I had to wear a heart monitor for a couple of days last week. Now, in the world of medical tests and procedures, this probably rates pretty much at the bottom of the scale on pain, inconvenience, and invasiveness. It was really no big deal. But still, it made me think.
For 48 hours, this little box counted my every heartbeat. My heart rate is pretty low, so a generous estimate is 172 800 beats stored in that monitor. The little box captured the moments when my heart beat a little faster (like when I went for a run) and when it beat a little slower (like when I was sleeping). I wondered, as I wore it, what the person looking at the recording would be able to tell by looking at that dancing line. Would he be able to tell when I was sleeping? If I was dreaming? When I got up in the night to use the bathroom? What would the line of my heartbeat reveal about me?
And then, after 48 hours, I was instructed to disconnect the wires and return the monitor. I watched as the little green light on the box blinked-blinked-blinked to show that it was recording as I disconnected the first wire. I wondered if it would stop blinking. It didn't. It was still recording, but suddenly there was nothing to record. Did my line go flat, as if I had died, when in fact, I was still very much alive?
It all felt so clinical, in a way. My heart, in some ways the very essense of my life, captured in a box no bigger than a smart phone. My heart, summarised in a wavy line. Surely I can't be captured that easily. I like to think I'm more complex than that. But then it occured to me that wavy line is unique to me, as unique as my fingerprints and retina scan. And I wonder . . . I wonder if all those variations that make my heartbeat unique to me are actually a visible picture of the heart of me, those things that are dear to me, my passions and dreams and desires, the things that fill me with joy, the things that enrage me, all those parts that make me, me. I'm fairly certain that the cardiac specialist would laugh at me and roll his eyes, but I wonder what the One who changed my heart of stone into a heart of flesh would say. I wonder, as he watches every beat of my heart, not just for 48 hours, but for every day, every moment, every second that he has ordained for me, if he can see in the beating of my heart how it has expanded as I have learned to love and dream. Surely the waves must be deeper, broader, just somehow . . . more. I wonder if the line stutters and hesitates in those times when my heart breaks. Surely those moments of breathless agony are reflected in that wavy line. They must be. My heart feels so crippled as it trips and stumbles over itself. And I wonder if God's heartbeat forms a shadow line that beats with mine, and under it, and through it. It seems that there are times when those two lines beat almost in sync, and other times when they collide with each other. I wonder how often his heartbeat sustains my own, and how often I allow my heart to truly be broken for the things that break his heart. Does my wavering line show it? Is there anything, anything at all in the pattern of my heartbeat that reflects the pattern of his heart? Is there anything, anything at all in that little box I wore for 48 hours that would show that this is the recording of one whose heart has been captured by grace?
Oh, I know, it's whimsy and imagination.
But still . . .
I wonder.
Sunday, 10 June 2012
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Coming Back
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.
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.
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.
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