How's That Working?

"Life without Jesus -- how's that working for you?"

Fine, thank you.

What a ridiculous question.  Life without Jesus -- how's that working?  Let's face it -- life without Jesus often appears to work just fine.  There are lots of people out there who are living their lives without Jesus.  They have good jobs.  They have good health.  They have loving spouses.  They have kids who are in university on scholarships, cheerleaders, and enrolled in little league hockey and on their way to the big leagues.  Their lives without Jesus are jim-dandy, and they're not just pretending, either.

And then there are the people who are living life with Jesus, and it seems like everything is going wrong.  They lose their jobs and can't find a new one.  Their spouses die of cancer.  Their kids cause more heartache than pride.  They suffer from illness.  Sometimes they even give up in despair.

Life with Jesus -- how's that working for you?

Not very well, actually.  Not very well.

It's an old problem.  Asaph talked about it in Psalm 73.  "For I was envious of the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.  For they have no pangs until death; their bodies are fat and sleek.  They are not in trouble as others are; they are not stricken like the rest of mankind." Life without Jesus?  No problem!

Of course, that's not the end of the matter.  Asaph acknowledges,

"But when I thought how to understand this,
    it seemed to me a wearisome task,

until I went into the sanctuary of God;
    then I discerned their end. 

Truly you set them in slippery places;
    you make them fall to ruin.

 How they are destroyed in a moment,
    swept away utterly by terrors!"

It's not over until it's over, and while life without Jesus might work just fine, death without Jesus is a ruin and a terror.

Still, we do people a disservice when we persist in spreading the lie that life without Jesus is filled with nothing but torment and suffering, and life with Jesus is somehow always wonderful.  We don't do that, you say?  What about when we say things like this?

"You just need to have faith that God will  heal."

"It's ok that you didn't get that job.  God obviously has something even better for you."

"It's not God's will for anyone to be sick.  After all, he's promised us abundant life, and sickness is not part of the abundant life."

"Cast your cares on him, and he will care for you."

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

Oh, wait, those last two are actually in the Bible. . . 

But was Jesus saying that if we just ask him into our hearts, he would make all our problems go away?  Not so much.

Yet that's exactly what we lead people to believe. We tell the teen girl who is cutting herself in despair, "Cast all your cares on him, and he will care for you."  What is she supposed to think?  Of course she thinks that means if she asks Jesus into her heart, he's going to somehow magically rescue her from those things that cause her to despair. So she asks Jesus into her heart, and the bullies continue to torment her at school, or her father continues to drink, or her parents continue to wage war with each other in the night.  We tell the husband standing at his wife's bedside, watching her take one ragged breath after another, "You just need to have faith that God will heal."  He blames himself as she slips away; his faith must have been lacking.  We say to the person without a job, "God's got something better," and she goes home and decides that she's going to have to live on two meals a day so she can keep the hydro on, and she doubts that God even sees her anymore, let alone has something better.

The fact is that life without Jesus can work just fine, and life with Jesus can, and often is, full of suffering and pain.  Sure, sometimes suffering and pain is caused by our sin, and when we begin to live in accordance to God's Word, things get better.  But not always.  This world is broken, and sometimes life just sucks, no matter how much we wish it didn't.

So how about we stop adding to the burdens by holding out a handful of half-truths and downright lies disguised as hopeful promises?  How about we start admitting that life is broken, and that on this side of eternity, there isn't always an answer?  How about we stop holding out uncertain gifts as though they are guarantees, and begin to hold out the Giver who is the only guarantee we will ever have?

What if he never answered another prayer?  What if he never healed another person?  What if you will always struggle with that mental illness?  What if that physical limitation will be with you for life?  What if you will never have enough money?  What if you never get the job of your dreams?  What if you never get to hear your dad say, "I love you"?  Is God enough?  What if, instead of telling each other, "God's going to do this or that for you," we began to tell each other, "God is enough.  Even in this, he is enough.  He is worthy.  Even in this, he is worthy.  He is good.  Despite all that we see and feel right now, he is good."

Life with Jesus might not be easy.  It might be full of heartache and sorrow.  But life with Jesus is still worth it.  I can't promise you anything.  There might not be a job.  There might not be a healing.  There might not be a miracle.  There might not be an answer.  There might only be a cold, lonely night of the soul that feels like it will stretch on endlessly.  Anyone who tells you anything to the contrary is a liar.  But I can tell you this:  regardless of the heartache and sorrow, he is worthy.  Jesus is worthy.  

He.  Is.  Enough.

No matter what.

Nevertheless, I am continually with you;
    you hold my right hand.

 You guide me with your counsel,
    and afterward you will receive me to glory^.

 Whom have I in heaven but you?
    And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.

My flesh and my heart may fail,
    but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

(Psalm 73:23-26)

It's Hard . . .

Sometimes, the world crashes in.

I get up in the morning, and the sun still rises, and the birds still sing, and there are still people are counting on me, but my heart is in ruins.

It's in moments like these that I become acutely aware that what I see and what others see in me don't always match.

I fill my car with gas.  I smile and chat with the gas station attendant.  She has no idea that my heart is in ruins.  It's not hers to know.

I go to work.  I have a job to do.  I am professional and pleasant.  The guests on our campus see someone who is competent and confident.  They have no idea that my heart is in ruins.  It is not theirs to know.  They are here to evaluate our school, not to deal with my ruined heart.

And so it goes.  On the outside, life carries on.  On the inside, it has ground to a throbbing halt.

It's hard.

I feel like a liar, a faker.  People think I have answers when I have none at all.  All I have is a heart full of questions.  Why?  Why?  Why?  A great lump of unshed tears sits in the centre of my chest.  People think I am strong when I am not strong at all.  All I want is for someone strong to put strong arms around me while I cry my eyes out.

No, I am not strong.  I am not brave.  I have no answers.  I'm hurt.  I'm a confused, angry, sad, bewildered, aching, frightened, uncertain, stumbling fool with a heart full of tears  in a life that has seen more than its share of tears already, if there is any such rating.  I'm a frightened kid wishing for a dad who would hug me and hold me and tell me it's going to be ok.  I feel ugly and shabby and weak, bleeding from a dozen wounds life has inflicted upon me, covered with scars from old wounds, wondering where in the world God can be in all of this.

But he's there.

Somehow, he's there.  When I feel my ugliest, he is there.  When I feel my smallest, he is there.  When the rest of the world sees only the outside, he sees the inside, and he loves me.

It's hard.

It feels impossible.

But he loves me still.

And my Daddy puts strong arms around me and lets me cry my eyes out.  So I'm going to lean in to him.  My ruined heart is his to know.

"It's hard for me to believe I could be lovely in your eyes

That I'm really the one you want.

It's hard for me to believe you would want me by your side,

That I'm really the one you want,

I'm really the one you want.

I wish my stumbling finally would end

But I need your mercy once again.

I've shed these tears so many times

Still you pick me up and hold me tight.

And you love me, you love me, you love me still.

You love me, you love me, and you always will.

I'm really the one you want."  

(Todd Agnew -- The One You Want)

Finding the Try

This is my horse:

He's a splendid fellow, 16.1 hands tall or thereabouts, liver chestnut with a golden mane and tail, and the sweetest disposition one could hope for in a horse.

Raphi's a bit of a sage and a philosopher.  He thinks much and acts slowly.  He's clever and quickly bored, but also a little shy and easily overwhelmed by demands and expectations.  And when he gets overwhelmed like that, he disappears somewhere inside, and stands with hooded eyes and tight lips, like he's trying to make himself small enough to disappear.  Raphi has taught me much about finding the try.

You see, I'm much more goal-oriented than he is.   I'm about the task; he's about the relationship.  I'm about the final outcome; he's about the process in getting there.  So when I spend time with Raphi, I have a goal in mind:  this is what I want to accomplish in the next hour.  If I'm not careful, I can quickly destroy the process and damage the relationship.  I can convince him that I am a predator and he is my prey, and I can cause him to fear me and mistrust me.  Which is not my goal at all.

It's not that I can't set goals with my horse, and I have to drift along and accept whatever may happen.  If I did that, I'd never make any progress, and neither would he.  Simply being in proximity doesn't make much of a relationship.  No, I do set goals.  But what I have had to learn is how to find the minute victories that add up to my final goal, and reward him for every small step.  I have had to learn to find the try.

So let's say I want to teach Raphi to step over an obstacle in his path.  Every instinct is telling him that this is not safe.  He's claustrophobic, and that obstacle is blocking his way should a tiger sneak up behind him and try to kill him and eat him.  He's unfamiliar with that obstacle, and it could be a tiger just lying in wait to kill him and eat him.  Or, it could be hiding a tiger which will leap up and kill him and eat him.  The obstacle could be blocking a hole into which he'll fall and be trapped so that a tiger can come along and kill him and eat him.  (Yes, he really thinks this way.  It's part of being a horse.)  He is pretty sure it's best that he just avoid the obstacle altogether.  But I know that there will be times in his life when he will face obstacles, and he won't be able to go around them or avoid them.  He'll just have to face them and go over them, and I know he'll be perfectly safe doing so even if he's not so sure.  I have to ask him to trust me enough to face the obstacle.

So I ask him to go up to the obstacle.  He gets to within 10 feet of it, and he leaps back, head flung high, nostrils flaring, blasting air, eyes wild, ears pitching forward and back.  Tiger! Tiger!  Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, I'm gonna die!  What do I do?  Do I get mad at him because he didn't do what I wanted?  Do I smack him and scold him and tell him he's stupid for reacting that way over a silly log on the ground, when, so far, that's all he knows?  Many people do.  If I try that, I'll just convince him he's right, that the log is dangerous, and I'll never get him near it.  I'm just going to wait a moment for him to calm down.  We're not going to walk away from obstacle, but we're not going closer.  We're just going to hang out here, until he calms down.  And when he calms down, we walk away for a few moments.  We don't see the failure to get over the obstacle.  We find the try.  He tried to be brave.

Then we come back and face the obstacle again.  This time, he gets to within 5 feet of it before he simply refuses to go forward.   His head is high, his ears are pitching, and his eyes are frightened, but he stands.  It's a try.  We wait until he starts to relax, and then walk away.  We don't see the failure to get over the obstacle.  We find the try.  He got closer.

Third time around.  He might get his feet up to it, and put his nose over it.

Fourth time around.  He might shift his weight to lift a front foot.

Fifth time around.  He might lift his foot and actually paw at the log.

Eventually, he'll lift a foot and place it over the log, and it will be the bravest thing he's ever done.

One step at a time, one try at a time, every step asking him to get just a little closer to the final goal, and he will get over the log.  More importantly, he'll learn that I'm not going to give him more than he can handle, and he'll learn that he can trust me to be patient and kind and to help him be brave.  Next time, he'll trust more readily, learn faster, face his fears with more confidence.

As I watch my horse struggle, I am so often reminded of myself.  I wonder if I am as patient with myself when I face obstacles.  Do I find the try?  Do I recognise that I am closer to the obstacle than I was the last time?  Do I celebrate the little steps which add up to big steps, or do I only see failure because I'm not leaping clear just yet?  Surely, if I can be patient with my horse, I can be patient with myself as I press on toward the goal.

As I watch my horse learn to trust me, I am so often reminded of my relationship with Jesus.  I used to think God was standing over me with a rod of discipline, beating me over an obstacle and berating me for my fear.  He has whispered to my heart, "Marianne, if you can be patient with your horse, don't you think I can be patient with you?  If you understand your horse's fear, do you not think I understand your fears?  If you can rejoice in your horse's small victories, do you not think I rejoice in the same way over yours?"  I am learning that I might be about the task, but Jesus is about the relationship.  I might be about the final goal, but he is working in the process.  Is there a final goal?  Of course.  But God will take my lifetime to get me there.  He's not going to flog me forward.  The process has value of its own.

This is me and my horse:

He's a splendid fellow.  He's teaching me about trust, and about facing our obstacles together.

"For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathise with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are--yet was without sin.  Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need" (Hebrews 4:14-15).