Chaos in Room 303

Justin[*] stood in front of my public speaking class and began his how-to speech. “Today I’m going to teach you how to make an origami crane,” he announced.

My assignment required the students to teach a skill to the rest of the class in two to four minutes. They understood that I would deduct points if the speech went under two minutes or over four.

Most of the students found creative tasks they could teach in that time frame. During my nine years of university teaching, I—along with the classes—learned how to pack a suitcase, cook pupusas, cut an onion, string a guitar, draw a flower (the secret is to start with a circle), and even pick a lock (perhaps we should keep a close eye on that student). We also learned how to create a 3D print, invest in the stock market, crochet a potholder, make a piñata, and do a handstand.

The presentations usually went smoothly. But not Justin’s.

Impossible Crane

First, he was unprepared with supplies. Although he held up a square sheet of orange origami paper, he didn’t think ahead to bring origami sheets for the students. Instead he asked everyone to pull out a piece of paper, fold it, and rip off the end to create a square.

Most students take notes on laptops, so only one girl in the class had a notebook with her. She generously tore out sheets of ruled white paper and handed them around. Two minutes passed before everyone had torn their sheet and had a square of paper in front of them to begin the project.

Next Justin explained how to hold the paper and make the first fold. He demonstrated from the front of the room, but only those in the first few rows could see what he was doing. Reading the confusion in the room, he moved to the back to help the students there. Three minutes.

When he returned to the front, he demonstrated another fold, then another. This time students from all sections of the room held up their crumpled paper and cried for help.

“Wait. I didn’t get that last fold.”

“Could you help me?”

“Is this right?”

Again Justin moved around the room, trying to assist each classmate. Four minutes. Five minutes.

He moved back to the front and folded faster, which only exasperated his audience.

“Slow down.”

“Could you show that fold again?”

“I’m still two folds behind.”

Six minutes.

Justin hurried through the final folds amid a roomful of frustrated pupils.

Sweat dripping off his forehead, he held up an impressive paper object resembling a bird. “See, this is how your crane should look,” he said. “If you pull the tail, the wings move up and down.” Seven minutes.

The class erupted with cries for help, especially once they saw the “flapping bird” they could have. But Justin knew he was over his time limit and sighed as he concluded and sat down. Eight minutes, and not one student held a completed crane.

Overtime

Justin didn’t score high on that speech, having not anticipated the complexity of the skill and the inexperience of his audience. He’d more than doubled the allotted time, yet still left everyone dissatisfied rather than successful. But I assured him he would have the chance to raise his score, and hopefully he had learned something from this “practice run.”

I reserved the last week of class for second-opportunity speeches, inviting students to repeat any of the five speeches of the semester to improve their score. It’s an optional activity, and to my disappointment, Justin didn’t try for a better score. Several other students who could have raised their grade significantly also passed on the opportunity to improve their grade and public speaking skills.

I’d rant to my colleagues about this. “Why aren’t the students taking every opportunity they can to do better? I’ve encouraged them to repeat a speech—emailed them, talked to them after class—but they seem as though they’d just rather keep a low grade. What can I do?”

Jesus will always desire our redemption more than we do. He will always see our need with a clarity far beyond human perception.

The answer I got was always the same: “You can’t care more than they do.”

Teachers, parents, counselors, physicians, and countless others have learned this fact: You can’t make adults do something they don’t want to do, even if you’re sure it’s in their best interest. They have to care enough to take the initiative and make the change. When we care more than they do, it causes us stress and frustration.

From the Heart

As I read Paul’s letter in 1 Corinthians, I feel compelled to give him that same advice: “Paul, you can’t care more than the Corinthians do. It’s obvious you’re passionate about helping them live a better earthly life as well as find eternal salvation through faith in Jesus. But you sound as if you’re more invested in these goals than they are.”

In chapter 1 Paul exhorts the believers to get along and seek unity: “Now I plead with you, brethren, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you all speak the same thing, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly joined together in the same mind and in the same judgment” (verse 10).

In chapter 3 he begs them to deny their carnal nature and appreciate their worth: “Do you not know that you are the temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you? If anyone defiles the temple of God, God will destroy him. For the temple of God is holy, which temple you are” (verses 16, 17).

In chapter 4 we see more of his paternal care for them: “I do not write these things to shame you, but as my beloved children I warn you. For though you might have ten thousand instructors in Christ, yet youdo not have many fathers; for in Christ Jesus I have begotten you through the gospel” (verses 14, 15).

Paul warns the people to stay away from idolatry and sexual immorality. He encourages them to practice unselfish love, rejecting prejudice and exclusion. He witnesses that he himself saw Jesus alive after the resurrection, as did many others. “Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures,” he attests (1 Cor. 15:3). Jesus was buried and rose again the third day, he adds, fulfilling prophecy. Paul can’t stop talking about Christ as the living Messiah and Savior of the world.

His concern and care for the people of Corinth comes through in every sentence. His passion denotes that he cares more than they do. In chapter 9 he even says, “Though I am free and belong to no one, I have made myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible” (verse 19, NIV). Paul is all in.

Giving All

Moses had the same issue of caring to the point of distress. When he came down from Mount Sinai and saw the Israelites worshipping a golden calf they had constructed while he was away, he felt not only devastation but also an overwhelming burden to save them. In Exodus 32:31, 32, we read: “Moses returned to the Lord and said, ‘Oh, these people have committed a great sin, and have made for themselves a god of gold! Yet now, if You will forgive their sin—but if not, I pray, blot me out of Your book which You have written.’ ”

Moses carried the burden of bringing his people out of slavery to a place of connection with God and forgiveness of their sins. Paul carried the burden of proclaiming Christ as the crucified, risen, and saving Messiah. In many instances these leaders cared more than the people they were trying to help.

We’re not too different from those ancient congregations. Our desire for the right, to “fight the good fight” and “finish the race,” is often weak, as if we are slowly waking from a deep sleep. Jesus will always desire our redemption more than we do. He will always see our need with a clarity far beyond human perception.

Fortunately, we do not seize salvation by raising the intensity of our yearning to match His. The gift of grace is so great that all we have to do is want it at all.

[*] The name has been changed for privacy.