Do you know the word “addled?”

After a number of hits to the head, a boxer may stumble in the ring, hold his gloves lower than normal, be bleary-eyed, unable to focus. He’s addled.

When a football player sustains a concussion, his eyes won’t focus. His brain’s shaken, rattled, traumatized. He’s addled.

When people hear confusing messages about masks and viruses, color-blindness when everyone is hyper-color aware, equality when half of us are deplorable, contagion at church but not on an airplane, stay-at-home orders just before the dictator hops on a plane for the holiday, then it is easy for people to become confused, fuzzy-thinking, punch-drunk like a boxer, unable to stay focused like a concussed ball player. These people are addled.

I’m tired. Beat up. Insulted. Confused. Bleary-eyed.

I’m addled.

President Obama, one of the most respected men in the world, said of Joe Biden, “Don’t underestimate Joe’s ability to f*** things up.” But we just voted this man to be our next POTUS.

One report declares voter fraud. Another reports no fraud.

For decades we lament the lack of progress toward achieving peace in the Middle East. Jared Kushner produces monumental strides toward peace in the region and we deride his success as failure, him an idiot, and anticipate the undoing of what he achieved.

I’m addled.

Jesus said, “I came that you might have peace.” Instead, we opt to create our own. He said He is the way to God, that He offers forgiveness for sin, heaven when we die, and a new nature when we choose Him as the way, the truth, and the life. So, we invent alternative gods, declare multiple paths, devise soul-salves, self-helps, and declare that paradise is in the mountains… or was it the beach… or the second house… or was it the new(er) car?

I’m addled—or more accurately, I could be addled, but I’m not.

I’ve chosen to fix my eyes on Jesus Christ. I’ve chosen to adopt Him as the start and perfect finish of all that concerns me.

Do you know the word “relentless?”

In my last book, Swagger, I wrote a chapter titled “Going Through Hell.” It’s a chapter about grit, the stuff that comprises direction, determination, commitment, and not quitting. One sentence reads, “Grit is about spit in the eye of your adversary. It’s about being stood up against the gates of hell and not backing down.”

Relentless people are not exempt from life’s fights. Relentless folks have trouble focusing sometimes. Relentless people can’t drown out the noise, detour around the wreck, avoid the disappointment, reconcile the irreconcilable, or produce a rabbit out of a magical hat. Relentless people have scars, wounds, and active discouragements.

But relentless people are focused people.

In the case of those who follow hard after Jesus, relentless people keep their eyes fixed on Him because He is the author and perfector of faith. Relentless people relentlessly, resolutely, resign their soul’s determination to Christ and Christ alone. In this, these sorts of people determine to invest their measure of faith solely in Jesus Christ.

There’s a Latin phrase for this: sola Christos, Christ alone.

Sola Christos. It’s Latin. It’s theology. It’s old. It sits among four other Latin phrases: sola fide, faith alone, sola Scriptura, Scripture alone, sola gratia, grace alone, and soli deo gloria, to the glory of God alone. Latin. It’s what the Romans spoke. It’s older than dirt. It’s obscure.

But wait. Is it obscure? If sola Christos is obscure, can you—your soul—afford for it to be obscure, irrelevant, old?

Let’s just move along? It’s high theology. Nothing to see or think about here.  

Could it be that the secret of relentless, determined grit—the substance that forms the links in the chain that are connected to the anchor of your soul—is as relevant and necessary now as it was six-hundred years ago when the Reformers, under great societal, religious, and physical duress solidified these five essential statements of Christian faith?

Could it be that a singular focus upon Jesus Christ is the secret ingredient in your life’s recipe for gritty, successful living in times that dare to addle the best of mankind?  

I’m fascinated by Hebrews, chapter 11, in the New Testament. It is comprised of forty verses, most of them naming and briefly recounting famous men and women of biblical faith who overcame, conquered, performed miracles, and even raised the dead. All the greats are listed, all the famous stories are mentioned from Daniel in the lion’s den to Gideon and the fall of the walls of Jericho.

Then, not even at the beginning of a verse, not even at the beginning of a sentence, but starting following a semi-colon, the text continues, “…and others (i.e. people of faith) were tortured, not accepting their release…; and others experienced mockings and scourging, yes, also chains and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were tempted, they were put to death with the sword; they went about in sheepskins, in goatskins, being destitute, afflicted, ill-treated (men of whom the word was not worthy), wandering in deserts and mountains and caves and holes in the ground.”

“And others.” “Caves and holes.” “Wandering.” “Sawn in two.” “Tempted.”

Heaven is filled with others.

Others whose names are not mentioned, but who are noted as people of faith, not because they shut the mouths of lions like Daniel did or Moses who received the Law in a face-to-face encounter with God, but because they suffered, and labored, and were tempted, and believed in a Christ not yet incarnated and whom they did not live to see, but by faith trusted God to hold them fast. Hold them fast while hunkering in a hole with only their faith. Hold them steady with the first exacting of the saw.

You might be wondering why I selected the picture I did for this article. It’s a rendering of the Old Testament prophet Isaiah being sawn asunder. Yes, the same Isaiah that prophesied the coming of Jesus, prophetic words we read each Christmas season, “For a child will be born to us, a son will be given to us; And the government will rest on His shoulders; And His name will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace.”

The next chapter in Hebrews—and the chapter from which I’ve been paraphrasing—opens with a conclusion: “Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside very encumbrance, and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Him who has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself, so that you may not grow weary and lose heart.” I might amplify the final line, …so that you may not grow weary and lose heart or become addled.

Consider this image given to us: Not only are the greats in the grandstands, but all those nameless saints who suffered every trial demented, darkened minds could conceive of to afflict upon a human body are there as well. Cheering. The passage is a glimpse into heaven. No harp music, no streets of gold mentioned, only a grandstand overlooking a desperate pitch with cheering people whose tears have been wiped away but who remember their earthly ordeal and God’s faithfulness with sufficient lucidity to cheer us onward.

And what must their chant be?

Consider Jesus. Fix your eyes on Jesus. If you are weary and at risk of becoming addled, sola Christos.

Yes, yes. But.

The lady next door got COVID. Nothing. Another friend got COVID. She’s dead. Five children, a devastated husband, and a bunch of confused friends remain in her widening wake as she ascends to heaven. I’m among them—the friends.

I can’t make heads or tails of the news. Too much. Too confused. Too duplicitous. Too everything to be meaningful. I glance at the headlines each day to see if I should buy a gun, climb a tree, or purchase Bitcoin. I only glance. If I look too long I risk being addled.

But, then.

But God.

But Scripture.

But the Reformers and my predecessors in the faith, all of whom are this moment leaning over the ramparts of heaven cheering me on, not like second-guessing, Monday-morning quarterbacks, but all veterans of Earth’s wars and the faith we share—they cheer for me, “Buddy, fix your eyes on Jesus. Don’t look left to the Left or right to the Right. Focus. Buddy, remember this, it will serve you well: sola Christos. It’s Latin, but it works.”

I’m confused and all beat up. My head is bloodied, but unbowed. That’s neither here nor there. I know what to do. I fix my focus on Jesus. Here and now, I declare sola Christos my war chant.

Keep your wits about you. Even if you are going through hell, whatever you do, don’t back down. Hell couldn’t hold Jesus and it can’t hold you. Sola Christos!

May I refer you to the book I reference: Swagger: Keeping Your Wits When Others Are Not. It might be a good book for you to read with your family. I provide some questions to help you isolate key points. Most of all, the book will help you keep your wits when others are not. You can order here.