By Ronnie McBrayer

A century ago Leo Tolstoy wrote about a greedy farmer in his tale, “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” This farmer never had enough and moved from town to town looking for greener pastures. On his journeys he heard rumors of a distant tribe that possessed more land than anyone could walk over in a year; and it was there for the taking. He went to investigate and found the rumors to be true. The farmer met the tribal chief who informed him that he could in fact have all the land he wanted.
“Pay a thousand rubles and begin walking in a circle,” the chief instructed. Everything within that circle, so long as the circle was completed by sundown, would be his. So early the next morning, the farmer began his acquisition of land. He began running, trying to make as large a circle as possible.
Late in the day the farmer began the desperate return trip. He ran with all his waning strength back to the beginning of his circle. Just as the sun was setting he arrived at where he had begun. The people cheered. Never had anyone acquired so much land in a single day!
In joy they bent down to rouse the farmer from his exhaustion, but he did not stir. He was dead. Tolstoy concludes: “The farmer’s servant picked up a spade, dug a grave, and buried him. Six feet from head to heels was all he needed.”
How much land – you can insert words like “square footage” or “cars in the garage” or “clothes in the closet” or “ gold certificates” here—how much of this do you need? Probably not as much as you think.
It is a lie to believe that having enough money in the bank, obtaining the most property, making the highest return, shaping the most clever fiscal policy, or acquiring the best performing stock will lead to economic safety, security, or peace of mind. Such thinking is a death-spawning run in a circle.
I readily concede that our hearts need something to pursue. To chase after the higher and better, to possess that for which we long and love is a part of our nature. The challenge before us is to seek what is right and best, to seek what will actually fulfill that search and quench the thirst. To do otherwise may cost us more than dollars.
Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit his website at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.

By Ronnie McBrayer

Near Mpumalanga, South Africa, are the marvelous wild fig trees of Echo Caves. Researchers have followed the roots of these trees deep into the earth, the deepest known root system in the world. These trees have survived and thrived in an arid climate for decades, wringing hydration from the deep, rocky soil. This is a lesson for life, as you probably know a person or two not unlike the wild fig trees of Echo Caves.
Their environment is harsh. They have endured the drought of loss, injustice, and suffering. Their circumstances have been oppressive. The soil that life has given them is rocky and hard. Yet, somehow, they thrive. Their roots must be incredibly deep.
But deep into what? Maybe the Apostle Paul gives the best answer in a beautiful first century prayer: “I pray your roots will grow down deep into God’s love and keep you strong.” It seems that those who flourish in the worst of conditions are those who have a connection to God’s goodness and grace, and refuse to blame God for every wrong that life dishes out. They have rooted themselves deeply in his love, rather than in bitterness or resentment.
Granted, bitterness is the easy route, the path of least resistance that sends shallow, malignant offshoots in all directions. Our resentment feels so justifiable, so satisfying, especially when we flip through the catalog of past hurts, regrets, ways we have been mistreated or harmed, and the conniving, unjust treatment inflicted upon us by others.
But bitterness cannot hydrate the soul. It can only poison the water and prevent love and grace from soaking in. If we are going to get on with life and blossom in the desert of our days, it won’t be because we keep going back wishing things could be different, bemoaning how life has been so unfair, or repeating and re-repeating how someone did us wrong. The only way forward is by going deeper, deeper into the love of God.
In the smallest rift, the smallest crevice or opening in the hardness of life, that is enough to find the depth of God’s love and for that love to take root. Yes, it feels like groping along in the dark. It is slow, pulverizing growth, sometimes millimeter by tiny millimeter, but it gives us the life we need, life so much more satisfying than the bitter shallowness that resentment offers.
Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit his website at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.

Ronnie McBrayer

by Ronnie McBrayer

Near Mpumalanga, South Africa, are the marvelous wild fig trees of Echo Caves. Researchers have followed the roots of these trees deep into the earth, the deepest known root system in the world. These trees have survived and thrived in an arid climate for decades, wringing hydration from the deep, rocky soil. This is a lesson for life, as you probably know a person or two not unlike the wild fig trees of Echo Caves.
Their environment is harsh. They have endured the drought of loss, injustice, and suffering. Their circumstances have been oppressive. The soil that life has given them is rocky and hard. Yet, somehow, they thrive. Their roots must be incredibly deep.
But deep into what? Maybe the Apostle Paul gives the best answer in a beautiful first century prayer: “I pray your roots will grow down deep into God’s love and keep you strong.” It seems that those who flourish in the worst of conditions are those who have a connection to God’s goodness and grace, and refuse to blame God for every wrong that life dishes out. They have rooted themselves deeply in his love, rather than in bitterness or resentment.
Granted, bitterness is the easy route, the path of least resistance that sends shallow, malignant offshoots in all directions. Our resentment feels so justifiable, so satisfying, especially when we flip through the catalog of past hurts, regrets, ways we have been mistreated or harmed, and the conniving, unjust treatment inflicted upon us by others.
But bitterness cannot hydrate the soul. It can only poison the water and prevent love and grace from soaking in. If we are going to get on with life and blossom in the desert of our days, it won’t be because we keep going back wishing things could be different, bemoaning how life has been so unfair, or repeating and re-repeating how someone did us wrong. The only way forward is by going deeper, deeper into the love of God.
In the smallest rift, the smallest crevice or opening in the hardness of life, that is enough to find the depth of God’s love and for that love to take root. Yes, it feels like groping along in the dark. It is slow, pulverizing growth, sometimes millimeter by tiny millimeter, but it gives us the life we need, life so much more satisfying than the bitter shallowness that resentment offers.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit his website at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.

Ronnie McBrayer

by Ronnie McBrayer

I’ve made a habit lately of studying the Amish. The Amish (and their cousins the Mennonites, Brethren, and a few other groups) are lovers and active makers of peace. They value simplicity above almost any other thing. They love their families and community, and they have a profound trust in God. This trust, employing a good Amish-German word, is called “Gelassenheit.”
“Gelassenheit” is usually translated as “submission” or “to yield,” but it is so much more. It is a total letting go. It is a relinquishment of the self. It is a “thy will be done” kind of life – not a blind, hopeless fatalism, but a defiant and restful faith in God. One Amish farmer summed up “Gelassenheit” saying, “We don’t pray for rain, but we are thankful to God when the rain arrives.” This perspective gives the Amish a completely different understanding of “the will of God” than most of the Christian universe.
Many of us have been taught that “God’s will” is this magic be-all-end-all, which, if discovered, can end all the angst and indecision of life. So we chase after and fret over what God wants us to do, thinking there will be complete and total disaster if we miss the secret plan he has for us. We twist and writhe in the anguish of our decisions, never feeling good about any choice we make.
Maybe we can take a cue from the Amish and neutralize the mystery of finding and doing God’s will. Maybe we can learn to simply trust God with our life and our circumstances. Maybe, if we keep hitting the wall, we can stop, listen, and trust for a while. Maybe we can learn to yield our own wills, or at least stop using God’s name to sanction our decisions.
Here is the thing the Amish can teach us: Rather than trusting an exact path and direction for your life, just trust God with your life. After all, God is bigger than your plans, stronger than your failures, and never fails to reward those who seek after him. You can find peace by quit trying to figure out what to do for God and simply rely upon God.
Meister Eckhart wrote: “God wants no more from you than you letting go of yourself. Then you can let God be God in you.” If that’s not God’s will, then I don’t know what is.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit his website at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

A few years ago my son Braden and I rescued a frog in our garage. We talked about the frog’s warts, his strong legs, and bulging eyes. After the brief science lesson, we set him free. Braden followed his new friend around the yard for a half hour. He tried to catch it, pet it, and steer it. But the frog wouldn’t oblige.
In frustration Braden lurched forward and crushed the little fellow beneath his foot. I was horrified! I demanded of him, “Why did you do that?” His answer was telling and simple: “Because he wouldn’t listen to me.”
Some of us think that God is a lot like Braden. If you don’t stay one step ahead of him, leaping quickly from his crushing blow, God will maliciously scrub you into the dust. God will eventually catch up to you and squash you for every evil act ever committed, every wrong thought that has crossed your mind, and for every missed Sunday service.
Maybe it stems from an anxious childhood or from bad religious experiences, but we all too often see God for less than he is. We view him as some kind of irritated old school master keeping a ledger of our sins—an Ebenezer Scrooge. Or we think of him as a vindictive bully—a cosmic Simon Cowell—one who only lets the best get by, but only after a severe tongue lashing. Sure, a few will make it through the pearly gates, but God will be none too happy about it.
Or we may imagine God, sitting in a high and mighty palace somewhere, breathing threats and intimidation just waiting for someone to cross the line, to be noncompliant, so he can squash them like a bug. Or frog. Is this who God is? If you believe some religious extremists, certainly this is accurate. But this is not the God revealed to us by the person of Christ. Jesus reveals a God who loves with such passion that he was willing to drive nails into his own flesh to set free those living in darkness.
And by the way, I don’t think Braden will turn out to be an axe murderer after all. Thankfully, a day later our family paused to say grace over our evening meal. When it was Braden’s turn to pray, he bowed and said: “Dear Jesus…I killed a frog.” All was forgiven.
Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit his website at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

Each September since 9/11, when the proper and solemn remembrance ceremonies begin, I am tempted to believe the now faded bumper stickers that read, “We Will Never Forget.” Not true. We will forget. No, those who lived in the cities directly attacked, those who huddled around television sets as bewildered and confused witnesses, and those who buried their loved ones murdered in the attacks will never forget that morning a decade ago.
But those following us will forget. They are not calloused or forgetful. They are simply too young. Most of the students who entered college this fall were in elementary school ten years ago, and many of this generation (including my own children), were even younger or not yet born.
Yes, I want my children (and the generations to come) to remember and reflect upon these events. But I do not want them to cloud their memories with the notion that the “world was changed forever on 9/11,” for it was not. Violence, retaliation, the suffering of the innocent, and the struggle for power have been around for all of human history. 9/11, rather than changing that status quo, was another brutal, heart-rending chapter in the same narrative. To say that 9/11 is the defining, irreversible mark on human history is to give evil and injustice far too much credit; and for followers of Jesus to say such a thing, it is a loss faith.
Whenever Christians gather, they gather to remember, celebrate, and hopefully integrate into their lives a profound event from the past, an event to which the Eucharist and the Creeds point: “Jesus Christ was crucified, dead, and was buried; but on the third day he rose again.” This is the defining event of our past, the memory we will never forget, and the trajectory for our future.
Yes, I will bow and say a prayer for those taken from us a decade ago. I will give thanks for the rescue workers, firefighters, and those who tried to save and serve the hurt and dying. I will ask God to assuage the sorrow of the families and friends left to grieve. But when I am finished praying, I will work for peace; I will seek to overcome evil with good; I will pursue the example of Jesus; and I will teach my children to remember properly. Remember that grace, not hate, will have the final word.
Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit his website at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.

Ronnie McBrayer

by Ronnie McBrayer

As I sit down to write this week’s column, there is a moving truck parked in my driveway. Most of my family’s earthly belongings are already loaded, and we are down to computers, televisions, and mattresses on the floor. We are excited about our new home and energized about the future, but our hearts are fractured a bit as we leave friends and familiarity. One thing, in the midst of all this emotional and transitional upheaval, is certain however: I despise the actual act of moving.

There are boxes to pack, furniture to disassemble, cabinets to clean out, an attic to expunge, and more heavy-lifting than any human being should ever be subjected. I adhere to a wonderful proverb that a Czech friend shared in the midst of these moving days. She said, “In my country we have a saying: ‘The best move is a fire.’”

Moving, of any kind, is hard. We settle into the usual state of affairs, and rarely move/change/grow without somehow being compelled into it. Sometimes the compulsion to move comes to us as a gentle nudge. Sometimes we change our lives because of a major crisis. And sometimes we get knocked off of dead center like a smack to the head – we change, simply because we have no other choice.

The truth is few of us would grow without such pressure. The effort it takes to work through all our stuff is just too back-breaking. Our attics are filled with stowed away anger, resentment, and unforgiveness, kept in mothballs because we cannot bear to let these go. Into the basements of our hearts we have shoved our hate, fear, and distrust. And our cupboards and closets are running over with unresolved regrets, personal disappointments, and the tyranny of “what-might-have-been.”

Pushing the analogy to its limits, the moving truck into your future is not able to hold all of your junk. To move on, all of these stores and stocks have to be dealt with. Yes, we would all prefer a fire. That would be easier. Just start life fresh and clean, without all the boxes, baggage, disassembly and disorder. But a do-over is not one of our options. We must begin with where we are, with who we are, and with what circumstances we have been blessed or cursed, and from there move into the future. It’s not easy, but it is the only way.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit his website at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.

Ronnie McBrayer

by Ronnie McBrayer

When my wife invited me to go with her to the gym I thought it was a good idea. When she informed me that we must rise at 4:30 a.m., and that we would be participating in a cardiac spinning class, I didn’t even blink. How hard could it actually be? I strolled into the gym, my cycling shorts barely able to contain my bravado.

The class was led by a lean, athletic woman with the body fat of a celery stick. She casually introduced herself and set me up on my bike. She made small talk with others and seemed harmless. But when the class began, everything changed. Buoyed by the thumping music, celery girl was transformed into a whirling dervish of torment. She began a pedaling cadence that would have caused a juiced pro cyclist to cringe, and oh how she bellowed and screamed at us. I screamed too—in agony.

I kept up appearances for a while. But ultimately I was reduced to a trembling, light-headed heap, with what felt like burning razor blades in my lungs. The instructor and her little group of cycling fascists, including my wife, disappeared over the spinning horizon. I was in over my head, and I finally admitted it.

The night before my cardiac adventure/disaster I had read the accounts of Simon Peter’s denial of Jesus. Peter, full of bluster and bravado, made bold promises about his abilities in the face of adversity. How hard could it actually be? Peter boasted that he would go to the death if necessary, in his commitment to Christ. But, by the time the sun rose, Peter had been reduced to a whimpering, trembling, and cowardly defector. He renounced the Christ he loved and finally had to admit he was in over his head. Thankfully, after his crucifixion and resurrection, Jesus specifically sought out Peter.Jesus embraced him. Forgave him. The shame and self-disgust were washed away by mercy.

We all fail. We all have moments when the crowd peddles by us. We sit there exhausted, used up, in over our heads. In those moments Christ comes to us, not with criticism, but encouragement. He lets us catch our breath. Then, he puts us back in the saddle. He understands and offers grace best: No one who has ever failed, at faith or at riding a bike, has ever gotten fit by remaining where he fell.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit his website at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.

Ronnie McBrayer

by Ronnie McBrayer

Last week my son asked me a profound theological question: “Why did God make stinging bugs?” Stumped, I told him to talk directly to God about it. Pausing for just a moment to consider my inadequate answer, he countered, “You know I can’t talk to God; I’m not even dead yet!” In my son’s literal but complex eight-year-old mind, prayer does not qualify as “talking to God.” Thus, his many and variegated questions about the mysteries of the universe, the meaning of life, and the purpose of wasps and biting flies, will have to wait.

Truth be told, my son’s conclusion about “talking to God,” and more pertinent, God talking to us, is the conclusion most of us have. God doesn’t really talk to people, does he? And those mystical types who routinely say things like, “God spoke to me” or “I heard God say,” are we to take them seriously, or should they be scheduled for a mental health examination?

God gets blamed for a whole lot of the kookiness in this world, but this aside, I still believe God speaks. Now, I don’t believe God’s instructions ever include harming others, doing evil, or committing violence. Such voices are patently inconsistent with the way and person of Christ. And no, I don’t think God’s voice arrives in our inboxes as an unalterable blueprint for life. Besides, if God did speak that clearly (and maybe he does), most of us would miss it anyway (maybe we have), for it seems God prefers communicating through quiet and stillness rather than through the pyrotechnics of signs and wonders.

It’s summed up by Dan Rather’s magnificent interview of Mother Teresa more than twenty years ago. Paraphrasing, he famously asked her, “What do you say to God when you pray?” She offered him a simple answer, “I don’t say anything. I just listen.” Rather then asked the obvious follow-up question: “Well, what does God say?” Mother Teresa gave Rather that crooked little smile of hers and said, “God doesn’t say anything either. He just listens.”

A great deal of religion, I fear, is built upon the desire for divine fireworks, megaphoned and crystal clear answers, God showing himself in flamboyant and undeniable style. Yet, God only requires the quiet and silent heart to quietly speak. Getting quiet will do more to sharpen one’s perception of God than all the religious gymnastics in the world.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit his website at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

When primitive Christianity first began to take root, it wasn’t known as “Christianity.” The first Christians referred to their movement as “The Way.” The earliest disciples saw themselves, not as part of new religion, but as travelers in the Way of Jesus. This “Way,” consequently, was something active and dynamic, bound to the living Christ. It was not some dead religion seized with rigor mortis. The passing of the centuries, however, has seriously muted this fact.

According to researcher William Hendricks, over a million Christian adults leave the church every year. Many do so “not because the church is too spiritual,” he says, “but because the church is not spiritual enough.” Large swathes of Christianity have traded the untamed vitality of its Founder for something far more domesticated. Somewhere deep within us, we know this is a tragedy. Our spiritual instincts tell us that there is something more, something deeper, more radical and more alive than the safe, sterile, status quo of the religious institution. We know we were born to be wild.

Once, while on a wildlife expedition near Yellowstone, I observed a party of hunters stalking several hundred elk on a game refuge. These animals circled and panicked like proverbial fish in a barrel as the hunters closed in. Finally, one of the big bulls in the herd decided that he had had enough. He stampeded between two of the would-be trophy-takers, the space no wider than a sidewalk, and when he did, the entire herd followed. Hundreds and hundreds of animals ran for daylight, and in minutes, the herd had completely disappeared into the Wyoming woods.

These beautiful animals have lost a good deal of their habitat, but they have not lost their instincts. They still heed the wild and wonderful call of the wilderness, forsaking the false safety of the “refuge” for life with fewer fences. Granted, life in the wild is full of predatory dangers as well; but at least it is life outside of a man-made cage. Jesus, it appears to me, wants us to have this kind of freedom, for he did not come to start a religion. He came to start a spiritual revolution. Jesus did not come to show us how to build cathedrals or ecclesiastical refuges. He came to show us how to live. Jesus did not come to fence us in, but to set us wildly and wonderfully free.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated faith columnist, speaker, and author. His books include “Leaving Religion, Following Jesus” and “The Jesus Tribe.” Visit him at www.ronniemcbrayer.net.