Author: scribblingtheology

(A Reflection on) The Theology of Lingering

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Dallas Willard once said, “hurry is the great enemy of the spiritual life in our day.” I remember years ago listening to a podcast by Rob Bell, who talked about how we’ve lost the ability just to be bored. John Mark Comer argues that we must ruthlessly eliminate hurry from our lives. Every generation says this, but life isn’t the same as it used to be. Our weeks are filled with to-do lists, meetings, and appointments. We work forty-hour weeks (if you’re lucky), we try to eat right and stay healthy, go home, look after the kids, clean the house, go to church, try to catch up with that friend for coffee or lunch, meet your spouses needs, listen to that podcast, read that blog (the irony is not lost on me), catch up with the latest social media news, video, tweet, or reel. We study, try to improve our skill set, and bring work home with us (because there is rarely enough time to do your job in a 9-5), which is what it means to be a functioning human being in 2024.

In the 90s and early 2000s, I felt like imagination was king. Boredom drove me to creativity. I couldn’t mindlessly flick through reels of videos, watch people playing Fortnight, or throw on a podcast (all things I love, by the way). Instead, a rock or a piece of clay became a fossil. The front trees and gardens became hideouts for me to store waterbombs and hide from the other kids on the street. I used to write my name in Egyptian hieroglyphics (not very well, mind you). I used to spend time with my mum. We talked—a lot. I remember my first-ever coffee (a mocha with whipped cream on top) and trips to Wet n’ Wild. I remember going to my Nannas house on holidays and playing cricket in the street with my Dad. Going to the beach or doing road trips always seemed convenient and easy. Nowadays, travelling more than half an hour gets the best of you. It takes work to keep focused and your attention on things that should be important to you. Unconsciously, I reach for my phone to see if I have a notification. Switching off when friends talk about something that doesn’t matter to you is so easy. It’s easy to go to church for an hour and a half a week, passively take in a sermon, half-heartedly sing a few songs and “hurry God” like He is a fast food worker and McDonald’s or something. Most of us don’t know how to slow down, rest, be bored, and linger.

In six days, God created the universe, and on the seventh, He rested, or to put it another way, he lingered, hung around, and delighted in what he had made (Genesis 1-2). The definition of lingering is to stay in a place longer than is expected or usual. It is unusual in our day and age to linger, to stay in one place and enjoy it without distraction or a “productive purpose.” When was the last time you sat, meandered, or rested while just taking in the world around you? Have you ever sighed a breath of relief and just lingered on what you have already accomplished (no matter how seemingly insignificant)? When have you last just plodded around in the messiness of your space and just delighted in your stage of life? I love that God rests. He didn’t need to. God doesn’t have a cap on His capacity. He wasn’t taking the day off because he was tired. He rested and lingered and delighted in his creation because (I believe) He brought him joy.

Fast forward in the story, and in the Exodus, we have Israel enslaved and forced to work every day. They were the peak of productivity. Their worth was weighed in the bricks they made and the work they did. Israelite identity became so entrenched in their slavery that even when they had been freed, they longed to return to it (Exodus 16:3). What I find funny is that the Jews wanted to go back into slavery even while having God’s tangible presence with them in the wilderness (Exodus 13:21). Even after they got into the promised land, established a kingdom and a temple with God dwelling among his chosen people, they still worshipped other gods. Israel forgot to dwell with God and linger in his presence. Though God wasn’t far from any of them, they never stopped and experienced his presence in any intimate and authentic way. I wonder how different history might have been had Adan and Eve lingered with God in the Garden, if the Jews lingered with God in the wilderness, or dwelt with him more intimately in the temple. How different might things have been if the disciples lingered with Jesus? Rather than expecting things from him, they were just with him. Maybe they would have seen Jesus as the messiah he was instead of what they expected him to be.

And this is the problem. We expect God to be something or someone he doesn’t want to be. Just like the Jews, we have theological categories (some of which are helpful) that impose expectations of God into history. God heals. Therefore, whenever I pray, he heals. Except he doesn’t. God is in control. Therefore, everything must work according to his will, except life is chaotic and challenging, and it rarely feels like God is in control. God is love. Yet he often feels distant. God is wrathful. Yet evil always seems to prevail. These categories came to me through books and podcasts, not God himself (though, of course, these are things God can use). These things are true, but I don’t always know it.

In Celtic spirituality, thresholds are seen as a line between one space and the next, one time and another. I’m not just talking about the threshold between your bedroom and the hallway; I’m talking about the thin places in our lives that God whispers and beckons us through so that we may linger, refreshed, transformed, and made new. We may need to stop and linger more often.

My Story I

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“Almost everyone can agree that one of the big differences between us and our ancestors of five hundred years ago is that they lived in an ‘enchanted’ world, and we do not.”

Charles Taylor

If I had to distil my entire life into one thing, it would be the search for ‘magic.’ From an early age, I was fascinated by other and bigger things. I remember running around in the yard trying to dig up fossils, reading books about ancient Egypt, and going to the science centre for my birthday (all I wanted were Pokemon Cards). I loved reading books like Eragon, Harry Potter, and The Chronicles of Narnia. My favourite video games as a kid were anything with a sword or gun, but in particular, it was The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (OoT), released on November 21 1998, that I loved the most. I played the heck out of that thing. For those who don’t know, OoT is the first attempt at an open-world 3d game and is considered by many to be the greatest video game of all time, scoring almost a perfect score on every gaming website. In the game, you could trek into deep forests, climb high mountains, swim rivers and lakes, visit populated villages, and save princesses. But the most essential element in the game was that the world felt more alive, authentic, and meaningful than the one I lived in.


Now, you can chalk all this up to a young boy indulging in escapism, having a wild imagination, not yet matured. I get that. If that’s the case, I’ve never grown up. Maturity, for me, has been less about searching for the magic in the world and more about realising it was here all along. Western Culture (the Church has a massive role in this) has veritably done away with the world in the wardrobe, the sacred groves in the forests, the transcendent high places that strike awe in the beholder, and traded it in for formulas, fast food spirituality and living—a bland, tasteless existence. Can you hardly blame me then for chasing hedonism in place of ‘magic?’ The moment I was able to, I chased women, started clubbing, and partying in a desperate bid to experience the world afresh. However, much like the Preacher in Ecclesiastes, it was all meaningless. I needed more. I wanted more. I craved something more until, one day, I tasted a bit of that lost ‘magic.’


I would love to tell you that once I met Jesus, everything changed, life got better, and the drudgery of life washed away in a sea of awe and wonder. It didn’t. The decision to follow Jesus has been met with suffering and hardship: death, divorce, broken hearts, depression, and a lot of uncertainty and doubt. Christianity hasn’t made things clearer for me. What it has done, however, is rebuilt me through trials in a way life never would have in and of its own.


When I met Jesus, it was off the back of a failed relationship that had gone through an abortion. I was still interested in something other than life, but ultimately, the decision to try out Jesus was just another day and another choice. There was no voice from heaven, no beam of light, no stirring deep within my soul. I just decided that Jesus probably had some good things to say and was worth listening to. Since then, over the years, slowly but surely, Jesus has peeled back the layers of my disenchanted heart and shown me that what I was looking for was under my nose the entire time. Salvation for me has been a slow transformative process, not a single instant event. The Cross is less about (but not void of) any atonement theory and more about a pathway into the world unified unto God, the created world, and My Self. As I nerded out over theology, the bible, and spirituality, I realised every church and gathering could be a sacred grove. Every door opened could have a Narnia behind it. Every road travelled could be turned into a pilgrimage. I’ve been a Christian for over ten years, and I can say that God hasn’t finished turning this mess into a slightly less mess.

I look forward to where He’ll have me in another ten. For now I will leave you with this quote:

The Christian story of incarnation in the body of a boy- a boy whose ancestors were both famous and infamous – is one that can spur us towards living with the courage that is indigenous to us. To be human is to be in the image of something good, and image comes from imagination. To be human is to be in the imagination of God, and the imagination is the source of integrity as well as cracks. To be born is to be born into a story of possibility, a story of failure, a story of imagination and the failure of imagination. To be born is to be born with the possibility of courage. Hello to courage.

Pádraig Ó Tuama

Scribbling Journal: Entry 2

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Jesus came to me first through religious fervour and fanaticism. Christianity was almost a swear word, a kind of “you know who” or a “he who must not be named” sort of thing that, if you had to bring it up, an unsavoury taste lingered upon the tongue in conversation. Far too many stories were heard of priests molesting children and preachers zealously proclaiming “turn or burn” on street corners, causing most people who heard them to ignore their existence, if not shy away in embarrassment for them entirely.

My parents, and their parents, grew up in an age believing religion and politics weren’t things one talked about at the dinner table if one were to have a civil conversation. This is ludicrous because spirituality and politics are some of the most important topics of discussion when getting to a person’s heart. Never have I known a person more than when they painted for me a picture of the world and how they believe it can be fixed. If this kind of conversation were fostered more, maybe we’d be having very different conversations now about identity and the sorts.

It wasn’t until much later that I started to see Jesus as more than a “car salesman.” I had always been interested in mythology and spirituality, and as I started reading about new-age teachers, historians and storytellers, I learned that Jesus was a serious spiritual person. It just took hearing it from someone who wasn’t a Christian first for me to realise it. It still took me longer to trust in Jesus – whatever that means – or at least to give the Christian thing a red hot crack… here I am, still giving it a go more than ten years later.

I can’t tell you exactly what got me into trusting Jesus. Some would say it is the sovereignty of God, and others would say he filled the hole in my life or whatever (in some ways, I have more “holes” and “cracks” now than I ever did). As I got to know it more and more, the biblical story made the most sense of my humanity (or lack thereof), the world around me, and my place in it. I used to believe that the Bible was something you could sit down, read, understand, and walk away with. However, the Bible takes more than a lifetime to master. The Bible is the sort of literature you have to sit with over coffee or tea every day for the rest of your life. It is supposed to be read in a community, and It is the kind of story that moves from only the intellect to the centre of your being.

As I read the Bible more, Jesus started moving from being a spiritual guy who told us to love people (erg!) to him representing me. I can imagine the surfer Jesus that puts flowers in people’s hair and sings kumbaya coming out of the surf, pushing a craft beer in front of me and staring at me in the eye with a look of intense affection and saying, “Camaron, look at me. There’s more to life than what you lack. I can show you how to be more.” I think he would have an Aslan kind of effect on me. When he speaks, he shakes off the salt water from his long curls, but you shudder in fear and awe, and the space he commands has a certain gravitas. But instead of running away, you want more of him. You can’t help but be drawn to His presence. You hang off every word, even if they’re hard to hear.

“When we learn to read the story of Jesus and see it as the story of the love of God, doing for us what we could not do for ourselves–that insight produces, again and again, a sense of astonished gratitude which is very near the heart of authentic Christian experience.”

― N.T. Wright

I pray that we will all have that sense of astonished gratitude.

Scribbling Journal: Entry 1

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The thing about the Christian life is that no one really knows what they’re doing (this is true for most of life). There’s a reason why we have so many different denominations and sects. I’ve met pastors, scholars, and believers from all sorts of churches and traditions, and, apart from Jesus, the one thing we all have in common is that none of us really know what to do with it.


Once I met a guy who had a family, and he was an avid street evangelist. He would stand on street corners and loudly preach repentance. He was even arrested for it once. It wasn’t long after that, however, that he did a complete 180 and became aggressively antichristian in everything he did. He told me that he changed his mind on everything because we don’t even have the original copies of the bible. This surprised me because I wasn’t aware that we believed there were.


I used to meet regularly with a friend for coffee at a local cafe near the beach when I was a pastor. He was and still is one of the most passionate people about Jesus I’ve ever met. We used to talk about everything “bible.” From miracles to church to science and faith. One morning, as we were discussing science and biblical interpretation, he said that if evolution was true, he could never be a Christian. I was shocked. Here was one of the most lovely, passionate people I’ve met who never backs down from talking about Jesus to people and yet a single potential change in his worldview could lead to his entire faith being undermined.


I meet people like this day in and day out. I’m not saying there aren’t legitimate reasons why one would walk away from their faith. There is. The reasons above are justifiable. I completely get it. What surprises me is how easy it is for these reasons to cause us to walk away from something we’ve placed our entire identity on. Though I doubt and wrestle with God, and I sometimes wonder what life would be like if I didn’t follow Jesus, I’ll never not believe until I’m dead and come face to face with endless nothing. Until then, I’m winging it. I try to attend church, knowing it’s good for me, even if it’s boring. I read my bible, knowing that I am getting to know Jesus more and more, even if most of what it says is either lost on me or it just drags on. I try to pray even if no one talks back. I do good even if there’s not always sense in doing so. My life is based on risk. My life is a gamble. I believe my choices in the here and now will pay off in a potential eternity.


The irony is that if I gave it all up now, I’d be trading one sense of freedom for another and one doubt for the next. If I walked away from Jesus, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering if I made the right choice. What if He is real? What if Hell does exist? I would be wrestling with the God of Nothing, wondering if worshipping at his altar is any better than the last. Would I miss how the biblical story makes the most sense of my existence, or would I ignore the voice at the back of my mind and embrace the meaninglessness that my new God offers?


All this diatribe makes me wonder if Jesus struggled with the same levels of doubt. We’re told that he was tempted in every way we were, yet he was without sin… But did Jesus doubt that God was real (a strange thought given Jesus is God) or that he was imminent or in his corner? When offered the riches of the world from Satan, did he – even for a fleeting moment consider bending the knee? There’s debate within theological circles as to whether or not Jesus could really sin.


On the one hand, some say he can’t because God can’t sin. Others say his temptations couldn’t have been genuine if he couldn’t sin. The answer may depend on how you see the person of Jesus. There’s something comforting in the idea that the humanity of Christ genuinely struggled with doubt, questions and temptations on the same level that we are tempted. He overcame sin not because he was divine but because he was truly human. Which means most of us aren’t truly human. Which begs the question, what does it mean to be human?


I’ve been watching and listening to many of J. R. R. Tolkien’s works lately. The more I get into it, the more I identify with the Hobbits of all people, or I may want to identify with them. Living in the rolling lush green hills of the Shire with its winding creeks and rivers, the Hobbits are reclusive but communal. They’re simple and well-fed, not wanting to stick their noses where it doesn’t belong. Bilbo Baggins cooks, cleans and smokes his pipe. Frodo runs around the Shire and plays as they anticipate festivals and parties. They are living the human dream.


Furthermore, the one ring, perhaps one of if not the most corrupting power in Middle Earth, has a hard time genuinely turning them to darkness. Humans, on the other hand, wage war and consume and destroy anything they get their hands on. They build up their kingdoms, and the ring corrupts them very quickly.


I see the good life in the Shire, but I know it’s currently in the power-hungry cities and wartorn lands of men. I desire the carefree life of Bilbo (before he goes on his adventure), but I try to take it according to my own power rather than wait for the good life to be given to me. I maybe have 50 years-ish left on earth, and as I look back on the last 30 and the world around me, I realise that the thing that defines humans the most is having an idea of the good, striving for it, but in all the wrong ways.

Thoughts on the Mission of the Church

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Whenever somebody asks, “what is the church’s mission?” they’re asking, “how is the local church supposed to act in the world, and why?” It isn’t hard to imagine then that there are so many ways to answer this question because there are so many local churches. In my particular tradition (Queensland Baptist), the church usually functions:

1. As a place for people to come and listen to a sermon for twenty minutes.

2. For people to come and sing to and about God.

3. To catch up with coffee and tea afterwards while eating expired biscuits.

Community engagement varies depending on the church and its theology. Some churches have huge community buildings with swimming pools, cafes, gyms, and sports centres. These churches typically have very little formal “evangelism” with those who come and go in their building, instead relying on relationships and ongoing conversations to perhaps one day influence them towards Jesus and the Kingdom. Other churches (usually smaller) have formal evangelism. They hit the streets, give out Gospel tracts, and awkwardly tell people they’re going to hell. Then there are those churches you hear about only in far-flung corners of the Australian underbelly. The kind that is ruthlessly preaching Jesus and baptising every chance they get and passionately serving their community’s needs.

Recently, as social justice issues such as racism, gender inequality, and climate change have been turned up to eleven, churches, at least in my context, have struggled to engage meaningfully in the question “how is the local church supposed to act in the world, and why?” Some have defaulted to a more insulated view of the church. These people believe that the local church is only supposed to preach, pray, and encourage its members to live out their faith and engage with the community in their own time. In frustration with the first kind of church, other churches passionately leap at every chance they get to engage with social justice issues. They plant trees, feed the hungry, and advocate for human rights. However, this sometimes comes at the expense of telling people about the Kingdom itself. Finally, some people have opted out of the social justice conversation altogether. Instead, they focus on living out a private faith, and you wouldn’t even know that they follow Jesus unless you asked.

As I sit and ponder the entire issue, I can’t help but feel empathy for both sides of the problem. On the one hand, preaching (2 Timothy 2:15), worship (Ephesians 5:19), and the traditional activities that make up our regular Sunday morning services are vital. In fact, it is a passion of mine to recover a fresh sense of the Scriptures, Christ-centered preaching, and sound theology in our local churches. However, traditionally, Christianity has been at the forefront of many social justice problems. In the past, they’ve been among the first to serve those in need in extremely practical ways. Why can’t we have the best of both worlds? It seems to me that good biblical, theological preaching would lead a church to want to care for creation (Genesis 1:26-28), feed the hungry, stand up for injustice, and protect the most vulnerable among (Isaiah 1:17; Micah 6:8) us as we proclaim the Good News (Isaiah 52:7; Romans 10:15).

For me, the Gospel starts in Genesis 1 and ends in Revelation 22. When we talk to people about the Gospel and share Jesus, we try to distil the most essential information so that whoever is listening can walk away with enough to help them follow Him. However, unless the entire biblical narrative informs our understanding of our distilled version of the Gospel, the way we do church will always come out looking a little twisted. I believe that our churches are supposed to look like mini Edens where life and goodness flow. When people enter the doors, they should sense that God walks and dwells with His people (Exodus 29:45; 2 Corinthians 6:16; Revelation 21:3). Not just because there’s good preaching and worship, but because in the mini garden, humanity’s needs are being met, where we’re all one in Christ Jesus (Genesis 1:26; Galatians 3:28), where sickness and the corruption of this world are being tended to, there is no hunger, no thirst (James 5:14; Revelation 21:4), and creation is in harmony with those who are supposed to steward it (Genesis 2; Revelation 21-22).