Power

On Christmas two years ago, my dog was dreadfully sick.  My dog was dreadfully sick, and I experienced a miracle.  (You can read about it here.)

That miracle changed my life.  It's taken me nearly two years to figure out what it was about that night that left a crater in my soul.  My mind and heart and soul have gone back to it over and over, like a tongue explores a hole left by an extracted tooth, trying to understand what it was about that evening that simply will not let me go.  And I think I have finally figured out why it staggered me so.It's not that the vet was available on Christmas Day, although that was cool.  It's not so much that my dog was healed, although that was incredible.  It's not that, two year later and multiple health problems later, she's still alive, although that's pretty cool, too.  (I'm rather fond of her.)  It's not even that God heard and answered prayer, although that is probably the most wonderful of all.  But it wasn't any of those things. 

That night has fundamentally altered the way I understand power.

You see, I always knew that God could and did heal miraculously.  I've never doubted that.  I have friends and family who have been miraculously healed.  So although it was absolutely amazing and glorious to experience it first-hand and personally, that wasn't what shifted my universe.
I also knew that he hears and answers prayer. I've experienced that, too, in some awesome ways.  So while I was (and always am) astonished that the King of all the universe stoops to hear his little child, it also wasn't outside of my world of experience.
I even knew that there are people out there who are so decent and gracious they'd stop what they're doing on Christmas Day to help out a sick dog (and maybe the people who love her).  So as wonderful as that was, it wasn't enough to pull the rug out from under me.

But what I didn't know, what I had never experienced before, was the kind of power I experienced that night in the vet's office.  Nothing had prepared me for that.

In my world, power was something to be feared.  It was big and strong, loud and dominating, fearsome and threatening.  It was used to control and hurt those who have less power.  But power got things done.  Power was strength.  Power made people winners.

In my world, gentleness evidenced lack of power.  Gentleness meant you were weak, ineffective, soft. And gentleness was, well . . . nice.  Nice, but useless.  Gentleness could comfort but not protect.  Gentleness could make you feel better but it wouldn't change anything.  Gentleness meant you would get hurt.  Gentle people were loving and sweet and kind and nice, but pathetic, like defenseless lambs in a lion's den, just waiting to be ripped limb from fleece.  Gentleness made people victims.

If you had power and I didn't, you would use that power to hurt me.  So I had to either pretend I had power, too, so you didn't hurt me, or if the power differential was too great for me to overcome with bluster, I had to hide from you so that you would never see how powerless I truly was.  You might pretend you weren't going to hurt me, or you might be nice for a while, but eventually, always, your power and my lack of power meant I would be crushed.  So I blustered and postured and acted tough to convince you I had power when I didn't, or I hid behind defenses to keep you at bay so you'd never see how weak I really was.  I covered my inner lamb in a lion's skin.  I hated the power game, but I thought I understood it, and I had learned to survive in it.

Eventually, I began to learn that sometimes power could be used for good instead of for harm.  I got to a place where I loved Psalm 18 -- that picture of a powerful warrior God coming down in the midst of thunder and lightning to stand in defence of his people.  I liked the idea that all that big and strong, loud and dominating, fearsome and threatening could be used against my enemies instead of against me.  I tried to trust a small handful of people whose power was greater than my own, tried to believe that even though they had great power, they would not use that power against me.  I entertained the thought that if gentle people were like lambs in a lion's den, maybe there could be a few lions out there who didn't like the taste of lamb.  I wondered if maybe there could be lions who could use their power to protect the lambs rather than attack them. 

But never once did it cross my mind that power could be gentle.  Power might be protective, but not gentle. I thought that it was the very bigness, strength, loudness, domination, fearsomeness or threat that created the power.  Strip away the noise and you strip away the power. It never dawned on me that power might not be big or strong, loud or dominating, fearsome or threatening, but would still be powerful.

But that night in the vet's office, I experienced a gentle power and it blasted a hole through the defenses I still had erected around my heart.  I knew, I knew my dog was healed before the vet ever operated.  I knew, and I said nothing.  Because healing requires power, and power is evidenced by thunder and lighting, by tears and shouting and fear and wild gesticulations, and there had been none of that.  I would have welcomed that kind of power if it had healed my dog.  It would have scared me to death, but I would have welcomed it at that moment.  But there was none of that.  There was only quietness and love, and the peace of an after-hours vet clinic bathed in dark while the rest of the world was off being busy with Christmas.  There was only a gentleness that whispered to my heart and held it while it was breaking, and reached out and healed my dog.  So, because He was gentle, I doubted His power.  I doubted that he had acted, and I held onto my silence until there could no longer be any doubt, and even then, I struggled.

That night shattered everything I thought I  knew about power.  I hate the yelling and screaming.  I hate the arm-waving and stamping of feet that so often seems to come with what is called a display of God's power.  I hate the raised voices and Bible thumping of the bully pulpit.  I am so tired of being yelled at.  I had gotten to the place where I understood that God wasn't yelling at me all the time.  I was ok with him yelling at people who deserved to be yelled at (whoever that might be).  I knew that sometimes he speaks in a still, small voice.  I had grown to love that still, small voice.  But deep in my heart, without knowing that I believed it, I believed that the still, small voice lacked power.  The thunder, the fire, and the whirlwind had power.  They got things done.  The still, small voice was comforting.  But I thought it had no power.  And because I didn't want the yelling and posturing, I had, absolutely unwittingly, resigned myself to a life with a powerless but kind God, a life without wonder.

On Christmas Day, we remember the birth of a baby.  The gentle baby, born in an after-hours stable bathed in dark while the rest of the world was off being busy, was utterly helpless and vulnerable.  A newborn lamb.  And somehow, with all my knowledge of Scripture, with all my theology, I made the mistake of thinking that meant he was powerless.  A victim.  But what does it mean that this Baby is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation, the one by whom and for whom all things were created, the one in whom it pleased God to have all his fullness dwell?  How can I hold that belief and still think this gentle baby is powerless?  It's a paradoxical wonder.

On Christmas Day, two years ago, in an after-hours vet clinic bathed in dark while the rest of the world was off being busy, I felt utterly  helpless and vulnerable.  And the still, small voice of my Saviour breathed into my heart and blew it apart with a power that has continued to stagger me for the past two years.  And I was not afraid.  It has taken two years for me to figure it out.  There is a power that transcends posturing.  There is a power that makes the power of size and strength seem silly.  The still, small voice has more power than the thunder and fire and whirlwind combined, and -- ah, here is the wonder of it -- it is a power that I do not  fear.  Not because it is not aimed in my direction, but because it is a power, a world-altering power, that is quiet and good, kind . . . and gentle.

I want to live my life in that power.