Barnabas File

My Netflix subscription this year was a good investment if I had only watched one series:  The Crown .  Although I have viewed several of the streaming service’s original series,  this is the best so far. The series plans to depict the life of Queen Elizabeth II.   The first season begins with her wedding in 1947 and goes through the first years of her reign up to 1955.  Although this all happened within my lifetime, I would have to call it historical drama.  Visually extravagant with meticulous attention to period costumes and furnishings, the series rarely makes a misstep.  The series functions on two levels—family drama and politics.  On one level, we have the soap opera of family relationships impacted by both royal privilege and responsibility.  The other level is the political and historical realities of the period.  For example, in “Gloriana” (episode 10), Prime minister Anthony Eden (Jeremy Northam) is dealing with a foreign policy crisis in Egypt while the Queen (

Actor George Clooney playing a rather  confused Roman Centurion in Hail Caesar! The writer of Ecclesiastes observed, “Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body.” (12:12, NIV) I will not attempt to comment on the second half of this statement, but the first part is certainly true.   We live in a time when the production of all types of media grows exponentially—books, journals, films, plays, blogs, and many things unimagined in the day of the Hebrew writer. How are we to deal with all this information?  I find myself becoming more dependent on referrals from friends and reviews by people I trust.  Some of these writers come from a faith perspective and others do not. As I read the work of reviewers who are Christ followers, two perspectives usually emerge.  On one hand, there is the writer who hungrily seeks to find a word of witness in a film, a TV show, or a book.  On the other hand, there are those writers who dig deeper to mine th

Although I say that I am not a theologian, my seminary professor friends persist in saying, “Every believer is a theologian.”  From their perspective, whenever you ask a question that involves faith, your relationship to God, or God’s relationship to the world, you are doing theology. When my twelve-year-old granddaughter brings up the violence in the television miniseries “The Bible” and I ask her, “How do you handle that?,” I am asking a theological question.  Why does God not only allow violence but, according to the Hebrew Bible, condone it? We ask theological questions all the time. First, we ask these questions in the midst of life.  When we encounter pain, death, and violence, we try to make sense of it all and, as religious people, practice this sense-making in the context of our Christian commitment. Second, we often ask these questions when we experience personal relationships that confuse or hurt us.  When trust is broken, commitment is betrayed, or love

What is your definition of “discipleship”?   In general usage, a disciple is one who follows the example and teachings of another person.   In the Christian context, a disciple is a follower of Jesus Christ, one who seeks to practice his teachings and make them a part of her or his life.   Living out the teachings of Christ is generally called the act of discipleship. Several years ago, I joined my colleague Mark Tidsworth in training church leaders to use coaching principles to help others to grow as disciples.  We called the process “ Disciple Development Coaching .”  Both Mark and I have a rather comprehensive view of what it means to be a disciple.  Our concept (and I think the belief of many others) is that discipleship encompasses all of life—not simply our spiritual practices but the way we care for God’s gifts to us, act in our relationships with others, and pursue our vocational callings. In a recent conversation, someone challenged me that coaching

A couple of weeks ago, my wife, our daughter, and I were returning from the memorial service for a friend in east Tennessee.    Stephanie, our daughter, was providing our music from Pandora on her iPhone.    A song came up that I had probably heard before, but the words suddenly got my attention.     “A Strange Way to Save the World”  is written from Joseph’s perspective and points out the incongruity of the birth of the Savior in Bethlehem.    Joseph voices his wonder at the strange way that God has chosen to work.    Imagine, God was placing the plan for the salvation of the world in the hands of a teenage girl and a village craftsman! The song reminds me that our God works in unusual and paradoxical ways more times than we imagine.  So many of us are obsessed with planning and control that we rarely leave time and space for God to intervene in our lives.  Is this because we do not really believe that God might break through the ordinary, mundane things of life?  Are