When you think of praying in a certain direction, you probably first think of the Islamic tradition of praying toward Mecca in the East, but actually, the Hebrew Bible tells of a more ancient “directional prayer.” 1 Kings 8 talks of people praying toward the newly built temple of the LORD in Jerusalem. But why? Even Solomon himself, the king who built the temple, knew that God is too great to be confined in a single place (“But will God really dwell on earth? The heavens, even the highest heaven, cannot contain you. How much less this temple I have built!”). So why pray facing it?

Perhaps facing a direction in prayer is a physical way of orienting our lives towards something other than ourselves. Facing the Temple was a bodily reminder that one’s life matters only in relation to God’s, like the long hand of a clock orbiting around a center point that gives it its rhythm and meaning; without which nothing makes sense.

I seem to need constant reminders that I am not the center. You’d think that being in ministry is a sure sign of a person’s life oriented toward God, but come to find out, it’s trickier than you’d think. In fact, ministry can all too easily become another means of orienting towards oneself—this happens when a person begins to love the talking more than the God one is talking about. It is a question I have to keep asking: What is the orientation of my life? What am I facing? What am I living for? What gives me purpose, meaning, and satisfaction?

Son, better learn early on that you are not the center. You are not the reason why all other things exist, but you know what, that’s actually good news. Life works best when you know that you exist only in relation to someone else. Like the lilies on our counter that move to face the sun throughout the day, I pray you too orient yourself toward the Source of Sustenance. My hope is for you to become a man who is directionally dependent on the Holy Presence of the Living God; that you aim your life wherever he is found.

$500.

That’s how much we paid for our golden retriever.

But that’s not counting all his shots and early vet bills…

Or the price of a cage, a leash, a collar…

Or the dog food he devours like a rabid rhinoceros…

Or the legs of tables and chairs he incessantly chews…

Or the cleaning supplies needed to remove the remnants of his “accidents” (though I’m beginning to suspect some of his “accidents” are on purpose)….

Or the cost of paint and drywall supplies used to repair the wall that our delightful pet attacked and devoured for no apparent reason (that’s right, he ate a wall)…

Or the blankets we had to throw away after he barfed up said wall on our bed…

Or the phone chargers, underwear, and washing-machines (happened) that he’s eaten…

Or the eventual cost of getting him fixed (goodness knows we don’t want this K9 reproducing)…

Or the…for the sake of space I’ll stop here, though I assure you the list goes on.

“I like C.S. Lewis too, dad.”

$500? Not even close. That number seems laughable after all we’ve been through with our destructive little friend. The point is, he’s costing us more than we originally thought. He’s worth it all right, but it would have been helpful having a slightly more accurate cost estimate going into the purchase of our beloved pooch.

And it’s not just Piper—there are many surprise expenses that go along with being an adult: fine print on big purchases, added charges and hidden fees, even getting groceries always seems to cost about 3 times more than expected.

In light of realizing all these veiled expenses, I have come to genuinely appreciate Jesus’ lack of tact in his strategy to recruit and retain disciples. He’s not interested in forcing a quick sale by making discipleship sound like something that it isn’t. He has no marketing department—and if he did, frankly, they should be fired. He says things like, “Those who would come after me must deny themselves, take up their cross and follow me,” and, “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple.” That’s not exactly something you’d want to put on a business card. But Jesus doesn’t seem to be interested in fine print. He’s not looking to bait anyone into signing an agreement they don’t intend on keeping. He asks for everything.

Christians sometimes water down discipleship to make Christianity more attractive. We reduce it to a one-time decision—the raising of a hand, the praying of a prayer, etc.—and sweep past Jesus’ claim on our lives. But Jesus doesn’t just want a wedding, he wants a marriage. He wants everything.

While this sounds intimidating and maybe even terrifying, here’s the most important part: He’s worth everything.

Jesus says, “The Kingdom of Heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all that he had and bought that field. Again, the Kingdom of Heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.”

The treasure in the story is of greater value than everything else the man owns. That’s why he’s happy and eager to make transaction. In his joy he went off and sold all that he had. Had he been willing to sell 50% of his belongings to buy the treasure, we could assume the treasure is worth slightly more than half of everything he owned. Had the man sold an item or two to get the treasure, we could assume it isn’t worth all that much. But, the man sells everything to buy the treasure, showing its value is incalculable—it’s worth everything.

Son, I don’t think Jesus’ words about the cost of being a disciple are to scare you away. I pray that thinking about his costly invitation will be another way for you to see just who this Jesus is and what he’s worth, because I believe that he is worth it all. I also believe that he is eager and excited to give you more blessing than you can imagine, but that emptying your hands of all else is the only way to truly receive.

How much is Jesus worth to you? Is he worth everything? I don’t ask these questions to make you feel guilty, or to pressure you to “be a better Christian” or anything dumb like that. No, no, I want you to see the pearl, son. I want you to see and know and love this Jesus who is worth it all so that your heart sings with the psalmist who says, “Your love is better than life!”

My thumb is black with ash from this morning’s chapel service. “From dust you came and to dust you shall return.” “From dust you came and to dust you shall return.” “From dust you came and to dust you shall return.”

The rhythm of the phrase has been with me all day. Repentance, mortality, death. Ashes. This is what we remember as Jesus turns from the North, setting his face toward Jerusalem and a cross. I’m moved by his resolute submission as he takes the first step, like Abraham going to Moriah with a knife, and fire, and wood, but without a lamb. I think of trembling Isaac as his father lifts him onto an altar, “Not my will, Father, but your will be done.”

I once knew a young girl who, with a genuine grin on her face, wished me a “happy Ash-Wednesday” every year on this day. At the time, I didn’t think she understood what she was saying; that “happy” and “ash” don’t go together. I would smile and wish her a happy Ash Wednesday in return, remembering what it was like as a young kid having someone whom I thought so important put the mark of Christ on my forehead. It always left a quiet, heavy kind of joy.

I still have the ashes from my first Ash Wednesday. The solemnity of the service made such an impression on this twelve year old that before bed I scraped the remaining ashes from my forehead and saved them in a little paper box that I’d made, treasuring them like dirty, holy relics. The box is still in my closet, waiting for the resurrection.

What were those days like, I wonder, the days leading up to the crucifixion and the few dark days after it? How loud and how heavy was the permanence of it all? I sometimes think my students know better than I do. As a teacher you hear about things that break your heart. Students who cry openly as they ask for prayers for a mother dying of cancer; young ones wearing long sleeves to hide wounded wrists; insecurities that can be traced back to a broken home, that can be traced back to a broken home, that can be traced back to a broken home, that can be traced back to a broken Eden. They know about ashes. After all, from dust they’ve come and to dust they will return.

And yet there’s a secret about the ashes that only a few remember in the bitter midnight of this long, slow walk to the cross. It is a secret that I don’t pretend to fully understand, and that I don’t dare try to explain here in these few poor words. All I will say is this: I believe there will come a day when I will hear a chirping from my closet. I will open the door, and with heart burning like the men on their way to Emmaus, I will see that the ashes in that little paper box have turned into a bird with wings ready to fly free from any and every tomb.

With this great secret in mind, Happy Ash Wednesday, son.

One of the first Jesus stories I remember grabbing hold of my imagination in Sunday School was the miracle at the wedding in Cana. I wasn’t particularly impressed with the changing of water into wine, but I do clearly remember Jesus’ shocking words to his mom when she informed him of the beverage shortage.

“Woman,” he said, “why do you involve me? My hour has not yet come.”

Woman? I thought. Jesus called his mom woman? Yikes!

Little did I know that my Christology (ideas about Jesus) was forming. Though the Sunday school teacher tried pointing out how this story shows Jesus’ power, all I could think of was what would happen if I tried calling my mom woman when we got in the car after church. It wouldn’t be good. What kind of person was this Jesus guy?

And then there’s the time Jesus was hungry so he walked over to a fig tree for a quick breakfast, but when he found no figs on the tree he cursed it, saying, “May you never bear fruit again!”

…seriously, Jesus?

My young mind imagined a kid at school kicking and yelling at the vending machine after seeing it was out of Reeses. Again, my delicate notions of Jesus were forming. Though I never would have said it out loud, behind the scenes I was thinking that I might just want to keep my distance from this loon. In the back of my mind I pictured Jesus as a man who everyone knows is important but whom nobody actually wants to be around. Because let’s be honest, if this was Gary or Frank cursing the fig tree, everyone would be thinking, “Calm down, ya spaz.” I can see bystanders whispering to their friends, “Psych-o-path.” But since it’s Jesus we say things like, “Well he has every right to be angry,” or “He’s God, that means it is a righteous anger,” but deep down we’re not quite sure.

Whenever I would read something Jesus said or did that was, well, rude or crazy or arrogant, I would quickly turn the page and feign ignorance because it is Jesus after all, and a person’s not supposed to go around thinking bad things about Jesus. It wasn’t until I was a good deal older that I revisited some of these stories, intent on reckoning the goodness of Jesus that I had personally experienced with his apparent dubious behavior in the Bible. Digging deeper in the text I was astonished by what I found:

Jesus is better.

Story after story I discovered that my surface-level reading of the Bible had distorted my original perceptions of Jesus. Come to find out, the Greek word for “woman” that Jesus used was a gentle and loving way to refer to your mom. Calling your mother “woman” in Jesus’ day wasn’t anything like saying it now. This discovery caused me to reimagine Jesus’ tone as he addressed this dear lady whom he loved and respected. “Mamma, it’s not time for me to show my power yet.” (And notice how he does the miracle anyway, even though it’s not yet his hour, very possibly out of respect for his mom’s request.)

And the fig tree incident? After further reading in the Old Testament I learned that the fig tree was a biblical symbol for the Jewish religious leadership—leadership that at the time wasn’t bearing any fruit. Both Matthew and Mark place this story directly next to Jesus’ clearing out of the Temple and calling out the chief priests and the teachers of the law for their poor management of God’s house. Ohhhh, I get it. Jesus wasn’t being irritable when he cursed the fig tree, he was making a dangerous political statement that his disciples would have certainly picked up on (read Jeremiah 7:11 and 8:13…seriously, so cool).

The more I understood Jesus in his world, the more I understood that he is better than I imagined. Kinder than imagined. Bolder than I imagined. More passionate for His Beloved than I imagined. In fact, I now see that I have never once in my life overestimated God’s heart. Not once have I needed to reel-in an over presumptuous notion of His goodness and love. Not once has God had to correct an excessively audacious assumption of His identity, saying, “Take it down a couple notches, kid, I’m not that kind.”

Nope. It’s always been the other way around. God is incessantly challenging and stretching my notions of His character to match a goodness worthy of unending praise. This means knocking down stingy walls in my heart to make room for His abundant love. The hammer pounds on my modest doctrines and theologies as God announces, I’m better, Son. I’m better, Son. I’m better, Son.

Because God is better, son. You will see this in time. I will do my best to represent Him well, but when I fail you need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that no matter what circumstances suggest, no matter what rumors you’ve heard, no matter what you’ve come to believe,

God

Is

Better.