DANGEROUS BELIEFS

There is a perspective from which the widow's belief was dangerous.

She apparently believed it was a good idea to walk up to the temple treasury and cast in her last two mites—all that she had.

From one perfectly reasonable perspective, that's dangerous.

Don't do that! You need that money. God gave you a brain. Be prudent. Take care of yourself. Surely God doesn't expect you to give away your last coins.

And yet there is another perspective from which not casting in those mites might have been dangerous.

That is the tension I am beginning to notice.

Beliefs have implications.

As long as a belief remains safely inside my head—as long as I merely say I believe it—it costs almost nothing. I can "draw near" with my lips while keeping my actual life safely insulated from the implications of what I claim to believe.

But what happens when I actually walk in the implications of a belief?

Then belief becomes consequential.

And consequential beliefs can be dangerous.

I increasingly feel that Jesus is validating something I have been noticing about some of the extreme beliefs that I feel He has placed—or is developing—in my mind and heart: from certain entirely reasonable, worldly perspectives, some of these beliefs are dangerous.

Perhaps that fact alone doesn't disqualify them.

But neither does their extremity prove that they came from Jesus.

That leaves me with a much more interesting—and much more demanding—experiment:

What happens when I believe Jesus enough to actually walk into the implications of what I believe He is teaching me, while continuing to test, discern, and remain willing to discover that I have misunderstood Him?

Because once belief becomes embodied, it stops being merely theology.

It becomes a way of living.

JOSEPH SMITH: BRIDGE RUNNER

Joseph Smith gives me an extraordinary example.

Consider how innocent the original belief sounds.

Joseph reads James:

If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God.

Well...

Joseph lacked wisdom.

So why not ask God?

That doesn't sound dangerous.

It sounds almost boring.

Go pray.

People tell children to pray every day.

But Joseph apparently took the proposition seriously.

If James really means anyone, then perhaps that includes Joseph Smith.

And if Joseph Smith can ask God... perhaps God might answer Joseph Smith.

And if God answers Joseph Smith... perhaps Joseph should take the answer seriously.

And if God answers him again... perhaps he should take that seriously too.

Pow.

A world opens.

Joseph walks into some trees as a boy trying to figure out which church he should join.

He cannot possibly see Nauvoo from there.

He cannot see temples.

He cannot see priesthood quorums.

He cannot see missionaries circling the earth.

He cannot see Utah.

He cannot see the Book of Mormon.

He cannot see plural marriage.

He cannot see Emma's heartbreak.

He cannot see persecution.

He cannot see Carthage.

He sees the next plank:

Ask God.

And Joseph Smith seems to have been what I might call a bridge runner.

Some people can stand on one plank for twenty years.

Joseph kept running.

And eventually an entire religious world came into existence around the consequences of those beliefs.

Some of what emerged recovered or reemphasized ancient Christian and biblical ideas in striking ways.

But the bridge also became disruptive.

Dangerous.

Chaotic.

Costly.

And sometimes costly not merely to Joseph, but to people around him.

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

That matters.

Because there is an enormous moral difference between saying:

I am willing to suffer because of what I believe God is asking me to do

and saying:

Other people may have to suffer because of what I believe God is asking me to do.

Plural marriage makes this impossible to sanitize.

Within Joseph's religious understanding, plural marriage became part of restoration.

But look at the human consequences.

Look at Emma.

Whatever conclusions someone reaches about the theology or history, there is no reason to pretend that this was an easy next plank.

Imagine believing that God has brought you this far—and now the next thing you believe He is asking of you threatens one of the relationships you value most.

That is a dangerous belief.

And it teaches me something crucial.

Courage isn't enough.

Sincerity isn't enough.

Extremity isn't proof.

Even my willingness to suffer for a belief does not establish that I have understood Jesus correctly.

The more consequential the belief becomes, the more desperately I need discernment.

I need a Shepherd.

THE FREEDOM TO STOP ON THE BRIDGE

There is something else about bridges.

Nobody is forcing me to cross.

At least that is how I currently experience what Jesus is doing with me.

He can show me another plank.

I can look at it.

I can think about it.

I can pray about it.

I can put one foot on it and pull it back.

I can sit down.

I can camp there.

I can say:

Jesus, I think I see where this goes, and I'm not ready.

And perhaps sometimes Jesus Himself says:

Not yet.

That matters because there are at least two different questions involved in taking the next step.

The first is intellectual:

Do I believe the next inference is true?

The second is existential:

Am I ready to live in the world that this belief creates?

Those are not the same question.

I can stand on a high diving board and completely believe the water below me is deep enough.

I can understand the physics.

I can watch fifty people jump.

I can believe the diving board is structurally sound.

And still say:

I'm not ready to jump.

The belief has reached my body.

Now it costs something.

PEOPLE HAVE REASONS FOR STOPPING

This makes me more sympathetic toward people who stop somewhere on their own inference bridges.

Suppose someone comes to believe:

I think the Book of Mormon actually is true.

But the next implication might cost him his relationship with his Baptist family.

Or his Catholic wife.

Or his friends.

Or the community where he has belonged his entire life.

Maybe he sees the next plank perfectly well.

Maybe that's exactly why he isn't stepping onto it.

Change theory recognizes that people move through stages.

We contemplate.

We prepare.

We experiment.

We act.

Sometimes we retreat.

Sometimes we remain in one place for a long time.

And maybe spiritual change works something like that too.

This honors agency.

And it reminds me of something else:

I don't know what is happening between another person and Jesus.

Thank goodness I am not called to judge where somebody else ought to be standing on the bridge.

Maybe Jesus is saying Come.

Maybe Jesus is saying Wait.

Maybe the person is afraid.

Maybe the person is wise.

Maybe the person is avoiding something.

Maybe the person is preparing.

That's between them and Jesus.

BUT IS NOT CROSSING SAFE?

And here the argument turns around.

Because someone could read everything I've written so far and reasonably conclude:

Wow. Greg has convinced me. Dangerous beliefs are dangerous.

Therefore I am going to avoid them.

No radical Christianity for me.
No bridge running.
No disruptive personal revelation.
I'm staying right here.

Understandable.

But I have a question:

Is playing it safe safe?

That question bothers me.

Because perhaps there are dangers on both sides.

There is danger in walking the bridge.

But there may also be danger in refusing to walk it.

A BIBLE! A BIBLE!

The Book of Mormon itself makes fun of a certain kind of spiritual safety:

“A Bible! A Bible! We have got a Bible...”

I understand that impulse better than I once did.

Because more revelation potentially means more responsibility.

It's like a farmer saying:

Look, I already know how to farm better than I'm actually farming.

I don't need an extension agent coming out here and giving me fifteen additional improvements.

I'm not even doing the ten things I already know.

That's pretty reasonable.

Why ask for more light when I haven't implemented the light I already have?

Why ask Jesus another question when His answer might disrupt something I finally have working?

Why add pages to my Bible?

More revelation means more possible implications.

And implications can be expensive.

A God who spoke only thousands of years ago can become relatively manageable.

I can build an accommodation with that God.

I know the texts.

I know the rules.

I know what Sunday looks like.

But a God who might speak today is less manageable.

And a God who might speak personally to me?

That's downright volatile.

Tomorrow morning He might say something inconvenient.

THE DANGER OF SAFETY

But conventionality has its own dangerous beliefs.

Our society has inference bridges too.

They are simply so familiar that we stop seeing them.

For example:

And somewhere along that bridge, Jesus starts talking about barns.

And rich men.

And camels.

And needles.

And lilies.

And birds.

And daily bread.

Again, that doesn't mean saving money is evil.

It means I should at least ask:

At what point does prudent preparation become an attempt to make trust unnecessary?

Ancient Israel receives manna for today.

I would prefer manna diversified across several asset classes with enough reserves to survive a thirty-year downturn.

I understand why.

I like security too.

But I shouldn't confuse familiarity with safety.

The opposite of a dangerous belief isn't necessarily a safe belief.

Sometimes it is simply another dangerous belief whose dangers are so culturally familiar that I no longer recognize them as dangerous.

THE DANGER OF SURETY

We can do the same thing collectively.

We want security.

Understandable.

Someone takes an eye.

The ancient limitation says:

An eye for an eye.

Don't take two.

But human beings quickly discover another strategy:

Make ourselves so overwhelmingly powerful that nobody will dare take our eye.

Take the lion's share.

Create overwhelming advantage.

Hedge every conceivable risk.

Make vulnerability disappear.

And suddenly the pursuit of security can itself produce violence, domination, inequality, fear, and escalation.

We wanted safety.

Our pursuit of safety became dangerous.

Perhaps something similar happens spiritually.

I want certainty.

Jesus keeps offering faith.

I want guarantees.

Jesus keeps saying Follow me.

I want a map showing the entire bridge.

Jesus keeps illuminating one plank.

MY ONE SONG

And now I arrive at the belief sitting immediately in front of me.

On the surface, it doesn't sound particularly dangerous.

In fact, it sounds almost ridiculously small.

What if I believed that Jesus redeemed one song?

Just one.

Forget 260 for a moment.

One.

What if one classic rock song—something I experienced as already lovely, already of good report, already praiseworthy—became, through my participation, more lovely, more of good report, more praiseworthy because there was MORE Jesus in it?

And what if I allowed myself to believe that Jesus used me as an instrument in that process?

Not because I am uniquely important.

Not because I am Joseph Smith.

But because if God can work through human beings, He can work through human beings.

Joseph was a vessel.

Others are vessels.

Why couldn't I be one too?

That is the little belief.

One song.

Tiny plank.

Seems harmless.

Until I ask:

If that's true...then what?

And there it is.

My inference bridge.

POW! A WORLD OPENS

If Jesus can redeem one song with me...

could He redeem another?

Apparently I have already experimented with that question.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Something like 260 times so far.

But even that keeps everything safely inside the category of songs.

What happens when the inference escapes the music room?

If Jesus can take something already lovely and make it more Jesus...

what else can He redeem?

Art?

Movies?

Technology?

Buildings?

Rituals?

Work?

Friendships?

Culture?

Institutions?

My house?

My phone?

My imagination?

My ordinary day?

Parts of Babylon itself?

Could swords actually become plowshares through countless little redemptions?

Could Zion be built partly from materials God has been preparing long before I recognized what they were for?

Could Jesus have been working years—decades—centuries—in advance?

Could things I am receiving now be an inheritance from people who had no idea what their work might eventually become?

Suddenly my inference bridge starts looking like an inheritance bridge.

I infer.

And then I discover things waiting to be received.

Inference Bridge: If this is true, what else follows?

Inheritance Bridge: If this was prepared before I arrived, what am I now being invited to receive?

One song can become conceptually enormous.

Not because the song itself is enormous.

But because of what believing the experience permits me to consider next.

That may be what makes the belief dangerous.

MAYBE I'M A BRIDGE RUNNER

But I am also beginning to recognize something about myself.

I think I may be a bridge runner.

When I really become convinced of something, I want to know what follows.

I don't merely want to admire the proposition.

I want to experiment on it.

Walk it.

See where it goes.

That quality can be enormously productive.

And it can be enormously dangerous.

Joseph Smith's story makes that plain enough for me.

A bridge runner can travel astonishing distances.

A bridge runner can also get himself—and potentially other people—hurt.

So perhaps Jesus' purpose in putting the idea of Dangerous Beliefs so strongly before me today isn't to tell me:

Stop running.

Nor is it:

Run faster.

Maybe it is:

Greg, understand what kind of road you are choosing to walk.

We interrupt this Dangerous Thought Piece for an important message from Jesus TV...

JESUS TV: MAYBE THE BRIDGE IS MOSTLY TEACHING ME HOW TO WATCH

Maybe the biggest implication of all these implications isn't that Jesus is preparing me to DO increasingly gigantic things. Maybe He's giving me better eyes.

Maybe He's teaching me to watch His show—to watch intensely, intelligently, joyfully, hopefully, and faithfully as He brings forth His marvelous work and wonder.

I do whatever little thing He actually puts in front of me. But I don't need to cross the Delaware unless He tells me to. I don't need to storm Normandy unless He tells me to. I don't need to part the Red Sea.

Maybe most days my assignment is simply: “Greg, WATCH ME part it.”

But why does watching matter?

Because what I continually behold, attend to, admire, and learn to love can eventually possess me. A great story can almost possess me. A lie can possess me. And, in the language of my faith, Christ and charity can possess me.

And suddenly Jesus TV connects to the first and great commandment. If Jesus is telling me that the great work of my life is to love Him with all my heart, might, mind, and strength, then perhaps one reason He keeps showing me more of what I understand to be His work is wonderfully simple:

He wants me to watch Him so closely that I fall more deeply in love with Him.

“Feed your head,” like Jesus said. My Head Makes Movies—some of them Jesus approves of and wants me to watch. He calls those ones “Jesus TV.”

Watch Jesus. Learn Jesus. Love Jesus. Become increasingly possessed by His story, His character, His charity.

Then do whatever little part He actually gives me to do—and go back to watching.

“Greg, watch what I'm doing.”

Holy cow.

Hallelujah.

Praise God.

What a show.

And now...back to the show.

A TWO-EDGED WARNING

That may finally be what this entire thought piece is becoming for me.

A warning.

But a two-edged warning.

The widow can keep her mites.

That has consequences.

The widow can give her mites.

That has consequences too.

There may be no neutral position.

There may simply be different roads carrying different risks.

YOU ARE GOING TO NEED A GOOD SHEPHERD

So perhaps the lesson isn't:

Choose safety.

Perhaps it is:

Choose your Shepherd carefully.

If I am going to walk a path where beliefs have consequences...

If I am going to experiment upon the word...

If I am going to follow inference bridges...

If I am going to receive inheritances prepared before I arrived...

If I am going to entertain the possibility that Jesus can take one song, one object, one institution, one relationship, one ordinary piece of my world and make it MORE Jesus...

If I am going to be a bridge runner...

then I had better become increasingly interested not merely in running, but in hearing.

Because courage without discernment can become recklessness.

Revelation without humility can become certainty about myself.

Inference without testing can become a slippery slope.

Faith without love can leave collateral damage behind it.

And fear disguised as prudence can leave me standing forever on a plank Jesus may actually be inviting me to cross.

So I need both warnings.

Don't assume the next plank came from Jesus merely because it is radical.

And:

Don't assume the next plank didn't come from Jesus merely because it is dangerous.

Test.

Listen.

Wait when waiting is called for.

Walk when walking is called for.

Run if running is called for.

Turn around if I discover that I misunderstood.

And remember that the bridge belongs neither to my fear nor to my enthusiasm.

It belongs to the One I am trying to follow.

Because if I really intend to live—not merely profess—the implications of what I believe...

I am going to need myself a very Good Shepherd.