I have always believed in the Truth–the kind with a capital T. I reject the idea that it’s relative, that there is no Right and Wrong, just “right for me” and “right for you.”

I believe that this ultimate Truth is part of God. He’s the one who determines it, who created it, who presents it to us. What God says is Truth. More, what God IS is Truth.

Which is where the difficulty comes in sometimes, right? Because God is so much bigger than us, so hard for us to comprehend. And Truth is too. We get bits and pieces of it. We have vague understandings. He’s given us guidelines to help us reach for it. But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy.

The ancient Greek philosophers talk a lot about the form of a thing. An example they gave was something silly, like a table. There are a lot of tables in the world–and they all have imperfections. But we can still recognize them as a table because they partake of the TRUE table, the “eidos” or form of a perfect table. They use that simple example so we have a solid example to refer to when we’re talking about harder things, like virtue and justice and truth and the good. They claim that we can recognize the imperfect versions of these on earth because they partake of–imitate–a heavenly or divine version of the same.

There’s a reason we still read these philosophers–Plato and Aristotle. It’s because the early church preserved their writings because of how well they get at Christian understanding too. Those very philosophies strove to understand the Truth, even while recognizing that their understanding was imperfect. We on earth are never going to fully understand God and all He is–but we can recognize His fingerprints around us, right? We can see the shadows of His divine touch. We can understand truth–with a lower case T–in our lives because we recognize that it’s got something in common with His Truth.

But because it’s just an imitation, ultimately, we always run into problems. Because your interpretation of it might not agree with mine. Maybe you focus on this detail–the legs of the table, perhaps–while I’m focusing on this other one–the kind of wood used, maybe. If someone were to ask each of us about what a table is, you would wax poetic about how it needs four legs of the exact same height, and I’d be very specific about what it should be made of to achieve x, y, or z. We’re both trying to get at the Truth. But we’re telling different stories to get there.

As a storyteller, this is something I’m always very aware of, and something we authors talk about and think about a lot. We write fiction–it’s not, by definition, true. But it can still be True. Why? Because we choose stories that set out to show that “eidos.” That form. To reveal something we’ve learned about God or faith or family or healing or grief or laughter or love through the feeble words we have at our disposal.

But in order to share that Truth, we have to make choices. Sometimes it means leaving things out. Sometimes it means adding things. Sometimes it means changing a fact that distracts from the focus. This can seem dishonest–after all, if we’re changing a fact, then we’re wrong, and we’re not truthful. Right? Certainly, when we’re teaching our kids to tell the truth, we emphasize that it means “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” Important in a court of law. But not always so important in a story. Because in reality, we can only view the world through our own eyes. And sometimes we don’t see things clearly. The same is true in fiction–we’re looking at a story through a limited lens. So we have to focus it only on the things that are relevant.

Another great example is in visual art and photography. Have you ever taken a picture of yourself and looked at it and wrinkled your nose and thought, “Do I really look like that?” And has someone else ever said, “No, you don’t.”? Well, on the one hand, that doesn’t make sense, right? Because obviously, the camera caught the truth. And yet, it doesn’t, always. It captures one very isolated moment when the light was just so and you were standing at a particular angle and the background was in a certain perspective.

But in life, we’re not still. We’re always moving, as is the world around us. No one ever gets just a single, split-second view of you. They get a dynamic one. For instance, when my husband smiles, you know what we all notice first? His dimples. But in a photo I took of him, the way the light hit his face, you know what I saw first? The shape of his eye tooth. That’s where the photo drew the eye–but it’s not where your eye would ever go in person. So I changed the shape of the tooth in the photo. It’s now not an exact replica of him…but yet it gives a truer picture because now it directs your eye to where it would really go.

This is the dilemma artists of all kinds have faced since the beginning of time–we can tell the “true” story, sticking only to exact facts, or we can tell the True story, that directs the attention where it needs to go to get to the heart of the matter. We delete the distractions. We focus on the main parts.

There are those who disapprove of fiction for this very reason. But me? I say that’s pretty silly–because it isn’t something only fiction does. We all do it, in every part of our lives. We pick, we choose, we decide what to remember and what to forget. What’s worth telling and what would just clutter up the story. But I think maybe we’d understand those tendencies a little better if we pause to realize that it isn’t just about the little details on which we focus–those little truths that populate our days. 

It’s about the ultimate Truth. And how we can best tell the stories that help us understand it.

I’m never sure how to explain how thoughts coalesce in my brain. Usually, it’s topics that keep coming at me from different angles. In this case, those angles are various discussions we’ve had lately at church, with fellow authors about topics in books, and also about some reactions and “demands” authors have been getting about their books.

I’ve written plenty on here in the last year about the “outrage” culture, and this is part of that. But where it concerns me most is where it’s found a home within the church–and not just in recent years. This aspect has, I think, been a part of us for a long, long time. That when we latch on to a belief or a point of view, so often we feel that in order to uphold that, we must tear down the other. 

An example from history (into the present) is the ongoing tension between Catholic and Protestant. These groups have found ways to disdain, persecute, vilify, and tear each other down for centuries. And it never ceases to sadden me. There are things on which the two sides don’t agree, yes. Sometimes those are big things. But what is achieved by arguing about it, pointing fingers, and accusing each other of not being Christian because we don’t agree?

Another example is that there’s a movement I just became aware of that is claiming (not for the first time in history) that the church and certain ministers and authors have been trying to keep them down. They’re getting in touch with authors and ministers and demanding apologies for the work that “hurt” them. They’re mounting smear and bad-review campaigns. They’re spending hours, days, months of their lives actively trying to tear down people that they’ve decided are their enemies. Within the Christian community. Why?

See, here’s the thing. Christianity is revolutionary. It always was. It always will be. It challenges us to leave behind the old, the assumptions, the religion-for-the-sake-of-it and embrace a Christ who says, “No, look deeper. Action isn’t enough–motivation matters too.” It is always new, always fresh, for each generation. But when each generation realizes that, they all to often assume they’re the first to do so. We forget sometimes that the insights we’ve come to were already realized before–countless times. We don’t understand that our mothers, our grandmothers, our great-grandmothers had quietly (or not so quietly) come to realizations of their own. We only see ours. And so we think it’s necessary to push this “new” thing out into the world so it can find its place.

But the world is already crowded with ideas, right? How do you find a place for yours? Well, if it’s a really good one, I think it will just find its home alongside other truths. But all too often, people decide they have to push it…which means pushing out something else. They have to tear down that other thing in order to build theirs. Progress, right?

When I hear of these sorts of movements, I’m always part angry and mostly sad. Because they don’t seem to realize that they’re tearing down their own foundations. You don’t have to agree with every teaching you’ve ever heard from someone or some group or some denomination. I know I don’t. But I’m also definitely not willing to say God wasn’t with them. That they didn’t believe. That they weren’t really of the faith. I’m not willing to say, “The work you spent a lifetime achieving is awful and deserves to be torn down.” I’m not willing to say God wasn’t in it.

Because if God was in it, even a little, even in just some of the details…who am I to tear it down? Do I honestly believe I have every detail right?

I know a lot of protestants who refuse to read the early church fathers’ writings because they deem them “Catholic.” Even though they were written a thousand years before there was a divide–in a time when “Catholic” literally just meant “the Church.” Though they’ve never read them, they usually have a lot to say about them, and about why they won’t read them. Things that tear down. Things that try to paint anything Catholic as bad, unchristian, misguided, weird, or downright evil.

But those are the very foundations of our church, the Protestant church, too. If you tear it down…where does that leave you? When you dig out the bedrock on which you’re built, how long can the house stay square?

The same is true of all these modern movements, both inside and outside of the church. How can we blissfully dig away at everything we disagree with, without thought to the consequences? When you tear at the fiber of something–churches, families, religions, politics, communities, cultures, countries–you know what you end up with? A lot of holes. A weakened fabric. Something ready to fall apart.

We’re never all going to agree. But you know what? Unity isn’t about agreeing on every detail. It’s about agreeing on what’s most important and deciding to value the stance of your neighbor in everything else. It’s about saying, “I want you to grow and be strong,” rather than, “I think you’re wrong.” And this goes not just for your neighbor in today’s world, but for your neighbor in history too. Those theologians we enjoy debating about–they were people who dedicated a lifetime to working for God too. When we tear apart their writings, what if we’re tearing apart something God inspired?

We’re all wrong about things. We’re all right about other things. Most of us are a pretty good mix of listening to God and listening to our own wants. But you know what I don’t ever want? For the Lord to say to me, “Why did you tear down the work I was doing with them over there? Don’t you think I’m big enough to work there with them and here with you?”

He’s so big, my friends. So big that He can’t be confined to one denomination or movement or culture or time period. He’s so big that He can work in different ways and show people different parts of His truth. We’re not that big–we can’t focus on it all. But that’s okay. You work where you’re called. I’ll work where I am. Each of us only needs to seek after Him. And when our paths cross and even clash, let’s not think we’re in competition for the Lord’s favor and we need to push each other aside to gain the prize. Let’s instead come alongside each other and cheer each other on.

Because never once did God tell us to tear each other down–certainly not fellow Christ-followers, but not even our enemies. He tells us to build each other up. To pray for our enemies and those who persecute us. And maybe it’s because of this:

If we spend all our time in demolition, we never actually build anything for Him. And so, at the end of our lives, what do we have to show for all our efforts but a pile of rubble?

Let’s build something together, friends. Let’s #BeBetter. Let’s focus less on where we disagree and more on the God who calls us all to Him.

The sunrise down my driveway

We live in the mountains. Specifically, the Appalachians in West Virginia. Our home is nestled up against the side of one of these mountains, in a little bit of a valley. It’s wooded–the sort of area where it’s more remarkable to see open fields along this road than trees.

Ever since moving out here eight years ago, I’ve noticed the wind. Windy days (and nights) are nothing new. But only here have I ever had this particular experience–one I noticed again just last week.

When I’m outside on a windy day, I become keenly aware of the nature of those really big wind gusts. Because I can hear them coming. I’m talking 30 seconds before it arrives, I can hear this mighty whoosh from the north. I can hear those mighty blasts of air traveling over the mountains, down the valleys. Shaking the trees, stirring the leaves.

A force of nature. Giving me warning.

This isn’t something I can hear from inside–safe in the comfort of my kitchen, I never know the gust are coming until I see them hit–see the limbs of the trees bending, the garden ornaments toppling, the tarps go flying.

But outside. When I’m there in it, I have time to react. Generally, there isn’t much I choose to do, other than turn my face to the north and wait for it to hit, so I can marvel at the power of it. But sometimes I’ll run to secure the laundry or to put down the sun umbrella, or I’ll just zip up my sweatshirt.

Wind is one of those invisible forces often used as an example of spiritual things, isn’t it? Something we can’t see but still experience–like God. And the Spirit is likened to a rushing wind, right?

But as I pondered this anticipation of wind, I realized something else about our Father. Something pretty amazing.

He doesn’t move without warning.

There’s a verse in the Old Testament about God never acting without first telling one of His prophets. But even the New Testament church, even today, I think the same thing is often the case. When God moves, it’s with preparation. He stirs His people first. He prepares them for what’s coming. He moves hearts and minds so that they’re ready.

Ready for when the gusts of His Spirit come. Ready for when mountains shake. Ready for when anything not tethered down goes flying.

But we don’t always hear His warnings, do we? When we’re safe inside our comfort zones, perhaps, we don’t even listen for them. We’re content to just sit there, right where we are, and watch Him move out there.

Lord, I don’t want to be sitting here inside my bubble when You move. I don’t want to be “safe” from the power of Your Spirit. I don’t want to just watch You stir others.

I want to be out there. In it. Turning my face to the north and waiting.

Waiting to experience Your power.