I am an incredibly restless sleeper. I am the only person I know who can manage to work a pillow out of the pillowcase just by thrashing about at night. And I dream -- a lot. Mostly crazy stuff that involves fragments of my life thrust together in bizarre combinations as my over-active brain tries to assimilate the millions of pieces of information it absorbs in the course of my waking hours. Which is why I put little stock in assigning any kind of meaning to most of my dreams.
Except once in a while, I'll dream a dream that just won't let me go. It seems that there is something in it that needs to be wrestled through, some feeling or event that some deep part of my soul knows needs to be dealt with even if my conscious mind is unaware. I need to think about what I've dreamed, test it by the light of the Word, work it through.
I was with someone I trust, someone I know would not deliberately hurt me. And then I was asked to let go of something, and I couldn't. I knew I should. I knew it was right. I knew that it would be ok to let go. But it seemed like it was too much to ask. It stretched beyond the limits of my trust. I simply could not do it. I was crying, in my dream, for sadness of not being able to let go even though I wanted to. And then I woke up.
But I've been thinking about it ever since. Praying. Thinking about it in light of the Word.
Lord, is there something you're asking me to let go that I haven't been willing to let go? Is my desire to be in control so strong that I won't let go even when I know it's right and good (and safe) to do so?
In the past several months, I've been confronted repeatedly with my own weakness and inadequacies, and I long for his wisdom and power. So I've been praying, praying for wisdom and discernment to know truth from falsehood, right from wrong. Praying for courage to stand up for truth, however unpopular it might be. Praying for strength to persevere when those around me, even fellow followers of Jesus, think I'm paranoid, overzealous, or just plain wrong. Praying for humility to find and follow the truth, and not to be blinded by a need to cling to my preconceived notions. Praying always to be more like my Jesus. "I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of his suffering, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead." I know that means letting go. I have thought that I was prepared, or, at least, preparing.
So why, then, the dream? Is it just a dream? Just a crazy misfiring of my neurons in the night? Or does it really mean something? Does it mean that, despite my well-intentioned prayers, I'm really NOT prepared to follow wholeheartedly? I don't believe that. I have followed in the past, through really difficult stuff. I have let go of dreams (the waking kinds) and desires. I have let go of hurts of the past, unforgiveness, and heartache. I have let go of financial security and community. I have let go of personal beliefs and dogmas that were so embedded in my psyche that uprooting them turned me inside-out, all because I read differently in His Word. If Jesus gave me the strength and courage in the past to uproot those things which were not obedient to him, he will do so again. I may not have confidence in myself on that point, but I do have confidence in him. There are no deal-breakers. "Lord, you know all things. You know that I love you."
Or maybe it's just a reminder of the truth. Asking God to fill me with him means emptying me of me. And emptying me of me hurts. It's humbling. It requires massive amounts of trust. It's always a struggle. There is always that moment when my grubby fists grasp a little tighter around whatever it is to which I'm clinging, and my heart cries out, "I can't!" and the tears run down my face because I want to open my clenching fists and submit it to Jesus, but it hurts so, and it's just so hard. There is always that moment. I don't fear that moment anymore. I used to think it meant I lacked faith. I know now that it is merely the death throes of a bit of Self, and it will pass. It will pass, and I will open my hands and submit to the One I love and trust, the One with whom my soul is safe.
Maybe it meant something. Maybe it was just a dream.
But nearly a week after I'd had the dream and wrestled it through, I was faced with a choice that scares me, a choice that in normal circumstances, I'd say no to because it extends beyond my level of trust. But because of that dream, and the prayers that followed, I didn't say no. I didn't say yes right away, but I didn't say no, either. I still had to think it through, but it didn't take long. I have no idea where it will go or what it means. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. But maybe it's part of letting go and allowing the Lord to fill those parts of my heart that are still broken. Even saying yes is a blow to fear, if that is the farthest it goes.
So perhaps that's what the dream means. Perhaps it was preparing me. Perhaps I just woke up a moment
too soon. I missed the end. The part where I say, "Father, not my
will, but your will be done."
Or perhaps it was just a dream.
Wednesday, 19 June 2013
Monday, 3 June 2013
God in the Face of Death
It happened again yesterday.
We sang one of my favourite hymns (although I have so many favourite hymns that the term "favourite" has become somewhat useless). "My Jesus, I love thee, I know thou art mine. For thee, all the follies of sin, I resign. My gracious Redeemer, my Saviour art thou. If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
As I sang through the first verse, I began to wonder. A knot of anticipation and dread grew inside me as we worked our way through the second verse: "I love thee because thou hast first loved me, and purchased my pardon on Calvary's tree. I love thee for wearing the thorns on thy brow. If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
Would we? Wouldn't we? Would we dare?
"In mansions of glory and endless delight . . . "
My heart sank. We wouldn't. We didn't dare.
Oh, those words are just as lovely as the words of the first two verses. But why, oh, why do we always skip the third verse? I can't remember the last time we stood up in church and sang, "I'll love thee in life, I will love thee in death. I praise thee as long as thou lendest me breath, and sing, when the death dew lies cold on my brow, if ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
What is it about those words that scares us so? Do we not think that we can love Jesus in death? Do we fear the idea that he merely lends us the breath in our lungs, that his sovereignty extends to every breath we draw? Are we so determined to be self-determining we can't stand the reminder that we are not our own? Or is it that line about death dew lying cold on our brow? Is it somehow too grim, too morbid, too dark or something? Because death is, you know. It's grim, and morbid, and dark. I've seen death, up close and personal. I've been at the bedside of a loved one who was deathly ill but still very much alive, and then returned to that bedside mere hours later and seen the death dew lying cold on my loved one's brow. And if Jesus is not Jesus in that moment, then please tell me when he is. If he is not Lord in that moment of my greatest need, then when on earth and in heaven can I ever expect him to be Lord? If I cannot look down at my loved one's face and say, in that moment, with a breaking heart and the tears pouring down my face, "If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now," then when, pray tell, when else do I have the audacity to say it? How can I possibly face my own mortality (and pretending it isn't so does nothing but make me a fool and delusional) if I cannot say, with confidence, "I love thee in life, I will love thee in death, and praise thee as long as thou lendest me breath. And say, yes, even when the death dew lies cold on my brow, if ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
After all, did he not defeat death? Did he not conquer the grave? Did he not prove his very divinity by rising again?
But no, we skip that verse. We avoid the death dew and jump right to the mansions of glory and endless delight. Have you ever thought of how unbelievably ludicrous that is? How, I wonder, do we think to get there without first dying? And how do we expect to face death with courage, with peace, with dignity, and with confidence in the work of our Saviour if we think it is too morbid to talk about? There simply is no resurrection power, no mansion of glory and endless delight without first sharing in Christ's suffering and becoming like him in his death.
So let's quit the bull and face it, head on. Let's quit pretending and avoiding and acting like death doesn't exist for fear of turning someone off or making someone feel bad or cry. For goodness' sake, let's quit giving the grave more power than it has! Jesus has conquered it! It's precisely because he HAS conquered it that I can love him in death, even when the death dew lies cold on my brow. So let's look the death mask square in the eye and feel the pain, and cry the tears, and grieve together. Is that not what Scripture calls us to do? And then, let's stand up and say, "But Jesus, you are the resurrection and the life. You have conquered death and the grave. You are God. You are good. I love thee in life, and I will love thee in death. Nothing can separate my from your love: not even death dew."
Then, and only then can we sing about mansions of glory and endless delight. Then we can sing for eternity, "If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
We sang one of my favourite hymns (although I have so many favourite hymns that the term "favourite" has become somewhat useless). "My Jesus, I love thee, I know thou art mine. For thee, all the follies of sin, I resign. My gracious Redeemer, my Saviour art thou. If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
As I sang through the first verse, I began to wonder. A knot of anticipation and dread grew inside me as we worked our way through the second verse: "I love thee because thou hast first loved me, and purchased my pardon on Calvary's tree. I love thee for wearing the thorns on thy brow. If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
Would we? Wouldn't we? Would we dare?
"In mansions of glory and endless delight . . . "
My heart sank. We wouldn't. We didn't dare.
Oh, those words are just as lovely as the words of the first two verses. But why, oh, why do we always skip the third verse? I can't remember the last time we stood up in church and sang, "I'll love thee in life, I will love thee in death. I praise thee as long as thou lendest me breath, and sing, when the death dew lies cold on my brow, if ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
What is it about those words that scares us so? Do we not think that we can love Jesus in death? Do we fear the idea that he merely lends us the breath in our lungs, that his sovereignty extends to every breath we draw? Are we so determined to be self-determining we can't stand the reminder that we are not our own? Or is it that line about death dew lying cold on our brow? Is it somehow too grim, too morbid, too dark or something? Because death is, you know. It's grim, and morbid, and dark. I've seen death, up close and personal. I've been at the bedside of a loved one who was deathly ill but still very much alive, and then returned to that bedside mere hours later and seen the death dew lying cold on my loved one's brow. And if Jesus is not Jesus in that moment, then please tell me when he is. If he is not Lord in that moment of my greatest need, then when on earth and in heaven can I ever expect him to be Lord? If I cannot look down at my loved one's face and say, in that moment, with a breaking heart and the tears pouring down my face, "If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now," then when, pray tell, when else do I have the audacity to say it? How can I possibly face my own mortality (and pretending it isn't so does nothing but make me a fool and delusional) if I cannot say, with confidence, "I love thee in life, I will love thee in death, and praise thee as long as thou lendest me breath. And say, yes, even when the death dew lies cold on my brow, if ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
After all, did he not defeat death? Did he not conquer the grave? Did he not prove his very divinity by rising again?
But no, we skip that verse. We avoid the death dew and jump right to the mansions of glory and endless delight. Have you ever thought of how unbelievably ludicrous that is? How, I wonder, do we think to get there without first dying? And how do we expect to face death with courage, with peace, with dignity, and with confidence in the work of our Saviour if we think it is too morbid to talk about? There simply is no resurrection power, no mansion of glory and endless delight without first sharing in Christ's suffering and becoming like him in his death.
So let's quit the bull and face it, head on. Let's quit pretending and avoiding and acting like death doesn't exist for fear of turning someone off or making someone feel bad or cry. For goodness' sake, let's quit giving the grave more power than it has! Jesus has conquered it! It's precisely because he HAS conquered it that I can love him in death, even when the death dew lies cold on my brow. So let's look the death mask square in the eye and feel the pain, and cry the tears, and grieve together. Is that not what Scripture calls us to do? And then, let's stand up and say, "But Jesus, you are the resurrection and the life. You have conquered death and the grave. You are God. You are good. I love thee in life, and I will love thee in death. Nothing can separate my from your love: not even death dew."
Then, and only then can we sing about mansions of glory and endless delight. Then we can sing for eternity, "If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
Friday, 24 May 2013
Living in the World of Job
I've been reading the book of Job lately.
Job is an uncomfortable book.
This super-good, super-rich, super-nice guy ends up having all this really rotten stuff happen to him. He basically goes bankrupt, loses all his kids in a devastating accident, and then gets really sick and wishes he could die but he can't. It's just all wrong.
And then there's the weird stuff about satan and God in heaven, having this kind of dual over poor, unsuspecting Job. God brags on Job, satan scoffs, and suddenly Job is the rope in a divine tug-of-war.
Add to that a bunch of really lame friends who claim to be there to help, and who start off ok, and then who end up doing nothing but heaping more and more hurt on their friend's head. They accuse him of sinning. They blame the whole sorry mess on him. They hammer at him with their words until he can barely stand up, but through it all, he refuses to break. What a bunch of creeps.
I don't much like the book of Job, really. It shatters too much of my safe little world.
You know, the world that says that really bad things shouldn't happen to really good people. The world that says, "This kind of thing only happens to other people." It's a world that tries to rationalise away bad stuff, tries to find an explanation for disaster. He was in the wrong area of town. He hung out with the wrong kind of people. She dressed wrong. They lived on a fault line. They lived in a flood plain. They lived in Tornado Alley. I don't do those things or live in those places, so I'll be ok. So long as I can find a rationale, I feel like I'm in control. And if we can't find a ready reason, we make one up. He must have a secret life. He's not what he seems to be. There's probably secretly drugs involved, or prostitutes, or some other horrible secret life.
That's exactly what Job's friends did. They couldn't accept the fact that sometimes bad stuff happens to good people who are really and truly just good people living good and ordinary lives. So they accused Job of a secret sinful life. Problem is, Job was exactly what he appeared to be -- a really good guy who really loved the Lord, and really bad stuff happened to him anyway.
Accepting that reality means accepting the fact that I am not in control. It means that I accept that I don't control my destiny. I don't write my today or my tomorrow. I am not in charge. I can do everything right and that's no guarantee it's all going to work out happily ever after. The book of Job brings me to the end of myself.
So, I accept the fact that there are no guarantees. Things might not turn out happily ever after. I can accept that it's not my fault. But isn't it nice to know then that there's some greater purpose to my suffering? Perhaps there is a lesson I need to learn. Perhaps the Lord is trying to teach me something. Perhaps my suffering will bring redemption in someone else's life. I can almost feel vindicated if I know that my suffering over here has brought about that great purpose over there. But that's where the God-and-satan duel comes in. Job never knew about that duel. We, as the readers, know about it, but Job never knew. There was a greater purpose at work, but Job never saw it. And the greater purpose was not to make Job a better person or to teach Job a lesson, but to bring God glory. It wasn't about Job at all. It was all about God. And God never explained it to him. All Job knew was that his life was ticking along beautifully and suddenly it all went wrong. Boom. No reason, no purpose, no explanation, just a whole lot of hurt and a bunch of crummy friends and a God who, for the longest time, remained painfully silent.
That's an uncomfortable world. It's a wearisome and worrisome world, this world that defies my logic and flouts my sense of self-importance. My thoughts spin in every which direction, looking for a landing place, looking to create order out of the chaos, trying to make sense out of the senseless. My cry is echoed by a thousand voices all trying to do the same. It forms a keening cry that rises like a whirlwind from the broken rubble of this world, a cry in the minor key, a voiceless wail filled with the voices of a thousand hurting souls, all looking for answers, all looking for a guarantee, providing cold comfort as they try to comfort themselves, a yammering endless dissonant storm of sound. But there simply are no guarantees.
There are no guarantees, but there is God.
"Then the LORD answered Job out of the storm." Out of the storm of confusion and hurt, out of the storm of agony and despair, out of the storm of pain and defeat, YHWH answered. The One who makes and keeps promises answered. The One who loves with a never-ending love answered Job out of the storm. And he answers every one of us.
But the amazing part is that He gave Job no answer. He didn't tell Job why. He didn't defend himself or explain himself. He simply showed up. He showed up in all his glory, the glory that laid the foundations of the earth, bound up the sea, flung the sun and stars into the sky, and fashioned the seasons to follow each other. He showed up in all his love and reminded Job that he is the one who sends the rain, who feeds the animals of the earth, and who delivers the wild young. He simply showed up in all his power, majesty, justice, and mercy. He just showed up.
It is enough. When God shows up, answers become unnecessary. Explanations become inexpedient. There is simply the LORD, and he is enough.
The book of Job makes me uncomfortable, right until I get to the end, and God answers out of the storm. Suddenly, it's ok, not because the storm is gone, but because God has spoken. God is there. He is good. He is my guarantee.
I put my hand over my mouth and I say no more.
And there is peace, even in the middle of the storm.
Job is an uncomfortable book.
This super-good, super-rich, super-nice guy ends up having all this really rotten stuff happen to him. He basically goes bankrupt, loses all his kids in a devastating accident, and then gets really sick and wishes he could die but he can't. It's just all wrong.
And then there's the weird stuff about satan and God in heaven, having this kind of dual over poor, unsuspecting Job. God brags on Job, satan scoffs, and suddenly Job is the rope in a divine tug-of-war.
Add to that a bunch of really lame friends who claim to be there to help, and who start off ok, and then who end up doing nothing but heaping more and more hurt on their friend's head. They accuse him of sinning. They blame the whole sorry mess on him. They hammer at him with their words until he can barely stand up, but through it all, he refuses to break. What a bunch of creeps.
I don't much like the book of Job, really. It shatters too much of my safe little world.
You know, the world that says that really bad things shouldn't happen to really good people. The world that says, "This kind of thing only happens to other people." It's a world that tries to rationalise away bad stuff, tries to find an explanation for disaster. He was in the wrong area of town. He hung out with the wrong kind of people. She dressed wrong. They lived on a fault line. They lived in a flood plain. They lived in Tornado Alley. I don't do those things or live in those places, so I'll be ok. So long as I can find a rationale, I feel like I'm in control. And if we can't find a ready reason, we make one up. He must have a secret life. He's not what he seems to be. There's probably secretly drugs involved, or prostitutes, or some other horrible secret life.
That's exactly what Job's friends did. They couldn't accept the fact that sometimes bad stuff happens to good people who are really and truly just good people living good and ordinary lives. So they accused Job of a secret sinful life. Problem is, Job was exactly what he appeared to be -- a really good guy who really loved the Lord, and really bad stuff happened to him anyway.
Accepting that reality means accepting the fact that I am not in control. It means that I accept that I don't control my destiny. I don't write my today or my tomorrow. I am not in charge. I can do everything right and that's no guarantee it's all going to work out happily ever after. The book of Job brings me to the end of myself.
So, I accept the fact that there are no guarantees. Things might not turn out happily ever after. I can accept that it's not my fault. But isn't it nice to know then that there's some greater purpose to my suffering? Perhaps there is a lesson I need to learn. Perhaps the Lord is trying to teach me something. Perhaps my suffering will bring redemption in someone else's life. I can almost feel vindicated if I know that my suffering over here has brought about that great purpose over there. But that's where the God-and-satan duel comes in. Job never knew about that duel. We, as the readers, know about it, but Job never knew. There was a greater purpose at work, but Job never saw it. And the greater purpose was not to make Job a better person or to teach Job a lesson, but to bring God glory. It wasn't about Job at all. It was all about God. And God never explained it to him. All Job knew was that his life was ticking along beautifully and suddenly it all went wrong. Boom. No reason, no purpose, no explanation, just a whole lot of hurt and a bunch of crummy friends and a God who, for the longest time, remained painfully silent.
That's an uncomfortable world. It's a wearisome and worrisome world, this world that defies my logic and flouts my sense of self-importance. My thoughts spin in every which direction, looking for a landing place, looking to create order out of the chaos, trying to make sense out of the senseless. My cry is echoed by a thousand voices all trying to do the same. It forms a keening cry that rises like a whirlwind from the broken rubble of this world, a cry in the minor key, a voiceless wail filled with the voices of a thousand hurting souls, all looking for answers, all looking for a guarantee, providing cold comfort as they try to comfort themselves, a yammering endless dissonant storm of sound. But there simply are no guarantees.
There are no guarantees, but there is God.
"Then the LORD answered Job out of the storm." Out of the storm of confusion and hurt, out of the storm of agony and despair, out of the storm of pain and defeat, YHWH answered. The One who makes and keeps promises answered. The One who loves with a never-ending love answered Job out of the storm. And he answers every one of us.
But the amazing part is that He gave Job no answer. He didn't tell Job why. He didn't defend himself or explain himself. He simply showed up. He showed up in all his glory, the glory that laid the foundations of the earth, bound up the sea, flung the sun and stars into the sky, and fashioned the seasons to follow each other. He showed up in all his love and reminded Job that he is the one who sends the rain, who feeds the animals of the earth, and who delivers the wild young. He simply showed up in all his power, majesty, justice, and mercy. He just showed up.
It is enough. When God shows up, answers become unnecessary. Explanations become inexpedient. There is simply the LORD, and he is enough.
The book of Job makes me uncomfortable, right until I get to the end, and God answers out of the storm. Suddenly, it's ok, not because the storm is gone, but because God has spoken. God is there. He is good. He is my guarantee.
I put my hand over my mouth and I say no more.
And there is peace, even in the middle of the storm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)