and happiness.”(5)

Although this narrative may seem to be the very opposite of a religious worldview, Smith makes the interesting observation that “what is striking about these major Western narrative traditions is how closely their plots parallel and sometimes mimic the Christian narrative.”(6)

They all include a period of darkness followed by redemption, as well as a promise for the future and the identification of potential threats to the desired utopia. He explains that: “So deep did Christianity’s wagon wheels wear into the ground of Western culture and consciousness that nearly every secular wagon that has followed—no matter how determined to travel a different road—has found it nearly impossible not to ride in the same tracks of the faith of old. Such is the power of the moral order in deeply forming culture and story.”(7)

This is a fascinating observation, because it suggests that the Christian way of perceiving the world still informs the worldview of many of those who think they have jettisoned all the remnants of it. He argues that this pervasiveness is not surprising though, as “the human condition and the character of religion quite naturally fit, cohere, complement and reinforce each other,” because they link the narratives with the historical and personal significances at both the individual and collective level.

The fact that the message is so compelling will come as no surprise to Christians, but, above all, Smith’s work illustrates the problem faced by those who insist that they live by science, logic, and empirical evidence, rather than relying on any belief. It also highlights that there is a considerable blind spot in the thinking of many people today, when it comes to appreciating the role religion has played not only in shaping their own ideas, but also in underpinning core aspects of western society. It may be fashionable to dismiss this foundation, but the final word should perhaps be left to the influential German thinker, Jürgen Habermas, who explains that the Judeo-Christian legacy is neither insignificant, nor should it be forgotten:

“For the normative self-understanding of modernity, Christianity has functioned as more than just a precursor or catalyst. Universalistic egalitarianism, from which sprang the ideals of freedom and a collective life in solidarity, the autonomous conduct of life and emancipation, the individual morality of conscience, human rights and democracy, is the direct legacy of the Judaic ethic of justice and the Christian ethic of love. This legacy, substantially unchanged, has been the object of a continual critical reappropriation and reinterpretation. Up to this very day there is no alternative to it. And in light of the current challenges of a post-national constellation, we must draw sustenance now, as in the past, from this substance. Everything else is idle postmodern talk.”(8)

Simon Wenham is research coordinator for Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Europe.

(1) Article adapted from Simon Wenham’s, “Making History: The ‘War’ Between Science and Religion,” Pulse, Issue 8 (Summer 2011), pp. 2-4.

(2) C. Smith, Moral Believing Animals (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 54.

(3) Ibid., 154.

(4) Idem.

(5) Ibid., 69.

(6) Ibid., 72.

(7) Idem.

(8) Ibid., 153

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Worlds Apart – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

January 30, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

Anyone who has ever walked through the halls of the great philosophers, early church leaders, or ancient rhetoricians or ethicists has inevitably stumbled upon the person and work of Augustine of Hippo. In his lifetime, Augustine served as a professor for over a decade, established a school of rhetoric, acted as bishop of Hippo, argued fluently in crucial theological debates, and authored over a hundred separate titles. He was the most quoted theologian throughout the Middle Ages, and is considered a great doctor of the early church. But his theology continued to make an impression on the broader Christian church and later Western thought as well. Augustine is easily considered one of the more influential contributors toward the Western mindset; he was also a favorite theologian among the protestant reformers of the 16th century.

Augustine’s voice was prominent in the development of the church’s theology concerning the validity of the sacraments and the nature of the church itself. The Donatist controversy had raised questions concerning the efficacy of the Lord’s Supper when administered by clergymen who had lapsed in their faith. The Donatists insisted that those who received the right of baptism or the sacrament of communion from a faulted priest were not truly baptized or cleansed through communion. But Augustine argued insistently that the efficacy of the sacraments does not depend upon the human agent who administers them, but rather upon Jesus Christ who instituted them in the first place. Likewise, the holiness of the church is not maintained by the level of virtue among its members, but by the holiness of the one they claim to follow. Quoting the apostle Paul, “It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God—that is, our righteousness, holiness, and redemption” (1 Corinthians 1:30).

Augustine’s theological views arising from the Pelagian controversy were equally influential to the church as we know it. Pelagius was a monk who began teaching that human nature was not corrupted by Adam’s fall, that humanity had no inherent inclination toward evil, but only bad habits that resulted in sin, and that salvation was thus an earned reward. Augustine saw this teaching as incredibly dangerous, unbiblical, and irresponsible. His writings against pelagianism averred the absolute necessity of God’s grace in salvation, the irrefutable evidence of original sin, and the great hope of God’s sovereignty in the work of redemption. He was insistent upon the expectant words of Scripture: “When you were dead in trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, God* made you* alive together with him, when he forgave us all our trespasses, 14erasing the record that stood against us with its legal demands. He set this aside, nailing it to the cross” (Colossians 2:13-14).

Today these theological teachings remain significant for a church that is still living within a world wanting to claim full autonomy, disclaim the concept of sin, and undermine the gift of Christ. Like Augustine, we hold fast to a message some do not want to hear—namely, fallen humanity, left to its own devices, is incapable of entering into a relationship with God. Yet, it is from this darkened vantage point that we are able to see the fullness of light because, from here, by the Spirit, we can see that God intervened, coming into our desperation to change the outcome entirely. Through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, we are saved. For Augustine in a world of heresy or for Christians today in a sea of pluralism, we see that humanity must depend upon God for salvation and that God alone sufficiently meets our needs. What we cannot do for ourselves, God has accomplished through his Son.

There may seem at first a great gap between Augustine’s world and our own. Perhaps in the end we are not that far apart. Regardless, there is thankfully one who effectively bridges the far greater gap between creation and its Creator.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

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World of Violence – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

January 29, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

As is my custom most mornings, I wake up early to take a walk in the still quiet of the day. The morning offers a time for me to pray and to reflect on what is ahead of me that day. But when I returned home on a day not unlike other days and turned on the morning news, the onslaught of violent headlines assaulted my peaceful reflection. In one short broadcast, I learned the details of several horrific stories involving brutal violence. Indeed, watching or listening to any local news station, one finds that the majority of headlines involve mayhem and morbidity. Like it or not, my morning routine is so often upset and unsettled by violence in the news.

Disheartened by the relentless barrage of violent headlines, I am often left wondering why people seem to love violence more than peace. With all the heartache and despair left in the wake of these tragedies, why don’t people seem to tire of violence?

Of course, stories of violence come as no surprise. Assaults and murders are as familiar as any routine. And yet, its occurrence still jars my senses. Somehow, thankfully, I never get used to it, and its commonplace existence does not dull my senses. The familiar reminder of violence calls us all to attention over and over again as a sign and a symbol that something is terribly wrong in this world. Furthermore, when we are honest with ourselves, we come to know rage and hatred that is not just ‘out there’ in a violent world, but near and dear and close to our own hearts. The ancient prophet Jeremiah identified this dark reality: “The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked; who can know it?” (Jeremiah 17:9).

While I wish Jeremiah’s indictment was for everyone else out there—the murderous assassin, the violent rapist, or in the polarized political rivals—I know too well the violence within my own heart. I feel the rage like a fever when I am cut off in traffic. I can seethe within when I am patronized or belittled. And why would I wish to recount the careless words spoken in anger leveled against loved ones? Disheartened, I cry out, “Why won’t I tire of violence?”

Jesus, like Jeremiah before him, understood humanity’s violent tendencies. He understood that violence is not something “out there” but something insidious within every human being. He told his followers, “That which proceeds out of a person, that is what defiles her. For from within, out of the heart proceed evil thoughts…thefts, murders…deeds of coveting and wickedness, as well as deceit…envy, slander, pride and foolishness. All these evil things proceed from within and defile a person” (Mark 7:20-23). The explosive violence that maims, harms, and kills emerges within each and every one of us.

Jesus didn’t issue these words as an indictment against humanity while hanging from the cross of violence that took his life, but he very well could have. Indeed, his offering of himself and his death on a cross is the very embodiment of his teaching in the Sermon on the Mount:

“But I say to you who hear, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who mistreat you. And if you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. And if you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. But love your enemies, and do good and lend, expecting nothing in return; and your reward will be great, and you will be sons and daughters of the Most High; for God is kind to ungrateful and evil men. Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.”(1)

Jesus endured the violence that ultimately led to his crucifixion. He endured violence to offer another way in our world of violence. Yet, his way offers a challenge to our everyday embrace of violence in large and small ways. Until I tire of violence, I cannot expect the world to tire of violence. Until I embrace Jesus’s solution to violence, I cannot hope for peace. Yet, since Christ came near and bore our violence, the lion and the lamb can hope for the transformation that is our peace.

Margaret Manning is associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

(1) Luke 6:27,28,32,33,35,36.

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Weak and Strong – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

January 28, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

After fifteen years and nearly 17,000 miles, an unlikely fleet was set to make port on the beaches of Britain. On January 29, 1992, three massive containers on a cargo ship from Hong Kong crashed into the Pacific Ocean during a storm. The containers were filled with brightly colored bathtub toys bound for the United States. Instead, 29,000 little plastic ducks, frogs, beavers, and turtles began a journey that would be carefully monitored by children, oceanographers, and newscasters alike.

After a decade and a half, the tiny bobbing friends have traveled past Japan and back to Alaska, drifted deliberately down the Bering Strait and past the length of Greenland, and carefully floated down the eastern coastline of the United States. They have persevered through storms that would have left boats and crews in dire straits. They patiently endured four years frozen in ice as they crossed the Arctic Ocean. They have arrived at various intervals on various shores, faded and tattered by sun and surf, some with animal bites and barnacles to show for the journey. But each smiling plastic face seems to return with an ironic confession: the smallest vessels on tumultuous seas are not necessarily the most vulnerable.

Life is far more than an attempt to keep our heads above water, and yet at times it feels a suited metaphor. Tossed like tiny rubber ducks in an oceanic bathtub, we hit rocks of fear and anger, are pulled under by currents of despair and disappointment, and are broken at times by the journey. Human fragility is often as startlingly obvious as the image of a bath toy in the Bering Strait. We are at times almost averse to this fragility, whether seen in ourselves or in others. Fighting to keep afloat in an unpredictable sea, we take on distracting cargo and build defensive walls—anything that makes us feel less like tiny vessels lost at sea and more like giant ships passing in the night.

But metaphors of strength can be misleading, and vulnerability is often misunderstood. Though we may be reluctant to hear it, the story of a fragile and fleeting humanity is not always told despairingly. Jesus spoke readily of his own death and wept at the grave of a friend. The apostle Paul spoke of bodies as “jars of clay,” words hastening back the image of powerful King David who lamented that he had become like “broken pottery.” Yet even well beyond these fragile images of humanity, the story of a vulnerable, incarnate God redefines all of our terms. The image of Christ on the Cross turns any understanding of fragility on its head, challenges our discomfort with brokenness, and redirects our associations of weak and strong. In these images is the strange suggestion that the vulnerability of God is far stronger than our greatest images of strength. In his cruciform journey, God uses the weak to shame the strong, a suffering Son to heal the wounds of creation, and the vulnerable image of a broken savior to show the all-surpassing vessel who saves us.

The Christian oddly professes that it is by the Cross which we live, by a seemingly weak vessel that we are brought home. Here, Christ is not an escape raft for the hard realities of this world. On the contrary, he calls to us in our weakness and reminds us that it is not unfamiliar to him. Through tumultuous waters, he beckons us to see there is potential in fragility, meaning in affliction, and life within and beyond the journey that currently consumes us. Something like the image of tiny ducks arriving after an unlikely voyage, the story Jesus tells redirects thoughts on vulnerability, the weak and the strong. And along the way, God is aware of every last and fragile vessel, going after even one that is lost, longing to gather us unto himself like a hen bringing together thousands of little chicks under her wings.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

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The Prophet – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

January 25, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

“Sir, I can see you are a prophet.”

Jesus hadn’t told her future, a task many equate with prophecy. He told her past. “You are right when you say you have no husband. The fact is, you have had five husbands, and the man you now have is not your husband” (John 4:17-18). From this knowledge of her angst-ridden personal life, the woman at the well concluded that Jesus was no less than a prophet. As the conversation continued, she began to wonder if Jesus was not in fact the Prophet.

The storied role of a Hebrew prophet is a perspective lost in modern times. The prophets were messengers sent by God to a world hard of hearing, whether by suffering or stubbornness, sin or shame. “Prophecy is the voice that God has lent to the silent agony,” writes Abraham Heschel, “a voice to the plundered poor, to the profaned riches of the world. It is a form of living, a crossing point of God and man. God is raging in the words of the prophet.”(1) The prophet’s words were often cries of the imminent future, but they were also exclamations for the present, insight into the past, and windows into another kingdom. The Hebrew prophets were messengers, but they were also mediators. They were called to restore the hearts of the people to the God they had abandoned. To a world that needed to be wakened, the prophet was God’s megaphone. But likewise, the prophet brought the cry of humanity before the heart of God. Standing between God and the people, the prophet cried out at times as prosecutor, at times as the defense.

It is essential to know this backdrop of Hebrew prophecy if we are to understand the person and work of Christ. Like the Hebrew prophets who came before him, Jesus was more than an individual who told the future, or a person with divine insight. He came as messenger, but he offered far more than words. He came to herald another kingdom and to restore hearts to God in the present one. He came with the message of salvation and he stood between God and humanity—even unto a cross—to give it. He came as both judge and physician, the herald of our brokenness and the bearer of that brokenness.

In fact, the woman at the well saw that Jesus was one who had no doubt “stood in the council of the LORD”—the distinguishing factor between true and false prophets given in Jeremiah 23. Even so, the conversation continued to surprise her, and she began to surmise that the one in front of her was even greater than a prophet, greater than those who stood boldly between God and humanity crying to both. Jesus declared, “Believe me, woman, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. You Samaritans worship what you do not know; we worship what we do know, for salvation is from the Jews. Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks” (John 4:21-23). As seen in the reactions of this Samaritan, these words had eschatological, historical, and cosmological dimensions. This man had the voice of a prophet and something more.

Leaving the jar she came to fill, the woman at the well ran home, proclaiming out of her own silent agony the hope he voiced within it: “Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Christ?”

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Abraham Heschel, The Prophets (New York: Harper Collins, 2001), 5-6.

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What Did Jesus Mean? – Ravi Zacharias

January 24, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

On the long walk up the steep hill of the historic castle in Marburg, Germany, nostalgia throbbed through every vein. If only the stones could speak and resonate with the voices that held forth within those confines–what rapture that would provide! Within the rooms of that castle a memorable meeting was held in October of 1529 at which a handful of men, principally Luther and Zwingli, were present. What occasioned that auspicious gathering, and why were the emotions so intense as the moods swung from castigating outbursts to heartfelt apologies?

The question before them was one of consolidating their theological convictions and of presenting a unified platform on what they believed and why they believed it. We read in the summation of those proceedings that of the fifteen points under debate they agreed on fourteen but with great anguish disagreed on the fifteenth. The issue that strongly divided them was the meaning of Jesus’s words “This is my body,” and the significant implications of those words upon the Christian celebration of the Lord’s Supper. To Luther it appeared to be as clear as the day—”This is my body” could only be literal. “Jesus said, ‘This is my body,’” he kept thundering forth. He was not arguing for transubstantiation, although Zwingli saw it as a capitulation to that. To Zwingli the words were only symbolic of Christ’s spiritual presence.

One has only to read the points and counterpoints made between the two and the spirit is stirred by the passion of the reformers. The contest of two different convictions, and the harshness of the words spoken in the heat of argument prompted tears and regret in each as they parted with the hope that the sharp edges of their verbal outbursts would be blunted and gentler words would prevail. Unfortunately, subsequent history unfolds a reality different to their hopes.

Today we marvel at such diatribe between people committed to Christ. But let us not lose sight of something so close to the eye that we may lose focus. For both Zwingli and Luther the fundamental question was unmistakable: What did Jesus mean? That was of supreme importance. To be absolutely sure of the answer to that question on the Lord’s Supper we may have to await the Real Presence when eternity is ushered in. But I strongly suspect that both Zwingli and Luther will be applauded for their unswerving commitment to determine God’s intent.

With the twists and turns of history, Marburg has a more sobering warning to us than a debate in a castle by a handful of reformers. The prestigious University of Marburg was founded just two years before that colloquy. In more recent times it has been the spawning ground for schools of thought that have brought havoc into theological institutions—typically not the intention of the thinker, but sadly often the consequence.

After decades of ministry, one of the deepest concerns I have lies in this twin-headed dilemma—how we approach the Scriptures and how we apply them. So much of faith today is muddied by spiritual jargon. Time and again we hear, “God spoke to me”—a mind-boggling statement, to be sure, not only to the skeptic but to many a serious student of the Word. Could such a claim not just as equally be the spiritual clothing of ambition with the verbiage of inspiration? I have seen some of the most incredible behavior justified with the words “God spoke to me.” How does one argue with that? The only way is to turn to the Scriptures and to verify whether the truth deduced is in keeping with the truth of Scripture, not just personally wrested but objectively revealed to all humanity. Further, if the life and conduct of the one to whom God is “constantly speaking” belies a disjunction between practice in day-to-day living and a precept that is harnessed to justify specific behavior, that one too has amputated the organ of fact from the feeling of faith.

From the beginning of time the most difficult question confronting humanity was in the words of the tempter, “Did God really say… ?” In a tragic and sometimes subtle sort of way we can jettison that revealed authority or else give lip service to it, breathing our own inspiration into self-chosen paths. May I suggest the latter is more dangerous, for while the former may deny the existence of God, the latter in the name of God, plays God. This may be the most important lesson to learn from the stones of Marburg. To Luther and Zwingli it was important to know what God meant when God said what God said, not what they might like it to mean. Their disagreement was based on the importance of truth. I have little doubt that to many professing Christians the choice between the two schools of thought is clear. The terrifying reality may be that in life and conduct we may be closer to playing God than we realize.

Ravi Zacharias is founder and chairman of the board of Ravi Zacharias International Ministries.

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Self-Conscious Samaritans – Ravi Zacharias Ministry

January 23, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

I remember the first time I learned that legal proceedings are not always exact pictures of justice. I think my mom was trying to get me to clean my room. Trying a new tactic, she told me that if a burglar happened to break in that night, trip over the junk on my floor and break his leg, I would be the one responsible for his injuries. In such a scenario, the thief could actually take legal action against the very person he was trying to rob. I remember feeling indignant at the thought of it (though likely not enough to clean my room).

A similarly troubling picture of justice arises when a person is trying to help a victim, but ends up becoming the victim herself—such as when a passerby stops to administer CPR and winds up, for whatever reason, with a lawsuit on her hands. A newspaper column by Abigail Van Buren, known to her advice and manner-seeking readers as “Dear Abby,” lamented the increasing need for “Good Samaritans” to stop and consider the risk before providing assistance. While Abby herself noted there was no excuse to withhold help, one reader was insistent. In places without a “Good Samaritan law,” which actually removes the liability of the one providing assistance, “people who offer a helping hand place themselves potentially at financial and emotional risk.”(1) The reader continued, “I only hope that I have the presence of mind in the future to withhold assistance in a state that has no Good Samaritan law.”

While the law of human nature seems to assure the majority of people will pass by an accident assuming that someone else will help out, the laws of litigation seem to warn Good Samaritans to watch their backs altogether. Consequently, in many cases, increasingly so, no one does anything. The victim remains the victim; the Samaritan remains unscathed.

I suppose it should not come as a surprise that we have managed to hyper-individualize one of the most non-individualistic characters in all of storytelling. The very point of the parable of the Good Samaritan, the story from which the vernacular term for helper now takes its name, is to teach that hierarchical, individual distinctions, whether thinking in terms of race, religion, or personal liability, are misleading and harmful. In the story Jesus tells, the Samaritan’s presence of mind is the exact opposite of self-conscious. The Samaritan deliberately places himself in the center of harm’s way (not knowing if the thieves are still nearby), not to mention the epicenter of disdain for showing disregard to cultural norms (he was a Samaritan who should have been keeping to himself). The assurance of coming out unscathed could hardly have been this Samaritan’s motive for reaching out. On the contrary, the Samaritan places himself in a position where he is certain to bear the cost—one such cost being the financial burden of care for the wounded person on the road.

While it is indeed lamentable that the current state of the world seems to necessitate self-consciousness in dealing with our neighbors, it is both lamentable and entirely unreasonable that we assume this was not the same scenario for the crowd who first heard the story. We seem to reason that the Good Samaritan only helped because it was not a liability for him, giving ourselves a rational exemption: “If it weren’t for the law, I would be more than willing to see and care for that person as my neighbor.” In fact, the one who first asked the question that merited Jesus’s telling of the parable was thinking quite similarly. His very question of Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” betrays his philosophy that the world can be classified in terms of commodities. In this estimation, there are those I am responsible to help, and there are those I am not responsible to help. And he bases these distinctions on his reading of the law. Albeit a different kind of “law” than the laws that discourage us from helping today, it is a similar use of legalism all the same.

Yet Jesus calls the questioner away from his legalistic mindset with a story that turns these categories into smoke and mirrors. Instead of the stance of self-consciousness that asks, “What will happen to me if I stop and help this man?”, a far better question is posed on the lips of one who has much to lose: “What will happen to this man if I don’t stop?” Setting aside the categories that could easily hold him back, the Good Samaritan has room to hold the very commandment Jesus describes as the crux on which all the law and the prophets hang: You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and your neighbor as yourself. With this wisdom in hand, the Good Samaritan, and every soul that carries his presence of mind thereafter, is not far from the kingdom of God.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Abigail Van Buren, “Good Samaritan risks a lot in lending a hand,” The Post and Courier, August 7, 2007, 5D.

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Knowledge Without Shame – Ravi Zacharias

January 22, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

A few years ago, a man had an idea. He decided to start a blog—intended to be a temporary community art project—in which individuals would mail postcards on which was written one secret they hadn’t told anyone. No longer a “temporary art project” this blog is now an online community with over 80,000 members. Apparently, even those with secrets feel the need to share them with someone. Whatever secrets people have hidden, this blog phenomenon highlights the fundamental human desire to be known and seen at the deepest levels.

Yet being truly known simultaneously arouses fear. And it is no wonder that so many keep secrets from even their nearest and dearest. Being known opens us up to exposure, and if exposed we risk rejection—for all of who we truly are is neither beautiful nor lovely. As the contemporary songwriter Aimee Mann once lamented, “People are tricky. You can’t afford to show anything risky, anything they don’t know. The moment you try, well kiss it goodbye.”(1) So rather than risk relationship, we hide from others what resides in the dark recesses of our souls. We hide our private secrets and put on our public facades praying that what we really are will never be seen or come to light.

Given this fear of being known, the invocation to “Come, see a man who told me all the things that I have done,” could be heard more like an accusation at an inquisition than an invitation to be seen completely without shame. Yet, this invitation—given by an unnamed, Samaritan woman in the gospel of John—is an invitation to see, and to be seen by one who tells her all that she had done. His knowledge doesn’t reject or destroy relationship. His knowledge restores her dignity.

We are only given a few details about her. She was a Samaritan, a long-despised ethnic group. She came to draw water during the hottest part of the day and not early in the morning or late in the evening as would have been typical for the women of her day. We are told that she had five husbands and was currently living with a man to whom she was not married. While it is not stated explicitly, this is likely the source of her shame. Women in the ancient world derived their social standing and economic viability from their husbands. Without a husband, and particularly without a male child, a woman was without recourse and completely dependent on a society that often abandoned her. And so, perhaps this woman comes to draw water when no other women were around as a way of hiding her shame. Hers is a secret too painful to sit with in the open.

Yet in her brief encounter with a man who asks her to give him a drink, her secrets are revealed. But not for the sake of shaming her or exposing what she feared the most. This prophet at no point invites repentance or, for that matter, speaks of sin at all since she very easily could have been widowed or have been abandoned or divorced. Five times would be heartbreaking, but not impossible. Further, she could now be living with someone that she was dependent on, or be in what was called a Levirate marriage (where a childless woman is married to her deceased husband’s brother in order to produce an heir, yet is not always technically considered the brother’s wife). Her shame is tragic, rather than scandalous; her fear of being seen the result of deep pain.

Immediately after the man describes her past, she says, “I see that you are a prophet” and asks him where one should worship. “Seeing” in John, biblical scholars note, is all-important. “To see” is often connected with belief. When the woman says, “I see you are a prophet,” she makes a confession of faith.(2)

She sees because this man named Jesus has seen her. He has seen her plight. He has recognized her, spoken with her, offered her something of incomparable worth. He has seen her—and showered on her worth, value and significance. All of this is treatment to which she is unaccustomed. And so when he speaks of her past both knowingly and compassionately, she realizes she is in the presence of a prophet. She leaves her waterpot, runs into her city, and issues an invitation to all the townspeople to “come, see a man who told me all the things I have done.”

John’s gospel places this encounter with the unnamed Samaritan woman immediately after Jesus speaks with Nicodemus, a Jewish religious leader. Nicodemus, however, has great difficulty comprehending who or what Jesus was. Yet as scholar David Lose notes, Jesus’s encounter with this woman yields an entirely different result. She “who was the polar opposite of Nicodemus in every way, she recognizes not just who Jesus is but what he offers—dignity. Jesus invites her to not be defined by her circumstances and offers her an identity that lifts her above her tragedy. And she accepts, playing a unique role in Jesus’ ministry as she is the first character in John’s gospel to seek out others to tell them about Jesus.”(3)

Come, see a man who told me all the things that I have done becomes an invitation to be welcomed into knowing, and welcoming others to know. This Jesus is the one who demonstrates that knowledge of our most intimate life details need not make us afraid or feel ashamed. His knowledge brings dignity and freedom to be known in all of our human complexity. The nearness of Jesus doesn’t kill us from exposure, but offers us a new identity forged from intimate knowledge. It is an invitation to know, just as we are fully known.

Margaret Manning is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

(1)Aimee Mann, “It’s Not,” Lost In Space, Superego Records 2002.

(2)David Lose, “Misogyny, Moralism and the Woman at the Well,” The Huffington Post, March 21, 2011.

(3) Ibid.

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The Just Will Rise – Ravi Zacharias

January 21, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

In his famed “I have a Dream speech,” Martin Luther King Jr. proclaimed: “We refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt.” At these words, King painted for a troubled nation a powerful image of hope, and forever rooted the civil rights movement in images of justice and the image of God.

The images presented in the book of Daniel are similarly rooted in images of justice and God. In fact, it is for this reason that the sixth chapter of Daniel was a favorite Scripture passage among civil rights preachers in the early 1960s. The story told in Daniel 6 presents a king who loses sight of his purpose as king and the purpose of the law, creating a system void of justice and a law that only hinders and traps its makers. But against the images of lawlessness and corruption, the story portrays a silent but active Daniel clinging to a higher law, bowing before the King of Kings in the midst of persecution, in the hands of his oppressors, and the shadows of the lions’ den. Living within the hopelessness of exile, sweltering under the heat of injustice, Daniel unflinchingly declares the sovereignty of God, and with faithfulness and perseverance refuses to believe otherwise.

In a kingdom in which he was a mere foreigner, Daniel was appointed a position of great authority because the king found him to be useful. The story quickly hints that in the peaceful dominion of King Darius all is not peaceful. The leaders serving under Daniel want to get rid of him. The story does not provide a thorough explanation for their hatred of Daniel and yet, perhaps in this silence much is said. The nature of any prejudice is absent of explanation. Without reason, without logic, we discriminate and are discriminated against. There is no explanation because to explain our reasons behind prejudice is to become our own judge. In fact, Daniel’s enemies announce their illogic when they conclude, “We will never find any basis for charges against this man Daniel unless it has something to do with the law of his God” (6:5).

Whatever their motivation, the men proceed with their plan. Approaching the king with flattery that he does not refuse, they convince him to establish an ordinance that holds the kingdom accountable to praying only to him. The king, who is pleased with his high and lofty position and his authority to rule, agrees to test the loyalty of his citizens, and to make the law irrevocable.

It is significant to note that Daniel does not speak until the end of the story, yet throughout it, he is anything but complacent. Knowing the document had been signed, Daniel goes to his house, opens his windows, faces Jerusalem, and prays as he had done before. Just as planned, he is immediately caught by the men who are quick to point out his guilt before the king. While the king stands guilt-ridden, Daniel stands accused, and nothing can be done to save him. Bound by his own law, the king must release his faithful servant into the hands of injustice. Daniel is thrown into the lions’ den, which is then sealed at the remorseful hand of the king.

As we await the outcome, the injustice of the situation palpable, the voices we most want to hear from remain discouragingly silent. We hear nothing from the lips of Daniel. And we hear nothing from the mouth of Daniel’s God.

In the face of injustice, silence is indeed oppressive; filled at once with despairing questions. Where is God? What of the silent victims? Who will speak over the deafening sounds of injustice, over the word games and manipulative arguments, when hands are tied, options are exhausted, and fates seem irreversible?

Daniel eventually speaks, but only after his irreversible sentence was overruled by the hand of God. Daniel’s story, not unlike the stories of the civil rights movement worldwide, is a declaration that in silence God is still acting, in the weariness of injustice, in the shadows of those who seek to devour, God is sovereign. Justly, thankfully, God comes near to the oppressed. “Because of the oppression of the weak and the groaning of the needy, I will now arise.”

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

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Undone – Ravi Zacharias

January 18, 2013 broboinhawaii Leave a comment

The Oxford University Press “Word of the Year” is an honor bestowed on a new or old word that is chosen for its representation of the year’s cultural milieu. Considered for this past year’s awards in the UK or the US were words such as “nomophobia” (anxiety caused by being without one’s mobile phone—from no and mo(bile) + phobia), “YOLO” (an acronym for you only live once) and the related “FOMO” (the fear of missing out on a social event), “second screening” (the activity of watching television whilst simultaneously using a smartphone, laptop, etc.), “selfie” (a picture of oneself taken from a smartphone and uploaded to a social media site), and “bashtagging” (using a company’s promotional hashtag on Twitter to criticize or complain about the company, rather than endorse it). Similarly tech-savvy is the word that was chosen as the US word of the year, an evolving relic of the 1980s that has “never been trendier,” according to Katherine Martin, Head of the US Dictionaries Program at Oxford University Press.(1) “GIF,” an acronym for Graphics Interchange Format, pronounced jif, is a compressed file format for images that can be used to create simple, looping animations.

Much has been said recently on the influences of technology, social media culture, twitter feeds, and smartphones; on the ways we obtain, retain, and proclaim information; on the ways we interact with each other and on the ways in which we think as a result of it. Many of the shortlisted choices for the UK and US words of the year demonstrate how we are adapting linguistically; it is perhaps ironic that a dictionary should choose to praise words that are driven by a need to use fewer words—texting shorthand, programming acronyms, and twitter-speak. Studies on information behavior such as one conducted by scholars from University College London suggests that we may well be in the midst of a reprogramming of the way we read and think.(2) Some of their observations are fascinating; others are causing due alarm. However we choose to look at it, technology is unquestionably shaping the way we see the world.

As someone who spends a great deal of time on the computer writing and editing, one of my most cherished and simple technological functions continues to be the ability to “undo” something. With the flip of two fingers—one on “command” and the other on the letter “z”—I can remove the sentence I just added to the page, take back the word that did not quite fit, or reverse the effect of every previous command and restore my document to its original condition. No matter how many actions I have taken on the page, I can undo every one of them—and this is often useful! Technologically, it is a feature to which I have grown quite accustomed—so much so, that I find myself believing haphazardly that nothing is ever really lost, and that everything can be undone, erased, or retrieved. More so, I cannot begin to calculate how many times I have thought about this function when I have needed it in places far from my computer screen. I picture my fingers snapping up scenes in my day as if my life was on a screen being edited.

Of course, reality never takes long to jar me back into a world with vastly different rules of operation. We cannot undo words that have already been said or take back actions that were less opportune than we anticipated. Hindsight, by definition, is a vision that is no longer available to us, no matter how urgently we would turn back time and undo what has been done. Our actions and inactions, words, lies, and blind spots cannot be expunged like a spreadsheet or a document. Here, the Christian resolve that our “yes” be our “yes,” that consequences be weighed, and the cost of our action or inaction be counted at the outset is a far wiser and practical vision. And of course, it is far harder work. “But which of you,” asks Christ, “intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it?… Or what king, going out to wage war against another king, will not sit down first and consider whether he is able with ten thousand to oppose the one who comes against him with twenty thousand?”(3)

Warning the crowds to count the costs of following him, Jesus spoke in terms that would cause the faint and the indecisive to run. He also begged them to see that how we live, what we do and say, matters deeply and cannot be undone. We cannot undo foolish words spoken in anger, the regret of a lost opportunity, or the act of walking away from someone in need. Nor can we undo a life that missed the cultivation of a nearby Christ while we had our hands on other plows. But we can choose to live dynamically today. Jesus bids us to fashion our legacy from this day forward, ever looking to the one who is in fact able to undo a life that is anything less.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) “Word Of The Year 2012: ‘GIF’, According To Oxford American Dictionaries,” Huffington Post, November 12, 2012. See also “Oxford Dictionaries UK Word of the Year 2012,” November 13, 2012, http://blog.oxforddictionaries.com/press-releases/uk-word-of-the-year-2012/, accessed December 1, 2012.

(2) “Information Behaviour of the Researcher of the Future,” University College London Online Briefing, January 11 2008, http://www.bl.uk/news/pdf/googlegen.pdf, accessed October 1, 2008.

(3) Luke 14:28,31.

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