In 1953, John Hunt organized an assault-style expedition to Mt. Everest. He enlisted an army of Sherpas to serve as porters. The porters established the climbing route, built bridges across the glacier, and stockpiled supplies at strategic locations up the mountain. One of the Sherpas was named Tenzing Norgay. Tenzing had worked on three previous Everest expeditions; he had broken the world record for the highest altitude yet reached by a human being. On May 29th, two men reached the summit: Tenzing Norgay was one of them; John Hunt was not. The expedition was declared a success: John Hunt was knighted by the crown of England, Tenzing Norgay was not.
In 1978, Reinhold Messner organized an alpine-style expedition to Mt. Everest. It was a simple—and courageous—two man adventure. Reinhold Messner and Peter Habeler completed the first alpine-style ascent of Mount Everest—they did not use porters or supplemental oxygen. Reinhold said that an alpine-style expedition was the only way to climb Mt. Everest “by fair means.”
On an assault-style expedition, the porters do most of the hard work, and the assault leader gets most of the credit for “conquering” the mountain (even if he doesn’t climb it!)
On alpine-style expeditions, each climber hauls their own load. The individual alpinists share the responsibilities and—if they succeed—they share the reward.
Which one of these roles is the best fit for your personality?
- An assault leader: “using” other people to manage my life.
- A porter: allowing others to “use” me to manage their lives.
- An alpinist climber: managing my own life—and enjoying it.
Christianity is supposed to be something like an alpine-style expedition. God wants us to live “by fair means” so that we can enjoy individual freedom and interpersonal fellowship within a community of like-minded people. That sounds great, and it’s possible—if we understand (and apply) three simple “alpine rules” in our relationships.
As we begin, I want to lay a phrase from Galatians 6:2 NASB (“Bear one another’s burdens”) next to a phrase from Galatians 6:5 NASB (“All must bear their own loads.”) How do we reconcile these two ideas? First of all, we must remember that God’s wisdom is often revelead within a paradox. Aware of that fact, we must look beneath the apparent contradiction and search for a way in which these verses compliment each other. When we investigate the key terms “burdens” and “loads;” we discover a way to move forward.
- The Greek word for burden means crushing weight.
- The Greek word for load means cargo freight.
To illustrate the difference between a burden and a load: think of the difference between a boulder and a backpack. On an alpine climbing team, all of the climbers are responsible for carrying their own backpacks. But if one of them gets crushed by a boulder, the whole team responds to the situation. Common sense, right?
Now, in theory, this “alpine ethic” makes “redneck” sense; in real life, however, many people appear to be unable to tell the difference between a backpack and a boulder.
Let’s begin by talking about burdens—or “boulders”—the crushing weights that God doesn’t expect us to bear on our own: “Reach out to those who are oppressed. Share their burdens…” (Galatians 6:2 Message)
Burdens are like boulders. When one rolls into your life, you get crushed. It doesn’t matter how strong you are, you’re no match for a boulder. Proverbs 18:14 (The Message) says: “A healthy spirit conquers adversity, but what can you do when the spirit is crushed?” Burdens are spirit-crushing tragedies. They are often unexpected; they are always undeserved.
Now, when I see a person being crushed by tragic circumstances, I want to help. That’s good. Often, however, my ambition to help is much larger than my ability to help. That’s not good. How can I avoid turning someone’s tragedy into an absolute disaster? I must follow the Alpine Rule of Rescue Missions:
Alpine Rule of Rescue Missions: If I am unable to carry my backpack, then I am unqualified to rescue someone from a boulder.
My backpack represents my personal life; a boulder represents a spirit-crushing tragedy in somebody else’s life. If I can’t handle my personal life responsibly, then I am in no condition to try to help somebody manage a tragedy.
One late summer evening, about fifteen years ago—(back in my long-haired hippie freak days)—I was hitch-hiking on some barren stretch of road in the middle of nowhere. I don’t remember where I was, (and I probably didn’t know at the time). I think it was Kansas. I’d been walking for a few hours, and I was relieved when somebody finally stopped to pick me up. It turns out that the driver was so drunk he could barely talk. He explained that he needed me to drive. I was lost, and he couldn’t remember where he was going. He woke up in Texas.
If I’m not in control of my personal life, then I’m in no condition to respond to another person’s tragedy. That’s what the alpine rule of rescue missions means. If I violate that simple rule, tragedy turns into disaster: the people I started to help end up “driving” my life! They’ve taken me to places much worse than Texas!
Loads are like backpacks. This morning, I’m using the word backpack to represent my personal life. God gave me a life, and He put me in charge of it. I have the freedom to put all kinds of great things into my backpack: an amazing wife, a Chinese baby, a challenging job, an agate hunting obsession, lots of friends, mowing my lawn, drinking gourmet coffee, going on family vacations, and taking care of two irritable cats.
Now, if the stuff in my backpack puts so much weight on my shoulders that I’m not enjoying the scenery, then I’m “unable” to carry my backpack. My life is too full, and I’m no longer in control. When that happens, I need to recharge and repack—carefully.
There are three Alpine Rules about Backpacks:
Rule 1: I get to choose what goes into my backpack.
I have the freedom to put anything I want into my life. I already gave a few examples: family, job, hobbies, etc. Now this is curious: sometimes I have things in my backpack that belong in somebody else’s backpack. For example, I’ve been known put other people’s problems into my backpack. It sounds crazy—and it is.
Rule 2: I must carry my own backpack.
There are no porters on Alpine expeditions. Every climber carries his own weight. In everyday life, this principle remains true when my “backpack” contains things that should be in someone else’s backpack. Now, if I put somebody else’s problems in my backpack, then I have a weird problem of my own. Psychologists call this kind of weird problem “codependency.” Mountain climbers have their own name for a guy who hauls other people’s stuff in his backpack: a porter!
Rule 3: I need to control what goes into my backpack.
When I behave like a porter, my backpack gets overloaded. It doesn’t take long before I’m unable to carry it. I don’t have to walk very many miles in “porter’s shoes” before my life starts to feel miserable and meaningless.
I want to enjoy my life—there’s nothing wrong with that!—and I want to be able to offer effective help to people in serious trouble. So what do I do when my life feels miserable and meaningless? First, I review the alpine rules I’ve been talking about this morning, and then I set aside time to recharge and repack.
In 1996, more people died on Mount Everest than any year before or since. It could have been a lot worse. A Russian climber named Anatoli Boukereev was working as a guide on a commercial expedition. On May 10th, he helped prepare the final stretch of trail to the summit. He reached the top ahead of his clients, and noticed that the weather was getting bad. He wanted to tell them to turn around, but he didn’t have the authority—the expedition was led by Scott Fischer.
Anatoli raced down to camp, hurrying past clients that were still on their way up the mountain. He reached the camp ahead of the storm; he climbed into his sleeping bag and starting drinking lots of hot tea. By that time, everybody saw the weather was about to get bad, and some people accused Anatoli of abandoning his clients to save himself.
Anatoli knew what he was doing, even though nobody else in the camp did. He was recharging so that he could respond to the inevitable tragedy. Anatoli didn’t care about the critics; he cared about his clients.
The weather got terrible; it closed in on many climbers who were coming down the mountain, stranding them far away from the safety of their camp. Soon it was night, the wind was deafening, and the blowing snow made flashlights useless. That’s when Anatoli went into action. He hiked up and down the mountain—by himself—searching for lost climbers. He found every lost climber that belonged to his team—and even saved some from other expeditions. Scott Fischer, the team leader, was still high on the mountain. By the time Anatoli reached him, the sun was coming up—and Scott was dead.
Anatoli’s effort has been called the most amazing high-altitude rescue in the history of Himalayan climbing. He knew the alpine rules, and he followed them perfectly. When he saw tragedy approaching, he got himself into condition so that he could respond effectively.
A tragedy may be about to erupt in the life of someone close to you. What kind of condition are you in? Are you starting to understand that taking care of your self is something that you need to do for others?
Anatoli Boukereeve warmed up and rehydrated so that he would be strong enough to search for his clients during a Himalayan blizzard. Some people didn’t understand—they called him a coward and accused him of acting selfishly.
The first year I was a pastor, I didn’t take any vacation. Early in my second year, I heard a story about two lumberjacks. One lumberjack worked so hard that he refused to take any breaks—even to sharpen his chainsaw. The other lumberjack took fairly frequent breaks, and he spent a lot of time filing his chain. At the end of the day, the second lumberjack cut a lot more wood than the first one. Working hard is good. Working smart is better. I’m sure you get my point, so here’s a question: "How sharp is YOUR saw?"
During my third year as a pastor, my wife and I went to Alaska for two weeks. It was great to take a vacation. It wasn’t so great to return. The first Sunday I was back, a member of the church told me: “Welcome back. Don’t you ever take a two-week vacation again!” She was dead serious.
Some people honestly believe that pastors only work one day a week. They don’t understand why we need to take vacations. (Such people are, in fact, one big reason why pastors need to take vacations!) I don’t have to make my critics understand my situation; I just need to take my vacations! It’s common sense.
When I take time to recharge, people seem critical. Most of the time, I’m just being paranoid. Sometimes, there is little room for doubt. We live in such a hyper-accelerated society; it’s not easy to take time for rest and renewal. Easy or not, we must take care of ourselves. We must rest. And we need more than rest—we often need to repack.
When I take things out of my backpack and repack, forget being critical—some people try to crucify me! When I return a responsibility to the person it truly belongs to, strange things happen. Basically, people accuse me of being a terrible pastor. There is a difference between being a pastor and being a porter. And beyond all of that, everybody knows that alpinists make terrible porters…
God does not require us to bear one another’s backpacks. He wants us to say “No” to the demands of those who don’t really need us so that we can say “Yes” to the needs of the ones who truly do.
This isn’t as easy as it sounds; because when you say “No” to some people, they start playing the “Blame and Shame Game.” They know how to play, and they refuse to lose. They’ll say things like: “You’re so selfish—how can you call yourself a Christian!” or “You don’t have to love me, nobody else does either…”
These kinds of situations are common, and complex. Dr. John Townsend and Dr. Henry Cloud have written a book called Boundaries (Running Press, 2004). This book can help you develop the diplomacy skills required to define and defend wise personal boundaries. A gem of wisdom from this book: when somebody is trying to crucify me for refusing to accept responsibility for their life, I paraphrase the authors of Boundaries by explaining, “Listen; I haven’t done anything TO you, it’s just that I’m not willing to do something FOR you.” There is a difference; it’s common sense.
In their book Boundaries, Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend describe what might have happened if the Good Samaritan lost the game of “Blame and Shame” with the guy he was trying to rescue. Here’s my paraphrase of their well-known (hypothetical) conversation:
The wounded man (regaining consciousness) says: “What, that’s it—you’re going to leave me here? What kind of a Good Samaritan are you? I’ve been traumatized. I can’t be alone, what if I have a nightmare? Why did you bother to save my life if you were going to abandon me in this strange place?”
The Samaritan replies: “Look, you’re safe. Order some room service, it’s on my bill. Rest until you’re strong enough to go to the place you were headed. Don’t worry about paying me back. I’m about to close a deal that will make me rich—I’m glad to be able to help.”
The wounded man grumbles: “Oh, you’re a businessman, that’s why you don’t care about people. You greedy dog! Fine—go make your fortune. You’re hurting me more than the men who beat me up.”
The Samaritan caves in. He stays at the hotel for two weeks—trying to make the recovering man believe that he really cared. One day, the Samaritan received a message informing him that his business deal fell through. He missed the opportunity of a lifetime.
There is an alpine moral to this story:
In the story that Jesus told, the Good Samaritan rescued a man from under a boulder and then dropped him off at a hotel until he regained enough strength to carry his own backpack. That’s compassion.
In the revised version, the Samaritan wasn’t able to tell the difference between a backpack and a boulder. The wounded man wound up driving the Samaritan’s life. That’s codependency.
Let’s wrap things up by reviewing the big idea of today’s message:
“Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life.” (Galatians 6:5 Message)
Following Jesus is like an alpine adventure. As Christians, each one of us is individually responsible for managing our personal backpack; and if somebody gets crushed by a boulder, they need help.
Sometimes, however, we’re just not in any condition to help. When we get overloaded, we need to rest up and repack; no matter what people say about us—no matter what people say to us.
In fact, when people say you’re “selfish” for taking care of yourself; it usually means that they’re angry because you’re not taking care of them. They can’t drive you crazy unless you let them drive your life. Alpine heroes don’t need to prove they’re not cowards.
Taking care of yourself is the most important thing you can do for others. When you are fully responsible for your own life, then you will be free to respond to the needs of others. Does that sound like common sense? God’s truth usually does.
