I wonder if we have forgotten that Jesus is coming back.
We sure don't talk about it much, except in terms of a, "Yeah, yeah, someday" sort of way.
I wonder sometimes if we even care.
I think about it a lot. I thought about it today. Twice.
I watched a short video in church this morning, about a little boy in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya. His name was Omondi. He wanted to be a pilot, so he could fly far away, away from the hunger and suffering, away from the AIDS, away from the dirt and the filth, to a place where he could walk on bare feet through green fields and clean streams, to a place where there was no illness, no suffering, no hunger, to a place where he wouldn't need to accept charity, and where all people would be treated with equality and fairness, to a place where kids would play with him and not fear the AIDS that lurked in his own young veins, and where he could hug and kiss and love his parents, who had already succumbed to that disease. (You can watch his story here until June 9.)
My heart wept for Omondi, not because he had AIDS, or because he was hungry and alone and afraid, although all those things are certainly reasons to weep. No, my heart wept for him because the place he is looking for can't be reached by plane, no matter how far he flies. We can rescue little Omondi from his world of hunger and squalour and make his dream of becoming a pilot come true, and he will never find his dream. What he is dreaming for isn't found here in this broken world of sin -- it will only be found when Jesus comes back.
But I wonder if we've forgotten that.
I thought about it when we celebrated Communion this morning. "Do this until Christ returns," 1 Cornithians 15 says, and we gulp down the little wafer and the little swig of juice, and we carry on with our plans for today. The Jews have a wonderful tradition when they celebrate Passover. When they drink the cup, they say, "Next year in Jerusalem." It signifies their desire to be in the land, the Promised Land. What if we thought about saying, "Next time in the New Jerusalem"? Just think about it . . . the next time we celebrate Communion, it could be on the New Earth, under the New Heavens, with Jesus himself serving the wine.
But I wonder if we've forgotten that.
I wonder sometimes if we even want him to return.
Or if we secretly or not so secretly think that might mess up our plans. But I have a soccer game planned for this afternoon. I have a cake in the oven. What about my graduation? Or my wedding? Or seeing my grandchild born? I wonder if we really want him to return, or if we hope that he'll come back "someday", "later", "eventually", but not right now. I wonder if we still pray for Jesus to come back. I mean, really pray, fervently pray, pray with everything in us, "Jesus, could it be next time in the New Jerusalem?" Or if we are too busy making Omondi's dream of becoming a pilot come true that we forget that his deeper dream, the dream that really matters, will only come true when Jesus returns?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying we shouldn't help the Omondis of the world. We should. Every day that Jesus tarries is a day for us to be working great good in his name. Perish the thought that we not only forget that he is returning, but we also do nothing in the meantime to alleviate the suffering of the world. But unless we remember that Jesus is returning the work we do now will only lead to discouragement. Because Omondi will become a pilot and fly his whole life only to discover that his dream world doesn't exist under the sun. Vanity of vanities, unless we do it in light of Jesus' return.
I wonder if we've forgotten that he's coming back.
I wonder what it will take to make us remember. What will it take to make us long with every beat of our heart for him to return? How bad will it need to be? Is it not enough to see the suffering of the world? Are we so selfish we would wish him to tarry while millions starve, die of AIDS, are blown to pieces in war, are crushed under falling buildings in earthquakes, mudslides, and tsunamis? Is it not enough to watch our own suffer with sickness, grief, abuse, brokenness? Can we really look at the wretched suffering of this broken world and hope he waits until our children grow up?
I wonder if we've forgotten that Jesus is coming back.
I hope not. I really hope not. But sometimes I wonder.
The last words of the Bible are, "He who testifies to these things says, 'Yes, I am coming soon.' Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God's people. Amen."
Jesus hasn't forgotten that he's coming back.
I hope it happens soon. Next time in the New Jerusalem would be pretty awesome.
I can't wait to see him.
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
Asking Why
Why?
Why does a little girl get snatched off the streets and suffer a horrible death?
Why do so many countless little girls, and boys, get snatched out of their own beds and suffer living deaths -- the death of their innocence, their childhood, their trust?
Why do so many children suffer beatings and neglect at the hands of the ones who are supposed to protect them and love them most?
Why do good people die -- the ones who love their kids, pay their taxes, and stay faithful to their spouses -- while the monsters live on?
Why do very small babies suffer from devestating diseases and deformities, spending day after day in the hospital, even though thousands around the world are praying fervently for a cure?
Why do North Americans suffer from obesity even while North Africans suffer from starvation?
Why? Why? Why?
I'm not asking for a theodicy -- as if God needs defending.
I've heard all the reasons.
God created mankind with free will, and mankind chooses to use his free will to bring evil into the world.
We live in a fallen world and sickness and disease is part of this fallen world.
I get it. I've heard it all before. I know it's true.
I certainly don't need a pat answer, and I've heard my share.
God has something better in store, as I watch the dreams for which I have worked so hard dissolve into dust.
God won't give you more than you can bear, as I watch my loved one suffer and wither away.
Just trust God more, as I cling to him with white knuckles and pray with every breath that he holds on to me.
Just pray more, as if every painful heartbeat that screams to heaven isn't enough.
Let go and let God. Whatever that's supposed to mean as I watch my world turn to ashes.
I'm not even looking for a theological answer.
God is sovereign and he works all things for the good of those he loves, who are called by his name.
Who knows that God's not going to use this evil for greater good?
God is allowing me to go through this so I can comfort others with the comfort I have received.
God is using this to show that we can't walk alone, that we need others.
He's doing it to draw me closer to him and make me more like Jesus.
I get it. I've heard it all before. I know it's true, all true, all good stuff.
But it really doesn't answer why.
Because why isn't about theodicy, or about theological answers, or especially about pat answers. It's about heartbreak and tears and hurt so deep it makes every breath painful. It's about the harsh reality that I live in a broken world that regularly breaks my heart.
I really don't think why is about demanding an explanation at all. It's about being heard. It's about having the heartache validated. It's about admitting that this world -- my world -- my heart is broken, and there is only One who can possibly shore it all up. It is about throwing myself onto his mercy and begging for his love and his understanding. It's not asking for an explanation. It's begging for assurance that he cares, even while I know he does, simply because my heartache is too much for me to carry. "Abba, do you see? Do you know how broken my heart is? Have you indeed seen the misery of your people? Do you hear them crying out, and are you concerned about their suffering?" I think that asking why is mostly about hoping it's ok to say that I don't understand and I'm desperately hurt.
I grew up believing it was wrong to ask why. Now I do it all the time. Because when I ask why and admit that whatever the situation is, it is way too big for me to handle, he shows up.
Not with an explanation, or a theology lesson, or a pat answer, or a solution. I rarely get any of that.
He simply shows up.
And that is enough.
Why does a little girl get snatched off the streets and suffer a horrible death?
Why do so many countless little girls, and boys, get snatched out of their own beds and suffer living deaths -- the death of their innocence, their childhood, their trust?
Why do so many children suffer beatings and neglect at the hands of the ones who are supposed to protect them and love them most?
Why do good people die -- the ones who love their kids, pay their taxes, and stay faithful to their spouses -- while the monsters live on?
Why do very small babies suffer from devestating diseases and deformities, spending day after day in the hospital, even though thousands around the world are praying fervently for a cure?
Why do North Americans suffer from obesity even while North Africans suffer from starvation?
Why? Why? Why?
I'm not asking for a theodicy -- as if God needs defending.
I've heard all the reasons.
God created mankind with free will, and mankind chooses to use his free will to bring evil into the world.
We live in a fallen world and sickness and disease is part of this fallen world.
I get it. I've heard it all before. I know it's true.
I certainly don't need a pat answer, and I've heard my share.
God has something better in store, as I watch the dreams for which I have worked so hard dissolve into dust.
God won't give you more than you can bear, as I watch my loved one suffer and wither away.
Just trust God more, as I cling to him with white knuckles and pray with every breath that he holds on to me.
Just pray more, as if every painful heartbeat that screams to heaven isn't enough.
Let go and let God. Whatever that's supposed to mean as I watch my world turn to ashes.
I'm not even looking for a theological answer.
God is sovereign and he works all things for the good of those he loves, who are called by his name.
Who knows that God's not going to use this evil for greater good?
God is allowing me to go through this so I can comfort others with the comfort I have received.
God is using this to show that we can't walk alone, that we need others.
He's doing it to draw me closer to him and make me more like Jesus.
I get it. I've heard it all before. I know it's true, all true, all good stuff.
But it really doesn't answer why.
Because why isn't about theodicy, or about theological answers, or especially about pat answers. It's about heartbreak and tears and hurt so deep it makes every breath painful. It's about the harsh reality that I live in a broken world that regularly breaks my heart.
I really don't think why is about demanding an explanation at all. It's about being heard. It's about having the heartache validated. It's about admitting that this world -- my world -- my heart is broken, and there is only One who can possibly shore it all up. It is about throwing myself onto his mercy and begging for his love and his understanding. It's not asking for an explanation. It's begging for assurance that he cares, even while I know he does, simply because my heartache is too much for me to carry. "Abba, do you see? Do you know how broken my heart is? Have you indeed seen the misery of your people? Do you hear them crying out, and are you concerned about their suffering?" I think that asking why is mostly about hoping it's ok to say that I don't understand and I'm desperately hurt.
I grew up believing it was wrong to ask why. Now I do it all the time. Because when I ask why and admit that whatever the situation is, it is way too big for me to handle, he shows up.
Not with an explanation, or a theology lesson, or a pat answer, or a solution. I rarely get any of that.
He simply shows up.
And that is enough.
Thursday, 26 April 2012
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.
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.
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."
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.
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