Faith in the Silence

I was driving home from work this afternoon.  It's been a busy week, and I'm tired. 

A song came on the radio, something about having lost the first love, and paper-thin faith, and wanting to feel the passion like before, and rekindling the flame, that sort of stuff.   My first reaction was a soul-deep groan, an overwhelming weariness, a sense that it was lovely to talk about rekindling the flame and wild passion and all that, but I'm just too tired to muster up the energy.

But then I got to thinking.  Frankly, sometimes life is just . . . ordinary.  I get up, I go to work, I come home, I cook supper, I go to bed.  I'm generally pretty content with that.  I love my job.  It's fun and challenging.  It keeps me on my knees in prayer.  And, to be purely pragmatic, it helps to pay the bills.  I drive to work and home from work.  I love the drive.  I spend a great deal of it just thinking God-directed thoughts.  Are they even prayers?  God and I chat.  It's casual and comfortable.  I like it.  I think he does, too.  My home life is good.  I've got friends who love me, a crazy dog, and a not-as-crazy horse (at least I'm raising ONE of my "kids" right!)  It's all good.  But it's ordinary.  I don't normally feel swept away by passion, excitement, and fire.  Maybe a warm glow, but hardly a raging fire.

And isn't that ok?  Does it really mean that I've lost my first love if every moment of every day isn't one of wild excitement and passion?  I got to thinking about the lives of the biblical heroes.  Abraham, for example.  He lived to be 175 years old.  He moved, escaped a couple of famines, fought a battle, told a lie or two, had a couple of kids, proved himself a man of faith, and died.  That's not a whole lot to be filling up 175 years.  I could do that in 70.  In fact, if we count up the instances in the Bible where Abraham actually had conversations with God, they add up to about 10 conversations.  That leaves long periods of silence, years and years and years where Abraham just went about living.  I'm pretty sure that there wasn't a whole lot of wild excitement and flaming passion for God every single day.  But he was a man of faith, in fact, the man who so exemplified faith that he became the example that Paul uses when he talks about being saved grace through faith.  Nothing paper-thin about it.

Now, maybe whoever writes these sorts of songs really has lost his or her first love.  Maybe he or she really is in danger of sliding away.  I suppose it's possible.  But perhaps it's also possible that we've become so addicted to an experience that when life slides into the ordinary, into the "long obedience in the same direction", we think there's something wrong. 

I love Chris Rice's song, "Smell the Colour Nine".  It doesn't talk about paper-thin faith and rekindling flames and that sort of stuff.  It talks about just keeping on going.

"I can sniff, I can see
And I can count up pretty high
But these faculties aren’t getting me
Any closer to the sky
But my heart of faith keeps pounding
So I know I’m doing fine
But sometimes finding You
Is just like trying to
Smell the color nine."

It's not always about the experience.  I know that my love for the Lord is deeper and wider than it has ever been.  We've been through an awful lot together, he and I.  We've passed through some turbulent waters.  And there are times -- times -- when life feels exciting and my love for him flames passionately and I feel him near.  I love those times!  But there are plenty of other times when I just know that I love him, even when I can't feel it.  There are lots of times when my faith is less like a flame of fire and more like the weight at the bottom of a punching bag that keeps me upright even though life is raining blows upon me.  It doesn't feel like much, but it's doing its job.

So I think it's ok that every day isn't a wild and crazy adventure.  I think it's ok to have days of companionable silence.  I don't panic over them anymore.

My heart of faith keeps pounding, and I know I'm doing fine.

Even in the ordinary days.

When God and I just hang.

Chosen

The bricks were rough beneath her palms as she hid her hands behind her and tried to press herself into the wall.  Kids squirmed beside her on either side.  Some of them jumped up and down.  Some of them waved.  Some of them called out, "Pick me, pick me!"  But she just stood there, wishing she could melt into the brickwork and disappear forever.

She knew what would happen.  It happened every time.  One by one by one, the other kids' names would be called out.  "Abe!"  "Zach!"  "Sophie!"  They'd go, one to one side, the other to the other side.  Sometimes the captain would decide by himself. Sometimes he'd talk to the rest of the team, heads bent together, glancing up over shoulders to see who was left, trying to figure out who to pick next.

But she would never be chosen.

She was always just left over.

Maybe she should just walk away.  She could pretend she didn't care.  She thought longingly of the book she had left inside.  She should just leave.  But for some reason, the teachers didn't like it when she went off by herself.  She stood, as if nailed to the wall, and sighed.

When there was group work, or in gym class, the teacher always assigned her.  Sometimes her group didn't say much.  Sometimes they rolled their eyes.  But they had no choice.  Neither did she.  If she had a choice, she'd rather work alone than be in a group where they didn't want her.   She supposed that being assigned was better than being left over, but really, it made no difference.  You aren't really a part of a team unless you're there by choice.

And she was never chosen.

She wasn't sure why she was never chosen.  She knew she wasn't the best in the class, but it didn't seem she was the worst, either.  Tara was shorter, and Simon always tripped.  Maybe it was the way she looked.  She knew her clothes weren't the nicest (although she loved the softness of her shirt, and the buttons were so pretty and brown and shiny, and glowed like they had a hidden light inside them).  Sometimes she studied her face in the mirror at night, but it seemed to be an ordinary face to her.  No, there was something wrong with her inside, something that made her the kind of girl that never gets chosen, only left over.

She peeked up from behind her bangs at the captain.  She'd never seen him before.  Maybe he would be different . . . maybe he wouldn't notice that there was something wrong with her.  Maybe he wouldn't do a team huddle and give the others a chance to tell him how awful she was.  Oh, she wished he would choose her!  He looked nice.  He didn't look like the normal captains who chose teams; they were always the most popular kids,  handsome, clever, and funny.  His face was ordinary and his eyes were kind.  She wished he would look her way.  Maybe he would just look up and see her and call -- Stupid!  Stupid!  She cut off her dream and dropped her eyes.  It never happened that way!  It didn't matter who the captain was.  It wasn't the captain, it was her.  Of course no one would pick her.  She was a nasty little girl who wore old clothes and wasn't particularly talented, and had never, never been picked for anything.  She had to be assigned, or she was always left over.

Her hands formed fists behind her, and began to rub against the brick.  It hurt, and she rubbed a little harder.  Maybe if she rubbed hard enough, she'd really hurt herself, and then she would have an excuse to leave. Maybe she could tell herself that she wasn't part of the team because there was something wrong with her, something wrong on the outside where everyone could see.  

Maybe if her hand hurt enough, it would drown out the aching of her heart. . .

Her eyes burned, and her chin jutted out.  She would not cry!  She wouldn't.  They couldn't make her.  She wouldn't let them see how much it hurt to be left standing against the wall.

But oh, how it hurt.  Just once . . . just once, if only . . . except that it wouldn't.  She knew that.  And with the realisation, the starch left her. Her heart broke.  Her head dropped.

Someone called her name.

What?

She was confused.  She looked around, bewildered . . . who had called her?

There it was again!  Her name!  Her very own name.

Trembling now, she looked up.  The captain . . . the captain with the kind eyes . . . he was smiling at her.  How could it be?  Her eyes darted to the left and the right.  There were still kids against the wall -- lots of them -- clambering for attention.  Her eyes flew back to the captain, And he was looking at her.  At her.  "Come on!"  He beckoned her with his hand.  "You're on my team!"

Her legs almost buckled and her heart almost burst as she took the steps.

Toward her Captain.

Chosen.

Deal-Breaker

Have you ever felt like God is doing everything in his power to make life difficult for you?  Like he's trying to convince you that all the things you say you believe about him are actually a joke?  Like maybe he's not really all that good, and he doesn't really love you all that much, and he's not actually going to provide for you?  Have you ever felt like that?

I have.

It's usually when things aren't going so well.

I say, "God, I believe that you are going to provide for me," and I watch as the debts accumulate and the bank account slides further into the red.
I say, "God, I believe that you're good, and that all that comes from your hand is goodness," and I watch as I experience defeat, heartache, loss, and disappointment.
I say, "God, I know that you love me," even while I feel like he is raining blows upon my head, and loneliness whistles through my heart.
I say, "God is working all things for my good," and life gets harder, and things get worse.
I say, "His mercies are new every morning," and the new morning brings more of yesterday's trouble, and a whole bunch of new trouble on top of it.

 How do I hang onto what I  know is the truth when everything I  feel tells me it's all a lie?  And how do I deal honestly with the struggle without crossing the line into disbelief?

Which leads to the question, Do I have a deal-breaker?

Is there something that could happen which would cause me to say, "Ok,that's it, God, I don't believe it anymore.  I thought you were good, but you're not.  I thought you loved me, but you obviously don't.  I thought you were working all things for my good, but clearly you fell asleep at the wheel, and drove my life into the ditch.  Thanks, God, but I'm better off on my own?"

I've been tempted.  I've thought it.  I've wondered.

But then I think, "And then what, Marianne?"  Walk away from Jesus?  Really?  Where would I go?

Where would I go?

The thought of leaving him causes physical pain.  The thought of seriously entertaining that thought makes me feel sick.

Where would I go?

He called me to follow him.  He saw all the kids lined up against the school wall, and he picked the fattest, most awkward kid there, and said, "Marianne, I pick you.  I want you on my team."  There were kids who were smarter, prettier, more talented, able to run faster and jump higher and throw a ball farther, but he picked me.  The strongest, coolest, most talented Captain of the winningest team in the world picked me.

And you know something?  That's all he ever needs to do.  He picked me for his team.  It doesn't matter if I ever play a hero in the game, he picked me for the team.  He picked me, and in doing so, he gained a follower, a follower who, by his grace, will  never ever walk away.

Just writing that brings tears to my eyes.

How do I hang on to what I know is the truth when everything I feel tells me it's a lie?  If I let go, where else would I go?  He picked me.

Is there a deal-breaker?  If I walk away, where else would I go?  He wanted me on his team.  What am I going to do?  Go back to the wall of kids still waiting to be chosen for a team, and hope someone else will want the fattest, most awkward kid?  Hardly.
  
"Many of his disciples said, “This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?"  From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him. “You do not want to leave too, do you?” Jesus asked the Twelve.  Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God""  (John 6:60, 66-69).

So what do I do when life gets difficult?

He picked me.

There is no deal-breaker.

I follow.

Because he alone has the words of eternal life.