Smoke Damage

All I can do is pray.

Ever heard that?  Ever said it?  I know I have.

I say it in those times when I've run out of ideas, solutions, and possibilities.  When there is nothing I can do, or nothing else I can do, I find myself saying, "There's nothing I can do.  All I can do is pray."

I say it like it's a last-ditch effort.  I've given up on everything else, and I've got nothing left to lose, so I might as well try prayer.  I'm not sure I really mean it that way; I pray often and passionately and boldly.  I pray because I must.  But then again, maybe I do mean it that way.  I have to admit that when things go wrong, my first impulse has not always been to pray.  My first impulse is usually to find a way out, to look for a solution.  So maybe I really have viewed prayer as a last-ditch effort to find a solution.

There have been so many times when I have prayed and nothing seems to happen.  Yes, I've heard the platitude that God always answers prayer (not true, by the way, according to Scripture); he sometimes answers yes, sometimes answers no, and sometimes answers wait.  Sure, there are a handful of times when the answer to prayer comes with startling clarity, rapidity, or certainty.  But most often, I have prayed and nothing seems to happen.  Nothing changes, that I can see, and being told that God might be answering with a "no" or a "wait" isn't particularly helpful in those circumstances.  So I am tempted to think that my prayers don't really make much of a difference.  They're ineffective.

But I am beginning to rethink my understanding of prayer.

If genuine power is gentle, if the still, small voice has more power than the whirlwind and the fire, then for me to assume that simply because I don't see anything happen or hear anything happen, or feel anything happen, that means that nothing happened, is a horribly shortsighted assumption.

In the Old Testament tabernacle, and later, in the temple, God's Glory above the mercy seat of the ark was veiled by a thick curtain.  The people could not approach or look upon the Glory of God without dying.  Only once a year was the high priest permitted to go past the veil and approach the holiness of God, and only with the blood of atonement in his hands.  But right in front of the curtain was a small altar for burning incense.  Every day, a priest was given the duty to take the specially mixed incense and burn some on the altar.  The smoke of the burning incense was a pleasing aroma to The Lord.

So what, you say?  So, in Psalm 141, the psalmist says this, "Let my prayer be counted as incense before you, and the lifting of my hands as the evening offering."  And in Revelation, John sees this:  "The four living creatures and the twenty-four elders fell down before the Lamb, each holding a harp and golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of the saints."  Later, he sees another angel who was "given much incense to offer with the prayers of all the saints on the golden altar before the throne, and the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, rose before God from the hand of the angel."  Somehow, the sweet-smelling smoke of the burning incense represents the rising of our prayers to the ear of God.  And Leviticus 16 tells us that the smoke of the burning incense penetrated the veil that hid the Glory of God from human eyes.  The smoke could go where the human could not.  The prayers could enter where the people could not.  It is not the fire that entered the presence of God; it was the smoke.  It is not the fire that represents the prayers of the people; it is the smoke of the incense.

Smoke seems so vapourous, so ephemeral, so unsubstantial.  You can't grab it.  You can't hear it. You can wave it away with a hand.  There's no heat, no light, no glow, no warmth.  It appears so powerless.  Fire has power.  It roars and flames and leaps and dances.  It licks and burns and destroys.  It has heat and light which can comfort or consume.  That's power.  But smoke?  Smoke just floats and drifts and wafts.

But in most house fires, it is smoke that causes the most damage.  It's not the flames, but the smoke.   It doesn't leave visible signs of damage -- walls are still standing, books are still on the shelves, pictures hang in their frames.  But it drifts and wafts and penetrates every corner and crevice and leaves an indelible imprint of its presence.   At most campfires, it is the smoke that drives people back, not the heat.  The smoke drifts and wafts and smarts the eyes and the lungs and demands a response.  The smell of the smoke lingers long after the heat and the light, the snap and crackle of the flames have faded away.

So it is with my prayers.  My prayers are not fiery.  There is no show, no outward sign of power.  My prayers are more often accompanied by groans and tears than by any kind of triumphalistic show.  Often, they're spoken in silence, cries of the heart that never make it past my throat.  They can drift, float away, vapourous, ephemeral, unsubstantial.  They may seem to die out as the sound of my voice fades.  They can appear to be powerless.  But somehow, those quiet prayers gain a life of their own. When I pray, I am taking into my  hands a power of cosmic proportions.  They rise before God long after the soundwaves of my voice have flattened and faded.  And it is my quiet prayers that move the hand of God.  Every prayer rises up and ignites a fire in the heart of God.  Every prayer that rises up causes earthquakes in the cosmos, even though my senses may be unaware.

So I've been rethinking my understanding of prayer.  I'm becoming more aware of the enormous quiet power I am yielding when I pray.  When I stand in the gap for a friend and pray, it is not all I can do; it is the best I can do.  I may be summoning angelic forces.  I may be holding demonic forces at bay.  Daniel did, when he prayed.  I may, in some incomprehensible way, turn the heart of God, even as Moses and Amos turned the heart of God when they pleaded for their people.

That's a lot of power.  That's a lot of smoke damage.  My prayers are not just words.  They are weapons in the war against all that is wrong in this world.

The thought of it drives me to my knees.

Power

On Christmas two years ago, my dog was dreadfully sick.  My dog was dreadfully sick, and I experienced a miracle.  (You can read about it here.)

That miracle changed my life.  It's taken me nearly two years to figure out what it was about that night that left a crater in my soul.  My mind and heart and soul have gone back to it over and over, like a tongue explores a hole left by an extracted tooth, trying to understand what it was about that evening that simply will not let me go.  And I think I have finally figured out why it staggered me so.It's not that the vet was available on Christmas Day, although that was cool.  It's not so much that my dog was healed, although that was incredible.  It's not that, two year later and multiple health problems later, she's still alive, although that's pretty cool, too.  (I'm rather fond of her.)  It's not even that God heard and answered prayer, although that is probably the most wonderful of all.  But it wasn't any of those things. 

That night has fundamentally altered the way I understand power.

You see, I always knew that God could and did heal miraculously.  I've never doubted that.  I have friends and family who have been miraculously healed.  So although it was absolutely amazing and glorious to experience it first-hand and personally, that wasn't what shifted my universe.
I also knew that he hears and answers prayer. I've experienced that, too, in some awesome ways.  So while I was (and always am) astonished that the King of all the universe stoops to hear his little child, it also wasn't outside of my world of experience.
I even knew that there are people out there who are so decent and gracious they'd stop what they're doing on Christmas Day to help out a sick dog (and maybe the people who love her).  So as wonderful as that was, it wasn't enough to pull the rug out from under me.

But what I didn't know, what I had never experienced before, was the kind of power I experienced that night in the vet's office.  Nothing had prepared me for that.

In my world, power was something to be feared.  It was big and strong, loud and dominating, fearsome and threatening.  It was used to control and hurt those who have less power.  But power got things done.  Power was strength.  Power made people winners.

In my world, gentleness evidenced lack of power.  Gentleness meant you were weak, ineffective, soft. And gentleness was, well . . . nice.  Nice, but useless.  Gentleness could comfort but not protect.  Gentleness could make you feel better but it wouldn't change anything.  Gentleness meant you would get hurt.  Gentle people were loving and sweet and kind and nice, but pathetic, like defenseless lambs in a lion's den, just waiting to be ripped limb from fleece.  Gentleness made people victims.

If you had power and I didn't, you would use that power to hurt me.  So I had to either pretend I had power, too, so you didn't hurt me, or if the power differential was too great for me to overcome with bluster, I had to hide from you so that you would never see how powerless I truly was.  You might pretend you weren't going to hurt me, or you might be nice for a while, but eventually, always, your power and my lack of power meant I would be crushed.  So I blustered and postured and acted tough to convince you I had power when I didn't, or I hid behind defenses to keep you at bay so you'd never see how weak I really was.  I covered my inner lamb in a lion's skin.  I hated the power game, but I thought I understood it, and I had learned to survive in it.

Eventually, I began to learn that sometimes power could be used for good instead of for harm.  I got to a place where I loved Psalm 18 -- that picture of a powerful warrior God coming down in the midst of thunder and lightning to stand in defence of his people.  I liked the idea that all that big and strong, loud and dominating, fearsome and threatening could be used against my enemies instead of against me.  I tried to trust a small handful of people whose power was greater than my own, tried to believe that even though they had great power, they would not use that power against me.  I entertained the thought that if gentle people were like lambs in a lion's den, maybe there could be a few lions out there who didn't like the taste of lamb.  I wondered if maybe there could be lions who could use their power to protect the lambs rather than attack them. 

But never once did it cross my mind that power could be gentle.  Power might be protective, but not gentle. I thought that it was the very bigness, strength, loudness, domination, fearsomeness or threat that created the power.  Strip away the noise and you strip away the power. It never dawned on me that power might not be big or strong, loud or dominating, fearsome or threatening, but would still be powerful.

But that night in the vet's office, I experienced a gentle power and it blasted a hole through the defenses I still had erected around my heart.  I knew, I knew my dog was healed before the vet ever operated.  I knew, and I said nothing.  Because healing requires power, and power is evidenced by thunder and lighting, by tears and shouting and fear and wild gesticulations, and there had been none of that.  I would have welcomed that kind of power if it had healed my dog.  It would have scared me to death, but I would have welcomed it at that moment.  But there was none of that.  There was only quietness and love, and the peace of an after-hours vet clinic bathed in dark while the rest of the world was off being busy with Christmas.  There was only a gentleness that whispered to my heart and held it while it was breaking, and reached out and healed my dog.  So, because He was gentle, I doubted His power.  I doubted that he had acted, and I held onto my silence until there could no longer be any doubt, and even then, I struggled.

That night shattered everything I thought I  knew about power.  I hate the yelling and screaming.  I hate the arm-waving and stamping of feet that so often seems to come with what is called a display of God's power.  I hate the raised voices and Bible thumping of the bully pulpit.  I am so tired of being yelled at.  I had gotten to the place where I understood that God wasn't yelling at me all the time.  I was ok with him yelling at people who deserved to be yelled at (whoever that might be).  I knew that sometimes he speaks in a still, small voice.  I had grown to love that still, small voice.  But deep in my heart, without knowing that I believed it, I believed that the still, small voice lacked power.  The thunder, the fire, and the whirlwind had power.  They got things done.  The still, small voice was comforting.  But I thought it had no power.  And because I didn't want the yelling and posturing, I had, absolutely unwittingly, resigned myself to a life with a powerless but kind God, a life without wonder.

On Christmas Day, we remember the birth of a baby.  The gentle baby, born in an after-hours stable bathed in dark while the rest of the world was off being busy, was utterly helpless and vulnerable.  A newborn lamb.  And somehow, with all my knowledge of Scripture, with all my theology, I made the mistake of thinking that meant he was powerless.  A victim.  But what does it mean that this Baby is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation, the one by whom and for whom all things were created, the one in whom it pleased God to have all his fullness dwell?  How can I hold that belief and still think this gentle baby is powerless?  It's a paradoxical wonder.

On Christmas Day, two years ago, in an after-hours vet clinic bathed in dark while the rest of the world was off being busy, I felt utterly  helpless and vulnerable.  And the still, small voice of my Saviour breathed into my heart and blew it apart with a power that has continued to stagger me for the past two years.  And I was not afraid.  It has taken two years for me to figure it out.  There is a power that transcends posturing.  There is a power that makes the power of size and strength seem silly.  The still, small voice has more power than the thunder and fire and whirlwind combined, and -- ah, here is the wonder of it -- it is a power that I do not  fear.  Not because it is not aimed in my direction, but because it is a power, a world-altering power, that is quiet and good, kind . . . and gentle.

I want to live my life in that power.

Finding the Courage To Go On

I used to think I wanted to be famous.  I wanted to do great things for Jesus.  I wanted to change the world.

Not so much anymore.

Perhaps it comes from the wisdom of growing up a little.  Perhaps it comes from the slothfulness of settling into a comfortable routine.  Perhaps it comes from fear.  But I don't want to be famous anymore.  I have rethought what it means to do great things for Jesus.  And I'm becoming cynical or resigned or wise enough to realise that the world is not going to change until Jesus returns to it.

So I've gone from flirting with the idea of fame to fearing it.  I have been horrified by how vicious humanity is.  We get on our high horse and tell our children that bullying is wrong, and we want to pass laws to prevent cyber-bullying, and we grieve the deaths of those young people who felt they could no longer go on under the pressure of being bullied online and made the terrible choice to take their own lives, but read the comment section of any newspaper, any well-known blog or magazine article.  Watch the Facebook feeds as mayors fall, as world leaders die, as religious leaders speak or write.  We are vicious, vindictive, mocking, self-righeous, arrogant, and ugly.  What we condemn our children for, we feel quite free to do as adults, and as Christians.  Cyber-bullying is alive and well.  And anyone who stands out from the crowd becomes a target.  The world of the internet is an ugly and barren wasteland.  More and more, I find myself longing to find a way to never have to leave the house.

Ah, but there's the rub.  The internet invades the house.  I innocently open up my Facebook, and I find you screaming at me.  In the privacy of my own home, in what is supposed to be my safe place, you barge in and you yell at me.  There is no warning.  There is no escape.  Every instinct in me is to bar, to block, to hide, to flee.

And yet . . . and yet. . . .

God has not given me a spirit of timidity, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.  A healed mind.  A mind that was broken and crushed under the weight of fear, but has been renewed and strengthened by His power.  Mine was a mind that was shattered into pieces, each piece trying to fit into someone else's puzzle, each piece trying to be what someone else wanted me to be.  But that mind has been knit together, patched with gold like a piece of broken pottery, into a whole created by God.  To flee is to go back to the broken, to reject the whole that God has made and try to fit my pieces into someone else's pattern instead of God's.  To quit is to reject love and power and a sound mind and return to timidity.  To quit is to let the bullies win.

I can't do that.  I won't do that.

So I will keep blogging.  There will be things I say that you don't like.  I don't see the world in black and white anymore.  I see it in colour, full of shades and nuances which dance and contrast and clash and complement each other and create a thing of beauty.  I hear it as a riot of sound --  melody, counter-melody, harmony,  notes blending and clashing, dissonating and resolving,  and resonating with the voice of the Creator.  So I'm sorry if my colours clash with yours.  I'm sorry if you think I'm singing off-key.  I'm sorry, but you're not the artist, and you're not the director of the choir.

I know that putting my voice "out there" opens me up to attack.  I hope it doesn't happen.  I hope people are gracious.  But it's not idealistic hope.  I know it's only a matter of time before I say something that you hate, and I will be crushed and hurt by the response I get.  I don't want that.  I don't look forward to it.  My heart flinches from the thought.  No one likes the thought of being attacked by people who are supposed to be friends, brothers and sisters in Jesus.  But then I look at the picture of that pot, and I think about what Paul says about carrying the Glory in jars of clay, and I think, What is the worst that you can do?  You can break my heart.  And God can patch it together again with gold, and my heart will just be more beautiful in the end than it is now.  It will only reflect more of Jesus, more of his glory.

C. S. Lewis wrote, "Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable" (The Four Loves).

Do I want my heart broken?  Of course not.  Broken hearts hurt horribly.   But I'm not going to back off and quit and run and hide in an effort to protect it.  I gave my heart to Jesus years ago.  He's held it in his hands ever so tenderly, even through the breaking.  He's called me to love.  He's called me to write.  He has not given me a spirit of timidity, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.  So I will press on.

And hope I never become famous.