Straw Man

Ever notice how one little thing can set off an avalanche of chaos and emotion that crushes you?

It's happened so many times before . . .

There was a time a number of years ago where, within the span of about 5 years, I attended the funerals of my father, my grandfather, my grandmother, and then my other grandmother.  I staggered, I reeled, I adjusted, I carried on.  But when I had to put my guinea pig down, I sobbed inconsolably.

I experienced it when I spent a year in Indonesia.  The culture shock was profound.  The heat was unbelievable.  The language was confusing.  The constant threat of malaria, snakebite, scorpion bite, and various gut parasites picked up from contaminated food or water weighed on me constantly.  The market . . . oh, the market was an abrupt slap in the face that I was a world away from home.  Oh, and then there was 9/11.  Yes, that 9/11.  From half a world away, I watched what news clips I could in a language I could not understand, although watching the towers collapse really didn't require much interpretation.  I was called into the police station to be assured that the police would do what they could to make sure I was safe.  My family worried about me, living in the largest Muslim country in the world.  I worried about them, just a hop, skip, and jump from NYC.  I staggered, I reeled, I adjusted, I carried on.  But when a cockroach crawled out of the drain while I was showering, I collapsed in a screaming heap of irrationality.

More recently, I have experienced it as I transitioned from one job to another and back again.  I lost a job I loved.  I knew it was coming.  I found a new job, in a new city.  I moved into a new living situation in a new home.  I bought a horse.  How hard could it be?  I staggered, I reeled, I adjusted, I carried on.  But one day, I pulled into the driveway of my new home that did not yet feel like home, and for no reason I could think of, I began to cry.  I got out of my car and walked down to the river and sat in the rain until I couldn't tell if my face was wet from tears or raindrops.

Life is like that.  The change and the hurt pile up, one after another after another.  Or perhaps it drops on us like a dumptruck load in one horrible moment.  We might stagger, reel, adjust, and carry on, but the burden we carry is so precariously balanced that one little addition crushes us.  A car that won't start.  Hair that won't lie flat.  A busted zipper in a favourite pair of jeans.  A burnt supper.  One more small bill to pay.  One more small obligation to meet.  One more little demand on our time.  Down we go, crushed under the weight of it all -- the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

Sure, it says in the Bible that God will never give us more than we can handle.  We hear it all the time.  Well-meaning people throw it in our face, but let's be real, we've all faced occasions where that just doesn't seem true.  We lie under the burden of our troubles with our limbs feebly twitching and our lungs gasping for breath, barely able to groan with the pain of it all.  Really, God?  Really, this isn't more than I can handle?

I used to think that text meant that, somehow, I had done something wrong.  After all, it also says in the Bible, "Cast all your cares upon him, because he cares for you," so perhaps I had just not cast my cares upon him.  Perhaps I was carrying a load he never meant for me to carry.  Perhaps.  Or perhaps that's a load of crock.  Not the text -- the text is true!  We can and we should cast our cares upon him, and he truly does care for us.  But perhaps I have been casting my cares upon him, and I'm still crushed under the load.

Perhaps what this verse means then is that I really CAN handle this load -- perhaps I only imagine I'm crushed under it.  After all, God won't give me more than I can handle, and he's given me this, so I must be able to handle it.  Perhaps.  Or perhaps that's a load of crock too.  I'm pretty sure that my twitching limbs and gasping lungs and pounding heart are, at this moment, very real.  I know I can't muster up one bit of strength to go one step farther, and I sure don't need someone telling me that my pain is only a figment of my imagination.

Or perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . the verse doesn't really exist.

This one does:  "No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it"  (I Corinthians 10:13).  But that's not talking about job loss, death, illness, losing a friend, moving far away, guinea pigs, cockroaches, or bad hair days.  It's talking about sin.  I will never be in a place where I have no choice but to sin.  Sin is always -- ALWAYS -- my fault.  But the burdens that are crushing the life out of me?  This verse from Corinthians has nothing to say about them.  In fact, the Bible never says that God won't give us more than we can handle.  Did you hear that?  The Bible never once says anywhere that God won't give us more than we can handle.  Never.

Because if God never gave us more than we could handle, why would we need him?  I know I wouldn't.  Nope, no, God, no thank you, I've got this under control.  Nah, that's ok, God, I can do it.  God, I've got this one covered, ok?   You can just go back to spinning planets or whatever else you do.  I would.  And you would, too.  Because we are prideful, sinful people with godlike ambition.  Let's be honest -- why would we cast our cares on him if we could handle them quite nicely on our own, thank you very much?

But God is merciful.  He loves us.  He knows how horribly unhappy we would be without him.  He knows that our greatest joy is found when he is glorified.  So he gives us more than we can handle.

He gives me more than I can handle, and I am crushed under the load of grief, of pain, of sorrow, of confusion, of too-much-to-do-and-not-enough-time.  I'm not reeling, or staggering, or adjusting, or carrying on.  I'm sitting under a tree in the rain while the teardrops and raindrops mingle into a single sad wetness on my face.  And it is in that moment of supreme powerlessness that God stoops down and wipes away my tears.  Perhaps I find him in the warmth of a friend's embrace.  Perhaps he's there in an unexpected phone call, or a letter that comes in the mail.  Perhaps I see him in a sunset, or in the nicker of my horse.  But suddenly, I catch a glimpse of him, and I know he is there, with me, in the pain, and he is helping me to carry it.  I am carrying a burden that is more than I can handle.  I need him desperately.  Powerless, I cry out for help.  I find him.  I find him.  And he is enough.

He gives me more than I can handle,
and I discover in the pain
that I am crushed
not by my burdens,
but by the glory
of his grace.

Winning Gold

There's a lot on my mind.

Olympics . . .
A commissioning service . . .
And faith.  Authentic faith.  Gritty, real faith that takes the love of God seriously.

I have spent the past two weeks watching all kinds of people bike, swim, run, jump, dive, leap, flip, throw, row, paddle, or fight their way to glory.  How many hours have they dedicated to honing their skills for that micro-chance at Olympic glory?  Some of them train for thousands of hours to lose by a hundredth of a second.

And all for a wreath that fades.

Canada won a single gold medal.  I watched the girl win it.  You'd think I'd be able to remember her name.  But I couldn't.  Mere days after it happened, and already I'd forgotten.  What will happen in the weeks and months and years that follow?  What will happen in Rio, when someone who is a fraction of a second faster, who sticks the landing just a little tighter, who splashes a drop of water less, snatches the glory and claims it for him or herself?  Even Usain Bolt's glory will fade.

The Olympics brings out the best in us.  For two weeks, all countries live and work under a single flag with a single anthem.  There is beauty in watching someone do what they do really well.  There are lots of great stories, stories of courage and dignity, of perseverance and grace.  I love the Olympics.    But just as they bring out our best, they bring out our worst.  The single flag doesn't erase ugly rivalries.  There are accusations of cheating and conspiracy.  There was a lot of posturing at the Olympics.  A lot of steely stares, a lot of muscle-flexing and pointing fingers and kissing to the crowds.  Much as the Greeks imagined their gods doing, I'm sure.

And while the Greek gods posture and gloat, while the athletes sweat and strain muscles and bones to the point of breaking (and past), we sit in our armchairs and look on and cheer. We look down at our flabby selves and imagine ourselves honed and chiseled and standing on a podium with a medal around our necks.  But that's as far as it goes.  Because we all know that Olympic gold is for the elite.  The wreath that fades is for a select few.  It's not for paunchy, middle-aged couch potatoes with illusions of grandeur.

This morning, I attended a commissioning service for a family that is leaving behind all that is familiar to move to Togo, West Africa, to build a hospital.  It was a beautiful service.  This family is well-loved, and will be dearly missed by their own families and friends alike.  We all know they go with God.  They have spent months in a whirlwind preparation, but really, when I look at them, God has been preparing them for years.  Today, their church family and their blood families gathered around them and sent them, with their blessings, to do the work of God.  I am honoured to have been part of it.  (You can follow their story at www.notafrica.blogspot.com.)

I thought, as I was driving home, how wild and crazy it all is.  I mean, think about it . . . packing up a home and a business, leaving behind family that loves you beyond measure, and heading off to a developing country with five kids in tow . . . for what?  There's not even a medal involved.  No one is going to sing their national anthem.  No one is going to raise their flag.  There's no glory.  Just a whole lot of guts. I had the same reactions from people when I made my own journey across the ocean to spend an extended period of time in a developing country.  I was suddenly a "super-hero" Christian, one of the extra-spiritual ones who actually does crazy things for God.  We like to watch and clap and cheer and admire them, and tell other people that we know them, but perish the thought that we do it ourselves.  Kind of like the Olympic athletes.  We love watching them do their thing as we breathe a sigh of relief that we don't have to go to all that hard work, and we reach for another handful of potato chips.

Except that this family is not made up of spiritual Olympic heros.  They're an ordinary family with ordinary jobs and ordinary kids who love and follow an extraordinary God.  Just like I was.  No super-hero faith there, let me tell you, just a whole lot of fear and a conviction that it was where God was calling me.  And that means that anyone who takes their faith in any way seriously is fair game.  If God can call me, if he can call my friends to Togo, he can call anyone.  Maybe, just maybe, he does call everyone to take big risks, make big sacrifices, and step way out of our comfort zones, but we are too busy being spiritually flabby and lazy to be obedient.  Maybe, if we took our faith seriously, we'd all live radically.  Maybe radical would become normal.  Maybe we'd stop looking at ordinary people who follow an extraordinary God as super-spiritual Olympic athletes and start seeing them as, well, ordinary people who follow an extraordinary God.  Maybe we'd stop thinking about living out of authentic faith as a spectator sport, and all join in the game.

We'd win a wreath that never fades. A crown that is laid up for us.

We'd stand for a single Kingdom.

We'd live under a single flag.

We'd sing a single anthem. 
I think it would go something like this:

Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty,

Who was, and is, and is to come.

Worthy are you, O Lord, our God

To receive glory and honour and power,

For you created all things,

And by your will they were created and have their being.

And the only posturing we'll do is to take the crowns from our heads, and throw them before His throne, and he'll get the glory.

That's an opening ceremony I don't want to miss.

Now I've got to go . . . I'm in training.