Christmas quandry

The following is a quote from Robert MacColl Adams (1913-1985) from a letter he wrote in 1982. I thought it was worth some reflection this week.

I have this running quandary about Christmas. I get upset about it, because I feel that we American Christians make too much of it, and too little. Too little of it, because we pile all sorts of other things onto it, including some that have only the feeblest connection with the Event it is supposed to commemorate. If God did become a man, in any real sense, it is the most important thing that ever happened. Surely we, who believe it, could well devote one day a year to uninterrupted
contemplation of the fact, and let Saturnalia fall on the winter solstice, where it belongs.

On the other hand, we make so much of the actual birth, and forget the things that make it more than just the birth of a baby (though even that is, in Walt Whitman's phrase, "miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels"*)--more, even, than the birth of the greatest man who ever lived. We forget the promise to Eve of a descendant who will solve the problem of Evil; the promise to Abraham of one by whom all mankind will be blessed; the promise to Moses of a greater prophet than he, to arise from his people; and the promise to David of a Son who would be his Master. We forget about the eternal Purpose behind it all: it's like telling a story and leaving out the point. Yes, it is true that God gave us His Son, and so maybe we ought also to give gifts--but what, and to whom? It is also true that God gave us Himself, and the only sensible response to that is to give ourselves to Him. There is nothing else that He wants from us, or, if there is something, He can take it. Only I, my ego, my heart, is truly mine to give or to withhold--and is therefore the appropriate gift to Him.

* Walt Whitman (1819-1892), Song of Myself, in Leaves of Grass

competitors...or brothers?

"When we confess our virtues, we are competitors; when we confess our sins, we are brothers." --Karl Barth

A radio caller the other day had struggled to find acceptance in his own community of orthodox Jews and raised this question: "Are people harder on those in their own group than they are on outsiders?"

It's not a bad question. It seems to be a problem in religious communities everywhere: Jewish, Mormon, Muslim, Baha'i, Christian, and more. I've experienced it myself, seen it in the news, and listened to the experiences of friends from other faiths. As I mulled it over, however, I began to wonder if the issue wasn't less about faith communities and more about grace vs. works.

Ironically, living under a system where you try to earn salvation or God's favor by keeping the law, doing good, or being morally upright cultivates a judgmental heart. You live through the strain of fighting your nature to resist doing the things you shouldn't and actively do the good things you don't really want to do, and in the end if you're "successful," you become a morally upright person who expects the same from the others in your group. After all, "I was able to do it; you should be, too." Those who fail are seen as spiritually lesser people who just haven't tried hard enough. It may not be overtly stated that way, but within the hearts of the successful do-gooders, the judgment is there, looking down on others in the group with disappointment (at the very least) and self-righteous pride in their own ability to make the cut.

Contrast that with life under a system of grace in which I see myself as I really am--no hiding or sugar-coating to impress the other religious people in my circle--just a person whose nature is to run my life on my own apart from God. I replace Him with a myriad other things I love more and set myself up as the ultimate master of my fate, the decision-maker, the authority over myself--my substitute god. Before the creation of the world, God knew I would exist and choose myself as ultimate, living as if He didn't exist or have any right to my life...and before setting all of it in motion He provided my only way of escape from the damning treadmill of self-effort and self-righteousness: the perfect God-man, Jesus, who laid His life down in my place and bought me at great cost to Himself. When I trust that what He did for me was enough to save me, and that His sacrifice applied to my life changes my standing before God, I am overwhelmed by His grace.

That grace overflows onto the lives of those around me. I'm no longer critical, inwardly judgmental, self-righteous, and expecting others to meet a standard. I am overwhelmed, aware of my unworthiness of such a gift, amazed that He would set His love on me, and overflowing with love for people still on the treadmill.

It is the system of works and self-effort that creates judgment for others in our own group. I have experienced it firsthand with people who say they're trusting God but live in their own strength without any experience of intimate community or the strong freedom that comes from God's grace. This kind of grace from God creates groups of people who love each other deeply, supernaturally, intimately, with no strings attached and no judgment rendered. This is not theory; I have experienced it firsthand, and there is nothing like it. God's gift of grace evaporates self-righteousness and replaces it with love for those struggling with sin...because I see myself as a co-struggler and recipient of undeserved favor. I see others differently and am free to pour love into the lives of those who struggle with me.

God's furniture in the dark

I just finished reading about the life of Helen Keller. The dark silence was her suffocating enemy, and yet at the same time, her great clarifier. She had no distractions--only darkness blocking out any context. Fear, anger, craving, passion all swirled within her, but the darkness gave her focus.

There is an element of freedom in being blind to what lies ahead. We are ALL blind to what lies ahead; we just don't realize it until something unexpected happens, leaving us aware of our fragility. The vulnerability we feel in dark silence rouses our courage to move forward even when we can’t see what’s in front of us.

It reminds me of God’s call to Abram to leave home and go to "a land I will show you." Taking steps in the darkness is faith. The furniture of God’s dimension is all around us. We know it’s there because, like Helen Keller, we are constantly bumping into it, but taking the steps is still such a fearful thing. I can't see God--what if He's not who He says He is? Where is He leading me? I'm bruised from the collisions--"Why would a good God have put that in my way?! Why didn’t He take it out of my path, or at least guide me around it?"—but these things are proof of His existence, His ownership, and His goodness. We can't see the shapes and colors behind the dark or hear the other-dimensional melodies, but the obstacles He places in our path still teach us about Him. We bump into the furniture, grope for His hand, and feel the vibrations of His voice; we know He’s there.

Our darkness is our only opportunity to show Him we trust Him. When our eyes are opened we will see plainly, and then He will overwhelm us--there will be no faith, just seeing. I want a ferocious faith that takes steps in the dark and flings itself on His goodness. Everyone experiences darkness and silence, but knowing Him brings context to the darkness. Faith in His word and His character are our beacon of light. We do not stumble around in despair, but walk confidently in the light of hope, trusting Him in darkness or in light.

daily cycle

I wake up (kind of) to face breakfast--my albatross in life--with small boys dancing around my feet like baby birds with mouths clamoring for food.

At midnight I drop into bed with my mind still whirring about the deeper things in life that have simmered under the surface all day; now it's quiet and dark and I remove the lid and sample their flavors. Finally it's time to feed myself; it takes a while to sort things out before I can fall asleep.

I don't think most women expect the tension from what I call "the mundane maintenance of life" that intensifies when we have children. Maybe it's just me--I get clogged up inside because I'm constantly hitting the pause button on my thought life to find lost shoes, answer "why" questions, handle crises, trim grubby fingernails, and focus on the expectant little eyes watching me. These beautiful and demanding things force me to come down from my mental treehouse and be fully accessible to the moment. At the end of the day, it's not what's checked off my list that matters, but how present I was able to be with the people in my path. And kissing those soft little cheeks at the end of the day makes it all worth it.

On Thanksgiving Day morning, my pastor Matt Chandler had a seizure and was rushed to the hospital where MRI and CT scans revealed a tumor in the right frontal lobe of his brain. Yesterday he was in surgery for seven hours and is recovering well so far--a great relief to the thousands who love him and have been posting encouragement, hope, and prayer on Facebook from all over the world.

I've thought a lot about death this week. And life. About what matters...and what doesn't. It turns out my list of what matters most goes far beyond important things like happiness and my family, as precious as they are. Watching Matt and his family walk this road has challenged me:

• to quit wasting time on things that don't matter
  
• to stare in the face of suffering and trust fiercely in God's goodness
• to stop coddling the part of me that wants my own way
• to continually persist in surrendering all I am, all I have, and all I want to God
• to let God's view of me shape my life, not that of culture or other people

We have fasted, prayed, and pleaded for Matt's life, but most of all we've flung ourselves in wonder on God's goodness and have been reminded that keeping our hands open to the Lord is the only way to peace and joy. Everything I am and everything I have belongs to God: my husband, my children, my friendships, my finances, my health--everything. It is His to do with what He will. I just want more of Him. And if suffering gets me more of Him, I will walk through it with joy. He is my great reward--not anything He gives, but He Himself.

Steve McCoy explains on his blog the "deep blessing of having our theology put to the test:"

"It reveals whether we truly believe God is in control. Whether our peace will come from laying our anxieties before him. Whether we believe our spouse is the treasure God intends. Whether God is truly a greater treasure for us than our spouse. It's God's mercy that we go through times where there is nothing to lean on but Him."

Thank you, God, for Your "deep blessings" that push us to long for You beyond our capacity. You heal us body and soul.

Thank you, Matt. You stir up my affection for Him even in your suffering. Praying constantly for your quick recovery. Come back to us soon. We love you more than you know.