On Practicing Prayer

Prayer is hard, and it is rather easy not to do. But we are told to pray, and we should even on days when we feel like we are only speaking to ourselves in an empty room.

Leo Tolstoy described a man told to lift a handle up and down without further instructions. The man could have scoffed and refused, but instead he began lifting the handle up and down. Nothing happened. But he continued. Then he noticed water coming out the other end; it was a water pump with a spout. He continued. Then he saw that as the water gushed out of the spout it was spreading across the ground. He saw plants, flowers all around him. He was in a garden, and as the water continued to flow the garden flourished. Then he was moved on to another task: gathering fruit. As he moved from lower to higher tasks, he learned more about the structure of the establishment and participated in it.

Prayer is that way. We are told to do it; we could scoff and refuse. But instead we do it; following the pattern of the prayer Jesus taught his disciples, our vision is widened; we begin to see ourselves, others, and the world differently. We continue. This is not blind obedience because as we do it we learn what we could not learn without doing it. Sometimes initial obedience is a pathway to discovery and full participation.  

Dietrich Bonhoeffer explained that when we pray for particular people it is rather difficult to hate them as we pray for them. Prayer when it is a habit changes us even when we think our prayers are like trees falling in a forest without ears. But we are not merely to pray for anything; we are to pray the Lord’s Prayer and to shape our prayers accordingly. We are to appeal to God’s own character, and when we do we may very well find ourselves being shaped into the image of God. We become “perfect” like God by loving our enemies, and we learn to love them by first praying for them.

In this way, the practice of prayer is not merely about “prayer closets” and “small group bible studies.” Prayer is relational; it spills into all areas of who we are in relation to others. Their concerns become ours and ours become theirs. Prayer creates embodied community that reflects the righteousness of God. And as such, prayer must be inherently connected to public action. If we keep the water cupped at the spout, the garden will most certainly wither. The wounds of the world are far too deep and wide to be plugging the spout. 

A Meditation on Matthew 18:1-5

From beginning to end, the Gospel of Matthew is about who will rule Israel, and it is about how that ruler will rule Israel. In this sense, the Gospel of Matthew is about Jesus. As Jesus makes his way to Jerusalem, he remains in constant conflict with those who are in some sense currently seeking to keep the rule of Israel for themselves. As soon as Jesus is born, we come across Herod who kills to ensure his own fragile power, and throughout the rest of the gospel those with some degree of power such as the temple leaders plot to kill Jesus because he threatens their power and influence.

It is little surprise then that Jesus’ disciples continually ask him right up until the end who will be the greatest in his kingdom. The Gospel of Luke shows the disciples asking Jesus this questions at the Last Supper (Luke 22:24-27). They, like others in the gospel story, want to know because they are on the cusp of entering Jerusalem with the new king of Israel. They are about to witness Jesus become the newly inaugurated king, and so they want to know and to ensure their place alongside him in his kingdom.

Also, their question comes right after Jesus singled out Peter, James, and John to go with him to a private place. Their question also comes right after Jesus sends Peter to be his representative for paying a temple tax. And so now the disciples are curious: who is the greatest in Jesus’ kingdom? 

Jesus likely knows what and why they are asking. However, he turns their question and assumptions upside down. Jesus is the one who will rule Israel, but he will not rule in the same way as rulers such as Herod who rule by fear and violence. Jesus does not answer their question on its own terms. He reshapes their question by calling a child into their midst.

By calling a child into their midst, Jesus shows that the values and orientation of his kingdom are not what they expected nor are they what we probably expect today. By calling a child into their midst, Jesus shows that the values of our world are turned upside down: in order to enter his kingdom we must enter as children.

Judging by the Gospel of Matthew’s constant theme of who will rule Israel taken together with the disciples’ question and Jesus’ response, it appears that Jesus is not talking about childlike innocence. Jesus is talking about hierarchy; Jesus is talking about social status. Children were not in the 1^st nor are they today the ones with power and authority. In the 1^st century world much like our 21^st century world, children lack what the world values most: power, wealth, and influence. In this sense, children do not have high status. A child is dependant on others. A child is not someone with whom you network in order to climb the social ladder. For example, if you wanted to run for a political office in the United States, you would be wasting your time if you spent all your time lobbying children. In this sense, Jesus’ calling a child in their midst is a refusal to participate in status games so common in the 1^st century and for that matter in our 21^st century. Jesus calls his disciples to be humble, to be low on the social ladder.

Stanley Hauerwas, a professor at Duke, explains, “Children, because they depend on others for their very existence, cannot help but live by humility” (Matthew, BrazosPress 2009, 162). 

However, those of you who are parents will likely tell me, “Sam, I appreciate that you think children are humble, but that’s a naïve picture of children. Children are not humble. They are anything but humble. They do greedy and prideful things all the time.” If that’s what you’re thinking, then you are right.

However, when we see a small child, when we hold a newly born infant in our arms, we know that child is completely dependant on us for his very existence. However prideful that child may act from time to time, we know that child needs us for food and shelter. That child needs us to tie his shoes, and when that child puts his shoes on the wrong feet we help him rearrange his shoes (or we leave them because it’s cute). That child needs us to drop him off and pick him up from school. That child needs us to ensure his safety and his future. In this sense, whether or not that child realizes it, that child is completely humbled by his dependency on us. And this is what Jesus is seeking to show his disciples about themselves, and this is what Jesus is seeking to show us about ourselves. Whether we want to admit it or not, we enter Jesus’ kingdom as children.

Jesus calls his disciples into a life of dependency like children, and so he taught them to pray to their father in heaven as children teaching them to pray, “Give this day our daily bread.” And as children, we pray to our father in heaven, “Deliver us from evil.”

What Jesus is saying here runs against probably most of our cultural values and priorities. We praise self-reliance and the self-made man. We praise people of strength and influence such as athletes and successful businessmen. But Jesus tells us to be like children who are not self-reliant nor are they self-made. 

Jesus, however, does not end by saying that his disciples must be like children. As we follow the Matthew story, we will probably notice that Jesus is constantly gathering people around himself, but he is not gathering people who could bring him high acclaim; they are people on the fringes of society who have no status and could certainly not give him status by association. Instead of linking with key leaders of his day in order to climb the social ladder, Jesus networks with the unconnected on the fringes of society.

Jesus heals lepers and women neither of whom were highly regarded in the 1^st century and neither of whom could have imagined giving Jesus high status. Jesus also heals the lame and the blind. Jesus gathers people to himself who are like children because they are vulnerable and cannot extend to Jesus higher status. Jesus gives to them and to us what we cannot give him in return.

Jesus explains that not only do people enter his kingdom by being as humble as children, but we are also to welcome those who are like children, who are not high in status, not self-reliant, and not exactly the sort of people who could get us a raise. And all this requires that we are to be people of patience who tirelessly welcome those who need help and cannot help themselves. It should probably be said in passing that the Bible does not say, “God helps those who themselves.” But it does say we are to be like children who cannot help themselves, and we are to welcome people like children who cannot help themselves.

As we follow the Matthew story, we will likely notice that Jesus is constantly gathering people around himself. Jesus is forming a community, and so when we hear Jesus calling his disciples to be like children, he is not merely calling isolated individuals to be like children. He is calling and forming a community to be as humble as children, a community that does not seek higher status, a community that does not welcome people according to achievement but welcomes people in need.

A few days ago, I watched the new musical Les Miserables. Invariably, I was reminded of Victor Hugo’s novel, Les Miserables. Near the beginning of Hugo’s novel, there is an ex-convict named Jean Valjean, and he had been released from prison only a few days before. When he comes to a town at night, he cannot find lodging anywhere. As soon as people find out he is an ex-convict, they cast him out. He is completely unconnected socially. Then finally he arrives at a little old house where a little old bishop lives. Jean Valjean knocks, and the door swings open. Instead of going through the labor of the old bishop finding out who he is, Jean Valjean tells the old bishop to begin with that he is an ex-convict. Then the old bishop says something unexpected. The old bishop says, “You did not have to tell me who you were. This is not my house. It’s the house of Jesus Christ. The door does not ask who enters whether he has a name but whether he has any pain. You are suffering. You are hungry. You are welcome.”

I recently heard a story about a young lady who is a mother of three children. The father is no longer in the picture. She has two jobs, a fulltime and part-time job, totaling roughly sixty hours per week. She works that much because that’s what it takes for her to put food on the table and a roof over her children’s heads. Not long ago, she found out she is pregnant, but as I just mentioned, the father is longer in the picture. She is contemplating abortion not because she wants to exercise her free choice but because she feels she doesn’t have a choice. (I am sure stories like this one could be enumerated ten thousand times over).

Jesus is forming a community that lives by childlike humility recognizing that its life is dependant on God, a community that thereby extends its hospitality to those who are most vulnerable. Jesus calls us to network with the unconnected. 

As we follow Jesus’ footsteps as children, we will most likely do a lot of stumbling along the way like toddlers first learning to walk. And as we do, let us remember that we are to be a community as humble as children; we are to be a community that welcomes children and where children are safe. This will be difficult, and the trouble about being a hospitable community is that it doesn’t get any easier by saying it a bunch of times. Like toddlers learning to walk, we have to try it. We will likely take a few steps and then take a tumble. Fortunately, our father in heaven will pick us up so we can try again. We need each other in this process, and because we are like children we are called to forgive each other inexhaustibly. 

From beginning to end, the Gospel of Matthew is about who will rule Israel, and it is about how that ruler will rule Israel. The Gospel of Matthew is about Jesus. However, by the end of the story, we do not have a king on a throne with hosts of armies to conquer the world thereby establishing his empire. That is not Jesus’ kingdom. Instead, we see a king who has been crucified and who sends humble children into a dangerous world. That is Jesus’ kingdom. And for this reason the apostle Paul says that this kingdom with a crucified king and childlike subjects is foolishness to pagans (1 Cor. 1:23). And perhaps it seems like foolishness to us also. This is a topsy-turvy kingdom. Jesus’ kingdom turns our assumptions upside down by placing a child in our midst, and Jesus tells us this is how we enter his kingdom and this is whom we are to welcome into his kingdom.   

Preaching without a Halo

It would be naïve for me to suppose that I can say much at all about preachers or preaching, so these are merely a few scattered jots from someone without authority. 

Many Sundays passed listening to my dad preach, and little did I know that one day I would do the tremulous thing and stand behind the pulpit too.

I remember thinking when I was a kid that preachers must have some secret knowledge to do what they do with such astounding and awe-inspiring conviction. Some years later, I discovered much to my surprise that preachers are not angelic beings with special knowledge; preachers are regular humans whose knees begin to shake every time they stand behind the pulpit. Preachers are regular folks who sometimes mistake themselves for extraordinary folks. Preachers are like everyone else. Preachers are regular folks who come from the congregation. They are regular folks who beg God for mercy each Saturday night before they must speak to the congregation Sunday morning. Preachers are human like any other.

Why then should they be the ones to speak? I have asked myself this too many times to count as I have ventured through seminary: “Why should I be the one to preach? There are many others far more suited!” If the preacher is simply a topsy-turvy human like any other, then what makes the preacher’s words worth listening to?

The words are powerful not because of the preacher speaking them but because by God’s mercy God would use even those feeble words of the preacher for the proclamation of good news to an aching world. Without the active presence of God working in our midst, preaching devolves into a futile endeavor of public speaking, futile because such preaching will be nothing more than some fanciful rhetoric with no transformative power.

The preacher then does not have a halo nor does the preacher need to pretend to have one, for the preacher’s words are important only because with astounding mercy God patiently uses them.

Where do the preacher’s words come from? It would be easy to say the Bible. However, it may also be said that they come from the Spirit’s workings in the church’s compost pile. And it is for this reason in part why we should not preach, if we are not willing to wash the church dishes or take out the church garbage.

A good preacher is like a referee who does not make any headlines the following day. A good preacher is like a butler whose presence is hardly noticed at the front door. A good preacher is a humble finger pointing to the crucified messiah and to the unsettling and hope-filled reality of God in our midst. 

"For All have Sinned"?

This is not merely some cute theological abstraction nor is it merely some sort of mystical, metaphysical guilt that inscrutably pertains to the isolated individual. This pertains to our social complicity. We share complicity in our society’s sins, and we continue to do so. It is precisely for that reason that we must find forgiveness at the foot of the cross and live a life of perpetual repentance.

When I was a kid, my mom gave me piece of profound theological and sociological instruction: “when you point your index finger at someone else, you have three fingers pointing back at you.” (By the way, at whom is the thumb pointing?)

I have frequently asked the question, “But where does complicity begin and end? Where or how do we or can we draw a line between when we do and when we do not share complicity in particular sins of a corporation for example?” I have frequently wished that we could draw lines and thereby assuage some guilt, relieve some of the burden. However, I am slowly realizing that I am asking the wrong questions. I am trying to distance myself from any sort of societal culpability. This is probably what many of us want. We want to separate ourselves from those pernicious culprits “over there.” However, (perhaps much to our chagrin) we are woven into the thick fabric of society, and we cannot neatly separate ourselves from other threads that have become noticeably stained. We are connected.

This emphasis is not to evade personal culpability but is to punctuate it and to give it a context.

Previously, I asked the questions about sharing complicity precisely because in practice we separate guilty persons from non-guilty persons, and so I was asking a rather intuitive question.

The righteous one who died for all did precisely what we do not and will not do: he refrained from complicity and thereby accentuated ours. When reading the gospel of Matthew, we may ask, “Who is responsible for the death of Jesus?” It would be easy and quite erroneous to say, “the Jews.” We might then point a finger at the temple regime. We might also point a finger at the crowd, and then we might point a finger at Pilate. But what about those who stood by and did nothing? What about those, like Peter and co, who distanced themselves in order to remain unscathed? It might then be noted that complicity seems to go in all directions.

The good news of forgiveness at the foot of the cross: forgiveness is extended to us even when we are clueless about our complicity.

Competition: Making Enemies and Friends

“Comparison is the hidden worm that consumes in secret and does not die at least not until it takes the life out of love” (SK, Works of Love).  

Participating in recent soccer intramurals in seminary has reminded me of something Flannery O’Connor said, “Extreme situations reveal what we are essentially” (my paraphrase). The context of athletic competition was not at all what O’Connor had in mind. However, perhaps it is not too far fetched to connect her statement with soccer intramurals because in the heat of the game we discover much about ourselves and others as tempers flare and voices grow edgier. In some cases new friends are made, and in other cases new enemies are made.

In competition we may discover that we are monsters.  

Over the years I have done a pretty good job of competing poorly in so far as I have frequently let my tongue get the best of me. While I was in junior high and high school, ping-pong was a major area of competition between my dad, my brother, and me. On several particular occasions, I remember my brother and me growing so heated and angry at each other that we had to stop playing. In fact we stopped playing each other all together for a long time. From my childhood, I could provide many similar examples particularly from my years playing soccer.

But of course athletic competition is merely one of many sorts of competition. There is competition in academics, reality TV, employment, and dare I say politics. The upcoming presidential election is a sort of competition. And not least among various sorts of competition is that strange leviathan we call capitalism. I do not intend to broaden our understanding of competition to such a degree that it is a useless word, but I would like to point out the propensity for competition in human relations in general.

Competition is something many people enjoy. However, many other people seek to avoid it because either they simply do not have a taste for it or they see how divisive it can be. Obviously, there are usually winners and losers in competition. Winning can be exhilarating, and even losing can be edifying. Some winners, however, do not merely get some sort of trophy at the end; they usurp the place and even the dignity and potential for life of the loser. To make matters worse, some of these losers were not even aware of the competition until they had already been born into the losing team – let your imagination run wild with regard to global politics. What then shall the winning side do to the losing side?

Perhaps, there are some things about which competition is potentially appropriate and healthy, while there are other things about which competition is simply inappropriate.  

A theology that says something about competition is needed lest we continue walking a vague tightrope between the borders of love and hate, morality and immorality.

When I started to write this blog, I intended it to be focused on particular sorts of competition, namely those which are in controlled environments, but as I reflected a bit more I realized that it was terribly insufficient. My brother and I had a scuffle over ping-pong, but that is quite trivial when compared to global politics.  

What then should be a trajectory-setter for thinking about appropriate competition and appropriate participation?

Could love be the standard for good and bad competition? Oh, but what a lofty standard! How could that ever be practiced in competition? Shall we concede to Ivan Karamazov who says, “It’s possible to love one’s neighbor abstractly, even occasionally from a distance, but hardly ever close up”?

“Love your enemies.” I imagine this probably means something akin to not trampling the other into the ground when such an opportunity arises.   

There are many sides and dimensions to the pervading issue of competition that I have not touched, many of which I have intentionally omitted for lack of space and many of which I have not yet considered. Not least among my omissions is my lack of reference to the canonical witness. Consequently, here I am merely welcoming us to think about competition theologically because there is such a desperate need for us to do so considering we are living in a world so entrenched with competition. It is in the very air we breathe, and we need to be aware of it lest it annihilate any hope of building “ecumenical,” hospitable communities characterized by love.

A few concluding comments are in order to tie together this smattering. First, competition is not inherently good or bad, albeit it may be used for good or ill by those involved. Second, folks who like to think that they have righteously avoided competition should probably reexamine themselves and recognize their potential complicity in bad sorts of competition. Third, something as risky as competition requires a large degree of candid accountability from all sides; no one should be exempt from such accountability.

There is of course much more to say, but this shall suffice for a start, however small a start this may be.

Old People and Big Books

In America we often sweep our parents off to the side and out of the way, lest they slow us down. It seems that we forget that old people have lived life and know a thing or two. We forget that they have already climbed life’s tallest mountains and explored life’s deepest and darkest caves.

In America we like aphoristic books with pretty covers, though they don’t say much of anything. They merely give us equivocal anthems to post on our bathroom mirror or on our status update. There’s no substantial content, just a wisp of ephemeral air tantamount to a fart.

Old people and big books are alike in some ways. They are like treasure chests frequently teeming with wit and wisdom. Unfortunately for us, we in America seem to dislike old people and big books. We prefer young people with enthusiasm, and we prefer thin books with clever titles. Neither young people nor thin books generally have much wisdom to offer.

Old people belong in the mainstream of culture, and big books should be the thrones on which they sit. They should be our philosopher kings, but alas we prefer anarchy as long as the anarchy is shiny, bright, and young.

Of course, I’m being a bit facetious. But this past Sunday after church I had lunch with several older gentlemen from church, and it was fascinating and amusing to hear them talk about all sorts of things not least among their stories were their misadventures in China. Listening to them talk made me think it odd that we younger people don’t do more listening.

In a culture infatuated with prolonging youth, we shouldn’t forget that older folks have stories to tell, and we younger folks may do well to sit and listen.

A Religious Spirituality

In one form or another, people seem hungry, thirsty for something, perhaps an encounter with something/someone perceived as transcendent. People often call this dimension of their lives “spiritual,” and in order to sate this aspect of their existence people search tirelessly for special experiences that they might deem those special experiences “spiritual.” These special experiences seem to be a mystery and a curiosity and an obsession in American churches.

My generation in particular seems to have grown disillusioned with institutional religion and seems to be on a hunt for something, something, something to supplant that tyrant called Christian religion, that empty institution of unspiritual routines. My generation speaks of authenticity and organic relationships and spirituality. We have grown sick of the clownish charades in majestic church buildings.

All this may be well and good, and indeed majestic buildings are unworthy substitutes for the sublimity of God’s presence. But with such words as “authenticity” and “organic,” have we paved roads for sloth and lethargy? We seem to believe that we have supplanted institutional religion for something more real. We seem to believe that we have found what we were looking for. We seem to believe that by rejecting institutional religion we have found the treasure of authentic spirituality. But are we a mob of individualistic milk drinkers believing ourselves to have grown up via so-called authentic experiences? Have we merely put sugar in our milk?

It would seem that we in this adolescent generation would do well to learn habits, granted we might be too lackadaisical for such things (in the name of authenticity!). We would likely do well to learn to bend a knee and bow a head, for we have forgotten reverence having grown narcissistic with our own individual “spirituality.” We would do well to learn the practices of the faith. We would do well to discover the profound reality of the Eucharist. Did we forget about Holy Communion when we supplanted institutional religion? If so, shame on us; it is our loss.

Are we a communion of saints or maundering particles each pretending to be unrelated and self-determinant? Have we fled the spires of institutional religion only to enter tents of capricious spiritual ecstasies? Have we grown nomadic? Have we grown isolated? We speak of community, but by that do we mean facebook?

We may never return to the spiraled cathedrals, or at least we may not return for a while. But in either case, we must not lose our faith. We must no lose completely the practices that we seem to have pretended are merely part of institutional religion. If we forget habit, if we reject routine, if we lose sight of the Eucharist, if we deem tradition an archaic relic of the dusty past all in the name of authenticity, we may find ourselves in a dark room without faith and with only a few tweets proclaiming the value of contemporary authenticity. God forbid that happen.

Squiggles on a Page

Historical events are similar to jots on a page. We can look at them. But if we do not know their meaning or significance, then it’s pointless to spend hours looking at them. Historical events are similar to untranslated letters on a page. When a historian writes a history, she translates those events, and with every translation interpretation is implicit. Actually, this seems to happen when any of us experience life. We translate experiences into languages we can understand, and in the process we do a large degree of interpretation. It goes without saying that there can be poor translations, poor interpretations of life. How then might we discern between an excellent and a weak translation? Continual scrutiny, dialogue, and argument within a community: tradition.

It’s often the case regarding history that we want to know what “actually happened.” We say we want snapshots or perhaps videos of particular historical events. However, that’s likely not what we always really need. It’s sometimes contested that the gospels, for example, are filtered events of some conjurers. The chronology is mashed and inconsistent, events are conflicting, and discourses involve an array of variability etc. Thus, we wish to know what “actually happened” regarding Jesus. However, I doubt we would be satisfied if we saw the pictures from what “actually happened,” just as I would be dissatisfied with my confusion if I looked down at some pages of Arabic not knowing what to make of it, not knowing the significance of the seemingly haphazard squiggles. I need more than those seemingly haphazard squiggles. I need to know their significance.

It’s an ironic thing that with the gospels we have what we need – i.e. an explanation of the significance of Jesus, yet we are dissatisfied because we say we actually don’t want the translated letters; we have grown accustom to saying that we want the untranslated letters that we can’t read. Personally, I would prefer to read those Arabic letters translated into a language I can understand; similarly, I would prefer for historical events to be translated by people who are aware of the significance of those events. But again, even if I were to have walked around with Jesus all those many years ago, I likely would not have understood what on earth I was witnessing (perhaps, see Philosophical Fragments).

Interpretation and the proper lenses to interpret historical events are needed. This, at least in part, seems to be the job of tradition, for it is within tradition that we consider those lenses with scrutiny, dialogue, and even argument. It is thereby within tradition that significance is discerned, and it was the traditions that gave shape to the gospels we have today that provide us with the significance of Jesus. Without those traditions, we would be staring cluelessly at squiggles on a page.

Community: Plumbing the Depths of a Mud Puddle

It would seem that we are each individuals each responsible for our own peccadilloes and other perhaps more severe though private sins. It would seem that we are each unrelated atoms floating about casting dice for our own destinies. I am responsible for me and for no other, and no other is responsible for me.

Since the so-called foundations of “modernism” have begun to crumble or have crumbled (whichever flavor of vague description you prefer), a few things have come to light, namely: I am not an unrelated individual; I am not a manufacturer of my own destiny. The sad though potentially exciting twist is that I share complicity with society’s sins, and society shares complicity with my sins. I do not mean to suggest that each person may evade responsibility by contending that it is the society’s fault for personal sins, but it seems that we do need a more robust understanding of the larger society’s role in relation to particular persons. It would seem then that we need to reevaluate a person’s place in community and the community’s relation to persons. For too long we have treated persons as individual islands, yet no person is an island, no person is an atom unrelated to fellow atoms.

If respective communities share a responsibility for persons in the community and persons in the community share responsibility for the community, then the community needs to make its priority the building of character, lest the community crumble and with it any hope of recourse. The community is indeed responsible for the building of character within the community – a novel thought!

The church then cannot say, “oh look at that terrible sinner!” The church must say instead, “we have failed this person, and now we must come to the aid of this person!” There is no room for the church to evade responsibility for sins, and there is no room for particular persons to evade responsibility for sins. Responsibility goes both ways, and the responsibility to build character then goes both ways – it might be said as a side note, though no less important, that character is both public and “private,” and it is not limited to behaviors in the prayer closet or other "private" spheres of existence.

The Gospel calls people together and in so doing binds them together by the power of the Holy Spirit. The Gospel does not give room for persons to be unrelated to one another, for the Gospel creates community, a community that is not to let its eyelids grow heavy at the crucial moment, a community that is not to deny its partnership with persons from the community. The Gospel creates community that is to be of integrity and cohesion. In the narrative world of the Gospel there is neither space nor time to let individuals be individuals unrelated.

Muddle puddles often seem shallow, but every now and then you might come across a mud puddle that keeps getting deeper and deeper. To plumb the depths of the church’s responsibility to particular persons is similar to plumbing the depths of a mud puddle that at first seemed only a few inches deep but keeps getting deeper and deeper. The church’s responsibility to particular persons runs deep, and the sooner churches acknowledge their responsibility and invest in particular persons the sooner they will be on the road to a Gospel community. The sooner churches make the building of character a priority, the sooner churches will begin clearing the murkiness of the muddle puddle.