The Ladder

by Dr. Guy Sayles

Unless you’re a painter, roofer, or fire-fighter, you’re probably not on a ladder very often.  From time to time, you use a step stool to reach the top shelf of a tall cabinet or a step-ladder to change a light bulb. A couple of times of year, you get out the extension ladder and clean out the gutters; but, most of the time, the ladder stays in the garage and you keep your feet on the ground.

But, when it comes to ladders of ambition and achievement, many of us are climbing all the time.  There are always more rungs above us.  Who can count the steps between mail room clerk and CEO, graduate assistant and Distinguished Professor in an Endowed Chair, second lieutenant and general officer, between apprentice, journeyman and master?  I know it doesn’t have to be this way, but for a lot of us it is: our dreams are of moving up: from the windowless office on the first floor to the sunlit corner office on the top floor.  Success for most of us means going higher, moving to the top.  So there’s always more climbing to do and always people just behind and beneath us, climbing faster and faster, threatening to pass us up or knock us off the rung we’re on.

Some of us become so obsessed with climbing the ladder that we lose track of other things which actually matter more than the ladder: things like love, authenticity, and integrity; like health, happiness, and compassion; like family, friends, and God, for instance.  We can get into a frame of heart and mind which convinces us that the ladder is what matters—and no room on it anything other than our own ambitions.  But, because we want to think of ourselves as good people, we tell ourselves that we haven’t left those other thing and other people behind permanently.  We make a kind of bargain with our conscience: “Leave me alone for now, and I’ll get back to you later.  The ladder now; the soft stuff, the heart stuff, after we have more time, more money, and more security.”

Then, something happens.  Someone close to us gets sick or has an accident.  Our spouse walks out.  One of our kids gets in trouble, real trouble, the kind of trouble we can’t fix by writing a check or hiring an outside helper.

Or, to get ahead, we cut corners, bend rules, and subtly stab coworkers in the back; then, one day, for some reason, we catch our own eyes in the mirror and don’t like the person looking back at us.

Or, depression sets in, or we start feeling a tightness in our chest, or we can’t sleep.

Something happens.  And the awareness crashes in on us that we’ve been climbing a ladder not worth climbing.  Remember the truism offered by business guru Stephen R. Covey: “If the ladder is not leaning against the right wall, every step we take just gets us to the wrong place faster.”

We discover what William Butler Yeats described in his poem “The Circus Animals’ Desertion”:

. . . Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

Maybe you know what it’s like for the ladder of your dreams to go away and, then, to lie down, depleted and defeated, in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.  A time like that can be a gift if we view it as invitation to clarify what truly matters, to integrate faith and ambition in a way that faith is in charge, and to renew our awareness that success without love isn’t success at all.

Guy Sayles is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Asheville. This article originally appeared on his blog, From the Intersection.

Denying Our Denial

By Dr. Guy Sayles

We’ve all heard, “Denial is not just a river in Egypt.” As worn-out as that cliché’ surely is, it still serves to remind us of one of the most common dances we use to two-step around the truth about ourselves and the world—the denial dance.

You can pretend not to know that eating ice cream every night and donuts most mornings will eventually make you heavier. The suit comes back from the dry cleaner, you try to fasten the pants, discover that you can’t and then complain that whatever new process they’re using these days shrinks your clothes. The bathroom scales must be going bad; there’s no way we’ve packed on five pounds in a month. Avoid mirrors. Refuse to look at any pictures of yourself. It’s a kind of denial.

Denial happens when you refuse to acknowledge the increasing distance between you and someone you love. Deafen your ears to the weary strain in his voice and the yearning for tenderness in his words. Turn your eyes away from the lines of worry on her face and the dull sadness and dim resignation in her eyes. Tell yourself you’ve done nothing wrong. Fail to notice how your life orbits, more and more, around your own ego. Force yourself to forget how your harsh words have shoved him away or how your unrealistic and unrelenting expectations have pushed her into isolation.

Overlook his earlier and extra drinks.

Never make the appointment to follow-up on the tests the doctor ordered.

Tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything that your daughter spends a lot of time in the bathroom after each meal and that she’s lost a lot of weight in the last year.

Denial is what you do when you fold up the progress report and stuff it in the bottom of your book bag without looking at it, don’t mention it to your parents, and are grateful the school doesn’t email grades directly to mom or dad. Denial is the dance you do when you discount the memo from your boss which mentions how she hopes you can pick up the pace on that project she assigned you, since you missed the deadline for the first review. “No big deal,” you tell yourself, “when we talked about it, she understood how complicated is and how busy I’ve been. She was nice. If she was really upset, she wouldn’t have been so nice.” Denial is what you do when you don’t open the letter from the IRS and don’t return phone calls from the bank which holds your mortgage.

Denial is something we all do, and it hurts us all. It short-circuits growth, robs us of joy, and interferes with freedom. One of the great uses of Lent could be for us to deny our denial and come to terms with the truth. What would happen to us and in us if we considered giving up some of our illusions about ourselves and the pride which keeps those illusions in place. What if we stopped the charade, took off the mask, and put down our pretensions?

Jesus said: “You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.” What if we let ourselves experience the rush of freedom which comes to us when we risk seeing, hearing and feeling the truth? What if we slowed down enough to listen, really listen, to what life, the Spirit, and our hearts are saying to us? What if we asked people we trust to hold up a mirror to our lives and help us see who we are, here and now, in all our possibility and pain, with all our potential and problems? What if we resolved that, whatever the cost, we’re going to hear the truth spoken to us in love and allow it to liberate us for life as it was meant to be?

Guy Sayles is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Asheville, NC. This article was originally posted on his blog, From the Intersection.

Facing Life's Challenges: Thoughts from Inside the MRI Machine

by Rev. Jayne Davis

All I could think about as I entered the tube of the stark white MRI machine was Toy Story 3 - Woody, Buzz Light Year, the Potato Heads – all grasping for metal objects so they would be sucked up by the powerful magnet and avoid the fiery furnace at the city dump. I was certain the myriad of fillings in my mouth would be ripped right from my teeth by the pull of the “strong magnetic field” that the ‘Caution’ poster in the dressing room warned me about. My morning had been frustrating enough already. I really didn’t need this kind of stress.

The MRI was for my shoulder – nothing life threatening. Just some eye watering pain when I reach too far into the refrigerator. I’ve put all of the high fat foods way in the back in a Pavlovian effort to train myself not to want them. It’s amazing how much pain a person can bear.

I didn’t want to be in the doctor’s office or dealing with my shoulder. Life’s challenges are always an interruption to the way we’d like things to be. Sometimes they’re an annoyance. Sometimes they shake the very foundation of our world. However serious, however sudden, however uncertain… some thoughts from inside the MRI machine may help you as you face the challenges in your life.

1. Don’t let the chaos drown out the music.

The technician gave me a pair of headphones and my choice of music stations – [80’s] - to drown out the loud noise of the machine. Between the screeching of what sounded like dental drills and the pounding of my heart in my chest, I had to strain at times to hear Twisted Sister on the radio.

In the midst of it all, there is music still playing in your world. Listen for it.

2. Open your eyes along the way – even when it’s scary.

Life is fascinating. There’s always something interesting to be seen, maybe even something inspiring. When I finally got up the courage to open my eyes during the MRI, I was amazed by … nothing. There’s nothing visible going on inside the tube. Smooth white walls. No zig-zaggy neon radio waves flashing across my body. Just like God at work in my life, so much was happening that I couldn’t see, but had to trust to be so.

This season of struggle is not an intermission until your real life begins again. This is the journey. Open your eyes. Live it.

3. Don’t over think it.

If I’d known ahead of time they were spinning the protons on my hydrogen molecules, I’d have been itchy the whole time. And dizzy, as they altered my magnetic field. If you have a renegade imagination, don’t allow it to dwell on the fact that the MRI machine looks like a giant blood pressure cuff that you’re precariously smack in the middle of.

We cannot control what thoughts come in to our minds, but God does give us the power to choose which ones we allow to take up residence there. Choose wisely.

4. Be grateful for the small things.

Sometimes God’s grace takes the form of a pillow under your knees, the kindness of a technician, the chance to close your eyes and rest in the middle of a Monday.
Notice these small graces and you recognize what abundant life feels like.

5. Take the blanket.

It’s cold in there. You’ll need it, even if you think you don’t need anything.

People want to help. Let them.

6. Focus on the important things.

Nothing culls down a prayer list like being strapped to a table to keep you from moving. God’s peace and presence. Family. Trust. The essentials.

Now is not the time to be carrying unnecessary baggage. Give it to God. He’ll dispose of it for you. If it’s really important, he’ll give it back to you when you’re ready.

7. Wiggle your toes every now and then.

Sometimes life’s challenges can keep you stuck in one position for a long time.

Wiggle your toes and remind yourself that you’re still there. Whatever helps you to feel alive… and keep your legs from going numb. You'll smile... and probably catch the technician off guard.

8. Sometimes you have to be still until it’s over.

We can’t fix everything. We can’t control everything. Sometimes we have to ride it out and trust that Jesus will guide us safely to shore.

“Be still and know that I am God."


Jayne Davis is the Minister of Spiritual Formation at First Baptist Church of Wilmington, and this article originally appeared in her blog.

New Year's Reflection

by Rev. Laura Barclay

John: 1-5, 12: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What had come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it…But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God (NRSV).

What really strikes me in this lectionary New Year’s text is John’s vision of Jesus as a light against the darkness who enlightens his children, whom the author says are given power to be “children of God.” Such language conjures up images of Lord of the Ring, with Frodo facing the dreadful gates of Mordor, or the movie Gladiator, with Maximus alone having the courage to challenge a corrupt emperor. It brings to mind epic sagas of far off and exotic places. But let’s examine the world and context in which our author was writing.

According to scholars, the community of John’s followers had recently undergone a split. Theological differences arose between those who believed that Jesus was both human and deity, and those who believed he was all-deity. This community splintered and separated, and those left behind were wounded, broken, and left nursing their wounds from the fracture in the body of Christ. These people in John’s community, the legacy of the beloved disciple, saw themselves as inheritors of the legacy of Christ. It was up to them to teach who Jesus really was and share the hope that came from Jesus’ incarnation.

The pain of John’s community at the bickering and separation of their own seeps onto the paper but it doesn’t define them. They share the love of God who became human in Jesus and experienced the pain of rejection like John’s community. And, I believe they found salvation in embracing that hopeful love that reorients them facing ever outward in a broken world.

Because of the importance of the task at hand, this monumental story they have to tell, they speak of the light and the darkness—loaded metaphors for good and evil, being in the presence of God and outside of it. The darkness is a vast and seemingly formless void, just like what God witnessed at the beginning of everything. Yet the light of hope we see in Christ shines through the ages and guides us into community and toward one another. We are the presence of Christ and hope in the world, because Jesus gave us the power to be God’s children.

And that is the power of community. Like John’s community, we’ve experienced fractures. Whether denominationally, ideologically, or economically, these last few years have not been easy. But that’s the great thing about a new year. We look to God and know that no matter how much we’ve been bogged down in recessions, unemployment, war, health care debates, and the unseemly partisan rhetoric of the world around us, we have the power as the children of God to set a new tone. We can’t keep bad things from happening, but we can react with love. Together, we can be an unfailing light that fights back the darkness of despair. We can exit our church walls after the 11:00 o’clock sermon is over and vow to continually help our neighbors and share our love with them.

We must bring hope, peace, love and joy beyond the walls of the churches and religious buildings to which our faith too often remains confined. John Chapter 1 is an encouraging reminder to go forth—we have an example to follow! That example is a poor Jewish baby born 2,000 years ago who had the courage to love. That blessed child walked with God and exhibited love to everyone. It wasn’t a polite, meek love, regardless of his humble beginnings. It was a love that challenged the times, threatened the status quo, and overturned (sometimes literally) the position and power of those in religious and political authority. It was a love that called him to heal, embrace, lift up, and teach. He crossed social boundaries to show that love. What a powerful teacher we have in that child, who gave hope to a world wrought with suffering, oppression, slavery, and death. Let us remember to shine our light in the darkness, no matter how overwhelming. Let us remember that together, our lights shine brighter to overcome the darkness of brokenness, exclusion, hunger, injustice and poverty. Let us have the courage to love as Jesus loved and loves us still. Let us be open to the love of others. Let that be our resolution.