Shame has the amazing ability to stick with us despite the truths and power of the gospel. That’s the theme of my latest post over at the Transformed blog. It’s the most recent excerpt from Good News for the Living Dead.

Here’s one part of that post:

It’s like I have a phantom limb. That’s what they call it when a person who has lost an arm or a leg insists that they can still feel it. Although the limb is no longer there, the feeling of the limb is so real that they’ll even complain about it itching or hurting. It’s a mirage, but a powerful one. For the Christian, shame operates the same way. In reality, there is no shame. Jesus took our guilt and shame on himself and nailed it to the cross. Before God, we are naked. The shame is gone.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

We’ve worn our coats of shame for so long, that we can still feel its abrasive rub on our skin and smell the musty odor of long-kept secrets wafting from its pockets. We know it’s not really there. But, it’s hard to hear the quiet whisper of our heads over the terrified screaming of our hearts.

Read the rest here.

We’ve been looking at how the gospel is like my wife’s purse: a bag filled with treasure. Some of those treasures seem pretty “ordinary.” Others are treasures that we’ve forgotten all about. And some you never knew about in the first place. If you have a gospel bag like that, what do you do?

With a purse like my wife’s there’s only one reliable method for discovering everything that lies within. Every now and then, you have to turn the bag over and empty it on the table, giving it several good shakes to make sure that each wrinkled corner surrenders its precious cargo. Then you can pour yourself a cup of coffee, sit back, and examine what fell out.

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We’ve been looking at how the gospel is like my wife’s purse: a bag filled with treasure. Some of those treasures seem pretty “ordinary.” Others are treasures that we’ve forgotten all about. But what if the gospel contains treasures that we never even knew were there?

The really great thing about my wife’s purse are the things even she doesn’t know about. I still haven’t quite figured out how that happens. But then, I don’t spend most of my day surrounded by small children.

I tested this the other day by digging down into the nether regions of her purse. (I did this with her permission, of course. I’m not stupid.) Along with the ordinary items, I found a single mitten (even though it was April), several plastic doodads of unknown origin and function, a small stuffed elephant, some Halloween candy (in April?), and a love note that one of our daughters had slipped in there months before. She had no idea how any of it had gotten there.

What if the Gospel contains treasures we don’t even know about yet?

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We’ve been exploring the idea that the gospel is like my wife’s purse: a bag filled with treasure. Some of those treasures seem pretty “ordinary.” And that’s too bad. But what about those treasures that you’ve simply forgotten about? The ones you stuck in the bag a long time ago and have not taken out since?

When I was a kid, “cleaning” my room involved cramming as much stuff as possible into my closet and praying that my dad wouldn’t notice when he came to inspect. Sometimes that even worked. Usually it didn’t. That means I often had to spend an afternoon pulling everything out of my closet and putting stuff where it belonged.

I remember one afternoon in particular. Toward the back of the closet, I found an old lunchbox. Thoughts of rotten PB&J sandwiches and prepubescent flies swarmed through my head. Until I opened it. Nestled inside like a pirate’s lost treasure, I found the twenty dollars I’d hidden several months earlier, a considerable sum for a small child. This was my secret stash. (I’m not entirely clear on why all kids need to have a secret stash. But it seems pretty universal.) And I’d forgotten all about it.

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I like to think of the gospel like a bag filled with treasure. But some of the Gospel’s treasures seem relatively ordinary.

An ordinary treasure? Isn’t that a bit of a contradiction? How can something that is a “treasure” also be “ordinary”? Easy. It happens all the time.

Have you ever studied a blade of grass? At first glance, it’s nothing special. Just a flat and fairly straight piece of vegetation. Look more closely, though, and you’ll see the veins running up the blade, the frayed edges at the top from the last time you mowed, the delicate way it bends slightly to one side. Place that same piece of grass under a microscope and you’ll see even more: an entire grass universe will open up before you—cells, chloroplasts, molecules, atoms, neutrons, electrons, and so on. Each level giving way to another. Press deeply enough and you’ll arrive at depths of reality only dimly understood by our most brilliant scientists—quarks, antiquarks, leptons, strings. Can you get much more ordinary than a blade of grass? Yet, when we look closely, we begin to realize that what seemed so normal and non-mysterious a moment ago actually contains limitless mystery, wonder, and awe. But how often do we do that? Grass is “normal,” and normal things are not mysterious. Normal things are not treasures. Normal things are, well, normal.

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A place of mystery, a dark region of unexplored secrets, a fairy realm of magical enchantment, only the bravest dare delve its depths, and only the most foolish do so without trepidation. Slowly I reach out, hands trembling. What lies within? What treasures might I find? What dangers?

Gently prying the sides apart, I peer into the gloom.

My wife’s purse is an amazing place.

You doubt? She’s a mother, public school teacher, and children’s ministry volunteer. Spend that much time around small children and I’m sure your purse would be pretty interesting as well. She has to be prepared for every occasion, and she picks up all kinds of odds and ends along the way. Magicians have their bottomless hats; my wife has her purse. She wins.

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Everyone knows how to think. Not everyone knows how to think well.

That can be rather frustrating.

Fortunately, thinking is a skill. And, like any skill, you can improve thinking through instruction and practice.

Here are some excellent, short videos introducing different aspects of critical thinking. Since they’re introductory, don’t expect a lot of detailed information. But I could see using these to start discussions on what it means to think well and how each of these relates to studying the Bible and theology.

I found the fourth video on “getting personal” particularly helpful. Although I think most people intuitively know that you shouldn’t disagree with someone just because you don’t like them (and, conversely, you shouldn’t agree with someone just because you do like them), this is still such an easy mistake to make that we all need to be reminded of it.

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