Eccentrics for Jesus

For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? (Lk 14:28)

One of the books filmmaker and author Werner Herzog always brings with him during filming is the 1546 edition of Luther’s translation of the Bible. He reads from the book of Job “for consolation,” and sometimes the Psalms. His filmic visions often lead him to situations where he needs consoling. A prime example of this is his self-described “fever dream” of a film, 1982’s Fitzcarraldo, about an eccentric who dragged a thirty-ton steamboat over a mountain in the middle of an Amazonian jungle. So, Herzog, an eccentric, literally dragged a thirty-ton steamship over a mountain in the middle of an Amazonian jungle. This seems to be an impossible task, but in interviews, Herzog always insists it was completely doable. Herculean, painful, dangerous, yes, but doable — and he did it. There were technical problems and political unrest, and his lead actor, the equally eccentric Klaus Kinski, added to the difficulties by behaving badly during production. How badly? So badly, in fact, one of the tribal chiefs approached Herzog with a sincere offer to kill him. Herzog declined, but only because he needed Kinski in order to complete filming.

On the way down the mountain, with the steamboat in a particularly precarious spot near the water, Herzog had to weigh the costs of accomplishing the job versus his own personal well-being. In an article for the Directors Guild of America, Jeffrey Ressner quotes Herzog on that moment, one of many.

You can shoot a scene like this only once — you cannot pull the boat back up and do a second take. I remember rushing between the two cameras and how muddy it was — sometimes you’d sink to your hips. I was running around barefoot and stepped onto a broken beer bottle. Despite the fact I was bleeding badly, I kept running. I remember at the time how the shards of glass in my foot had as much importance to me as the ship going into the water. But I could not miss a beat on the shot, I had to perform, I had to deliver, no matter what.

Eccentric stories like this are inspiring, and excitement and adrenaline are terrific pain deadeners, but a lacerated foot marinating in jungle mud teaming with unfriendly life becomes something completely different once the high wears off. You’ve accomplished something, but it has a cost to ourselves and others. For Herzog and his investors, it was clearly worth it.

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I’ve often described my vocation as “failed missionary to Pelagia.” It’s a calling that’s allergic, if not downright repulsive, to money. In an aggressively capitalistic society, that’s a deeply shameful place to find yourself in. It just is. Comparison is the thief of joy, but when you look at folks called to be ridiculously well-compensated pickers of low-hanging fruit, it’s easy to become discouraged. It’s easy to feel your eccentricity has become the basis of mockery and derision. Now, a wealthy missionary to Pelagians makes about as much sense as a poor one, but it’s my pity party, thank you very much! Hey, I’m being biblical, I’m counting the cost – theirs and mine! Obviously, I’m no Werner Herzog.

Most days, in my particular context, I feel about as welcome and encouraged in my calling as a porcupine in a balloon factory. Of course, in the midst of my “might as well eat worms” smorgasbord, I hear from a friend who is in the middle of trying to pick up their life from the aftermath of a hurricane. Then I see it’s Joni Eareckson Tada’s birthday and realize she’s been faithfully serving in her vocation from a wheelchair longer than I’ve been alive. I can hear the swelling strains of the world’s smallest violin playing just for me …

The Australian pastor Mandy Smith has a new book out that I swear was written for me, for this very moment. It’s called Confessions of an Amateur Saint: The Christian Leader’s Journey from Self-Sufficiency to Reliance on God and trust me, you don’t have to be a Christian leader to benefit from it.  Take chapter five, for instance. “I Want to Feel Successful.” Yeah, like I said, written just for me. There is comfort in precedent.

By the time Paul writes his letters he seems confident of his calling, able to tell a positive story of his imprisonments and sufferings. But I can read between the lines. I get the feeling he’s had to do a lot of wrestling with God to overcome the shame. His story could also be described as a disastrous decision to leave behind the accolades and stability of a successful career to take a path of dishonor, persecution, and imprisonment. This scholar who was once lauded as a great protector of the Jewish faith has now become prince of all persecuted. If a painless life is a sign of God’s blessing, then he is far from grace. If being unopposed is a sign that your teaching is correct, he’s way off track. I know what success looks like when I see it in others. They seem to know the future and make decisions with clarity. All their plans unfold without a hitch. They swim in a sea of consensus and appreciation. They push forward from strength to strength with no detours. It looks like confidence and popularity and unity and measurable outcomes. It also looks implausible. But delicious. So delicious.

We don’t always get to see Paul’s wrestling. I want to watch his distress as he learns of the suffering of his children in the faith and feels the feebleness of his prison-cell prayers for them. I want to see his face in the moments when one more friend has betrayed him, when one more follower has abandoned the faith. I wish I could hear the words he whimpers when it’s just him and the walls of a dank dungeon, when the God who got him into this mess feels far away. Did Paul feel he had failed? […]

When I have a public failure, I feel ashamed, but Paul boasts in his imprisonment. When friends and followers walk away, I question my beliefs, but in rejection Paul chooses to stay the course. When obedience takes me to suffering, I’m tempted to feel forsaken by God. But Paul determines to see his suffering as a sign of solidarity with Christ. When ridiculed I want to put up a façade, but Paul gushes about his tears, his longing, his joy. It’s not because he’s invincible. It’s because, like our Lord, he has known the darkness, been tempted in it, and chosen the light. He emerges, not unscathed, but with the tenacity to tell the darkness, “The more you dump on me, the harder I’ll dig for light. The more you oppress me, the more I’ll treasure the One who refuses to oppress. The more powerful you think you are, the more passion I’ll have to preach the good news that in our weakness Christ is strong!

In Robert Farrar Capon’s Kingdom, Grace and Judgment, he addresses Luke 14’s cost head on with his usual bluntness. The suffering, rejection, shame — all overhead. He bottom lines it for us; what’s the number? Everything you got.

Jesus, in other words, gives them the hard sell. “Listen,” he says. “I don’t want to waste your time here. What I’m laying out for you is not only the best offer of salvation you’ve ever seen; it’s the only one that will actually work when you get it home. […] How much does it cost then? Everything you’ve got. The works. The whole farm. With no pocket money left over. There are no pockets in a shroud.” Jesus’ point, however, is not simply that discipleship in the way of death-resurrection is expensive; more important, it’s that it is liberating once the price is paid.

Sure, the price of salvation is high. And sure, you should sit down and count the cost. But do you see what you come up with when you get done counting? You come up with the absolute certainty that everything you’ve got turns out to be exactly the right amount to cut you in on the deal: you have one (1) life, and the price is one (1) life. Even more hilarious than that, you would have to shell out everything anyway, even to get nothing for it. And funniest of all, even if you shell out only because you have to, your total loss will still get you one (1) ticket to the final Party.’

Jesus and his followers repeated this theme over and over again. Yet, it is always encountered with surprise and shock. The cost can be breathtaking. But we read Christ’s words, Paul and Mandy and Robert’s recapitulation of Christ’s words, and we feel the deep hum of truth in them. They simultaneously offend and comfort. There is relief in them.

Is it worth the shame of poverty? Is it worth running like some eccentric madman on broken glass, literally and figuratively? No fame, no earthly return, no auteur’s glory? The answer is always yes, no matter how I may answer the question on a day-to-day basis. Why? I want to get out of this thing alive. That’s Christ’s promise; his life covers my total loss. One ticket to the final party, please.