For instance, the other day a driver was tailgating me. “Can you believe that guy is riding my bumper like that?” I said to my wife, who was riding in the passenger seat.

“The guy is rude!” I exclaimed.

Annoyed, I tapped on my brakes. Not enough to slow my movement, but enough to get the driver off my tail.

He got the message, flashed his lights, flipped me off AND moved closer to my bumper.

Because I have little patience for rude and dangerous drivers, I slowed down. As we crawled along I smiled, knowing my passive aggressive driving would serve as a painful punishment for the guy behind me.

A few minutes later I pulled into the church parking lot, with the tailing car behind me. We parked on opposites sides of the lot.

My wife was not a happy passenger and asked me how I could get mad at someone else for driving rudely, when I did the same thing myself.

I had a single word for her comment, “Ouch!”

Of course, I’m not writing about rude drivers. I’m writing about how I can judge someone else for the very thing I do myself. The driving example is just one instance of how I’m hypocritical. Hypocrisy is one of those sins most of us can spot in others without seeing it in ourselves. It’s like bad breath. If somebody else has it you want to keep your distance. But nobody can tell if their own breath is sweet or sour. We’ve all got areas of inconsistency or outright sin that we can’t see in ourselves. That’s why our family and friends need to feel safe pointing them out to us.

If we don’t welcome constructive criticism from others, we run the risk of becoming as inauthentic as a plastic pearl. The religious leaders of Jesus’ day had developed an elaborate system of rituals (masks) that enabled them to appear better on the outside than they were on the inside. Over time they convinced themselves they were truly righteous people since they so diligently obeyed all of their man-made rules. They made it their job to judge and condemn others for the very sins they unknowingly committed.

Jesus unleashed his harshest words on them because they professed a high ethic but didn’t put it into practice. He told them, “You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of dead men’s bones and everything unclean. In the same way, on the outside you appear to people as righteous but on the inside you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness.” (Matthew 23:27-28).

The next time you look in a mirror, take a moment and ask yourself, “Do I have weaknesses others can see that I can’t or won’t face. Weaknesses I pretend are absent or under control? Am I the kind of person my family and friends feel safe correcting? Or am I so defensive others are afraid to point out my flaws?”

If after gazing at your image you’re not sure, ask your spouse or a friend, “Do you see weaknesses in my character that you don’t think I know about?” Becoming like Jesus demands we seek to be the same on the inside as we appear on the outside. Achieving such character isn’t a solo act; it requires the support of family and friends. While the process may be painful, it’s worth it.

Just the other day someone was tailgating me and instead of tapping on my breaks or verbally venting, I asked myself what would Jesus, feel, think, say and do in that situation. I then prayed God would bring my life into alignment with his. Amazingly, connecting with Christ this way helped me maintain my cool.

After Jesus healed the man, he begged to travel with Jesus. No wonder! What better way to show his appreciation than to be a part of Jesus’ support team? And what a powerful impact his story would have on others who were investigating the claims of Jesus!

But God had a different plan. Jesus told him to go home. Obviously from that man’s perspective he was missing out on the action. He may very well have felt that Jesus had just sent him away with a poor Plan B. Yet Luke tells us that this man who had been given a new lease on life “went away and told all over town how much Jesus had done for him” (Luke 8:39).

Like that liberated man, you too may want to enter a new field that looks greener. But could it be that God has you where he wants you? Maybe the issue isn’t finding a greener field, but finding contentment where you are. How? Paul said true joy and lasting contentment comes from one source: Jesus Christ (Philippians 4:12-13).

I looked out my window the other day and noticed that a
giant tree had fallen to the ground. At one time the old growth tree had
towered over 150-feet into the air. It was bigger at the base than two men with
outstretched arms could reach around. Decades ago its top had been hit by
lightning and snapped off, leaving a snaggle tooth tip that pointed to the
heavens.

I met the tree the first time I entered our home eleven years ago. The house rests on the side of a steep ridge in the Pacific Northwest. Just on the other side of the V shaped slopes stood the old man, like a prehistoric sentry, too old and tired to nurture branches and needles. Its dead limbs served as perches for eagles, turkey vultures, woodpeckers and
sparrows. Squirrels occupied the tiny rooms just inside the open wounds that
marred and scarred its side.

Of course, I knew nothing of the birds and critters that
made it their residence. I only knew I was witnessing a wonder of God’s
creation. This magnificent tree stole the scene so completely that
everything around it faded away like a picture frame housing a Picasso.

Since that time I’ve spent hours enjoying the wonder of that
tree. To the left of my desk is a large window that offers a view of the ravine. Beside me sits a pair of binoculars. With them I’ve watched squirrels chase each other around its giant trunk. I’ve seen pileated woodpeckers hammer away on its bark. In the summer I’ve watched turkey vultures, resting on its highest point with outstretched wings, soak in the sunshine.

I’ve seen it withstand howling wind and driving rain. In the
winter I’ve seen it dressed as an inverted icicle after a coating of ice. Storms have raged against it, but it has stood tall. It has remained sturdy through it all . . . a constant over the years.

Last summer my two grandchildren and I hiked down the steep
ridge to visit the tree. Standing at its massive trunk, looking up into the air
for what seemed like forever, all three of us let out the only word we could
find: “Wow!”

The kids knew the tree was big. But viewing it through a  window or from our deck couldn’t showcase its massive size like standing beside it.

Two weeks ago one of my sons mentioned that the Old Tree was
leaning. “Have you noticed, Dad?”

I walked to the window and inspected it from there. Then I
checked it out from a few other windows. It did seem to be leaning. Or, had it
been leaning all along? If I had compared with pictures taken over the years, I
would have seen that not too long ago it stood straight. I didn’t because I  just assumed a 200-year-old tree wouldn’t fall in my lifetime.

A few days ago, early in the morning, I looked out the
window by my desk. I silently tilted my head. Something was different. Something was missing. And then I saw it, like a picture erased from its canvas, leaving only the frame, the forest looked empty, naked. The Old Tree had disappeared—fallen to the ground, probably while I slept.

Initially, I didn’t believe what my eyes were telling me.
Had it really fallen? Even now, I lean back in my chair and look out the window. What once captured my eyes and entertained me, no longer stands.

Later that day I climbed down the steep ridge to see the Old
Tree’s body. It had fallen with force, taking with it trees and branches and
anything else that tried to soften its landing.

The snaggle top of the tree and everything thirty feet below, shattered when it hit the ground. The explosive power of the impact hurled bark and rotten wood away like shrapnel from a grenade. The remaining fifty feet of the trunk rested where it fell—across a small stream whose water could barely squeeze under the behemoth.

One thing I know for sure, it did not fall and land as
silently as it had stood. But I have other questions.

Did the sleeping squirrels wake as it tilted? Did they
scamper to safety before it glided through the air? What of the birds that
dozed within its walls?

If I had known it would fall while I lived, I would have visited
it more often and taken more pictures. I would have showcased its height by
capturing its image from the ground looking up. I would have saved forever an
image of the vertical furrows making its bark like a patriarch’s face, wrinkled
and worn.

Had I known it would fall, I would have stood sentry watching
so I could be with it in its final moments of glory. I would have been there to
see gravity bring the tower to the tipping point, to hear the final strands of wood
tethering it to the ground suddenly snap. And I would have watched in disbelief
as it did what it had never done in more than a human lifetime.

A crashing roar surely accompanied the fall as it raced, with deadly force, through trees and tree branches, followed by a
ground-jarring blast, momentarily sucking all sound from the air. And the groaning earth falling dirt particle twigs and branches and the excited screeches of jays screaming in confusion—because the Great Tree had fallen.

As I said goodbye to my old friend, standing by its side, I recalled the words of Solomon:  “If clouds are full of water, they pour rain on the earth. Whether a tree falls to the south or the north, in the place where it falls, there it will lie” (Ecclesiastes 11:3).

Author, Joe Posnanski, who is writing a book about Paterno, has talked with hundreds of people about him and read 25-30 books that detail his life. He notes that Paterno is complicated but concludes: “Joe Paterno has lived a profoundly decent life.”¹ He writes, “Joe Paterno has lived a whole life. He has improved the lives of countless people. I know–I’ve talked to hundreds of them. Almost every day I walk by the library that he and his wife, Sue, built. I walk by the religious center that tries to bring people together, and his name is on the list of major donors. I hear the stories, the countless stories, of the kindnesses that came naturally to him, of the way he stuck with people in their worst moments, of the belief he had that everybody could do a little bit better–as a football player, as a student, as a human being. I’m not going to tell you these stories now, because you can’t hear them. Nobody can hear them in the howling.”

Of course, the greatest tragedy of this horrific story, isn’t Paterno’s fall from grace, it’s the lives of young boys who have been forever scarred … whose souls have been corrupted … whose minds carry memories worse than any nightmare and more lingering. Many of these boys would have been spared if the ever devout coach had done the right thing right away upon hearing about it … and who knows for sure when he first knew. The time line goes back to the first reported victim in 1994.² We do know that on March 2, 2002 a graduate assistant visited Coach Paterno at his home and reported what he had seen the day before in the locker room. That is the day Paterno should have used his whistle to summon the police. Because he didn’t, how many more boys were raped?

And so I return to the coach’s fall from grace. In the second paragraph above I noted some of his accomplishments. Of course, he’s done much more good than could be listed in so few words. Books have been written about the man. But all those accomplishments will serve as the sub-plot to his life. The light will not shine on his face revealing the details. It will shine from behind allowing us to only see a dark silhouette. The 84 year old coach will be remembered for the decade he valued his tenure and Penn State’s reputation above the welfare of a boy … many boys.

As I considered this tragedy, I remembered the words of Solomon. In Ecclesiastes 10:1 he wrote, “As dead flies give perfume a bad smell, so a little folly outweighs wisdom and honor.” It takes wisdom to build a great football program over a half-a-century. Nobody else has done it. I suspect nobody will do it again. Until a little over a week ago Joe Paterno’s life had the perfumed fragrance of greatness. Now it stinks. And once the flies of folly have ruined the perfume, there is no pulling them out and restoring what was.

“When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: ‘If you live each day as if it was your last, some day you’ll most certainly be right.’ It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “no” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything – all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”

Last week, after battling cancer for seven years, Steve Jobs died. One day you and I will also die. Considering this reality isn’t morbid. Indeed, it can add meaning to our lives, as it did for Jobs. In Ecclesiastes 7:1, Solomon said, “The day of death is better than the day of birth.”

Initially his words confused me. But as I contemplated their meaning I realized one way they are true. The day of birth is always filled with unrealistic hopes for the future. When an infant fills his lungs with air and lets out that first primal scream his act doesn’t trigger any deep thoughts in those present. They may celebrate, but they won’t contemplate.  We’re too filled with happiness and dreams about the new life that just entered the world.

The day of death however is better than the day of birth because it forces us to think deeply about our own demise. As I age I sense the window of life closing. Statistically speaking, I’m running out of time. And nothing makes me realize how little time I have left than for someone I don’t even know, like Steve Jobs, to die. The reality of my own mortality is driven home more deeply and with stronger feeling when someone I know and love dies–like my friend Glenn Rose who died unexpectedly in October, 2008. We had made a trip to New York earlier that year. And now he’s gone.

One question I consider as I reflect on my future death is this: Who am I living for? Am I living for people I don’t even know? People who won’t miss me when I’m gone? Am I living for success? Or, wealth? I believe I want to live my life for God. But I also want to live it for those who love me, those who will cry when my body is planted in the ground–or cremated and my ashes are tossed into the wind–dust particles to one day be captured by God and again breathed to life.

Yes, I want to live for my wife, three sons and two grandchildren. I want to live for my friends who will weep when I die and whose death will release my tears. And I want my life to please God.

Tapping blue jays are any distractions that draw us away from what
we should be doing. For me, it’s the tendency to take the path of least
resistance. Though some people regard me as highly motivated and disciplined, I
realize such a perception is based on the part of me they see. I know there’s
another part they can’t see … a part I don’t want them to see. It’s the part
of me that puts off doing things I don’t like to do until the last minute. It’s
the part that avoids things I don’t like to do, even when there is a price to
be paid for inaction.

Cindy observed this trait during the first few months of our marriage, while students at the University of Texas. After I had dropped a Greek class for the third time, she called me on it. I gave some lame excuse about getting behind because I was sick, but she saw through my cover-up and  said, “The truth is, you’re a lazy bum.”

Looking back, I think she was partially right. I’m not a bum, but I can be lazy–especially when it comes to my spiritual life. Though I’m fairly consistent in the disciplines of prayer, Bible reading, and Scripture memorization, there’s another side that resists any work involved in knowing Christ better. By that I mean taking what I learn from the Bible and diligently applying it to my life.

I’m painfully aware the religious leaders who opposed Jesus were
well versed in the Old Testament. They took pride in their highly disciplined
religious lives. But they didn’t know God and hadn’t integrated into their
lives what they knew from the Scriptures. One of my fears as I approached The
Jesus Experiment was that my laziness would prevail–that after I started, I would prove to be unwilling to cast aside the delays and distractions, and do the daily work necessary to achieve the desired results.

Breaking Down Barriers

The point of this discussion isn’t to identify all the potential barriers to The Jesus Experiment. It’s to discover how to break them down, whatever they may be for you. For me, it took remembering how I had overcome laziness in the past.

For years, I avoided going to the gym and working out. By the time
I reached my early thirties, I was in such bad shape that I could hardly bend
over and touch my toes. Years of physical abuse from sports had taken a toll.
Forced to choose between further deterioration or getting in shape, I decided
to meet with my friend Lance Coffel, owner of the River’s Edge Athletic Club.

“I want to get in shape,” I told him.

“How committed are you?”

“Totally,” I said with all the resolve of an army
recruit.

“How much time will you give me?”

I stood tall, puffed out my chest, and said with confidence,
“Fifteen minutes, two days a week.”

Lance smiled and shook his head in disbelief. He then spent the next hour bringing every muscle in my body, including several I didn’t know existed, to the point of total fatigue. When I finally shambled out to my car, my hands were shaking so badly I could hardly get the key into the slot to open the door.

For the next week, my entire body scolded me for abusing it. When the pain finally departed, I realized I faced two options: I would either remain in terrible shape or I would get in shape by committing to working out thirty minutes, three days a week. The first option didn’t sound so good, so I chose the better option. And something unexpected happened–as I worked out, I saw the benefits, and that made me want to work out more. So I upped my workouts to 45 minutes, then an hour. A while later, I added one more day a week to my workout routine. Decades have passed and I’ve stuck with it.

The pain it took to overcome my laziness illustrates the psychological law of gravity: A person will continue down a path of destructive behavior until the pain of continuing exceeds the pain of changing.

My suffering body convinced me I needed to get in shape. Knowing that not getting in shape was a worse option, I overcame the laziness that had anchored my will and kept me from moving forward.

As I thought about The Jesus Experiment, I heard the tapping blue jays reminding me it would require a level of spiritual effort I’ve often avoided. However, I was at a place in my spiritual journey similar to the day when Lance gave me that first workout. Not that I was out of shape, necessarily. But I didn’t want to stay in the same place, because it wasn’t satisfying–it was more painful to remain stagnant than to move forward. I
wanted to press on. I wanted to get closer to God and become more like Jesus. I
wanted to know the joy of God’s transforming work in my life. So I decided I would no longer be held back by tapping blue jays or my resistance to invest the effort needed to live The Jesus Experiment. I was all in.

From my upcoming book “The Jesus Experiment.

And then I asked myself: In what ways do I want to be like Christ?

That’s when it dawned on me that if I want to be like Jesus, I need to feel, think, speak, and act like him–as a devoted disciple. It’s not that I want to change my personality or become another person. Instead, I want my feelings, thoughts, words, and deeds to be so guided by him that I experience the abundant life he offers.

We see the concept of discipleship in other relationships. For instance, all three of my sons are writers. From their youth, I’ve coached them and edited their work. Each one is currently writing a book. When they send me pages to read, nothing encourages me more than to see how they’ve grown as writers. I often recognize myself in their word choices, the cadence of their prose, and their humor–or attempts at humor. I am their teacher and they are my disciples. As writers, they want to be like me, while developing their own voice.

As disciples of Jesus, we want to be like him. We want his life and teaching to shape us so our lives reflect his. We want others to hear in our words and see in our deeds the life of our Teacher and Lord. To facilitate that kind of life, we need something that will enable us to put into practice what we know and are learning about Jesus.

Yet we always face the same, shadowy opposing force: Fear.

Fear

Before I began writing The Jesus Experiment, it was only an idea. I had nothing to fear because it required nothing of me. I could sit around my office, pondering the concepts and stories. But when I decided to write the book, I realized I would first have to live the experiment. There would be no room for philosophical musings. I would have to set up the lab, run the test, and evaluate the results … in my own life.

What if it doesn’t work? What if I don’t complete it? What if I fail? What if Jesus’ claim fails?

I had never had second thoughts about writing a book. It reminded me of my desire to bungee jump. I’ve openly told friends, family members, and readers of one of my books that I’d like to leap from a bridge and experience the exhilaration of free-falling fast and far and then feel the bungee cord slow my descent before it launched me up with even greater velocity. Just the thought triggers a mild adrenaline rush. But knowing I want to bungee jump doesn’t scare me. Not until a friend actually takes up my offer to go bungee jumping, and we set a date, will I be afraid and have second thoughts.

Part of the reason The Jesus Experiment concerned me is because I knew it would quickly expose how unlike Jesus I am. Though I desire to be more like Christ, my human tendency to remain stuck is strong. Like everyone else, I’m comfortable with the status quo. I have attitudes, habits, and ways of speaking and acting that give me pleasure and calm my nerves–almost like pacifiers–and I don’t want to let go. My fear of rejection and shame prevent me from going into more detail here, and it’s this tendency to cover up that reminds me, even as I write these words, that I am still very much unlike Jesus.

But that doesn’t mean The Jesus Experiment wouldn’t work. It only means I have to confront my fears and remind myself of Jesus’ promise to give abundant life. If you’re feeling similarly apprehensive, I understand; but don’t let that hold you back. Let’s face it, becoming like Christ is a lifelong pursuit, and something we won’t fully attain until he appears and we see him as he is (1 John 3:2). But in the meantime, we can be moving in the right direction, and God can accomplish powerful, transformative change in our lives. It all starts with a simple desire to become more like Jesus, and a willingness to live the experiment.

From The Jesus Experiment due release in October, 2011.

On another occasion the oxen carrying the ark of God stumbled and a man irreverently reached out to stabilize the ark. Immediately, God struck him dead (2 Samuel 6:6-7). Such a violent punishment leveled against an unintentional act of disrespect makes it seem like reaching out to God is about as smart as placing your hand on the face of a red-hot iron.

Apart from those stories people have also gotten the mistaken idea that all sorts of religious hoops have to be jumped through to get to God.

As I consider such a seemingly ruthless and vicious God, I remember something that puts it all in perspective … something that lays to rest the idea that God is unapproachable. Normally, this is the kind of thought I’d have in December, not July. But here it is July as I contemplate God resting in a manger, in a stable, in Bethlehem some 2,000 years ago. Who could be more approachable than an infant? Who could be less of a threat than a swaddled child with his hands secured at his side? Who invites affection and love more than a newborn child?

You see, don’t you? God could have entered the world in the body of a creature like King Kong. But he visited us as a baby because he wanted us to know he is approachable.

It’s understandable to think we could no more emulate Jesus than we could copy Superman. We might shadow Clark Kent up a flight of stairs, but we’re not going to follow the Man of Steel off a tall building. Likewise, I suspect most people figure they could at least try to imitate Jesus when he operated from his human nature, but no way could they follow his lead when he relied on his divine nature.

Such thinking is based on the belief that Jesus flipped from one nature to the other, like a divine Transformer. While weeping at the grave of Lazarus, he utilized his human nature. When raising Lazarus from the dead, he acted from his divine nature. He taught from his human side and walked on water from his divine side.

I think such a view is inaccurate. At no time during his earthly ministry did Jesus tap into his divine power to know or do anything.^[i] Instead, he always operated out of his humanity.

I’ve heard Bible scholars say Jesus performed miracles to prove he was God. However, the Bible doesn’t tell us that. In fact, in the Old Testament, Moses, Elijah, and Elisha performed miracles; and in the New Testament, Paul and Peter also performed miracles. None of these men claimed to be God, nor did they claim to be the source of their miraculous power. Instead, their miracles validated their claim they spoke for God. And though Jesus did claim to be God (John 10:30-33), he never claimed the power he used to perform miracles came from himself.

Paul makes it clear that, although Jesus was fully God, he laid aside all use of his divine attributes when he became a man (see Philippians 2:5-8). Paul doesn’t say Jesus laid aside his divinity; only that he laid aside the use of his divine attributes. God cannot cease being God, but he can waive the use of his divine rights.

For example, we could choose to relinquish our ability to see by keeping our eyes closed. We’d still possess vision, but we wouldn’t be using it. That’s what Jesus did with his divine attributes.

Throughout his ministry, Jesus affirmed the source of his strength. In John 5:19-20, he declares his reliance on God the Father: “Very truly I tell you, the Son can do nothing by himself; he can do only what he sees his Father doing, because whatever the Father does the Son also does. For the Father loves the Son and shows him all he does. Yes, and he will show him even greater works than these, so that you will be amazed” (niv).

In John 5:30, Jesus says, “By myself I can do nothing” (niv). In John 14:9, he tells Philip, “Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father” (niv, nlt). In Matthew 24:36, he shows a human limitation of knowledge when he says he doesn’t know the time of his return. Later, he notes that he could ask his Father to send twelve legions of angels to his aid, rather than commanding them himself (Matthew 26:53).

After Jesus’ death and resurrection, on the Day of Pentecost, Peter spoke of the source of Jesus’ power when he said, “Fellow Israelites, listen to this: Jesus of Nazareth was a man accredited by God to you by miracles, wonders, and signs, which God did among you through him, as you yourselves know” (Acts 2:22, niv, emphasis added).^[ii]

This is a poignant truth. Why? Because the same resources that enabled Jesus to live a life devoted to God are available to you and me. As Jesus abided in the Father, so can we abide in Jesus. The Lord promised this when he said, “Whoever believes in me will do the works I have been doing, and they will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father” (John 14:12). (from The Jesus Experiment due release this October)

Motivational speaker, Zig Zigler likes to point out that the largest and most powerful locomotive in the world can be held in place by a one-inch block of wood. Placed in front of the eight drive wheels of the locomotive, the block will hold it motionless. Yet that same locomotive, with a full head of steam, can crash through a steel-reinforced concrete wall that is five feet thick.

Zigler concludes that the “action habit can do the same thing for us!” If there is one thing everyone needs, it’s the discipline required to develop the right kind of habits … habits that will enable us to live with consistency and diligence.

The Apostle Paul understood the importance of discipline when he said, “Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like someone running aimlessly; I do not fight like a boxer beating the air. No, I strike a blow to my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize” (1Corinthians 9:24-27).

Every effective leaders knows the power of personal discipline. As followers of Christ our spiritual lives form the core of our character. We’re to be like a runner or a boxer. A runner doesn’t stagger from one lane to another. He rivets his attention on the finish line and runs a disciplined race toward it. A boxer trains himself so he can absorb powerful blows without falling down. Similarly, Paul trained like a world-class athlete. Why? Because he wanted to have the self-control to finish the race.

If you want to be an effective leader, identify the habits you need to build into your life so you can lead with diligence. Knock the blocks out from under your wheels and get going. Disciplined habits will give you the momentum you need to not only move forward, but to get past the barriers you’ll encounter along the way.