Wonder at Life

A couple weeks ago, I found myself in that disorienting stagnancy we call "being sick"—you know, the kind where you're just going to have to resort to staying put because moving hurts and standing...well, standing's more like falling when you're dizzy, isn't it?

And so, on Day 2 of "staying put," I found myself stuck on the couch in the living room of my apartment, watching the whole season of Planet Earth 2, a BBC show I discovered on Netflix that takes you through different regions of the earth to introduce you to the various animal species that manage (against the odds, of course) to live in them. It had just enough going on to engage my weak attention; but the stunning scenery, the soothing pulse of the narrator's voice, and the slow pace of the show itself brought a peace to my mind. I could just sit there and look at the beauty, watch the animals, learn some cool facts, and rest. 

By the end of it, my mind drifted to that elementary-school question on which I'd been taught to wonder probably every time my lessons involved science in any degree: So this is creation, I thought. What does it reveal about God? What does it reveal about its Creator?

A common question, isn't it? I'm sure I've pondered it hundreds of times. How often I've stood before the ocean and marveled at the might of its Maker. How often I've stared at science-book pictures of the delicate intricacies of an eye, dumbfounded at the brilliance of its Designer. I've gazed at the mountains in the distance and imagined giant hands carving out their enormous slopes. I've scooped up snow in mittened hands and gawked at the microscopic perfection of the innumerable flakes on my fingers. We've got tiny ants and tinier amoebas—and planets and stars so gigantic and far away that the numbers surpass our ability to grasp them, even if we do talk about dumping golf balls all over the state of Texas. 

Awe, I guess, is the theme here. I suppose awe is the theme every time I encounter creation and wonder at its Creator. It was the theme as I watched this show too. Repeatedly, I find creation to be magnificent. It is fantastically diverse, unbelievably full of perfect detail. It is bigger, grander, and wilder than my imagination of it, every time. All I can do is stare in awe of the God who created it. He seems so vast, so great, so far beyond me or us.

And then some flamingos form a parade, or a bird of paradise fluffs out its bright green neck feathers for a potential mate (after, of course, hiding all the green leaves from the spot so they don't steal from his brilliance). A fish leaps out of a stream, a lizard licks condensed water off its eye, a lion cub pounces on his mother's tail...and then I find myself amazed again. Somehow the great One, as distant as He is in His splendor, still meets us in His laughter. "Let's create a fish with a transparent forehead!" He chuckles. "How about the fluffy tail of the fox next? And—oh!—the neck of that giraffe can surely be stretched longer. Just wait 'til they see the smile of the two-toed sloth!" 

It all made me smile too. But then I realized something. Yes, the show portrayed creation as beautiful. Yes, it was awe-inspiring, humorous, intricate, warm. But there were dark sides too. Snow leopards fought. Field mice were eaten. Birds got caught by the thorny seeds of a tree. Baby marine iguanas were snatched by snakes. Lions took bites out of buffaloes. Extreme weather affected them all. Creation is beautiful...but it is also violent—undeniably so. And then I wondered: What do we do with that? What does that say about the Creator?

The answer wasn't far behind the question: It says He's not afraid of death.

Ohhhh, great, I thought. Conclusions were far too easy to draw. That probably means He's not afraid of my death either...

I wasn't moving much in general that day, being dizzy and all, but I can assure you that I moved even less as I pondered this. I froze and wondered, What does it mean to surrender to a God who isn't afraid of my death—who isn't afraid of me getting shredded like that buffalo's hide? One doesn't need to apply much logic here. It means death, obviously. And has He not promised as much? Aren't we, after all, following His Son?

His Son... I sighed. It would seem easy to flinch away from this kind of God until we remember that. For this God, in His fearlessness of death, died Himself. He died on a blood-soaked cross, with nails in His hands and feet, thorns shoved into His brow, and a back ripped and bruised by the whip which struck and tore at Him thirty-nine times. His death was the most gruesome of all. 

Pause and breathe, will you? We thought we could thrust our fists into the air and argue at the agony of the falling of sparrows. We thought we could protest the pain, the decay, the food chain. We thought we could convince Him of the injustice of the death in our own lives. But our fists drop, and our voices give out, as we look at the cross. This is the God who is not afraid of death. And we cannot accuse the One who has died Himself. 

Not afraid of death, is He? But another look at His creation will show us why. The caught fish gives life to the bear. The bird buried by the tree's thorns gives life to all the plants which grow around its grave. Fungi make decay their food. And one giraffe, if ever killed, can feed a lion's entire pride. There's something, you see, about the way that this whole universe is wired that loudly defies the way we think about death. As odd as it seems, creation resounds with the melody of death repeatedly resulting in life. It's almost as if death just gets washed over. Real, yes. Painful, of course. But death's not the end. 

We serve a God who doesn't fear death because He has, by His own death, written the ways of the universe such that death is not an enemy power but an exquisite potential. His was the most gruesome death—His also the most abundant life. Life doesn't stay in the grave. Life lives. And Life gives life to all who were once dead, that they also might live. And in this power, in this abundance, death itself is lost, washed over in the flow of a universe precisely wired to circle back to life every time.

As we look at creation in this way, I think we wind up in awe once again. And I think we realize that, as frightening as it is to think of surrendering—of choosing to follow the God who said His path is the cross—this is a path that will, most certainly, lead to life. 

And suddenly we can join in with the God who doesn't fear death. We can join and sing, for Christ has been raised, and we will be too.

"...'Death is swallowed up in victory.' 'O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?' The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ" (I Cor.15:54c-57, ESV). 

Amen. So let it be. Life has won.

The Eunuch

"He was led like a sheep to the slaughter,
and as a lamb before the shearer is silent,
so he did not open his mouth.
In his humiliation he was deprived of justice.
Who can speak of his descendants?
For his life was taken from the earth."

"A sheep to slaughter...the lamb is silent...deprived of justice...no descendants...and he's dead? Who's dead?"

My mumbling turned into a sigh, and my sigh turned into a grunt as my chariot thumped in and out of another pothole on the dry and dusty road down which we'd been bumping for hours.

"I'm sorry, sir," the chariot driver voiced for what must have been the eighteenth time. "That one, sir, could perhaps have been avoided." I looked at him briefly and shrugged. "Not a problem," I muttered.

I turned my face upwards toward the dizzying white sky and wiped some sweat from my forehead. The bumpy road was, you see, the least of my concerns. It was this passage—and this journey...not the actual journey, just the reason why we made it.

A sheep to the slaughter...humiliation, deprived of justice...Of whom did the prophet speak?

I sighed again, successfully this time, and let my mind drift from the troubling text to my time in the Holy City. As all the legends had said, the Temple had been beautiful—or, at least, the part of the Temple I was allowed to see. So, in that regard, the walls were quite nice—the walls I stared at day after day after day, nearly memorizing their gentle details as I wondered and wondered what awe might be found inside. I'd never know. It was problem enough that I was a foreigner, but a mutilated foreigner was an even worse identity. I couldn't enter at all.

I glanced back at the scroll. I rubbed the palm of my hand gently over the precious lettering, distantly wishing the meaning of the strokes would bleed into my veins. The scribe had been kind to copy it for me. But...oh, what did it mean?

Halfheartedly, I forced my parched tongue to read it again:

"He was led like a sheep to the slaughter,
and as a lamb before the shearer is silent,
so he did not open his mouth.
In his humiliation he was deprived of justice.
Who can speak of his descendants?
For his life was taken from the earth."

"I'm sorry, sir." I looked up at my chariot driver again. What was he apologizing for this time? I hadn't felt any potholes. Then the voice came again, and I realized it did not belong to my driver at all. "I'm sorry, sir, for interrupting, but do you understand what you're reading?"

I turned around to see a man running alongside my chariot, huffing as he struggled to keep up. Not pausing to consider the oddity of his question or the oddity of his presence, I let out another (yes, successful) sigh, and answered, "How can I, unless someone explains it to me?"

"I can explain it to you," the man said.

My driver brought the chariot to a stop almost before my command to do so had left my lips. Perhaps he was as anxious as I to hear the meaning of the scroll. I invited the runner into the chariot, and we continued our journey. I could scarcely wait for him to catch his breath.

"Tell me, please, who is the prophet talking about, himself or someone else?" I blurted.

My guest smiled. "Someone else," he breathed. Then, as if filled with new energy, he sat up straight and began his explanation. "The prophet is talking about one who would come to save his people: the Messiah. But there's better news than that. This Anointed One, this Savior, has come. What the prophet spoke of has been fulfilled. The Anointed One is Jesus of Nazareth. He was wrongly accused and crucified, like a sheep slaughtered. He never raised His voice to defend Himself, even though the whole process was incredibly unjust. He died that day and was buried."

My brow furrowed. How was that good news? I thought. Then the man continued:

"We thought it was all over. But then, three days later, He rose from the dead."

I sat up and leaned in. "He what?" I choked.

"He rose from the dead! Look at the rest of your passage!" He pointed to the scroll, and I read aloud:

"Yet it was the LORD's will to crush him and cause him to suffer,
and though the LORD makes his life a guilt offering,
he will see his offspring and prolong his days,
and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand.
After the suffering of his soul,
he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many,
and he will bear their iniquities."

I looked up, still not quite grasping it. The man motioned to me to keep reading.

"Therefore I will give him a portion among the great,
and he will divide the spoils with the strong,
because he poured out his life unto death,
and he was numbered with the transgressors.
For he bore the sin of many,
and made intercession for the transgressors."

Suddenly the message began to click. "This Jesus—He was like all the lambs in the Temple, the ones sacrificed for sins."

"Yes!" my guest exclaimed. "He was sacrificed for sins and raised to life so that all who believe in Him, who are baptized into His Name, may be reconciled to God."

My heart pounded. Reconciled to God? I, the mutilated foreigner—reconciled to God? I bit my lip, not quite sure what to do. A massive expanse of blue entered my vision. Water.

I looked at the man across from me, searching his eyes for truth. "Look." I motioned to the blur of blue. "Here is water. Why shouldn't I be baptized?" I guarded my heart as I awaited his response. Surely there would be walls here, too; surely one who wasn't allowed in the Temple could never hope to be allowed this either.

But my guest merely smiled. He opened his hand and gestured to the water. Astounded, I commanded a halt. The chariot stopped; we ran to the water's edge.

I paused as the gentle waves touched my toes. Scarred and mutilated, broken, walled out—but now, in Jesus, I'm let in. I threw off my clothes and nearly skipped to my new companion, who was waiting, waist deep and with a gigantic grin, for me to join him. Under, and up—cool water, warm sun—here at last was reconciliation with the One I'd come to worship.

I raised both hands to wipe my face, laughing in excitement. But when I looked again, my baptizer was gone. One minute his steady hands had been lifting me out of the water, and the next he had vanished like smoke. But, ah! It didn't matter—because my angst had vanished too. I dipped my hands into the water again and threw its glittering droplets into the air, exulting in a new peace. "Praise you, Jesus—thank you, Jesus—for all that you have done!"

I climbed back into my chariot, joy rippling through my every vein. My driver, a goofy half-smile sprawled across his face as an illustration of his happy confusion at the events of our stop, signaled the horses to run again. I turned my eyes once more to my scroll. It wasn't long before I read what I never thought I'd see:

"Let no foreigner who has bound himself to the LORD say,
'The LORD will surely exclude me from his people.'
And let not any eunuch complain,
'I am only a dry tree.'
"...The Sovereign LORD declares--
he who gathers the exiles of Israel:
'I will gather still others to them
besides those already gathered.'"

Ah-ha! Sovereign LORD, you have gathered me. I set the scroll down and turned my face up to the sky, closing my eyes and relishing in the light of the desert sun. Praise you, Jesus—thank you, Jesus—for all that you have done! I let out another sigh, catching my breath as we bumbled over a pothole again. Laughing, I threw my hands into the air. Potholes and all, I could breathe; scars and all, I am free.
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Scripture quotations are from Acts 8:26-40 and Isaiah 53:10-12; 56:3, 8 (NIV 1984).

That Holy Night: A Christmas Reading

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests."

God, the Highest. The King of the Heavens, who decided to make His throne in some hay. The Almighty, who thought it fit to lay in a manger. The Author of Life, who decided to become man—and, somehow, by grace, to bring life to all men. Yes, us: the lowly creatures, made of dust and to dust returning. Yet we are His beloved, the objects of His favor. To us He brings peace.

I remember finding it odd, all those years ago, when Father told me those silly people had been content with the animals, with the stable, with the manger. There wasn't room for them in the inn, but they hadn't really seemed to mind.

Father told me about them shortly after they arrived—a man and his wife, he thought, and the latter would be having a baby any day. His creased face had looked troubled as he told me. Was a stable any place to have a baby? But the stable was better than nothing—and, now, I am glad that it was the stable over anything.

Father had asked me to come with him as he brought them bread and water after the rush of the crowd that busy night. I followed, carrying the water jar, but Father stopped at the entrance. Even from behind, I saw his hands trembling. He nearly dropped the bread. Something was wrong.

But a man's gentle voice had come from within: "It's okay; welcome." I remember clutching the water jar and quietly entering after my father. It didn't take long to see what had worried him; the baby had been born, and he was lying in the manger. That felt wrong, then, for any baby. It feels strange, now, knowing that that baby was a King, my King. My father tried to ease into the awkwardness. He held out the bread, his hands still trembling, but his gesture felt as out-of-place as the baby in the feeding trough.

"Thank you," the other man said. Rising from his seat on the hay-covered floor, he received the food from my father's hand, covering the scene with grace. "I'm Joseph," he said. I looked at him. He was young and clearly tired, but a broad and peaceful smile lit up his face. The mother was the same: weary, but full of joy. She met my gaze and beamed.

How quickly, though, she looked away, startled yet still smiling, to the entrance of the stable. I turned and looked too. A glorious group of shepherds filed in and filled the room. (I must describe them that way. They were shepherds, in the fullest sense of the word: worn sandals, snagged clothes, staffs, gruff, and, yeah, a...scent. But should you have seen their faces, you would have said "glorious" too.)

They gathered around, excited, nearly singing. One was louder than the others: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests!"

They circled the manger, grinning. "It's just as the angels said!" one exclaimed. "Good news of great joy for all people! Today in the town of David a Savior has been born; He is Christ the Lord. And there He is—the sign they said we'd see! A baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger!"

They sang and praised and bowed before the child. Laughter, hugs—then out they went, as quickly as they had come. We could hear them rejoicing in the streets as they left: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests!"

Even then, we knew that that tiny baby, wrapped up and lying in the feeding trough, was a gift, and "divine" had a different meaning than we'd ever thought before. It was deeper, for Divine had touched dust. It was sweeter, for the Creator could cry. It meant more, for our frailty became His frame. The Great One knelt. The Perfect played. The One who holds the universe flipped it all on its head, looked straight into our eyes, slobbered, and meant that, in it all, He understood.

We simply knelt after that and repeated the shepherds' praise: "Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests."

Never has more worth been laid on the lowly than on that night, when the Savior chose the stable.

O night, O night divine.

Thank you, Lord. Our Light has come.

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Quotations and paraphrases of Scripture are taken from Luke 2:1-18, NIV (1984). This reading was originally written for and performed (by me) during a Christmas Eve service at Faith Worship Community, Costa Mesa, CA (2016).

Ever Gently

I honestly can't remember what sort of conversation we were having when he did it. It could have been serious; it could have been a series of puns. He could have been telling an eloquent story or giving a profound reflection. Our meetings naturally contain all four. And more. That's how conversations go—like life, really.

But he was the only one I know who would have responded to the bumbling buzzing of the Japanese beetle above our heads by reaching up an eager hand to catch it. Others' hands would have tried to slap the great green thing in the air or to bat at it fearfully or to aid their fleeing bodies by clearing the way for a frenzied retreat from anywhere near the beetle's clumsy path. But his hand went straight up towards it, and he smiled in delight as it landed on his finger. He brought it down slowly, peering at it joyfully as it fumbled around, burying its head drunkenly into the hairs on his wrist. We admired its delicate beauty; its shell had stripes of a color its beholder called "iridescent green"—for iridescent and green it was! Shimmering in the dapples of sunlight that reached our little table as we conversed outside the coffee shop, this emerald bug held our enamored gazes for some time. 

And then, with a slightly mischievous grin (and, I think, an, "I wonder..."), he did it. With his free hand, he dipped a finger into his coffee and brought a single drop up and over to the beetle. The tiny black forelegs reached up and grasped at the dark droplet, and I watched in amazement as it slurped up the coffee and began to clean its face as if it was trying to get every last bit of the drink into its mouth. He gave it one more drop, which was gone even faster. We laughed, and he gave it some water. And then it settled down on his hand. He spoke to it kindly, told it it was time to go. It flattened its antennae just as a dog would flatten its ears as if to say, "No, not yet—please. I don't yet want to go." We laughed at it some more and kept talking. He said, "If you slow down, you see wonders." He was right. That little guy was a wonder. It was beautiful.

After a while, he nudged the beetle off of his finger onto a plant near our table. It sat there contentedly for a few minutes before lifting its great body into the air again and continuing its clumsy course.

I didn't really know what to say after that. As my professor grinned at the beetle fumbling along his finger, one thought flooded my mind: Isn't this just what Jesus would be doing if I was sitting here with Him? 

I would bet the disciples' jaws dropped many times as they watched their Master interact with His creation. Maybe right in the middle of a painful conversation, He would reach up and let a beetle alight on His hand. Maybe He answered some of their questions by simply fingering the leaves of a tree. Maybe while they were walking along a dusty path, bickering and biting about the greatest in the kingdom or some other "important" matter, He was kneeling at the edge of the road, watching a rabbit nibble or a lizard disappear under a rock.  And if they had been paying attention, they would have realized that the simple delight He was having could have been theirs. 

In watching my professor as he gently cared for the beetle, his smile surely the same smile that crossed the face of the Carpenter countless times all those years ago, a few more thoughts also flitted through my head. One was that this was a picture of how we were meant all along to interact with God's creation. It's there, isn't it, for us to delight in? For us to care for? For us to slow down and enjoy and see at every point our Maker's fingerprints, to give Him glory for it all? I mean, that's what He does with it. Jesus says He pays attention to the sparrows. He clothes the blades of grass. Why else do you think He crafts sculptures in the clouds or sends a sunrise to light up a bustling, distracted city? We may not be taking the time to enjoy it, but He is—every time. 

I don't know about you, but when I actually slow my mind down enough to take in my Master's handiwork, I realize that it's singing. It's enraptured, endlessly, in a melody about the pure love, the relentless joy, and the perfect gentleness of the One who gave it life and holds it all together. He is so gentle with it, isn't He? I mean, if He's able to stitch together a dragonfly's wings, fashion the beautiful details of the microscopic world, direct the path of a molecule of water in an ocean wave, care for the birds and the beasts, and, gosh, cherish us...My hands aren't that strong, but I break things when I try to hold them sometimes. Yet His...With perfect gentleness—perfect because His strength is channeled towards tenderness—He holds His world and smiles at it.

And you know what that means? It means that's how He's holding us, too.

That beetle was completely safe and completely loved in my professor’s hands. It was happy. It got some coffee. It didn't want to leave. 

Do we realize that we are safe? Safe in the hands of the One whose tender touch and sweet breath continually give us life? 

Do we realize that we are loved? That His love is the sort that isn't phased by the list of frustrations we have with ourselves, that isn't disheartened when we trip and fall in the mud, that can't be disappointed, that can't be changed, that can't be decreased, that can't end? 

I know—really, I do—how hard it is to feel like this is true sometimes. But it is. And, frankly, we can't do anything about it.

When I started writing this post, I intended to leave you with this last part in the form of a question. I was wondering, myself, whether the perspective I was about to frame was a good one. I can't do that now. I've convinced myself otherwise. There can be no other way.

So instead of a question, dear heart, I give you an instruction, an exhortation, an encouragement: Deal gently with yourself. Your Maker isn't eyeing your list of frustrations. He's not paying attention to the disqualifications you've laid out for Him to see. He's not even hampered by the mold in your corners, the stuff you were trying to make sure He didn't see. He's not wondering if you'll stumble again on your way into His arms. He doesn't care if you flunked that class in high school or don't see yourself as able to participate in that beauty pageant. The pimples and the problems—and even the certificated successes—don't bother Him. He just wants you. 

You see, as much as we try to convince ourselves otherwise, His heart only has one disposition toward us. It's what the Hebrew writers called ḥesed, what the English translators render over and over again "steadfast love." It's covenant love, love sealed by blood, love that doesn’t quit. We mess up. We have the ability, I guess, to gather a list of all the things that make us dirty. But if He's not making that list, then we shouldn't either. If He has not condemned us, then we don't get to condemn ourselves. If He's decided to keep holding our cells together, to keep breathing into our lungs, then maybe we'd better stop cringing at the ways we think we've failed. Maybe we ought to let Him lift our chins and grasp our hands—and just accept His invitation to dance.

His call, as I see it in every flickering leaf and humming breeze, is to deal as gently with ourselves as my professor dealt with that beetle—for that, creation cries, is the same gentleness with which He is ever dealing with us.