"Is it Hateful to believe in Hell?"

I hate politics. I hate what it's done to our country, I hate what it's done to people I know, and I hate what it's done to my various social media outlets.

This blog post has NOTHING to do with the current administration: I believe it's possible to feel a certain way about the government, live my life contrary or in accordance with whatever is being said and done, and (GASP!) not blast Facebook with it.

This has to do with an article I read on NPR earlier today. It's titled, "Is It Hateful To Believe In Hell? Bernie Sanders' Questions Prompt Backlash".

You should read it yourself, instead of taking my word for what it says. In case you're busy or tired, here's the general idea: Bernie Sanders, Vermont Senator, questions whether Russell Vought (Trump's appointee for deputy director of the Office of Management and Budget)'s views of Christianity - specifically, on the eternal condemnation of non-Christians - qualifies as hateful or Islamophobic. It was the Senator's opinion that it does.

Bear in mind: this blog post is not about all the things mainstream Christianity does right or wrong.

I repeat: This. Is. Not. About. What. Mainstream. Christianity. Does. Right. Or. Wrong. This is about the Christian belief in hell, the authority of scripture, and whether or not belief in scripture should disqualify someone from a job. Reading this article set my mind twisting, mainly because I'm usually a fan of Senator Sanders. But I think he's got this wrong.

If I claim to be a Christian, I have to believe in the absolute infallibility of scripture. If I believe that parts of Scripture are truth and others are not, or parts of it should be taken in context and parts of it shouldn't, then I can make it say whatever I want it to say. And if that's the sort of Scripture I believe in, I don't actually believe in anything.

Hell exists. Damnation exists. Condemnation exists.

In the article, Senator Sanders repeatedly asked Mister Vought, "Do you believe people who are not Christians are condemned?" He did not elaborate on this, and I assume it was so whatever answer Mister Vought provided could be twisted into America's political machine.

But the answer is simple. If Mr. Vought is a Christian, the answer is yes.

Jesus said to him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me." (John 14:6)

I claim to be a follower of Jesus. So I must accept the truth that He is the only path to salvation.

The article claimed that "about of half of U.S. Christians believe that some non-Christians can go to heaven". In my view, this means that half of U.S. Christians aren't really Christians at all. Because if someone is trying to peddle a Christianity without the need for Christ, without the need for forgiveness of sin and Christ's sacrifice on the cross, without reconciliation with the only true One worthy of our love, they're not peddling Christianity at all. They're trying to sell a watered-down, touchy-feely, sunshine-and-rainbows Christianity. And believing in this fake Christianity is, in my opinion, even more dangerous than not being a Christian at all.

But that leave me with this problem: Since I believe this, then that means many of my loved ones are, indeed, condemned.

This is a hard pill to swallow. I am friends with people who believe many different 'flavors' of Christianity, some of which don't have room for hell in their belief of God. I am friends with dozens of non-Christians and people of other faiths. Am I proclaiming that, as they are now, they're bound for hell?

Yes. And I cannot apologize for that belief. Because it's Scripture. It's truth. And Jesus never apologized for Truth.

This doesn't mean that it doesn't break my heart. Quite the opposite! It has me on my knees day and night, asking God to show me a way to speak about Jesus to these people I love in a way that won't turn them away from Him forever.

But does this belief make me hateful? Does it make me Islamophobic? Or Agnostophobic? Or Anti-semetic?

The argument I believe Senator Sanders was trying to make (at least, it's the argument the commenters on the Facebook article thought he was trying to make, and I severely regret having to wade through that quagmire) is that Mr. Vought would be unable to do his job as deputy director of the Office of Management and Budget because of this belief that non-Christians are condemned, that it would stain his view of them and impact his decisions on whether or not to allocate funds to these condemned people.

Despite it being in Scripture absolutely nowhere, there is a common misconception that Hell is for people who disobey what's written in God's Big Book of Downers, and Heaven is for people who never have fun but fall in line to God's ridiculously unrealistic behavior constraints. This lie has been pushing people away from Christ since He first walked the earth.

All of humanity is fallen. Everyone, Christian or Jew, Muslim or non-believer, continues to fall short of the glory of God every day. Me, included. You, included. Your grandmother, included. That's the point of salvation: repentance of a life lived in opposition to God, but continual justification for the endless times we fall short. We call this GRACE.

Belief that those who haven't yet claimed the justification of Christ are still under God's wrath isn't a statement of hatred. It's a statement of fact.

But we are called, as ambassadors for Christ, to show the love of Christ to everyone regardless of this fact. A Christian teacher would never think to not invest in the life of a student because the student has a different belief system. A Christian plumber wouldn't ignore a flooded basement in the home of a Jewish or Islamic family. A Christian pastor would never turn away the questions of an agnostic or atheist seeking clarification.

And a true Christian deputy director of the Office of Management and Budget would never allocate funds away from certain groups of people simply because of their condemnation.

The love of Christ, and the gifts and works of our hands, aren't simply for the righteous. If that was the case, then no one would every do anything for anybody. Because no one is righteous. Absolutely no one. 

Christ set the ultimate example for us. When he died on the cross, no one on earth was worthy of the gift of salvation. When He brought his "funds" to us - the payment for our sins - all of humanity, stretching from time immemorial to time eternal - was condemned. But instead of turning away, He gave. Not only to the millions who would accept His free gift, but for the billions who He knew would have the opportunity to accept it, but would chose not to.

Christ commands the same attitude of love and generosity and fairness from us.

I suppose the article rubbed me the wrong way because it accused a Christian of being unable to do a job simply because he believes scripture. But, as is often the problem with interpreting little pieces of scripture instead of interpreting scripture as a whole, the context was lost. Christ is the only path to salvation, yes: but, as long as there are people in our lives not on that path (and there always will be), we are called to live every day displaying the same love Christ showed everyone, not just Christians, when He died for us.

Yes, condemnation exists. Yes, billions of people stand under it, tens of millions of those in America. But does believing that, saying it aloud, count as hate speech?

If so, then I guess I'm hateful.

"The Old and the Young" OR "The Size of Our Footprints"

Sometimes I feel like all my posts on this blog revolve around getting older. I'm 33, so I'm not what I'd call "old", but it's fair to say that I'm not what many would call a 'young man' anymore. Then again, it's probably also fair to say that almost no one really "feels" old. Old is a word reserved for people older than YOU. It's for those people who were older than you back when you were really young. Old is a word we use for our parents and grandparents.

But it's not a world I'm able to use for one of my grandparents anymore.

Around a week ago, as I was celebrating my favorite team winning the Super Bowl, I got a call from my dad, stating that his father, my paternal grandfather, had passed away from complications of Alzheimer's disease. It wasn't a surprise; Elmer Smith had been in the care of a nursing home for almost a decade, and his cognition and lucid moments had been ebbing the whole time.

Two weeks ago, it looked like he was in his final days. So Hillary and I drove to Pikeville, KY to be with my family.

Elmer, my grandfather, my Pappaw, had been transferred to Pikeville Medical Center because he was no longer able to take food and water. There was no feeding tube.

By the end of the week, when Hillary and I arrived, he had been transferred back to the nursing home. Because he'd taken a slightly turn for the better, partly, but mostly because his Medicaid would no longer pay for him to remain in the hospital.

Though she'd never met him, Hillary had heard great things about my Pappaw from her own grandparents, who had been very close friends with him earlier in their lives. In fact, when I had told her grandfather, Ronnie Hensley, that Elmer Smith was my grandfather, he'd been astonished at the coincidence. But upon reflection, all of us acknowledge that such events are rarely coincidence at all, but the hand of God pushing things into place.

When we arrived at the nursing home, Pappaw wasn't awake. Apparently he hadn't actually been awake for a long time; my own parents had said they hadn't seen him open his eyes in over a year. Still, I spoke to him. I held his hand. I introduced Hillary, and told him about the two beautiful great-granddaughters he now had. Hillary spoke to him, and touched his face.

And he opened his eyes.

I'm not sure if there was anything behind those blue eyes, but they were open. He mumbled a few words. He even laughed, although I can't be sure if it was because of something one of us said or simply something in his mind. But it doesn't really matter, because I got to interact with him one last time.

When he passed last Sunday, Hillary and I took off from work to drive in for the funeral. But, after dropping off the girls at school and daycare, a band of snow slammed the area, and we were forced to stay in town. I had no peace about it for the whole day. How could I? Where can someone find peace in knowing they've missed the celebration of a life of someone so prolific?

Over a belated brunch, when we realized we couldn't brave the interstate in the weather, Hillary reminded me that Elmer Smith was not being laid to rest. In fact, he wasn't there at all. Elmer Smith knew Christ on a deep level, and had spent a large portion of his life preaching the Gospel to others in  a little Primitive Baptist Church in their hollow of Blackberry, Kentucky.

Alzheimers had taken Elmer Smith's memories, withered his body, and dulled his mind. But his soul belonged to God, and everything else that had been taken from him had been completely restored. He was not only more whole than he had been in a decade; he was more whole than he had ever been on earth, even at the height of his youth.

It's comforting to know that I will see him again one day, in a way I never got to see him on earth. 'Old' was a word I'd reserved for my grandfather when I was a little boy. The next time I see him, 'old' will not even be in my vocabulary. But it's still not much consolation to those of us left here on earth, staring at footprints that seem so large, far too large for us 'young' people to fill.

I am thirty-three years old. I have two stepdaughters, six and five years old. I am a little younger than my dad was when my brother and I were the age of Faith, my oldest child. When I look at my father, he still seems the same to me that he was then, and sometimes I still feel like the same child who ran around in the hills of Turkey Creek. I don't feel as old as my dad seemed when I was Faith's age. He seemed almost like one of the Greek heroes of legend, able to do absolutely anything.

I certainly don't feel like a Greek hero, although I may be in the eyes of my kids. I can't ask them; it's not really a fair question, not to mention that they might not have any idea how to answer it. And it might simply take the context of years to really put something like that into perspective. No doubt, she at least sees me as old, even though I don't feel it.

When I was kid, growing up, and I didn't understand my parent's seemingly pointless motivations for making me go to bed or eat my greens or whatever, I'd roll my eyes when they'd say, "You'll understand when you have kids."

As the 'young' are apt to do, I thought they were too old to understand.

But they were right. With kids of my own, it all suddenly makes sense.

Maybe my own footprints are getting bigger all the time. Right now, when I compare them to the people who came before me, the old people, my footprints seem so small. But, to those younger than me, how do my footprints appear? When my time comes, will my footprints still seem small to me?

Elmer Smith was a humble man, but I think he had an idea just how large his footprints seemed to us young people.

I recall one summer, when I was a teenager, a family gathering at my parents' old house. Pappaw was there, in full health. There were maybe thirty people there, once all the sons and daughters and cousins and grandkids were counted. I remember, standing next to Pappaw, and saying, as I gestured to the clamor and excitement of all the extended family, "You know, Pappaw, all of this is your fault."

He laughed, and said something to the extent of, "I know. And I'm darn proud of it."

You're missed, Elmer Smith. We'll see you soon.

Elmer Smith in the US Navy, circa 1950, Korean War 

"Choosing Not to Share", OR "Butter"

"I feel thin, Galdalf... like butter, scraped over too much bread."  - Bilbo Baggins

This has been the theme of my life, as of late. And I hand't actually realized it until very recently. Within the last week, to be exact. 

Two weekends ago, Hillary and I went to Cincinnati for the Flying Pig Marathon weekend. Among the festivities were a 5K, 10K, kid's 1 mile fun run, 2 mile "run with your dog" jog, half marathon, and full marathon. For the truly insane, the Flying Pig offered the Skyline Chili 3-way and 4-way challenges: to run the 5K, 10K, and half marathon or full marathon, all in the same weekend. 

I was registered for the 4-way challenge, plus the 2-mile dog run; a grand total of almost 38 miles. Because I have a death wish or I want to start hating running or something. 

We might have gotten up a little early for Rory's tastes. 

The races on Saturday (10K, 5K, and dog run, in that order) went off without a hitch, pretty much. I had some minor hamstring pain because I didn't stretch properly, but Hillary and I wound down that afternoon by watching The Avengers: Age of Ultron in the Newport, KY theater. Sitting on my butt for 3 hours watching superheroes knock each other senseless was just what the doctor ordered. 

Not to mention a late brunch at First Watch. Rory sat in the booth like this the entire time. He ate bacon. 

Sunday morning found Hillary running the half, me running the full. I didn't see her after out separate corrals split, but I managed to snap some pretty good pictures. 

And yes, I took pictures of many of the other mile markers, but this was the one that mattered most. Mainly because of how much pain I was in when it was taken. 

When all was said and done, I finished the marathon in 4:51:39; more than TWENTY MINUTES faster than when I ran the same course last year. I felt much worse after this race than I did the last one, though, which I guess is a side effect of pushing myself harder. If "no pain, no gain" is a universal truth, then the flip side, "have gains, have pains" is also true. 

Hillary was long finished with her race by the time I crossed the finish line. Because I was sore, tired, and more than a little sick to my stomach, I wanted nothing more than to find my wife and begin my recovery. 

She had set up camp in Panera Bread. A mile from the finish line. So, medals jangling around my neck, I trudged one more mile through downtown Cincinnati to find her. 

What feels like an bajillion agonized steps later, I turn the corner to Panera Bread. As I make my final approach, a voice calls out to me: 

"Hey, what're those?" 

I stop and turn. There's a homeless man, whom I must have overlooked because my sights are set on the restaurant that contains my wife. He's sitting against a road sign and pointing at my medals. 

"Oh, they're medals," I say to him, gesturing. "There was a marathon in town today." 

"Oh," he replies. "Can I see?" 

I am in an unfamiliar city. I am physically exhausted. And I have no idea who this guy is. Why does he want me to come closer? Is he going to stab me and try to take my precious, coveted medals? The things I worked so hard for? 

"Sure," I say, against my better judgement, and take a few steps toward him. He approaches me, but I stay outside his arms' reach and display the medals. 

He looks at them with interest. "What do they say?" 

I'm not sure if he actually can't read, or I'm just standing too far from him. But I read the inscriptions to him anyway. Then, as quickly as possible, I step away from him and toward Panera. My wife is a mere few dozen feet away. 

"Hey," he calls to my back. "Are you going to be here this evening?" 

I have no idea why he would ask this. But I hastily reply, "No, me and my wife are going back to Kentucky in a few hours. I'm a youth group leader at my church, and we have a meeting tonight." 

It wasn't until I was inside the restaurant that I realized I had said the worst possible thing. 

It wasn't a coincidence that the homeless man spotted me where he did. Cincinnati is a huge city, and it has more than its fair share of homelessness. When I was running the marathon, and thus during the trek to Panera, I didn't have a dime to my name. But God chose to have the homeless man cross my path right when he did: when my wife was mere feet away, with my wallet, inside a restaurant. It was literally the only point in the day when I could have purchased a meal for this man, shared some testimony with him, maybe learned a little about him. 

Instead, I let the opportunity pass me by, fueled by excuses of "I was filthy, exhausted, hungry and sick to my stomach". But those things were temporary, because a shower, a soft bed, a good meal, and time with my wife were in my near future. It would have taken no time at all to invest in that man. 

Instead I chose to tell him who I worshipped, who I represented, and then did the exact opposite of what my Master would have me do. 

Needless to say, this experience (or lack thereof) has had me examining my spiritual walk over the last few days. No doubt it's not where it should be, or else I would have been much more ready (and able to  hear) the Holy Spirit's call to the opportunity. So where is the disconnect? 

Aside from the needing a long holiday from which I don't intend to return, I really identify with Bilbo. Lately I have spread myself over so many tasks that none of them are really getting the full attention they deserve. 

Husband. 

Dad.

Runner.

Teacher. 

Assistant youth pastor. 

Amateur Writer. 

So many hats, and so little time. Literally. So much of my time is eroded that my personal spiritual walk has suffered. I rarely make time for scripture or study. My prayer life has suffered. And when my spiritual life suffers, all of the aforementioned pursuits go with it. Wash, rinse, repeat, in the same vicious cycle. 

It's very clear to me that something has to give. But what? 

The fact is, I'm not going to be able to tell where my energies need to be directed unless I fix this problem at its source: my walk with God. He knows much better than I do where I'm going to be most effective. And, until I clear up the communication issue with Him in my heart, I'm not going to be able to hear his prodding. Missing my opportunity with the homeless man proved that. 

So, it looks like my next, great adventure lies in lots of prayer, quiet study, and patiently listening for His voice. 

"Footprints" **OR** "Just One More Step"

When I first started this blog, around two or three years ago, it was intended as a running blog. I looked all over the internet for review of energy products for runner (gels, chews, blocks, etc.), and, finding so such thing, decided to start my own. And for the first few months, that's what the blog was about.

Then came my divorce, and the posts stopped. I had... other things on my mind.

Since my remarriage to a wonderful woman and gaining two amazing stepdaughters, the posts have taken a much more personal turn. Heck, when so much starts going right after it went wrong for so long, how could I NOT write about it?

Running was always a therapy exercise for me. So, these days, when I run, my mind drifts back to where I am now, and what I had to go through to get here. Consequently, so do my posts about running.

And, in case you don't live in the Bluegrass State of Kentucky, there is currently a lot of snow on the ground. Like, a lot. A lot, a lot. Eleven inches of snow in eight hours.

My wife snuck a picture as I was shoveling the driveway. You never appreciate the varying topography of your driveway until you have to shovel almost a foot of snow off it. 

School's been cancelled for two days in a row. Hillary and I have been stuck inside with our four- and five-year old daughters. And, even with as much as we love each other, all of us were starting to get cabin fever. 

Hillary's parents took the girls for a few hours this afternoon. 

Hillary went to get a diet coke. 

And I went for a run. 

I've got to hand it to Woodford County: the roads of our subdivision looked amazing this afternoon. The road crews must have been scraping for hours, because not only were the roads clear, but the sun had even dried up most of the remaining slush. So, for the isolated roads of the sub, the running was smooth. 

Sidewalks, however, hadn't been shoveled at all. On the contrary: all the snow pushed off the road had to go somewhere, making drifts on sidewalks upwards of three feet high. 

So I hit the local bike path, and broke out these bad boys: ice grippers that fit over the bottoms of my running shoes. 

I didn't take into account that they'd be less effective when the snow is past my calves. Still, better than nothing. 

There are a few things about running through deep snow that I didn't consider before lacing up. 

 - The energy needed to lift my legs high out of the snow drifts. 

 - The energy needed to fight the drag from snow, even when only the tips of my toes dragged through it. 

 - The energy needed to compensate every time my feet landed and slipped at an angle other than 'straight forward'. 

- Basically a whole lot of energy factors that wore me down, quickly. 

Immediately, I noticed that I wasn't the only one crazy enough to go for a run today. There was one set of footprints in the deep snow, not very old. I tried my best to stay in them: less snow to haul with my shoes meant more energy I could use for running. 

Despite my best efforts to stay in the established footprints, the run was slow and difficult. And then I came to something I didn't expect. 

The footprints stopped. 

Though there hadn't been anything to indicate such, I had assumed that I could follow these footprints as far as I wanted to go. I trusted that someone else had been ahead of me, had laid a path I could follow. There was something strangely daunting about being the one to blaze on past those footprints, and I'm not talking just the tole it was going to take on my already tired (and cold) legs. 

But I wasn't done with my run. So I pressed on. 

It was difficult. For a while, I wanted to stop and rest. But that wasn't really an option; if I stopped, then I was simply standing in foot-deep snow, getting colder by the second. If I wanted to stay warm, and watched to reach the end, I had to keep moving, no matter how slowly. 

Eventually I'd had enough, and I came to a cross-road that had been plowed by the persistent Woodford County road crew. I stopped to catch my breath, and when I turned around, the only footprints I saw were my own. 

They took a while to make. They left me tired and sore, and the thought of having to go through them again to get home was intimidating. But they were mine, and someone else could walk in them if they came this way, just like the first set I had used. 

There are a lot of metaphors in this entry for my trials of the last two/three years.  

I eventually made it back to the paved, easy roads of my subdivision. And it, like many subdivisions, is full of large plots of land simply waiting for some enterprising developer to snatch up and fill with affordable luxury homes. 

Someone else got to a particularly large, undeveloped plot today, though, and left a message for all to see. 

I don't know who turned this field into a giant Etch-a-Sketch, but I was glad they did. Because, even though I looked back and saw only one set of footprints, I knew He was still with me the entire way. Sometimes, God doesn't carry you; instead, he simply whispers, quietly, "Just one more step."