Faith to See

Moses wanted to see God.  I can relate.  For years now I have experienced this sinking sensation that the God I once knew has eluded me.  He has vanished from sight and only upon occasion peaks out from behind a huge tree in a darkened forest.  In those moments I shout out, “There He is!” running at top speed toward the image only to find He is out of sight once more.

I am disappointed by the organized church, by Christians obsessed with politics and many leaders I once respected.   I don’t see Jesus where He is supposed to be.  That leads me to question if He is here at all, or whether he is a conjuring up of the influences of my early environment?  If He is – truly - how do I get Him back in sight?  How do I repossess the dwindling recollection of the image to which I once clung and upon which I planted my feet?

I have sat through spiritual preaching and lectures until I was suffocating in a dark cell with the very air of my existence being vacuumed out of my lungs.  I have been told that is worship.  “Really?”, I question.  I have been sickened by the battle between conservative and liberal theology and doubted that God could be that brutal or that down-to-my-whims.

Recently, a friend wrote: http://www.sdrock.com/stories/tammywaite/

It is a gutsy piece of writing.  As I read, I found myself standing on holy ground.  This is the God I recognize.  He came out from behind the tree, walked out of the darkness into the light and said, “Here I am – in glory, grace, pain and mystery.” 

This is, I believe, the Christ, we should discover speaking out from behind the pulpit.  It should be the God of mystery, the inexplicable Presence even in the midst of unfathomable events.  …the voice of faith proclaiming in the darkness and brokenness, “He is here.”

We bow our head in the awareness of failure, acknowledge our sin and say, “I know that my Redeemer lives.”  Unspeakable grace stoops so low as to lift our head and give us a call to serve.

This is also the God that should be witnessed in Christians as they state political views.  It should not be an absolute rightness of conviction (to the condemnation of others) but rather a humble working out of our salvation in the arenas of our lives.

I remain mystified by any Christian boldly shouting out they have a right to anything –having been bought for a price as high as the Only Son of God.  We have cheapened the Cross and nullified the Resurrection.  And we have done it in His name.

I sit here quietly and alone, trying to grasp the grace that fuels my friend’s convictions – the mystery, the horror, the wonder, the ability to grab hold of that Holy love dispersed with reckless abandon and to live forward in its healing powers.  This is the God I choose, the One I believe in – if one is to believe at all.

Tomorrow I will go back to work.  Brokenness will surround me and I will have nothing to offer if I have not God.  I close my eyes.  I silence my argument.  I allow the vision of faith to return.  He is here.

A Friend's Question

"Anita, are you well in your soul?"  Boy, I tell you, my friends are sure a superficial lot.  I pondered the question and decided to ask for clarification, probably to buy myself some time to think up an answer.

What does it mean to be well in our souls?  One of my favorite hymns is It is Well with My Soul, but the man who penned those lyrics had lost his son, his prosperous business and a ship had sunk that was carrying his wife and remaining two daughters.  If wellness comes from that maybe I don't want my soul to be all that healthy anyway.

Are well souls joyful ones that give you the thumbs up when you inquire? Or can a well soul be a broken and struggling one?  Maybe a well soul is one that is unafraid to enter the darkness but always longs for the light.


Is my soul well?


Today, Lloyd and I met Janet and another volunteer at the bakery right before heading up to lead a service at our church plant that we do every second Sunday at the foundation.  While sipping hot drinks two sisters from the foundation entered.  We exchanged greetings and invited them up.  Contact.


Shortly after, another of our girls came in with her parents.  More greetings and more invitations extended.  Hope.

In that moment my soul was well.


It was nonetheless a small turnout today.  We had eight volunteers including ourselves, one mother plus an additional adult and perhaps a dozen children.  We sang.  We read scripture.  We broke into small groups and came back together for the final close out and refreshments.  When asked to share what they had learned, the application of today's message seemed non existent.


Was my soul well then?  No not really.

Nonetheless, there were good moments - playing with the children, hugging and piggy-backing, talking, laughing, loving.  More hope.

The one mother that did come is the mother of 'April' who I mentioned in an earlier blog, Gringa.  April hasn't been coming to the foundation much because apparently the family has no money to pay the daily 25 cent entrance fee we request.  That may be true.  It's a struggling family, but April's mom also is recovering from a black eye that continues to cause strong head aches... She shared with us and started to cry.

We were able to negotiate a plan with April and her mom that allowed the family to save face yet created a way for April to eat at the foundation, receive help with her homework and earn a wee bit of money as well.  April and her mother stayed for church.  That was good, really good and hopeful. 

My soul gained a little momentum in that moment.


I think souls have to be pliant.  If a soul is never joyful, I doubt it has been redeemed.  But God leads us as his servants to where the wages of sin are paid and asks us if we will stick around and light a candle.   We might manage to sing in that darkness, but we will also cry if we care at all.  Life has taught us there are no guarantees except that God is good and that He cares.   So we boldly get to work and the light of our wee candle goes with us as we toil and move about.  We sing.  We cry.  We laugh.  We struggle and hope.  We lay it all down.  We do so in our souls as well as elsewhere.  And the whole process seems to be a healthy one.


So yes,  my soul is well.  Today it's struggling some because we entered into the pain of others, and I never find lighting my candle particularly easy to do - let along singing in the dark.  But yes, my soul is well.  Thanks for asking.

That Fingernail of Sin

With a few open days, my hubby and I packed our bags and headed to our 'finca'.  As I had confessed to a close friend, I was hanging on by a mere fingernail.

This time I needed not only the silence our cabin provided, but my canvass and acrylic paints - time away to stop all aggressive ministry and sort through.  In our new line of mission work, I often feel overwhelmed by the needs, by the magnitude, by the 'no thanks' element and by my own dubious evaluations of legitimate headway being made with the children.

It wasn't until the following day when I tried to put words to my struggle and my husband Lloyd took a more conservative theological stand than I wanted to hear, that the last fingernail broke and down I plummeted. Much like our pup, Egipto, who upon arrival to our haven had jumped up on the screen that covers our water storage tank, and fallen through into murky waters, I was submerged, trying to keep my head above water.  Like that pet, who had been trapped between the water level and the overhead lid,  I was crying out for help.   I needed God to pluck me out and set me on safe, dry ground once more, just as I had done with Egipto.

I grabbed a blanket and headed to an isolated spot where I could lie down in the long grass and sleep.  God has a habit of speaking when I can still myself in such a manner.  He was however silent. 

What had crystalized, was the fact that  I wasn't, as I had supposed, spiraling downward because of the problems we were having with our flooding house.  Nor was I particularly discouraged because I had become the disciplinarian at the kids foundation and felt over my head in rebellion.  I couldn't even claim it was the cultural loneliness that had recently plagued me.  All these were a backdrop that had intensified emotions but weren't the cause.  It was, and here you can insert a drum roll, the question of sin.

I understand sin when it involves rebellious choice. When we choose our will over God's command, we separate ourselves from holiness.  We condemn ourselves to hell with such choice and only through redeeming grace can we redirect our paths toward heaven.  Fair enough.  But I must take sin by faith when the Bible claims that we are born sinful.  That I have a hard time comprehending, which is not to say that God is limited by my understanding.  I'm just pretty upset with Him for designing life that way.  Or is it really so?


I have been involved in fairly extensive facebook debates among Christian friends about homosexuality.  My spiritual buddies are a varied lot including hard core fundamentalists, wild and wooly liberals and everything in between.  They are a great group but, not surprisingly, we bash heads a lot.  While my tendency is towards a more conservative Christian view my sympathies lie on more liberal ground.


I am a woman often called to spiritual leadership roles.  I don't fare well at times with Paul.  I take a reasonably liberal view regarding my role.  Not only do I give myself some space I believe that freedom from the literal word of God is required for me to fulfill what God has called me to do and who He has created me to be.  I believe that that freedom comes from the essence of God's Word rather than literal interpretation. Is that same freedom applicable to other circumstances?


But the Bibles says ... Yes, the Bible says a  lot of things and the line between that which we keep and that which we toss  as cultural or no longer applicable seems to get more and more convoluted.  There are holes in our understanding - disturbing inconsistencies - yet we debate as though they don't exist.


Much closer to home at the moment than the homosexual dilemma are the kids and families who have become my current field of ministry.  I have discovered that there are at least two forms of rebellion expressed by our children.  One is an outright refusal to submit to authority.  It's a battle of wills much like Eden.  It's sin, pure and simple.  We can all relate and discipline decisions are easy to make.

The second is a more confusing form of rebellion.  Superficially, it seems senseless.  The child rebels at their own personal harm.  Not only are they incurring personal loss but no form of discipline breaks through it.  It is as though the child has an inner story that they are trying to express, calling out for help as it were and completely unable to vocalize through anything other than rebellious response. To castigate such rebellion is not only ineffective, it can in all likelihood compound the inner turmoil of the child and become counter productive and harmful.


This latter rebellion is most likely rooted in abuse that the child is experiencing and striking out against and which occurs in the home or close family circle.  In most cases, the child is a victim to those who were also victims to the same behavioral patterns.  To hold someone responsible for a sin pattern that has evolved through abusive cycles seems questionable.  While there is no doubt about how harmful this kind of verbal, physical and sexual abuse is to the recipient, who should really be held accountable to the damnation of hell for it?  Whom does the Lord judge and condemn for it?


God is holy.  What He requires goes.  But there seems to be a peculiarity in His nature if in judging sin, uncontrollable circumstances are not considered.  My conservative friends in a rather pulpit-pounding fashion proclaim that sin is sin.  Period.  I tend to agree, somewhat. My most liberal of friends bank heavily on grace and human logic.  I tend to agree as well.  But I also find it questionable and dangerous to simply retort, "Surely God would not judge us for that.  Surly we have rights in spite of our circumstances." Says who?  I find neither an ultra fundamental nor an ultra liberal view very palatable in its purest form.  I am also well aware that God is not subject to palatable theology.

So there we were, God and I.  He was daring me to spit it out and take Him on - to put Him to the test and see that He is good.  I was afraid.  What if He didn't stand the test at all?   I responsively and furiously dared Him to hold true.  The final fingernail gave way because I had no answer other than a very weak, "I really don't know, God."  Which was then followed by an "I'm not liking what I see about You either, God." Neither the not knowing nor the not liking seemed the least bit acceptable to me.  I should at least know if not like. Shouldn't I?

It was that two part dilemma that had me quickly spiraling downward.   Our flooding house, ministry pressures and dubious evaluation of effectiveness all unified as the backdrop to become the millstone threatening against my ever getting back up for air again.

Into such prevailing darkness, came a thought - just as one might hear a still small voice  What if I just love?  What if it's not about getting it right?  What if I don't have to have the theological response?  What if I don't have to worry about getting people saved as much as putting flesh to God's redeeming grace? What if God has freed me to love - just love - in spite of , because of and through?

As much as I might desire at times to do so, I cannot control inherent circumstances, nor God's sense of justice.  Instead I bank, in faith, on His redeeming grace.  I can control  my heart and what flows from it but not the decisions nor actions of others.  If my heart is filled with love, then that is the transforming power that will be released from it.

I remain of the opinion that my most fundamental of friends don't express grace well and my most liberal of friends can easily bypass holiness.  The tension between the two is my constant, inner spiritual struggle.  Finding a balance between grace and holiness that is aligned with God's intent and knowing where exactly to stand firm on lines that need to be drawn continues to evade me.   Perhaps that will never change.

Letting go of that struggle for the time being and accepting the call to love doesn't make things easier for me,  Not at all.  But my world feels a little more right.  I have a handle on how to get back to work and minister, where to set my hand to the plow and where to take off my hands and let God do what I can't - redeem.

My last fingernail gripping tightly to the comfortable soil of judgment let go and I was set free to love.









   

Gringa

It wasn't what I had expected, but it was a successful retreat.  Seven young girls to Flandes and back without major incident and only one case of vomiting.  There had been lots of time in the swimming pool and no one was sun burned.  We'd helped establish deeper friendships between the girls.  There had been opportunities to share about Jesus and His love.  The girls had been happy.  In fact, three of the seven had associated their time at the retreat as the happiest day in their life.   It had been good.  We had survived.  Why then, was I so relieved when two of my three assistants had gotten off the bus and had finally left me alone with the girls and my closest Colombian friend and partner in ministry, Janet?

It was hard to deny that the group of seven had been handpicked by the Lord.  Since attendance and good behavior were prerequisites, only four of those going were among the initial group that had been invited.   And one, who we'll call April, of those four had been disqualified until the Lord spoke in a dream (not a common occurrence with me at all) and told me to include her once more.  The remaining three guests were younger and included when the others were disqualified.

We were smart enough to ask for permission from the parents to administer Mareol if necessary.  That had nipped travel vomiting in the bud.  Ears popping all the way we had left the cold rainy climate of Bogota and arrived in steamy, hot and much lower altitude Flandes in time for a late breakfast.   We got the girls started on their assignment to make a beaded bracelet for each of their friends until the food had settled some and they could head to the pool.  They were thrilled.  When it was time for lunch we served build your own hotdogs and no crumbs had been left on the table outside.

It was right about then that I should have known something would be amiss.  I headed into the house to ask for our guest speaker to begin her activities since we had to wait before the girls could enter the pool again and the sun was at its hottest.  It was then that Janet informed me that our speaker along with our hostess had gone elsewhere for lunch. Apparently, due to health and food preferences, they didn't 'do' hotdogs.

At the time it was all about survival, so I pulled out the manicure equipment I had brought along and got the girls busy doing their nails.   That kept them happily entertained while Janet texted our friends at the local restaurant and asked them to hurry back.   Before too long our speaker had returned and we moved forward with activities.

Late in the afternoon, we had the girls back in the pool, and with little to no shade I did the 90 minute lifeguard detail.  I was quite the sight since I really had no appropriate summer apparel,  I was sweaty. sticky and my legs were completely smeared with inflamed black-fly bites.  Apparently the local bugs had let the word out that gringas make for a delicious mid afternoon snack.  I must have been the only one in town.

Did you catch that foreign word?  Now, looking back, I realize that this was why I had ended up feeling off balance about how the retreat had gone.  I was the gringa.  Truth be known that disqualified me in a way I had not even considered in light of the event.

I had not fallen in line with an understood list of dos and don'ts.  It was perfectly acceptable for me to foot the US$40.00 expense per child  that the retreat cost.  I received no arguments regarding whether I should pay that bill.  I had understood that from the beginning.   While transportation fees were higher than I had anticipated and had I known that prior to making the financial commitment I may have reconsidered, I had already accepted that I would pay.  Where I made my mistake was that I had assumed that that provided me with un-negotiable rights regarding what  food would be served and what would be bought.

I quickly learned that my menu was unacceptable, that changes needed to be made with it and there were not many alternatives now that we were where we were as to what those costly changes could be.   I will not even get into the fact that I had been told we could purchase food once we arrived and after the fact been told that wasn't really feasible and I should have let them know beforehand that purchases would be necessary.

I have since made a mental note that there is a major difference between gringo and latin digestive systems.  I am of a race that can eat fruit at night.  They are not.  And I also have the luxury of surviving the delicacy of added cream.

But you know, the biggest problem was my wardrobe and hygiene habits.  I dressed too casually.  They're right actually.  It wasn't until late the night before I departed that I realized I had no summer clothes and made a chin up decision to make do.  I didn't wear a lick of make up.  I would have loved to have had the luxury of time to make myself up for the event.   Clearly they did.  Being completely occupied trying to make sure everything else was taken care of had pushed that luxurious priority off the list for me.  Besides, large white woman that I am, I would have sweated it all off in the first five minutes anyway.  (Why don't these women ever sweat?)

But perhaps the most difficult moment was when the guest speaker who works for a government agency that deals with abused children started analyzing my children and informed me of their abusive situations and wanted to know what I, as 'boss' was going to do about it.  Now isn't that a nice can of worms?  If her evaluations were correct I just wanted to go somewhere first and weep for the girl(s) - at lost innocence and trust.  I wanted to applaud their ability as survivors to keep on living.  I wanted to give them this retreat as 24 hours of being safe.  We'd figure the rest out later.

I told this oh-so-knowledgeable-after-just-a-few-hours-one that I wasn't actually the boss, but I would speak with our director.  I told her years had been invested in building up trust relationships with families and we couldn't just charge in and start tearing families apart without giving some consideration to integrity and circumstances.  (How can you 'know' these things, anyway?)  She left me alone after my response.  She wasn't happy.  I was relieved - to be in the safety of solitude for a few minutes.

It was an odd night.  It felt spiritual but not oppressive.  April, as we had been forewarned, manifested a form of seizure during her sleep.  They went on throughout the entire night and woke us up.  Then we'd calm her down and try to fall back asleep.  Physicians have said there is nothing physically wrong with her except perhaps a hormonal imbalance due to her age. 

Many of the girls were afraid of the dark and collectively came running into our room asking us to pray with them.  It was a great opportunity to share about the Lord.  Janet ultimately ended up relocating to their room.  There were outside disturbances and I doubt I slept for more than 15 to 30 minutes at a time.  Yet God's goodness and presence, not that of evil, were palpable.

In the morning the girls each prepared the fruit they had brought to contribute to a salad bar.  They took it on as a community.  I stopped my two 'helpers' from interfering and convinced them the girls were capable of doing it.  It required me fiercely forbidding them to make fruit juice with any of what the girls had brought.  I was baffled by their insistence to interfere.

Nonetheless, the girls arranged a beautiful, ascetically appealing layout and we all went to our very own restaurant "Casa Buena Semilla"  where the girls could throw onto their fruit salad of choice as much cream and cheese as their hearts desired.   Apparently that is acceptable in the morning.  Or maybe they had finally given up on me.

There were several close out activities including another trip to the pool, where one of the girls introduced me to a stranger as her mother.  "Well," she added "my adopted mother."  I said, "That's probably true."  Most interesting to note is that I had had to work through some tough discipline issues with that same girl and that's where we ended up - happily adopted mother and daughter.

Throughout the retreat, Janet probably felt required to defend me to the other two assistants more times than either of us would care to count until they finally paid her the worst insult possible.  Janet is, unfortunately, just like me.  Poor thing!

It was a good retreat.  It really was.  Our hostess said that our girls are better behaved than her nieces and nephews.  That's the first time any of our high risk kids have ever been identified as better behaved than anyone.  When we climbed into the bus to return home, I encouraged the girls to thank both our guest speaker and our hostess and they did a beautiful job of it.  Then with no outside urging, they took it upon themselves to also thank the driver.  I was proud of each one of them.

But it was a hard experience for me.  Issues came up regarding the girls for which I now have the responsibility to take some form of action.  It was also hard on a personal level because I realized that I wasn't good enough.  That who I was and where I was from was an insurmountable problem that I am not ever going to completely get beyond.  That my money is quite frankly more desirable than me.

As a missionary I have stuck my neck out.  I have gone to a foreign land.  I have learned a foreign language.  I have put my money where my mouth is.  It doesn't matter how hard I struggle to understand and communicate, how hard I try to respect a different way, I'll never get it completely right.  And it is my job, my profession of faith to meet the people where they are - not within my own context.  I meet them in their language and in their culture and if that's hard for me, tough luck.  I will rejoice in all that God does.  I will be confident that I am called and that I serve a valid purpose.  I don't doubt at all that I do bring something valuable to the table.

Days later, I realized that what had made the retreat hard for me was the burden of the field.  So when I am asked about the retreat there are two possible responses.

In the one I ramble about a lot of good things that God did.  I share about why we would seriously consider doing it again and why I would once more be willing to foot the bill through the mission funding we receive.  I would talk about how my heart was stretched in new ways, and how very happy the girls were.

The second response is most likely for those closest to me.  I would say, "I was alone, profoundly alone and I realize now that isn't going to change."

Understanding Jacob

Emergency vehicles and volunteers are roaming the streets of our barrio, offering help, free mattresses and mops.  Egipto, my pup is curled up on my lap, oblivious to the stress of this day.  My husband Lloyd and I are on the second level of our home, waiting for the final inches of the two feet of flood waters to drain out of our first floor.  Lloyd is sleeping it out.  I am too tired, too angry and too busy thinking to drowse.  It's well past midnight.

At 4:00 this afternoon Lloyd had called me at the children's foundation where I work, to tell me that I shouldn't rush home since our barrio was flooded out and I probably wouldn't be able to enter the house.  It had been a full day and that was not the news I wanted to hear.  Oddly enough I had been teaching the kids about Jacob wrestling with God.  It's a peculiar concept for young children and I wondered at first why the story would be included in a Bible for children.  What's the point of the story if it's not that fighting God pays off?  That somehow didn't ring well with standard Sunday school lessons but made it appealing to me for the very same reason.  Let's stir up some dust here and see what we discover about God.

I grabbed a bunch of candies, threw them in a plastic bag and clenched them in my fist.  "Okay kids," I challenged, "I have a treat for each one of you.  If you want it you've got to catch me and wrestle the prizes out of my hand."   At first they watched in disbelief as I ran away from them.  You could see the bewildered looks in their faces, "The profe wants us to fight her?" followed by a pregnant pause then an explosion of energy.  The battle was on.  Each group fought, giggled, pushed and pulled until they landed the prize.  They didn't give up nor did they stop fighting until they all had gooey candies in their mouths.  Then, and only then did they relax, contentedly.  I am finally beginning to understand Jacob. 

It's not about Jacob the deceiver at all.  It's about Jacob the man that knew the value of the undeserved gift.  He wanted his father's blessing badly enough to become an imposter.  Then he ran for his life.  And he wanted God's blessing so much so that he took on the Angel of God and hobbled the rest of his life for it.  That seems to be what God wanted from him - that passionate and obsessive desire for those good things - divine anointing.

Are we that hungry for the good things of God that we will pay any price at all for them?  It's not a particularly comfortable question because with Jacob's stories it insinuates wanting those things selfishly and at the expense of others as well as ourselves.  That's not very 'Christian', is it?

I had a lot of time to kill waiting for the flood waters to lower enough to allow me to wade home.  I had coffee with a friend, ate alone and went to a movie all by myself.  All the while I kept fighting with God.  I .was angry about our house flooding not just this time (the worst to date) but over and over again.  I was angry with Him for allowing mankind, not just us, to suffer in such a way.  Honestly speaking, compared to many of our neighbors we really did get off easy - especially since we have a dry second floor to run to.  But  why does our loving Father permit these kinds of conflicts and struggles in our lives? Why God?  Why? Why? Why?

Finally, in my mind I grabbed hold of Him hard and I had no intention of letting go.  "I want your blessing, God.  I'm tired of the struggle.  I'm tired of bailing water and watching the suffering happen all around.  I'm not letting go until you bless me."

I'm not even sure what I was really asking, what I wanted exactly, or what I was hoping God would grant me.  I just knew that I was tired and whiny and reasonably sure that God had something better in mind for me if I wanted it badly enough.

Lest you think all of a sudden the sun came out, the flood waters disappeared and I went home to a warm cozy house, think again.  It's not that simple when it comes to God and me.  We are still fighting this one out.  The only thing I am reasonably sure about is the bottom line, "I'm not giving up on this fight until I have your blessing, God.  I'm hanging on tight, throwing you punches until the good things you have intended for me are manifested in my life."

I may be hobbling but I have a hunch that now that the battle has been declared, both God and I are in it for the long haul.  I hope I fare as well as Jacob did.

Passion-ately Simple

All this Lenten season I wanted to be passionate about the Passion.  I planned to read, to write and walk myself through the drama of it all once more.  The process would yield  profound observations and insights to share.  What went wrong?

It is Resurrection Sunday, the clock is ticking and I am at a loss for words. It is not that I am empty, quite the contrary.  Yet the fullness is different - profound and childlike and my pen seems strangely hesitant.

I am much like our three month old puppy who we took outside of the concrete jungle this week for the first time in his life.  Losing all sense of familiarity and comfortableness as quickly as our truck was eating up the highway, left him regurgitating yesterday's meal all over his master.

Finally set free on wild, perhaps even holy ground and with some reservation, he started to nonetheless enthusiastically expand his horizons. Whenever the thrill of new ground became too much for his senses he would run back to home base.  Yet each time he journeyed outward he pushed his old limits further beyond until he had claimed much of the new turf available.  His world became not only larger but freer.  Since he accompanied us on this out of town trip, he will never be completely satisfied within city confines again.

However, what was most amusing was the huge rawhide bone we had brought along as his toy.  Dare I liken it to our spiritual treasures and gifts that the Lord abundantly provides for us along the way?  The pup instinctively knew that it should be buried and seasoned in the rich earth, hidden from thieves until he had need of it.  While he got quite good at hiding it, he never did master the art of finding it once more.  Time and again the rawhide bone became a distant memory or forgotten treasure while he returned to his master fully expectant of  a fresh and free handout.

Recently I have found myself on such unfamiliar spiritual turf, beyond concrete city limits and out in wild country.  While I enjoy the newness of it all I do have a habit of regurgitating yesterday's lessons learned in urban confines and expecting them to work with untamed territory.  Much like the children C.S. Lewis created in the Chronicles of Narnia I can feel myself nearing a magical world  just out of my reach.   I swing my arms wildly trying to grab hold.  I can taste the reality just beyond.  The Lord is so close, but I can't quite grasp this greater reality in faith and back I go to safe, known territory.

Nonetheless, my heart refuses to let go of what it knows to be true.  There is more!  It is just around the corner.  It is  good!  It is God!  He is risen.  Resurrection power is up for grabs.  Hallelujah.  That's what I wanted to sing today.  I wanted it to ring throughout Easter traditions.  I wanted the Body of Christ, his people, to come together in community and shout it from the mountain tops because I believe it to be true.

There were glimpses, moments when joy took hold and we knew that what we sang, what we celebrated was Truth itself, the resurrected Christ.  But mostly just as we got Him out of the grave, just at that point when collectively we could have been changed by the power of life over death, we hesitated and dare I say buried Him alive - put Jesus back on familiar turf like that rawhide bone which my dog is still puzzling over.  Where did it go?   Where did I last tuck my risen Christ away?

What does it mean for Jesus to have returned from the grave?  It means resurrection power has been set loose.  That power, an unrestrained love pushes daisies up from the ground in celebration.  It yields new adventures just when we think we have things all figured out.  It opens doors that cannot be closed.  It surprises us with joy.  It defeats death. It changes completely what it means to live and to die.  It gives us the open ending we wanted, an eternal substance.

I close my eyes and let the world end as I have known it.  I reflect on a cross that allowed evil to have its way as never before.  I let all hope die.  I sit in the darkness of the buried Christ.  And then in the wee hours of the morning I gather my spices together and wonder who will roll the stone away so that I can say good-bye to all I ever dreamed.  It is a heavy journey to the tomb. 

It is not so much that I discover upon arrival that the stone has been rolled and the tomb is empty.  It is that question directed at me that transforms my life and I am forever changed, redeemed and set free,  "Why do you seek the living among the dead?"

He is risen indeed.  Hallelujah!

Spiritual House Breaking

We're house training our puppy and it's raining.  It has been for almost the entirety of the two and a half weeks that we've had him.  Need I say more?

We've had some good - nearly perfect - potty training days and then days like today.  Lest you feel sorry for a puppy that has to venture out into the rain to relieve himself, let me clarify that he has a sheltered area with a cozy, dry bed, his water and food all under cover.  But since the rooftop terrace is concrete, there are puddles.  He has no qualms with venturing out into the rain when hungry and eating to his heart content.  But piddling and other such relief, he has determined is far better or more comfortably accomplished in our house.  This might be noted as a form of selective submission and obedience.

Selective submission and obedience is something I know a little about.  But let me introduce you to a buddy of mine instead.

She's a smart friend who kindly doesn't laugh when I can't tell her the kind of cell phone I have and who moves right on without missing a beat when I confess I don't have an Ipod or Ipad  (and wouldn't know how to use one if I did).  Anyway,  she kindly surrendered an hour and a half of her day today to listen, encourage and exhort me.    She counseled me to step back, take good care of my physical as well as spiritual self and (gulp) suggested that God just might be more interested in sanctifying me than in all that stuff I do to serve Him.

I didn't particularly want to hear all of that and thought that maybe I could accidentally disconnect my skype connection or pretend we'd lost audio contact or had a power outage.  There is one slight problem with that however; she's a cool friend.  She's real.  She gets down and dirty and doesn't mince words with her faith.  She goes out on the edge and cheers me on when most don't even understand that I'm in the midst of battle.  She prays.  She understands radical faith.  And she's smart.  You don't disconnect those kinds of friends because they are somewhat rare and definitely irreplaceable - even if a tad pushy on one's buttons.  Besides, thanks to her, the next time someone inquires about my phone I can tell them without a doubt that it's a Nokia.  Given a little time, smart friends will rub off on you.

However, since my leaning is to be selectively obedient and submissive I will apply that to her counsel.  I will choose to step back when it's easiest, like when I am afraid.   I'll look  after myself when the bus is crowded and only the pushy people get seats.  I'll make time for prayer when others are cleaning the bathrooms at the foundation.  I'll follow my puppy's example and relieve myself out of doors only when the sun is shining.

To be honest, I really don't know how to submit to her exhortation in a way that honors God.  How in the world do you step back when the intense needs of the world are suffocatingly close and overwhelming?  How do you prioritize rest when the call is to high risk children that need and need and need?  How do you make time to be alone with God when the opportunities to serve Him fill your every waking hour?  How do you say no to needs that are so great and real?

God is more interested in sanctifying me than reaching them?

God is more interested in freeing me from sin than embracing the child who lives in a one room house with at least three others - with no running water, electricity or bathroom?  God wants to prioritize my spiritual state over these kids on the edge of joining gangs and losing their life because of it?  Abiding in Him is more a priority than finding answers for the child who's mother entered him or her into prostitution at the age of two months?  What kind of a God is that?  Whatever happened to laying down one's life for a friend?

The thought was rather offensive to me at first - presumptuous and self-centered and, well yes, threatening.  I would need to let go of crutches and walk more at risk than ever before.  I would have to be more real about myself and maybe face the fact that I may very well be more messed up than the people I serve.  I would also have to reconsider who God might be.

He would have to be a God that isn't restricted by time or the least bit out of control.  He'd probably be a God who has time for me to get to know Him so that I can eventually truly become his hands and feet.  He'd be a God that is expecting more of me than I am offering at the moment and who has no intention of letting me hide behind the needs of others.  He'd be the God who called me and can make stones into bread, minister through the dullest vessels, turn water into wine and have all the time required for every step of my journey.

We're not going to give up on our puppy until he's got it figured out and has rutted in the right behavioral patterns.  In the mean time, as he's learning we'll love him, cuddle with him, pat him on the head and tell him how great he is when he gets it right.  And in spite of the moments of failure that go into helping him get to where he needs to be, we'll think he is indeed a mighty fine pup.

I guess that in similar fashion that's the God that is sanctifying me.  Together we're going to get the right behavior rutted in.  That makes sense if I'm serious about being His hands and feet.  Totally submitted and obedient. Totally called.  Totally sanctified.  Spiritually potty trained.

You don't suppose my friend's going to call again next week, do you?  If she does, I have a hunch by then the pup will have things figured out and be pooping in the right place. I'm not nearly as optimistic about me.