Lessons from Beebo

Last Friday night, Richard Russell (known to friends as “Beebo”) finished his shift loading luggage onto and off of commercial planes at the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. Instead of going home, though, he headed to the maintenance area. He used a tractor to push a plane onto the tarmac, then boarded the plane and took off. After about an hour of flying around, conversing with air traffic control, and attempting to do tricks, Richard crashed the plane on an island not far from the airport and tragically died.

Needless to say, his family is devastated. In their own words, they say they are “stunned and heartbroken” by what happened. They describe Richard as a “warm, compassionate man” as well as “a faithful husband, a loving son, and a good friend.” He and his wife were dedicated members of their church, and friends describe Richard as a funny, kind, and happy guy.

The reasoning behind Richard’s actions is unclear. Authorities have deemed his death a suicide, but it isn’t quite so straightforward. He seemed to have a fascination with flight, based on the way he talked about his work and the skill he portrayed while piloting the plane. There’s reason to believe that he may have been unhappy with his work conditions and pay. He certainly wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, though the question remains whether or not he intended to harm himself.

Even mid-flight, Richard himself seemed to be trying to come up with an explanation for what he was doing. “Minimum wage, we’ll chalk it up to that,” he said. “Maybe that will grease some gears a little bit with the higher-ups.” Later on, after performing a loop, Richard was encouraged by traffic control to land the plane. “I don’t know! I don’t want to,” he replied. “I was kind of hoping that was going to be it. You know?” Between expressions of exhilaration over flying the plane and what could be interpreted as a wish to die, Richard also considered what this could mean for his future. Jail time? A job as a pilot? At least some part of him could picture life after this event.

It’s hard to imagine Richard’s state of mind during this incident. The tone of his statements ranged from dark to excited to downright incoherent. But in a moment of particular clarity, he said something that seems to reflect the man that his friends and family knew him to be: "I’ve got a lot of people that care about me, and it’s going to disappoint them to hear that I did this. I would like to apologize to each and every one of them. Just a broken guy; got a few screws loose, I guess. Never really knew it until now."

Just a broken guy. He had a few screws loose. And he never knew it until he was thousands of feet in the air piloting a stolen plane to his death.

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I’m going to be honest: I have no idea what to do with the story of Richard Russell. All I know is that I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since I read about it last weekend. My heart is broken for Richard, for his friends and family, and for the community devastated by this tragic event. I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for all of them.

When something terrible like this happens, it’s my tendency to look for a clear, simple, straightforward explanation. I want to know why. For some reason, I think that if I can wrap my head around the situation, maybe I’ll feel better.

But here’s the thing: There is no clear, straightforward explanation for what happened. Richard didn’t leave behind a note or a manifesto. He didn’t make a last-minute confession about his motives. He didn’t give us a simple explanation because, honestly, he didn’t have one. Even he didn’t fully understand what was going on. Richard was a victim just like his family, his friends, his community, and all of us who were affected by it.

This is a senseless tragedy; that is, it makes no sense. And even if there were some way to understand it, that wouldn’t change anything. Richard’s still gone. No amount of information or clarity can bring him back. There is no true resolution for something like this, and that’s something I have to accept.

Giving up on trying to understand a tragedy doesn’t mean I give up on finding meaning in it, though. I don’t believe that anything we experience in this life, no matter how senseless, has to be meaningless. There’s no way to undo what’s been done, but there are ways to redeem it. And redeem it we must.

Here’s the only thing I can take away from the story of Richard Russell: What happened to him is awful, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility for any of us. If it can happen to a good, beloved, seemingly happy guy like him, it can happen to anyone. We are each just a few bad experiences away from losing control and making a snap decision that changes our lives and the lives of our loved ones. And while that may be a scary thing to recognize, it also gives us perspective on what truly matters.

Take care of yourselves. If you’re feeling like you need some help, reach out. There is someone—probably multiple someones—on this planet who loves you, who can’t do life without you, and who wants to be there for you. All you have to do is express that you are in need. Please, if you are hurting, let someone know.

Be good to one another. If you know someone who’s hurting, take a little extra time to check on them. You aren’t being overbearing; you’re being kind. And you never know when your simple question, “How are you doing today?” could change a person’s life forever. We have more of an impact on those around us than we could ever possibly understand. Let’s use that power for good.

Cherish every single thing. This life is precious, and it’s fleeting. Every person, every experience, every moment that we get on this earth is a gift, and we ought to treat them as such. It’s hard to remember sometimes, but there is nothing ordinary in this life. If you look hard enough, you’ll see the remarkable everywhere. So find it, recognize it, and cherish it as much as you possibly can.

Richard Russell will be remembered for the tragic way his life ended, but that’s not all there is to his story. He was a good man who lived a good life and left behind a family who loves him dearly. We mourn his loss, but his death need not be in vain. We can redeem it.

We can learn from his experience. We can do better than we have. We can live our lives with the fulfillment and contentment that Richard sought. And we can help others do the same. If we do so, we can create a world in which no one has to go through what he did, and in that way, we will honor him.

Our All-Powerful God

This weekend, I attended a young adult retreat where the central topic was apologetics, and I was reminded yet again why apologetics is not the field for me. There was one discussion that really got me thinking, though. As usually happens at these sorts of events, the question of evil came up. It’s the most relevant and difficult topic in apologetics, and it always, always gets brought up.

The speaker framed the question this way: How can God be both all-powerful and all good?

Thinking about the question of evil like this piqued my interest. I’ve addressed the topic in a previous blog post, and I still stand by the answer I laid out there. But hearing the question asked this way led me to a different approach, and I’d like to share it with you. Here it is:

Maybe it’s time for us to admit that God isn’t all-powerful.

I understand that’s a bold, controversial statement, and I hope you don’t misunderstand me. I’m not attacking the nature of God here, or even the traditional Christian understanding of God as being omnipotent (that is, possessing ultimate power). I just think that we sometimes get so caught up in theological abstractions that we forget to actually look at the living God we serve. And that’s when we get ourselves into trouble.

The “all-powerful v. all good” question is an example of that. We’ve been preaching the doctrine of omnipotence for so long that we’ve forgotten what it’s all about, or we’ve at least allowed it to become misrepresented to those outside the faith. The common understanding of this doctrine is that it means that God can do whatever he wants. And if God can do whatever he wants but chooses not to stop something evil from happening, then it only makes sense that God is at least in some sense responsible for the evil itself. That’s the theological corner we’ve backed ourselves into.

But in reality, omnipotence refers to the nature of God, not to the way he interacts with the world. Sure, God in his nature possesses all power and the ability to do anything he likes, but that’s not the way he’s chosen to be in relation to his creation. Because in the very act of creating the world and giving free will to humanity, God was choosing to give up his omnipotence for something he deemed better: the potential of a loving relationship with his creation.

Here’s how that works: As we all know, love cannot be forced. Robots cannot love, because love requires choice. In order for love to be real and a true relationship to be established between persons, each party must have the option to say no. That’s the only way the, “Yes,” has any value.

God knew this before he created the world, back when he was able to practice his omnipotence fully. And he very well could have created a planet full of mindless drones to praise him for all of time. But that’s not what he wanted. He wanted to take the loving relationship that already existed within the Trinity and extend it. God wanted to love someone and be loved by someone outside himself, and so he made a choice.

God chose to give humanity free will. And in doing so, he gave up a good deal of his power. Now, he can’t force us to do anything. He can’t force us to love him. He can’t force us to love each other. He can’t force us to do good. Because if he did, it wouldn’t mean anything. It would all be for nothing.

And as we’ve discussed before, when we use the free will we’ve been given to rebel against God and his will, there are natural consequences, and we call those consequences “evil.” Could God have potentially made a world without those consequences? Sure, but then we wouldn’t really have free will. If one’s choices have no consequence, how can one be truly considered free?

Far too often, we downplay the sacrifice that God made just in the act of creating us. In order to do so, he had to set aside a part of his nature. He had to willingly limit himself and his power in order to give us a chance to have a relationship with him. And now, he works through and relies on us—us!—to accomplish his purposes in the world.

In creating us, God took a risk.

In creating us, God made himself vulnerable to pain, disappointment, and rejection.

In creating us, God gave up his total omnipotence. And if that isn’t one of the greatest acts of love in all of history, I don’t know what is.

God is all-powerful in the cosmic, eternal, big-picture sense. But in the particular, present, minute circumstances that we find ourselves in, God is limited by his own choice. Could he break his own rules, revoke our free will, and take away our suffering? Sure, God could do anything. He is God, after all. But he won’t, because he loves us and wants more than anything to be in relationship with us, a relationship that requires we have free will.

We know that this limitation of God’s power is only for a time. Even in light of human free will, he is still working history towards his perfect plan for its end. He’s powerful enough to do that. And in the end, God will once again rule fully omnipotent over a perfect universe. Only this time, we’ll be there, surrendered completely to his will for all of time. He’ll be his full self, and we’ll be all that he created us to be.

But for now, we live in an imperfect world ruled by a God who is waiting for us to turn towards him. So when people ask, “How can God be all-powerful and all good?” we can simply answer, “He isn’t all-powerful, at least not in the way you’re thinking. At least not yet.” Then we have an opportunity to share the immense love of God and the way it manifested in our creation, his self-limitation, and ultimately in our salvation by Jesus Christ. And that sounds like a pretty good answer to the question of evil to me.

But What About Grace?

A friend once told me that he could sum up the religious teachings of his childhood in two words: “Do better.” Denouncements of worldly sins, warnings of what would happen if he gave in to temptation, and constant guilt trips for not practicing a consistent “quiet time” with God eventually formed within him a sense that he wasn’t doing enough. That he wasn’t enough. And the only way to get right with God was to renew the commitments he’d made and broken a hundred times and do all of the things the church told him he should do.

Does this sound familiar to you? Because it does to me. And based on my observations and conversations with many who grew up in the Christian faith, I’d say this experience is not uncommon. For many, the big takeaway from growing up in church is that they’re not good enough, that they’re not living the way they should, and that they need to do better if they want any hope of having a relationship with God. This should not be so.

One of the most foundational, unique, and beautiful aspects of the Christian faith is that it is not a merit-based system. While we tend to think of the world in terms of achievement, effort, and stratification, God calls us to instead practice humility, submission, and equality, and to recognize that none of us is able to succeed at life on our own, but only when we rely on him. This is a radical break from the way we’ve been taught the world has to work. This is magnificent. This is the gospel.

At the center of the Christian message is God’s grace, his undeserved favor towards us. He doesn’t have to love us. He doesn’t have to want what’s best for us. He doesn’t have to give us the opportunity to do life with him. But he does. His grace is offered freely to each and every one us. And that is a precious, precious thing.

I’m afraid that in trying to communicate the good news of God’s grace, the church has become too focused on the natural complement to it: the reality of humanity’s fallenness. It’s true that we’re all broken. We each do things that are wrong, that hurt others, and that go against the will of God. And we need to understand this fact. But the focus of the gospel is not on our brokenness; in fact, it isn’t on us at all. The focus of the gospel is the amazing grace of God that can heal the brokenness we all feel inside ourselves and experience externally.

Of course, grace isn’t the end of it all. It’s only the beginning of our life with God. Once we’ve accepted God’s grace and committed our lives to following him, then the real work of following his will begins. There are still things that we’re called to do—things that our faith compels us to do—and do them we should. But in the midst of all the doing, there is still grace. Grace isn’t in the end, but it will always have the last word.

Because even while we’re trying to live life God’s way, we’re still imperfect. God doesn’t save us once and then expect us to do the rest on our own. God’s grace saves us from our brokenness, but salvation is a process that won’t be complete in this life. And we can’t do it by ourselves. Grace is a continual gift that constantly picks us back up when we fall, heals us when we need it, and calls us to carry on.

God’s grace calls us to become better, but not by our own doing. We become better (that is, more like God) by letting go of the false narrative that we can do it ourselves and instead allowing God to work in us. When we choose to look at salvation and sanctification in this way, it takes a lot of pressure off of us and allows us to extend grace to ourselves as well.

So whenever and wherever we share God’s truth with others, may we always err on the side of grace. May we never leave people thinking that the gospel message is that they should do better. May we instead always leave them with the impression that God loves them, that he wants to know them, and that he wants to heal them and make them new. That’s grace, and that’s the gospel I want to share with others. It’s my hope and prayer that you will do the same.

Security

Over the past couple of years, I’ve been thinking a lot about what really matters to me. What are the things that I absolutely must have in my life? What drives me? Some of them are obvious: love, belonging, physical necessities, a certain level of comfort. Others I talk about fairly often on here: compassion, fulfillment, faith. But there’s one that I haven’t addressed overtly, and I feel like now is the right time.

For me, one of the most important elements of a healthy life is a sense of security. I went years without recognizing the value of this attribute because I had no idea what life was like without it. (The fish/water analogy comes to mind.) But once I experienced what it’s like to live without feeling secure, I realized just how much I need it. I realized how badly we all need it.

Security is what allows us to thrive. Really, it’s a prerequisite for us being ourselves. You know how you can’t fully express yourself in situations where you feel uncomfortable? Imagine that, but in every moment of your life. That’s what living without security feels like. When we don’t feel secure, we can’t be ourselves; when we can’t be ourselves, we can’t grow into the people we’re meant to be. Insecurity stunts us.

Some of you already know what I’m talking about. Like me, you’ve been there. Others have been fortunate enough to avoid this particular trial thus far. But I imagine that each of us will face deep feelings of insecurity at some point in our lives, and so I think it’s valuable to consider briefly what exactly security it is. Because if you aren’t searching for it right now, you might be one day. You might as well know what to look for.

We each of have a different understanding of what security means. Here are a few concepts of security that I’ve either bought into myself or heard from others:

• physical safety
• knowing and being confident in oneself
• a social safety net
• predictability in one’s routine
• a financial nest egg
• the absence of risk in one’s life

The truth is that security means different things to different people, and one’s definition of feeling secure might change over the span of their life. I’m not here to tell anyone what their definition of security should be. But I have thought a lot about what it means to me, and I think it’s worth sharing.

When it comes to feeling secure, I used to value predictability above everything else. I craved routine. Every morning when I woke up, I knew exactly what my day would look like: where I’d be at any given time, what I would eat, when and how I would relax. I had it nailed down. And for a time, that gave me a really strong sense of security. I never had to wonder about much because everything had already been decided ahead of time.

But of course, something like that can’t last forever. I’m still a big fan of routines, but I know that real life isn’t always so straightforward. Once I got out of school and started working full-time, my schedule got a little more chaotic and a lot less easy to predict. As a result of that and some other changes that came about at the time, my sense of security was shattered, and it took me a while to find it again.

But over time, I’ve gotten there. Now, I’m learning to be more secure in myself and my own mindset rather than relying so much on external forces for security. I know who I am and what I’m capable of, and I remind myself of my past accomplishments when I consider pushing myself to the next level. I’m also not afraid to thrive in my comfort zone a bit, improving myself and gaining more confidence when I need it. Plus, I just like myself. I’m proud of the person I’ve become and am becoming. A good deal of my security comes from inside of me now.

And the other major portion comes from those I surround myself with. One of my biggest sources of insecurity is my fear of being alone, not temporarily but in a more general sense. But the older I get, the more I learn that the important people will always be there. No matter what I do or what circumstances life throws my way, I know that those I care about most are behind me. I’ve found a life partner who’s committed to standing beside me, supporting me, and loving me through thick and thin, and I find security in knowing that. I’m loved; I have support. That’s more than enough for me.

I’ve found that security is ultimately about putting my focus on the right things. It’s not about circumstances, because those change all the time. They can drastically change in an instant. But when I trust in myself and in the connections I’ve made with those who matter the most to me, I can rest easy knowing that no circumstance could ever change that. When I look away from the unpredictability of life and instead focus on the stability of the love I receive both from myself and from others, I feel safe.

I’ve found the things that make me feel secure, and they’ve helped me thrive and grow in ways I never thought possible. I’m in a good place now because I’ve found my sense of security in the midst of the insecurity of life. It is my hope that each of you do the same.

Thanks for reading this week’s blog post! Now, I’d like to hear from you: What does security mean to you? Where are you at on the journey to feeling secure? Let me know in the comments or on social media. Until next time!

The Hard Work of Forgiveness

I don’t listen to a ton of music, but every once in a while, I come across an album that just captures me. I almost get obsessed with it. I’ll put it on repeat and listen to it so many times that I memorize every word, every instrumental break, and every transition on the record. I saturate my mind with it until I finally, eventually, maybe get it out of my system.

I recently experienced this phenomenon with an album called Solar by Christian hip hop artist nobigdyl. His music is catchy and fun for the most part, but there’s a depth to everything he does that draws me in. The track that has particularly stuck with me is one towards the end of the album called “Close.” It’s a very personal song in which the artist openly confesses his sin and the pain that it’s caused. Upon listening, I was struck by its honesty and vulnerability. So I put it on loop and really let it sink in.

nobigdyl. directs the first verse towards his wife. He confesses that he’s been keeping secrets from her, going so far as to say that he put his vows to the side. His sin has led him to the brink of suicide. In his despair, he tells his wife that she would be better off without him, that she should leave him and move on.

And then we get a beautiful image. His wife grabs him by the face. He can feel her wedding band pushing into his jaw. She tells him she isn’t going anywhere, no matter what he’s done. Then, looking into each other’s eyes, they have this conversation:

I said, “Baby girl, you don’t have to take this.”
She said, “Boy, you’re gonna have to face it.”

When I heard that line, I was blown away and a little confused. The verse seems like it’s moving towards forgiveness, and then it suddenly ends with the victim telling the perpetrator that he’s going to have to deal with what he’s done.

It happens in the second verse, too. There, the artist is talking to God about his struggles and his feelings of inadequacy. He feels completely lost, and he knows it’s all his fault. Suddenly, he feels the Spirit of God speaking to him, assuring him that all the bad things he’s done are already forgiven by Christ’s work on the cross. Then they have this exchange:

I said, “Lord, I cannot repay this.”
He said, “Boy, you’re gonna have to face it.”

I forgive you for what you’ve done; you’re going to have to face it. These statements may strike you as contradictory at first. They certainly did me. That’s part of the reason I listened to the song so many times. And the more I listened and reflected on it, the more it made sense.

We often think of forgiveness as letting people off the hook. Letting things go. Forgetting that the offense ever happened. We think that once someone says, “I forgive you,” that’s the end of it. What’s done is done, and there’s never any need to address it again. I’m not so sure.

This viewpoint portrays forgiveness as the end of a journey. Something bad has happened, it’s been worked through, and now it’s time to forgive and forget. Maybe that works for some people. But in my experience (and, if I’m not mistaken, the experience of this artist), forgiveness is much less the end of a process than it is the beginning of one.

Forgiving someone doesn’t happen once they’ve made things right. After all, if things have already been made aright, what is there to forgive? Grace isn’t meant to be withheld until it’s earned; otherwise, it’s no grace at all. Really, it’s meant to be the first step of many.

When we choose to forgive someone, we aren’t saying that what they did is OK. We aren’t saying that we’ve healed from the effects of their actions. We aren’t saying that every part of the relationship has been restored. Instead, we’re saying, “I’m not giving up on you because of this. Together, we’re going to do the hard work of fixing the damage that you’ve done. I’m here.”

Ultimately, forgiveness is costly. It costs both the person forgiving and the person being forgiven. Rather than ignore what happened or just give up altogether, both parties are choosing to face the reality of their situation and deal with it head-on. To confront the underlying issues at play, fix the problems rather than the symptoms, and heal the hurt through time and togetherness. It’s probably the most painful way forward, but it’s also the one that leads to reconciliation. As the chorus of the song says,

I wanna hold you close.
I’ll never let you go.
Come let me in your arms.
I wanna hold you close.

Forgiveness costs a lot. But it’s worth every bit, because it’s the only way to truly find healing and wholeness in this life. Whether it means fixing mistakes that we’ve made or offering grace to a loved one who’s wronged us, may we each choose to do the hard work of forgiveness, today and every day.