Dwell in the Land

For about seventeen years I participated in a wine tasting group that my atheist neighbor invited me to join. At the time, I drank wine some, but only knew it came in red and white. What really interested me was the composition of the group.

There were eight of us: two Jews, an assortment of Ivy League degrees, all so liberal politically I don’t know how they kept from falling over the Left edge, and all either atheist or agnostic save one. Then, there was me: head of a Christian ministry, not a political animal at all but trending conservative, and educated at state universities in Oklahoma and Missouri.

All of my colleagues at the table were sharp dudes, but Billy was the sharpest knife in the drawer. Early on, Billy cornered me in front of everyone at the table with a couple of questions that left me no answer other than, “Yes, Billy. I am an ordained Southern Baptist minister.”

Billy stared, snorted, and said, “My God! You’re my worst nightmare.”

Welcome to wine group.

I would have resigned my seat at the table after that exchange except for one thing: Several weeks before my neighbor invited me to attend the group, I suspected his invitation was coming and took time to visit with Father God regarding His wishes for me. One evening, after showering, I stayed under the hot water taking inventory of my outstanding thoughts, among them: Father, if the invitation comes, what should I do about joining this wine group?

The return thought in our conversation was, You should join. I’ve arranged this. Oh, enjoy the wine.

This spawned a conversation at the wine table about what a Christian is.

In time, the men at the table became my friends, none closer than Billy. For various reasons, after nearly fifty years of meeting, wine group was fraying at the edges. With the forced isolation of the government’s response to the pandemic, wine group concluded its days, a casualty of COVID that affected me deeply.

For seventeen years I had unfettered access to brilliant minds darkened by determined independence from God. Quite an education for a man who spent his lifetime around Christians. Of course, I had studied in a secular environment and kept abreast of social issues, but professionally and personally, my candid conversations occurred with Believers. Then, weekly for nearly two decades, I interacted with some of the smartest people I’ve ever encountered, about any subject you can name. As their friend, my Friday friends took me into the labyrinthine passageways of reasoning and living apart from Christ. Their lives are one of my life’s wonderful gifts. I enjoyed the wine and broad knowledge at the table, but from the start I knew I was dwelling in a place ordained for me by God.

It’s not my style to be relationally aggressive. If I had to sell cars for a living, I would starve, but I figured God inserted me into the wine group for reasons beyond the fruit of the vine. While this group of guys became my friends, I knew as well that I was a sheep among wolves. Each time we met, before I got out of the truck, I paused to inquire: Father, do you have thoughts for me before I go in the house? On a few occasions, God elaborated on something, but predominantly I heard in my thoughts, Love these men, son. You are my advocate. Be shrewd, like a snake, but maintain your innocence, like a dove. Let’s roll.

My wine group friends would not have put up with abrasiveness from me. After all, it was Friday afternoon. Every man at the table was an active professional: doctor, lawyer, accountant, physicist, linguist, historian, and so forth—and oh yes, and ordained minister. Per scriptural metaphor, I thought of myself as salt on Friday afternoon. Salt adds savor, and in sufficient measure and composition, it makes you thirsty.

Maybe twice a tasting season (we took summers off) the conversation would set me up to make a bold statement regarding my faith in Christ. For example, during Barak Obama’s campaign for the presidency, he traveled to South Carolina to court the Christian vote. This spawned a conversation at the wine table about what a Christian is.

Their views were both fascinating and profoundly sad. Fascinating in that they had no idea what a Christian is, sad in that we Christians have done such a poor, poor job of representing our faith to the observing world.

The moment was light in a dark place.

As they expressed their views about Christians, the category of “born-again Christian” came up. Back and forth the opinions flew across the table. Not only did my buddies not know what it meant to be born again, they weren’t even in the ballpark of the Gospel message. Again, it was both enlightening and sad.

I listened and prayed silently: Father, do you want me to say anything?

His reply was cryptic and vintage Father: Hold your piece and your peace, son.

Then, after much bloviation, the historian at the table said, “I think we should ask Preston.”

All eyes turned to me, and one of the Jewish guys said, “So, Pres. What does it mean to be born again?”

In forty-five seconds of time, I recounted the story of Nicodemus, his question to Jesus about salvation, and Jesus’ reply, “Nicodemus, you must be born again.” Then, I summarized and laid the claim of the Gospel on the table for consideration. The group listened—and then revisited the topic briefly over the next three weeks or so. The moment was light in a dark place, and just as John noted, “the darkness did not overpower it.”

Christopher Hitchens was a popular atheist that the wine group loved and respected. In December 2011, I noted that Mr. Hitchens died from cancer. As I pondered his passing, a plan formed in my head.

When the wine group assembled that Friday, I waited until the first glass of wine was down the hatch, then said, “I read Christopher Hitchens died this week.” There were ninety seconds of reminiscence about Mr. Hitchens, then the transitional lull in conversation as the topic was about to change. At that moment, I mused, “I wonder if he was right—you know, about his atheism?” There was silence at the table. I continued, “You know, if I’m wrong about the existence of God, when I die, what have I lost? But if you guys are wrong….” I left my sentence incomplete, picked up my wine glass, and let the silence sit in the middle of the table.

These guys believed in nothing following physician-assisted death.

On the one hand, sitting with a group of atheists and agnostics each Friday evening drinking wine and shooting the bull is the most unlikely place for a Christian minister to be, but on the other hand, where else should I be? Is this not the company my Older Brother kept when He was on earth? Light is needed in dark places—and dark places can be both the nooks and crannies of my Wednesday morning Bible study group or the darkened minds of my Friday afternoon wine group. Jesus knew this when He said, “Go into all the world.”

As I sit at my keyboard this morning, these are my reflections pondering the next phrase in our exploration of Psalm 37:3-5. Verse 3 instructs us to “dwell in the land.” The context is, “Trust in the Lord, and do good; / Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness.”

I’m not suggesting you should join a wine tasting group, but I am suggesting that “dwelling in the land” means engaging the world around you in such a manner that you trust the Lord and do good as the passage indicates. It’s not that this can’t be done at church or in your home group, it’s just that “the land” is larger than the cloistered comfort most of us embrace.

As I said, no topic was off limits in my wine group, including Christianity. My buddies were not hostile toward Christianity, they just didn’t believe, but they did wonder about what they observed in the Christian community. Things that make sense within the holy huddle made no sense to them and their darkened minds.

The last thing I needed was a buzzy head.

For example, as my dad declined with Parkinson’s and dementia, my Friday friends kept far closer tabs on my emotional wellbeing than my Christian contemporaries did, but they also watched closely to see how I managed my dad’s demise in light of my Christian belief in heaven. These guys believed in nothing following physician-assisted death, i.e., there is no afterlife, in their opinions, and they talked of death openly. Christians, fighting a terminal diagnosis with every medical tool available, while expending vast sums of money to prolong suffering, made no sense to them—if heaven is real.

When Donald Trump was running for President, numerous Christian leaders endorsed Mr. Trump as God’s chosen man and used their Christian platforms to advance his candidacy. Like I said, my Friday friends were flaming liberals and had nothing but disdain for Donald Trump, and while this view was expressed at the table, they often expressed confusion about the evangelical endorsement.

To begin with, they had a poor understanding of what an evangelical is, but they understood enough to know an evangelical is a person who believes Jesus is the answer for what ails humankind. Why then are evangelical leaders endorsing a glaringly flawed man as humanity’s hope instead of preaching the Gospel as mankind’s hope? More than once, someone at the table would ask, “Have the Christian leaders lost their faith?” My wine group understood applied Christian belief better than the Christian leaders did, i.e., Christians are supposed to believe God is their source, not government. “We’re confused,” they would tell me.

It was an honest group, respectful, curious, but they took no prisoners. I always ate lunch late on Fridays so I wouldn’t drink wine on an empty stomach. The last thing I needed was a buzzy head when somebody at the table started trying to make sense of Christianity according to the media or tradition. While I was among friends, I was also an outlier, an anomaly, and a bit dangerous in that I claimed to personally know the God whom they resolutely denied existed. What if I knew something they didn’t, especially something critically important? Consequently, when discussions pertinent to faith circulated, they paid attention and held no question in reserve. After all, if Pascal was correct, they knew intuitively eternity was at stake.

“Dwell in the land.” What does that look like for you?

So, I talked openly about my life and how I approach living. As dad declined, I was candid with my doubts, transparent with my thoughts on death, the responsibility I felt to my dad, my family, and the caregivers, and how I sought to employ my faith while navigating a tricky place in life. When dad died, I did not hide my grief nor sugarcoat it with Christian platitudes. My lost friends cared tenderly for me.

In other words, “dwelling in the land” means engaging the world around you with honest, transparent living. Given that Christ is your life, then it only makes sense to offer your life for close examination, even scrutiny, by those needing to see Christianity more than hear about it.

It’s interesting that Jesus surrounded Himself by so many fishermen. This being the case, Scripture utilizes fishing metaphors to make its points. In one instance, Jesus tells His disciples indirectly and Peter directly, “I will make you fishers of men.”

“Dwelling in the land” is similar to fishing. When I rig my fly rod and cast, I have no certainty what or whether I will catch anything. When I joined wine group, I had no certainty what would transpire over the seventeen years that followed.

But here’s the deal: If you never go to the river, the certainty is you won’t catch anything. Similarly, if you stay in your house, or keep your faith confined to the brick and mortar at the corner of First and Main, read only Christian literature, spend all your time with your Christian friends, fill your time with church obligations… well, this is like not going to the river. If you don’t actively engage the world around you—the place where you “dwell in the land”—it’s certain you won’t influence the land with the light of your life. You can’t “dwell” while being absent, disengaged, indifferent, elsewhere, or isolated.

“Dwelling in the land” is not a one-off experience—a brief opening of the church doors for the Christmas cantata, or preaching a Gospel message on Easter. Inviting a lost person to your group is an invitation for that person to enter another land for a visit. That’s the opposite of verse 3’s guidance to “dwell in the land.”

“Dwell in the land.” What does that look like for you?

Live where you dwell and dwell where you live. Engage those in your sphere, those in your circle. Build relationships. Be yourself—the fearfully and wonderfully made you who is secure in Christ. Laugh. Cry. Care. Engage. Live. Dwell, don’t hide.

Before I let you go, I need to slay a dragon—maybe two, now that I think about it.

First, let’s slay the dragon of expectation. Your responsibility is to engage, to consciously “dwell in the land.” Bloom where you are planted, we used to say. Sometimes this means a bold declaration of the Gospel, but most of the time, as is attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, “Preach the Gospel always, use words if necessary.” The Bible calls this sowing seed and notes that it is God who gives increase, not you.

Sunday afternoon I attended a memorial service for one of the Jews in my wine group. As I sat in the temple listening to the Rabbi’s celebration of my friend, ironically an avowed atheist, I reflected on my conversations of faith with my departed buddy. As the Rabbi canted in Hebrew, I prayed, Father, did I represent you well to Ted? I thought of the parable of the sower mentioned above, and concluded my prayer, Father, I leave Ted in your care.

The second dragon to dispatch: Be yourself as you “dwell in the land,” not someone else.

Bill Bright founded what is today named, Cru. For years I embraced his teaching that if you are with anyone for longer than two minutes, it’s a divine appointment to share the Gospel. Obviously, this mantra worked magnificently for the effervescent, extraverted Dr. Bright. But for me, two minutes with anyone, stranger or friend, isn’t enough time to order drinks at Happy Hour, let alone explore eternal destiny.

I’m a profound introvert who behaves in an extrovert manner at conferences because that’s what is necessary, but if a sincere relationship is going to form… well, now I’m back to Jesus’ admonition about being shrewd like a snake and innocent like a dove. Even now, as I reflect on my previous sentence for accuracy, I hear Father in my head, Son, I want you to be yourself. I’ve made you. I’ve placed you. I will build a platform for you. I’ve got you. Live, son. Dwell in the land.

Be yourself, then. Trust your heavenly Father. Pursue knowing and understanding Him as absolutely good. Given your awareness, do good, just as Psalm 37:3 says. But realize: There’s little point in trusting God and doing good if you are elsewhere than in the land where you dwell.

Note: In September, Rick Fry, a documentary film maker, asked to film me for his series, “People You Need to Know.” We discussed my book Rigorous Grace against the backdrop of a fly fishing trip to the Lower Mountain Fork River. This is a three-part series and you can view the first episode at this link.

Also, you can continue viewing my discussions with Tony Clark and Frank Friedmann at this link..