In View

Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in Him may have eternal life. (John 3.14-15)

My Great-Uncle Grady was the stuff of family legend. He pastored a large, well-heeled Memphis congregation, but you’d never know that by his demeanor. He was extremely comfortable in his own skin and a magician at turning phrases. In the pulpit or at the dinner table, he could conjure a wry remark that put the perfect button on the topic at hand. In a family known for its gifts of gab, Grady’s knack for distilling a complex situation into a few words proved mighty handy.

In addition to shepherding his flock, Grady stepped into pastoral shoes whenever sickness and death overshadowed our family. He steered us through our dark valleys, overseeing arrangements and accommodations, running errands, scheduling meals, completing paperwork—tending to all the details so the rest of us could focus on what really mattered: finding comfort, processing pain, and regaining our strength. In times of crisis, Grady was a very busy man. While he was off, finishing one to-do list, a new one was waiting for him when he returned. On one occasion (as the story goes), he walked in the door only to be told he needed to turn around and see to a fresh set of needs. To which Grady sighed, “I can’t get anywhere for going someplace.”

I always reach for this story right about now, near the midpoint in Lent’s progress. The initial blow of being jettisoned into a metaphorical wilderness has long been absorbed. The reckoning with repentance and coping with new changes that Lent inspires in us is underway. And in the middle of all this emotional and spiritual sorting-out, matters of practical living keep rearing up. There are jobs to go to, bills to pay, errands to run, spouses and families needing attention. Time is at a premium. Frustration is high. And we may feel like Grady: we can’t seem to get anywhere for going someplace.

It’s a fine time to take a deep breath and remind ourselves where we’re headed. This desert road steers us to a hillside, to the foot of a cross, and to a Savior Who waits for us there. When Nicodemus came to Jesus and asked, “What’s this all about?” Jesus evoked a famous legend, in which Israel’s wilderness trek was suddenly stopped by an influx of poisonous snakes. They had been released into their camp because God’s people had become overly concerned with pragmatic issues. They’d lost their faith in God’s power to sustain them and began to complain about being stranded in the middle of nowhere. God told Moses to fashion a serpent, raise it on a high standard, and anyone who’d been snake-bit needed only to look and live.

The rigors of Lent are no match for the majesty of the cross. When we’re feeling disoriented, fatigued, frustrated—when we’re tempted to complain about being stranded in the middle of nowhere—we have only to look toward the cross and we will live. Keep Calvary in sight. There is healing there. Love is there. Grace is there. We are going someplace. And we will get there.

Finish the Job

It is appropriate for you who began last year not only to do something but even to desire to do something—now finish doing it, so that your eagerness may be matched by completing it according to your means. (2 Corinthians 8.10-11)

Worlds Away

My city, Chicago, is a very sad place. It’s been sad for quite some time, but it’s grown even sadder of late. We’re in the grip of a gun violence rampage that makes the Capone years look like a holiday. Years of ignoring the deprivation in “less desirable” neighborhoods have exploded on our streets. On weekends, the city averages 60 shootings, with many victims being minors caught in the crossfire. Last Wednesday, seven-year-old Heaven Sutton was gunned down while helping her mother sell sno-cones in front of her house. Gang members spotted a rival in line and fired into the crowd. Heaven had just returned from getting a new hairstyle for a long awaited trip to Disney World. Friday night’s news ran footage of our mayor, Rahm Emanuel, consoling Heaven’s mother, after attending the funeral of a 14-year-old who’d been killed the previous weekend. Since 2008, over 650 young people have been murdered in our city. When you add the adults, survivors, and victims in outlying areas infested by gangs and drug lords, the number reaches several thousands.

This is not news to Chicagoans, which places blame on all of us for not rising up against this scourge sooner. To our shame, we’ve done little to correct the social dysfunction that gave rise to the Capone era and racial discord of 1960s. Chicago has always been less a city than a collective of ethnic enclaves. For many who live in predominately white neighborhoods, African-American and Hispanic areas might as well be worlds away. The wailing mothers on the nightly news might as well be Sunni moms shrouded in burkas. Bombed-out streets five miles away might as well be Afghanistan or Syria. The barrage of heartbreaking images is finally starting to move those who’ve ignored their neighbors. Yet if we’re going to end this grotesque crisis, we have to overcome our aptitude for pity. It’s not enough to feel sorry for Chicago’s gun violence victims. It’s not enough to wring one’s hands and wonder what can be done. The time for pointing fingers and assigning blame is long gone.

Thankfully, churches across the metropolitan area are starting to mobilize. For the most part, they’re liturgical congregations, which means this weekend’s readings will be heard in their services. And I pray that the Holy Spirit will leap out of the texts to grip their hearts with renewed vigor and determination. Because this weekend’s message to us is very clear: it’s not enough to want to do something. A big start isn’t enough, either. Good intentions mean nothing if they’re not realized. All that we think or say, believe or do comes to naught if we don’t finish the job. That’s the moral in Sunday’s texts.

A Question of Fair Balance

The Old Testament reading (2 Samuel 1,17-27) puts before us a poignant scene. David’s lifelong nemesis, Saul, has committed suicide on learning the Philistines have killed all of his sons, including David’s dearest friend, Jonathan. The removal of Saul’s heirs clears David’s ascendance to Israel’s throne. What should be a triumphant moment is wreathed in sorrow. David leads the nation in a mourning hymn built on a recurrent theme: “How the mighty have fallen!” Although David won victory for Israel, its king, sons, people, and land have been laid waste. There is much to do to restore the violence-tattered nation. The devastation caused by Saul, a maniacal monarch and father, burdens the new king. The weight of the work ahead is genuinely felt in the poetry as David surveys all that must be done to finish the job.

In the Gospel (Mark 5.21-43), we meet another father who could be Saul’s polar opposite. Jairus is a synagogue leader whose 12-year-old daughter is sick unto death. In a bold move, he throws himself at Jesus’s feet and begs Him to come heal his little girl. Jesus agrees and a clamoring crowd follows. Along the way, a woman who’s been housebound with menstrual hemorrhaging for 12 years—as long as Jairus’s daughter has been alive—pushes through the throng, confident if she can touch Jesus’s cloak she’ll be cured. When she reaches Him, He stops. “Who touched Me?” He asks. The woman reluctantly confesses and Jesus declares, “Daughter, your faith has made you well.” Without going into specifics, this healing surpasses a physical miracle; it remediates centuries of social and religious stigmatization of women. Given its groundbreaking significance, one might expect Jesus to call it a day. But His work isn’t finished. Though news arrives that Jairus’s daughter has died, Jesus committed to see about her. “Do not fear,” He tells the father. “Only believe.” He proceeds to Jairus’s house, touches the little girl’s corpse (another breach in Judaic code), and speaks life into her. He finishes the job.

Finally, in the New Testament text (2 Corinthians 8.7-15), Paul expands on this principle in a most illuminating fashion. He tells the Corinthians, “I am testing the genuineness of your love against the earnestness of others.” (v8) It’s a subtle, yet unmistakable, distinction. Earnest people empathize with others’ woes. Genuinely loving people do something to end them. He points to Jesus. “Though He was rich,” Paul writes, “yet for your sakes He became poor so that by His poverty you might become rich.” Paul tells the Corinthians—by far the most privileged readers of any epistle—never to forget they too are recipients of genuine love. Then Paul says, “It is appropriate for you who began last year not only to do something but even to desire to do something—now finish doing it, so that your eagerness may be matched by completing it according to your means.” (v10-11) Ever the wily pastor, Paul backs his challenge with wisdom that cancels all excuses for not finishing the job. “The gift is acceptable according to what one has—not according to what one does not have,” he says. “It is a question of fair balance between your present abundance and their need, so that their abundance may be for your need, in order that there may be a fair balance.” (v13-14)

A World Out of Balance

Chicago’s sorrow is but one instance of rampant grief currently visited on a world out of balance. A pernicious spirit of “Me, My, and Mine” has overtaken us, warped our minds, and laid us to waste. We are at war with nations, cultures, neighbors, fellow believers, and ourselves. Violence is our lingua franca, whether articulated with a trigger or sprayed across pulpits, felling innocent souls with heresies of hatred and inequality. Though perched on seats of power, the mighty—be they elected officials, corporate princes, media moguls, bigoted pastors, or drug kingpins—are fallen and our streets are strewn with corpses of every kind. Christ has deeded us the gift of life, life that exceeds the paralysis of earnest intentions, new life that activates in us the gospel of genuine love, true life that not only compels us to do something, but also inspires us to follow Christ’s example and commit to finishing the job.

“We can’t fix the world’s problems” is no excuse. It’s not about what we lack, but what we have—voices, hands, feet, and hearts overflowing with conviction and urgency that drive us out of our comfort zones to defeat the spirit of violence and hatred holding us hostage. Our presence is sorely needed in a berserk world beholden to evil powers. Earnest empathy won’t do it. Pitying victims won’t correct the imbalance that deprives us of the abundance buried in communities under fire. The instant we say, “Something must be done to end this madness,” is the moment we confess there’s something we can do. In Ecclesiastes 9.10, we read, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do with your might; for there is no work or thought or knowledge or wisdom in Sheol [the Land of the Dead], to which you are going.” Each of us regularly confronts injustice, abuse, and aborning tragedies we can combat—in a word, a gesture, or a sacrificial act of defiance. Find those opportunities. Commit to them for as long as you live. And don’t stop until you’ve done everything in your might to finish the job.

(L-R) Heaven Sutton, 7, felled by gang warfare in Chicago on June 27, 2012; Brandon Elizares, 16, gay El Paso teen felled by suicide on June 2, 2012; Ahmed, age unknown, mourning his father felled by a Syrian Army sniper on March 18, 2012. 


Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/06/30/finish-the-job/

Delayed Reaction

“Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Stand up and take your mat and walk'? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins"—He said to the paralytic—"I say to you, stand up, take your mat and go to your home." (Mark 2.9-11)

Through the Roof

Mark’s Gospel tells a great story about a paralyzed man whose friends are so bent on helping him they destroy a house to do it. Many of us first heard this tale during childhood, when climbing on roofs and tearing stuff up sounds really exciting. When we return to the scene as adults, however, we’re not so sure.

Here’s what happens. Jesus returns to Capernaum from a ministry trip and when word leaks that He’s there, people rush the house and spill into the yard. Friends of a paralytic bring the man to Jesus, but they can’t reach the Lord because of the crowd. They get the bright idea to tear open the roof and lower the sick man into the house so Jesus can cure him. Maybe it would be okay if the house belonged to one of the friends. But we assume it doesn’t, since Mark doesn’t comment on who owns the place. So they’re taking a huge risk—and probably breaking the law—when they tear apart a neighbor’s roof. In fact, the whole thing is risky. Ancient Palestinian roofs are flimsy affairs, comprised of reed mats thrown over crossbeams, with a thin layer of mortar applied to protect against rain. That’s why the friends can take the roof apart quickly. But they also risk falling through, hurting themselves and/or Jesus in the process. What’s more, raising their friend to roof-level will require looking to others for help, which most of us would be hesitant to provide, given the liabilities we’d assume by pitching in. But, apparently, people do come to their assistance, because the disabled man makes it from ground level to the roof, and from the roof to Jesus.

Once Jesus Lifts the Stigma

Let’s go into the house for a minute. Jesus is talking and stops when He hears a lot of commotion outside. It sounds like it’s coming from the roof. Big chunks of ceiling start to fall. Everyone scrambles for cover. No doubt a disciple or close friend tries to pull Jesus out of danger. But Jesus sits tight and watches as the paralytic is lowered into the room. He looks up to see the friends who have taken great risks to make this happen and Mark 2.5 says, “When Jesus saw their faith, He said to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

A bit of comedy ensues—one reminiscent to Monty Python’s send-up of the Sermon on the Mount in Life of Brian. Everyone settles down and someone asks, “What did He say?” Another replies, “’Your sins are forgiven.’” A nearby group of legalists hisses, “Who does He think He is? Only God can forgive sins!” Jesus senses their alarm and replies, “Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Stand up and take your mat and walk'? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins"—He said to the paralytic—"I say to you, stand up, take your mat and go to your home." (v9-11) The man steps into the yard to show everyone he’s been cured. Onlookers praise God and say, “We’ve never seen anything like this!” (v12)

Mark ends the story there, as if to say, “The rest you know.” So let’s play with that for a moment. What happens next? In all likelihood the man’s friends gather around. There’s a lot of joyful laughter, pats on the back, possibly even a happy jig from the healed man. Realizing they’ve just disassembled someone’s roof and interrupted Christ’s conversation, they may scoot off to celebrate out of earshot, saying, “We’ll come back and clean up later.” And as they walk off, the healed man stops, taking a moment to absorb everything that’s happened. “Wait a second!” he says. “I’m forgiven! Do you know what that means?”

Of course, they know. In their world, disability is linked to sinfulness. Living in a climate that dreads God’s wrath, it’s automatically assumed anyone felled by disease has angered God. So Jesus not only cures the man’s condition. He frees the man from shame. More than that, He refutes the notion that physical anomalies signify God’s displeasure. If that were the case, Jesus would tell the man what He tells others who subscribe to harmful thoughts and behaviors: “Go and sin no more.” But Jesus doesn’t say that. In two quick steps, He frees the man—from stigma and then disease. And since He addresses the sin question before the curing the illness, He leaves no doubt that erasing condemnation is His first priority. Healing comes once Jesus lifts the stigma.

Everything We Need

I imagine a lot of you, like me, have heard this story plenty of times, preached and taught in many ways. It’s a spectacular example of faith in action, a noble instance of high-risk compassion, and a telling portrayal of how easily we succumb to religious dogma and common myths that impede faith. But for those of us wending our way down Lent’s road there may be something more here that we can reach for.

Whether we come to Jesus on our own—as so many in the Gospels do—or, like the paralytic man, loved ones are instrumental in bringing us to Him, what we experience on arrival is multilayered and complex. What draws us to Him may actually be secondary to a deeper need. It’s unlikely the man or his friends ever consider that, without forgiveness, the healing is incomplete. Yet Jesus recognizes that and He takes care of first things first. In our little post-healing scenario—a midrash based on the story of the cured leper who returns to thank Jesus—the man’s acknowledgement of what’s happened is typical of delayed responses we often have. Repeatedly, awareness that Christ makes us whole sneaks up on us. We have to stop and exclaim, “I’m forgiven! Do you know what that means?” It means the stigmas that paralyze and make us sick have been removed. Misguided opinions of why we are as we are have been dispelled. Not only obvious limitations that cripple us—but also the unspoken ones that bore deep into our psyches—no longer confine us. We are free.

As we travel Lent’s desert, I pray we walk humbly, yet confidently, with songs of praise interrupting our prayers of repentance. May we see our journey to the cross as a return to the source of all that is good in us—the place where our forgiveness, healing, and most of all our freedom from shame and stigma are revealed in a Savior Who understands and provides us with everything we need.

However we come to Christ—whether on our knees or on a stretcher lowered through a torn-up roof—we leave the experience in astonishment that Jesus sees to our every need.

Postscript: Question 8

Can you share an example of delayed reaction in your own faith, when you realized there was more to what you received from Christ than you initially thought?

Breaking Down

The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (Psalm 51.17)

The Great Artist

An artist friend called me breathless with excitement. “I just leased this great loft near you and you’ve got to come see it right now!” As she’s normally a slow-and-steady type and few things are more disheartening than having no one to share your joy with, I instantly headed over. I walked into a massive raw space that looked as though its tenant had fled in the night. It was a mess. Apparently the previous renter was a potter of some sort, because my friend—who worked in a variety of media—had already swept up three piles of derelict projects and clay shards. I would have been furious that the landlord hadn’t cleaned up before renting it. But she couldn’t have been more thrilled. “Just look at all of this!” she said. “Think of what I can do with it!”

Frankly, I didn’t know what to think. It looked like useless junk to me. When I offered to help, she suggested, “Let’s get it all in one place so I can sort everything out and decide how I’m going to use it.” I picked up a half-finished piece and asked, “You don’t want to keep this kind of stuff, do you? You’re just talking about the smaller bits.” She replied, “Are you kidding? Drop it.” Huh? She repeated her order. I let the piece fall to the ground and shatter. Smiling wryly, she said, “That, my friend, is called ‘breaking down.’ Now I can use it.” A few months later, when she brought me a serving tray inlaid with a magnificent pattern made of its pieces, she asked, “Remember this?”

Unfortunately, I lost the platter (another story for another time). But the memory remains fresh and resurfaces whenever I read scriptures like Psalm 51.17: “The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” And it especially comes to mind during this time of year, as I envision Lent’s metaphorical desert strewn with shattered pieces that we drop along the way. There they wait, seemingly forgotten and useless, until the Great Artist sweeps them up, sorts through them, and reorders them into something magnificently—serviceably—new.

A Shattering of Self

We tend to imagine broken-hearted people as sufferers. Something has disappointed them. Someone has wounded them. In other words, we see them as passive. Yet the Hebrew word Psalm 51’s poet uses (nisbarah) is neither definitively active nor passive. The breaking can result from another’s cruelty or arbitrary misfortune; but it can also be a sacrificial act—a shattering of self in pursuit of wholeness. We break down the contents of our hearts to inventory what we’ve stored in them—to examine their pieces and allow the Creator Who heals and restores to reassemble them in remarkable ways. We do this in response to God’s call in Joel 2.12-13: “Yet even now, says the LORD, return to Me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing. Return to the LORD, your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing.”

The poet Jan Richardson taps into this sensibility in her Ash Wednesday blessing, “Rend Your Hearts”:

Let your heart break

Let it crack open

Let it fall apart

so that you can see

its secret chambers,

the hidden spaces

where you have hesitated

to go.

She concludes:

And so let this be

a season for wandering

for trusting the breaking

for tracing the tear

that will return you

to the One who waits

who watches

who works within

the rending to make your heart

whole.

The loveliness of Richardson’s poetry raises gnarly questions, though. Once we’ve broken down our hearts, what are we looking at? Which of our pieces glimmer with radiance and beauty? Which of them are deeply scarred with dark doubts and unsightly faults? Which are ready-made for the Great Artist’s use? Which must be reworked to allow God’s vision to come forth in us? Which will fall into place? Which must be reshaped to fit into a new, magnificent, and serviceable whole?

Naming Parts

The process involves more than falling apart so God can reassemble us. After we do the breaking, it asks us to name our parts—to call the components of our hearts for what they are. This is by far the most challenging aspect of Lent’s work, because we are all exceptionally gifted at turning blind eyes to our weaknesses. When we speak their names, however, we force their recognition. Here are my misgivings. Here are my resentments. Here are my vanities. Here are my prejudices. Thankfully, there are other parts we’re honored to claim. Here are my certainties… my mercies… my humility… my openness.

When we look at our pieces, we don’t know what to make of them. Suddenly the beauty of breaking down rises before of us, because the making—actually, the remaking—of our broken hearts belongs to a God Who, by Self-admission, is gracious, merciful, patient, unfailing in love, and fiercely forgiving. Like my artist friend, our Maker surveys the heap of shards we’ve created and exclaims, “Just look at all of this! Think of what I can do with it!”

We do the breaking; God does the remaking.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/24/breaking-down/

Postscript: Question 3

Predictably, most commentators on Psalm 51.17 immediately link its brokenness and contrition with guilt for past sins. And, to be sure, harmful thoughts and actions produce shattering consequences in our lives. Yet, more appropriate to Lent’s purpose, I’d like us to think of broken-heartedness as a self-induced, sacrificial act. And this raises a huge question I believe we must ponder while we undertake the breaking: what is faith’s role in our sacrifice?

I’m not sure there’s a definitive answer to that. In fact, each of our responses may be very different. I’ve added my thoughts to the comments and invite you do the same. This breaking business isn’t easy by any stretch and sharing our perspectives will no doubt encourage all of us to rend our hearts.

Repost: Called to Hope

I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you. (Ephesians 1.18)

How’s Your Hope?

I confess an odd sort of ambivalence about hope. Unlike faith and love—the other two abiding principles that complete Paul’s triumvirate in 1 Corinthians 13—hope strikes me as a slippery concept. Faith and love are easier to get our arms around, because Jesus and the epistle writers provide a plethora of definitions for them. On the other hand, as often as the word hope appears—180 times in the NIV—I’ve yet to find one verse that says, “Here’s what hope is.” Tracking down the Hebrew and Greek words only confuses things. Old Testament “hope” derives from “cord” or “rope,” indicating it’s a thing we hold and trust while we wait. New Testament “hope” is more straightforward: “expectation.” That gets to the nub of my consternation. When David says, “I hope for Your deliverance” (Psalm 119.166), he means, “I’m hanging on.” When Paul encourages us to “Rejoice in hope” (Romans 12.12), he wants us to exult in what we expect God will do. Where I come from, hanging on is one thing and exultation is another.

Imagine my perplexed response when thinking about hope brought this to mind: How’s your hope? I had no answer, as I had no idea what I’d asked myself. I fired back, “What do you mean?” (I have these testy inner dialogues from time to time.) Was I wondering about my tenacity to believe or my ability to expect? “All of it,” I heard myself say. “How's that going?” I didn’t like the question one bit. Truth be told, I don’t work too much on hope. I’m confident I have it. I expect God’s goodness and mercy in all things. As a rule, I trust God when I’m left hanging. Yet hope seldom captivates my thoughts. I’ve settled for having it instead of doing it, twisting it into a limbo lobby, a type of suspended optimism I hang with until something actually happens. Is that hoping? It sounds more like loitering. Now I realize why the hope I project on Advent texts feels ambiguous and thin. I’m not seeing the writers and figures do hope. I’ve got them idling—albeit excitedly—until the show starts, and that’s not what they do, since that's not what hope is.

Before Our Stories Happen

Hope is a tough concept for us because we take its operative principles less seriously than our ancestors. Modern cynicism and self-sufficiency lend credence to “promises are made to be broken.” Nowadays, it’s bad form to hold people to their word. Often out of grace, but also to escape appearing needy—Heaven forbid we rely on someone—we overlook most bad promises. (Forgiving them is a conversation for another time.) We forget that little to no faith in promises produces little to no hope. To guard against disappointment, we view hope suspiciously, which is exactly not what it’s for. Hope is given to nurture confidence in promises until they’re honored. The ancients understood hope more clearly. In their day, the burden of hope rested on the promise's maker, not its taker, because they had no alternative to depending on one another. If the farmer didn’t deliver promised grain, no one ate bread. If the weaver didn’t produce promised cloth, everyone wore rags. Promises held the world together. Hope made it spin. Their combined gravity secured daily life. That’s why God’s promises and our hope form the braid—the cord—that ties Scripture together, and why we’re consistently told to be true to our word, even as our Creator honors promises to us.

Rethinking hope as an active pursuit rather than passive—possibly futile—occupation also reveals its hidden beauty. It’s the key to entering our stories before they happen. It puts us where we want to be ahead of actually getting there. Reality-clouded intellect would have us dismiss canny hope as callow fantasy. To go through life hanging on promises, fully expecting they’ll come to pass, seems naïve and weak-minded. We’ve even coined a euphemism for it: living in denial. Paul challenges this, asserting hope is the sign of hard-won, inner strength: “We know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame.” (Romans 5.3-5) Yes, hardship builds character. But ending the process there limits involvement in our narrative to the moment it calls for character. True strength becomes evident when trust in God’s promises presses us to finish the sequence—to muster the guts to hope. According to Ephesians 1.18, that’s what God hopes we’ll do: “I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you.” We are called to hope. While murky minds don’t see it, our enlightened hearts recognize we have a place in our story long before promises we rely on come about.

Arriving

Look at the characters arriving at the Christ-Child’s manger. Need we ask what brings them there? Every one of them, from Mary and Joseph to the Magi to the lowliest shepherd, lands in this filthy barn on wings of hope. They embrace God’s promises and act on them. They leave what they know behind—friends and families, palaces and pastures—answering God’s call to hope. Terrible outcomes cannot be ruled out. Obeying God’s call could end with Mary and Joseph being stoned as fornicators. Seeking Christ’s birthplace could result in the Wise Men’s arrest as covert insurgents. After abandoning their flocks to worship the Savior, the shepherds could return to find their livestock stolen, lost, or destroyed. Yet not one of us would consider any of the Holy Infant’s attendants delusional or weak-minded. They’re paragons of insight and strength!

Hope makes arriving at God’s promises possible and vindicates us from doubts and criticism along the way. God calls us to hope—to enter our stories with God, to follow God in active expectancy, to pursue God’s promises with enlightened hearts. Hope takes us where we’re headed before we get there. It’s what proves strength of character forged in hardship. Hope is what we do, leaving everything we know behind and trusting every risk we take will be rewarded. So how is your hope? How's that going?

O God, our Help in ages past, our Hope for years to come, we have heard your call to hope. Place in us a will to hope, to do the things hope asks of us, to live hope. Amen.

Originally posted on December 3, 2010.

Hope enables us to enter our stories before what we hope for appears. Its radiance rises over the horizon and lights our way.

Postscript: "My Hope is in You"

To do hope is to invest hope in a God Who will not disappoint. Aaron Shust beautifully renders this idea in "My Hope is in You."

Finishing the Job

The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O LORD, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of your hands. (Psalm 138.8)

Always More

A favorite family legend features my late Great-Uncle Grady, who was one of those all-around good guys always eager to help. A drunken driver had just murdered my Uncle Cyrus—a young father and aspiring physician in his mid-20s—and, in typical Southern fashion, our entire clan converged on my grandparents’ home. With the immediate family too devastated to attend to the arrangements, those once- and twice-removed valiantly stepped in. After finishing a long list of errands, Grady walked through the door and before he caught his breath, three or four aunts met him with a fresh list of things to do. Grady sighed, “I can’t get anywhere for going someplace!”

Our faith often feels like that, doesn’t it? Following Christ presents us with a daunting To-Do list: lessons to learn, principles to live by, behaviors to modify, promises to trust, people to love, and so on. Just when we think we’ve got somewhere, we discover there’s more to do. We need to discipline our emotions better, become more attentive in our prayer lives, grow in our knowledge of the faith, etc. There’s always more. We can expect frustration and fatigue—days when, like Grady, we sigh, “I can’t get anywhere for going someplace!” But before we make the mistake of thinking we’ve fallen short, we should remember this reaction is common to all believers.

The epistles are peppered with encouragement to remain patient, committed, and tireless. Galatians 6.9 says, “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” In Hebrews 12.1-2 we read, “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.” Paul prefaces his letter to the Colossians by praying they will grow “in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience.” (Colossians 1.10-11) So while we sigh, we can’t allow weariness and impatience to overtake us. We are getting there. We are growing. And here’s a little secret we should always bear in mind. (Did I say “little”? It’s huge!) If we stick with it, we will achieve spiritual maturity because responsibility for our growth is not ours alone. Simply put, when we do our share, God finishes the job.

The Miracle of Our Making

By definition, faith in our Creator necessitates rejecting randomness. Everything about us—our making, movements, and moments—results from divine design. I am a gay male living in Chicago in 2011 because God willed it so. All that implies in terms of my beliefs, aspirations, relationships, and responsibilities is imbedded in God’s plan for my life. The same is true for you. Every aspect of your life—who you are, where you are, and when you are—is by divine intention. The miracle of our making is that God subverts ridiculously random biological and biographical odds to shape each of us specifically as God desires, for reasons only God can fully comprehend. Faith in God’s infinite wisdom and power precludes attributing anything to coincidence, accident, fate, or luck (good and bad).

Psalm 139.16 captures this splendidly: “Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” This truth puts to rest all questions about who we are, how we’re made, and why we’re made as we are. The shape and existence of every human is ordered by God’s sovereign decision. It’s that basic. As we fret over whether or not God creates gay people, if God means for some to be rich and others poor, and how can a loving God allow suffering, we delay asking the one question within reach: can we embrace divine purpose in our lives and trust God to fulfill it?

Psalm 139, cited above, is David’s masterpiece on the miracle of our making. It’s impossible to overstress its value to every believer—especially those subjected to attacks against the sanctity of their creation. We should know 139 inside and out, internalizing its conviction that God makes us with purpose. Yet the prayer that accompanies its soaring confidence appears at the end of the previous psalm: “The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O LORD, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of your hands.” (Psalm 138.8) In addition to shaking all doubt that God created us with purpose, we must also place uncompromised trust in God to fulfill it. When our stamina falters and endurance runs low, we turn to God’s steadfast, eternal love. It becomes our sole source of certainty. Because God loves us, God is actively engaged in our lives.

As we submit to divine purpose—whether or not we recognize what it is—God faithfully, diligently works with us to ensure it will be fully accomplished. This principle is constantly reinforced in Scripture. Philippians 2.13: “It is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose.” Ephesians 1.11: “In him we were also chosen, having been predestined according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with purpose of his will.” Romans 8.28: “We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” The discipleship to-do list is much more than a set of high-flown ideals. We approach our tasks as pragmatic techniques enabling God’s purpose. “Do not forsake the work of your hands,” we pray. We do our part and leave finishing the job to God.

Hope and a Future

Finally, we cannot sacrifice confidence in God’s purpose, nor our trust it will be fulfilled, to doubters and third-party opinions. What anyone else believes or thinks has no bearing on what we know. In Jeremiah 29, God instructs the prophet to write a letter to Jews living in Babylonian exile, urging them to build houses, plant gardens, and start families—to keep growing, living with purpose despite their status as outsiders. Such unorthodox behavior undoubtedly will raise objections among traditionalists, which is why the letter cautions, “Do not let the prophets and diviners among you deceive you,” dismissing their opinions as reactionary dreams. “They are prophesying lies to you in my name. I have not sent them.” (v8-9) The real deal becomes clear in verse 11: “I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

God created us to have hope and a future. With that truth secure in our hearts, we echo Paul’s certainty in Philippians 1.6: “Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.” When we’re faithful to God’s purpose, God honors our trust and finishes the job.

We start by following Christ and doing the work of discipleship. God finishes the job and fulfills the purpose for our creation.

Joy After Pain

A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world. So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy. (John 16.21-22)

Off-Screen

I once asked an obstetrician why doctors in old movies always send the father off to boil water while they tend to the mother. I suspected it had to do with sterilizing instruments. She laughed, “Who knows?” Barring complications, she explained, childbirth requires no more than a scissors to cut the umbilical cord. Since that’s immediately tied off, risk of infection is close to nil. She theorized the convention was meant to divert attention from the delivery. “The last thing the studios wanted was a movie goddess panting and sweating. In the time it takes a kettle to boil, the baby could be born, bathed, and blanketed, the room tidied up, and the star’s make-up reapplied. For glamour’s sake, off-screen worked best, I suppose.”

Movie mentality leads us to glamorize the Nativity. (Matthew and Luke help by discretely ignoring the delivery.) After Mary and Joseph find shelter in a stable, we fade to black to indicate passage of time and fade up on the Babe in the hay; Mary refreshed and rested; Joseph calm and collected; livestock lowing while the couple hosts a bizarre group of surprise guests. Our hearts sing, “Joy to the world! The Lord has come!” We extol the “miraculous birth of Jesus,” when it’s nothing of the kind. It’s like any other birth: painful, prolonged, and—because Mary’s away from home, without a midwife or female relatives to coach her through it—an agonizing ordeal. Oh, and there’s one more thing. Since she and Joseph are well aware of the Baby’s identity, the prospect of losing Him surely terrifies them. Those off-screen hours must be their darkest, loneliest, and most tentative. Yet injecting a harsh dose of reality into the Christmas story ultimately amplifies our joy and wonder, because every birth brings joy after pain. Every newborn is a miracle.

Greater Joy

Strangely, the best description Scripture affords of Mary’s delivery is found in a comment Jesus makes at the Last Supper. He prepares the disciples for His execution by comparing His absence between death and resurrection to a mother in labor. “A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come,” He tells them. “But when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world.” (John 16.21) Irony colors the remark coming, as it does, from the Child born to die to bring life to a dying world. One can’t help wondering if Jesus says this with His mother in mind, knowing His crucifixion will plunge her into a second labor while she awaits His rebirth as the Risen Christ. Although the Gospels single out the twelve male disciples at the Passover meal, it’s not unreasonable to imagine Mary and other women disciples are also present, opening the possibility she hears Jesus say this and understands Him more clearly than the rest. She alone knows the joy after pain of giving birth to God’s Promise. Only Mary could grasp the full extent of what Jesus is predicting and what He’s asking His followers to do. As Luke 2.19 so splendidly summarizes her Childbirth experience, “Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”

Jesus tells the disciples, “Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” (v22) If Mary indeed hears Him say this, her mind flashes on her struggles to safeguard her joy. The movie moment imprinted on our brains—the bucolic tranquility of the star-lighted stable—is short-lived. Big trouble brews in Jerusalem. The Magi have tipped Herod off that a potential challenger has just been born. His astronomers verify the possibility. It’s quickly apparent Mary and Joseph are at the center of a political crisis that could end tragically for their Newborn and them. They can’t go home. They can’t remain in Bethlehem. At the urging of an angel, they seek asylum in Egypt until the storm passes. They make huge sacrifices and take enormous risks to prevent Herod from stealing their joy. It’s unlikely they realize it amid their chaos, but in retrospect, they may figure it out: while the Child Who brought them great joy also jeopardized it, His presence with them inexplicably secured their joy from loss. That’s what Jesus wants the disciples to see. Because He’s with them, their joy is at risk. They will suffer pain and grief. Yet their anguish will give birth to greater joy that no one can take from them.

Pregnant with Joy

The parallels between Mary’s labor and the disciples’ anguish awaiting the Risen Christ’s return illuminate our awareness that lasting joy entails gestation. The joy Christ gives isn’t a by-product of happy coincidence. It’s seeded in us and takes time to develop. A number of times we hear Jesus mention this. In John 15.11, He says, “I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.” When He prays in Gethsemane, He tells God, “I am coming to you now, but I say these things while I am still in the world, so that they may have the full measure of my joy within them.” (John 17.13)

We are pregnant with joy—complete joy, the full measure of Christ’s joy. It is in us. While we marvel at this, we’re also aware joy’s delivery doesn’t come easily. We will labor to bring it to life. There will be dark hours of pain and anguish. And once we give birth to joy, its presence in our lives will stir jealousies and paranoia in others that will inherently create risks. We will struggle to safeguard our joy, making unforeseen sacrifices and perhaps even moving far from what we know to see that it survives. But once joy is born, its presence guarantees it cannot be stolen. The whole thing is a mystery. It makes sense until we try to make sense of it. Subjecting it to logic tears the concept apart. Joy after pain; joy in jeopardy is joy that endures. Cinematically, it doesn’t play. But somehow in Christ's reality it does.

We will labor to bring joy to life. There will be dark hours of pain and anguish. Once we give birth to joy, we will struggle to safeguard it. But no one will be able to take it from us.

Postscript: Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring

A Christmas favorite beautifully performed by Celtic Woman: Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

Called to Hope

I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you. (Ephesians 1.18)

How’s Your Hope?

This being Advent’s “hope week,” it’s been my daily focus. Yet I confess an odd sort of ambivalence about hope. Unlike faith and love—the other two abiding principles that complete Paul’s triumvirate in 1 Corinthians 13—hope strikes me as a slippery concept. Faith and love are easier to get our arms around, because Jesus and the epistle writers provide a plethora of definitions for them. On the other hand, as often as the word hope appears—180 times in the NIV—I’ve yet to find one verse that says, “Here’s what hope is.” Tracking down the Hebrew and Greek words only confuses things. Old Testament “hope” derives from “cord” or “rope,” indicating it’s a thing we hold and trust while we wait. New Testament “hope” is more straightforward: “expectation.” That gets to the nub of my consternation. When David says, “I hope for Your deliverance” (Psalm 119.166), he means, “I’m hanging on.” When Paul encourages us to “Rejoice in hope” (Romans 12.12), he wants us to exult in what we expect God will do. Where I come from, hanging on is one thing and exultation is another.

Imagine my perplexed response when thinking about hope brought this to mind: How’s your hope? I had no answer, as I had no idea what I’d asked myself. I fired back, “What do you mean?” (I have these testy inner dialogues from time to time.) Was I wondering about my tenacity to believe or my ability to expect? “All of it,” I heard myself say. “How are you doing with it?” I didn’t like that question one bit. Truth be told, I don’t work too much on hope. I’m confident I have it. I expect God’s goodness and mercy in all things. As a rule, I trust God when I’m left hanging. Yet hope seldom captivates my thoughts. I’ve settled for having it instead of doing it, twisting it into a limbo lobby, a type of suspended optimism I hang with until something actually happens. Is that hoping? It sounds more like loitering. Now I realize why the hope I project on Advent texts feels ambiguous and thin. I’m not seeing the writers and figures do hope. I’ve got them waiting—albeit excitedly—for the show to start, and that’s not what they do, since that's not what hope is.

Before Our Stories Happen

Hope is a tough concept for us because we take its operative principles less seriously than our ancestors. Modern cynicism and self-sufficiency lend credence to “promises are made to be broken.” Nowadays, it’s bad form to hold people to their word. Often out of grace, but also to escape appearing needy—Heaven forbid we rely on someone—we overlook most bad promises. (Forgiving them is a conversation for another time.) We forget little to no faith in promises produces little to no hope. To guard against disappointment, we view hope suspiciously, which is exactly not what it’s for. Hope is given to nurture confidence in promises until they’re honored. The ancients understood hope more clearly. In their day, the burden of hope rested on the promise maker, not its taker, because they had no alternative to depending on one another. If the farmer didn’t deliver promised grain, no one ate bread. If the weaver didn’t produce promised cloth, everyone wore rags. Promises held the world together. Hope made it spin. Their combined gravity secured daily life. That’s why God’s promises and our hope form the braid—the cord—that ties Scripture together, and why we’re consistently told to be true to our word, even as our Creator honors promises to us.

Rethinking hope as an active pursuit rather than passive—possibly futile—occupation also reveals its hidden beauty. It’s the key to entering our stories before they happen. It puts us where we want to be ahead of actually getting there. Reality-clouded intellect would have us dismiss canny hope as callow fantasy. To go through life hanging on promises, fully expecting they’ll come to pass, seems naïve and weak-minded. We’ve even coined a euphemism for it: living in denial. Paul challenges this, asserting hope is the sign of hard-won, inner strength: “We know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame.” (Romans 5.3-5) Yes, hardship builds character. But ending the process there limits involvement in our narrative to the moment it calls for character. True strength becomes evident when trust in God’s promises presses us to finish the sequence—to muster the guts to hope. According to Ephesians 1.18, that’s what God hopes we’ll do: “I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you.” We are called to hope. While murky minds don’t see it, our enlightened hearts recognize we have a place in our story long before promises we rely on come about.

Arriving

Look at the characters arriving at the Christ-Child’s manger. Need we ask what brings them there? Every one of them, from Mary and Joseph to the Magi to the lowliest shepherd, lands in this filthy barn on wings of hope. They embrace God’s promises and act on them. They leave what they know behind—friends and families, palaces and pastures—answering God’s call to hope. Terrible outcomes cannot be ruled out. Obeying God’s call could end with Mary and Joseph being stoned as fornicators. Seeking Christ’s birthplace could result in the Wise Men’s arrest as covert insurgents. After abandoning their flocks to worship the Savior, the shepherds could return to find their livestock stolen or destroyed. Yet not one of us would consider any of the Holy Infant’s attendants delusional or weak-minded. They’re paragons of insight and strength!

Hope makes arriving at God’s promises possible and vindicates us from doubts and criticism along the way. God calls us to hope—to enter our stories with God, to follow God in active expectancy, to pursue God’s promises with enlightened hearts. Hope takes us where we’re headed before we get there. It’s what proves strength of character forged in hardship. Hope is what we do, leaving everything we know behind and trusting every risk we take will be rewarded. So how is your hope? How are you doing with it?

Hope is the key to entering our stories before they happen.

Postscript: “The Solid Rock”

This incredible choral arrangement combines two favorite hymns: “My Hope is Built” and “Standing on the Promises”—neither of them Christmas carols, but both appropriate for anyone who follows hope to the manger. With minor regrets for not finding better video with the song, it’s my great joy to leave you today with “The Solid Rock” by Rev. Walter Hawkins and the Love Center Choir. I have no doubt you’ll be inspired by it!

THE SOLID ROCK

My hope is built on nothing less

Than Jesus' blood and righteousness

I dare not trust the sweetest frame

But wholly lean on Jesus' name

When darkness veils His lovely face

I rest on His unchanging grace

In every high and stormy gale

My anchor holds within the veil

On Christ the Solid Rock

On Christ the Solid Rock

His power is able to keep me from falling

Having done all to stand He will make me strong

On Christ the Solid Rock I'm standing tall

When He shall come with trumpet sound

O may I then in Him be found

Dressed in His righteousness alone

Faultless to stand before the throne

On Christ the Solid Rock

On Christ the Solid Rock

My faith has found a resting place in Jesus

I love Him more each day; His love has shown the way

On Christ the Solid Rock I'm standing--

Just for me He chose to bleed

For my sins He took the blame

And then He died for all

So that all could come and not be lost

Standing on the promises of Jesus Christ, my Savior

Glory in the highest I will shout and sing His praise forever

On Christ the Solid Rock

He is that Solid Rock

On Christ the Solid Rock

I'm standing tall!