Recently, I learned I have a serious handicap: I don’t live in fear. 

It’s an inverted notion, I know, since living in fear itself tends to indicate a handicap of sorts. But I’m talking about fearing God. God struck me with this peculiar idea during one of our predawn meetings. Before, I always considered “the fear of God” as rather Old Testament, outdated, if you will, that is, after Jesus came on the scene. I was living in the era of Grace, free and fun, and…I know, I know, Truth too. But, as a Christian, my salvation already sealed by the Holy Spirit, I hardly worried about Hell at all. Except for those bad days at the office, you’d rarely find me cowering in the closet corner at the thought of God sending me packing to Babylon, if I stepped out of line. Although, now that I think about it, He very well could, if we reinstate the draft.      

But I was missing the point. There’s real power to be had in fearing God. And I was just as surprised as anyone to find myself suddenly praying for the gift of this holy fear. After my many failed attempts to live like Jesus, who is sinless where I am not, I realized that fear–fear of messing up, fear of not being liked, fear of God bailing on me, fear of fear itself (props to FDR)–bullied me like the high school hoodlum (no offense, man…please don’t hurt me!). As it turned out, fear was often the ringleader to my compromising my faith. It loomed over me as an ever-present obstacle to my living life to the fullest, how Jesus said. I soon discovered a secret Peter crouched inside my heart, waiting to leap at the chance, given the right mix of scary circumstances, to deny his Savior three times, even more.

When I finally got it through my thick skull that fearing God wasn’t a bad thing, I started to see the benefits it offered. It boiled down to a near-mathematical equation: fearing God equals fearing nothing else. Wow! It’s like having a super power! If I could fear God, let’s see, I could face kings, wild beasts, and even the uncertainties of the Wendy’s acquisition.

Of course, this did not mean all the symptoms of fear would magically disappear. Oh, I knew my legs would still turn to spaghetti and my voice weaken the next time I was elected to stand up and give an impromptu speech to a room full of strangers (which I hope never happens). But–and here’s the big “but”–if I had the gift of fearing God, fear would no longer stop me from doing God’s will. How great!

This new revelation made me want to kick back and smoke a big freedom stogie (although I strictly smoke secondhand). But the image I’m trying to conjure is that of a free man, a truly free man, free in the inside, no matter the hostile environment, free to live the good life, free because of fear–the fear of God. 

Whew! Now, for my next act, I’m going to jump out of a plane. Not really, the thought of it scares me to death.       

Categories: Christianity
2 Comments »

Underoos were the bee’s knees when I was a kid. Cartoon underwear fashioned after superhero suits–what kid wouldn’t beg his mom for a pair? Let’s see, they had Superman, Batman, and Spiderman (my favorite), and, oh yeah, Wonderwoman, too, so not to leave out the girls. I wore Batman and Spiderman.    

Around the same time I donned these flashy undergarments, I was also heavily in to watching Saturday morning cartoons. Every Saturday from 9a.m. to noon, kids had somehow managed to gain complete control over all the TV stations in the world. I dabbled a bit in Smurfs and School House Rock, but the main attraction, hands down, was Superfriends. No normal kid could stand to sit still after absorbing a half-hour’s worth of the Superfriends (including the Wonder Twins with sidekick, Gleek, the caped space monkey) foiling, once again, the evil plans of Lex Luther and his Legion of Doom. So, after my cartoon fill, I’d suit up in my Underoos, dart outside like the Flash, and take to the skies in pretend flight through the neighborhood.  

Barefoot, half-naked, and unashamed, I fought crime in a pair of snug blue briefs and a Spiderman T-shirt. Often, an imaginary spiderweb did the trick for getting me around. I’d breeze through the summer lawns as Spiderman would the streets of New York. Whenever I reached the length of my web, I’d perch myself on an old, termite-ridden log that had rolled off our backyard woodpile onto the grass. A log always made for a nice imaginary flagpole, especially one that hung from the 50th story of the Daily Bugle. Up there, I’d ponder the crime-filled streets below. When it came time to move on, I’d flip my wrists over, bend them just slightly so, and emit two suddens bursts of sound: psst, psst. In my opinion, these sounds–a sort of hiss placed between a “p” and a stong ”t”–most accurately described my shooting webs from my wrists. Once my web grabbed hold of something sturdy, like a skyscraper, a radio tower, or a large man’s back, I’d give the web a tug for good measure, then sail off to my next destination.  

Sometimes it became necessary to set a web trap for the bad guys. This took a lot of psst’s. A neighbor curious to see what the fuss was about could look outside in time to see a streak of legs disappear around his house corner or behind a wall of trees. The same neighbor might also have wondered just who had taught this odd little boy how to run with his hands clasped in a ball above his head. It was like he hung from an invisible thread. He’d never play sports. 

One day, I had the Joker and his villainous cronies on the run. My plan was to cut them off in a back alley somewhere. So, I took a short-cut through my backyard and, to my dismay, landed my barefoot on an angry bee collecting dandelion pollen. A sharp pain shot up my foot. It worked on me like Kryptonite (blasted Joker!). But instead of falling weak and listless to the ground in typical Superman fashion, I burst into tears and bawled like the 4-year-old I was. Finally, I collected myself enough to hop home on my good foot. Mom doctored my war-torn foot and, although I didn’t quite know it yet, I had learned something: justice is not always embraced in this world.    

Later, after my Underoos grew too tight, my mom hit up Jo-Ann Fabrics, and I upgraded my superhero wardrobe to capes. I had a Batman one and Superman one. They both were very cool and did wonders for my crime-fighting. Although, as I got older I grew tired of pretend flying. I wanted to fly for real. So, one gray day, I tied on my Superman cape, went outside, and started jumping, both arms out, with the intent that I might eventually stick in the air. When my efforts failed, I turned to God.

“Please, God, give me the ability to fly.” Jump. Crash. Then again, “Please, God, I want to fly.” Jump. Crash, again.

I carried on like this for nearly an hour. Eventually my bones started to ache, and I realized (could it be?) I was a victim of unaswered prayer. Or worse, a prayer forever answered with a disquieting ”no”. 

What’s with this not letting me fly stuff? I mean, am I missing something? Is this not a noble request? 

I was mad. I had prayed really hard, with my eyes shut and everything. The thing was, I’d been to Sunday school and knew that God was all-powerful. If He wanted me to fly, then I could fly. It was clear that He just refused to let me.

In my teens and early twenties, I would sometimes look back at that day and think what a cute but silly prayer it was. It was a little-boy-with-an-overworked-imagination prayer. Of course God wasn’t going to let me fly. Why would He?  No one could fly, except Superman, and he, first of all, was a sun-powered alien, not a human, and, second, wasn’t even real. The whole thing made me laugh at myself. My prayer wasn’t practical, it wasn’t scientific, it wasn’t…wasn’t important, what with half the world starving the way it is.

But the funny thing is, now I see things in a different light. That little boy with the Superman cape may have known what he was doing. As I read the Book of Isaiah, I find a new answer to my boyish prayer. And the suspected answer may not have been ”no”. Nor do I believe God blew me off with a light, good-natured chuckle. But instead, if I’m reading Scripture correctly, I believe God’s answer was “wait”:

[B]ut those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles (Isaiah 40:31).   

 And besides, Superman is not the only person who can fly. According to Luke, Jesus flew up to Heaven. And if Jesus is the prototype of the resurrected man, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched that I should fly too someday. With that said, Jess has a sewing machine in the basement, and it looks like I have a date with Jo-Ann Fabrics. And maybe this time I’ll swing by DSW for some superboots, to ward off any Kryptonite bee stings.

Categories: Christianity, Fashion, Television
1 Comment »