The Politician

From early childhood, I was as fascinated with politics as some kids are with baseball or football. When I was in the sixth grade, I stayed up into the early hours of the morning to see if Chep Morrison had finally been elected governor of Louisiana—he lost for the second time. In junior high school I sketched out my political objectives through my first term as governor of Louisiana. In fact I kept a picture of the Governor's Mansion secretly taped to the side of my desk. From the seventh grade until the twelfth, all my political objectives went as planned: I finished my senior year in high school serving as Student Body President, governor of Louisiana Boy's State, and vice-president of Key Club International. By the time I entered college I had already traveled and spoken around much of the South as well as parts of the Midwest and Northeast.

My decision to attend Louisiana State University rather than a private university was primarily a political one—LSU was the place to meet people statewide and to build a political base in Louisiana. Upon entering LSU, I began a campaign for president of the freshman class. Night and day I pounded the pavement, shaking hands, giving speeches, and laboring for votes. I missed nearly two full weeks of class in pursuit of this position. The night it was announced that I had lost to a friend of mine named Ralph, tears rolled down my cheeks. I had poured myself out on that race. But after a few moments of self-pity, I pulled myself together, went into the middle of the victorious crowd and started shaking hands. My next campaign began that very night.

As student issues in the late 60's became more involved and political questions more complex, I began to turn inward. I became serious about finding the meaning of human life. My major was history and my minor was philosophy. I read Plato, Marx, Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus. It dawned on me that there must be more to life than satisfying my ego and achieving my political goals. The more I studied philosophy, particularly existential thought, the more I realized I was living in a world of unreality. I had developed one criterion for almost every move I made—how about the votes? What will this mean in the next election and what about twenty years from now? There grew an ever-increasing inner battle in my being. On one hand I felt if I could just make it to the top, it would all be worth it; on the other hand I felt like such a hypocrite. What about truth? Was my life worth nothing more than attaining to some political success?

By the end of my sophomore year I was riding high on the political scene at LSU. But the more my political front grew, the more I felt imprisoned. I couldn't walk across campus without dozens of empty hellos. I was on more committees and in more meetings than I could stomach. I really just wanted to be free. But how did a person become free? Was it by making it to the top at last? Was it by leaving everything behind and wandering around Europe? Or was it something inward?

That summer I took my third trip to Europe and ended up in Prague in late August—right in the middle of a nationwide uprising in protest of Soviet oppression. While tanks, tear gas, and soldiers filled my senses, and I witnessed human suffering and struggle as I had never seen before, I couldn't help but feel ashamed of my egotistical political ambition. What was I doing? It seemed that I was playing games with my life. All my values came into question. At the age of nineteen I had become trapped by ambition. Politics had become my master and success my chains.

I returned to LSU that fall and was immediately back in the rat race: committees, issues, politics, empty words, fake hellos, and vain activities. I found a little saying that I liked and put it on my bulletin board. It read: "Concerning the rat race the winner is still a rat." But I persevered and gradually became the acknowledged responsible student leader at LSU. I continued to make lots of friends and position myself for my final student election.

My years of careful political preparation resulted in my being easily elected president of the LSU student body in April of 1970. Inside, however, no one really knew the turmoil I was experiencing. In spite of all of my friends and this significant achievement, I was very much alone. My inward restlessness remained. By the end of my junior year, after only a month as the president of the student body, I realized my life was still empty.

About that time, I was taking an honors class specially arranged for a few students by the chairman of the philosophy department. We had been reading existential writers all semester. I was almost the last to present my final paper. What I read aloud to my classmates and professor that day was essentially this: "I've just been elected president of 19,000 students and have accomplished my political goals while here at LSU, yet I still do not find meaning to human life, neither to my life. In fact, I have no real reason to get up in the morning. There is no real purpose even in writing this paper. Death or life—what is the difference? Die now or later—in time, who will care and what will it matter? Success or failure—in ten thousand years it will mean nothing. It will all be swallowed up as a drop of water in the ocean. The endless sea of eternity will cause every finite achievement to mean nothing." The paper silenced the whole class. Dr. Bigger hung his head and could only tell us that the meaning of life was to continue the search for truth. He dismissed the class.

A student in that class, a friend of mine named Johnny, later told me that after hearing my paper, he realized he needed to rewrite his paper and present the gospel of Jesus Christ in his essay. The next week he did just that. As I listened to his paper it seemed as if his words were refreshing springs of cool water flowing out. He said we could live in one of two realms, either the realm of vanity or the realm he called Grace, which was just Jesus Christ Himself. Outside of Jesus, he said, everything, no matter good or bad, great or small, was just empty and vain. In Jesus, everything was real. Outside of Christ was bondage, and in Christ was real freedom. I was enthralled by his speaking. After class I quizzed him on several points.

Johnny and I had another class together that semester, Constitutional Law, and had arranged to study for our final at my house. I'll never forget that night. There were four of us in the room, two Christians and two unbelievers. As we discussed cases and concepts of justice and mercy, somehow late in the night the conversation shifted to Jesus Christ. I don't remember exactly what was said, but the hours rolled by. I was mostly listening that night, sitting in silence as the two Christians spoke of the reality of Jesus Christ. The words poured out of them like streams of living water, and I, thirsting for reality, drank in every word. It is hard to say exactly what happened. But as I listened intently, I knew He was real; I knew He was reality. It seemed as if light poured into my inner being. I could hardly believe it, yet I knew it—Jesus Christ was real. I was full to the brim and at peace, real peace, for the first time in my life. When the two Christians left, I remember saying to Chuck, the other unbeliever, "I can't believe it, but I've become a Christian."

On that day, May 22, 1970, my whole life changed. The next day as I walked on campus, everything looked different. I had been set free; Jesus had set me free. My heart was filled with love, real love, for everyone I saw. I couldn't care less if I never got another vote. I didn't need that anymore. I had Jesus. He was real. He was in me and I was in Him! The joy in my heart was beyond description. Actually it was only the beginning, but what has happened since then is another story for another time. Jesus Christ has set me free. Jesus Christ is Reality.

Colley Joseph, Oklahoma City, OK

Living Hope

As the embodiment of the eternal life and the holding center of the universe, Christ is the only One who can be our real security. He alone is worthy of our hope. In Him we find the only way to obtain the hope of stability for which we long, because in Him we find eternal life with all of its power and transcendence. Christ with His divine, eternal life is not bound by time or space. His life is unlimited in its capacity; it is an indestructible and indissoluble life, and as such, it is not fleeting and not subject to man's destructive acts(Hebrews 7:16). Our only chance for obtaining real hope is found by our believing into Christ and receiving His eternal and indestructible life.

This hope is a living hope and it hinges on the eternal life (First Peter 1:3). While we may view eternal life as something exalted and beyond the reach of mortal men, it is nonetheless obtainable. Eternal life is the divine, uncreated life of God. Such a lasting and real life has been made available to us in Christ and through what He has accomplished. As the Son of God, Jesus came to be life to man and to give man life in an abundant way (John 10:10). In His work on the cross, Jesus Christ was crucified for our sins, shedding His own blood to redeem us and reconcile us to God. Christ's death, moreover, released His resurrection life. The power of His life could not be held by death. Instead of remaining in the grave, He arose, becoming the life-giving Spirit(First Corinthians 15:45b). As such, He is now able to impart His eternal life into all those who believe into Him (John 3:16). His life is the resurrection life—the only life that is true and the only life that can withstand death and rises out of it victorious. Christ and His life are those things which death cannot conquer. They are the object of our hope.

True Center*

"Things fall apart, the center cannot hold." The words of Irish poet William Butler Yeats (from "The Second Coming") ring true to us today. Within, we sense the lack of real stability in our lives and in our world. In such times we realize that we must find a true center, something more powerful than we or even our human society are. There must be a center that is eternal and indestructible. This center can be found only in Jesus Christ and in the power of His eternal and indestructible life. The hope that is enduring and the life that cannot be destroyed are real and they are available to us today. Christ and the power of His indestructible life are our unique need.

Christ is the embodiment of the eternal life, a life that is uncreated, divine, and everlasting (John 11:25). As such, He is the center of the universe, and because of Him there is a definite reason why things do not fall apart. In his letter to the believers in the city of Colossae nearly two thousand years ago, the apostle Paul explained the universe in terms of this excellent person named Christ Jesus. Christ is the center of the universe, he wrote, both its point of focus and source of stability. In Christ and through Christ "all things were created, in the heavens and on the earth." All things in this universe cohere in Him. They subsist together in Him. Like spokes of a wheel held together by the hub, Christ is the universe's true holding center(Colossians 1:16-17).
*taken from www.gogeneration.com

I love reading the magazines from the archives of this site. i used to have the collection of all the hard copy unfortunatly i lost them around 5 years ago(huhu...). by rereading some of the articles brings me back to the vortex of my being. it reminds me the real purpose of my human existence.

Rising Questions

In the midst of great uncertainty, many questions arise within us. Do we muster up our best face, stiffen our resolve, and simply try to return to life as usual? While such a course may seem appealing, or perhaps our only option, within we sense that such a possibility seems unreal and even inhuman. We are thoughtful beings, and as such, we cannot pretend that all is well. We cannot believe that a return to the trivialities of life will bring an end to our questions. Instead, what we must consider is our future. How will we live? What is life really about for us? What can we pick up and hold on to? Ultimately, in what can we hope and upon what do we build? When events in our lives force us to ask such questions, hope no longer remains a faceless longing. More than ever before, real hope becomes our desperate need.

If we are to obtain real and stable hope, the object of that hope must itself be enduring. As we consider what this might be, we must admit that visible things, while we somehow manage to grant them an inordinate amount of importance and place in them a good deal of confidence, are not really lasting. And what of the invisible things, our values, the virtues of humanity, and the ideas we treasure? While we might believe these to be permanent and indestructible, even these virtues seem short and empty today as we recognize that they are potential victims of the evils of mankind. Our growing realization is that this world, however much of our heart it has won, whatever amount of hope we have invested in it, is indeed passing away, even before our eyes.

Misplaced Hope

The fragility and brevity of human life are easily and quickly exposed. While we know this to be a fact, its manifestation is still a great shock to us. In a moment, it becomes glaringly apparent that life is not as lasting as we had thought, that we are indeed mortal, and what's more, that we are not necessarily in control of very much at all. We are stunned when the veneer of permanence and stability we have ascribed to our world is peeled away. Without much consideration, we view this world, this society with its many trappings, as something steadfast and sure.

In addition, there are many ideals and virtues that we cherish. Justice, liberty, and prosperity, to name a few, are qualities of great importance to us; they are the embodiment of what we value. Though not tangible items, they have attained a sort of transcendent quality and seem to be beyond the attacks of ignoble mankind. And so we believe that we have within our possession a vast storehouse of surety. We think we have found a solid foundation on which to live and build our lives and societies. The items that form this foundation, tangible or otherwise, have secured our trust and have become the objects of our hope. When the things in which we hope are attacked, when the mortality of human life and the frailty of our existence are revealed, we cannot help but seek out both a hope that is real and a life that cannot be destroyed.