Try the Real Egg

This is an apology. I want to say that I am sorry - not just for me but on behalf of all my brothers and sisters – I am sorry that we have too often called the worst out of you.

What I mean is this: I seriously believe that you – and by you I mean you, as long as you’re a human being (and if you’re not and you’re reading this then fair play!) – I believe that you are wonderful. And I mean wonderful in the most literal sense: you are a wonder, you are something beautiful, something breath-taking, you are capable of doing profound and spectacular things way beyond everything they tell you in the stupid assemblies or the self-help books, way beyond anything you yourself could possibly hope for. I believe that you are not incidental or unimportant, that you are not unlovable but that in fact you are loved – right now you are loved beyond your wildest dreams. I believe that you are a creation of unparalleled potential and of infinite significance.

So firstly, I want to apologise, if you actually know me, for how often I forget that. For all the times when I don’t treat you how I would if I realised just how genuinely wonderful you are.

But secondly I want to apologise for myself, and for a lot of other Christians that you might have come across, for, like I said, calling the worst out of you. We have a tendency to start – whether it’s in a ‘talk’ or just a conversation about God – by talking about how sinful we all are, by trying to draw your attention to the worst parts of yourself so that you will see that you need forgiveness.

Now I’m not actually disagreeing with any of that – but I do apologise for giving the impression that we don’t actually like you. We do. Or the impression that we think we’re better than you. We’re not. What I realised the other day, is that much too often I’ve tried to shrink people so that God will look bigger. I’ve tried to make someone see the bad in themselves so that God will look better. And I realise now that God doesn’t need my help to be bigger or better.

Let me digress to an interesting fact and a cool little story…

An Interesting Fact:
Someone old once told me that in the war people used to eat powdered egg. It’s nothing on the real thing but it did the job. But they said there were some kids at the end of the war who had grown up on the stuff – who’d always eaten powdered egg – and when they were offered actual real life eggs they would say ‘Ugh no thanks! That looks weird, the powdered stuff is just fine for me!’ Because that was all they’d ever known and they were perfectly happy with it.

A Cool Little Story:

Don Miller tells a story about his mate Jason.* At some point Jason told Don that he was really worried about his daughter. They had found drugs in her room the other week, and she was dating a guy who smelt like smoke and only ever spoke in one word answers: “Yeah,” “No,” “Whatever,” and “Why?” She really wasn’t happy. And they’d tried grounding her, and forbidding her to see this guy but nothing worked, it just made things worse. And Don Miller said, “She seems to be living a terrible story.” Jason asked what he meant, and Don explained the idea that everyone basically lives as a character in a story. We like stories because that’s how our lives make sense – and we all understand ourselves in a certain role in a certain story, even if we don’t think of it like that. He talked about how good stories, stories that felt meaningful to read or to watch, all have certain elements. The character wants something, and overcomes conflict to get it. In better stories they have to take bigger risks, and in the best stories the thing they desire, what they’re aiming for, is something selfless – they sacrifice themselves out of love for somebody, or to change the world in some way.

Anyway, they chatted about this for a while and parted ways, and Don didn’t think much about it until he saw Jason again a couple of months later. Don asked how his daughter was and he said, “She’s better”, and he smiled. He said his family were living a better story now. He couldn’t sleep the night after that conversation and he’d thought a lot about what Don had said. He realised that his daughter wasn’t a bad kid, but we all need a story, and she’d taken the only story that was offered to her. Jason realised he hadn’t provided a better story for the family, a better role for her, and in that absence she had chosen a story in which there was risk and adventure, rebellion and independence – a role where she was wanted, even if she was only being used. So Jason decided to stop shouting at his daughter and, instead, to create a better story to invite her into. He did some research and ended up looking into an organisation that builds orphanages around the world. It sounded like a good ambition, something the family could try to do together. So he called the charity, and found out how much it cost to build one of these orphanages. And they didn’t have the money – they’d just taken out a second mortgage anyway – but he knew that a good story had to involve risk.

So he called a family meeting. He told his wife and daughter about this village in Mexico, and the orphanage, and all the terrible things that could happen if the kids didn’t get an orphanage. And he told them he’d agreed to build it.

They just stared at him as if he’d gone crazy. He said, “My daughter, her eyes were as big as melons and she wasn’t happy. She knew this would mean she’d have to give up her allowance and who knows what else.” She went up to her room without saying anything and didn’t speak to him all day. She was angry for a while.

But then a few days later, she came into her parents’ bedroom, and asked if they could go to Mexico. He said, “she crawled between us in the bed like she did when she was little. She said she could talk about the orphanage on her web site and maybe people could help. She could post pictures. She wanted to go to Mexico to meet the kids and take pictures.”

Then Jason said, “You know what else? She broke up with her boyfriend last week. She had his picture on her wall and she took it down and told me he said that she was too fat. Can you believe that? He told her she was too fat! But that’s done now. No girl who plays the role of a hero dates a guy who uses her. She knows who she is. She just forgot for a little while.”

***

OK, where were we?

I was trying to say, God doesn’t need my help to be bigger and better. The more I get to know what Jesus is like I more I think – Wow, he is incredible. He is so kind, so surprising, and honest and humble and powerful, his life is amazing - he is ridiculously good. And I think – I’m nothing like that. I’m pretty normal, I’m quite pleasant, but I’m nothing like that, and I want to be more like that. I want to be part of what he’s doing, part of his family, his purpose, his team, but I’m about as qualified for that as I am to be at the Olympics. But he invites me onto the team anyway. Which is cool.

When Jesus was walking around he didn’t have to tell people much that they were small. They met him, they saw him live, and they knew it already. They looked at who they were, and realised that even though it had seemed fine before, really it was powdered egg. They were doing their best, things were alright, they were happy enough. Why would they want anything different? But then Jesus comes along and offers them the real thing. And they take one bite, and they never want to see egg powder again.

When I really discovered Jesus for myself it was like that – it was like God pointed at who I was and what I was doing and said, “Mate, you know that’s just the powdered stuff, right? Have you tried a real omelette?” And all I can say is, the omelette blew my mind. You should try it.

And so I want to stop calling the worst out of you, trying to make you look at all the bad stuff in you - to be honest I’ve got enough of my own to be getting on with. Instead, I want to tell you that God is offering you something so much bigger, so much more real, so much more meaningful than even the best bits of ‘normal life’. He’s offering you a role in a massive, beautiful story. He’s offering you your role, in the story. He’s whispering to you:

“My friend, you have no idea just how much I meant you for, you have no idea who you are capable of becoming. You have no idea just how wonderful you were made to be. Do you want to find out?”

*This is in A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, which I would thoroughly recommend.

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