“I do not want to merely be called a Christian, but to actually be one.”

—St. Ignatius, as quoted by Stephen Crosby

This is how I feel.

Doubt baby review:

• empathy
• action-orientation (Jesus' main thing)
• final marginalization of Teen Mania-esque emphasis on making converts
• metaphysical flexibility (for me and for others)
• humility
• pluralism & ecumenism
• lightheartedness
• reset for my fight against sexual sin
• reset for my distraction at work

I am less self-disciplined, less loving, and less diligent whenever Carla leaves.

Carla has been peevish recently. But so have I. It’s a cycle. I realized one way to break the cycle is to drop my expectation that anyone, including my wife and kids, act perfectly lovingly all the time. I don’t, so why should I expect them to?

I’ll go further: When a demand is made of me or a disagreement voiced, let my first instinct be to satisfy the demand or come to accord quickly and happily. Obviously, I won’t be a pushover, but I will be a volunteer, a happy second-miler.

For this reason we don’t lose heart. Even if our outer humanity is decaying, our inner humanity is being renewed day by day. This slight momentary trouble of ours is working to produce a weight of glory, passing and surpassing everything, lasting forever; for we don’t look at the things that can be seen, but at the things that can’t be seen. After all, the things you can see are here today and gone tomorrow; but the things you can’t see are everlasting (2 Corinthians 4:16-18, KNT).

We look at the things that can’t be seen. That’s a religious paradox strict empiricist might choke on. But besides being poetic, it’s true, and whether the objects of our gaze are real or not, our hope in them has real sustaining power.

It’s also leads to a thought we as believers ought to remember: We are, in the end, talking about Someone invisible. Why balk at the idea that some folks don’t believe?

With apologies to philosophers and neuroscientists who believe there is no such thing as free will, we humans are the only (or perhaps one of just a few) species capable of choosing what we consume and how. We have a huge responsibility.

As this first day of my sprint toward getting a minimum viable website up for Frank and PolyGreen America ends, I am reminded that hobbies are happiest when they are not only enjoyable, but also seen as a form of generosity. In the case of web-development-on-the-side-that-disturbs-my-schedule-equilibirum, the enjoyment is possible only when I view it as such.

So Lord, let me renew that vantage on this work—and all work, really.

The important thing is not to obsess.

If, when I’m old, you were to ask me to tell you one thing about my life as it was today, I predict I’d tell you it was I day I think—I hope—I turned a corner in my character. You see, since screening the finale of the second season of Gatiss & Moffatt’s Sherlock this past Saturday, entitled “The Reichenbach Fall” (and probably a good bit before then), I had been obsessing over the show: obsessing about its plot, obsessing about its characters, obsessing about its actors, and obsessing about its writers. I was obsessing about my decision to stop watching it because of my obsession.

I needed to be rescued from all this.

And it’s more than Sherlock: In recent months, I have spent far too much time and attention setting up operating systems, selecting an iPhone case, and other such minutiae. I prioritize trivialities. And it robs me of life (and steals from DiamondBack).

We have overcome perfectionism. We have overcome stoniness. We have overcome self-distraction at work. We have overcome religious doubt. (All of the above are still works in progress, but they are works well on their way with clear paths to completion.) Perhaps now we can take on obsessiveness and the resulting misprioritization.

Deliberation, yes: You do that about problems and decisions. Cogitation, yes: You do that about profundities. Obsession, no: You do that, by definition, with things you ought not to. And I know what it feels like.

If you’re going to obsess about anything, do it about giving yourself for the benefit of other people.

If, when I’m old, you were to ask me to tell you one thing about my life as it was today, I predict I’d tell you we had our 72-year-old next-door neighbor Janet Donald over for leftover Stilson rotini dinner, homemade quick bread, a thirteen-year-old shiraz Janet had donated to us a month prior for Carla’s birthday, and some after-dinner Dixit at the kids’ prompting, all while piano jazz played on Spotify and the thermostat was set to a balmy 67°F.

I told her I love having her over.

Did I say it because I love the feeling of moral pride it gives me to know I have my aged next-door neighbor over for dinner and counter her as a friend? In part, yes. But I also said it because I really do like her.

“Now you together are the Messiah’s body” (1 Corinthians 12:27, KNT). In other words, I extrapolate, we are how Jesus acts on this earth.

Matt Poehner has the following quotation on his Facebook profile:

Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that…will live on in the memories of your loved ones. I am not afraid.

— Marcus Aurelius

I can get behind that.

If, in my old age, you asked me to tell you one thing about my life as it was today, I predict I’d tell you it was the day I metaphorically threw my hands up in the air about whether I have a principled reason for supporting Friends & Farmers Food Co-op: I don’t. I support the co-op because I enjoy hanging out with those kinds of people at the kinds of functions they hold.

I could go into my reasons for suspecting that “buy local” is a slogan with slippery ethical foundations (hint: for a start, it smacks of egogeocentrism), but I think I’ll leave it at this: I buy local for the pleasure of it. That’s all. It is a luxury. It makes my community a smilier, more human place.

Completism is not a fruit of the spirit.

Personifying the highest good is very motivating, even if it’s false (which I don’t think it is, but it might be).

As I read these healing stories from gate A22 a few minutes ahead of boarding for Las Vegas, it occurs to me that there is a singular inner focus I can carry in life that will make for healing prayers and acts of mercy and friendliness and whatever good and God I can do: keep the foot washing in mind.

Attributing the healing miracles I’m reading about in Eric Metaxas’ Miracles to rare, poorly understood, completely undivine, powerful psychosomatics because one has to avoid confirmation bias is like remaining agnostic about the origin of a love letter left for me in Carla’s handwriting with her signature on it. If it’s in her handwriting and name, it’s rational to conclude that she wrote it. Similarly, if these miracles happened in the name of Jesus, it’s rational to conclude that Jesus did them. Is it possible that some purely natural, impersonal set of biological and psychological forces combined to make these healings happen? Yes, just like it’s possible that I forged the hypothetical love letter subconsciously out of a desire to be loved by Carla. Do I have any explanatory mechanism that is more powerful than to attribute the healings to God and the love letter to Carla? No, not even close. Does it seem overly skeptical to withhold conclusions about the origin of a miracle when it happens in Jesus’ name and has no great natural explanation because science might someday understand what is happening? In many cases, such as in the cases of these stories, yes.

If you asked me in my old age to tell you one thing about my life as it was today, I’d tell you that Matt and Lara were good friends of ours, and they proved it yet again by coming over this evening and Matt helping Carla figure out what to do about the hole she had made in the kitchen wall two years prior in hopes of someday widening the doorway putting a pocket door or barn door in. We needed to get moving on something because having a hole in the wall with exposed electrical wires was a no-no for folks wanting to get into foster parenting. Lara did the dishes and prepared one of the two pizzas we scarfed for dinner (along with some beer from Otto’s—a rare sighting in the Stilson house). The Rookes also proved good neighbors in general: Matt helped me shovel out neighbor Janet’s driveway when her snowblower wouldn’t start.

Naturalist scientists don’t seem to understand that we people of faith aren’t looking for predictable, reproducible patterns in nature like they are. We don’t exclude all but that which is empirically observable from our account of reality. We are people of the anomalies.

Remembering this will help me keep the weed of anti-supernaturalism out of the garden of my mind.

Jesus went out from there and came into His hometown; and His disciples followed Him. When the Sabbath came, He began to teach in the synagogue; and the many listeners were astonished, saying, “Where did this man get these things, and what is this wisdom given to Him, and such miracles as these performed by His hands? Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary, and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon? Are not His sisters here with us?” And they took offense at Him. Jesus said to them, “A prophet is not without honor except in his hometown and among his own relatives and in his own household.” And He could do no miracle there except that He laid His hands on a few sick people and healed them. And He wondered at their unbelief.

— Mark 6:1-6, emphasis mine

I read the above excerpt this evening in a renewed effort to understand who You are, God, as revealed in Jesus. I typed, “God might wonder at our unbelief,” and I realized You might be wondering at my unbelief. I am, in a way, from Your hometown: I’ve been a Christian for my entire life. And You have surrounded me with friends and relatives who have experienced You in miraculous ways. And the Internet, far from being festooned with critics and skeptics only, is full of other stories for which a naturalistic hypothesis seems farther-fetched than a divine one.

And yet I doubt. No wonder You wonder.

Today’s skeptics echo the questioners in Jesus’ hometown.

If you asked me in my old age to tell you one thing about my life as it was today, I’d tell you about three things that happened while dining at Luna II Woodgrill this evening with Carla, Sullivan, Éa, and the Doroshes:

1. Sullivan learned about such Marvel characters as Mr. Fantastic, Thing, Thor, Lizard, Wolverine, and Black Cat via a coloring book the waitstaff had provided and via my answering his questions about them as he leafed through. It was strange to help him be introduced to characters. I don’t want Sullivan to open comic books and fall in like I feel like I did as a youth, but at the same time, I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. So I didn’t. I did wonder, though, what effect his seeing the buxom Black Cat will have on his perception of normal busts in women as he hits adolescence.
2. In talking with the Doroshes and Carla, I learned that if you learn of a funeral and you know the deceased or the deceased is someone very close to someone you know, you should go. How well you know the deceased isn’t a factor in the decision because (1) your presence will add comfort the grieving, (2) it is an opportunity to bond with fellow humans, and (3) you will be reminded of your own mortality, which for me, at least, is always a healthful, inspiring thing. I missed out on this evening’s effective Antioch International Church reunion because I stayed home to tend Sullivan and Éa instead of attending Justin Carr’s funeral.
3. I decided to start calling the Doroshes Uncle Pete and Aunt Betsy. Éa and especially Sullivan are always eager to see Pete, and both kids were very liberal and energetic with their hugging of them both. Incidentally, I also let Pete violate my pet rule for who pays when dining out with out-of-town guests. It should be the hosts (us), but I let him pay because Carla had already accepted his offer and because, well, he insisted so nicely.

A new interpretation of Hebrews 11:6, which reads, “And without faith it is impossible to please Him, for he who comes to God must believe that He is and that He is a rewarder of those who seek Him,” just came to me: The writer is saying, in effect, “You can’t do these crazy things I’m telling you about Abel, Enoch, Abraham, and so on without trusting God. It just can’t be done. If you don’t think He is and that He rewards those who seek Him, you obviously won’t be able to do the kinds of things in this list.

Here is a great reinterpretation of Luke 11:9, which reads, “Ask and it will be given to you…”:

It’s tempting (and lucrative, for some preachers) to treat this nugget of Scripture as an ironclad promise. Whatever you ask for—promotion, wealth, the spouse of your dreams—God will give it to you.

Unless, of course, Luke 11:9 is part of a larger narrative in which Jesus has already told us what to ask for. After a brief episode in which he defends Mary over her sister Martha for choosing what matters most—being a disciple, a citizen of his kingdom—Jesus’ followers ask him how to pray. Jesus tells them to ask for things like daily bread, the advent of his kingdom, forgiveness for sin. Only then does he say, “Ask and it will be given to you.”

It’s not, “Ask for anything you want.” It’s more like, “Ask for my kingdom, and you will have it.”

“Oh boy, I hope I was right…”

— Bart Ehrman, responding to the following interview question: “In the For-All-Eternity category, what will be your final thought?”

A winsome set of last words, if there ever was one. On my deathbed, I know I’ll have hope, and I know I’ll have fear. I also want the levity I read in Ehrman’s response.