Things people say and questions people ask |
|
Rusty bike syndrome - 28 February 2010
“I used to be a Christian, but then I kind of drifted away from God. I thought I still believed in him, but I didn’t go to church for years, really. But then this happened. I tried to pray again, and I really wanted to get back in touch with God. Went to church and everything. Trouble is, I realised that I no longer believed in God at all.”
What you need is to start rebuilding from the ground up. When you’ve neglected something for so long, the best way forward is to start from scratch. Actually, you’ve forgotten most of what you used to know, and what you can remember is probably wrong anyway.
I call it rusty bike syndrome.
Imagine: you used to have a bike, when you were a kid. Used to ride it all the time. But then one winter you put it away in the shed, and the following spring you never got it out again. There it lay, gathering dust and accumulating rust for years on end. If people asked you whether you had a bike, you’d say, “Yeah, sure I do.” You just never rode it.
Then, one day, you really needed a bike for something, so you went to the shed to fetch the old two-wheeler. But when you finally managed to haul it out, the tyres were flat, the chain was broken, and the handlebars were so rusted that you could hardly turn them. Besides this, it was about 15 inches too small for you.
What are you going to do? A drop of oil here, lick of paint there? Hardly. Get off down to the shop and get one that’s more your size.
Or: open up a Bible and start at the beginning.
A slightly bigger splash - 5 February 2010
The man smiled cheerfully. “I really like what you’re doing. It’s good to talk about religion and stuff. But you really don’t need to spend your time talking to me. I might not be a Christian like you, but at least I believe in God. Look around you – there are loads of people who aren’t religious at all. They’re in a lot worse trouble than me. They’re the people who really need help. Go and talk to them.”
The problem with this kind of thinking is that it imagines a sliding scale where God sees things in black and white. Jesus never talked about a sliding scale. He talked about goats and sheep, death and life, condemnation and forgiveness.
Imagine yourself in a boat, anchored towards the north end of Lake Erie. You’re just a few miles upsteam of Niagara Falls, but you’re perfectly safe, because you’re anchored firmly to the lakebed. All around you are swimmers, people in rubber life-rafts, others clinging to pieces of driftwood. There are even a few other boats just like yours, but none of them are tied to anything. They’re all floating steadily north towards the waterfall.
You might be tempted to think that the guys in the big boats are safer than the drifters clinging to bits of wood. But though they might be more comfortable for the time being, they’re no safer in the long run. Everyone who’s not in your boat is drifting in the same direction at pretty much the same speed. The only difference between the fancy big yachts and the flimsy inflatable dinghies will be a slightly bigger splash.