Somewhere Out There

Somewhere out there tonight is a little girl for whom I am praying.  I have never met her, but she has been on my heart for days.  Although I have never laid eyes on this little girl, my life has intersected with hers, and I am compelled to pray.  Today was a potentially life-altering day for her, although I do not yet know the outcome, and, in fact, may not find that out for days or weeks.  It doesn't matter.  I am burdened to pray, so I pray for an unknown child, facing overwhelming obstacles, and I will continue to pray for as long as God lays her on my heart.

Who knows, but that my prayers might make a difference.  Who knows, but that my prayers were needed to fill up that bowl of prayers that will be poured out at the right time in answer to the cries of the people of God.  It doesn't matter that I don't know her, does it?

And when I think about how exactly our lives intersected, it astonishes me.  When I think about why I feel so compelled to pray, it astonishes me.  It is through circumstances that simply could not be humanly orchestrated, some of which were just plain painful.  Circumstances that go back months and jump ahead to just a week ago.  And part of me thinks, God, was this all somehow part of your plan?  Did you allow this to happen so that I could meet this person who knows that little girl?  Did you arrange for that to happen all those months ago because you knew that on March 19, this little girl would need my prayer as she faced a life-and-death struggle?  Did you teach me that lesson so that I would help fight for this little girl's life with my prayers, knowing full well that you are a God who heals in miraculous ways?

It makes me wonder just how intricately woven together our lives actually are.  Just when I get to thinking I'm pretty independent, I catch a glimpse of something that is so infinitely delicate and so perfectly balanced that I am astonished, and my illusions of independence are shattered.  I wonder how many random happenings in my life are not random at all, but are perfectly orchestrated to intersect me with people I need to meet.  That ambulance that went by me with the sirens blaring as I sat in total frustration while waiting for the red light, and despite my frustration, I prayed for whoever was in that ambulance -- maybe that prayer was the one God used to keep a faltering heart beating.  The person who said she prayed for me last week -- I wonder what part of my life was held together through her prayers.  Maybe none.  Maybe something that I will never know.  It could be.  Maybe. Maybe not.  It could all be my wild imagination.  But I'm not taking chances. 

Because, somehow, I think it's not my imagination at all.
Somehow, I think God really cares that much.
Somehow, I think he's really that much in control.

Somewhere out there is a little girl for whom I am praying, because I must.
Because somewhere out there is a world that is so much bigger and more complicated than I can comprehend,
And a God who holds it all.

So I am praying.
And you can pray too.

Starvation

Once upon a time, there was a man who decided that unless every bite of food he put in his mouth was the best thing he'd ever eaten, he wouldn't bother to eat.  After all, why should he waste his time on ground beef when there was filet mignon?  Why eat PB&J when there was smoked meat on rye?  Why would he go through the effort of chewing toast and butter when he could have eggs Benedict?  Why would he eat broccoli when he'd rather have chocolate cream pie?

But life got in the way.  His mornings were a little rushed, and he didn't have time to make eggs Benedict, so he went without breakfast.  His wallet wouldn't support a steady diet of deli sandwiches and Kosher pickles, so he started to skip lunch, too.  And when the filet mignon, which tasted so good at first, became boring, he stopped eating altogether.  What was the point of eating if he didn't enjoy it?

The man starved to death.

The end.

Stupid story, isn't it? 

Everyone knows that we don't eat just to enjoy it.  Oh, sure, there are moments when we have a truly spectacular meal.  But there are also moments when we eat something simply because we're hungry.  A PB&J sandwich fills the stomach and fuels the body just as well as a deli delight.  Or we eat something that isn't our favourite because we know it's better for us than chocolate cream pie.  After all, the purpose of eating is not enjoyment, although God has blessed us with a great ability to enjoy our food.  The purpose of eating is to live -- to grow, to remain healthy and strong, to be able to battle disease and heal from injury, to have the energy to do those things to which God calls us.  People around the world eat the same food day in, day out, meal after meal after meal, not because it tastes so wonderful, but simply because it is food, and they know they must eat to survive.  No one who can help it will starve just because he or she doesn't enjoy every mouthful of food he eats. 

Except when it comes to the Bread of Life.  Jesus said, "Man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God."  And yet, all the time, people try to live by bread alone.  I'm not talking about unbelievers.  I'm talking about those who profess to follow Jesus.

It's boring.
I don't like what I'm reading.
I don't get anything out of it.
I don't feel any different.
It's too hard.
I've tried and it doesn't work.

What do you mean, it doesn't work?  If I eat my peanut butter sandwich, it works.  It enters my stomach, and it is digested, and it fuels my body.  Was it a sublime experience to eat it?  I don't like peanut butter THAT much!  Do I feel my body breaking down the sandwich, or feel the various proteins and vitamens going about their respective duties?  Hardly.  But it works.

Yes, sometimes it's boring.  So is toast.  But it works.
Yes, sometimes it's hard.  So is eating lobster.  But it works.
Yes, sometimes I don't like what I read.  I don't like eating cauliflower, either.  But it works.

One of my friends and mentors is known to say, "Every time you crack the Book, you come face to face with God."  I come face to face with him in the parables.  He is the thundering voice of the prophets.  He is the hero in the sweeping sagas of life and death, heartache and victory.  He laughs -- and weeps -- his way through Psalms.  He lives and loves and dies, and rises again in the Gospels.  He guides and encourages and warns in Paul and the other epistles.  I even come face to face with him in the geneologies and in those weird mildew laws.  (Did you even know there were mildew laws?)  Even if I don't know exactly how or when or where I saw him, he is there.

Do I realise that? Do I really believe that whatever I read, whenever I read, however much I read of his Word, I am face to face with God?  That doesn't mean that it's going to be some kind of transcendant experience.  It's hard to feel transcendant in the middle of the "begats".  But you can bet your bottom dollar that he IS there.  And you can bet your bottom dollar that I don't come face to face with God and it not "work".  Moment by moment, day by day, impercepably perhaps, but irrevokably, I am changed.  I have to be changed.  Because I have met with God.  And as certainly as the food I put into my body does its thing, more certainly still, God's word will not return empty, but will accomplish what he desires, and achieve the purpose for which he sent it (Isaiah 55:11).

From the time I was able to sit up in a high chair until the time I left the house, every evening after we had eaten, my parents read a chapter of the Bible out loud.  We started in Genesis and went to Revelation, and then we started again.  We read everything, even the begats and the weird mildew laws (that's how I know they're in there) and Song of Songs.  Did I feel anything?  You bet.  I felt how ichy my nose was, but I couldn't scratch it.  I felt how much I couldn't wait for the chapter to end so that I could get back to my book (the sublime one about horses and dogs and brave detectives, that made my heart pound with excitement).  I felt despair at the sight of the huge mound of dishes I would have to wash when we were done.  It was boring.  It was hard.  I didn't understand much of what I heard.  I didn't feel like I got anything out of it.  I didn't feel any different (other than stressed from having to sit still).  We didn't even talk about it.  We just read it and that was that.  But you know what?  It worked.  And it still works.  Every time I crack the Book, I come face to face with God, and it has shaped me and changed me and steadied me.  Not immediately, but over time.  Because God's Word never, NEVER returns empty.  It will always accomplish that for which it was intended.

 I wonder where we got the idea that reading the Word needs to be an experience, preferrably every single time.

Perhaps it is time we stop seeking the experience, and start trusting the Text.  It works.  Every time.

And the unbelievable part is that, just like when we eat we sometimes have a truly wonderful meal, sometimes when we crack the Book, we really SEE God.  We feel him.  We know that we are changed.

Because God is good like that.

Fish Out of Water

I’ve been thinking a lot about worldliness lately.

It’s a funny thing to think about – kind of like asking a fish to think about wetness.  Assuming we have a sentient fish, would he even be able to think about being wet when his entire life is spent immersed in water?  Am I able to do any better?  Jesus tells me to be “in the world but not of it”.  I despair that is a bit like asking a fish to be in the water but not allow himself to get wet.  How is it even possible?  I am so immersed in the world that it is hard to grasp what it means.

So I reduce worldliness to a bunch of external behaviours.  I don’t drink or dance or smoke or chew or go with guys who do.  I write my little checklist of what “worldly” looks like, and I smugly tell myself that I don’t do those things, so that means I’m not worldly.  And as far as those external things are concerned, I really am “not of this world”.  I rarely watch TV.  I go to perhaps 3 movies a year.  I don’t even know who Kim Kardashian is, and I don’t think I would recognise a Whitney Houston song if I heard it.  I’m not up on the latest fashions.  I don’t even carry a cell phone, for goodness’ sake (and much to the chagrin of some of my friends).

But really, is that what Jesus meant?  Does it mean that I’m not worldly?  Or does it just mean that I’m out of touch?

I think it is the latter.  (And I’m ok with that.)  But it leaves me without answers:  what does it mean to be worldly?  And am I?

Ecclesiastes says that God has planted eternity in the human heart.  And that’s where I’m different from a fish.  (Ok, I’m different from a fish in plenty of other areas as well, but this one is the most significant.)  Because every once in a while, I look up from my puny little world, and I catch a glimpse of something so much bigger than what I see around me that it takes my breath away.  It is those glimpses that make me realise just how worldly I am.  Not in external things, but at a much deeper level.  The way I think is worldly.  The way I perceive life is worldly.  My worldview is, well, a worldly-view.  It's not an eternity-view, not really.

I think like the world.  There is cause and effect.  If only I know the right information, I will be able to explain everything.  I observe, I collect data, and I analyse it until my thoughts are ordered in neat little boxes that are labelled and organised and in control.  I am immersed in the scientific method.  When I see something that appears to defy explanation, I immediately and intuitively begin seeking the explanation.  And if I can’t find the explanation, I find ways to discount what I have seen.  I must have missed something.  I must not have seen what I thought I saw.  I must have dozed off and been dreaming.  But the eternity doesn’t work like that.  There is room for mystery in the eternity.  There is room for wonder and that which defies explanation.  I know that, academically, but experientially, I think like the world.  It is not my first impulse to think, Wow, you know, I think I just witnessed a miracle!  Instead, I thrash about looking for a logical explanation, and it is only when what I have experienced utterly defies all explanation that I begin to think, Well, maybe it was a miracle.

I have the values of the world.  I like to think I don’t, because I don’t have many of the things that the world values, but I do.  I may not have a nice car, but I want one.  I think I deserve one.  I may not have a lot of money, but a great deal of my time is spent thinking about how nice it would be if I did have it.  After all, I deserve nice things. 

And what is worse, I try to make myself better by smugly telling myself that the reason I don’t have those things is because I’m doing the Lord’s work, and my reward will be in eternity.  There’s truth to that.  I believe I am doing the Lord’s work, and he has always provided for me, and I know that what is more important is what he thinks about what I’m doing rather than how the world judges me.  But the alarming rate at which I need to remind myself of these truths tells me that the truth has not yet sunk into my heart.  I am still being driven by the values of the world.  I still believe that good ought to come to those who do good, and the bad guys should get it –not just in eternity, but right here, right now.

I have a worldly understanding of power.  Jesus says that the last will be first and the first will be last, but I still act like the first will be first, and the last will be left in the dust.  People in suits carrying briefcases and iPhones walk by and I think, Oh, they must be important.  It is easy to look past the homeless man who roots through our blue box for our glass bottles.  Might is right.  I have to pull myself up by my bootstraps.  I need to fight for what is my right.  Survival of the fittest and all that.  But survival of the fittest totally contradicts what Jesus says.  When I catch a glimpse of the eternity, I am suddenly aware of just how much my understanding of power has been influenced by the world.

What does it look like to live in this world and accept with ease that there are things that defy explanation?  What does it look like to recognise that knowledge does not solve everything, that some things are simply beyond my ability to understand, and to be comfortable in that mystery?  How will I behave if I truly understand that the values of this world are diametrically opposed to the values of the kingdom?  How will it change the way I view my circumstances if I really grasp that God’s greatest good for me is not that I have a new car but that I become more like him?  What will my world look like when I really get it that God uses the foolish things of this world to confound the wise and I lay down my arms and stop fighting all the time?

I think it will make me weird.  Weirder than I am now.  A fish out of water.

But it's not evolution.  It's transformation.