Stuff Christians Like (15 page)

For some reason, the phrase “thoughts and” makes it totally acceptable for you to talk about prayer. In a Hallmark or Lifetime Channel kind of way, that phrase mellows out the undertones of “Jesus” many people detect in the word “prayers.” Or maybe it’s because we like things in pairs. Hugs and kisses. Peanut butter and jelly. Thoughts and prayers. I’m not sure what it is, but you should try it sometime. If you have to tell a co-worker you’re going to pray for them, make sure you say, “You’ll be in my thoughts
and
prayers.”

I think that the trillions of sneezes that have been followed by the phrase “God bless you” have cleared the way for us to drop this phrase as much as we want in emails. Go hog wild with this God bless you. Use it in the subject line. Put it in the first sentence of the email. Wrap the whole thing up by just repeating, “God bless you. God bless you. God bless you.” You’ll be fine with that. But if the “J” word slips in for a cameo—even tucked down in the bottom of the P.S.—you’re in trouble.

I hope you’ll follow these simple rules and not ruin things for the rest of us who have spent the last several years completely neutralizing any form of faith in our interoffice email communications. And if you choose not to, you’ll be in my thoughts and prayers…to Jesus.

When a co-worker’s condo flooded, I was blamed. Not directly, you understand. I didn’t break her pipes or make them back up from the street and ruin her hardwood floors. But in our team meeting, when we ran through the list of calamities that had occurred to us over the last six months, one guy I work with said, “What’s going on? I thought you had us covered.”

Fair question. I’m the token Christian at work, someone people like to keep around to prevent just such inconveniences. Had I been doing a better job, one I inherited because I keep a Bible on my desk, perhaps I could have saved my co-worker from having to retile her kitchen.

But the magical umbrella of protection from things like floods—and the less common but equally dangerous rain of locusts—is not really the token Christian’s primary role. Your chief duty is to pray at weddings.

As the token Christian at a wedding, you’ll probably just be praying at the reception, and you’re going to want to keep it high-level. Think “God lite.” They asked you to pray, kind of like they asked their friend that knows how to play the piano if he would play a song during the ceremony. It wasn’t an invitation for him to perform a forty-seven-minute-long concerto piece that draws tears and changes the entire crowd’s perception of classical music.
Bravissimo!
You have to resist that urge to convert everyone at the wedding in one fell swoop with your token Christian prayer.

Be honest. Be brief. And avoid the phrase “sin nailed to the cross” at all costs. That’s only going to freak out the people waiting for you to finish so they can eat cake and do the electric slide.

A friend of mine attended a children’s service once where they did the
Fear Factor
approach to salvation. They sat a roomful of kids, ages six and up, in front of a huge backlit white sheet. In a silhouette on stage, you could see a person lying on an operating table. Suddenly, another silhouette fired up a real chain saw and started cutting the person in half. The person getting
chain sawed wailed and flailed in agony as a children’s minister told the kids, “This is what God does when he removes sin from your life.” From the guts of the person, things like a television, a radio, and other sinful items were pulled out.

Meanwhile, the kids in the audience were bawling. They were terrified and couldn’t stop crying. Someone behind a curtain was getting murdered, and God was somehow involved. Parents and helpers rushed around the room, trying in vain to calm everyone down. The whole event concluded with an altar call to accept Chain Saw Jesus into your life.

This is a tricky topic to write on because we’re told to fear the Lord, and there’s definitely fear present there. But I think events like that are why I have friends who say things like, “I’m so glad I didn’t grow up in church. I became a believer when I was older, so I didn’t have to unlearn much.” Those kids would have accepted My Little Pony into their heart that day if it would have ended the chain saw sin massacre. The emotion they learned, the threshold they had to cross that led to God, was raw fear. He’s terrifying. He wants to hurt you. He wants to cut you in half to remove your sin.

I think sometimes this happens because we want to take a shortcut to salvation for someone. We want them to be saved right this second and right this moment, and love can feel like it’s taking too long. Love is messy and slow. It unravels at God’s speed, not ours. Shame is faster. Fear is faster. And if the goal is to get them in the door, then fear becomes a pretty good method.

To tell you the truth, terrifying someone into a relationship with God is also easier. Love makes us vulnerable. I have to throw myself out there and be honest and naked and open to getting rejected if love is what I give to you. But fear doesn’t require any of that. I can yell and scream and try to intimidate you without getting hurt or taking any real risks. Love is harder because it demands that I get personally involved in your life. Fear doesn’t carry those same requirements.

But it does come with things like chain saws. That’s probably the other reason we try to scare people into a relationship with Jesus. Fear has better props than love, whose primary prop is a twirling ribbon. Look it up, it’s true.

When I was in college, I heard a classmate sing a great song at church. Later that week in the cafeteria, I asked him if he wrote it. Without missing a beat he replied, “No, God did.” Then he walked away. He should have punctuated that answer with “You sweaty heathen” because that’s how I felt. And come on, the song wasn’t
that
good. The Bible, sure, that’s God’s book, but that John Mayer-ish worship song? God probably didn’t even like the chorus, never mind write the whole thing.

No one ever sets out to own fourteen Bibles. This is not a goal anyone commits to paper and tucks inside their wallet so that they can constantly remind themselves, “Someday, I’m going
to own my bodyweight in Bibles!” No one hoards Bibles like a squirrel on purpose or smuggles them out of church in their pants legs. We never intend for this to happen, and yet somewhere along the way, in your Christian walk, you’re going to wake up one day and say, “Whoa, I own fourteen Bibles.”

It all starts off innocently; everyone needs a Bible, so you buy one. And you like it, it’s nice, but you didn’t realize how many options there were. You were expecting to go to the store and say, “I’d like to buy a Bible,” and have the guy behind the counter who probably would have a mustache and overalls and look vaguely like a character from a Norman Rockwell painting say, “Sure, got a fresh shipment in last night. Looks like it’s goin’ to be a cold winter; muskrats are running. Here you go. Enjoy your Bible.” But that’s not how it happened at all, is it?

When you showed up to the store they pointed you to the Bible section. The section! There are rows and rows of Bibles. You had no idea there were so many varieties. And so you started looking through them but it’s overwhelming. Authorized Version? Who authorized it? What does that mean? Are the rest of the Bibles considered unauthorized? Like that biography of Ralph Macchio you read? Holman Christian Standard? Who’s Holman? How come he gets to set the standard? And what does Douay-Rheims mean? That’s fun to say, kind of like your favorite phrase, “nougat bungalow,” but what does that mean?

So you pace the aisles and try to find a
Stuff Christians Like
version, but there’s not one…yet.

And then you just buy one. In a sweaty huff you buy one and for a while it’s okay. But then you see your friend’s Bible. Then you read some other versions and you think, “I bought the wrong one. I need to get a new one.” So you go back to the store months later, and you buy the one you like. Now you’ve got two, your first Bible, which is special for sentimental reasons, and your second Bible, which is now your “I’m going to read this one daily” version.

It’s great too. You love that Bible, but it’s awful heavy. Have you noticed that? Carrying it on trips is no fun, lugging it around
church is kind of a hassle, and forget about putting it in your purse. It’s like putting volume “K” of the encyclopedia in there. Maybe you should get one that’s streamlined. Something small and compact and portable. Maybe with a magnet clasp. That would be a lot easier wouldn’t it? Now you’re up to three.

Then a holiday rolls around and your family members or friends that aren’t Christians think, “What should we get him for Christmas or his birthday? What do you buy a Christian? How about a Bible? Christians love Bibles.” So you get one as a gift. Now you’ve got four.

Which isn’t too many; four Bibles isn’t obscene. But then you start a new Bible study group and you’re going to read through Proverbs. It sure would be nice to write in your Bible, to take some notes and write in the margins, but the Bible you use has margins that are approximately .01 inches wide. You would have to possess the precision of a Japanese blowfish chef to write in that Bible. And hey, look at this, there’s a new journaling Bible with notebook lines built right in. Welcome to Bible number five.

Five is good. We’re done at five. If we ever had to play a game of basketball against the Koran, we would be able to suit up an entire team. That’s enough. But then a friend comes over and lo and behold you get to witness to them. You’re not even sure how that happened, but right there in your living room you’re telling them about how much God loves them. And they don’t own a Bible. You’ve got to give them a Bible; everyone needs a Bible. So you give them number two from your lineup and you have to go back to the store. Hmmm, what if that happens again? What if you’re the next John the Baptist and you’re on some kind of streak? How many houses are in your cul-de-sac? Eight. There are eight people who live near you who might need Bibles at some point. Now you’ve got twelve.

But what if they don’t come to you? What if you have to go to them? What if you’re visiting them and they bring up God? Better get a spare Bible to keep in your car, a “car Bible” if you will. Now you’ve got thirteen.

And you’re not superstitious. Numbers don’t hold power over you. Sure seven is holy and six is evil, but thirteen isn’t unlucky. That’s just silly, and yet at the same time it doesn’t seem wise to own thirteen Bibles. And so you return to the store…

I’m one of the fastest Bible verse finders on the East Coast of the United States of America.

Go ahead and laugh. While you’re chuckling, I’ll be in James 5:10 or Psalm 119:4 or Matthew 4:2. You don’t know where I’m headed. I’m like a hurricane of fingers and verses and underlining. It’s a thing of beauty, really. The moment the minister tells us to turn to a verse, I’m like a cheetah shot out of a cannon from the backseat of a Ferrari. I’m that fast.

In violation of the covenants of the STG (Speed Turner’s Guild), I’m going to reveal some of the secrets to consistently winning the “please turn to…” Bible race. Sure, reading the Bible is about learning from God’s Word, but it’s also about beating the person you’re sitting with. God hates silver medals. (That’s somewhere in the Bible.)

Eventually it becomes easy to tell when a minister is about to say those magical words, “Please turn to.” When you recognize it’s about to happen, start slowing down the people around you. A great way is to simply ask for a mint or a piece of gum right before the minister gives the command. While they’re fumbling with Orbit Maui Melon Mint gum, you’ll already be well on your way to finding the verse.

This one is a little more deceptive, but such is the life of a speed turner. Replace your friend’s Bible with a copy of
The Message
the night before. It doesn’t list any verse numbers. It just says John 10, not John 10:10. They might beat you to the chapter, but once they do, they’ll find themselves staggering in a swamp of modern translation with no specific address. Victory!

You have to be subtle about this one. In the moments leading up to “please turn to,” ask if you can borrow your friend’s Bible. Then, when they’re not looking, put it under your chair. Now ask to borrow someone else’s Bible and keep repeating that move. A skilled practitioner can clear a four- or five-person radius of Bibles in under a minute.

Juvenile? Perhaps. Effective? Without a doubt. Simply slap the Bible from the hands of the person next to you. This one is frowned upon because it’s “dishonorable,” but then so is asking for a piece of gum when used as a distraction tactic. Do you want to win, or do you want to love your neighbor? Oh, you want to love your neighbor?

There are other methods, but I have to keep a few secrets for myself. And now that churches are putting the verse up on video screens, this is kind of a dying art. There’s one last thing to remember: If your minister is engaged in a yearlong sermon series on the book of Acts, don’t bother playing the “please turn to” game. Everyone knows where the passages are. It’s like dunking a basketball on a little kid. There’s no pride in that.

Could we get a ruling about whether the Old Testament is still in play? Seriously, could we get some sort of official with a wise-looking beard to once and for all say, “The Old Testament still counts”?

We don’t have that yet, which means every now and then I’ll quote something from the Old Testament and a friend will go,
“Yeah, but that’s Old Testament. That’s old covenant. Jesus changed all that. Your argument doesn’t hold up.”

I’ll slink off, kind of embarrassed and disappointed. “Dang it! I keep forgetting the Old Testament’s not official anymore, which is a shame because it’s really long. I hate to just throw out that whole section of the Bible.”

Which is silly. No one would ever say the whole Old Testament doesn’t count. Clearly, Psalms is still in. Everyone loves Psalms. And Proverbs. You don’t even have to be a Christian to love Proverbs—it’s just so full of great wisdom. And most of the really fun stories are in the Old Testament. No one wants to get rid of Jonah and the whale or David and Goliath. And who doesn’t like to hear a minister occasionally preach some crazy, funkified sermon on the Song of Solomon?

I wasn’t a very fun person to trade baseball cards with when I was a kid. I was great at building forts and throwing acorns and playing Frisbee, but when it came to baseball cards, I was a card value jerk. When someone wanted to trade, I’d get out my dog-eared magazine that listed the current estimated prices of all the cards. Then I’d say things like, “I don’t know about trading Bobby Bonilla for Mark McGwire. It says here that Bobby Bonilla is worth fifteen cents more.” And if the numbers didn’t line up, I didn’t want to do business with you. Eventually people stopped trading cards with me.

Some Christians like to take that approach to Bible reading. They don’t read God’s Word to learn or grow or have their faith challenged—they read it to prove that you’re wrong. It’s uncanny. You almost start to wonder if they aren’t standing
outside your windows in the bushes at night, jotting down any verses they see you reading. Because no matter what it is you say, they’ve got three counterpoints and are more than happy to show you how wrong you are, both from an Old Testament point of view as well as from the New Testament. This person tends to come in three varieties:

There are approximately 970 types of Bibles, and somehow the obscure translator owns them all. Even if you do all your homework. Even if you’ve checked out the NIV, the ESV, and the KJV, as soon as you open your mouth, the obscure translator is going to mentally start going through their rolodex of Bible translations and say, “You’re wrong, because in Gutenberg’s original copy of the Bible, that verse is written differently.”

It’s pretty easy to make the Bible say a lot of things when you rip single verses or examples right out of context. You can grab one verse, plaster it on a sign, and march to your heart’s content, portraying God as someone who’s really excited that people are going to hell. This is exactly what Out-of-Context Dude, or OCD, likes to do. I once wrote about the importance of accountability partners on my blog. A reader responded with something like, “Yeah, well what about Joseph? He didn’t have an accountability partner, did he?” Wow, I thought…you got me.

If someone ever says to you, “Didn’t Paul say…” then beware, my friend, you might be near a Generalizer. The Generalizer is the lazy version of the OCD. He doesn’t have any specific examples from the Bible, and asking for an “address” on the verse he’s referencing is not going to get you anywhere. Instead, expect some wide sweeping comments like, “I think Jesus said,” or “One time Moses…” or “In the New Testament…”
It’s a brilliant stroke actually, because you can’t prove them wrong. Think about it. If someone says, “Somewhere in the Old Testament it says, ‘Life is not simple,’” you’re not going to check the entire Old Testament to prove them wrong.

Ultimately, I’ve given up trying to beat these people. They don’t want to talk Bible; they want to win. And the Bible isn’t a competition. It’s God’s Word. Unless you’re at a Bible quiz event, which is indeed a competition.

You can’t throw away a Bible. That’s the Christian equivalent of changing your own oil and then just dumping the old sludge in the street. And lighting it on fire and then flipping off anyone who comes over to see what the blaze is all about. I probably just under-exaggerated that analogy. That’s how much God doesn’t like it when we throw away our Bibles.

But Bibles break. Even really nice Bibles eventually fall apart if you use them enough. The binding comes undone. The glue that holds everything together gets brittle and old. Or maybe you just bought the wrong version. Maybe you wanted a different translation but liked the cover design and picked up a Bible, thinking, “I really like the color. I’m sure the translation will be fine.” But it’s not. It’s not fine at all. So now you have a Bible you don’t really want, but you can’t return it to the store. If you did, you’d be the guy who says, “Yeah, this thing didn’t ‘take.’ I’d like to get my money back, please.”