Ruminations

Christian capital formation

I took a grad class in business marketing in 1976.  The school I went to used the case method, where you were presented with a business problem distilled to a five-page "case."  Your objective was to analyze, present and defend your recommendations.  The marketing case I recall best was Escalante Chili.  If that's a real product, apologies to the owners in advance. 

Their [Escalante's] problem was market share.  They had a small share of the canned chili market, and they wanted more.  So they played with different formulas to achieve that...e.g., increased promotion, different packaging, lower price and variety of tastes (mild, spicy and caramba!).  

One of the solutions I didn't recommend was that Escalante invest in increasing the overall market for chili.  Escalante had such a small share, it didn't make sense for them to focus on expanding the number of chili lovers.  They wanted consumers that loved Escalante chili, not just any old chili.  And for a company with a small share, that made a lot more sense.  They had to view the market through a narrow lens.  Now if they were the dominant provider--think Ma Bell in 1980 (not chili, of course)-- it made all the sense in the world to expand the use of the telephone..." reach out and touch someone..."  With a 95% market share, every dollar of added telephone spending put $.95 in Ma Bell's pocket.  Not so for Escalante chili.

What's the point?  John 17:20-22 reports Jesus praying for all believers:

"I pray also for those who will believe in me through their [the apostles] message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you.  May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me.  I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one."  

Christ's words challenge me to think radically about the capital formation of his church.  When he challenges his followers "... that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you," he is picturing gospel-centered believers as bolted together at the cross.  He actually goes so far as to state that we do this so "... that the world may believe that you have sent me."  In other words, our being one is a witness to Jesus' divine Sonship.  Conversely, our being narrowly focused, solving only for our particular "brand" in his church, denies that same truth.

The marketing terms we used back in grad school were π1 and π2.  π1 was the overall market.  π2 was our own particular brand's share.  As A Christian, I'm called to focus on capital "C" formation, capital C being the gospel-centered Church.  That doesn't say the local church doesn't matter...of course it does.  But Jesus' words do tell us it should not dominate how we view our investment in building Christ's kingdom here on earth. 

His words also warn us about modifying His recipe to make it milder,or spicier, or more attractive to a particular segment.  He is the author of the formula. 

Lord, forgive me the narrow lens that I often use in viewing your kingdom work.  Grant me the heart, the will and the vision to see that the way I define your Church directly testifies to the world what I really believe about you. 

Chris Joyce

Important questions

I coach fast-pitch softball...pony-tail division...girls...13-18 years old.  It's great fun, the psychic income is high, and it keeps me running.  Thank you, Lord.

The most important question I ask every player to consider--a question that should get asked before every pitch--is, "If the ball comes to me, what am I going to do with it?"  Every player has to be ready for that.  They need to consider the question beforehand, so that their response is [almost] automatic.  If the ball comes to me, what am I going to do with it?  Throw to first.  Get the lead runner at third.  Go for the force at the plate.

I heard an Easter sermon at Market Square here in Old Town Alexandria that repeated that softball question, but with two word changes.  Pastor Tom asked the approximately 200 folks assembled at sunrise in the town square, "Since the gospel has just come at you, what are you going to do with it?"  Now that's a great question.  What am I going to do with it?  

First, will I catch it?  The gospel--that beautiful redemptive message--will I catch it?  We know it is virulent, and infects millions of our fellow creatures every year.  But will I catch it?  Or are my antibodies so strong, my defenses so formidable, that I will attempt to avoid any contamination?  Will I just let it go by--let the next guy pick it up--or watch it dribble through my legs or, worse yet, will I run from it?  If the gospel comes at me, what am I going to do?

And if I catch it, what will I do with it?  That's another great question.  Make no mistake: no one can catch the gospel ball and just hold on to it.  There are no "ball hogs" when it comes to the truth.  If we catch this message, it is going to go somewhere...somewhere beyond us.  The other players in our lives will see it.  We're going to feel it.  And we're going to do something with that hot potato called the good news.  We will not be able to "privatize" it, to hide it away just for ourselves.  This isn't some secret self-improvement project.  No way.  It doesn't work that way.  The gospel is a flow, not a stock.  It moves.   

There were some great players on the city diamond Easter Sunday.  Not their stats--their stats were pretty run-of-the -mill human being stats.  Sinners all.  No, it was their potential that's so promising.  They are on the field, going after the gospel ball.  There was also a good supply of new talent, too.  Plenty of opportunities to catch the good news. 

I believe many did.  I sure did.  Thank you, Lord.

Chris Joyce

   

I need a bail out

It's hard to open the mail these days.  Or go on a few particular websites, e.g., Fidelity, Vanguard, Schwab et al.  The behavioral literature of finance describes me well.  I don't want to recognize the "now condition" of my portfolio.  My personal balance sheet, battered by the stock market storm.  The last time I opened my 401K statement, it reminded me of the scene in Godfather One, when Don Corleone carries Sonny's bullet-riddled carcass into the undertaker's basement, then extends his arms, crying out..."Look what they did to my beautiful boy...use all of your restorative powers...I don't want his mother to see him like this." 

Better to recall what was, or what might have been.  Maybe if I just avoid those statements, and those headlines, and that chatter around the water cooler, I'll feel better.  Sleep through this one.  Pull an investor Rip van Winkle, and wake up to a wonderful new reality.  That 50's hit repeats in my mind, with substitute lyrics...He fell asleep in the woods one day, Dow then rose and made his day!

Which got me thinking.  About bailouts.  How could I get one?  After all, why not?  As my mother-in-law is fond of saying, "What am I--chopped liver?"

So I pulled everything together--gathered up all those statements, asset lists, obligations, etc.--and sat down with my local banker.   Mark.  A good guy.  Also a member of the same church.  He'll help me out, I reason.  

Mark-the-friendly-banker-and-fellow-believer pushed my paper pile around his desk for a few minutes, grunting, then rocks back on his chair, so he's balanced on the back legs.  Now that's risky, I think.

"So what's your question?"  He's still delicately perched at that 40 degree angle.

"Am I eligible?"  I ask that in a low voice, a bit embarrassed.  It feels like the fiscal equivalent of ordering Depends.

"Nope."  Dismissive.  No "it depends".  No probing questions.  No helpful advice.  Just nope.

"How come?    I mean, what would it take to get me eligible?"  Come on, brother, I'm thinkin.

"You have to be bankrupt.  Insolvent.  Illiquid.  Caput."

"But I must be," I whine.  "Can't you see?  Actually...actuarially...I am bankrupt.  Think about it.  I'm 60 years old.  In the 4th quarter of life.  My best income producing years are behind me.  The big cash outlays approach--long term care, hip replacements, and who knows what else.  I'm toast..."  My hands are open, palms up, on his desk.  I try to get a little quiver going in them.

"No sale," he opines.  In spite of my whines.

"OK then, tell me this.  What would it take?  What would I have to do to prove I'm eligible?"

"Liquidate everything.  The house.  The clothes.  The cars.  The 401K.  Use it all to pay off your debts.  If you have $1 left, you're ineligible."  All delivered with that smug expression, to boot.

"But wait a minute," I protest.  "Citibank didn't have to do that.  They didn't have to do anything.  Why should I?  That's just not fair." 

"This isn't about fair, friend.  It's about bailouts.  You don't get to decide the terms.  He does."

He?  Who's he?  What is Mark-the-unfriendly-banker-and-maybe-fellow-believer talking about?   

"The big guy," he answers my unvoiced question.  "He decides.  It ain't about eligibility.  It's about grace."

My mind spins.  Grace?  What's grace got to do with commerce?  And bailouts?  Stunned, I bolt up from the chair, ready to fight my corner.  And awake.  The bedcovers are mangled around my legs.  The pillow's a bit moist.  Must have been grinding those molars again.  It's morning.  A new day.

Yet for some reason, I feel better.  It's not up to me.  What a relief.  I don't have to prove I'm worthy, or  eligible.  Or anything.  He--the Big Man--knows I'm bankrupt.  Spiritually.  All I have to do is liquidate everything...my faith in my position, my dependence on toys and trinkets, my confidence in my own goodness, my pride...and declare myself insolvent.  In need of a bailout.  Incapable on my own.  In desperate need of a rescue...a savior.  Nothing in my hand I bring, only to the cross I cling.

That's good news.  That's gospel.   

Chris Joyce

Creating space

I used to work in telemarketing.  True confession.  The company had over 2,000 seats—telemarketing stations—and our mantra was "Your call means the world to us.”  It really was a fun job, though some of you will probably be tempted to call me during dinner soon.  Payback.  There would be justice in that, but before you pick up that handset, think about playing the mercy card instead.

A key measure of success in telemarketing is “occupancy.”  Just like the airline business, as I'm sure you've noticed.  You've got this investment in capacity [seats] and you want it occupied—generating income—as much as possible.   More is better, at least in that business model.

I've had occupancy on my mind lately, but in a different context.  I've been conscious of the occupancy of my person.  Occupancy within the skin, so to speak.  What occupies my mind?  What's on my heart?  Where are those internal moments invested?

Pastor Tom has made the point more than once that our idols become most visible in our idles—moments, that is.  When your mind is a blank, what rushes in to fill that vacuum?  If it's that new gigunda plasma screen, or the image that popped on your computer screen earlier today, or the still-hot anger of a recent slight, then you've got a good sense of what your little idol factory is churning out these days.

In one of his many articles[1], Henry Nouwen makes the point that, in the spiritual life, discipline means "the effort to create some space in which God can act."    An interesting thought.  Occupancy for the disciple should include a regular diet of un-occupancy.  A turning from the things of this world, the creation of space that the Holy Spirit will fill. 

Where are the opportunities to reduce the clutter of the urgent, the demanding and the enjoyable from my own space?  Have I created that space to camp out in?  I'm a man who tends to mistake activity for impact.  Some of the disciplines of the disciple—the creation of space, the pursuit of silence, the resting in the Word—are not disciplines that I easily gravitate towards. 

In that same article I referenced above, Nouwen remarks that discipleship and discipline are the same words.  Ergo, as a disciple I need to be more disciplined in my pursuit of vacancy, confident that God will fill those spaces with his intent. 

Chris Joyce

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[1] “Moving from Solitude to Community to Ministry;”  Henri Nouwen.

Witnessing supernovae

Astronomers are excited.  One of their own captured the death of a star.  A star that died 88 million years ago.  There's an explanation of this discovery on PBS's website, as reported in The News Hour with Jim Lehrer (May 21, 2008).

For the Christian, there's a macro story here.  About God's creativity, His power, and His timelessness.  The majesty of His creative act demonstrated once again for all to see.  The three-part narrative of creation, destruction and redemption.

There's also a micro story.  I don't think it's too big a stretch to see the parallel between the creative destruction of a star and the creative destruction of an individual.  A person created in the image of his maker.

Think about the parallels with your own life.  Your own little supernova.  The creative act that you represent.  The reality that this creative act of God, although visible to you and all those around you for only a few generations, was in His mind's eye more than 88 million years ago.

Think about the energy we each have expended—the fuel we have consumed—pursuing our own particular appetites.  The bright flame of our own desires.  The supernova is a resource hog, consuming itself in its nuclear furnace.  Everything is fuel to its insatiable appetite.  That rings a bell for many of us, regarding our original earthly condition.

Another interesting thing about supernovae.  Iron.  If there's iron in the core, the star is poised for disaster.  Just a question of time.  It cannot get any more energy out of iron.  No more nuclear fusion.  Eventually the star collapses within, then explodes.  With a big bang. 

Think about the iron in our own heart, before we inhaled the gospel.  Recall how dense that old heart was?  Remember the weight of it?  The sensation of being about to explode? 

That weight, that burden of a heavy, hard, iron heart, is only removed by the cross.  It can only be broken down...melted...and then removed by the work of the Holy Spirit.  Otherwise, that iron—besides the slow poisoning that occurs daily—will eventually implode, and we will explode.  Also with a big bang.      

Final point.  Just like the invisible x-rays that precede the visible event, our own gracious quickening by the Holy Spirit is invisible at first.  It takes time for us (and others) to see the impact of His hand.  The visible evidence lags the gracious event.

But ultimately, it is visible.  For all to see.

Chris Joyce

 

The parallax problem

Sunday night.  Sonship.  Week 14. Lifestyle forgiveness is the topic.  Among our group of thirty.  Discussing the parable of the wicked servant in Matthew 18.  Zeroing in on verses 32-34:   

"Then the master called the servant in. 'You wicked servant,' he said, 'I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to.  Shouldn't you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?'  In anger his master turned him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed."

True confessions.  I've read those verses many times, but that was the first time I saw myself as the wicked servant.  And the first time I heard the master, the king of creation, addressing me as "you wicked servant..."

It was a signal truth event.  You know what I mean.  One of those times when the pin comes out of the gospel grenade, which then explodes...right in your face.  "He's talking to me," I realize.  Me.  Not that guy over there.  Not one of the people on my sanctified hit list, perpetrators of hurt against my favorite person in the world.  No.  It's me.  I'm the wicked servant, with my grip on the other fellow's neck.  Choking him.

How do we read over those passages that drip such meaning, yet miss the point?  It's a perspective problem.  Parallax.  We position ourselves with the author—God in this case—and join Him in looking askance at the shabby performance of His creatures.  As if we're seated in a celestial skybox, watching the game being played below.  Through His all seeing eyes, instead of our own myopia.   

Sin is the object that the text demands us to laser in on.  Our sin. My sin.  Especially my failure to forgive others.  If I can't do that, what does it say about my appreciation of the forgiveness I have personally received?  Before we can claim the redemptive power of the cross, we need to first claim our absolute need of a savior.  From ourselves.  So we can cling ever tighter to the cross.  Empty handed.  Begging for mercy.  Thankful for the scapegoated Christ.

Instead, we too often imagine ourselves seated next to the Father, looking down on the wickedness of the other.  Keeping score.  Settling accounts.  Demanding justice.

Exactly where I found myself last Sunday night.  Reminded once again how much I have been forgiven.  As the gospel explodes.  The truth shrapnel goes deep.  But, thank you Lord, while it's a serious wound, it isn't terminal.  Your grace transfusion again revives me.    

Chris Joyce

Energy dependence

"In every encounter we either give life or we drain it.  There is no neutral exchange.  We enhance human dignity, or we diminish it.  The success or failure of a given day is measured by the quality of our interest and compassion toward those around us..." (Sonship, page 165)

True confessions.  I suffer from measurement righteousness.  Having spent three decades in the business arena designing measurement and incentive systems, I am a measurement freak.  Balanced scorecards, key metrics, the voice of the customer, KSIs, whatever—Joyce is the name and measuring performance was the game.  And I enjoyed it.  No.  I loved it.  A wonderful intellectual challenge, that attempt to reduce all those millions of transactions—calls, complaints, payments, losses, minutes—and distill them into a limited, meaningful set of measures.

Next, enter the Christian.  I came to faith later in life, and my measurement affinity came with me.  And here I stand, taking Sonship again.  And I come across the quote cited above.  And it stimulates my measuring glands.  Here we have a crisp, actionable, measurable statement about the Christian experience on a day-to-day basis.  One transaction at a time.

And of course, I immediately ask myself the question: "OK, Chris.  Here you have a world-class opportunity.  Are you giving or draining life in your day-to-day interaction with the kingdom of God that surrounds you?  Are your individual transactions with your fellow beings (all created in God's image, BTW) giving or taking energy?  At the end of the day, if we toted up the thousand or so transactions that you've had with your wife, children, workmates, neighbors, and the broader mass of society that you swim in, what would your life giving quotient be?  Would it be positive?  Neutral?  Could it be negative?"

As a Christian, I believe that the life-giving energy plant within me is fueled by the Holy Spirit.  I'm not energy independent, and I never will be.  It's not my own energy, my own spiritual caloric intake that feeds that power plant.  No, it's a direct feed from the Creator of the universe.  Supplied by a very efficient transmission system.  There are no long transmission lines between heaven and me, no need for energy repeaters across that infinite distance.  This is a direct feed, infused one-on-one by the Spirit of God.  Right into my heart.

It's that energy plant that allows me—no, requires me—to "give life" to others.  So it's very reasonable to expect that my CEQ...my Christian Energy Quotient... should be greater than 1.0 on a regular basis.  Said another way, if we look at all of my interactions with others across a reasonable timeframe, I should be giving out more energy than I am taking in from those interactions.

One way to measure this would be to ask those around us "How am I doing?"  Your friends and family and workmates and fellow worshipers, and cabdrivers and check out clerks and service station attendants and babysitters... do they, on average, experience each of us Christians as a person that is giving life?

An interesting measurement opportunity.

Chris Joyce

Three

"Three" has a particular resonance.  Something in the human brain, I suspect.  Three. 

Three legs to the stool.  Three acts in the play.  Three points to the sermon. 

Three.  It's all around us.  In history.  Caesar's words to the Roman Senate ("I came, I saw, I...looked for an exit;" In business.  "We listen.  We learn.  We lead."  At church:  "We connect.  We grow.  We serve."   

Three. 

Take the story of mankind.  A three act play: Creation.  Fall.  Redemption.

Let's rifle that in a bit.  Take your own story.  If you had to write an autobiography of up to three chapters, starting with creation, would you be able to start Chapter Three, "I am redeemed"?

Or would your pen stop in Chapter Two, "My Fall"? 

Everybody has at least two chapters in their biography.  We have all been created, and we all have fallen. 

Some people could write Chapter Three in the first person.  They believe they are redeemed, and they live out that belief.  One day at a time.  With joy, despite toil and trouble.  In hope, knowing they are redeemed.  Confident that they know the plot...and the ending.   

Some folks would start Chapter Three, but quickly suffer writer's block.  They don't have the first person experience of living out of that redemptive belief.  They understand it intellectually, not experientially.  Chapter Three doesn't get beyond good theology.

How about you?  What about me?  What Chapter are we living in?  What Chapter are we writing?  Is our narrative stuck in Chapter Two, our experience of the Fall?  Is our prose crisp and first person when we describe the hope, the promise we live in?

Go ahead...call the question.  Of yourself.  A question of real consequence. 

"What Chapter am I living?" 

If you discover you're living Chapter Two, cheer up.  There's an exit strategy...a bridging statement to move into Chapter Three, "My Road Home."

Try "I believe...cure me of my unbelief." (Mark 9:24)

Chris Joyce

         

If you're not a visitor, you're a greeter

"For I was a stranger and you invited me in..."  (Matthew 25:35). 

Do you recall ever being a stranger?  The new kid on that first day of school?  That first day on a new job?  The new family on the block?

Remember how awkward it felt?  We've all been there.  That hesitancy before we make that first approach.  The sense of being on the outside, looking in.  Everyone else is connected, yet there we stand, untethered from the dynamic relationships that swirl around us. 

If you're introverted like me, it feels doubly awkward.  Down right uncomfortable.  My "flight" genes get active, pushing me towards the exit.

Believe it or not, this also happens at church.  That's right—even within the community of faith, we can feel like the stranger.  Think back to when you first crossed the threshold at 2405 Russell Road.  Maybe that was ten years ago, or maybe ten weeks.  Those initial visits felt awkward.

APC strives to be a welcoming community.  But let's face it...that's been more challenging lately.  God's blessed us with many visitors, thank you Lord!  But with that crop of new people comes a challenge for each of us. 

To make those visitors welcome.  To make them believe that they may be new, but they are not strangers.  And that we may be friendly with each other, but those circles of conversation that they see in the Fellowship Hall are not exclusive.

Next time you're in the Fellowship Hall, take a look around.  Look for a new face, a detached individual or couple who appear to be new.  I say "appear" because you may be surprised at how long they have been attending.  Break out of your typical orbit, cross the room and greet them.

If you're looking for clues on where to look, start at the coffee table.  That guy over-stirring his coffee.  The woman looking around, establishing her exit path.  No luck?  Then glide over to the missionary map on the north wall.  See that couple overly-absorbed in studying the map?  It's a good bet they're not regulars.  Give them a live, local missionary to interact with. 

Feeling less than confident in your own relationship prowess?  Not to worry.  Look to the role model we have.  God closed the relational distance between his people and himself by sending His Son across an infinite distance. 

That should give us all the confidence we need to cross the room.

Chris Joyce

Plausiblilty construct

"I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you."  (John13:15)

Ever wonder what your life stands for?  If you got hit by that speeding beer truck as you cross the street tomorrow, what narrative would result from those years spent walking this earth? 

In my case, I hope to be remembered as a follower of Jesus Christ.  Not only in name.  Also in deed.

Indeed.

We all want to be remembered fondly, desiring family, friends and workmates to recall us with favor.  Skeptics suggest that explains our good deeds.  They're simply an attempt to curry favor with others, ultimately to secure our self-interest.  Like making sure no one says nasty things at our wake, or knocks over the tombstone.

But for any good deeds resulting from my life, I want them to be remembered as outcomes, not as inputs.  The outcome of a grateful heart.  Not inputs to secure my reputation, adoration, or my salvation.

I want there to be visible proof of the gospel's impact on my life.  That I was a man created in the image of God.  That I was a fallen man, fraught with what we label "issues" in polite company and "sin" when we are honest.  Finally, I want others to see God's redemptive impact on my heart.  The manifestation of that divine hand should be apparent, according to what I believe.

My life story should be an obvious three-part narrative of creation, fall and redemption.  The product of that redemptive grace must be visible.  A changed focus, away from self.  A changed heart, one that is grateful for all that it has been gifted.  A changed life, which represents a "demonstration project" for the Master of the universe.  So that He gets the credit.

My father once told me a joke about a farmer.  He was bragging to the local pastor about all that he (the farmer, that is) had accomplished with a particular patch of land.  Finally, the frustrated Reverend interrupts him, asking "Didn't God have anything to do with it?"

"Sure, but you should have seen the place when God was running it."

Those who know me well also know how well my life was functioning when I thought I was in charge.  If you notice any positive change over time, I'm glad, because that's evidence of a loving God putting His hand on me.

Chris Joyce