I've never done something like this before, but I feel as though the conclusions reached in my last post (Anger in the Eyeglass) could use a bit of clarification—not as far as anger goes, for I think I covered my thoughts on that pretty completely. But there was another emotion that I mentioned repeatedly in my discussion; it lent considerably to my points but was, I regret, dealt with far too casually. This emotion, which I now aim to discuss more diligently, is fear.
I believe my last post explained well that emotions are responses to our perceptions of reality. In light of this, we can come to a pretty adequate definition of fear (as if one were needed—we know it so well!). Fear is that worrying terror, that agonizing and uncontrollable uneasiness that we feel when we perceive something frightening or uncertain, threatening or unexpected. In his book, Fearless, Max Lucado defines it this way: "Fear, at its center, is a perceived loss of control." I think he's right. Fear is that shaky feeling that tells us there's something out there that stretches beyond our own expertise.
With this definition in mind, I think we can begin to deal more appropriately with this powerful emotion.
Now, allow me to do something a bit unconventional. (Yes, I'm sure you're right. Most of what I do does tend to fall under the vast reaches of that word. Bear with me.) I'd like to share my conclusion with you, bluntly and without context, before I explain my reasoning. I want to do this mostly because I feel that, if we were having a conversation about this face-to-face (such things do still exist, by the way), that's how it would come about. Also, I think this conclusion is pretty necessary for you to see how the points I will make actually relate to one another. So, here you go:
Like any emotion, fear tells us something about the world as we perceive it, but I am convinced that no case exists in which fear is telling us that we are perceiving the world rightly.
There, I said it. Now, if you would, join me in reasoning through this.
First off, let us examine what it is that we can possibly fear. What reality exists that we can perceive and respond to fearfully? I think, to classify broadly, that there are two essential categories of things we might fear: creation itself and the Creator who made it. And if we really boil this down, it seems much more logical to fear the One on whom all creation depends for its existence than it is to fear that creation. Because the Creator rules over His creation, if we're going to be fearing anything, we'd best be fearing Him.
This idea is mentioned quite often in Scripture. The command to fear God is definitely common (see Deuteronomy 5:23-29, 10:12-13 and I Peter 1:17, 2:17 for just a few examples). The command to not fear other things is probably even more common (see Moses' command to the Israelites in Deuteronomy 31:6 and to Joshua in 31:8 [cf. Joshua 1:6-9] and the confidence expressed in Hebrews 13:6).
Jesus Himself even seems to make this point. In sending out His disciples in Luke 12, He argues that the fear of men should not be a concern in light of the fact that God is over all. In His words, "I tell you, my friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body and after that can do no more. But I will show you whom you should fear: Fear him who, after the killing of the body, has power to throw you into hell. Yes, I tell you, fear him" (vv. 4-5, NIV 1984).
He seems pretty frightening, doesn't He? An omnipotent God standing up there with His long beard and longer staff, dictating His sovereign will and punishing any who refuse to comply?
But don't get carried away with this picture. This isn't God at all. How do I know? Well, Scripture is pretty clear on that point. And, Jesus wasn't finished. Read Luke 12:6-7 (which comes, if you'll notice, right after verses 4-5): "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows" (NIV 1984).
So, in total, what do we have here? Jesus has given two commands: Fear God, and do not be afraid. They're not contradictory. Rather, they form the inexplicably beautiful paradox that surrounds the relationship between the human and the divine.
You see, there is good reason to fear God, to tremble with terror before Him. The Israelites sure did (Exodus 20:18-19)! An all-powerful Being beyond our control is a scary thought, and reverence for and humility before this omnipotent King is an absolute necessity. But what the Israelites learned, what Jesus is saying, and what we need to hear today is that trembling before God isn't the end of the picture. Yes, we must respect Him. Yes, we must realize how great He is. But the fullness of His identity also involves the truth implied by Christ's second command: that this all-powerful King has lavished immeasurable grace on His people, that they might know Him and truly not fear. How does this work? It works because this God loves.
But, wait. It gets better than that—for two reasons.
1. Note that the concept of God's love seems to have two facets in Jesus' discussion in Luke 12 (and, really, in the rest of Scripture). First, God intimately knows that which He is loving. He knows the sparrows; He numbers even the hairs on the heads of His people. He knows everything about us—even better than we know ourselves. We shudder sometimes to think of that. But let your heart rest, for this second part is also true: In His knowledge of us, He considers us worth loving. We're "worth more than many sparrows." It's an understatement. He created us—so carefully—into His image, using every bit of His creativity in fashioning us—each one of us—exactly as He wanted us to be. He doesn't "love" us out of pity or something. No one loves like that because that's not what love is. He looks at us—He never takes His eyes off of us, actually—and says, "Child, you're worth loving." And the scars on His hands prove it. Are we messy? Yes. Undeserving? Oh, yeah. Yet, by His assessment, we are worth loving.
2. The picture gets even more beautiful when we realize that God doesn't just love—He is love. This is true because of the truth of the Trinity. (For more on this, pick up Frank Macchia's The Trinity, Practically Speaking; it's life-changing.) The Trinity means that God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—a circle of perfect love that has existed from all eternity. In His self-relation, God loves; therefore, in His nature, He is love. And the beauty of the Gospel message—and, really, of all of Scripture (even the Old Testament!)—is that this God who is love has opened His arms to include us in that love. We are welcomed into His circle of love, and there is nothing that can separate us from it (Romans 8:38-39).
I think there's no better way to wrap all this back around than to turn to I John 4. What do we see? God loves us (vv. 9-10), "God is love" (vv. 8, 16), and "perfect love drives out fear" (v. 18).
Do you get it, friend? Do you see? God reigns, and God loves. This is reality, and, in this reality, fear is only a signal that we've lost focus, that we've adopted an eyeglass that doesn't match up with the way the world really is. God reigns, and God loves. Nothing can happen to us apart from His loving plan. We have nothing to fear.
Why? Because we've been given a new eyeglass and a new name. By God's grace, we've been given a gift that is beyond comprehension. "For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, 'Abba, Father.' The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God's children" (Romans 8:15-16, NIV 1984).
God's children. Sons and daughters of a Father who loves perfectly. Can you believe it? His love is one so great that it "surpasses knowledge" (Ephesians 3:16-19), and, again, it's a love from which we can never be separated (Romans 8:38-39). Really and truly, this love "drives out fear" (I John 4:18).
All in all, Christ's work leaves us with the beautifully overwhelming truth that we are loved unconditionally and perfectly by the God whose strong arms are holding and guiding all the world. This love is the ink with which He writes the grand story of that world and the stories of our individual lives.
When we really "get" this—when we look at the world through eyes transformed by the truth of His lordship and love—fear dissipates. Peace reigns. And this, my friends, is the proper eyeglass. It is an eyeglass without fear.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Anger in the Eyeglass
I've been thinking a lot lately about anger. I'm not all that sure why. Questions just keep coming up, floating incessantly through my own mind, bubbling off the lips of others, reverberating off walls, and always piping up when I feel the flame of that powerful emotion in my own chest. What is it? What causes it? What should we do with it? What did Jesus do with it? What does that mean for us?
As with most things I write about, I'm no expert on this topic. I've got no series of capital letters behind my name, no claim to have done any research at all on the stuff I'm about to write. But I am human, and anger is no stranger to me. Why not work through it? Why not embrace the questions that keep popping up? A great deal of thought and prayer has resulted in a few conclusions. I'll explain them below. I may be right. I may be wrong. I welcome as much dialogue on this as you care to provide. Feel free to comment below. But please read first, if you would.
Perhaps the best place to begin is to introduce you to the context which fueled—but certainly no longer aligns with—my own thinking. Over the course of my life—and even more so recently—I've heard three statements about anger that just don't seem right. There are more, I know. But these are the ones I've heard repeatedly, and these are the ones that sparked my thinking. Perhaps you've heard them too:
1. Anger comes from fear.
2. Anger is an emotion, but it's a very bad emotion. We need to stop feeling it.
3. We can be angry. We can even cultivate anger. It just has to be "righteous" anger.
There's no chronology to these statements. There's no relationship at all, really. They are just three statements that prompted my thoughts—three statements I heard from multiple sources and couldn't quite believe to be true.
The first has to do with the source of anger. The suggestion of many: fear. This sounds great at first. It even comes with its own fancy formula: Find your deepest fears, work through those, and knock out your anger at the same time. I decided to try it. I thought through some of my fears, considered some instances that had made me angry, and tried desperately to find a connection—any connection—between them. But I couldn't find anything. The stuff that made me angry often had nothing to do with the stuff that I feared. In fact, I found that, in many cases, it was easier to be angry when I was not afraid. There were some instances, however, where I noticed fear and anger arising simultaneously. This, I found, was the key to the whole thing.
You see, fear does not cause anger. Put the other way, anger is not a result of fear. Rather, both anger and fear are emotional responses to something else; both are triggered by a perception of what is happening in the world at a given instant. We encounter reality, and our emotions, in a large way, let us know how to respond to it. Perhaps I can illustrate this by pulling at your emotions a bit.
Imagine with me a tattered, coarse, brown cloth—woven tightly years ago but clutched by so many desperate fingers since then that the threads have separated, leaving tiny holes in the once-beautiful fabric. Dark smudges of soot speckle its surface—probably left from those same clinging hands. Despite these flaws, the aged cloth rests in gentle and lovely folds on the shoulders of an old woman. Her long white hair, arranged in a careful braid, lies limply among its folds—snowy purity starkly contrasting with smudges and tears. The plainness of her hair and her garment, however, are not matched by her eyes. Emerald flames searching deeply, lovingly, the depths of every soul which meets her gaze, her eyes must forever be remembered. They express the depths of her own soul: the pain of loss, the weariness of days of hunger, the strange spark of hope despite the odds against its existence. She lowers those remarkable eyes, and her thin lips part—making way for a scarcely audible rasp: "Some bread, please? Anything will do."
Now try this one:
Think of the same tattered cloth—not on the stooped shoulders of an old woman this time but crumpled on the floor of a dark and damp basement. The light from your flashlight reveals its dirty surface, making its folds seem harsh and set. You rub the back of your neck, wishing the box you were looking for could be anywhere but down here. Slowly, you inch your foot over to the cloth, hoping to move it quickly to the side so that you could step by it to continue your search. You slip the toe of your sneaker under the closest corner and kick the cloth away. Your heart leaps into your throat in an instant. Something black and hairy had been lying underneath. You clap your free hand to your mouth, trying desperately not to scream, and aim the beam of your flashlight—as best as you can with a trembling hand—down towards the dreaded arachnid.
And one more:
Same cloth. Same flashlight. Same dark and hairy speck crouching treacherously in the shaking light. But then you notice something. It's not moving. You peer closer. Dead? No. Ugh. Plastic. Your cruel little brother.
What have I done? I've given you three events. You encountered them, in your imagination, of course; and I can bet that each one triggered some emotional response. The first? Probably compassion. Maybe annoyance, if you're pestered by that sort of scene too often. The second? Fear, undoubtedly. And the third? Anger.
My point? Emotions in general are the result of perception. Fear and anger are both emotions. When you realized the spider was a fake, it was not your fear that made you angry. It was the fact that your brother had played a nasty trick on you.
Anger, then, is not the result of fear. It is the result of a sense of injustice. This explains why we can feel just as angry about the Holocaust as we can when someone insults us—not because we are afraid of either event but because we feel, deep down, that what happened should really not have happened. We get angry because we sense that the world is not right. Understood this way, anger is a good emotion; it's a signal that something's not how it should be.
This knocks out our second statement. It is dangerous to never be angry. It means we've lost sensitivity to perceiving injustice. It means we've lost the ability to care whether things are right or whether we are okay. More than that, if we say that anger is a bad thing, we run into serious problems when we look at the life of Jesus.
But here is where the waters get a bit murky. Two comments are helpful. First, although anger is a response to a perception of injustice, just because we feel that an injustice has occurred does not mean that one actually has. We can be totally mistaken in our perception of injustice and/or our definition of justice in the first place. Anger is a signal of what we believe to be injustice, but we may not always be right.
Secondly, just because it is good to feel anger does not mean we can cling to it. The Bible is extremely clear on this point. In Ephesians 4, Paul writes, "Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry" (v. 26) and, "Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice" (v. 31, NIV 1984). What Paul is saying is that the proper thing to do with anger is to dump it. Right now. All of it.
This wipes out our third statement as well. Notice how often this statement is the passionate declaration of someone who is keeping anger in a tight hold, stroking its fur with an evil grin, and waiting anxiously for the day that bottled fury can be released to wreak havoc on every deserving individual. "It's righteous anger I feel. I have a right to feel this. I need to hold onto it for a little while." Aw, knock it off! Paul said to get rid of it. ALL of it. There's no such thing as righteous anger, and we have no right to hang on to it. Dump it.
So what does all this mean? What do we do now?
First, know what anger is telling you. Let it show you where you are perceiving injustice. But that's it. Let it simply prompt the question, "Is something wrong here?"
Then, give it up. Give it to Christ. If something is really wrong, He may teach us to use our anger as fuel to make it right. How will we know? Because our anger is never to be our focus. Jesus Christ is. Anger tells us something. So does fear. So does compassion. So do all the other emotions. But we aren't to focus on these. We aren't to cling to these. We are to cling to Christ. When you look at Him, everything else falls into place.
Why? Because Christ is our focus and our lens. The more we look to Him, the more we see the world as He sees it. Our perceptions of reality—and the emotions that serve as a response—become ordered. They reflect the world more truly.
The conclusion, then, is this: Anger is not bad. It can show us really well where things aren't what they should be. But the only way we'll be able to see this rightly is if we are looking at Christ. And, once you look at Christ, you'll see something so beautiful that you'll find there's no point to holding on to anger anymore. Seriously, all you'll want to do is hold to Christ.
As with most things I write about, I'm no expert on this topic. I've got no series of capital letters behind my name, no claim to have done any research at all on the stuff I'm about to write. But I am human, and anger is no stranger to me. Why not work through it? Why not embrace the questions that keep popping up? A great deal of thought and prayer has resulted in a few conclusions. I'll explain them below. I may be right. I may be wrong. I welcome as much dialogue on this as you care to provide. Feel free to comment below. But please read first, if you would.
Perhaps the best place to begin is to introduce you to the context which fueled—but certainly no longer aligns with—my own thinking. Over the course of my life—and even more so recently—I've heard three statements about anger that just don't seem right. There are more, I know. But these are the ones I've heard repeatedly, and these are the ones that sparked my thinking. Perhaps you've heard them too:
1. Anger comes from fear.
2. Anger is an emotion, but it's a very bad emotion. We need to stop feeling it.
3. We can be angry. We can even cultivate anger. It just has to be "righteous" anger.
There's no chronology to these statements. There's no relationship at all, really. They are just three statements that prompted my thoughts—three statements I heard from multiple sources and couldn't quite believe to be true.
The first has to do with the source of anger. The suggestion of many: fear. This sounds great at first. It even comes with its own fancy formula: Find your deepest fears, work through those, and knock out your anger at the same time. I decided to try it. I thought through some of my fears, considered some instances that had made me angry, and tried desperately to find a connection—any connection—between them. But I couldn't find anything. The stuff that made me angry often had nothing to do with the stuff that I feared. In fact, I found that, in many cases, it was easier to be angry when I was not afraid. There were some instances, however, where I noticed fear and anger arising simultaneously. This, I found, was the key to the whole thing.
You see, fear does not cause anger. Put the other way, anger is not a result of fear. Rather, both anger and fear are emotional responses to something else; both are triggered by a perception of what is happening in the world at a given instant. We encounter reality, and our emotions, in a large way, let us know how to respond to it. Perhaps I can illustrate this by pulling at your emotions a bit.
Imagine with me a tattered, coarse, brown cloth—woven tightly years ago but clutched by so many desperate fingers since then that the threads have separated, leaving tiny holes in the once-beautiful fabric. Dark smudges of soot speckle its surface—probably left from those same clinging hands. Despite these flaws, the aged cloth rests in gentle and lovely folds on the shoulders of an old woman. Her long white hair, arranged in a careful braid, lies limply among its folds—snowy purity starkly contrasting with smudges and tears. The plainness of her hair and her garment, however, are not matched by her eyes. Emerald flames searching deeply, lovingly, the depths of every soul which meets her gaze, her eyes must forever be remembered. They express the depths of her own soul: the pain of loss, the weariness of days of hunger, the strange spark of hope despite the odds against its existence. She lowers those remarkable eyes, and her thin lips part—making way for a scarcely audible rasp: "Some bread, please? Anything will do."
Now try this one:
Think of the same tattered cloth—not on the stooped shoulders of an old woman this time but crumpled on the floor of a dark and damp basement. The light from your flashlight reveals its dirty surface, making its folds seem harsh and set. You rub the back of your neck, wishing the box you were looking for could be anywhere but down here. Slowly, you inch your foot over to the cloth, hoping to move it quickly to the side so that you could step by it to continue your search. You slip the toe of your sneaker under the closest corner and kick the cloth away. Your heart leaps into your throat in an instant. Something black and hairy had been lying underneath. You clap your free hand to your mouth, trying desperately not to scream, and aim the beam of your flashlight—as best as you can with a trembling hand—down towards the dreaded arachnid.
And one more:
Same cloth. Same flashlight. Same dark and hairy speck crouching treacherously in the shaking light. But then you notice something. It's not moving. You peer closer. Dead? No. Ugh. Plastic. Your cruel little brother.
What have I done? I've given you three events. You encountered them, in your imagination, of course; and I can bet that each one triggered some emotional response. The first? Probably compassion. Maybe annoyance, if you're pestered by that sort of scene too often. The second? Fear, undoubtedly. And the third? Anger.
My point? Emotions in general are the result of perception. Fear and anger are both emotions. When you realized the spider was a fake, it was not your fear that made you angry. It was the fact that your brother had played a nasty trick on you.
Anger, then, is not the result of fear. It is the result of a sense of injustice. This explains why we can feel just as angry about the Holocaust as we can when someone insults us—not because we are afraid of either event but because we feel, deep down, that what happened should really not have happened. We get angry because we sense that the world is not right. Understood this way, anger is a good emotion; it's a signal that something's not how it should be.
This knocks out our second statement. It is dangerous to never be angry. It means we've lost sensitivity to perceiving injustice. It means we've lost the ability to care whether things are right or whether we are okay. More than that, if we say that anger is a bad thing, we run into serious problems when we look at the life of Jesus.
But here is where the waters get a bit murky. Two comments are helpful. First, although anger is a response to a perception of injustice, just because we feel that an injustice has occurred does not mean that one actually has. We can be totally mistaken in our perception of injustice and/or our definition of justice in the first place. Anger is a signal of what we believe to be injustice, but we may not always be right.
Secondly, just because it is good to feel anger does not mean we can cling to it. The Bible is extremely clear on this point. In Ephesians 4, Paul writes, "Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry" (v. 26) and, "Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice" (v. 31, NIV 1984). What Paul is saying is that the proper thing to do with anger is to dump it. Right now. All of it.
This wipes out our third statement as well. Notice how often this statement is the passionate declaration of someone who is keeping anger in a tight hold, stroking its fur with an evil grin, and waiting anxiously for the day that bottled fury can be released to wreak havoc on every deserving individual. "It's righteous anger I feel. I have a right to feel this. I need to hold onto it for a little while." Aw, knock it off! Paul said to get rid of it. ALL of it. There's no such thing as righteous anger, and we have no right to hang on to it. Dump it.
So what does all this mean? What do we do now?
First, know what anger is telling you. Let it show you where you are perceiving injustice. But that's it. Let it simply prompt the question, "Is something wrong here?"
Then, give it up. Give it to Christ. If something is really wrong, He may teach us to use our anger as fuel to make it right. How will we know? Because our anger is never to be our focus. Jesus Christ is. Anger tells us something. So does fear. So does compassion. So do all the other emotions. But we aren't to focus on these. We aren't to cling to these. We are to cling to Christ. When you look at Him, everything else falls into place.
Why? Because Christ is our focus and our lens. The more we look to Him, the more we see the world as He sees it. Our perceptions of reality—and the emotions that serve as a response—become ordered. They reflect the world more truly.
The conclusion, then, is this: Anger is not bad. It can show us really well where things aren't what they should be. But the only way we'll be able to see this rightly is if we are looking at Christ. And, once you look at Christ, you'll see something so beautiful that you'll find there's no point to holding on to anger anymore. Seriously, all you'll want to do is hold to Christ.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Swept Inn
Thump. I let my exhausted body fall heavily into the chair beside my bed and rubbed my calloused hands across my face. It had been a long day. A really long day. Travelers had been in and out since early this morning, asking questions about directions to such-and-such a place, bargaining for lower prices on the rooms I offered, rattling on with tales of their dusty journeys to who-knows-where, crunching on food, spilling drinks, talking, laughing...always needing me...Tell me: How did I ever think that this inn-keeping business would be fun?
My hands dropped from my face into my lap, and I leaned back in my chair to stare absentmindedly at the ceiling. It had been a long day, yes. But it had been anything but typical. A small group of young men had come in today, murmuring excitedly about something. Their eyes flickered with a secret joy, and the edges of their mouths seemed to twitch every second as though they couldn't decide whether to carry on their conversation or to abandon themselves in laughter—that happy expression that comes inevitably when you're as lighthearted as these men were today. Sometimes I worried about guests like these, but these men were different. They were excited and eager in their discussion, but their youthful faces bore no signs of mischief. Rather, they emanated a simple and seemingly contagious joy, a fantastic innocence, and a confident peace. I served them their meal in quiet curiosity, wondering what it was that could make young men so happy in a time like this. Nothing particularly happy seemed to be going on around us. Yet, they smiled. And they smiled a lot.
It didn't take them long to tell me the reason for their mirth.
"Have you heard?" one of the youths exclaimed, his dark eyes shining and his cheeks turning pink as he invited me, a stranger, into their vibrant circle.
"Heard what?" I asked.
Another youth piped up in response, his hands flying into the air as he spoke: "Of Jesus of Nazareth! He's alive!"
"Okay?" I wasn't sure why it mattered that someone was alive. Who was this Jesus anyway? Wasn't—oh wait. Nazareth? Nazareth. Jesus? Oh...wait. Jesus. Alive? Alive?!?
I had heard of him. His parents came to me once. That's why Nazareth sounded so familiar. Right—yes. They had been the ones who had taken shelter with my livestock all those years ago, as I had no more room in my inn. (It was census time. Give me a break.) His mother had given birth to him while they were here.
I had heard he grew up to be a revolutionary of some sort, challenging the esteemed teachers and claiming to heal people. I never thought much of it, though I did grow tired of hearing his name reverberating through my halls. It seemed as though everyone had something to say of him. But he died some time ago—three days or so, wasn't it? I was glad for his death. Perhaps some new news would filter through my inn at last.
These thoughts flew through my head as I stood before the youths who had so excitedly addressed me. Images of that cold night some thirty years ago rushed into my mind, almost drowning out the expectant faces of my guests. I must have looked quite funny standing there, pitcher in hand and mouth wide open. Who knows how long it took me to respond? But their smiles never faded.
"Alive, you say?" I muttered. "So he didn't die, after all?" I was a bit disappointed.
"No, no. He did die," the first youth explained. "He was as dead as you could get. But he's not anymore! His tomb is empty, and some of the women have seen him. He's alive!"
My brow furrowed. What could it mean? I talked with the men for a short while and then dismissed myself—awkwardly, I'm sure—to wait on a group of grumpy-looking and disheveled elderly men who had gathered impatiently in the doorway, waiting for me to assist them.
I made it through most of the rest of the day without thinking much of the announcement the youths had given. But now, as I sat alone in my bedroom, the blank ceiling seemed to allow me no other thought. Jesus...alive...
I had always ignored his words. I hadn't cared when he died. But I couldn't help thinking that I did know more of him than I had thought—I had heard so much from the travelers who passed in and out of my rooms...
Before I knew it, I found myself on my knees. I remembered. He had said that he was the way to the Father. He had said that we should follow him.
I wasn't quite sure what that meant—but my heart longed to see. Something big was happening. I could feel it. People don't just rise from the dead. But he did. And I knew that that meant that everything he had said suddenly mattered a lot more.
But would he accept me? Me? The one who had ignored him for so long? The one who hardly knew much of him now? The one who had been cruel enough to let his first moments in this world occur in a manger?
I rubbed my eyes, fearful that I had missed it. But then, out of nowhere, a psalm I had memorized as a boy flooded into my mind again. I found myself praying with it, and, as I prayed, my fear began to change into the same humble joy that I had witnessed a few hours before in the faces of the youths.
I lay down that night in peace. My eyes brimmed with tears of relief. I felt as though I would burst. He reigns. He lives. I couldn't wait to talk to my young guests in the morning. I had a lot to learn, I knew.
But, for now, I could be content with this: My God forgives. My God is alive.
My hands dropped from my face into my lap, and I leaned back in my chair to stare absentmindedly at the ceiling. It had been a long day, yes. But it had been anything but typical. A small group of young men had come in today, murmuring excitedly about something. Their eyes flickered with a secret joy, and the edges of their mouths seemed to twitch every second as though they couldn't decide whether to carry on their conversation or to abandon themselves in laughter—that happy expression that comes inevitably when you're as lighthearted as these men were today. Sometimes I worried about guests like these, but these men were different. They were excited and eager in their discussion, but their youthful faces bore no signs of mischief. Rather, they emanated a simple and seemingly contagious joy, a fantastic innocence, and a confident peace. I served them their meal in quiet curiosity, wondering what it was that could make young men so happy in a time like this. Nothing particularly happy seemed to be going on around us. Yet, they smiled. And they smiled a lot.
It didn't take them long to tell me the reason for their mirth.
"Have you heard?" one of the youths exclaimed, his dark eyes shining and his cheeks turning pink as he invited me, a stranger, into their vibrant circle.
"Heard what?" I asked.
Another youth piped up in response, his hands flying into the air as he spoke: "Of Jesus of Nazareth! He's alive!"
"Okay?" I wasn't sure why it mattered that someone was alive. Who was this Jesus anyway? Wasn't—oh wait. Nazareth? Nazareth. Jesus? Oh...wait. Jesus. Alive? Alive?!?
I had heard of him. His parents came to me once. That's why Nazareth sounded so familiar. Right—yes. They had been the ones who had taken shelter with my livestock all those years ago, as I had no more room in my inn. (It was census time. Give me a break.) His mother had given birth to him while they were here.
I had heard he grew up to be a revolutionary of some sort, challenging the esteemed teachers and claiming to heal people. I never thought much of it, though I did grow tired of hearing his name reverberating through my halls. It seemed as though everyone had something to say of him. But he died some time ago—three days or so, wasn't it? I was glad for his death. Perhaps some new news would filter through my inn at last.
These thoughts flew through my head as I stood before the youths who had so excitedly addressed me. Images of that cold night some thirty years ago rushed into my mind, almost drowning out the expectant faces of my guests. I must have looked quite funny standing there, pitcher in hand and mouth wide open. Who knows how long it took me to respond? But their smiles never faded.
"Alive, you say?" I muttered. "So he didn't die, after all?" I was a bit disappointed.
"No, no. He did die," the first youth explained. "He was as dead as you could get. But he's not anymore! His tomb is empty, and some of the women have seen him. He's alive!"
My brow furrowed. What could it mean? I talked with the men for a short while and then dismissed myself—awkwardly, I'm sure—to wait on a group of grumpy-looking and disheveled elderly men who had gathered impatiently in the doorway, waiting for me to assist them.
I made it through most of the rest of the day without thinking much of the announcement the youths had given. But now, as I sat alone in my bedroom, the blank ceiling seemed to allow me no other thought. Jesus...alive...
I had always ignored his words. I hadn't cared when he died. But I couldn't help thinking that I did know more of him than I had thought—I had heard so much from the travelers who passed in and out of my rooms...
Before I knew it, I found myself on my knees. I remembered. He had said that he was the way to the Father. He had said that we should follow him.
I wasn't quite sure what that meant—but my heart longed to see. Something big was happening. I could feel it. People don't just rise from the dead. But he did. And I knew that that meant that everything he had said suddenly mattered a lot more.
But would he accept me? Me? The one who had ignored him for so long? The one who hardly knew much of him now? The one who had been cruel enough to let his first moments in this world occur in a manger?
I rubbed my eyes, fearful that I had missed it. But then, out of nowhere, a psalm I had memorized as a boy flooded into my mind again. I found myself praying with it, and, as I prayed, my fear began to change into the same humble joy that I had witnessed a few hours before in the faces of the youths.
Blessed is heOh, the joy of forgiveness! My heart was overflowing with gratefulness. He accepts even the one who threw him out of the inn before he was even born. His love abounds.
whose transgressions are forgiven,
whose sins are covered.
Blessed is the man
whose sin the LORD does not count against him
and in whose spirit is no deceit.
When I kept silent,
my bones wasted away
through my groaning all day long.
For day and night
your hand was heavy upon me;
my strength was sapped
as in the heat of summer.
Then I acknowledged my sin to you
and did not cover up my iniquity.
I said, 'I will confess
my transgressions to the LORD'—
and you forgave
the guilt of my sin.
Therefore let everyone who is godly pray to you
while you may be found;
surely when the mighty waters rise,
they will not reach him.
You are my hiding place;
you will protect me from trouble
and surround me with songs of deliverance.
I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;
I will counsel you and watch over you.
Do not be like the horse or the mule,
which have no understanding
but must be controlled by bit and bridle
or they will not come to you.
Many are the woes of the wicked,
but the LORD's unfailing love
surrounds the man who trusts in him.
Rejoice in the LORD and be glad, you righteous;
sing, all you who are upright in heart!
I lay down that night in peace. My eyes brimmed with tears of relief. I felt as though I would burst. He reigns. He lives. I couldn't wait to talk to my young guests in the morning. I had a lot to learn, I knew.
But, for now, I could be content with this: My God forgives. My God is alive.
Many are the woes of the wicked,
but the LORD's unfailing love
surrounds the man who trusts in him.
Rejoice in the LORD and be glad, you righteous;
sing, all you who are upright in heart!
————————————————
The psalm quoted here is Psalm 32, in its entirety (NIV 1984). May you be blessed as you pray it too!Monday, March 30, 2015
Yearning for a Name
What defines you? It's an interesting question, isn't it? There may be some answers that rattle off your tongue without hesitation or even conscious forethought. Other answers may seem deeper, embodying a more meaningful connection between your heart and your head. Still others may be completely hidden. These are the ones you only realize when you lose them. These are the pebbles of identity to which you did not know you were clinging—at least not until you see them skipping across the river, thrown by a hand you don't know. You watch them disappear into the swirling water, knowing there's no chance you'll ever find them again. You miss their cool, smooth surface as you realize with bitterness that your hands are now empty. Somehow you didn't think such a small thing could affect so much.
This is what happened to me a few years ago. It felt violent, inexplicable. All at once, the smallest anchors of my identity were torn from my hands—and I didn't even realize I was holding on to them. It happened as my parents separated and (in the course of time) divorced. The pain of a broken family is one that you probably cannot know unless you've experienced it, but let me introduce you to a bit of the taste.
For me, it started with a deep, inexpressible, and undefinable sadness. There was an aching sense of responsibility for my siblings, a desperate desire to reach out to somebody—or maybe for somebody to reach out to me (I didn't know which)—and an almost distant confusion over how to process everything that happened. It almost seemed like the world was moving on without me, blaring its whistle as it huffed and puffed out of the station, leaving me on the bench, drained to an emotionless and staring shadow that not one passenger on the machine seemed to notice.
What about the "identity pebbles," you ask? The realization of their former existence came in the most usually trivial questions. A waiter asks how many are in your party and receives blank stares. It was six...but now, um, we'll have to count. How many? I don't know. A new professor asks where you're from. Well, one parent lives in one city. I grew up there. The other parent lives in another city. Where am I from? I don't know. A friend asks if you're free one weekend. I'm free 'til Sunday at 4:00, I guess. That's when we switch houses for the week. Am I free? I don't know. An application has a blank space for your name. I know my first name. I got my middle initial down. I know my last name legally, but it's kind of hard to write when there's so much weight to it now. What's my name? I don't know.
I'm sure there have been times when these seemingly simple questions have thrown you just like the pebbles in the beginning of this post. Your head spins and you wonder. Your arms flail in the swirling water, and the questioner just looks at you blankly. Your name? Come on. You've got to at least know your name.
But try as you might, you've got nothing. Your mind's blank, and your hands begin to grow clammy as each second passes—warning you of the fact that every bit of delay might mark you as increasingly awkward. You're lost. Who are you?
I want you to know, before I continue, that we're all yearning for a name. In some way, even the people who answer the simple questions easily and confidently are wondering where their identity really lies, what their name really is. Names are powerful. We don't need expert linguists to tell us that. We know that there's deep meaning in whatever group of sounds signifies our existence. Names tell us that we are known. They give us a chance to know. They help to define us as "us," as distinct from the "other." They have meaning. They have power.
But what happens when we don't know the answers to the questions? What happens when we really don't know our name?
I'm convinced that the whole thing is not so much a search as it is a return. We don't need to look for a name, you see. We just need to believe that the one we've got is really ours.
I read a story one time of a man called Innocent Smith. He gave a lecture about names. It was described as follows:
You see, my friends, the name we must return to is simple and pure and true. It is short and easy to remember, but our forgetfulness of its significance "was an instance of the deadening of civilization," the deadening of our very selves. Live again, then, and remember that this one word is your name. And this is enough. Note that again: this name is enough. You don't need the little pebbles of identity when you have this rock. In fact, you become overwhelmingly grateful when you see those other pebbles disappearing into the gentle current of the river. You might even be the one to throw them. This name is enough—more than enough. Grasp it.
Beloved child, you are HIS.
This is what happened to me a few years ago. It felt violent, inexplicable. All at once, the smallest anchors of my identity were torn from my hands—and I didn't even realize I was holding on to them. It happened as my parents separated and (in the course of time) divorced. The pain of a broken family is one that you probably cannot know unless you've experienced it, but let me introduce you to a bit of the taste.
For me, it started with a deep, inexpressible, and undefinable sadness. There was an aching sense of responsibility for my siblings, a desperate desire to reach out to somebody—or maybe for somebody to reach out to me (I didn't know which)—and an almost distant confusion over how to process everything that happened. It almost seemed like the world was moving on without me, blaring its whistle as it huffed and puffed out of the station, leaving me on the bench, drained to an emotionless and staring shadow that not one passenger on the machine seemed to notice.
What about the "identity pebbles," you ask? The realization of their former existence came in the most usually trivial questions. A waiter asks how many are in your party and receives blank stares. It was six...but now, um, we'll have to count. How many? I don't know. A new professor asks where you're from. Well, one parent lives in one city. I grew up there. The other parent lives in another city. Where am I from? I don't know. A friend asks if you're free one weekend. I'm free 'til Sunday at 4:00, I guess. That's when we switch houses for the week. Am I free? I don't know. An application has a blank space for your name. I know my first name. I got my middle initial down. I know my last name legally, but it's kind of hard to write when there's so much weight to it now. What's my name? I don't know.
I'm sure there have been times when these seemingly simple questions have thrown you just like the pebbles in the beginning of this post. Your head spins and you wonder. Your arms flail in the swirling water, and the questioner just looks at you blankly. Your name? Come on. You've got to at least know your name.
But try as you might, you've got nothing. Your mind's blank, and your hands begin to grow clammy as each second passes—warning you of the fact that every bit of delay might mark you as increasingly awkward. You're lost. Who are you?
I want you to know, before I continue, that we're all yearning for a name. In some way, even the people who answer the simple questions easily and confidently are wondering where their identity really lies, what their name really is. Names are powerful. We don't need expert linguists to tell us that. We know that there's deep meaning in whatever group of sounds signifies our existence. Names tell us that we are known. They give us a chance to know. They help to define us as "us," as distinct from the "other." They have meaning. They have power.
But what happens when we don't know the answers to the questions? What happens when we really don't know our name?
I'm convinced that the whole thing is not so much a search as it is a return. We don't need to look for a name, you see. We just need to believe that the one we've got is really ours.
I read a story one time of a man called Innocent Smith. He gave a lecture about names. It was described as follows:
He began rationally enough by dealing with the two departments of place names and trade names, and he said...that the loss of all significance in names was an instance of the deadening of civilization. But he then went on calmly to maintain that every man who had a place name ought to go live in that place, and that every man who had a trade name ought instantly to adopt that trade; that people named after colours should always dress in those colours, and that people named after trees or plants...ought to surround and decorate themselves with these vegetables...What happened at the crucial moment was that the lecturer produced several horseshoes and a large iron hammer from his bag, announced his immediate intention of setting up a smithy in the neighborhood, and called on every one to rise in the same cause as for a heroic revolution.¹This story really hadn't much to do with the rest of the book itself, but I think we can draw much from it. No, you don't have to be a blacksmith if your name is "Smith" any more than I must live in a meadow ("Dupree"). But we really must return to the name we've been given by One much greater than whoever it was that gave us our surnames. This must be our "heroic revolution."
You see, my friends, the name we must return to is simple and pure and true. It is short and easy to remember, but our forgetfulness of its significance "was an instance of the deadening of civilization," the deadening of our very selves. Live again, then, and remember that this one word is your name. And this is enough. Note that again: this name is enough. You don't need the little pebbles of identity when you have this rock. In fact, you become overwhelmingly grateful when you see those other pebbles disappearing into the gentle current of the river. You might even be the one to throw them. This name is enough—more than enough. Grasp it.
Beloved child, you are HIS.
——————————————
¹ The story is from a little book written by G.K. Chesterton and entitled Manalive. If you haven't read it, then read it now. It's short and ridiculously humorous—yet its message is life-changing.
¹ The story is from a little book written by G.K. Chesterton and entitled Manalive. If you haven't read it, then read it now. It's short and ridiculously humorous—yet its message is life-changing.
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