Stations of the Cross

Kelly and I drove downtown on Good Friday. We decided to walk around the city. Someone had told us there was going to be a Good Friday service out on the Market Square Mall, so we walked that way. The city radiated with families walking, children playing in the park, and music around almost every corner.

In the middle of the square, a small crowd gathered around a large wooden cross. We joined them. Behind us a group of young, dreadlocked musicians began singing at the top of their lungs. At first I thought they objected to our gathering, but then I realized they were singing, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” Not a bad pick for Good Friday.

As the priest climbed up the portable riser and starting reading the Scripture, all other sounds faded in the background. We heard the agony of Jesus as he cried out, “Abba Father, all things are possible to thee; remove this cup from me; yet not what I will, but what thou wilt.” We breathed the words of Jesus in prayer.

The priest called out, “We adore you, O Christ and we bless you.”
We responded, “Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.”

The priest invited volunteers to step up and help carry the cross. Standing only a few feet away, I stepped forward with a few other people. Silently we walked the square. Although we shared the burden, the weight surprised me.

With each step, the weight of the cross pressed us down. We walked by people eating, children running through the park, musicians playing their songs. I cannot help but think of people carrying the weight of suffering while surrounded by a world that never stops. Never notices.

I cannot help but realize that we cannot bear this weight. We are the weak and slumbering disciples. And He is the suffering servant.

“We adore you, O Christ and we bless you.”
“Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.”

At each station a different minister climbed the portable riser. At each station the Word of the Lord was read. At each station we paused and contemplated our Savior.

I thought of the early church remembering the steps of Jesus. Just like the ancient Hebrews remembered Passover by rehearsing the last night in Egypt, the followers of Jesus remembered the Lamb of God by rehearsing His final hours. In the early centuries of the church, processions became a way of remembering.

The processions often lasted for hours as believers walked from church to church with a short ceremony in each church. Historian Jaroslav Pelikan explains that these early processions played an important evangelistic role as the gospel was proclaimed in song and images and sermons.

So we walked from station to station. We listened to the Word of the God. We proclaimed the goodness of God.

“We adore you, O Christ and we bless you.”
“Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.”

As we walked, the cross seemed obscured in a sea of faces. Round faces. Faces full of vitality and beauty. Faces aged and distorted by time and tragedy. Faces worn by the sun. Faces scarred. Faces covered with long and short beards.

As I gazed out, my inward eye beheld a painting by Hieronymus Bosch called, Calvary. In the vivid painting, Jesus is carrying the cross in a mass of people. Eyes closed and head leaning toward his destiny, Jesus is pressing through the rabble.

Calvary by Hieronymus Bosch

Most of the other faces form grotesque shapes of flatted lips, crumbling teeth, bulging eyes, and jutting chins. The faces are distorted and grotesque. They remind me of the orcs in the Lord of the Rings. In the midst of this ugliness, Jesus presses forward. The monstrous crowd is so preoccupied they fail to notice God-in-the-midst.

My inner vision of Bosch’s unsightly painting and my outer vision of the faces surrounding the cross collided. I suddenly realized it. Bosch was painting us. He captured our deformities, our misshapen heads, our twisted mouths and darkened eyes. He painted our corruption.

As Athanasius reminds us, we turned from God toward corruption. The Lord steps into our vile ungodliness and redeems us. He names us. He bears our shame, so that we might bear his glory. He declares us beautiful and we are beautiful.

As the final station came to a close, the crowd sang the old spiritual, “Were you there, when they crucified my Lord.” On this sunny, Good Friday evening, we were there. And ever-so-briefly, we beheld Him lifted up for all mankind to see.

“We adore you, O Christ and we bless you.”
“Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.”

photo by z_everson on flickr

1 Psalm Of David When he was in the desert of Judah
God, you are my God, I pine for you;
my heart thirsts for you, my body longs for you,
as a land parched, dreary and waterless.
2 Thus I have gazed on you in the sanctuary,
seeing your power and your glory. Psalm 63:1-2 (New Jerusalem Bible)

The other day as I read Psalm 63, I was deeply moved by the first two verses (see above). When I tried to express what moved me, I wrote the following essay. Hopefully it makes sense and will bless someone.

Exiled in the wilderness, the psalmist gives voice to a wilderness deeper than the barren landscape. As he cries out to God, he gives voice to the ache and longing of people across the ages.

I have known the wilderness. Not the wilderness of desert living, or the wilderness of suffering under war, poverty or totalitarian rule. But I have known the wilderness of a dry soul, aching for something, someone.

When I was just four-years-old, I remember sitting amidst the toys and trappings of my Bozo-encircled room wondering, “Why do I exist?” In the stillness of the night or the quietness of the day, the longing for something or someone penetrated my heart even then. Looking through the fairy tale books, I longed to jumped inside the pictures and enter their world.

This longing opened the world around me as though everything was pointing beyond itself to something or someone. The soil in our backyard hid treasures just out of sight. The basement in our house pressed right up against other realities, powers, beings. In my childlike mind, the world seemed to open in two directions.

A thin veil stood between me and a world of light as well as a world of darkness. At times, everything around me seemed ready to burst forth in song at any moment. At other times and places, everything seemed pressing up against a terrifying void. This darkness threatened to disintegrate everything and everyone.

The hell I feared was not of fire but of isolation, disintegration, and absolute loneliness. In this world, hell would be waking up to no one. Consciousness without any relationship.

I could not survive by staring down into the abyss, so I searched for the light places, the holy places, the sanctuary. And like the psalmist, I’ve seen God’s glory and might in these thin places. I’ve found refuge and peace and joy within the wells of faith.

Like the sparrow who builds a nest, I found my nest in the faith of my fathers. I make no great claims to have disputed and disproved competing truth claims of world systems, religions, and ideologies. When facing the darkness, I’ve done what most children would do, I went home. Home to the faith of my fathers.

Wrestling with the claims of Christianity, I encountered the Who who kept calling, provoking, striking my heart. In the heart of Christian faith, I met Love in Person. So I write and speak and think from the position of one who keeps coming home to rest in Christ.

From this place of rest, I join the psalmist who prays,

“Whom have I in heaven but you Lord, and to be near you, I desire nothing on earth.” Psalm 73:25

This short sentence has become something of a “breath prayer” for much of my life. Sometimes this prayer stood between me and the darkness. At first, this prayer was most likely a prayer of escape the struggles of this world.

Over time, I discovered something hidden deeper within the prayer. It is a prayer of relation that is not escaping earth by going to heaven. Rather, it is a prayer for relationship in the midst of the injustices, struggles and questions of this earth. The psalmist desires nothing of an earth where the Lord is absent, where humans are cut off from one another, where our own selfish cravings drive us further and further into isolation, destruction, and corruption.

The psalmist cries out not to be abandoned. He is not abandoned. The Father loves His creation. The Father loves His rebellious children who run from the light of His love. The same Lord who created the world in relationship, redeems the world in relationship.  The Father reconciles the world in and through the Son by the power of His Spirit. He enters into the breach of relationship between God and humanity. He brings all the anguish and suffering and disaster of this breach within Himself.

This restoration is about glorifying the entire cosmos in a relation of love. It is this relation, the mystery of this love revealed in Father, Son and Spirit, calling me into love, into relation, into life.

It seems now that the walk between darkness and light has been a walk between love and rejection of love. On the one hand, the Father has caught me up in a dance of love between Him and all His people. On the other hand, I am tempted to rejected this love, this dance.

In of our world of broken humans, rejecting love becomes so easy for all of us. We can be offended by almost every person we meet during the day. Real pain and real grief from the present combines with old offenses stretching back into relationships and even into childhood. We haunted by the ghosts of our past.
To escape, we may reject love, escape relation and plunge into a waterless wilderness of self-absorption, self-preservation, and self-consciousness. Life becomes heartless and lonely and hellish.

Into the Gehenna of our own creation, the Lord comes. He finds us on the refuse heap of corrupting self-imposed exile and adopts us into the family of God.

He leads us into sanctuary, into a thin place where heaven penetrates earth. We discover this holy place is a place of meeting, a place of relationship, a place of meeting. He is dancing a dance of love. In Him, we hear a song that is singing through all His creation.

Some days, I hear this anthem of love wherever I go. When I show up at the coffee shop, He’s already there loving the people in line, at the counter, sitting at the tables.

Might I join Him?
Might I follow Him into loving those who offend me, who disagree with me, who compete with me?
Might I join Him in loving the Mary Magdelene and others who are cast out and put down by the world around?
Might I also love those in power like the Pharisees?
Jesus is free to love those above and below, those oppressed and those who oppress. He freely embraces friends who will prove unfaithful, unreliable, and undependable.

He even embraces Judas. After a night of seeking the Father about who to appoint as disciples, Jesus welcomed Judas into this community of love. Even though He knew Judas would ultimately betray Him, He loved him, He welcomed him, He served him.

He loves and loves and loves and continues loving from the cross. This love is not momentary: I love you today, but tomorrow I may cut you off. This love is eternal: it crosses ages; it penetrates the good times and the bad times. While looking upon those who are killing Him, He prays for their forgiveness.

His dance of love is a dance on the edge of heaven and earth where light streams through into all people and places. Even the darkness. Especially the darkness.

In this dance, my steps are faltering and failing. I often choose anger over kindness and jealousy over graciousness. Even when I resist and reject His love, He continues calling, embracing, transforming.

He reminds me that I’ve really been adopted into the family of God. I’ve really been embraced by a Father who can turn every wilderness into a fruitful valley. I can really rest in His love. He is completely trustworthy.

Even when I face the darkness of suffering and death, He is still present. In Christ, I let go of pains, of sorrows, of hurts. I can rest. I can dance. By His grace, I am learning to live in the wonder that is bursting through everyone and every thing.

So I join the psalmist this day in crying out for sanctuary in the midst of the wilderness. Lord, I long for Your unfailing love, let me dance with you, in you, before you.

photo from pfv.

At the end of my Sophomore year in college, our college pastor invited me to start a drama team. I was studying absurd theatre at the time, so the skits that came to mind seemed a bit strange for church. In one skit, one guy turns into a bowling ball and soon knocks over a group of human bowling pins. The point of this skit eludes me, but the strange transformation of human to bowling ball still entertains my imagination.

Another time, we staged a group of people standing around a plastic fire in post-nuclear holocaust America. In turn, each person spoke some strange incantation like mathematical formulas, gibberish, or sports talk. A manual directed every act, every movement around fake fire. In my own strange way, I was trying to communicate the problems of dead tradition.

We mocked the dead churches, the universities, and the whole culture as dancing around lifeless formalism. Our little drama team performed in churches and on the college campuses (street theatre) with a prophetic passion to waken the world to a revolution for the Lord!

Years later I stumbled across an essay by Thomas Merton entitled, “Tradition and Revolution.” He suggested that the Christian faith is both. We practice the faith of our fathers because it has been graciously handed down to us by tradition. And yet like true radicals, we must return to the “source” of our faith rooted in Jesus Christ.

Over the years, I’ve come to embrace the words I once derided as empty formalism. Words like tradition, ritual, and liturgy. I’ve come to believe that the path of faith is not simply a journey into the future (as though tomorrow is something we seek because it comes tomorrow). Rather, the path of faith treads upon the stones of tradition even as it stretches in revolutionary, unexpected twists and turns.

As we walk in Christ, we are walking backward and forward simultaneously. In Christ, we are stretching back to Father Abraham and the promise of world-wide redemption, yet we are also stretching forward to the New Jerusalem, and King Jesus ruling and reigning.

Recently, I was quietly repeating the words, “O Lord open my mouth and my lips will declare your praise.” As I formed the words on my lips, my breath carried the words into the air. I was praying inside the rhythm of breathing. It occurred to me that my breath moved like the gentle, steady liturgical rhythm of the church stretching across time and reaching all the way back to the ancient Hebrews worshipping the Lord of Glory in their psalms.

Their psalms still echo from our lips. And we still move in a great dance of God’s Spirit that stretches from the creation of the world to the climax of history.

As I think about my life, I realize how much of it has been in rhythm. Repetition. Patterns appearing again and again much like the repeated patterns of tradition. My family shared a meal every evening. This family meal repeated over and over and over throughout my childhood taught me about eating, about socializing, about language, about relational dynamics, about storytelling, about prayer, about listening, about loving. In less than an hour each evening, I gained an education deeper and far more lasting that all my years in school.

We learn by repetition. By patterns. In fact, we can rest in the cycle of day after day after day. Or for many, weekend after weekend after weekend. The repetition of sleep and eat, of day and night, of work and play brings sanity to our chaos-ridden world. This repetition of pattern is like the tradition of our fathers. And tradition is gift. It is the gift of be able to keep walking even when I’m tired.

In Fellowship of the Ring, the weary travelers must walk beneath a mountain. For days they walk in the dark. For days they feel the dread of shadows following, watching. For days they have no sense of what lies ahead or when they will finish this drudgery. But the pattern of walking one step after another step after another step keeps them going through darkest pit until eventually they reach light again.

In our lives and in the history of the world, there have been tunnels, dark ages, hidden suffering when the light seemed to be gone. In this valley of the shadow of death, we cannot see the light but we must keep walking. Peter exhorts those suffering under these shadows to humble themselves under God’s hand and resist the evil one. And Paul encourages the saints when “when having done all, to stand firm” (Ephesians 6:13).

Much of our life is lived in the pattern of faithfully standing or walking or doing what we know to do. It isn’t all fireworks and drama and excitement. It is faithful submission. In some ways, it is like the simplicity of breathing. We don’t think over every breath. We don’t find some great spiritual meaning or experience in every breath. And yet, every breath sustains us. Whether joyful or sorrowful, each breath is vital for our survival.

Walking in the rhythm of tradition like weekly church observance, daily prayer, reading of Scripture is much like breathing or eating a meal with our family every day. We follow a pattern and we faithfully act and live inside the pattern. Sometimes it’s exciting and sometimes it’s not. Yet, this pattern is resisting the very real forces of chaos and evil in our world.

And from time to time, this pattern, this rhythm is disrupted by a voice. The call of God may challenge us to step outside the rhythm into a new path, a new walk. God calls Abram to “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.”

This revolutionary call is not simply to young men for even the old men will dream dreams. As an older man, Moses is called. He must leave and return to his people.

And so we always live between tradition and revolution. Between standing and stepping out. For some of us, the challenge is learning how to live faithfully in the patterns of day after day after day. While it doesn’t seem dramatic, it may be the step by step prodding of God’s people as we follow our Savior who is ushering in His Kingdom in every city on the earth.
Even as some of us may need to rest in the simple pattern of faithful obedience in the mundane, others may be called, may be disrupted into a new path. Some may be like Zechariah. He and his wife were “advanced in years.” Their days of revolution were over. Or so they thought. In the midst of worship, the Lord calls Zechariah to a new path. His life and marriage are disrupted by the surprise birth of John the Baptist. God may soon  disrupt your life with a surprise that will change everything.

Someday maybe I’ll write another absurd skit. And the absurdity will be that some people can be plodding along in the path of ritual, simple obedience and faithfulness to tradition while others will be disrupted by the surprise of God into something new, something unexpected, something revolutionary. And both sets of people will be circling the same fire, the same person, the same Savior.

Don’t sell your Soul, originally uploaded by FotoRita [Allstar maniac].

“I think the Lord may be calling me to die a martyr’s death.” I told my one of my college friends.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” he replied.

As it turns out, many of the guys in our college group had a sense that we would give the ultimate sacrifice in service of the gospel. And we were ready.

25 years later and I’m still here. In fact, I think all of us are still here. As far as I know, none of my friends were thrown into prisons, shot in the jungle, killed in the arena. We were ready to give everything, but God called us to give something.

Jesus tells his puzzled listeners that they might just have to give up their hands, their feet, and even their eyes if they are going to follow him into the kingdom of God. What? Laying my neck on the line is one thing, but giving up something specific like an eye, a hand or even a foot is asking too much. Sometimes it is easier to die heroically than to live in humiliation.

Several years ago when I entered in dialysis, I was prepared to die. I felt a peace that if I didn’t survive God had already enclosed me in his loving grasp, and I could rest. In the mystery of His grace, I was blessed with another kidney.

In the last year, I lost a church building to a fire and a job to a sour economy. Strange as it sounds, these losses seemed far more dramatic to me than my health problems. I’m not sure I was even aware of the impact until my wife made a comment to me about dying. It seems I had been acting like I was dying again.

She saw through this and spoke to the discouragement that seemed to sap my vision and steal my laughter. I realized that I felt as though God was cutting off a foot, a hand, an eye. By inviting me into failure on multiple fronts, I experienced shame, anger, resentment, and jealously. I had begun reciting a daily litany to her of my failures.

This litany of self pity hid an unwillingness to trust in God and a resentment toward those who enjoyed the blessings I felt that God owed me. In His grace, He revealed my own unwillingness to love and my own desperate need for His grace to repent and rest in His love that flows through me to all people, including those I’d prefer to be mad at.

Sometimes He calls us to cut off the foot, the hand, the eye because they have become obstructions to love. Sometimes He simply amputates the offending limb. He removes those things that hide our hurts, our broken places, our attitudes that resist the limitless love of God. These things seem so deeply connected our lives, our ego, our identity that to lose them feels as if we’ve lost a vital limb.

In the midst of such sacrifice, we may live under the illusion that we cannot continue to live without our foot, our hand, our eye, and sadly many times we sink into depression and even bitterness. But the call of amputation (whether it’s the loss of a dream, a house, a job, and sometimes even a relationship) may just be the call of love.

Paul encouraged the saints to love for love is the fulfillment of the commandments.

Owe no one anything, except to love each other, for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. For the commandments, “You shall not commit adultery, You shall not murder, You shall not steal, You shall not covet,” and any other commandment, are summed up in this word: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore love is the fulfilling of the law. (Romans 13:8-10)

But what we may fail to realize is that learning to love will not simply cost us everything, it will cost us something. The wounds of sin have damaged each of us in ways that hinder us from loving fully, completely, divinely. The trauma of living in a sin-stained world means that we will and do continue to suffer wounds. Whether acknowledged or not, these wounds are real, are painful, are deadly.

Many a successful law practice, business and even church has been built on the foundation of wounded hearts in need of healing. The success simply hides the ache. While the Pharisees appeared as the righteous leaders, Jesus accused them of being white-washed tombs. The nation of Israel appeared to be worshipping YHWH and walking in His righteousness, but Isaiah indicated otherwise.

Outwardly they appeared righteous and holy, but they were really rag-covered beggars whose hearts were far from God. We are no different from the ancient Israelites. And often the successes that define us are merely compensations for the weaknesses we feel. Our hope, our strength, our victory is in Christ alone. Outside of His great grace, all our accomplishments whither and fade and blow away into dust.

In His great and unyielding grace, He is leading us into love. Love that fulfills the commandments. Love that rests in Him. Love that restores a broken world.

In my own journey, He has used the last year to challenge me yet again and more deeply to rest in His love, to abide in the vine and to let go of offenses and hindrances to love.

Oddly, this is the martyrdom I sensed in college. It is not a fast, glorious death, but a slow, hidden death in life that forms me and makes me into a living witness, a living sacrifice of His love. As I walk out the reality of His call in my life, I am sharing my humiliations with others in hopes of encouraging someone, somewhere at some time when you also are called to let go of feet, hands and eyes.

The loss will ultimately mean that we can walk more soundly, serve more faithfully, and see more truly. This is the journey of love, the journey of living martyrs, the call of discipleship. May we all know and walk in the wonder of this love that is unceasing.

Waking up to the sing song voice of his young son, Adin looked around and watched his little boy pitter patter around the room. Jonathan was excited. His boundless energy burst through his tiny limbs into an explosion of running and playing.

“Come Papa! Let’s go. Come Papa!”

Adin smiled as Jonathan tugged at his hand. Today he promised to take his boy on “pilgrimage” to the river. Even as he laughed at the non-stop antics of his son, he also teared. Jonathan was the unexpected gift of HaShem. And Adin could only lift his heart in thanksgiving.

For many years, his wife’s womb remained closed. Barren. Empty. Dry and lifeless. The crushing denial of children felt as though HaShem had stripped Adin of his heritage, his future.

What do you do when all your expectations fall, and HaShem is silent?

Born to a house of psalmists, Adin sang. He sang in the silence. He worshipped in the grief. His ache, his longing, his emptiness became a set apart place, holy unto the Lord. In his music, he bore the grief of Israel, he bore the ache of the fallen house of David, he bore the yearning of the settlers to rebuild the land.

As a psalmist and as an astute leader, Adin traveled throughout Palestine in service of Ezra. He would meet with city elders, bringing them copies of the newly arranged Tehillim to teach the people in the communities throughout the land. If Israel was to learn the law of the Lord, they must learn to sing the songs of the Lord.

So he traveled and taught and sang. But today he rested. Today he celebrated the gift that came to him and his wife. Long after they assumed HaShem had closed her womb, she conceived. A son was born. A song was born.

For Jonathan came with rejoicing in his limbs. Laughter in his feet. Music in his fingers. Dancing in his eyes. And joy, joy unspeakable in his voice. HaShem remembered, and Adin rejoiced.

As Adin led Jonathan along the path to the river, he felt the boy leading him. Jonathan ran ahead, looked back and ran further ahead.

“Come Papa!”

“Yes son. I am coming!”

As Adin ran toward his boy, he thought this is the kind of journey I’ve needed for a long while. The last several months exhausted his body and mind. He was tired. Tired from walking day after day after day. Tired from seeing a people who were slow to respond to the Lord’s commission. Tired from watching for enemies in the land. He was tired.

Even as Adin sought to stir the people of the Lord to trust and faith in His covenant, Adin wondered if he still trusted. Some days it seemed as though he ate the bread of anxious toil. Rebuilding the land, restoring the house of David, reviving the law seemed too difficult in this land of disrepair.

Yes, the Temple had been rebuilt, but the wall around Jerusalem, the Holy City, still lay in shambles. The rich still oppressed the poor. The communities still seemed slow to hear and obey the law of the Lord. The enemies in the land seemed too numerous and too fierce and too seductive.

They threatened Israel with violence and compromise. Adin wondered how much he and Ezra’s other servants could really do to overcome this opposition. With so much work to be done, Adin sometimes wondered how the kingdom could really be restored.

“Come Papa!”

The energy of his bubbling boy burst into Adin’s distraction. Jonathan discovered a field of wildflowers and was running, laughing and circling a flittering butterfly. Adin joined in the game as they both chased the butterflies dancing above the flowered field. Father and son laughed and ran and played until both their bodies gave way and they fell into the pool of blooms.

Jonathan’s little body curled up in his father’s arms and after just a few minutes he drifted off to sleep. They had not reached the river yet, but this resting place served as a perfect pause in the journey.

Gazing on his resting child, Adin rested as well. The boy was a gift. The field was a gift. The flowers a gift. Everywhere Adin looked, he saw the gifts of HaShem. Deep in the wells of his heart, Adin began to realize he was resting in the gift of HaShem. His work, his watchfulness, his passion, were all gifts. But HaShem alone would rebuild his house. HaShem alone would restore the land. HaShem alone could establish the kingdom.

Adin closed his eyes, listening to the gentle breath of his sleeping son.

Unless the LORD builds the house,
those who build it labor in vain.
Unless the LORD watches over the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.
It is in vain that you rise up early
and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil;
for he gives to his beloved sleep.
Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD,
the fruit of the womb a reward.
Like arrows in the hand of a warrior
are the children of one’s youth.
Blessed is the man
who fills his quiver with them!
He shall not be put to shame
when he speaks with his enemies in the gate. (Psalm 127)

Somewhere I.A. Richards once suggested that we derive the meaning of words based upon the placement with other words. The clustering of words provides context for the word in question, which gives us a tool and clue for meaning. As I was reading Scripture this morning, I was thinking about how my life is a series of contexts (jobs, families, personal dialogues, health, and on and on). At different points, different contexts play a stronger role in my consciousness. At any given point, several contexts (and or stories) may be providing a filter for my perceptions.

Like the cluster of words in a sentence, this cluster of contexts provides a living hermeneutic for deriving meaning both in situations as well as in texts. As I approach the Scripture, these contexts play a role in what I notice or miss. Since I am one who believes in inspiration and revelation and the Holy Spirit’s role in the life of the person, I believe the Spirit is working in the midst of these contexts.

In spite of my flawed and failing knowledge, He can still in-spire by breathing upon me as I read and reflect. If I do hear or see insight in the text or in the given situation of my life, I believe and trust that is the grace of God bringing light into these myriads of context.

I’m reading Matthew 2 about the account of the wise men visiting the newborn Jesus. Sandwiched between this beautiful story of worshipping the newborn king and Joseph moving the family in response to angelic dreams, we have a story of bitter reality: the slaughter of innocent children. In fear and anger, Herod orders the killing of boys in a certain region.

The tragic tale awakens the reader to the harsh existence that has and continues to be the reality for so many people on this planet. As I think about it, I am confronted with questions about the nature of sacrifice (and human sacrifice in particular).

Why does Herod kill the children? Beyond his anger, he fears the prophecies and people who will rally around the prophecies about a king returning from the House of David. His actions are consistent with the actions of many kings acting to preserve power. Both in Scripture and in history, we see many stories of kings killing rivals and potential rivals–no matter how young.

So this is about power. Preserving power. What is the power for? In Herod’s case, it is power over people. Power to rule. Power to create the future (for better or worse and usually worse). If I look at stories of sacrifice in the Old Testament, I see sacrifices to idols connected with baal. If I understand this right (and I’m open to correction), baal is a generic divine name connected to the land. Baal “worship” is about power in the land, and primarily connected with agricultural cycles.

The people seek power from the gods of the earth for good crops, regular rains, and the proper rhythms that will yield sustainable harvests for the people. This is power for survival, which is still connected to power for the future. The focus upon generations (your children and your children’s children) in the Old Testament is about the future.

If I think in terms of Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy’s cross of reality, power would not be about the future only but it would move in four directions: future and past (time), inner space and outer space (time). The power to move in any of the four directions comes from sacrifice.

The issue of power is not relegated to the past. We still need power. We still fight wars (both in words and actions) over power.

If I look at the Bible in terms of power, I see two very different rhythms: God giving power and man taking power. Or “power as gift” and “power as forbidden fruit.” The first image is expressed in Genesis 1. God gives power generously to humans. There are three realms of existence that God gives power to man in Genesis 1: above the earth (skies or heavens), on the earth (land), and below the earth (seas). Eventually, man is promised power over the stars and moon as well. This power is gift and it is given in the context of relationship with God and man and woman.

But then I see the story of the Garden of Eden in Genesis 3. In this story, man and woman face a serpent who tempts them to take fruit that is not given to them. This is not about gift. It is about a perceived lack of power in man and woman. This perceived lack of power creates a perceived sense of scarcity. Man and woman take power that is not given, and God sacrifices an animal to cover them with skins.

These two visions of power move through all the stories in Scripture. In one vision, power is gift from God. There is no lack. There is abundance, promise, provision. In the other vision, power is not something given, but something taken. It requires violence. And it usually involves some form of human sacrifice.

Jesus comes into the world of scarcity, into the world of taking power. And he gives power. He gives it so completely that He reverses the rhythm of power by becoming the sacrifice that gives us power to move in four directions (per ERH): backward and forward (time) and inner and outer (space). And the ultimate promise is unveiled more fully in the NT of a power over stars and moon (i.e. – we will judge angels).

With an abundance of power restored in the cross, we can freely give away power (per Philippians 2). In other words, we can repeat the sacrifice. We are free to give away everything, including our lives to create the future, preserve the past, renew the soul (inner space) and/or rebuild the world.

Now this is why I don’t blog more. I intended to write two paragraphs! But as my mind wonders along an idea, I can’t stop. So I’ll force myself to stop here because I want to make a few notes about some other things.

This psalm reveals the holiness of God moving in and through His people in the midst of chaos. I believe this speaks to what is coming upon the earth.

First Stanza

Verse 1 – 3. “God is both refuge an strength for us, a help always ready in trouble; so we shall not be afraid though the earth be in turmoil, though the mountains tumble into the depths of the sea, and it waters roar and seethe, and the mountains totters as it heaves.”

(Vs. 1) The Lord is Holy. His holiness is perfect order. Therefore, his holiness is our only true refuge in the midst of the chaos.

(Vs.2-3) Sin brings disorder. Sin always works to chaos. It removes the core, and everything begins to fall apart. Here is a picture of chaos tearing the earth apart. There is no internal unity, thus the foundations are crumbling and the world is returning to the dark waters before creation.

This passage can be understood globally and individually. Anywhere sin has a stronghold, chaos will follow. Sin will always bring internal disorder. It moves people out from the purposes of God. And outside of God’s purposes all cohesive energy dissipates, thus everything moves into disorder and chaos. Many people live in a state of chaos. Their internal world is falling apart. Soon more will follow. Entire nations reel to and fro in the midst of this lack of cohesive energy.

The crumbling brings confusion, darkness, fear, and destruction.

Refrain. Yahweh Saboath is with us, our citadel, the God of Jacob.

(Note: The New Jerusalem Bible inserts the refrain found in verses 7 and 11 after verse 3, thus dividing the Psalm into three stanzas.)

The refrain occurs three times. Each time it reminds us that God of Peace remains present to those who humble themselves and cry aloud for mercy. It is imperative we learn to enter and dwell (by faith) in God’s holy presence. This is the only place of rest and peace. Those who fail to abide will grow weak and faint before having entered into what God has planned for them.

Rabbis have debated the meaning of Yahweh for centuries. Sometimes it is rendered, “IAM IAM,” or “I will be as I will be.” In his book Moses, Martin Buber explains that many ancient cultures believed that names had power. They believed if you spoke the true name of a person or a god you could control them. Thus their religion sometimes incorporated a form of divination. They thought they could control their gods through the name.

Moses asks God for his name. But God doesn’t give him a name, instead he says, “YAHWEH.” Buber interprets this phrase, “I Am and Remain Present.” Thus God communicates to Moses, “You cannot summon me like the Egyptians summon their gods. I Am and Remain Present. In the midst of your 400 long years of suffering, “I Am and Remain Present.” You cannot summon me, but I Am and have always been present. Even when you rebelled. Even when you killed the Egyptian. I did not turn my back. I Am and Always Remain Present- calling you to turn towards me, to face me, and yield to me. Thus life is listening and turning to the voice of God.

Using Buber’s interpretation, consider the refrain. In the midst of chaos, God says to His people, “I Am and Remain Present.” The Holy One of Israel, the source of creation and all order, remains in the midst of His people. He calls us to turn and listen. To find refuge in His holiness. Like Jacob, we cry aloud for mercy, and His holy presence surrounds us, engulfs us. The holiness drives out chaos from within. Holiness brings fire, not to destroy, but to root chaos. Holiness restores creation to perfect order.

Second Stanza

Verses 4 – 6. There is a river whose streams bring joy to God’s city, it sanctifies the dwelling of the Most High. God is in the city, it cannot fall; at break of day, God comes to its rescue. Nations are in uproar, kingdoms are tumbling, when he raise his voice the earth crumbles away.

Jesus said that streams of living water flow out from his people. Each of those who cry out for mercy, are immersed in holiness. This holiness springs out through them. When the believers come together, these streams form a river of holiness which brings joy to the church and prepares the way for the coming of the Lord. As the Lord descends in the midst of the church, this river of life flows out from her. She is unconquerable. Moving in His purpose, the people of God, as one body, one river, stands strong.

The church has been weak and frail. While many churches have externally stood against the world, the internal forces of the world of selfishness worked chaos within the church. In the midst of the battle, she was weak. But as the holiness arises in and through God’s people, the church is rescued.

The true order is Christ in the center of the church in the center of creation. When the church is restored, then the Word of the Lord goes out from the church which brings an end to systems and structures and governments which operate in chaos keeping the curse upon the earth. The Word of the Lord flowing out from the church, breaks this power, kingdoms of darkness fall giving way to the light, to restoration.

At this point there is another refrain. Reminding us that God is and remains present. He is and remains our refuge. We can never move beyond the simple truth of practicing the presence of God.

Third Stanza

Verses 8 – 10. Come consider the wonders of Yahweh, the astounding deeds he has done on the earth; he puts an end to wars over the whole wide world, he breaks the bow, he snaps the spear, shield he burns in the fire. “Be still and acknowledge that I am God supreme over nations, supreme over the world.”

All the effects of the chaos come to a halt through the power of holiness. Works of destruction are brought to an end. And all mankind will see the glory of the Lord. This seems to point to the ultimate restoration of all things into Christ. Holiness does not simply change our inward character, it also transform everything outward. It brings true justice into the world. This is possibly the beginning of a second Eden.

The psalm ends with the refrain. Regardless of what has been or is coming, God is and remains present. We must not look for him in the past (i.e. – focusing too heavily on what he did in the past, including the Early Church). We also must avoid looking for him in the future (simply waiting for the great revival or renewal or restoration to come). As servants of the Lord, we learn to watch for His coming and meet Him in the now.

Since I love getting presents this makes for a good tradition. While I realize that it is better to give than receive, I find it delightful to get…lots of presents. Presents and Christmas just go together. Some of my fondest memories from childhood include sitting under the Christmas tree and stacking up all the gifts that were labeled, “To Doug.”

During my early childhood, we’ve lived up in New Jersey. Every year we’d receive several large boxes from Tennessee, and each box was filled with presents from all our relatives.

What a delight I had to tear into the boxes, unpack the gifts and stack them under the tree. During the days leading up to Christmas, I’d sit by the tree and gather the “Doug” gifts, shaking, weighing and wondering upon the contents of each pretty package.

Sometimes I think I enjoyed the presents more before I opened them. The fancy papers, the colored bows, the odd shapes, and the varying weights all were a feast for my young imagination. Augustine’s idea that true happiness is found in anticipation of the good was being proved even in my childlike world of wonder.

In a way, this may be why Christmas sometimes seems like a letdown for some children and adults. The anticipation of the event is far more delightful than the actual experience. We discover like Augustine that the good we longed for is still ahead of us and not found in the mere gifts we exchanged.

As he reflected upon our longing for the “good,” Augustine came to believe that this good must be outside of us or we wouldn’t long for it. Then he assumed it must be something greater than what our outer world could supply. Because all our earthly goods never live up to the longing we have.

As he wrestled with this unfulfilled longing, Augustine came to see this greater good as something or someone that would fulfill the “desire” within us that drives us to long. And eventually Augustine came to realize that this “good” must be God, and that true happiness was found on earth in the anticipation of God who is beyond us.

For him, true earthly happiness was found in the longing for the “beautiful vision” of God. We merely touch hints of this vision in present life and will only enjoy the complete vision in the life to come. So even in the delight of a Christmas present, Augustine might see hints of God’s wondrous love.

I like that because my delight with Christmas presents might be seen as an act of spiritual devotion. Then again, it might be my unbridled selfish desires. And oddly enough, I suppose it is really a mixture of both. And God in his grace is working and transforming me in spite of my selfish motives.

But for now, let me go back to the presents! I have a question for you. What is the most memorable present you have ever received? I asked myself this several days ago, and oddly enough, it’s not an easy question to answer. All the presents blur together in my mind. Sweaters and pants and shirts and toys and boxes and bows all jumble together in one confusing mix.

So I’m not sure I can answer the question. After a few days of consideration, I have begun to remember the Bozo riding in the Bozo car that still sits in my house to this day. Then I remembered a Fisher Price circus set and a golf ball yo-yo and a train. Oops now the memories are flooding my mind: multiple race tracks, G.I. Joe dolls, magic tricks, a chemistry set, and a Tootsie Roll machine. Now I can’t stop. On and on I could go for pages listing trinkets and toys that delighted me for seasons of my childhood.

I failed to mention that the first gift which came to mind was a broken toy: a little car with broken wheels. I hated this gift but remember it more than any other gift. My sister and I were attending a youth choir Christmas party. We exchanged gifts using numbers we drew from a hat.

When I opened my little package, I was shocked to find a used and broken toy. Sad to say, I burst into tears. “Why me Lord?” “Why in heaven would someone have given me a broken toy?” As usual, my sister came to the rescue. She quickly pooled some money with another girl, and they ran down to the bookstore to buy me a puzzle.

I appreciated her kindness but somehow always felt a tinge of guilt playing with that puzzle. Why was I so sensitive and selfish over such a small thing? The memory stills haunts me on occasion.

I still wonder, “What is the story on that broken car?” Who thought bringing a broken car as a gift was a good idea? Were they too poor to buy something? If so, maybe this little broken car was actually a treasured gift, and they were giving me something of great value.” I’ll never know the story before it came to me, but I can tell you the story after I received it. Discarded. Trashed. But not forgotten.

Every gift is not simply a gift. It is actually a story in motion. It had a story before I got it and in one way or another it becomes part of my story once I receive it. For every gift that someone bought for me over the years, there was a moment or many moments of wondering, “What would Doug want?” Or possibly, “What can I get the best deal on?”

A whole series of thoughts might have occupied someone’s mind: “What size does he wear?” “What color does he like?” “Maybe I’ll just get him a goofy toy and call it a day.” For every gift someone bought for me, a thought or series of thoughts passed through their mind about me.

Now I realize something rather odd about the gift. It is actually an extension or symbol of the relationship I enjoy with that person. They took a few minutes to think about me and to find a gift for me because I am in relationship with them (even if that relationship consists in simply feeling some obligation to buy something).

Now this might seem odd, but I come to realize that gifts are but symbols for persons in my life. The wonder of gifts might not only point to some deep longing for the God, they might also point to the wonder of human relationships.

Looking around me at all the people in my life, I realize that I am surrounded by all shapes and sizes of gifts. Some talkative. Some quiet. Some big. Some tiny. Some friendly. Some a bit grumpy. And yet, in the mystery of God’s grace all these people are gifts of love and relationship God has granted me in this life: hints of His divine and all-surpassing love.

I can admire the packages. Or I can open up the gifts. How? I listen, enjoy, appreciate the wonder of the people around me. I can realize that each of these people have a story that extends far beyond me. But in some mysterious way I am part of their story and they are part of my story.

Every person in my life will change me and I will change them. I can celebrate them and thank God for them, or I can act like I got a bunch of broken toys. And ask, “Why me?”

I hope I’ve learned that even broken toys have mystery and wonder and stories that may unfold surprising hints of God’s goodness and grace.

As I celebrate the 12 days of Christmas this year, I am opening up gifts. Not physical boxes, but the amazing wonder of people in my life. From family and friends to the mystery of the stranger in the story, I am surrounded by gifts of wonder and glory. May I have eyes to see this wonder and sense the stirrings of a love from deep heaven that binds us together in grace.

Doug Floyd

“From a human perspective, when you compare [God] to the other gods of the other religions in the world, you have to say our God is really sort of odd. He uses the most common of people, people that aren’t any different from any of us here; he comes in the most common of ways, when by his Spirit an anonymous young woman is found to be with child. And the strangest thing is that he comes at all—he’s not the Above-Us-God, too holy to come down. This God’s love is so immense that he wants to come down. And he has proven his love by the fact that he did come down and touch our ground.”
James R. Van Tholen, Where All Hope Lies (cited from ChristianityToday.com)

Born into a family we grow and learn and change over time and in space. We move from infant to child to youth to teen to adult. Then our adult life is a separate journey that may repeat aspects of our childhood in differing order. Recently, I was thinking about this passage through time in light of Psalm 23.

I think this Psalm might provide a helpful lens to consider the path upon which we walk and the places we pass through along the way. At the same time, the Psalm may reveal some sense of the journey of Israel, God’s people chosen to bless the world. These thoughts are still forming, but I thought I’d jot them down.

Psalm 23 begins in the place of infancy:

1 The LORD is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
2 He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside the still waters.

The baby is completely dependent upon the gentle care of the parent. The babe has no wants and trust the parent to provide food, comfort, shelter and care. In the story of Ancient Israel, we see God rescuing the people from Egypt. They are completely helpless and can only survive by trusting in His complete provision. From crossing the Red Sea to drinking water from the rock, Israel must rest in God’s direct provision for their sustenance.

Like Israel, we begin in a place of complete dependence. We cannot safe ourselves. We are helpless, sinful, blind, and enslaved. In His grace, He draws us to Himself and feeds our soul. His love covers a multitude of sins. He showers us with grace. He heals us. Feeds us. And guides us.

But then the babe must begin to grow. They learn obedience, they learn discipline, they prepare to become adults who will carry on the name of their family. The giving of the Law at Mt Sinai is the gift of God to transform the children of Israel into a kingdom of priests who will bring blessing to the world. The parent trains their child in righteousness, and in the same way, the Father prepares us to bear His name. We must grow up into Him, into the life He has called us.

3 He restores my soul;
He leads me in the paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake.

There are seasons when He brings us back to the lessons of childhood. For the Father disciplines His true children. If we are to bear His name, if we are to reveal His blessing and glory, we must be trained in His righteousness by His Holy Spirit.

Adolescence can be painful. The shifting from child to man is wrought with emotional and physical development that turns the youth’s world upside down. For some this season may shift from extreme joy to extreme anger to extreme sadness. I would suggest it might be like passing through the “valley of the shadow of death.”

4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
For You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

As the Father calls us to grow up into love, we also must pass through the “valley of the shadow of death.” In this place, we face our own desperate need for God’s grace. It is here that we will learn the love of Christ. It is here that we will discover the great depth of God’s grace.

And it is here that we will face our greatest trials. For in the “valley of the shadow of death,” we face the wounds that sin has inflicted on our lives and through our lives. There are caves of bitterness and rejection and loneliness and anger. It is here that the seducer of our souls calls out to us. He seeks to lead into the tailspin of self-reliance, into the path of the dead.

In the “valley of the shadow of death” many people forget the green pastures they once knew. In fact, they begin doubt there ever was a shepherd caring for their souls. If you live in a cave too longer, you may quit believing in the sun. And eventually, you’ll become blind in the darkness. The valley of the shadow of death is dangerous and may cost us our life.

This is where advent begins. We join Israel in the valley of the shadow of death. We discover that their exile, their story of being cast into outer darkness is actually our story. For in this dark valley, we realize that we were not as shiny and pretty and wonderful as we had imagined. The wounds of sin have penetrated our memories, our hearts, our minds, and our souls.

Why would the Father so cruelly lead us into to such a place of death? It is here that we realize our deep need for healing and grace. It is hear that we discover a love that touches our deepest pains. Without passing through this valley, we will never know the depths of love, we will never be healed by the depths of love. In the place of death, of darkness, of exile, we must learn to cry out, “Lord have mercy!”

There’s only one way out of this valley of the shadow of death. It is by entering into the shadow. Death is the only way out. So we must enter the one who consumed and the grave. In the cross of Christ, we discover life.

Here we discover Jesus has already gone on ahead of us. He’s passed through this valley and His cross has made a way to another land. There is a feast awaiting us.

Psalm 23:5-6
5 You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
You anoint my head with oil;
My cup runs over.

Weeping may endure for the night but joy comes in the morning. The night of sin and death may seem to last and last and last. But it is but a blink of the eye compared to the joy that is to come in the full light of day. By His grace, we awake in the morning of His love (with the promise of day to come).

We return to the place of rest and trust in the Shepherd of our souls. But now we are adults. Jesus offers His body and blood as a feast of life in the midst of our enemies. The battles are not over. In fact, we may still face great suffering and struggle. But His Spirit has taught and is teaching of the wonder and secret of deep joy.

The joy of children is the joy of innocence. It is beautiful. Playful. Lyrical. The joy of adulthood is the joy that has the power to face the darkness, to drink the cup of suffering, and to continue singing and rejoicing. This is the joy of Paul and Silas imprisoned and beaten unjustly.

No they are not treated fair or right, but they can still rejoice in the Good King, the Savior of the World. In the midst of their enemies, they feast. They eat at the table of the Lord. They enjoy the anointing of God’s Spirit and are filling to overflowing with life that pours out upon the wicked prisoners and jailer around them.

By the great grace of God, we are called to grow up into priests, kings and prophets in the midst of world scarred by sin and corruption and death. We don’t escape this world of pain but we bring goodness and mercy into the midst of it.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days of my life;
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD
Forever.

As we grow, we learn to draw from the hope that is held securely for us behind the veil. This hope of complete redemption, of eternal glory, of faithful love sustains us. This hope is not in the shaking sand of emotional or mental assurance but in the absolute fidelity of Jesus Christ who cannot be moved but has already been faithful to the end of all things. His complete faithfulness to the Father in and through death continues shining as He raises from the dead, a light of hope bursting back from the end of all things to this moment in time.

So I rest in His faithfulness and know that the Shepherd of my soul will bring me to dwell in His house forevermore.