Being Chuck

“I want that.”

This a phrase I hear on a regular basis.

I have a three and a half (when do we stop using halves?) year old daughter whose descriptive power is sometimes lacking. She often employs the phrase, “I want that,” but it’s usually exceptionally unclear to what she is referring. The discourse commonly goes as follows:

Riley: I want that.

Me (or Tara): What, honey?

Riley: I want that.

Me: What’s “that?”

Riley: That. <pointing in the general vicinity of the object>

Me: This? <grabbing a random object she could possibly desire in the general vicinity of the point>

Riley: I want THAT. <slightly more exasperated at my inability to read her mind (this is a trait common among females of the human race)>

Me: What’s “that?”

Riley: I want that.

I could go on, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the point. (However, if you don’t, feel free to hang around us for a few minutes… I’m sure it will happen again soon.)

Riley’s use of “I want that” is quite common. In fact, it is so common, that the abundance of that phrase in our house (I can’t wait until Lincoln starts in on it) is comical, and it borders on insanity [read: my own personal insanity]. But Riley isn’t the most prolific source of “I want that.”

I am.

It may not be audible, it may not even be conscious, but it is me.

I am sad to admit that I am the most selfish person I know. (Some of you may be shocked to read that, but those of you who are part of “the inner circle” [read: responsibility, not privilege] know better. I use quotation marks around “inner circle” to denote sarcasm, but I digress.)

It’s amazing to me that the more I make an effort to be self-aware, the more I wish I didn’t know.

Lao Tse [read: really smart Chinese philosopher, one of the central figures of Taoism] said:

He who knows others is learned. He who knows himself is wise.

I wholeheartedly agree, but also would add the following:

He who knows others is learned. He who knows himself is wise and miserable.

There truly is bliss in ignorance. I amaze myself quite often, but not in a good way. It’s appalling how often I catch myself being ridiculously selfish.

Do I really want my kids to learn discipline to better their lives? Or is it just to simplify my own?

Am I practicing love toward this person or that person because it’s what I’m called to do? Or am I expecting something in return?

Don’t get me wrong. I do think that every now and again we [read: people or perhaps more specifically in this instance, I] can do something with almost pure motives. But I know myself well enough to know that that’s not very often. (If you would like to debate the “almost” here please take me up on it because most of the time I truly believe pure motives aren’t possible.)

I despise being human. I hate the fact that I am sinful and selfish. But I also revel in being made in the likeness of a God who loves me in spite of my choice to hurt Him (often).

Philippians 2.1-11 always makes me cringe (in disgust and sadness at my own pride).

If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:
Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,
but made himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to death—
even death on a cross!
Therefore God exalted him to the highest place
and gave him the name that is above every name,
that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.

Up there, where Paul writes that Jesus didn’t consider equality with God something to be grasped, I think we misunderstand. Grasped here is less “reaching for and grabbing” and more “held on to.” Jesus had it already. He was God, and He let it go to come down here and take part in the mess we make of our lives. He had every right to stay where He was and find a simpler way to resolve the problem of sin, but he set that aside (His right) to provide a way for me to connect.

Which brings me to the following disappointing realization:

I totally suck.

Or perhaps, I totally suck on my own.

I can’t even put away my “right” to have a pleasant driving experience [read: no one does anything I don't like]. I can’t even put away my “right” to have my kids listen to my words and obey the first time every time. (Seriously, they’re 3 and a half [there's that half again] and one… how long is this going to take? [read with dripping sarcasm])

But this is where the “[He] became obedient to death—even death on a cross!” part comes in. Grace saves me. Jesus’s choice to step down into our mess saves me. But from what?

Now there’s a fun question. What does grace save me from?

I’ve heard people argue that we’re not saved from something, we’re saved to or for something else. But I’m going to have to respectfully disagree (at least in semantics). Saving is only necessary when someone or something is in trouble. (Except in baseball, but we won’t get into the ridiculousness of calling preserving lead a “save.”)

We must be saved from something. So what is it that I am saved or rescued from?

Most people would probably answer Hell or God’s wrath or Satan or sin or death. And while I believe those answers would be somewhat correct (if only in an indirect manner), I think the strongest answer is this:

Grace saves me from… [read with medieval-announcement-with-trumpets-type music] myself.

Grace doesn’t need to save me from Satan. He doesn’t have me. He might try to influence me (which I would argue is far less often than most people think, we give “The Devil” far too much credit). But he certainly doesn’t own me.

And I would argue that God’s wrath, Hell, sin, and death are all direct results (or consequences) of my own choice to disobey.

So, grace saves me from me.

I truly am my own worst enemy. But that’s why Philippians 2 exists. And Philippians 2 exists because Jesus did what He did. And Jesus did what He did because He created me in His likeness and He loves me. Grace.

You know, it’s funny. I usually begin a post with one thing in mind, one driving emotion, one “amazing” thought, but then I end in a much more refined place. (More refined perhaps than where I started, but still not truly refined by any stretch of the imagination.) Not altogether different, but definitely better.

I began with the frustration of my selfishness and my inability to overcome it on my own, and now am ending with grace. The realization that I don’t have to do it (and can’t) on my own