I once met a Tom Selleck impersonator at a party. It was a very surreal experience because at the time I was wearing a grass skirt and a t-shirt I had made with Magnum PI’s photo on it. (It was a Hawaiian Party, not just a “Jon does weird things” party. I promise.)
He had a thick Tom Selleck mustache, hair that would stay in place even while driving a Ferrari through the hills of Honolulu and he seemed like he probably had a friend with a helicopter. (Jersey Shore, Lady Gaga, Justin Bieber. Felt like I was going to lose some audience with those Magnum PI 1980s references.)
But he was a photo copy of someone else and it felt like there were two Tom Sellecks in the world at that exact moment. Tom Selleck had become multiple people and that’s something I’m afraid will happen to me. Not that I’ll have an impersonator, but rather that I’ll become an impersonation of myself. That there will be multiple me’s. The person I really am and the person I pretend to be on this blog.
There’s a great temptation when you blog about faith to act like you’ve got it all together. I’m not sure why, but I think you become afraid that if you say the wrong thing or express the wrong doubt, someone will comment or tweet, “I can’t believe he doesn’t understand that thing about God already! Every real Christian knows that!” When you give into that fear you become two people. Real you and blog you.
To avoid that, I want to tell you about something that happened to me on the day my new book Quitter
Two weeks ago, on a Monday morning, Quitter was finally available for pre-order. In the life of an author, that’s a big day because it’s the first chance to jump out into the world and say, “Here’s my book! Here’s this thing I wrote. I think it’s special. I hope you do too.” And then you wait to see if the world agrees.
I’m sure other folks are cool and calm on days like that. I’m sure there are people who read this site who have had big projects launch, big life changes like moving over seas or big adventures like taking a new job and have been at peace the entire time.
I am not like that.
I was a mess. And in my quiet time, as I prayed that morning, this is what went through my head,
“Maybe Quitter will fail so that God can teach you an important lesson.”
In the space before I had the chance to have another thought, I felt like God rushed in. It wasn’t audible, it wasn’t written on the wall. A bush did not catch ablaze, but in my heart this is what I felt:
Why can’t I teach you in the midst of joy? In what better way could I reveal the heart of who I am, goodness, then in the midst of something good? You believe I can only teach you in the midst of great hardship and hurt. But failure is not my only laboratory. Does not a father learn something profound about my miraculous goodness when he holds his newborn baby for the first time after delivery? Does not a bride not see my glory when she walks down the aisle toward her groom? Life and lessons cannot be limited to heartache.
This is what I am wrestling with right now, the continued realization that I’ve made God into an emo god. I know how to cry with him, but not laugh. I know how to mourn with him but not dance. And I think the enemy wants that. He wants us to be ashamed or embarrassed by the great ways God blesses us and reject compliments and think that God can only hold us and mold us in times of great hurt.
But when we do that, we miss who God is.
That he is the God who loves us so much he sent his son to die for us.
That he is the God who longs to be gracious to us and rises in the morning to show us compassion. (Isaiah 30:18) That he is the God who satisfies our desires with good things. (Psalm 103:5) That he is the God who delights in the well-being of his servant. (Psalm 35:27)
Does God teach us in difficult moments? Have we not been promised that in this world there will be trouble? Without a doubt.
But when we confine God’s love and lessons strictly to a classroom of misery we create a miserable god.
And that’s not who he is.
