6
Ambition’s Path
THE PATH OF AMBITION IS A PARADOX

Maybe you’ve heard the story of the violinist performing in a Metro station in Washington, D.C. Of course, street musicians play for money in subways all the time. But this guy was no street musician, and he certainly didn’t need the money.

His name is Joshua Bell, a Grammy award-winning, world-renowned violinist. He was also playing a Stradivarius violin worth $3.5 million—the 1713 Gibson ex-Huberman Stradivarius, to be precise. (I have no idea what that means, but just typing the name impresses me.)

The Washington Post tapped Mr. Bell to conduct an experiment. They dressed Joshua in humble garb—blue jeans, casual shirt, and ball cap. Then they had him perform some of the most difficult compositions possible. (In case your mind works like mine, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” was not on the list.)

Master violinist Bell played for about forty minutes. During that time, more than eleven hundred people passed by. Only seven stopped to listen. The video footage shows that at the conclusion of each piece, there was no applause, no accolades—just the sound of subway trains whistling toward destinations around the city. Reflecting on the experience, Mr. Bell commented, “It was a strange feeling that people were . . . um . . . ignoring me!”¹

The Post called it “a test of people’s perceptions and priorities.”² Would people perceive the presence of an authentic violin master? Would they notice? Would they make it a priority to listen?

They didn’t. I don’t blame them. Violin masters aren’t found in subways wearing blue jeans and ball caps. For that you need $200 and the Kennedy Center stage. After all, if you’re not dressed like a master or performing where masters play, you’re probably just another schmuck like the rest of us, right?

The Master in Disguise

The New Testament brings us before another Master. No ball cap, no violin, but he crossed a wider gap than a master in the Metro. Wrapped in the rags of humanity, Jesus Christ came to subway earth. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). It was the ultimate test in perception and priorities. One performance only.

The Son of God come to earth! What would the reviewers talk about after he left the theater? Amazing power? Yes, and plenty of it. Incredible wisdom? Mind-boggling. Exemplary character? Perfect.

But what’s the most remarkable thing about this performance?

One word. Humility.

Consider what the apostle Paul points us to when he reminds us of Jesus on the stage of human history.

Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. (Phil. 2:3–8)

This passage is part of a letter to a church Paul loved. He celebrates his partnership with them (1:3–5, 8) and prays for them (1:9). The advance of the gospel among them is ever foremost in his mind (1:5, 27). But like all churches, Philippi has its share of colorful personalities and problems. Later, in chapter 4, Paul mentions two ladies, Euodia and Syntyche, who seem to have public disagreements. Their conflict seems typical of a broader disunity within the church. Selfish ambition is working its divisive magic, as it never fails to do.

So in the style of The Washington Post, Paul engages in his own “test of perception and priorities.” But he’s testing much more than musical taste in those words quoted above from Philippians 2. Commentator F. B. Meyer called this passage “almost unapproachable in its unexampled majesty.”

Unexampled majesty . . . in humility. It seems like a contradiction, doesn’t it? Or at least a paradox. Paul is, in fact, pointing us to perhaps the greatest paradox ever: God almighty in humility. The path of humility is the path the Son of God took to reach us. And, as we’ll see, the greatest ambitions are realized paradoxically on the path of humility.

Paradox One:
The Greatest Fulfillment Is Found in Emptiness

Paul isn’t giving the Philippians a pop quiz in theology. This is a road test of what it means to live in light of the gospel. Imitation is more than the sincerest form of flattery; Paul indicates that it’s vital to our call as Christians. “Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus,” he says (2:5). Imitate the mind of Christ; adopt the Master’s mind-set.

If you’re wondering what that means, Paul doesn’t leave us speculating:

[Christ Jesus], though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. (2:6–8)

He was in the form of God? Is that like a God-wannabe? Christ “in the form of God,” but not God himself? Is it like my buddy who has a twin brother? Or like, “Wow, did anybody ever tell you that you look like . . . ?” God’s duplicate copy, but not the real thing?

No, not at all.

The Greek word for “form” deals with the essential character or nature of something—same rank, status, or station in existence.³ Paul is saying that the pre-incarnate Jesus existed as God. Make no mistake, Christ is equal to God; he is coequal, coeternal, same essence, the works. The Nicene Creed says that Jesus is “very God of very God.” That’s a cool, creedal way to say he was GOD—accept no substitutes.

But what Paul says next really blows our theological gaskets. Although Jesus was wholly God, he “did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped.” Though he shared the rights, honors, and privileges of God, Jesus didn’t selfishly protect his position or prestige but gave them up—ultimately to die on the cross for our sins.

We’re called to a radical humility expressed
most clearly in the temporary,
voluntary self-emptying of the Son of God himself.

The impulse to stop right here and fall on our knees in worship for the saving grace of God in Christ is almost overwhelming. But as we worship, let’s follow the application Paul is making to the Philippians. He’s calling us to a radical humility expressed most clearly in the temporary, voluntary self-emptying⁴ of the Son of God himself.

See the irony here? People seek their fulfillment in the things they acquire or earn. Jesus shared in the glory of God, and he gave that up. Jesus wasn’t just the exceptionally gifted guy in the class who aced every test and dominated every spelling bee. No, when galaxies a million light-years away were spoken into existence, Jesus was present and working. But he emptied himself of the privileges and prerogatives of deity to become man—to live under our limits and rules. The gospel reminds us that Christ was cosmically downsized to come and die for us. He was really something, but he made himself nothing.

Joshua Bell in a subway station doesn’t begin to compare with that.

So what does this mean for us and our ambitions? It means if we want to find true fulfillment in life, we must follow the path of the Master. Whether we’re burning with passion for a goal or lacking ambition and don’t know where to start, we follow the Savior downward.

When we empty ourselves of personal glory, we won’t be empty; we’ll learn the fullness of Christ. And our ambitions are rescued in the process.

Paradox Two:
It’s Wrong to Think First about Rights

“Not count[ing] equality . . . a thing to be grasped” is a phrase that sings to the soul. It sounds great during our morning devotions, and it preaches great at a Bible study. It doesn’t become audacious until we’re called to actually apply it.

Another car zooms into our parking space while we’re sitting patiently with the turn signal on. You did most of the work—someone else got all the credit. You’re overlooked again for the ministry position you seem perfectly gifted to do. It’s a long list. Are you like me—thinking first of your rights each time you feel wronged?

It doesn’t take much for me to realize that holding on to pride gets in the way of humility. But my rights? Now you’re getting a little pushy, Paul. Everybody knows that equality is a good thing, right? And doesn’t equality mean we have to protect our rights? After all, it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. And I have rights, inalienable rights if I read the Declaration of Independence correctly. And don’t forget that little thing called the Bill of Rights. So hey, buddy, back off my rights!

Who had greater rights than Jesus?
But he gave those up in order to gain our salvation.

But who had greater rights than Jesus? He had equality with God—the right to be worshiped by every created thing and the rights of full authority and power over them all. But he gave those up in order to gain our salvation.

It’s not that rights don’t matter. They do. When one person violates the rights of another, that’s injustice and oppression. But while we want to be known as defenders of the legitimate rights of others, we aren’t supposed to be known by our ambition to protect our personal rights. To follow Christ means to see allegiance to him as more significant than any right we hold in this life. To be faithful to Christ, we’ll have to give up rights—perhaps even our right to our own lives.

With their faithfulness to the Savior, my persecuted brothers and sisters around the world remind me that we live by grace, not by rights. To be a Christian is to recognize that the only thing we have a perfect right to is the wrath of God—and that’s not a right we want to insist on keeping.

A. W. Tozer describes the danger of a “my rights” mentality among Christians:

Few sights are more depressing than that of a professed Christian defending his supposed rights and bitterly resisting any attempt to violate them. Such a Christian has never accepted the way of the cross. The sweet graces of meekness and humility are unknown to him. He grows every day harder and more acrimonious as he defends his reputation, his rights, his ministry, against his imagined foes.⁵

Being ambitious to move downward confronts how we view our own rights. With Christ and his example ever before us, our view should be distinctly different from the rest of human civilization.

Look at how this worked out in Otto’s life.

With ten years of leading worship under his belt, Otto could spot a natural. And the new guy up last Sunday was born to lead worship. However, leading worship was Otto’s role in the church, one in which he’d served faithfully, tirelessly, and prayerfully. Yet after praying over it and consulting some friends, he approached his pastor and recommended that the new guy replace him. Why would he orchestrate his own demotion? Because his ambition for Christ was higher than his ambition for any particular role.

It may sound like Alice in Wonderland, but stories like Otto’s don’t just happen in fairy tales. They happen anywhere ambitions for Christ exceed ambitions for self.

God is at work in the heart of his children, replacing our preoccupation for equality comparisons with an aspiration to empty ourselves. In the Master’s realm it’s only right that it should be this way.

Paradox Three:
It’s Really Something to Be Nothing

Christ could have come as emperor, and no one could have disputed his rightful claim. He deserved the highest position available on earth. In fact, we should have created one—Master of the Universe!—just to accommodate him.

But that’s not the position he wanted. He chose another. He took “the form of a servant” (Phil. 2:7).

Servant is an amazing word when applied to God, but it only begins to capture the scope of sacrifice contained in the Greek word here, doulos. Perhaps the most accurate translation is “bondslave”— one who voluntarily puts himself in slavery to another.

I know that’s provocative, but it’s Scripture. God intentionally chose this metaphor to underscore the all-encompassing claim the gospel makes upon our lives. Biblical scholar Murray Harris describes the idea behind this term as it’s applied in the New Testament:

In a fundamental sense slavery involves the absence of rights, especially the right to determine the course of one’s life and the use of one’s energies. What is denied the slave is freedom of action and freedom of movement; he cannot do what he wishes or go where he wishes. The faculty of free choice and the power of refusal are denied to him.⁶

Are you ambitious for slavery?

The career path for the Christian looks different than for others. We should not be hungry for our own name or unrestrained in our self-promotion. We don’t need to broker our future. The gospel reminds us that our ambition should follow Christ’s action. If God submitted his great majesty to the call of servanthood, we can submit our musical talents, our teaching desires, our motivational skills to the call of servanthood as well.

How often do we live unsatisfied lives because our positions don’t live up to our ambitions? So we grumble at the watercooler or whine in the confines of our car, frustrated because that next logical step is blocked by something or someone.

One great measure of our humility is whether we can be ambitious for someone else’s agenda. Not just tolerate and accommodate the goals of those over us, but adopt their vision, promote and pursue their dreams. Our willingness to make others a success is a great measure of the purity of our ambitions.

Our willingness to make others a success is a
great measure of the purity of our ambitions.

And believe me, that can look pretty radical. For instance, in a society obsessed with rights and equality, the traditional role of wife and mother—that of helper to the husband, invested in the family— has taken a bad rap. In the world’s eye, sacrificing dreams of income, travel, or social status in the service of family seems antiquated, unenlightened, almost Leave-It-To-Beaverish. But to empty oneself in service of a family is an arresting illustration of the Savior’s heart and life. I should know. I see it every day in my wife.

Everyone who names Christ as Savior is called to be a servant. Writing to the Philippians, Paul sets up this kind of ambition for others by a call away from “rivalry or conceit” (2:3). “Rivalry” translates the same Greek word that in James is rendered as “selfish ambition” (3:16). Paul’s intent is clear. We’re to “do nothing” to compete with or usurp others, particularly those over us.

Rivalry is what happens when ambitions swell with envy. Someone else is enjoying what we want for ourselves. Envy burns, and it overshadows our many blessings. We don’t have the position, finances, possessions, or gifting of another, so we begrudge them and charge God with inequality. Pretty serious stuff—and a far cry from emptying self and considering others better.

King Saul is the biblical poster child for rivalry. The Scriptures tell us he started out small in his own eyes (1 Sam. 10:20–24). When the prophet Samuel went to anoint him as king, he was hidden among the baggage, probably where he belonged.

But once he was king, envy stalked and captured him. Saul began to resent David, the young man who would replace him. This opened the door to suspicion and judgment. Saul began to ascribe evil motives to David. He went from loving David to despising him. Note that he didn’t despise David as a person; he despised him as a rival. The fact of David’s being in Saul’s life exposed Saul’s ambitions: he wasn’t serving the people but was protecting his power. David became a threat to his future aspirations, so David had to die. Saul, who was supposed to be a benevolent king, launched a manhunt for one of his subjects.

C. S. Lewis got to the nub of envy’s comparative tyranny:

Ambition! We must be careful what we mean by it. If it means the desire to get ahead of other people . . . then it is bad. If it means simply wanting to do a thing well, then it is good. It isn’t wrong for an actor to want to act his part as well as it can possibly be acted, but the wish to have his name in bigger type than the other actors is a bad one. . . . What we call “ambition” usually means the wish to be more conspicuous or more successful than someone else. It is this competitive element in it that is bad. It is perfectly reasonable to want to dance well or to look nice. But when the dominant wish is to dance better or look nicer than the others—when you begin to feel that if the others danced as well as you or looked as nice as you, that would take all the fun out of it—then you are going wrong.⁷

Saul went wrong. His ambition betrayed him. Promising him satisfaction, it turned and destroyed him. On a battlefield overrun by his enemies, Saul committed suicide by falling on his own sword.

Rivalry destroys friendships, splits churches,
undermines testimonies, and makes us look
no different than the world around us.

The average Christian’s experience with rivalry won’t end with a person impaled on his own sword. But rivalry does destroy friendships, split churches, undermine testimonies, and make us look no different than the world around us.

Rivalry is serious. Its nature is to subordinate others’ interests and to go to irrational lengths to protect our own interests. It’s an impulse that we’re called and empowered to deny, put off, crucify, kill.

But that isn’t the end of Paul’s call. Humility counts others more significant than ourselves—it looks out for the interests of others. It’s interesting, isn’t it, how hard it is to be envious of others’ interests when we’re actually looking out for them? Humility sees in servant-hood the pathway toward liberation. The gospel-based power of an ambition for others expels the envy and selfish ambition from our lives. We can serve others. We can be second and satisfied.

The instinctive temptation here is to color ourselves outside the lines. “You don’t know my situation,” you might be thinking. “You don’t understand my husband, my boss, my parents, my administrator, my teacher. Their interest is already their top concern. They don’t need my help in that department!”

But remember, it’s Christ’s example that’s being held out for us here. He came to those who were enemies of God. He loved those who denied him. He served those who rejected him. He even died for those hostile toward him. When we consider what Christ accomplished, serving our selfish teen or unjust boss seems mundane in comparison.

Never underestimate the unique work that God does in our lives by placing us under unthinking or unscrupulous people. They may appear to hold the joystick on your life. But “the king’s heart is a stream of water in the hand of the LORD; he turns it wherever he will” (Prov. 21:1).

Few things root out self-love more than the daily drill of serving others who seem to delight in treating you like a slave. God intentionally creates opportunities where we must serve others, because it rescues our ambitions and forces him to the center. Living for the success of others—that’s right, even them—is a wonderful gospel aroma that pleases God. “The greatest among you shall be your servant,” Jesus said. “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted” (Matt. 23:11–12).

Rescued ambition no longer clamors to be first or best. It’s happy with the comparative nothingness of slavery or second best, if that’s what brings the most glory to God.

It really is something to become nothing. Take that to the office, and it will drop some jaws.

Paradox Four:
When It Comes to Self-Evaluation,
Don’t Trust What You See

Sometimes we can read these words about looking to others’ interests and counting others more significant than ourselves and think, Okay, all I have to do is just stop thinking about me. But that isn’t what Paul is talking about. Counting others as more significant than ourselves assumes that at some point we’re giving thought to ourselves.

Paul clearly links our ability to act in humility with an awareness of our own interests; we’re just not to look only to our own interests. Elsewhere he instructs the believer not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to “think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned” (Rom. 12:3). So according to Paul, the problem for Christians isn’t self-awareness; rather, it’s the wrong kind of self-awareness. The key is a self-awareness based in humility—seeing ourselves with both faith and sober judgment, then living as if others are more significant than we are.

We desperately need the eyes and words of others
to help us form a humble self-perception.

Do you know what I’ve found? Ambition and self-assessment are inextricably linked. The selfishly ambitious are terrible at self-arithmetic. When they “count themselves,” it’s always more than almost everybody else. When I live in my house or my church as King Dave, I become blind to my faults and limits. This is why I desperately need the eyes and words of others to help me form a humble self-perception.

The Roman philosopher Seneca once said, “Mirrors were discovered in order that man might come to know himself.”⁸ I’m not a big fan of mirrors because I often don’t like what I see. Have you noticed that most mirrors don’t show your whole body? Good or bad, we only see our front. We could be walking around for years with a giant “kick me” sign pasted on our back and never know it.

I’m guessing you don’t have a sign on your back. But there are probably some things about you that your friends are aware of but you’re not. God has designed us so that we need each other to get a complete picture. We don’t learn wisdom in a book or on a mountaintop. Without help from others, we’re often blind to what we do and why we do it. We learn wisdom in community. If we stand alone, we fall. That’s why humility looks for mirrors. The humble don’t just tolerate input; they seek it.

Do you have mirrors in your life? If not, get some. You won’t regret it. If you’re wondering how they help, here’s a few ways they serve me.

MIRRORS HELP WITH MOTIVES

Maybe you’ve had the experience of cruising along in life or work or ministry, thinking you’re doing fine, and then someone drops this little bomb into your productivity parade: “Why?” As in, “Why did you do that, Dave?” Or “Why did you say that, Dave?” Or, more to the point, “What was motivating you, Dave?”

Give me a “what” question any day. I don’t mind so much when people question what I do—hey, I’m not perfect, everybody makes mistakes. It’s the “why” inquiries that get under my skin.

In God’s view, the result isn’t the only thing that matters. Motives matter. A lot. So let me ask you: Is there anyone in your life who’s free to ask you the “why” questions? And what happens when someone questions your motives for the “good” things you’re doing?

If we’re doing something good, we maintain the idea that our motives are somehow above question. But there may be no better place to hide selfish motivations than in service to others, even in the church. Service is certainly self-giving, but it can also be tailormade for cloaking selfish ambition. In fact, I think a lot of divisions in churches happen because folks aren’t willing to have their motives questioned. They’ll argue fine points of theology, ecclesiology, missiology, pneumatology—all kinds of “ologies”—but they never put on the table a very simple question: “Why does this matter to me so much?”

This also comes into play in what we say. Our world loves conversation. We love to talk about ideas, art, culture, life—bring it on! Conversation is cool. I love it myself. But sometimes we want to converse about ideas and life as if our talk is disconnected from our heart. We unsuspectingly do what Scripture never permits—we detach our motives from our mouth, forgetting that “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks” (Matt. 12:34).

Unknowingly, we end up in a dangerous place. When our inner world isn’t open to scrutiny, our outer world eventually collapses.

If you ever find yourself insisting your motives are unpolluted— Maybe what I said wasn’t right, but my motives were pure—get out of the shadows and back to your Bible. God’s love is so vast that he takes great interest in every aspect of the reasons behind everything we do. One of the ways he shows this remarkable love is by giving us mirrors for our motives.

Let me tell you about something I’ve done that’s difficult for me. I’ve cracked open the window of evaluation to the level of motives. Yep, I’m talking speech, action, the whole shebang. It was simple but a little hairy to tell my wife, kids, and friends that I want this degree of help. Why do I want it? Because motives matter. My only link to biblical reality is to keep “why” in the picture.

MIRRORS HELP WITH GIFTS

Misha is destined for greatness. At least that’s what her parents always told her. Her singing voice peaked early, and by tenth grade she was a regular performer at school. Doors flew open in many churches. But greatness is a reluctant patron, and her ascent stalled. Now in her twenties, she just doesn’t understand. “My dream was simple,” she says. “I just wanted to use my gifts to serve God.” But for Misha, serving God really meant recording contracts and touring. “Why can’t people recognize my gifts?” she asks.

Misha has ambitions that seem godly, at least to her. She says she wants to use her gifts “in the service of God.” Her friends at church think she’s gifted, yes, but probably reaching too high. They’re reluctant to talk to her, though, since they know they would discourage her dream.

Imagine you’re Misha’s friend. What does Misha need? Everybody cheering her on? Or somebody courageous enough to wisely question the dream through some objective assessment? Awkward situation, huh?

Wherever there’s a gift, there’s a limit.

Misha’s story is pretty common, especially in the church. There are Misha musicians, Misha songwriters, Misha preachers, Misha evangelists. Mishas are all around us—and sometimes within us. One of the undeniable realities of spiritual experience is this: Wherever there’s a gift, there’s a limit.

That’s why, even if our motives are godly, we all need the mirror of a thoughtful, gracious, but realistic assessment of our gifts from those who know and love us. We need others to help us think of ourselves “with sober judgment” (Rom. 12:3).

What I’ve found is that recognizing the limits of my gifts actually frees me of the head-banging burden of trying to do something God hasn’t intended for me. It also allows me to appreciate the diversity of gifts God has placed around me. God gives us gifts so we can serve others. We discover and refine them in community, not alone in the desert under a cactus. In talking about the church, Paul says, “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you,’ nor again the head to the feet, ‘I have no need of you’” (1 Cor. 12:21). God makes it clear: we need each other!

The sooner we get this, the easier life becomes. But it can take a while, especially for us men. Permit me to let you in on a little gender secret. While women have two X chromosomes, men have one X, one Y, and one “I-would-rather-drive-into-another-time-zone-than-ask-for-directions” chromosome. This extra chromosome is so dominant that a guy can be three states past his exit and still be looking for the shortcut. That kind of behavior is so irrational it has to be genetic. Men are the only creatures ever known to get in an argument with a GPS. Highways around the world are littered with these devices hurled from the window by men who claim it is obviously malfunctioning.

But it’s not really genetics at all. There’s something in my heart that doesn’t want outside help. It’s that inner fool that so often wants to come out and play. To ask for help is a sign that I’m lost, needy, wrong, and desperate—things that are all true, but I would rather lose a lung than admit it. In the moment, driving until we run out of gas seems so much more appealing. But asking for help is better and more biblical.

Grace never comes to the proud. It comes when we humble ourselves and ask for the help we need. We need mirrors to function fruitfully.

Are you Misha? If we want to stir an ambition, let’s aspire to truly know who we are and how we might serve best through our gifts. And for that we need others’ help.

MIRRORS HELP WITH FRUIT

Hungering for help to determine where I’m gifted and limited, or where I need to be mindful of my motives, is a great start but a poor ending. Rescuing ambition includes evaluating how our efforts are bearing fruit.

Fruitfulness is something that Christ is dead-on serious about. “By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples” (John 15:8). In other words, God wants our godly efforts to be effective. If this is a main proof that we’re disciples, we should aspire to evaluate our effectiveness. Often.

Christians are a funny lot. We’re ambitious to start things but hate to end them. Every initiative can seem right, good, and important— we’re sure God is behind it all. So we launch things as if great efforts in the name of God need no expiration dates. We assume that what’s effective in one season is effective for all time. Methods become monuments.

We’re not the first to face this challenge. The very earliest church faced a similar defining moment. In an extraordinary display of gospel leadership, the twelve apostles were personally involved in making sure the widows in the church had food each day. But this created a problem. By giving themselves to the widows, they were neglecting the greater fruitfulness of preaching God’s Word. And the church was growing so fast that some widows were being overlooked in the daily food distribution.

The church leaders actually had to sit down and evaluate whether preaching would be more fruitful than serving widows. Oh, man— any pastor worth his salt knows you don’t mess with widows. When they pray, God listens! Diss a widow, and you get called down to God’s office really quickly. Should the apostles’ “fruit inspection” really include evaluating their role with this group?

You’d better believe it. The twelve apostles concluded, “It is not right that we should give up preaching the word of God to serve tables” (Acts 6:2). The fruitfulness of the entire church was at stake, so dramatic action was needed. Serving the widows was a good thing, but the Twelve needed to give themselves to the labors that would bear the most fruit for the most people. So the church had to get radical. Ministry strategies changed for continued care of the widows, new leaders were appointed, the twelve were freed up to focus on preaching and prayer, new ministries started—all to nurture and protect the fruitfulness of the church.

It seemed to work. “And the word of God continued to increase, and the number of disciples multiplied greatly in Jerusalem, and a great many of the priests became obedient to the faith” (6:7).

Someone had the courage to evaluate the widows’ real needs. As a result, the church was positioned for growth. An era ended, but a new kind of fruitfulness began.

A good mirror asks unpopular questions
about fruit in every season.

A good mirror asks unpopular, even scandalous, questions about fruit in every season. That’s not harsh or unkind. It’s an important way of knowing whether we should continue or change what we’re doing. Mirrors help protect us from two dangerous extremes of ambition: building monuments to our abilities and flaming out in wasted effort.

I’m so grateful for times my friends come in and ask the obvious “why” questions. We’ve torn down some pretty big monuments over time. And you know what? Nobody seems to care that they’re gone.

But this doesn’t mean ambition is only a live-in-the-moment thing. A biblical ambition for fruitfulness takes the long view of life. “Burning out” for God may sound radical, but it doesn’t position us to bear “much” fruit (John 15:8). We should think about burning long, like the Olympic torch that must travel through many lands before it reaches the final destination. Christians should be ambitious to run long and finish strong.

I cut my Christian teeth on the passion of Keith Green. His zeal for God catalyzed many young believers toward fervor for Christ. Once he said, “I repent of ever having recorded one single song, and ever having performed one concert, if my music, and more importantly my life, has not provoked you into godly jealousy or to sell out more completely to Jesus!”⁹ I loved that stuff. “Let’s sell out for Jesus; preach it, Keith!” But Keith Green died in a tragic accident at age twenty-nine.

Or there’s Jim Elliot, who invested his life in reaching the Huaorani Indians in Ecuador. One can’t hear his name without thinking of his famous quote, “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose.”¹⁰ This hero also died at twenty-nine, martyred by those he was attempting to reach.

I can’t tell you how much I admire the fire, sacrifices, and passion of these men. They burned bright and strong during their sojourn on earth. But most Christians don’t die in their twenties. Like Christian journeying toward the Heavenly City in Pilgrim’s Progress, we walk a longer road where fruitfulness must come and remain over many seasons of life. Make no mistake—God does call us to be sold out for Jesus. But it’s a passion spread over a lifetime. It’s a journey on which we must press forward through weakness, discouragement, and sin. For the average Joe or Jane, there’ll be no book commemorating battles or marking victories.

What is it that sustains fruitfulness, as the old hymn “Amazing Grace” says, “through many dangers, toils and snares”?

The gospel is our only answer. As we daily contemplate our Savior’s life, death, and resurrection, we grow more astounded by his unconditional choice before time began.

But his choice carries a call. We must cultivate ambitions to bear fruit for his name.

Here’s the arrangement: we aspire to bear fruit; he makes sure it remains. “You did not choose me,” he says, “but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit and that your fruit should abide” (John 15:16).

A strong start is a great start. But finishing strong is the goal. And it is the faithful mirror work of those who evaluate fruit that helps us finish strong. We desperately need to see the goal. And we need the mirrors to help us see our fruit, our gifts, and our motives that are indispensable in the rescue of our ambitions.

Paradox Five: True Humility Promotes Great
Ambition

Sometimes we misunderstand humility, assuming that it works against godly ambition. It can strike us as proud to dream about how we might work for God’s glory.

But in Philippians 2, Christ’s humility is displayed in his action. He “made himself nothing,” he took “the form of a servant,” “he humbled himself by becoming obedient.” To “have this mind among yourselves,” as verse 5 instructs us, is to follow an example of action, intention, and initiative. Christ’s humility didn’t restrain his enterprise; it defined it.

God calls us to follow this example—to be “zealous for good works” (Titus 2:14).

When we become too humble to aspire,
we’ve stopped being humble.

Humility is not a fabric softener on our aspirations—smoothing, softening, and tempering our dreams to the point where we’re too modest to reach for anything. G. K. Chesterton warned against finding “humility in the wrong place.” He appealed for a return to the “old humility,” saying,

The old humility was a spur that prevented a man from stopping; not a nail in his boot that prevented him from going on. For the old humility made a man doubtful about his efforts, which might make him work harder. But the new humility makes a man doubtful about his aims, which will make him stop working altogether.¹¹

When we become too humble to aspire, we’ve stopped being humble.

Humility should never be an excuse for inactivity. Our humility should harness our ambition, not hinder it. Talking about your dreams for God isn’t proud—it’s essential. If you’re too humble to dream, maybe you have an incorrect understanding of humility. The servant who is faithful with little still has an eye on the much. John Stott has it right:

Ambitions for self may be quite modest. . . . Ambitions for God, however, if they are to be worthy, can never be modest. There is something inherently inappropriate about cherishing small ambitions for God. How can we ever be content that he should acquire just a little more honour in the world? No. Once we are clear that God is King, then we long to see him crowned with glory and honour, and accorded his true place, which is the supreme place. We become ambitious for the spread of his kingdom and righteousness everywhere.¹²

Are you getting the picture? The stoking of godly ambition is far from inconsequential. Without it, exploration dies, research stops, kids spoil, industry stalls, causes fail, civilizations crumble, the gospel stands still. We can’t let all of that happen in the name of humility. If our ambitions are worthy of God’s glory, they can never be modest.

To allow such passivity is to cut out the very heart of humility, leaving it devoid of the power and grace God promises to the humble. The “old” humility, true and biblical humility, has a name big enough for the largest of godly ambitions. We must be ambitious for this kind of humility.

Our Path Is Lit

Christians are flammable. God created us to burn. Not like a match, either—bright and hot but quickly extinguished. That does little good for others and brings little glory to God. Ambitions are like a blowtorch. God ignites them, he points them in the right direction, and eternal work gets done. The flame is sustained by the fuel of grace. God’s work in God’s way for God’s glory. Why burn for anything else?

Most people think of ambition as climbing, upward mobility, always looking for a step up (and willing to step on others to get it). But biblical ambition points in the other direction—the direction Christ traveled. Our Master emptied himself, lighting the path for our ambitions. We’re called to follow him.

As we empty ourselves, we find the fullness of Christ. We look out for others’ rights ahead of our own. We find joy in advancing others’ success. We ask others to help us think realistically about ourselves. We follow Christ, who was in the form of God but made himself nothing.

It’s a paradox: Godly ambition makes us downwardly mobile. Whether we see the implications of this call is a far better test of perception and priorities than any master violinist in the Metro.

Godly ambitions are humble because they set their sights on serving the Savior—the highest goal imaginable. As Charles Spurgeon puts it, “This is Heaven to a saint: in all things to serve the Lord Christ, and to be owned by Him as His servant is our soul’s high ambition for eternity.”¹³