The Greatest Joy of Christmas

"This is how the birth of Jesus Christ came about: His mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be with child through the Holy Spirit. Because Joseph her husband was a righteous man and did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly. But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, 'Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.' All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: 'The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel'—which means, 'God with us.'" —Matthew 1:18-23 (NIV 1984)

*****

God with us. Can you believe it?

God, YHWH—the holy and almighty Creator of the universe—with us—the distracted, dirty, disheveled creatures whose weak eyes are so busy examining the gravel beneath our feet that the glory of the skies and the King who has come are wonders that somehow never enter our field of vision.

Oh, Lord, would you—would you really kneel down to meet us? Would your perfect knees find a place on our silly gravel? Would your gentle hands really lift our chins to teach our eyes to know yours at last?

But that's His name, you see. He is Immanuel. He has come to dwell with us despite the odds against it, and that's the message of Christmas.

It's so easy these days to forget that, even when we talk about it. We write Bible verses on our Christmas cards, we see Nativity scenes all over the place, we sing all the old Christmas carols until our voices crack. But do we ever really get it? Even now, as I write this, I wonder if I get it. Immanuel. God with us. Oh, God, would you calm our rushing minds, close our anxious eyes, and quiet our pounding hearts? Would you teach us again how to be still and know that you are God with us?

I'm old enough now to taste the bittersweet crumbs of what the holiday season seems to be for adults. No matter how beautifully happy some moments may be, there is an inescapable twinge of sadness—often only a very small one, but it is there. I don't know what it is for you, but I do know that sugar cookies, candy canes, shining gifts, and perfect trees don't make it any better.

But I wonder...What if we began to take to heart what "God with us" really means? What if we realized the offer that rests before us on the open hand of our King?

The tiny baby whose birthday we celebrate today grew up, of course. He holds out His hands—scarred ones now, we know—ever asking us to accept the offer He has given, to know the life that springs from "God with us." "I've loved you the way my Father has loved me," he says. "Make yourselves at home in my love" (John 15:9, MSG).

I don't know what life holds for you right now. But there is a peace and joy that you can know, and it comes with Christmas. Sit for a minute and realize the truth that Immanuel is here. God is with us, and we are home—right here, right now—in His love. Let that be your joy today and every day to come. All the cookies and kin that present themselves before your gaze become grander gifts when bathed in the light of what Christmas really means. Rejoice, rejoice! Immanuel has come.

Touched

"Lord! Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean..." I trailed off. What would he do?

It had been long day. I woke up with the sun and, with a groan, heaved my shaking body off of the ground. My first destination was the sea. I had to get there before everyone else if I wanted any hope of breakfast. I grabbed my walking stick and stuffed my knife into my satchel, not feeling a thing as its recently sharpened blade shaved off a few layers of the senseless skin on one of my whitened fingers. I sighed. Another day.

The morning air was refreshing. A gentle breeze tickled my cheeks, sending a flush of color to them that nearly matched the drops of blood which trickled down my finger. I swallowed as much of the air as I could in two breaths, then, wrapping my cloak more tightly around my shoulders, I covered the lower half of my face. I scanned the path leading to the sea: no human figure in sight. But I had to be careful anyway. Looking wearily at the pinkish sun which was just beginning to peek over the tips of the mountains, I murmured the customary hail of my coming—more to myself than any early-rising onlooker who might want to hear it—"Unclean...unclean...unclean..."

Breakfast wasn't too bad. It even filled my weak legs with a bit of energy...enough to walk home anyway. Before I left, I cleaned the wound from my sharpened knife as best as I could with the water whence my meal had come. I tore a bit of my garment to wrap it. It added to my costume, I suppose. We were supposed to wear torn robes anyway. Tying the strip of cloth around my finger was quite difficult. I could only hope I didn't wrap it too tight, and hot tears blurred my eyes as I worked. I couldn't feel a thing. How does one fumble through the process of tying a knot without feeling in even one finger? I managed it somehow. After wiping my useless tears and covering my face again, I made my way back.

Nothing to do today. No one to talk to. It was pretty normal. There was a huge crowd gathered in the mountains next to the sea. I could see it from my house, but I had no idea why they were there. Having nothing better to do, I watched them for as long as they sat. Occasionally, they shifted their positions. Sometimes, their shoulders bounced with laughter. Other times, they hung their heads low or tilted them to the side as if to hear better. They must have been listening to someone. I envied them terribly—sitting right there, all together, their faces uncovered, their appearance neat, their hands often touching a loved one or playing with the grass on which they sat. I looked at my hands for a moment. Twisted and whitened by the disease that separated me from humanity, they would never touch another person or finger a blade of grass. I ripped off the strip of cloth from my finger and flung it to the ground, watching bitterly as a few drops of blood brought the most color to my skin that I had seen in awhile.

I looked up again at the crowd. They were moving now, splitting to let someone pass. Who was it? I stood up to get a better view, leaning heavily on my staff as I swayed with weakness. Who was it? 

I gasped when I realized the answer to my question: It was him! That man—that one they called...what did they call him? J—J—Jesus! That was it. They called him Jesus. Oh, they said he healed! And he loved! Maybe, just maybe...but a leper? Would he do it for a leper?

I had to try! He was walking my way. I could just make it, if I hurried. I could just make it to cut him off. I pulled up my shredded garments and stumbled as quickly as I could down to his path, not even bothering to cover my face or cry out my warning. Oh, he was so close!

Then, before I knew it, I was there. He stopped, and he looked at me. His dark eyes saw everything. I know they did. I looked around nervously. The excited crowd had frozen behind the esteemed teacher. Every eye was fixed on me. I swallowed and leaned on my stick, wheezing for air and nearly bursting into tears. "Lord," I gulped. I looked at his eyes. He was listening. I fell to my knees. "Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean." I trailed off. What would he do? 

I didn't dare look up, but, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I froze. Would he just pass me by? Would the rest of the crowd pass by too, one by one, as far on the other side of the street as possible? Would they leave me in the dirt? My breath came all too quickly. A quiet whimper rose in my throat. Then I jumped as I saw the Master's sandaled feet enter my lowered gaze. I looked up in surprise as he kneeled before me. His eyes met mine—is there anything more full of life and love than those eyes? He reached out his hand and gently touched my shoulder. Holding his hand there, he spoke—is there anything more tender and loving than his voice? "I am willing," he said. "Be clean."

Instantly, an energy I had never felt before surged through every muscle of my body. I looked at my hands. They were healed!! I moved my fingers, closing them into fists and opening them again. I could move them! I could feel! The dreadful whiteness was gone. I stood to my feet in uncontrollable excitement, leaving my stick in the dirt. I didn't need that anymore! I laughed and turned in a complete circle, then bowed again. "Thank you, Lord! Thank you!" His joyful eyes and gentle smile lit up the sky. "See that you don't tell anyone," he said. "But go, show yourself to the priest and offer the gift Moses commanded, as a testimony to them."

The priest! Right! I was clean!

I leapt into the air and scurried off to the priest at once. I was clean! No more tattered robes and senseless skin. No more warning cries and covered face. I was clean!

*****

Two birds, some cedar wood, some scarlet yarn, some hyssop...I never thought I'd see the day. The priest had one of the birds killed over a pot filled with clean water. He dipped the remaining bird and the wood and the yarn and the hyssop into the now-bloody water—and then he sprinkled me. Oh, he sprinkled me—seven times he sprinkled me! I watched in delight as his lips parted. My heart burned with excitement. "You are clean," he smiled. Then he released the dipped bird into the fields. I watched it with a huge smile on my face as it rose on strong wings and gradually disappeared from sight, my troubles vanishing with it. I ran my hands through my hair, rejoicing as the soft strands weaved through my fingers. Ah! Do you know what it is to feel—to live?

Ha! Would you believe it? He touched me. He touched me. I am clean.

The Not-So Yuppie Word

Everyone dies. Everyone loves a fight. Nothing is sound. Nothing is right-side-right.

Happy is a yuppie word. Nothing in the world could fail me now. It's empty as an argument. I'm running down a life that won't cash out.

I went to a museum today, the Orange County Museum of Art. It wasn't fun. But if you're looking for a thorough collision with the world that exists underneath the make-up and advertisements, the reality behind the curtain—this is where you'll find it.

We walked up to a plain, square-ish building with a few flags and dark cobwebbed windows. We thought it was closed—maybe abandoned—but it was as alive as it would ever be. A few visitors milled around inside, their eyes glued to the white walls, to the pops of color composing the artwork which hardly pretended to decorate them, to the concrete floor, or to their own shoes—never to each other. We walked to the front desk, paid for our admission, and proceeded to explore the museum itself. The first room was okay...strange, I think, but okay. You must know that all the art in the museum was abstract. We knew that coming in.

We tread slowly through the rooms of the museum, our initial curiosity fading into a somber disquiet as our eyes introduced us to the hard-edged remains of consumerism. Every piece of art, from the gloppy paintings to the careful geometric sculptures, throbbed with emotion. I saw pain there, very raw pain, captured in the distant swirls of paint, in the dank, unforgiving colors, and in the struggle to call it all order. Even the most natural thing I could find, a block of wood crafted into the exact likeness of a giant pink eraser, tore my heart. An eraser? What are they trying to forget? Every work seemed to be drooping. Every almost-human figure was wailing. Eyes burned everywhere with an anxiety I didn't know art could capture. The whole display was aching, trembling, it seemed. It was, really, the embodiment of the unquenchable thirst that drives us all, that undeniable angst that reigns in the wake of any even momentary realization that our culture has told us a great lie. We sink when we realize it. They said one more, one more...one more...They said one more would do it. But it doesn't. We're stuck in an endless cycle down here. Nothing fulfills.

Happy is a yuppie word.

Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound.

We get it now, we think. The splattered paint and the dark colors...they get it too. "Happy" is just for the yuppies: the young professionals with sunshine in their pockets and gold in their skies. But they're blind, aren't they? Trouble will come. It always does.

Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound.

Looking for an orphanage. I'm looking for a bridge I can't burn down. I don't believe the emptiness. I'm looking for the kingdom coming down. Everything is meaningless. I want more than cash can buy. Happy is a yuppie word.

Switchfoot nailed it. That italicized stuff is theirs, if you were wondering. That's what we're feeling, even if we can't quite explain it. Happiness seems to be an illusion in a world that is gasping for air, straining to find some hope somewhere.

But look at it again.

Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound.

This is not how the world's supposed to be, is it? We know what soundness is, and this isn't it. And doesn't that—mustn't it?—mean that there has to be something more? something that is sound? We'd be content, wouldn't we, if the "not sound" is what we were made for, if sadness was all for which we could dare to hope? But we're not content.

G.K. Chesterton puts it this way, "The mass of men have been forced to be gay about the little things, but sad about the big ones. Nevertheless...it is not native to man to be so. Man is more himself, man is more manlike, when joy is the fundamental thing in him, and grief the superficial. Melancholy should be an innocent interlude, a tender and fugitive frame of mind; praise should be the permanent pulsation of the soul. Pessimism is at best an emotional half-holiday; joy is the uproarious labor by which all things live."¹

You see, we know that the hopelessness is not the end, that it really must be a small corner in the vast universe of a joy we can't yet comprehend. But the problem is that we can't comprehend it.

But we can know One who could. And that makes all the difference.

Chesterton enlightens us again: "The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The Stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing their tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His open face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city. Yet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomatists are proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He flung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men how they expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained something. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering personality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something that He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth."²

You know what mirth is, don't you? It's joy. It's the incomprehensible delight, the sheer gladness, that isn't restricted to the yuppie.

So why does it matter that Jesus had it? Wonder at this. Chesterton's Jesus—the Jesus smiling through the Gospels—came down on earth and suffered and died not because He had to. Chesterton's God—the God smiling through all of Scripture—created not because He had to. This God, our Savior, did all this because He knew joy and wanted to share it. Jesus walked through life with an almost secret smile on His lips, nearly bursting—sometimes really bursting—with a joy that could scarcely be contained. Look! Paul writes, "I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us" (Romans 8:18, NIV 1984).

What the joy of Jesus means is that someday we will know fully, in Him, the joy that He knows. But you know what it also means? It means that right now, right here, we can know that joy. We can have a relationship with Jesus Christ. We are indwelt by His Holy Spirit. We can begin to taste that joy—and the taste will be absolutely as much as these mortal bodies can handle. Why? When you walk next to Jesus, it just bounces off of Him and lands on you. You can't help it.

So what now? Let the fact that nothing is sound remind you of the not-so yuppie word: the joy of Christ that really comes from a life surrendered to Him.

Blessed is the man who's lost it all.³

———————————————————

¹ Orthodoxy, p. 151. Barnes & Noble, Inc. (2007).

² Ibid., pp. 152-3.

³ All bold and italicized words in this post are lyrics from Switchfoot’s “Happy Is a Yuppie Word” (2005).

America the...um...well...I guess we'll see...

I don't know if you have ever had the opportunity to visit Disney World's Epcot Center in Orlando, Florida. It's a neat place, really. I was able to go about a week ago on an off-day during a missions trip to the headquarters of Wycliffe Bible Translators. I and my team walked happily through the park, admiring the detail that Disney incorporates into all of its attractions and marveling at the many different cultures represented in the World Showcase, a circle of grand buildings depicting the traditional architectural styles of twelve countries. While we were there, we watched a show called The American Adventure, which—with impressive audio-animatronics—told a brief history of the United States in the voices of Benjamin Franklin and Mark Twain and highlighted those attributes of the country that made her look best on-stage. It was...patriotic...I mean, I guess that's all I could call it. They used red, white, and blue...and, yeah...Go, America.

It was a good play, honestly. And I'm not saying that America is absolutely horrible. There are some qualities defining this country that made it a great place. Years ago, many called it the "greatest." To the persecuted immigrants, America looked like Disneyland today: "the happiest place on earth."

But the ending of the play left an unforgettably sour taste in my mouth, a sore disgust with what our nation has become combined with a halfhearted wish that what I had seen didn't have to be true. The finale of this creative history lesson depicted Benjamin Franklin and Mark Twain standing on Lady Liberty's torch and discussing the future of America. In a sarcastic grumble befitting the ingenious satirist, the animatronic Twain quoted John Steinbeck and prophesied a dim future for his nation, saying, "We now face the danger, which in the past has been the most destructive to the humans: Success, plenty, comfort and ever-increasing leisure. No dynamic people has ever survived these dangers."

I was impressed that they mentioned this quote and quite happy that, at last, someone was reflecting my own thoughts on the danger threatening the too-comfortable United States. But the quote was quickly forgotten as Franklin convinced Twain that America would survive these dangers because she was, after all, America. Hard work had brought her this far, and it could surely bring her farther.

As I walked out of the theatre, reflecting on this solid circular reasoning, my eye wandered over the six statues which proudly lined the wall and pointed us to the exit. Each statue embodied one "spirit of America" which distinguished the nation. They all sounded nice. "Spirit of Tomorrow," "Spirit of Independence," "Spirit of Innovation," "Spirit of Discovery." But the last two didn't fit. I'm sure they sounded just as nice to most people. For me, however, they stood out as if they had been painted purple. 

The first of these statues, a female doctor, bore a placard which claimed a "Spirit of Compassion." That's all fine and dandy, except that the next one, a noble cowboy, exemplified a "Spirit of Individualism." Yes, I'd say that both of these have been used countless times to describe the United States. Yes, at times, they might each be true descriptions—but never at the same time, because they are exactly opposite of one another.

Think about it. What is compassion? It's thinking of other people, seeing their pain, and sympathizing with it. What is individualism? It's promoting yourself over community, taking pride in your work, your position, your accomplishments...and it necessitates ignoring everyone else in the process. You see, these "spirits of America" can't possibly work together.

So what's the point? 

I think we have a decision to make. Which spirit are we going to live out? Will we boast our individualism and bring Steinbeck's prediction to fulfillment? If we are focused on our own prosperity, the destruction he describes is inevitable. But we're Americans, animatronic Franklin argues. We'll make it anyway. Right.

But suppose we decided to throw out the individualism, to see the pain of others, and to make America a country that really is compassionate. What if we had the guts to set ourselves aside for a minute, to pick up humility with both hands, and to start serving others? What would that look like?

Call it ironic if you want to, but I think it would start to look a lot like Christ had started a church.

The King Who Wasn't

There wasn't any particular reason I should have stopped on the road that day. I walk down it every other day without hesitating. I know it as well as that inscrutable mouse seems to know every bit of my master's home. As much as I am at a loss to determine the whereabouts of that ashy-brown creature, I am even more unable to describe precisely what made me stop that day. I remember shifting my delicately woven basket from one hip to the other as my sandaled feet resigned from sending the dry dust in choking swirls across my path. I stopped and stared at a man traveling easily in the opposite direction.

I know I'm just a servant. I don't know why I stopped. I shouldn't have looked at him...but I couldn't help it.

It wasn't that he was handsome. I had spent countless hours with my master's daughter at her window, admiring the soldiers who passed by day after day, their dark eyes flickering suspiciously back and forth and their gleaming armor shining with each ray of the sun. He wasn't like any of those soldiers. He was just...normal. He had simple clothes, a bit of dirt under his fingernails, and callouses on his feet. He had no feature worthy of capturing the eyes of those who acknowledged him. He was just...human. A normal human, plain and simple...

His eyes were different though. They were dark, like those of any other Jew. But they were different somehow. Maybe that was what stopped me that day. I looked into his eyes as I paused in the road. He looked into mine, and he smiled at me—faintly and simply. I think the smile was more in his eyes than it was on his face. Those eyes had so much in them—such gentleness, such joy, such love, a twinge of sorrow, a glimmer of contentment. They seemed to burn right through me, as if he knew everything about me in a single glance, but there was no hostility there, no strange motives. I didn't—couldn't—fear his penetrating gaze. I should have followed him.

But my master needed me. When the man had left the street, I continued on my way. Duty calls.

I heard that he died last week. Crucified, I think. They say he broke some law of his people, claiming to be their king. I nearly laughed when I heard that. He looked nothing like a king.

I wonder what was in his eyes that day. I still remember his gaze as if he were looking at me now. Even while dying, I can't imagine those dark depths filled with anything but love and joy, gentleness and peace—more sorrow, perhaps, and pain, undoubtedly—but otherwise the same as when I saw him in the road.

This morning, I finally learned why his eyes were so remarkable, so catching while the rest of his features were so plain. The reason why he looked so human is that he was much, much more than that.

You see, those gentle hands with the dirty fingernails were nailed to a gruesome cross. His calloused feet shared their fate. His loving eyes were blurred by his thorn-pierced brow, and his simple smile was twisted for a bit to reflect the pain that his body bore. He died that day, and those beautiful eyes were closed. It seemed like the end.

But the grave only held him for three days. His eyes, burning with unparalleled love and unfathomable joy, were open again. They'll be open forever.

I guess He was a king. He wasn't the king we thought He would be. He died. And even when He rose again, He didn't bother building a kingdom. He just encouraged His followers to do what He did, to live a life of love for God and man—a life of pure unselfishness and sacrificial love.

He never was what we expected. But, as it turns out, He's everything we actually needed.

God Is for Everybody: In Defense of the Theology of Sherlock Holmes

I've been a fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories ever since I can remember. The beautiful writing style, the brilliant detective and his fantastic observations and deductions, the captivating story lines—in short, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work is an unceasing pleasure to read. I've enjoyed the movies which have sought to replicate this famous character as well. You can guess, then, that when I heard about the BBC series Sherlock, it did not take much convincing for me to jump into it.

I must say that I think the show is well-written, well-casted, and definitely enjoyable. Nothing compares to the original stories, of course, but this is certainly one of the best renditions I have encountered. Even so, my admiration of the work is stunted by a few depictions of the character of Sherlock which appear to be entirely inconsistent with Doyle's portrayal, though I suppose they align with the dominating worldviews of our time. One of these came across in a suddenly and passionately critical yet almost discreet comment in Sherlock's best man speech in "The Sign of Three." (Don't worry. I won't spoil the story.) After describing some differences between himself and Watson, Sherlock notes wildly, "And contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot."¹

I hope you were as shocked as I was to discover this quote, whether you watched the episode or read it for the first time here. Its use is understandable. Why would any secular writer portray a detective who is, supposedly, the most brilliant individual in all the world (save for his brother) as a theist of any sort when today's intellectual standard is an uncompromising adherence to atheism? Let me phrase this more simply: It makes sense that a modernized Sherlock would fit with the reigning worldviews of today, namely, that God is nothing more than an invention of the human mind meant to satisfy a thirst for purpose.

However, the quote is inexcusably wrong on two accounts. First of all, despite its connection with the favorite worldview of today, it does not fit with the characterization of Mr. Holmes in Doyle's writings. In fact, to me, it seems as though Sherlock's theology in the original narratives is pretty sound. Take this quote from Holmes himself in "A Case of Identity," for instance: "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence."² Or this one, from "The Naval Treaty": "There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion...It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."³ I'll leave the explanation of these quotes to your own capacity for reasoning. However, I will note that they, at the very least, contradict the idea that Sherlock Holmes thought of God as merely a "ludicrous fantasy."

Secondly, even if this quote was taken directly from the lips of Doyle's detective, it would still be drastically inaccurate. Why? Because God is not just for the "family idiot." God is for everybody. For the intellectual who embraces logic and the power of human reasoning for discovering truth, He is the best answer to the universal questions of humankind. For the simple heart that longs not for complicated creeds but for simple goodness, He is everything that one could ask for. For the easygoing individual who merely wants a happy life, He provides the most inexplicable joy and the most solid purpose. For the lonely, impoverished widow, He is True Love and Faithful Providence. For the child, He is a Father. For the weak, He is strong. For the successful, He is meaning. For everyone, He is everything. And we all stand before Him equally, each desperately needing Him to be who He is.

So what does this mean for you, my reader? It means that God is for you too. What are you needing today? For what does your desperate soul hunger? Is there a thirst that nothing seems to quench? Take it to God. He is the answer. He is the One who fills us completely.

My dear friend, turn to Him. Like Sherlock Holmes, look at the flowers. See how He cares for them and wonder at His perfect care for you (Matthew 6:28-30). He is exactly what you need: the answer to your questions, the cleansing for your broken soul. Go take a look.

"My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken." —Psalm 62:1-2 (NIV, 1984)

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¹ Sherlock Season 3, Episode 2 (2014).

² The Complete Sherlock Holmes, p. 174. Barnes & Noble, Inc. (2009).

³ Ibid., pp. 425-6.

The Power of Pain

I'm sure you're reading this because you're curious. Aren't we all, deep down, desperately curious to see if anyone has the answer to the question we're all asking? Pain. Pain. Pain. You feel it, don't you? We all do. And, I believe, every one of us is wrestling with questions about it which can hardly be put into words. We just hurt, and we don't know what else to say.

As I write this, I beg you to bear with me and to forgive the restrictions that inevitably guard the written word. I understand only too well how subtly and dangerously faceless written communication can be, and though I am not convinced that any writing can express the deep vulnerability I wish to share with my readers—especially on a topic as delicate as this one—I must do my best with what I have. Please know, as you read this, that I am no stranger to pain. I may not understand the exact aches that threaten each of your hearts, but I know what it feels like to hurt. Don't wail for me, though. I get a lot of responses like that when I write things like this. I write not to secure your sympathy but to relate with your reality. You hurt, and I hurt; and that's why I'm writing. I do not expect to be able to embrace every aspect of the thing we call "pain" in one blog post, but I think I've got a decent start, by God's grace. Read on, then, if you would, keeping these things in mind.

I think the best place to begin this discussion is to discover what question exactly we are asking when it comes to pain. The media would have us believe that we must find the cure. "How can we stop it?" they ask. This is one question we must avoid. Pain can't be stopped—not yet, anyway. Thinking that we can stop it will do nothing more than frustrate us when we realize that it persists. Knowing it cannot be stopped, some well-meaning Christians will suggest that we merely hope in God's promises to destroy evil and to bring us into an eternity where pain is ceased. This is true, thankfully. In proceeding, I have no intention of diminishing or disdaining this hope. It is beautiful. However, I understand that it is quite difficult for us to be content with this when we see no relief from the pain we feel during this life. We want a bit more than this hope, a more narrow approach to our question. We are looking for something "right here, right now." Strangely, I think we would all be okay with the notion that pain exists and will not be stopped during this life if we could find the answer to the question that burns relentlessly through the head of every human that feels the dull ache of a bleeding heart: "What do I do with the pain I feel now?"

Turn to God.

Before you roll your eyes and discount this as the silly answer that could summarize practically every Sunday school class, consider it seriously, for as long as it takes. It is true.

Why? Because of what "pain," at its deepest root, really is. Pain is the clearest, most direct call we could ever receive to turn to God. C.S. Lewis put it this way: "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."¹ Ultimately, pain begs us to look up even while its severity threatens to push our heads down. It brings us into a position in which we have no choice but to acknowledge the decision we were given life to make. It's easy to ignore the weight of that decision when we feel as though we are soaring above the clouds, but pain forces us to face up. We can choose God, or we can choose to oppose Him. No other option exists. At first, it seems quite unfortunate that it takes something as extreme and, well, painful as pain to get our attention. Why couldn't God just show up and tell us plainly what decision we were supposed to make, give us all the pros and cons of both sides, let us choose, and then leave us alone? 'Cuz we wouldn't get it. Think about it. We would never be able to see God, know Him as He really is, and embrace the gift of grace that He has given if we didn't see how desperately we need Him. G.K. Chesterton puts it this way: "One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak."² There's a certain knowledge of God that can only come from suffering. We see our God to a fuller extent when we know what walking through the "valley of the shadow of death" really looks like. And, we might note, the slightest taste of pain is the surest testimony of our need for our Creator and Savior. When we capitalize on that and turn to Him, we realize that He fulfills us completely, and we get to spend our life here on earth and an eternity in heaven praising Him for it. If we didn't know pain, we would never know God. If we didn't know pain, we would never have a reason to praise Him.

The answer, then, is what I said before. Turn to God. Get on your knees—now—and turn to your Savior. He loves you. He can heal you. I know this from experience. He may not stop the pain. Don't expect Him to. But He will give you hope, comfort, and purpose in it. He will use the cracks in your heart to shine through you and reach others. I cannot find words to describe the beauty of this, but I know it even more surely than the pain I mentioned earlier. When we turn to our God, we are filled with His love. His joy lifts up our heads and extends our hands. It pushes us to tell others of the goodness we have found. When they see a broken heart burning with inexplicable love, they too will turn to God.

In light of all this, I beg you to stop fearing pain, to stop trying to dull or stop it. Let it do what it was meant to do. Let it bring you and everyone who sees you to God, the One we were meant to cling to in the first place. Pain was meant to grab our attention. It was meant to show us even more of the greatness of our God. Do you see? This is why the cross is so important, so perfect. Pain was meant to change the world.

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¹ The Problem of Pain (1940), p. 406 in The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics, HarperOne (2002).

² The Innocence of Father Brown (1911).

Forgiven-ness

It's been two days since Easter...two days of staring at earless chocolate bunnies, piles of candy wrappers, dirty dishes, and crumpled church bulletins—the inevitable leftovers of an annual celebration which seems to bewilder most of the U.S. population...

I don't know what Easter was like for you. Maybe it was a blur of sugar and relatives. Maybe you went to church. Maybe you actually enjoyed church. Maybe, while you were at church, you actually thought about what Easter really means. Perhaps it crossed your mind that eggs and bunnies and pastel colors don't really matter, that "Easter" is actually a celebration of the fact that a man from Nazareth rose from the dead after being tortured and crucified and spending three days in a grave. I sincerely hope that Easter, for you, was a time of peace and reflection, a time to thank Christ for His work on the cross and for the miracle of His resurrection.

...but what's on your mind now? I think we would all like to answer this question the same way that we would have answered two days ago, with words that sound as if they were taken straight from the New Testament, full of praise and thankfulness and passion for the creed we preach. But I've talked to a lot of people since Sunday, including myself (it really helps to clarify things, you know), and it seems like most of us are missing something. It's not like we lost it after Easter. Rather, in our failure to live as if every day were Easter—a celebration of the resurrection of our Savior—we have slipped into complacency and worry.

We're not the only ones to slide in and out of spiritual highs. Look at Elijah, for example. After standing before the nation of Israel in opposition to the prophets of Baal and boldly calling on his God, this powerful prophet watched fire come down from heaven and consume his sodden sacrifice. He then, by the power of God, outran King Ahab's chariot for about seventeen miles. He had every reason to trust in God and to rest in his identity in his Maker. But the very next chapter of his story (I Kings 19) records him moaning over his life, crying, "I have had enough, LORD...Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors" (v. 4, NIV 1984). (If you have some time, read the rest of his story to see how God replies. It's pretty cool.)

Why do we, like Elijah, so often fall into forgetfulness? Do we not realize the extent to which we are saved?

Read this. Read it slowly, and know that it is true!

"The LORD is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love. He will not always accuse, nor will He harbor His anger forever; He does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His love for those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear Him; for He knows how we are formed, He remembers that we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more. But from everlasting to everlasting the LORD's love is with those who fear Him..." —Psalm 103:8-17a (NIV 1984)

Finger through the rest of Scripture. Ease your mind in taking in the love letter that your Creator has written for you. Look at what He has done. Remember that you are FORGIVEN.

There's no need for our spiritual life to feel like a rollercoaster. We serve an unchanging God. Even though our circumstances may whirl around us in what looks, to our finite eyes, like pure chaos, our God stands firm. And we are anchored to Him.

Rooted in this identity, we can live in a state of forgiven-ness. Grasp this. Know that it is true. By God's grace, you are not who you used to be. You are forgiven, and this is a big deal. Bob Goff phrases this concept well: "Every time we believe the lie that we're who we used to be, we roll the stone back into place like nothing happened."¹

Beloved child of God, let your old self rot with the chocolate bunnies you threw out after Easter. Don't touch it again. Live in forgiven-ness, knowing that you are free. Start singing a new song. You, my friend, are free.

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¹ Facebook post from 04.21.2014.