Maturation

At the 34-year mark of his marriage, Tim Keller shared the following insight about his marriage:

Neither my wife nor I are particularly gender-stereotyped. Yet you get into marriage, and you find you see the world differently, and you see each other differently. She sees things in me I would never see. But she sees because she’s a different gender and she’s in close, and I see things in her, and I see things in the world.

After 34 years of conflict, of arguing, of head-butting, now every single day when I get out into the world and things happen to me, I have a split second to react. What am I going to say? What am I going to do? What am I going to think? For years, even halfway through my marriage, I only thought like a man, but now, after years and years of head-butting, here’s what happens.

Something happens, and for a split second, I not only know what I would do, what I would think, how I would respond, but I know how Kathy would think, and I know what Kathy would do. For a split second, because it’s so instilled in me, I have a choice. Which of these approaches would probably work better? You see, my wisdom portfolio has been permanently diversified. I’m a different person, and yet I’m me. I haven’t become more feminine. In fact, probably in many ways I’ve become more masculine as time has gone on.

What’s going on? She came into my life, and now I know who I am. I’ve become who I’m supposed to be only through the head-butting, only through having a person who’s like me, not me, opposite to me, in close.

Over time, your personality can change — in big ways. But psychologists didn’t always think this to be true. While one’s personality might subtly shift at the periphery, scientists considered it to be largely fixed.

But long-term studies measuring movements in peoples’ “big five” personality traits changed psychologists’ minds. As people grew older, these core characteristics shifted. The big five traits are:

(1) Conscientiousness (how impulsive, organized, and disciplined someone is)

(2) Agreeableness (how trusting and caring they are)

(3) Extraversion (whether a person seeks social interaction)

(4) Openness to experience (someone’s desire for routine)

(5) Neuroticism (a person’s overall emotional stability)

But what triggers these personality changes? Researchers focused on ten life events most likely to alter someone’s personality: (1) A new relationship, (2) Marriage, (3) Birth of a child, (4) Separation, (5) Divorce, (6) Widowhood, (7) Graduation, (8) One’s first job, (9) Unemployment, and (10) Retirement.

Of these 10, researchers found that graduation, one’s first job, a new relationship, marriage, and divorce were linked to the greatest personality changes.

Studies have revealed that our personalities often “improve” with age. In what psychologists have dubbed “the maturity principle,” people tend to grow more extraverted, agreeable, and conscientious as they grow older, and less neurotic. The transformation is gradual, essentially unnoticeable to the individual. But after many years, almost everyone can reflect on their past selves and be amazed at the differences.

Possible Preaching Angle:

1) Christlikeness – We can also add to the “life changing events” Salvation, Persecution as a Christian, and Life-threatening illness. These events can also be used by God to refine us and bring us into conformity with the likeness of his Son. 2) Fallen Nature – Of course, we shouldn’t overlook the fact that these same “life changing events” can cause some people to grow bitter, disappointed, and angry. Life changing events have a way of revealing what is truly in our heart.

Do you ever find yourself reminiscing over your favorite childhood toys or memories? A new survey reveals that four in five Americans may be “kidults”—still looking up their childhood favorites for nostalgia.

The poll of 2,000 American Gen Zers and Millennials found that, if given the opportunity, 67 percent would try to buy a replica of something from their childhood and 76 percent feel a sense of nostalgia in the process. This comes as two in three (65%) adults realize they can now buy things for themselves that their parents would never let them have or couldn’t buy for them as a kid.

Commissioned by MGA’s Miniverse, the study found 59 percent of people consider themselves kidults—adults who hold onto their childhood spirit through consumer products like video games, toys, books, movies, fashion, and so on.

Isaac Larian at MGA Entertainment said,

Embracing nostalgia is a big part of being a ‘kidult.’ That feeling gives us the ability to hold onto the imagination and creativity we often associate with childhood. In many ways, holding onto toys and collectibles from our past is both liberating and entertaining, and miniature versions of them makes this experience more accessible. ... (Having) mini toys on display is a constant reminder of being a kid at heart.

Possible Preaching Angle:

It can be enjoyable to relive childish memories and even collect childhood toys. But it can also become a snare for some who never grow to maturity, especially spiritually. Some are content to remain a spiritual babe and never grow to adulthood in their faith (1 Cor. 3:1-3; Heb. 5:12-14).

Many of the world’s greatest souls became their best selves not in spite of but because of their distress. The great hymn writer Cowper wrote hopeful hymns and the great artist Van Gogh brushed epic paintings while contemplating suicide. Charles Spurgeon preached some of his best sermons while depressed. Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, and Martin Luther King Jr. battled melancholy. The great composer Beethoven went deaf. C.S. Lewis buried his wife after a short, cancer-ridden marriage. Elie Wiesel and Corrie Ten Boom survived the holocaust. Joni Eareckson Tada lost her ability to walk in a tragic accident. John Perkins endured jail, beatings, and death threats from white supremacists.

As grief expert Elizabeth Kubler Ross famously noted, “The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known one defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation and sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep love and concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”

Stuart Briscoe preached his first sermon at age 17. He didn’t know much about the topic assigned him by an elder. But he researched the church of Ephesus until he had a pile of notes and three points, as seemed proper for a sermon. Then he stood before the Brethren in a British Gospel Hall and preached.

And preached. And preached. He kept going until he used up more than his allotted time just to reach the end of the first point and still kept going, until finally he looked up from his notes and made a confession.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I don’t know how to stop.” Briscoe recalled in his memoir that a man from the back shouted out, “Just shut up and sit down.” That might have been the end of his preaching career. But he was invited to preach again the next week. And he continued preaching for seven more decades.

In the process Briscoe became a better preacher, discovered he had a gift, and was encouraged to develop it. He ultimately preached in more than 100 countries around the world and to a growing and multiplying church in America.

When Briscoe died on August 3, 2022, at the age of 91, he was known as a great preacher who spoke with clarity, loved the people he preached to, and a had deep trust in the work of the Holy Spirit.

He once wrote,

My primary concern in preaching is to glorify God through his Son. I’ve worked hard to preach effectively. But I’ve also learned to trust as well. Farmers plow their lands, plant their seed, and then go home to bed, awaiting God’s germinating laws to work. Surgeons only cut; God heals. I must give my full energy to doing my part in the pulpit, but the ultimate success of my preaching rests in God.

Tim Keller writes:

Some years ago, I had a relative who never would wear a seat belt. Every time I talked to him, he would get in the car, but wouldn't wear his seat belt. We all nagged him to no avail. Then one day he got in the car and put his seat belt on right away. We said, "What happened to you?" He said, "A couple weeks ago, I went to see a friend of mine in the hospital. He was in a car crash, and he went through the windshield. He had like 200 stitches in his face. For some strange reason, ever since then, I've been having no problem buckling up."

I asked him, "Well, did you get new information? What changed you? Did you not know that people go through the windshield?" Of course I knew the answer to those questions: What happened was that an abstract proposition became connected to an actual sensory experience that is something he saw. As Jonathan Edwards used to basically say over and over again, it's only when you attach to some truth—that's when real life change occurs. Something has to become real to your heart. Then you will be changed.

Dan McConchie, vice president of government affairs at Americans United for Life, was riding his motorcycle through a suburban intersection when a car came into his lane and pushed him into on-coming traffic. When he woke two weeks later in a Level 1 trauma center, he was a mess. Six broken ribs, deflated left lung, broken clavicle, broken shoulder blade, and five broken vertebrae. Worst of all, amidst all the broken bones, he had a spinal-cord injury that left him a paraplegic. The neurosurgeon told his wife that it would be a "miracle" if he'd ever walk again.

Eight years later Dan is still in a wheelchair.

"What I learned," Dan said, "is that this life isn't for our comfort. Instead, the purpose of this life is that we become conformed to the image of Christ. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen when everything is unicorns and rainbows. It instead happens when life is tough, when we are forced to rely upon God through prayer just to make it through the day. That is when he is most at work in our lives molding us into who he designed us to be."

"My prayers are different today than they were eight years ago. Back then, I looked at God like Santa Claus. I asked him to send nice things my way. Now, I have one prayer that I pray more than any other: 'Lord, may I be able to say at the end of today that I was faithful.'"

Jamie Bartlet writes in an article in Marriage Partnership:

My husband, Mike, and I had been married only a few months. We'd just had one of our first major arguments (over an issue so important I can't even remember now what it was). In a fit of rage, I stormed onto our back porch and called my parents in Michigan, letting them know I'd be on the first flight out of Philadelphia. I expected them to take my side, to say: "Of course! Come home!"

Instead, my father informed me that was not an option.

"You've never told me I couldn't come home! Why are you being so unfair?" I accused.

"Jamie," he answered, "your gut reaction has always been to bail when things get difficult. Your marriage vows were for better or worse, until death do you part. I know you didn't think the 'for worse' part was going to come so soon, but it did, and you need to learn how to deal with it. You're not welcome in our home under these circumstances. You need to work things out with Mike."

After I hung up, I reluctantly grabbed my Bible and opened it to Genesis 2:24: "For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh." As I meditated on this Scripture, I realized my impulse to run home whenever Mike and I fight was disobedient to God. Sticking with my husband isn't a choice or something I do only when I feel like it; it's God's will for my marriage.

I broke down in tears—but this time they were tears of joy for a father who knew what was best for me and pointed me to God. I went inside, truly broken by the way I'd treated Mike. While my first instinct was to walk past him, God reminded me that I couldn't ignore the problem. So after a brief, internal tug-of-war, I sat down humbly and explained the phone conversation I'd just had.

"I'm sorry I turned to my parents instead of you," I said. "From now on, I promise I won't try to run home when things between us get tough."

I still miss my parents. Living at home with them made me feel safe, and some days it's difficult knowing I'll never have that same security again. But I'm learning that's not necessarily a bad thing; in fact, it's a good thing. Because when I leave my parents, I experience the joy that comes from cleaving only to my husband. And in doing that, I know I am pleasing God.

In the 2004 Summer Olympic Games in Athens, Greece, the American women's 4 x 100 relay race was favored to win the gold medal. The team featured Marion Jones, a sprinter who had won four gold medals at the previous games in Sydney. The American team was already off to a strong start when Jones took the baton for the second leg of the race. She gained ground as she ran her 100 meters and approached Lauryn Williams, a young speedster who would run the third leg.

Williams began running as Jones drew near, but when she reached back to receive the baton, they couldn't complete the handoff. Once, twice, three times Jones thrust the baton forward, but each time it missed William's hand—she couldn't seem to wrap her fingers around it. Finally, on the fourth try, they made the connection. But by that time, they had crossed out of the 20-yard exchange zone and were disqualified. Everyone knew they were the fastest team on the track. The night before, they'd had the fastest qualifying time. But when they couldn't complete the handoff, their race was over.

As important as it is for the previous generation to set the pace by living authentically, at a certain point, a handoff must be made in which the next generation receives the baton of faith and begins to run with it. That handoff isn't as easy as it looks. It isn't automatic. It's the result of thousands and thousands of practice runs.

When I met Christ, I was 49-years-old and had been married to my husband for 17 years. We had two children and a quiet suburban life. We had built a life that was comfortable and expected by our respective families. But I knew at that moment that everything about my life was going to change. And, if I was to be obedient and follow Christ, I could most definitely lose it all—my marriage, my life the way I knew it, my friends, my family.

Becoming a Christian was new life for me—a joy and an answer to a life with no real meaning. But becoming a Christian also meant that there was a definite possibility that my husband would cease to love me. How could I know he would stay with me if I was so thoroughly a new person? How could I know that my husband, who was not a believer, would value his vows? I was extremely afraid. At times, I didn't want to have this new life. Honestly, I didn't think it was worth it—I wanted to give it back to God. I wanted to run the other way.

Satan immediately began his work, bent on the destruction of our marriage. I cannot describe to you how swiftly he moved. He continued shaping and molding true hatred for the one thing my husband despised: "those religious types." I was now one of them.

I weighed my devotion for Christ against my devotion to my kids and family. I asked whether a broken marriage with Christ was better than a marriage without Christ. But gradually, Christ's words became my words, his love filled me and poured out of me, and I was able to love the man who called me his enemy. I found that I could love my husband with a resolve I had never before experienced.

In the year and a half that has followed, many blessings have been bestowed upon my family. It may not be apparent to my husband, but our marriage is very different because of Christ. Christ is at the center and is shaping our partnership in a very new and distinctly Christian way. Additionally, my husband has changed dramatically from the man he was two years ago. He told me I should go ahead and attend church and gave me his blessing. My children began going to youth group, and now both of my children are worshiping with me weekly. And when I asked my husband if he would support my daughter and me to be a part of a missions trip to Mexico, he responded with, "We will make it happen."

I have entrusted my husband into Christ's care. I am okay with that. I have learned many lessons in this past year and a half, but none so much as loving and trusting my Lord.

2006 was a year of surprises for Sylvester Stallone. First, he surprised the entertainment world by resurrecting his iconic movie hero, Rocky Balboa, for one last film. Then, while promoting the film, Stallone shocked Christian fans with the revelation that his faith in Jesus Christ had not only impacted the writing of the first Rocky film, but also that his decision to create the final movie was inspired by his renewed affiliation with Christianity.

Stallone discussed both surprises in an interview with Citizenlink.com. "I was raised in a Catholic home, a Christian home," he said. "And I went to Catholic schools and I was taught the faith and went as far as I could with it. Until one day, I got out into the so-called real world, and I was presented with temptation. I kinda, like, lost my way and made a lot of bad choices."

But, Stallone added, those bad choices ultimately left him unsatisfied, especially his decision to place fame and career ahead of his family. As a result, Stallone was increasingly pulled back into his Christian heritage. "The more I go to church," he said, "and the more I turn myself over to the process of believing in Jesus and listening to his Word and having him guide my hand, I feel as though the pressure is off me now."

As part of this transformation, Stallone realized another poor choice that had guided his previous life: self-reliance. "You need to have the expertise and the guidance of someone else," he said. "You cannot train yourself. I feel the same way about Christianity and about what the church is: The church is the gym of the soul."

The main evidence that we are growing in Christ is not exhilarating prayer experiences, but steadily increasing, humble love for other people.

Abner, a young professional in Los Angeles, had a Christian roommate who was part of a local church for twenty-somethings. This church sponsored an outreach event called The Edge. The Edge was an event designed for skeptics, and these edgy meetings were not designed to call people to conversion, but only to get them ignited or reignited to pursue the spiritual side of life. Jesus was talked about, but in very non-cliché ways. For instance, one meeting was based on the adult cartoon South Park and was entitled "Jesus vs. the Easter Bunny." It was held during Easter season. Abner's roommate invited him to check it out. Abner wasn't interested in Christianity, but he was a South Park fan! So he came.

Later, Abner recalled his response. He was very upset. He had written off the Christian faith a long time before, but the people he heard that night were not like any Christians he had met. They talked very honestly about struggles and failures. They admitted they didn't have it all together, not just before they "got spiritual"—they still didn't. Doug, the speaker, told of his experiences with marijuana and marijuana look-alikes. He had tried to smoke oregano once, having heard that it gave a similar high experience. In the midst of the laughter, Doug then challenged those present, reminding them that neither oregano nor marijuana ever really delivered on what they seemed to promise. He also challenged people to pursue the spiritual part of life, not through getting high but through opening their hearts to the possibility of God.

Abner was ticked because he was a well-known stoner and drinker. He was rarely completely sober. And he felt like Doug had been reading his mind, or at least his mail. He disagreed with Doug, but Abner couldn't ignore the powerful way Doug's story connected to his own life story. So he asked to get together with Doug. At their meeting, Abner decided he would give God three weeks. And if God didn't show up in three weeks, Abner was done with God. Doug just smiled and nodded.

That night Abner got drunk again. He felt like a real hypocrite: he knew that if he kept getting high and drunk, he would not really be giving God a chance. That night he saw what his life was really like. He saw it going down the drain. So that night he stopped drinking and smoking. That night he felt Jesus' presence, and he knew that in that presence he could stop getting drunk and high. During the next three days, he continued to sense Jesus' presence, and it freaked him out. So this is what it feels like to feel God, he thought.

That weekend, at a party with his friends, he took out his bong (his marijuana water pipe, for you non-stoners out there), and his friends got ready to get high with him. But Abner took the bong, lit it on fire, and burned it to ashes. His friends were shocked. "What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?"

Abner responded: "I'm getting rid of what I love the most. I'm not going to do this anymore. My life is going down the drain. I have to trust God." His friends were blown away. So was Abner's old way of life. He had committed himself to building his identity around a new center: Jesus. He was going to trust Jesus for his security and sense of well-being and no longer look to alcohol and pot…. Today, just a few years later, he works in ministry with a campus group, reaching out to students struggling just as he was.

In John Paul the Great, author Peggy Noonan describes a friend who asked the question, "How do you find God?" Noonan replied with the following:

Finding God is not hard, because he wants to be found. But keeping God can be hard. He wants to be kept, of course, but for most of us, finding him and keeping him is the difference between falling in love and staying in love. The latter involves a decision that is held to. Here is a path to finding him and keeping him.

One: Get yourself in trouble. Let life make you miserable. This shouldn't be hard. "A bad night in a bad inn," Teresa of Avila is said to have described our earthly life; and every smart, happy, well-adjusted adult you know would probably admit that that's just about right. So get low, gnash your teeth, cry aloud, rend your garments, refuse to get out of bed. Be in crisis.

Trouble is good. "Man's extremity is God's opportunity," as American evangelicals say. But before they said it, Henry VIII's first wife, Catherine of Aragon, said it: "None get to God but through trouble." For most of us, the world with all its dazzlement has to turn pretty flat and pretty dry before we want God. But God seems to turn it flat just at the moment when he knows we're ready. So embrace your ill fortune as a blessing. (If you haven't been blessed with a crisis, I'm not sure what to tell you beyond pray for one. You may have to just hang around enjoying the dazzlements until he's ready to lower the boom. But he will, in his time and not yours, if that's the only way he can get your attention. Because not only are you looking for him, but he's been looking for you.)

Two: Once you're so low you're actually on your knees, review the situation. You could start by admitting what you've long sensed and avoided knowing: that many of the joys and delights of the world are fleeting, and some are fraudulent, and that even though those who know you best would never think this, you happen to have noticed lately that you have a rather black heart. Don't let this be demoralizing: everyone has a black heart. As a brilliant (and agnostic) publisher recently remarked to me in a conversation about why war occurs, "Because there's something wrong with us." There is. It's inspiring how much good people actually do considering who and what we are.

Three: You're miserable and convicted and still on your knees. Address the God whose existence you doubt. Ask for his help. Ask for his forgiveness. Ask for his mercy. Ask to know him. Or ask a saint to get you to him. (All saints have had dark nights.) Evangelical Protestants sometimes use words like these: "Lord, this hasn't worked with my being in charge, so I give my life to you. I believe in you. Help me to believe in you. I ask you to be in charge of my life." I think those are great words. They are not a prescription for passivity. They are an acknowledgment of reality and a pledge of obedience, which can be quite arduous. Belief ain't for the sissies.

One evangelical friend uses the image of a throne. Either God is on the throne of your life, or you are. You don't belong on it. He's the king. You're the servant. He's the Father. You're his child. Let him sit there. Every time you, in your pride and stupidity, try to claw your way back into control, remember the throne, and offer the seat to the gentleman who is older and wiser than you.

Four: Pray. A priest to whom I'd gone once for guidance told me that prayer is just conversation with your Father in heaven, and like any good conversation with an intimate, it should be honest, trusting, uncensored. Tell him anything—what kind of day you had, a triumph, a temptation, something that's nagging at you. Ask for his blessing for an endeavor. Give thanks. Share a frustration.

Prayer, in my experience is hard, easier to think about than do. In one way, I pray a lot, all day, in a continual conversation. But concentrated prayer is hard. People who know tell me to make time in the morning or evening, a half hour or so. To read the Bible and engage in sustained and concentrated prayer. I know they're right. I'll tell you something I started to do a few years ago that is connected to this and has made an enormous difference for me. I started reading the New Testament and asking God that I be allowed to know that what I was reading actually happened, that it was all true. During this time, the Acts of the Apostles came alive for me, and after that every thing else did, too.

Five: Get yourself some friends who will support you and help you. Go to church and find out if there's someone there—a priest or layperson—who helps converts, for if you're looking for God, you're having a conversion experience. If your local priest is busy, and chances are he is, find out what's available to believers at your church—daily prayer meetings, for instance—and go. And talk to people. Ask about retreats—two or three days away, usually in a religious setting—with people who want to enliven their spiritual life. It's hard to go on a retreat, and yet I've never heard anyone regretting it. I've never heard a person say, "I wish I hadn't gone to that retreat."

Six: See if you can find and get into a Bible study group to learn more about what you believe in, or a prayer group.

Seven: Read—for knowledge and to enliven the spirit. Books that were important to me: Thomas Merton's memoir on his conversion, The Seven Storey Mountain; Saints for Sinners by Alban Goodier; To Know Christ Jesus by Frank Sheed; My Utmost for His Highest, the book of daily devotionals by Oswald Chambers that evangelicals read. In fact, just about any born-again Protestant book is good. They are wonderful for their personal sense of redemption and their excitement about Christ. Don't fuss with doctrinal complexities if you're sophisticated enough to see them—I wasn't as a rule—as doctrinal disputes are not your problem right now, and anyway, God will heal them all in time. "The issue becomes the icon," the chaplain of the U.S. Senate once told me. He meant: Love Jesus and leave the commentary to others.

Eight: If you never get very excited by your conversion but just plod through, good for you—you'll get your joys. If you start out with excitement and it flattens or lessens—and it probably will—pray for ardor, ask for your old thirst, and keep plugging. It's the most important thing in your life. And remember, every time you fall or fall away, ask for help. You'll get it.

—Reprinted by arrangement with Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

David Gushee writes:

Before I decided to live for Christ, I'd party with friends. As a guy who wanted to be a "cool and popular jock," I thought it was the thing to do. I'd drink, act stupid, and end up making a fool of myself. But I didn't care, because I was popular and one of my school's top athletes. As for God, I thought he was for weak people. If Christians tried to tell me about Jesus, I'd make fun of them. I thought Christians who always talked about God were crazy. Then something happened my sophomore year that changed everything.

My little sister Ashley, who was a freshman at the time, was riding in a car driven by one of her friends. Worried about getting home late, Ashley's friend started speeding. The car hit a rough railroad track and flipped over. Ashley soon lay in a hospital on life support, in a coma, very close to death.

At first, I was angry with God for what happened to my sister. I shouted to heaven, "If you are who you say you are, how could you let this happen?!" As angry as I was at God, I began to think about how much I really loved my family. It wasn't like I hadn't cared about them before, but all the pain—all those trips to the hospital and all those times we cried together—just began to bring us much closer together. My family suddenly seemed more important than anything else in the whole world.

Even though my sister managed to survive, we were told her brain injury was so severe she'd probably never walk or talk again. But in the months that followed the accident, I helped coach her along as she struggled to stand, and then, eventually, take a few tiny steps. I also listened in amazement as she began to put words together and form sentences. Slowly, very slowly, she was getting better. And slowly, very slowly, I was starting to change.

Along with realizing how important my family was to me, I also thought a lot about God and his place in everything that had happened. Instead of blaming him for it all, I began to thank him for my sister's life and for my whole family. I also began to see that all those things I'd lived for—like partying and acceptance by the popular crowd—weren't really important. Even sports no longer seemed as important as they used to.

Instead, I started going to youth group and really enjoying it. I liked having conversations with my friends about God and Christianity. I wanted to know as much as I could about following God. During my junior year, I committed my life to Christ.

Sebastian Junger is author of The Perfect Storm and A Death in Belmont. Long before he became a famous writer, however, he decided to hitchhike his way across the country as an interesting experience. The following story occurred while he was making his way through the aftermath of a blizzard in Gillette, Wyoming:

After two or three hours I saw a man working his way toward me along the on-ramp from town. He wore filthy canvas coveralls and carried a black lunchbox, and as he got closer I could see that his hair was matted in a way that occurs only after months on the skids. I put my hand on the pepper spray in my pocket and turned to face him.

"You been out here long?" he asked. I nodded.

"Where you headed?"

"California."

"Warm out there."

"Yup."

"You got enough food?"

I thought about this. Clearly he didn't have any, and if I admitted that I did, he'd ask for some. That in itself wasn't a problem, but it would mean opening my backpack and revealing all my obviously expensive camping gear. I felt alone and exposed and ripe for pillage, and I just didn't want to do that. Twenty years later I still remember my answer: "I got some cheese."

"You won't make it to California with just a little cheese," he said. "You'll starve."

At first I didn't understand. What was he saying, exactly? I kept my hand on the pepper spray.

"Believe me," he said, "I know. Listen, I'm living in a car back in town, and every day I walk out to the mine to see if they need me. Today they don't, so I won't be needing this lunch of mine."

I began to sag with understanding. In his world, whatever you have in your bag is all you've got, and he knew "a little cheese" would never get me to California. "I'm fine, really," I said. "I don't need your lunch."

He shook his head and opened his box. It was a typical church meal—a bologna sandwich, an apple, and a bag of chips—and I kept protesting, but he wouldn't hear of it. I finally took his lunch and watched him walk back down the on-ramp toward town.

I learned a lot of things in college, I thought, and I learned a lot from the books on my own. I had learned things in Europe and in Mexico and in my hometown of Belmont, Massachusetts, but I had to stand out there on that frozen piece of interstate to learn true generosity from a homeless man.

Bible College professor Yohanna Katanacho pastored a small church in the Israeli city of Jerusalem. As a Palestinian living in Israel, and a Christian to boot, he faces a wide variety of persecution. One of the more dangerous forms of harassment comes from the Israeli soldiers who patrol the city, looking for potential terrorists. These soldiers routinely impose spontaneous curfews on Palestinians, and even have the legal right to shoot at a Palestinian if he or she does not respond quickly enough to their summons.

Christ's command in the Sermon on the Mount to "love your enemies" seemed impossible to Yohanna. And yet there it was—unambiguous and unchanging. "For me, love was an active and counter-cultural decision, because I was living in a culture that promoted hatred of the other," Yohanna says. "And not only did the context promote hate, but the circumstances fed it on a daily basis—the newspapers, television, media, neighbors, everything. One of the markers of the Israeli Jews and the Palestinian Arabs is alienating the other. To break that marker, I must have some other worldview."

At first, Yohanna tried and failed in his attempts to feel love. Instead, the Israeli soldiers' random, daily checks for Palestinian identification cards—sometimes stopping them for hours—fed Yohanna's fear and anger. As he confessed his inability to God, Yohanna realized something significant. The radical love of Christ is not an emotion, but a decision. He decided to show love, however reluctantly, by sharing the gospel message with the soldiers on the street. With new resolution, Yohanna began to carry copies of a flyer with him, written in Hebrew and English, with a quotation from Isaiah 53 and the words "Real Love" printed across the top. Every time a soldier stopped him, he handed him both his ID card and the flyer. Because the quote came from the Hebrew Scriptures, the soldier usually asked him about it before letting him go.

After several months of this, Yohanna suddenly noticed his feelings toward the soldiers had changed. "I was surprised, you know?" he says. "It was a process, but I didn't pay attention to that process. My older feelings were not there anymore. I would pass in the same street, see the same soldiers as before, but now find myself praying, 'Lord, let them stop me, so that I can share with them the love of Christ.'"

Ray is about the trials, challenges, successes, and addictions of the late pianist, singer, and composer Ray Charles. The film shows how Ray compensated for his blindness by learning to hear what others couldn't.

As a blind 10-year-old, Ray enters his home and accidentally trips on the side of a rocking chair. He falls, yells out in pain, and calls out to his mother for help. His mother steps forward, stops, hesitates, and takes a step back. Ray, lying on a rug on the floor, continues to cry for his mother's help.

His mother silently goes back to her work. Ray hears men chattering and a hen clucking. He stops crying, looks around him, and slowly gets up. He hears more people talking, a cow mooing, and metal clanking. He looks into the direction of a kettle of boiling water.

Stretching out his arms, he walks toward a crackling fireplace and feels its heat, pulling back a hand because it is too close. His mother continues to look on, concerned with his every move. Ray listens intently as a horse and carriage go by.

He then hears a cheeping grasshopper close by and walks toward it. He bends down and, fumbling a bit, encloses his hand on the grasshopper. Smiling, he picks it up and puts it to his ear. His mother is taken aback and gives a low gasp.

Ray says, "I hear you, Mama. You're right there."

His mother now has tears streaming down her face. She tells him, "Yes, yes, I am." She kneels in front of him and gives him a hug.

In a similar way, Christians need to learn to "see" and discern the realities of the spiritual world.

Elapsed Time: 01:09:27 to 01:12:02 (DVD scene 13)

Content: Rated PG-13 for depictions of drug addiction and sexuality

Steve Moore tells of a friend's experience at a retirement home dedication:

The ceremony included remarks from one of the new residents, Dr. Paul Brand, an outstanding medical doctor. Most of us know him through his best-selling book co-written with Philip Yancey, Fearfully and Wonderfully Made. When it was Dr. Brand's turn to speak, he said something like this:

I remember well when I was at my physical peak. I was 27 years old and had just finished medical school. A group of friends and I were mountain climbing, and we could climb for hours. For some people, when they cross that peak, for them life is over.

I remember well my mental peak, too. I was 57 years of age and was performing groundbreaking hand surgery. All of my medical training was coming together in one place. For some people, when they cross this peak, for them life is over.

I'm now over 80 years of age. I recently realized I'm approaching another peak, —my spiritual peak. All I have sought to become as a person has the opportunity to come together in wisdom, maturity, kindness, love, joy, and peace. And I realize when I cross that peak, for me, life will not be over; it will have just begun.

How much easier it is then, how much more receptive we are to death, when advancing years guide us softly to our end. Aging thus is in no sense a punishment from on high, but brings its own blessing and a warmth of colors all its own.

There is even warmth to be drawn from the waning of your own strength compared with the past—just to think how sturdy I once used to be! You can no longer get through a whole day's work at a stretch, but how good it is to slip into the brief oblivion of sleep, and what a gift to wake once more to the clarity of your second or third morning of the day. And your spirit can find delight in limiting your intake of food, in abandoning the pursuit of novel flavors. You are still of this life, yet you are rising above the material plane. Growing old serenely is not a downhill path but an ascent.