Tag: journals

Talk About Trouble: Intro

On this frigid January morning when I arrived to drop my daughter off at school, the staff and volunteers weren’t ready for us. At the designated drop off time, the cones were still on their dollies, the vests were still hung, and no one was there to greet or check in our students. The line of cars wrapped around the parking lot, waiting.

The question loomed in front of us all: what do we do now?

Little do we know how much our responses to the hiccups in our day reveal about our characters. Little do we know how far most of our responses are from God’s hopes.

A boy got out of the car in front of us, one of my daughter’s classmates. He’s twelve. I know because she went to his birthday party a month ago. He had a coat, but no hat or gloves, and the moment he stepped out of the car he already looked cold. He jogged across the parking lot as we all speculated where he was going. Was he going to tell them his mom had to get to work, could they please hurry up? Was he in desperate need of a bathroom?

“He’s probably going to help,” my daughter, who knows him, said.

Sure enough, a moment later, he reappeared in a vest and started helping set up cones. It’s not his job. It’s never been his job. No one else was doing it. No one asked him to do it. No one expected him to do it. He did not come prepared to do it. But he saw others struggling to accomplish the work, for whatever reason, and it was within his power to help – so he helped.

What can we bring to the Lord?
    Should we bring him burnt offerings?
Should we bow before God Most High
    with offerings of yearling calves?
Should we offer him thousands of rams
    and ten thousand rivers of olive oil?
Should we sacrifice our firstborn children
    to pay for our sins?

No, O people, the Lord has told you what is good,
    and this is what he requires of you:
to do what is right, to love mercy,
    and to walk humbly with your God.

Micah 6:8

And it struck me, thunder and all – that’s what Job means. That’s the difference between righteousness and its knockoff, hypocrisy. The difference between the real God and his countless imitations. Righteous men do not stop to think what they can gain by right action; God does not stop to think what reward he will receive for his goodness. He acts good because he is good. Job acted righteously because he was righteous. They need no reward to continue acting the same because it is what they are. The rewards they receive are only joy added to the joy of acting according to their being.

It’s all about motivation. I say it all the time, so I’ll say it again: it’s all about motivation!

What moves me to act the way that I act? What moves God to act the way that he acts? What is our motivation?

That is the question. (Sorry, Hamlet.) The answer to it reveals what is so well buried by our actions, by our accomplishments, by our outward appearances: our hearts. The revelation, purification, and reconciliation of our hearts with God’s heart is his ultimate purpose, the good thing his good heart wants to accomplish because he is good.

So, he allows us to be tested to reveal what we are made of. And one of the clearest ways to reveal our hearts is how we respond to trouble: our own, and that of those around us.

This morning, I saw a twelve year old boy meet God’s hopes for us all: when others struggled with the weight they carried, he did not mock, disdain, or complain about their weakness. He did not wait to find out they had a good reason before he would help. He did not stand in superiority over them and demand they meet some unrealistic, unhuman standard of strength, believing he could do better in their place. He was not entitled to their work or critical of their failure. He did not consider why they were late and whether or not they deserved to suffer the consequences of it. He just zipped up his coat, got out of the car, and helped.

So let’s talk some more about trouble. Let’s talk about Job. Let me talk about what I found.

Power Made Perfect

When I was little, we spent a good amount of time at the Christian bookstore. I loved the little knickknacks they sold there; delicate teacups and wall hangings with Bible verses on them, holographic bookmarks, name cards with name meanings and verses, pens and erasers and journals and gum and whatever little baubles they could slap a verse or clever saying on and call it “inspirational.” I bought a magnet once that had a puppy leaning sleepily on a dumbbell and saying, “If it can’t be easier, Lord, help me to be stronger.” For a long time, I thought that attitude sounded pretty holy.

I have lived around strong enough people in my life to know I am far from the strongest of people. I am the youngest in my family: weakest. I am the girl among the boys: weakest. I am the shy one: weak. The quiet one: weak. The bookish one: weak. Weak, weak, weak.

As an adult, I wrestle with less obvious kinds of weakness every day. I am the disorganized one: weak. The time blind one: weak. “Irresponsible,” people who grow frustrated with my weakness say. “Childish. Lazy.” And I hear what they don’t say: weak.

I hate watching nature documentaries because I see what happens to the weak in a world full of stronger things. I’m not a fool. I know I’m the one the predator targets. I know I’m not the one who wins the fight.

God and I have had many a discussion about my weakness. They tend to go like this: “God, why did you make me so weak? If it can’t be easier, Lord, help me to be stronger! I need to be STRONG!”

And God says: “My grace is sufficient for you, my power made perfect in weakness. Why do you need to be strong?”1

And I say, “But God. People are angry at me. They’re angry at me for being a burden, for being so weak that I tax their strength. I ask too much of them. I need to be stronger! I need to pull my weight.”

And He says, “The strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak, and not to please themselves. Blessed are those who have regard for the weak. I chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. Why do you need to be strong?”2

And I say, “But Lord, Your word says, “Be strong and courageous.”3 I need to be strong. I need to be strong so I can help the weak.”

And He says, “Be strong in me, and in MY mighty power. My power is made perfect in weakness. You have the strength to help the weak; you have Me. Why do you need to be strong?”4

And then I start to really think about his question. Why do I need to be strong? So I can take care of myself. So I won’t need help. So I can be impressive, not disdained. So I won’t be vulnerable. So I won’t be hurt anymore. So I will be safe.

And He whispers, “So you won’t need Me.”

And that’s it, isn’t it. I want to be strong so I can be independent from God. I want to be what He is so I don’t need Him.

And I feel His heart go quiet and sad. Because not only is He strong, He wants to be strong for me. He wants to give me the gift of His strength. He wants to show me His love this way. And I keep insisting that’s not enough for me. What an ungrateful way to treat a gift of love.

And what of this: what if God has allowed me to be weak to reveal the hearts of the strong? What if I am a challenge, a question: What if you were the strongest one? That may be the hardest test a soul can take. What would you do in God’s shoes? My weakness asks the strong. What would you do with His power? Will you spend your strength for yourself, or use it instead on me? How many strong people have flunked the test of the weak! Look at the cruelty splattered across the pages of human history, across our cities, in our streets, in even our homes, from one side of the world to the other and back again. What if my weakness exposes others’ wickedness so that humankind can repent – confess – be healed! What if it makes us marvel all the more at God, strongest of us all, who is never, ever cruel.

And God whispers, “Will you help them see Me? Will you be weak?”

All right, Lord. If my weakness reveals Your glory, then if it can’t be easier, be strong for me. If it can’t be easier, be my stronghold, my refuge, my strength! If it can’t be easier, then Christ’s power rest on me. Mine will be the witness of the weak.

Even the weakness of God is greater than man’s strength!5

“This is what the Lord says:

“Let not the wise boast of their wisdom
    or the strong boast of their strength
    or the rich boast of their riches,
but let the one who boasts boast about this:
    that they have the understanding to know me,
that I am the Lord, who exercises kindness,
    justice and righteousness on earth,
    for in these I delight,”
declares the Lord.” Jeremiah 9:23-24

  1. 2 Corinthians 12:9 ↩︎
  2. Romans 15:1, Psalm 41:1, 1 Corinthians 1:27 ↩︎
  3. Joshua 1:9 ↩︎
  4. Ephesians 6:10, 2 Corinthians 2:19 ↩︎
  5. 1 Corinthians 1:25 ↩︎

Do You Recognize Me?

Then they cursed him and said, “You are his disciple, but we are disciples of Moses! We know God spoke to Moses, but we don’t even know where this man comes from.”

“Why, that’s very strange!” the man replied. “He healed my eyes, and yet you don’t know where he comes from? We know that God doesn’t listen to sinners, but he is ready to hear those who worship him and do his will. Ever since the world began, no one has been able to open the eyes of someone born blind. If this man were not from God, he couldn’t have done it.”

John 9:28-33, NLT

Have you ever seen an acquaintance in the grocery store, at a child’s game or dance performance, at the playground, or somewhere else you don’t usually see them? You get that feeling, that don’t I know you? feeling, but you just can’t place them. They’re out of context. Usually you see them at church, and here they are at a dance recital. Usually they’re at your child’s school, and here they are at the grocery store. Usually they’re at work, and here they are at the playground. Without their context, they look familiar, but… why? It can be hard to recognize people when the setting changes.

The God of Israel hadn’t spoken anything new to the people of Israel in 400 years. They had meticulous records of all He had said to them throughout history, and they combed them over and over again. They had the Temple, the religious ceremonies, the holidays, the symbolic ways they worshiped Him every day. That was the setting they knew Him in.

But it had been a while since they’d seen Him move among them in the grandiose ways they read about, since they’d heard the authority in His voice, and there were plenty among them who’d decided to step in to fill the void. They’d set themselves high above the people, put on the robes, and claimed to have all the answers, to be the path to holiness, to salvation. They tried to wear His shoes, though they could never really fill them.

The question became: Would God’s people recognize the real Him when He came? Or would they choose the men who had painted themselves as gods among them?

Because when He came, He looked nothing like the people wearing the mask that was supposed to look like Him. He spoke nothing like them. He dressed nothing like them. He acted nothing like them. He valued different things. And He had real POWER – power they did not have. Power to feed thousands with a few loaves and a couple of fish. Power to calm storms and raise the dead. Power to restore sight to the blind. Power to forgive sin.

And here, in John 9, is a man born blind seeing, maybe for the first time, the men behind the masks. How do you not recognize Him?? He could not understand. He had been blind all his life, but he could feel what he could not see: power. He knew who had never been able to heal him (everyone else), and he knew who did. Jesus. Carrying the mark of the God he’d always heard about – real power. Why could they who taught the Scriptures not see the main character standing right in front of them?

Because remember, in their impatience as they waited and waited for their God to speak again, they’d started writing their own Scriptures in His stead. They’d started believing their own words as equal to His. And He broke the promises and rules they’d written with His pen. They didn’t recognize Him – because He didn’t look like them.

But a man who’d never seen their faces was hard to fool with their disguises.

This year, as the year ends and a new one begins three weeks from today, I’m wondering how much of what I’ve believed about God I wrote myself with His pen. What promises have I made for Him? What rules did I add to His? When He comes, when He acts, when He shows real power in my life… can I even see it through the God mask I’ve made to wear over my head?

I want to know exactly where this Jesus man comes from when I encounter Him. Lord… I want to see.

Bethesda, Part One: Him

From John 5 – imagine this with me

I lie outside, on the ground by the Pool of Bethesda. It is HOT, and the ground is hard, making me ache anywhere I can feel my body touching it, but I do not move. I barely can, and it is not worth the effort. There is no comfortable way to lie here. At least they built some colonnades for shade.

The sores grow where my body rests on this mat, but I can only shift so much, and there are sores there, too. I am filthy, but no one cares to wash me, and I cannot. What does it matter? No one looks at me anyway. They all know who I am, and they all know I am here. But no one looks. I have been broken now for thirty-eight years; I know exactly how long – or short – human compassion lasts. I know what it looks like when it runs out; charity satisfies its own conscience long before it satisfies real needs. “God will help him,” they say to comfort themselves so they don’t have to anymore. They’re tired of my needs. I can’t even blame them. I am a heavy load to carry.

So now, I am sitting beside the pool of God’s “help.” That’s what they called it, years ago. “There is a pool in Jerusalem by the Sheep’s Gate. Sometimes an angel comes to stir the waters, and if you are the first person into the pool after that, you will be healed!” They dangled the hope of healing in front of my eyes, and like a fool, I reached for it.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

This plays on loop in my mind. I’ve heard the proverbs of Solomon my whole life. When people run out of their own wisdom, they grasp for someone else’s, and no one has their own wisdom to help me anymore. They don’t know what to do any more than I do, and I can’t even blame them. Can a human help where God will not?

I have seen the angel stir the waters. I have seen people get healed, people who had others to help them into it. Hope is real – healing is real – just not for me. God may heal broken bodies, but what can he do with my rock hard, sun-baked, cracked clay soul?

My heart is sickened by this pool of hope.

Let the others have it. There are people here at this pool, broken people, who do still have hope, who have people to help them. People who actually want to help, people who haven’t given up or been turned off yet. I pushed all of my people away years ago. Sometimes I am still angry at them for leaving me. Other times – I just can’t even blame them! I am so angry, so hurt, so needy. So cruel. What reason did I give them to stay?

-but-

A man walks up to the pool and looks at me. He must be new here; I hear him asking people about me. I see their furtive looks, I hear them answering his questions politely: coldly, but politely.

The man comes and sits near me. I do not look at him, but he keeps right on looking at me. I feel the filth he must see.

“Do you want to be healed?” He says to me.

What kind of question is that? Do I want to be healed? Why else would I even be here? What, does he think I haven’t tried, that I haven’t done everything everyone else has done, that I haven’t thrown every last hope at this broken body of mine?

…And why has no one ever asked me that before?

Do I want to be healed?

Thirty-eight years is a long time to live broken. It’s a long time to learn how shallow the pool of human compassion is, and it’s a long time to sit beside hope and wonder if it’s even worth trying at all. Hope deferred and deferred and deferred made my heart sick – very sick. I’m not sure it’s worth it to try anymore. No one else cares if I am healed. I’m not even sure I care if I am healed anymore… or if I just want to die and be rid of it all.

I have never said those words to anyone. But when he asks me if I want to be healed, I am so surprised I look him in the eye – and I think he knows.

Pivot!

“I have no one to help me,” I say. “When the water is stirred, someone always gets in before me.”  

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I look up to find him staring at me. He knows I did not answer his question, and so do I. The sorrow there is profound. I wonder if that’s what my eyes look like. Maybe that’s why no one looks at me.

He stands up suddenly. “Get up,” he says, as if to say enough of this. Enough moping. Enough pity. Enough despair. “Pick up your mat and walk.”

I almost laugh at him. But at that moment, life comes back into my dead limbs. I am too astonished to laugh. I move them; I stand up; I pick up my mat;

I walk.

Thirty-eight years I have laid here broken, asking for a miracle. Thirty-eight years, broken, forgotten, alone. Then in one moment. ONE. MOMENT. It took years for my heart to die, and only a moment for it to come roaring back to life.

…but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.

This man must be from God.

I look up to find him, but I find the Pharisees instead – the Pharisees, who call themselves men of God. Men who refused to help me because they did not want to muddy their hands with “God’s judgment on sin,” which is what they called my brokenness. But here I am, set free by God himself.

“It is the Sabbath; it is illegal to carry your mat.”

Really? Really?? These men know me. They know I have been paralyzed for thirty-eight years – they know I was paralyzed this morning. Do these men not recognize the hand of God when they see it?

“The man who healed me told me to pick up my mat and walk.” Forgive me if I side with him.

I am healed. How are they missing this? God alone can heal!

“Who is this fellow who told you to break the law?”

I AM HEALED –

…And then I realize. I did not even ask the man his name. I am no better than any of them, any of the people who left me alone beside the Pool of Bethesda. I am so wrapped up in myself… that I missed the living pool of compassion deep enough to heal me.  I missed the miracle standing in front of me.

I don’t even know my miracle’s name.

I have to find him. And I can. I can find him because I am healed.

I run all over Jerusalem, but I cannot find him. The crowds are too thick. He is nowhere. For the first time in years, I see the temple. The temple of the God who healed me. In a jolt of gratitude, I rush inside it to make an offering for my healing.

He finds me there. It’s like he was waiting for me. He is from God; I should have known I would find them both here.

“You are healed now. Go and stop sinning, or something worse may happen to you.” He knows? He knows… and he healed me anyway.

Now I know who he is. He’s the one they keep talking about, the one the people love and the leaders hate. He is Jesus.

I’m not sure why I did it, why I told the Pharisees. Maybe it was revenge; these men who had gloated over the consequences of my sin were finally being put in their place by this man. Maybe it was fear; I passed the buck to Jesus for the law I had broken, hoping he could handle their ire better than I could. Maybe I thought I could convince them to follow Jesus with my story. Or maybe I just hoped they would like me a little better if I did. But I told them, and they didn’t like me better. They didn’t like him any better, either. I told them he healed me, and it just made them hate him more. How?

It’s funny. I spent thirty-eight years praying for a miracle, and when it finally came… it didn’t do what I expected it to do. It didn’t solve my problems. It didn’t create faith, or draw the praises of God from other’s lips. But it did show me something new about the people around me. It did show me something about myself.

And it showed me everything about God, and the Son He sent.

Because the real miracle wasn’t the healing of my body… it was the man who took the time to look at me. To meet my needs.

The miracle was compassion.

The miracle was Jesus.

It was always Him.

*Proverbs 13:12 – “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.”