Not as Smart as I Thunked

Facebook memories can be wonderful. A reminder of that beautiful sunset, that great dinner with friends that “we must do again sometime”, or memories of your children in their younger and more ‘innocent’ days. But I’ve always had a tendency to post what I thought was funny, and unfortunately for me, I often find my own mistakes rather hilarious at the time. But then they become memories. And memories come back every year.

And the one pictured above, a text thread with my daughter who had broken her phone screen, has me asking…in a text…if the phone still works. The comedian Bill Engvall has a bit where people ask questions like that, which caused him to come to the conclusion that some people should just wear signs that say, “I’m stupid”. He’d describe the moment and close each joke with what became his catchphrase, “Here’s your sign”. (Worth looking up, they’re pretty funny)

On the one hand, it’s humbling to have to look back and reflect on mistakes like this. The renewed facepalm moment when you can’t believe your brain was that off track. On the other hand, what a great reminder that it is a dangerous thing to trust our own thinking too far. Because we are never as smart as we think we are.

The number of times my son has challenged me on a theological point that I argued hard at first, only later to realize he was at least partly right, has been rough on my ego at times. Or even in my own study, realizing as I grow in knowledge of original languages, cultural context, and my own set of biases I bring to the table, having a moment of realizing I had missed the best part of texts for years without knowing it. Even passages I’ve taught, preached, and read through for years become something brand new. Each one coming in like a demo crew, tearing down something I had built my life around.

One great moment for me was when I led the small groups ministry at the church where I served as a youth pastor, and I was directed by the lead pastor to use a method called “Biblical storytelling”. Simple version: a member of the group comes prepared not to read the text, but to tell it as a story in their own words before everyone reads it together, and breaks down the passage. I argued that this process was fine for narratives like Genesis, but would never be effective in a letter like Philippians. He asked me to try.

So I read through Philippians altogether a few times. I imagined the jail Paul sat in. I imagined him in there at a desk, writing it out. (I know, Paul probably didn’t have a desk, and someone else probably took dictation…but this is my imaginary scene) Nothing shifted early. I was still convinced of my own systematic methods. But then I hit Philippians 3.

Philippians 3:18-19 CSB

For I have often told you, and now say again with tears, that many live as enemies of the cross of Christ.Their end is destruction; their god is their stomach; their glory is in their shame; and they are focused on earthly things

I read the text out loud as I continued to see Paul hunched over that parchment, and two words that I had read a thousand times but that never added to the meaning hit my heart as Paul’s tears smeared the ink on the page. “With tears”

I had read that text for thirty years as an indictment of the unbeliever. A critique of their priorities and declaration of their consequences. But now, Paul’s tears change the story. The enemies of the cross weren’t a cause for scorn, but for grief. Not a condemnation but a revelation of a heart moved by the tragedy of it. Later, I would take special note of 2 Corinthians 5 and Paul’s words that “The love of Christ compelled them” toward the life’s work of reconciliation between God and man in Christ.

That day, with my own tears on the desk where I sat, Bill could have handed me my sign. I was not as smart as I thought I was.

I continue to see in my own walk with the Lord that a posture that’s a little less certain is a much nicer place to be. Interestingly enough, the less certain I’ve been about my own perspective, the more certain of Christ I’ve become. The more confident in my faith, the more comfortable engaging in the conversations that lead people to curiosity about Him.

So today, I suppose I’m thankful for the fresh reminder of my own limitations. I’m thankful that I know I know less than I think I know. But even more, I’m thankful that I know Jesus, and He knows enough for both of us.