Surfacing Light

Job 13:15 –Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him; I will surely defend my ways to his face.

I write a lot of letters at this point in the year. Most of them are good-bye notes to my friends moving on. This year, most of them began, “congratulations! We’ve made it though the hardest year of our lives!”

It’s true—this year has been intense. I don’t have a full casualty count, but I lost 7 girls off my hall, and saw more suffering than I have seen in a long time. The girls in my discipleship group joked that all my stories began, “So I had a terrible week…” They asked me if I ever had good weeks, and I had to say that no, I didn’t. Each week brought a new challenge or more bad news, until I felt like I was buried under troubles too heavy to bear. I’ve struggled often with how to tell the story without complaining, or burdening those who hear it. Yet I feel compelled to share the darkness with you that you may see the light that much more clearly.

At the beginning of the year, I wrote in my RA journal: “My goals this year are so simple. I want to love these girls. I want to follow Christ.” I had no idea at the time when I wrote it that it was to be the biggest challenge I had yet to face. I faced really difficult discipline reports, tearful news, hard goodbyes, and demonic attacks that were ongoing. This year, the girls on my hall challenged me to love them in their weaknesses, pushed me to love them without reward, and taught me to love in the midst of suffering. At the end of the year, with nothing left to offer, we just sat and cried together. No, our hall wasn’t Caledon. But I think some real growth happened. We faced a lot of hard things—and even when we thought we’d made it, found that it could still get harder. When I came back to my room after a long day of classes, hospital runs, and difficult conversations, a knock at the door could mean anything—another demon, another health issue, another broken heart or just a story to share. It was at those moments that I discovered grace I’d never known—grace to carry me through one more sleepless night, one more cry session, one more emergency room visit or prayer meeting. Grace taught me to see the beauty in the rubble, to cling to Christ when it seemed like he wasn’t listening. This is grace I’d never known. To those whom much is given, much is required; but all that he asks he provides. As James says, “he gives more grace.”

Paul’s words in 2 Cor 6:5-10 reminded me that I was not the first to follow this road: “We have been beaten, been put in jail, faced angry mobs, worked to exhaustion, endured sleepless nights, and gone without food. We have proved ourselves by our purity, our understanding, our patience, our kindness, our sincere love, and the power of the Holy Spirit.  We have faithfully preached the truth. God’s power has been working in us. We have righteousness as our weapon, both to attack and to defend ourselves. We serve God whether people honor us or despise us, whether they slander us or praise us. We are honest, but they call us impostors. We are well known, but we are treated as unknown. We live close to death, but here we are, still alive. We have been beaten within an inch of our lives. Our hearts ache, but we always have joy. We are poor, but we give spiritual riches to others. We own nothing, and yet we have everything.”

Own nothing…yet have everything. That was my story. Toward the end of the year, with my best friend desperately ill and my hall in shambles, I was finally diagnosed with depression. It was a battle to get out of bed every morning. I dreaded what the new day would bring and struggled to find the desire to live through it. Each day I told to myself, “just live through this. You’re almost home.” I was counting the days until the end of the school year. I found that I was not alone. At least six other friends were also struggling with depression, and life felt like we were trying to swim through molasses. It was so hard to hear their despair and have no hope to offer. I took things one step at a time. Each day was a triumph, each peal of laughter a gesture of defiance. I was determined not to give in. Satan would not win—not on my watch. But oh, how the darkness threatened to swallow us up!

Worst of all was not the extreme tiredness, anxiety, or even the loneliness, but the feeling of complete and utter abandonment by God. I prayed and prayed for relief, for Katie Jo’s pain to dissipate, for protection from the constant demonic attack, for healing for Elizabeth, for hope and encouragement, and found none. Not even a “no”, just no reply. When I cried out for his comfort, when I sobbed in the midst of my loneliness and inadequacy, I felt no soothing presence, no supernatural strength. I had always been told that during the hard times God was especially close—even Psalm 32 says “the Lord is near to the brokenhearted.” So what was I doing wrong? I had never felt so alone. Was he still here? Was he good? Or were all his promises untrue? How on earth was all this calamity going to work out for our good?

Hard questions. Terrifying questions. And most of the time, swamped with overwhelming schoolwork, emotional struggles, and surrounded by darkness, I felt that I was one of the terrified disciples in the boat on the Sea of Galilee during a storm, with Jesus asleep in the back of the boat. Trying to shout over the roar of the sea, I was frantically trying to wake him, crying, “Lord, don’t you care if we drown?!” Was God sleeping? Anger was close on the heels of desperation. “I didn’t sign up for this!” I prayed. “I can’t do this any more. I can do anything with you here with me; but without you, I perish! I don’t understand. How can I follow you when I cannot see where you are going? I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING!”

At RA training at the beginning of the year—it felt like it had been years since then—struggling to trust that God was good to me, I had begun my journal entry with a list of all the gifts God had given me. “These 20 girls are good gifts,” I had written. “Katie Jo, Lauren and Susannah are all good gifts.” Over the course of the year, as God stripped away each of my girls, and struck each of my friends with hardship, I heard him whisper to me, “do you love me more than these?” Did I love him, or the gifts he gave? Would I follow him when there was nothing in it for me? While Satan told me that I would soon give up, I still tenaciously refused to do so. I clung to what I had always known as true, that God was good, that he was still working despite overwhelming calamity. That he was there even when the darkness hid him.

The school year finally ended, an agony of goodbyes and unanswered questions. I was left trying to piece together what had happened and why. What was God doing? Why had he allowed my friends and I to be so smitten and afflicted? While I found hope in the words of a professor, “it always gets darkest right before God does something big,” another professor pointed out, “Job never knew about that conversation between God and Satan.” We might not ever really know why all these hard things happened all at once.

So why am I telling you all this? First, as Paul says in 2 Corinthians 1:8-11, “I think you ought to know, dear brothers and sisters, about the trouble we went through in the province of Asia. We were crushed and completely overwhelmed, and we thought we would never live through it. In fact, we expected to die. But as a result, we learned not to rely on ourselves, but on God who can raise the dead. And he did deliver us from mortal danger. And we are confident that he will continue to deliver us. He will rescue us because you are helping by praying for us. As a result, many will give thanks to God because so many people’s prayers for our safety have been answered.” Many of you are people who pray for me, and I want you to know how essential and appreciated those prayers have been.

Secondly, I made it. I lived through this year of hardship and sorrow. It threatened to tear me down, but did not succeed. I have been, in the words of Paul again, “in the day of evil…able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.” This is my testimony—I survived the storm!

Finally, because I think God was working through even the darkness. In my case, he certainly was, drilling out of me my pride and my works-based righteousness, awakening me to the beauty of humility and brokenness, teaching me the essence of real love, showing me depths of his character I had never yet seen. And this is the testimony of his grace: that I still believe. That I still believe he is gracious and good, even when I can’t see what he is doing. That, two years after Kapic’s doctrine, I’ve finally learned to “embrace the mystery”; to love what I don’t understand, to rest and trust in the midst of unanswered questions. Perhaps I will still want to ask “why” when I see his face, but I think more likely his face will be enough. I am content to simply know him more deeply than I ever have before. In my pain, I have found a God who is bigger than I ever imagined. And so I have hope. I don’t know what he is doing, but that is just part of the adventure. And if this is what following God really means—not sunshine and happiness, but hardship and toil—than I am certain that I am not the first to tread these deep waters. The “crowd of witnesses” that Hebrews mentions probably understood exactly what I am talking about, as well as a host of other believers around the world. “In this world you will face hardship…but take heart! I have overcome the world.” In the midst of the darkness, there is a surfacing light.

And so I wrote a song.

Surfacing Light

God is light

In him there is no darkness—

Seems like a lie

When you can’t see the brightness

 

Through gritted teeth

A voiceless cry, an angry quest

You were unseen

My heart enshrouded with bitterness

 

Last goodbyes

Lord, don’t you care if we drown?

But if you’d been here…

The door closed, my heart sank down

 

If you’d been here

Question hanging on our lips

And I felt the tears

As hope wept, by anger gripped

 

Death grows old

I asked for no stone

A softly speaking hope

Shouts in my fears, when I’m alone

 

A softly speaking hope

The voice that I knew

Lifts a shroud of cold

Announces the awakening of all things new

 

I AM

The alpha and omega

Hello, goodbye

I AM

Do you believe this?

I am the death and the life

I am the surfacing light 

Strength For Today, and Bright Hope for Tomorrow

“The evening and the morning were the first day.”
Genesis 1:5
Was it so even in the beginning? Did light and darkness divide the realm of time in the first day? Then little wonder is it if I have also changes in my circumstances from the sunshine of prosperity to the midnight of adversity. It will not always be the blaze of noon even in my soul concerns, I must expect at seasons to mourn the absence of my former joys, and seek my Beloved in the night. Nor am I alone in this, for all the Lord’s beloved ones have had to sing the mingled song of judgment and of mercy, of trial and deliverance, of mourning and of delight. It is one of the arrangements of Divine providence that day and night shall not cease either in the spiritual or natural creation till we reach the land of which it is written, “there is no night there.” What our heavenly Father ordains is wise and good.

What, then, my soul, is it best for thee to do? Learn first to be content with this divine order, and be willing, with Job, to receive evil from the hand of the Lord as well as good. Study next, to make the outgoings of the morning and the evening to rejoice. Praise the Lord for the sun of joy when it rises, and for the gloom of evening as it falls. There is beauty both in sunrise and sunset, sing of it, and glorify the Lord. Like the nightingale, pour forth thy notes at all hours. Believe that the night is as useful as the day. The dews of grace fall heavily in the night of sorrow. The stars of promise shine forth gloriously amid the darkness of grief. Continue thy service under all changes. If in the day thy watchword be labour, at night exchange it for watch. Every hour has its duty, do thou continue in thy calling as the Lord’s servant until He shall suddenly appear in His glory. My soul, thine evening of old age and death is drawing near, dread it not, for it is part of the day; and the Lord has said, “I will cover him all the day long.”

–Charles Spurgeon, Daily Devotional

Lullaby For Balcony

It’s been another particularly hard week on my hall. Between hospital runs, comforting broken hearts and casting out demons, an RA never rests. (Only slightly kidding…I do sleep sometimes.) I wrote a song for my girls I wanted to share. I wrote the song over the break, and each verse is an incident that happened during what we now call EBW (epic battle weekend last semester). We’re had a couple more such epic weeks and weekends, so they’re not as epic anymore. This song is how I pray for my girls. I’m probably recording it this weekend…which will mean it is the first time any of my music has been professionally recorded. Exciting. Now, if only I can make it to friday!

 

Lullaby For Balcony

Those lies can whisper so loudly in your head
And the Truth, he whispers so truly you can’t hear what he said
Hush
Let me speak louder than the liar inside your ears
Hush
Look up to the mountains, help is very near
So near

I’ll keep watch through all the shadows of this night
And tomorrow I may need you, but now, rest
I will fight

It doesn’t feel like he can hear you when you cry
And you wonder if he sees all the tears in your eyes
Hush
He is holding you so tightly in his arms
Hush
Though you’re walking through a battle you’ll not be harmed
Be not alarmed

I’ll keep watch through all the shadows of this night
And tomorrow I may need you, but now, rest
I will fight

He said he’d never slumber and you wonder if that’s true
But you can’t see just how he covers all his feathers over you
Hush
His faithful promises are your armor and your shield
Hush
Though these terrors seem so strong, they are not real
He is real

I’ll keep watch through all the shadows of this night
And tomorrow I may need you, but now, rest
I will fight

And I hate that liar with all that’s in me now
He can get out of my house and go to hell
So I’ll love you
I’ll love you with everything I’ve got
Hush

I can feel your sobs as I hold you in my arms
The father hears me pray, he knows your broken heart
O baby, hush
Child of God, you are so loved
Hush

Surprise!

Right now I am sitting on my porch in FL, watching my dad, my sister, and two friends dismantling the play-fort my dad built me when we moved into this house 15 years ago. Right now all that’s left is a little skeleton that  has to be held up to keep from crashing. It seems a fitting metaphor for my little house of childhood dreams. Right now it does seem like a little skeleton of a frame is what is holding me up.

This has been a really hard year. The spiritual warefare of last semester has only intensified this semester. Many of my friends’ parents have lost their jobs. My best friend is ill beyond belief, and tomorrow we find out her diagnosis. There are struggles on the hall. Another close friend just joined the army. Two close friends just ended a relationship, and their broken hearts are hard to comfort. One of my best friends lost several guys off his hall due to disciplinary action, and one of them was his brother. My friend Liz jokes that being a friend of mine is dangerous and she is waiting for the lightning to strike her. We laugh, but also tremble because it is true: every close friend of mine is suffering right now.

At the beginning of the semester, I spent some intense time with Jesus at campground in the Carolinas. For a hour, I hiked around a lake, poured out my heart in prayer, and wept for the brokenness I saw. I prayed for my hall and my friends and my school, and everyone I knew who was so tired and burdened. We were worn out from fighting, I reminded him. I didn’t want my girls to have to fight anymore, to have to stagger uphill under a burden of spiritual warfare. I wanted them to dance through life with freedom and joy because they knew Christ loved them. The semester started out with some big steps in the right direction, but none of them were easy.

Last year I learned that when I can’t see God working, the darkness is simply hiding him. He’s still there. Like a child playing peekaboo and realizing that, even when the parent is gone, yet any moment they may return, I learned to cling to Jesus even when I felt like I was grasping in the dark. In the darkness that night, I asked God to reveal himself. I can’t wait for the moment that he bursts into the world and cries, “surprise! I was here the whole time!”

Our chaplain has been preaching through the book of Mark, a gospel that has captured my heart this semester. Each character in Mark is presented with the dilemma of fear vs. faith–will they trust Christ and take the risk, or give in to fear and remain in the dark? This is the dilemma of my life. In the midst of the darkness, it is really easy to give in to fear, to cower in the corner and weep and never expect anything to get better. To watch my life dismantling before my eyes and just be paralyzed in terror.

The thing with the book of Mark is that it begins with the exciting proclaimation that “the kingdom of God is at hand!” With that announcement, Jesus then proceeds to do absolutely nothing that signifies a king proclaiming his reign. He hangs out with people, heals a few sick, and rides into Jerusalem on a donkey. Not very kingly and conquering things to do. Why isn’t he mustering an army? Sometimes I feel that way about my world. Why isn’t the all-powerful God acting very kingly right now? Why isn’t he fixing things?

I read John 11 the night that Katie Jo, my best friend, went home for a battery of tests. When Jesus came to the tomb of his friend Lazarus, John says he was “angry in his spirit.” I asked my mentor Tuggy why he was so angry, and she told me that it is anger at the destruction of sin and death and the Devil. There is something within our hearts that does the same thing. When we see people that are suffering, when relationships fail and disapointment stings, there is a natural reaction in our hearts: this is not right. This is not what God wants. This is not the way things are supposed to be. When things go wrong, bad feelings naturally follow, because we are not designed for this kind of evil. We are designed to delight in God, and things went horribly wrong. There is, as Marie says in Dan in Real Life, “a certain rightness to our wrongness,” a response of the image of God to the marring of his image that says this is not okay.

That feeling of “not-okay” is what has dominated my prayer life these past two weeks. I keep reminding God that this is not his design and asking for his intervention. Still, sometimes nothing happens; and sometimes another chunk of my life gets pulled apart. A chapel speaker at Covenant on Wednesday talked about the certainty of suffering in the Christian life. Anyone sold out to Jesus will suffer, he said. His advice? “Be faithful. Wrestle with the Bible. Cling to the Gospel that never changes.” So what is that gospel? Why does Mark tell us “the kingdom of God is at hand,” and show us how one disciple after another fails at being faithful? Why doesn’t anyone get it? Why does the gospel end at the darkest point of Jesus’ ministry: his death?

The secret is that he really is proclaiming his kingship, and he really is mustering an army. The psalmist teaches us that sickness is an affront to the reign of a God of life. Suffering is a challenge to the kingdom of God. By healing the sick, by calming a storm, by feeding the hungry, Jesus is showing his authority over what sin has done to his world. He is challenging the reign of the Devil by storming his bastions. He is mustering an army by drawing all men to himself. The secret is that the king of the universe came to claim his kingdom disguised as a fragile human. Hiding in humanity, he sneaked into the kingdom of darkness and proclaimed war. The kingdom of God was a fragile seed that did not take root until the death of Christ. In his very weakness was the establishment of his kingship. He comes in weakness and surprise! he is really filled with a power we cannot comprehend. The Israelites thought they were abandoned by God and surprise! he was really among them. So when Jesus calms the storm, his disciples are terrified: something stronger than the sea (a metaphor for the reign of chaos!) is in their boat. And then Jesus says to them: “take heart, the I AM is here.” Surprise!

So I’m looking at the childhood play-fort that now lays in pieces in the grass, and I feel that broken. But maybe the dismantling of things is the beginning of a new thing altogether. My friend Pastor Imbumi likes to say that “God is unravelling the works of the Devil.” He’s still working undercover. No big fortresses are being established. But Satan’s work is being undermined little by little.

Things aren’t making a lot of sense right now. The future is really uncertain. But we have a God so near–near enough to burst through our darkness and cry “surprise!” Because he has been there all along. Keep looking for him. The kingdom of God is at hand.

Lucy

We watched Prince Caspian again tonight.

All the lights in the house were off except a few candles, and with our toes snuggled under the fleece blankets, Julia, Jonny and I re-watched our favorite movie. It was the first time I’d seen it since the summer.

I took a class on the Inklings last semester. We studied George MacDonald, Lewis and Tolkien and their friend Dorothy Sayers’ theory of story. A fairy tale, they wrote, should help you understand something you always knew but couldn’t quite put your finger on, something so true you never recognized it before. It should take you away into another world so you will better love and understand your own. It should have something transcendent that should call you away and plant your feet on the ground at the same time. It should inspire your creativity, and it should make you desire Heaven.

Prince Caspian is a fairy tale.

I know, I know, I’ve written about it before. About how the last scene captures the ache of saying goodbye. How Lucy’s whispered “wake up!” to the trees breaks my heart because that’s how I feel about my people. How the burning question of the movie, “Where is Aslan?” has been the burning question of my own heart for quite some time.

But this time I noticed something different. For the past week I’ve been meditating on my role as RA and my calling therein. I’ve been processing my last semester; an exhausting semester of battle after spiritual battle. I’ve been realizing how much I’ve learned and grown this semester, and I know my friend’s prayer for me has come true: this semester has been good for my soul more than any other before it.

But I’m so tired.

The last two months of the semester, I was just crying for relief. For a rest, a respite, a safe place. I read Psalm 18 and Psalm 121 over and over. I didn’t want to fight anymore, I just wanted a shelter. I wanted someone to fight for me. But although many fought alongside me, no one could take over and fight for me. My spirit was worn down to the bone. More than once, I have ached to be taken Home.

Christmas Eve, with my hand affixed to that microphone, I wondered if maybe that moment had finally come. Maybe all that waiting was finally over. It was not to be. But since then, I have ached and longed for the second advent of my King. My champion. My Aslan.

Tonight, watching Prince Caspian, that was what captured me. Everyone was waiting for Aslan. They were fighting so hard against an enemy so huge. They were surrounded. It was only a matter of time before they were completely overwhelmed. And still he didn’t come.

The kings and queens had different reactions to this waiting, and each one I could relate to. The agonized frustration of Peter, who felt the responsibility of a people. The distraction of Susan, who felt the loneliness of leadership. The quiet faithfulness of Edmund, who had seen the other side and was never, ever going back. And the aching certainty of Lucy, who never lost faith; who was trying so hard to be brave. He would come. He must come. And yet, he did not come. She tried so hard to find a good reason.

And so the question, when finally face-to-face. “Why didn’t you come?”

He doesn’t answer.

But he applauds her faithfulness, and tells her, “if you were more courageous, you would be a lioness!”

And none of it matters anymore, because they’re together again.

Is that what it will be like?

And then he comes. Then he comes with a vengeance. In the darkest moment, in the thickest part of the battle, when everything seems lost. When all his servants are fighting with every ounce of strength that is in them. That’s when he comes. With all the power of the universe, he comes.

I saw myself in Lucy. I saw myself when the entire Telmarine army came to a screeching halt in front of a little girl standing alone on a bridge. She drew a tiny dagger, prepared to give her all to the fight.

And then the lion roared.

The Last Sunday

Tomorrow I’m saying my hardest goodbye ever. After 16 years here in Orlando, my family is packing up and moving to Rock Hill, SC. My church cried when they found out. We all did. I’ve planned all the worship for tomorrow and put together all the music and now all that is left is to go to church tomorrow and say the hardest goodbyes yet.

Saying goodbye! I hate saying goodbye! And to these people and this home I have wrestled with and agonized for and wept over. I have grief beyond words. I wrote a song.

Call You Home

 

When I was five years old

There was a phone call

We put all our stuff in a U-haul

In August, called this home

 

Now it’s been 15 years

And least week I shed tears

When we had to break the news that we’re called on

 

And we’ve spent so long among you

And it hurts so much to leave you

And right now we believe, but we don’t understand

 

But don’t you dare give up

So chosen, so honored, so loved

The kingdom of God is among you

So don’t you dare give up

 

Weary and heavy-laden

In a soil so dry and barren

Faithfully you have born this uneasy load

This is such a hard place to call home

 

For years I have helped your plowing

And like a small plant growing

I’ve watched you from a seed to flower bloom

 

Now we’re moving on to new soil

And I won’t be here tomorrow

And it feels so much like we’re leaving you alone

 

But don’t you dare give up

So chosen, so honored, so loved

The kingdom of God is among you

So don’t you dare give up

 

Every Christmas Eve

When we dimmed the lights and held candles

It’s the closest thing to Heaven that I’ve known

And the next time I see you we might be home

 

And every Sunday morn

Singing praises, I for heaven yearn

Longing for redemption we groan

The Spirit and the Bride say come

He has given you the seal of his Son

Always crying out, let’s go home!

 

So don’t you dare give up

So chosen, so honored, so loved

The kingdom of God is among you

So don’t you dare give up

 

I will place watchmen on your walls

They will pray for you day and night

Because our Christ has invaded our world

Penetrating darkness with light

Do not fear

The restoration is near…

 

He has done such great things

Supplies you with every good blessing

Life cannot separate from the love of Christ

He will always call us home

The Word Became Flesh

Christmas Eve is my favorite day of the year. My childhood remembers it idyllically: the gleam of Christmas lights as I drifted to sleep, the voices of my parents wrapping presents in the room below like a lullaby and visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. As I got older, Christmas Eve became more about my church and memories are colored with romance and laughter and eggnog and the warm glow of candles as my church sang “Silent Night” and then broke up to exchange gifts and eat together. This was communion to me, this was the incarnation in all its glory. And the best was yet to come. No other night did I fall asleep (usually, with the proof of my friends’ love curled around my pillow) with so much contentment and joy. For that night, at least, my battle with lonliness and depression had reached an armistice.

The past few Christmas Eves have been hard. For at least four years, I’ve cried each year. Last year marked my transition to adulthood, and in my bitterness and abandonment, Christmas break was the darkest time of the year. I was exausted and angry and spent the night before Christmas break in the woods, crying aloud, “God, where are you?” and sobbing as my heart did break. Through the kindness of a close friend, who gently pursued me for the winter months, I slowly groped my way out of the darkness. Christmas Eve, I led worship for my church, and my childhood dreams were shattered.  Christmas Eve was just another musical production, another night of looking out at a broken church and wondering if there was any hope for them. It was like someone took Christmas Eve and turned on the florescent lights. There was no magic.

But I came back to my room, read Isaiah 9, and listened to “Ten Thousand Angels” by Sandra McCracken:

how long you have traveled in darkness weeping
no rest in language, no words to speak
but there in the wreckage beneath bricks and bindings
love has come, love has come for you

against the night sky of your waiting
your face is like starlight when he walks in
everything worth keeping comes through dying
love has come, love has come for you

so lift up your heart now, to this unfolding
all that has been broken will be restored
here runs deep waters for all who are thirsty
love has come, love has come for you

ten thousand angels will light your pathway
until the day breaks fully in the East
they will surround you and make your way straight
love has come, love has come for you
love has come, love has come for you

Listening to this song, I thought of how long the Israelites cried for a Savior before he arrived, and how we Saints are now waiting for yet another advent. My professor likes to use John Stott’s analogy to describe the “now-but-not-yet” character of the Kingdom of God. It’s like waking up early on a camping trip, and coming out of the tent, and seeing the sunrise. The sun has risen, but for those sleeping in the tent, it is still darkness.

So I sang this song and told this story to my church this sunday, because we lit the pink candle of advent, which anticipates the joy of Christmas morning and is colored like the sunrise. I added a last verse to Sandra’s song:

Christians awake, salute the happy morn

Whereon the savior of the world was born

Rise to adore the mystery of love

This love has come, this love has come for you

This love has come, he has come for you

For those of us outside the tent, our call is to wake those who are sleeping in darkness, to make them aware of the light and cry out to them, “The Kingdom of God is at hand!”

So this Christmas Eve I once again had high hopes of a magical evening that were, once again, dashed. The day was a dismal failure of stress and frustration and sin (yes! sin on Christmas Eve!). I was tired and worn out and frustrated and in the middle of the day lay on my bed and cried because I was so tired; so tired of fighting the Devil, so tired of being strong for someone else; ready to just rest in the protection of someone else. It was selfish, I know, but I prayed and cried out to God for rest.

As always, we dressed up and packed presents and sound equipment and food and the flannelgraph into the van and drove down to our old church building. We were setting up and practicing and running around getting things ready. And it wasn’t a magical Christmas Eve. It was messy and frustrating and I was tired and grumpy.

Then it happened. I was practicing the music with my dad, and we had just finished singing through “away in a manger,” a childhood Christmas favorite, when I put my hand on the microphone to move the stand. Instantly, 120 volts of electricity was pulsing through my body into my other hand that was resting on the metal strings of my bass guitar. I tried to pull my hand away and couldn’t, the electricity had convulsed my muscles so I was glued to the two sources. It hurt, and I couldn’t make it stop. To all eyes I was just standing there normally, but my world was a turmoil of wierd sensation. I screamed, “somebody help me!” My dad took a step toward me and said, “let go!” I told him that I couldn’t, and cried, “Oh, God, please save me!” before collapsing on the floor. My dad pried my fingers off the mic just before I passed out. Suddenly everything was better, and I was laying on the floor of the church and everyone who had come early to set up was running into the sanctuary to see what was wrong. Two nurses took my pulse and it was normal; one hand was bleeding, but not badly burned. It had maybe been a minute that the current was running through my heart, but besides some torn tendons in my hand (a result of the muscle convusions), I was fine. I got up and told everyone I was fine, and buisness continued as usual.

So we sang the Christmas carols, me being careful to avoid the mic at all costs. It wasn’t perfect, but everyone participated. My dad preached about worshipping Jesus. Finally, we lit the candles and sang “O Holy Night.”

O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of our dear Saviour’s birth.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

‘Til He appear’d and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Fall on your knees! O, hear the angels’ voices!

O night divine, O night when Christ was born;

O night divine, O night, O night Divine.

Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming,

With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.

So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming,

Here come the wise men from Orient land.

The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger;

In all our trials born to be our friend.

He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger,

Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!

Behold your King, Behold your King.

Truly He taught us to love one another;

His law is love and His gospel is peace.

Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother;

And in His name all oppression shall cease.

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,

Let all within us praise His holy name.

Christ is the Lord! O praise His Name forever,

His power and glory evermore proclaim. Hispower and glory evermore proclaim.

 And I looked out on the people that I would see no longer. On the front row was little Kelsey, arms flung in the air, on her knees before the flannelgraph manger scene, immediately applying my dad’s sermon. I remembered when she was a shy little girl, whose autistic-like developmental difficulties made it hard for her to even speak to anyone outside her family. In the soundbooth was Ricky, my dear friend who has Parkinson’s, whose life I inadvertantly saved this summer, who became a deacon in my church on sunday. Ricky was the kid at youth group that no one could get to co-operate, who misbehaved and moped and frustrated every leader, including me. The Fraziers were there–who are so passionate about church ministry; the Rodriguizes who are so faithful and dependable; Mrs. Ellen who had a child out of wedlock but now leads worship and, along with her husband, teaches that little girl (and her little brother!) to praise Jesus so loudly; Mrs. Louis who has been so crushed by life but keeps going; The Acostas who are so full of life. These people have hope. They never give up.  And this is the essence of the incarnation: that the perfect God entered our imperfect world and transformed it. All the worship we offer is made possible by this transformation. Without this light entering the world–in all its messiness and sin and dirt–we would still be in darkness.

I got this book for Christmas called “Telling the Truth: the Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy and Fairy Tale,” by Frederick Buechner. I’ve been reading it all day. Buechner talks about how, without the darkness of this world properly acknowledged as truth, the Gospel is just not good news. We must acknowledge the suffering to savor the hope. But it does not end in suffering and tragedy: there is the sudden good turn, the hope that emerges at the last moment. All those saints who looked ahead to what was promised but never saw it–until Simeon finally did.

Luke 2:25-32

Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon , who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord’s Christ. Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying:

“Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss your servant in peace. 
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel.”

And I remembered what it was like to feel so helpless and in pain, and to scream out for a savior. If my dad had not been standing right next to me when I was electrocuted–my dad who has a degree in electronics and instantly recognized what was happening–I could have died. I was helpless to do anything. I cried, “God save me” from my agony and was answered. That is the miracle of Christmas: that the God who had been silent for so long finally answered. That Immanuel heard the cries of his people and saved.

It took me a year, but here I am now. No longer in darkness; the sun has risen. I see now the hope that the Incarnation is. Without a God who entered our suffering, the consolation he offers is meaningless. Without coming through the dark night of the soul, the light holds no promise. But when it does, we want to fall on our knees before the manger like Kelsey, to cry out for someone stronger to save us like I cried in terror to my Dad, to worship like Simeon and rest in the consummation of this promise, to behold our King wrapped in our familiar frailty and know that in this fulfillment there is hope that all things will be made new.

Isa 9:2

The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of the shadow of death
a light has dawned.

Rev 21:3-5

 

I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, “Look, the home of God is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them. He will remove all of their sorrows, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. For the old world and its evils are gone forever.”

 And the one sitting on the throne said, “Look, I am making all things new!”

Too good not to share

Some homework that partiucularly has a lot to do with Christmas!

This is part of my poetry presentation for my Inklings class on Monday. I was just super-excited about what I learned and decided it was too cool not to share with the world!

The Late Passenger by C. S. Lewis

The sky was low, the sounding rain was falling dense and dark,
And Noah’s sons were standing at the window of the Ark.

The beasts were in, but Japhet said, ‘I see one creature more
Belated and unmated there come knocking at the door.’

‘Well let him knock,’ said Ham, ‘Or let him drown or learn to swim.
We’re overcrowded as it is; we’ve got no room for him.’

‘And yet it knocks, how terribly it knocks,’ said Shem, ‘Its feet
Are hard as horn–but oh the air that comes from it is sweet.‘Now hush,’ said Ham, ‘You’ll waken Dad, and once he comes to see
What’s at the door, it’s sure to mean more work for you and me.’

Noah’s voice came roaring from the darkness down below,
‘Some animal is knocking. Take it in before we go.’

Ham shouted back, and savagely he nudged the other two,
‘That’s only Japhet knocking down a brad-nail in his shoe.’

Said Noah, ‘Boys, I hear a noise that’s like a horse’s hoof.’
Said Ham, ‘Why, that’s the dreadful rain that drums upon the roof.’

Noah tumbled up on deck and out he put his head;

His face went grey, his knees were loosed, he tore his beard and said,

‘Look, look! It would not wait. It turns away. It takes its flight.
Fine work you’ve made of it, my sons, between you all to-night!

‘Even if I could outrun it now, it would not turn again
–Not now. Our great discourtesy has earned its high disdain.‘Oh noble and unmated beast, my sons were all unkind;
In such a night what stable and what manger will you find?

‘Oh golden hoofs, oh cataracts of mane, oh nostrils wide
With indignation! Oh the neck wave-arched, the lovely pride!

‘Oh long shall be the furrows ploughed across the hearts of men
Before it comes to stable and to manger once again,

‘And dark and crooked all the ways in which our race shall walk,
And shrivelled all their manhood like a flower with broken stalk,

‘And all the world, oh Ham, may curse the hour when you were born;
Because of you the Ark must sail without the Unicorn.’ 

 The unicorn is a beast too strong for any hunter to take; but if you set a virgin before him he loses all his ferocity, lays down his head in her lap, and sleeps. Then we can kill him. It is hard to believe that any Christian can think for long about this exquisite myth without seeing in it an allegory of the Incarnation and Crucifixion. (Lewis, The Discarded Image, pp. 149-150)

 

Revelation 3:20: “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in….”

‘And yet it knocks, how terribly it knocks,’ said Shem, ‘Its feet/Are hard as horn–but oh the air that comes from it is sweet.’:   An allusion to the mythology surrounding the unicorn: the scent of a virgin is “sweet” and therefore attractive to the unicorn; here, Shem is attracted to the purity of the unicorn—its “sweet air”, and in his heart a longing is awakened.

 Noah tumbled up on deck and out he put his head;/His face went grey, his knees were loosed, he tore his beard and said: Several ancient tapestries depict the unicorn tethered to a pomegranate tree, a symbol of youthful vitality and fertility. With its departure, Noah’s face turns “grey,” a symbol of age, for life has departed with it.

 Our great discourtesy has earned its high disdain: Noah, as the last righteous man alive, is aware of how his world has rejected God, and how it has been rejected. In consequence, they face the death of an innocent victim.

 Oh long shall be the furrows ploughed across the hearts of men/Before it comes to stable and to manger once again: Echoes of the curse: Gen 3:17

“Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life.”

This is where the myth fades into reality. Looking forward to the Nativity, Noah anticipates the next time Christ shall reveal himself, and how far in the future this will be.

 

The Late Passenger, the unicorn left out of the ark, is a perfect example of Lewis’ ability to use his extensive knowledge of Medieval mythology to awaken the transcendent truth latent within it. Understanding the analogy of the unicorn being Christ, this lighthearted poem quickly becomes heavy with theological meaning, inviting the reader to answer the “knock at the door” before it is too late.

 

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Psalm 126: You Have Done Great Things

                                                                                                                         

Introduction: the Psalms of Ascent

Psalms 120-134 are a grouping of psalms entitled the Psalms of Ascent. Although their specific purpose is not clearly explained in the Psalms, the probable use was for pilgrims ascending to Jerusalem (situated in the mountains) for religious festivals. Psalm 122 alludes to this use in verses 3-4: “Jerusalem — built as a city that is bound firmly together, to which the tribes go up, the tribes of the LORD, as was decreed for Israel, to give thanks to the name of Yahweh” (ESV). This practice is mentioned in 1 Kings 12:28, as well as in Luke 2:42, where we find Jesus and his family participating. Mays, in particular, argues for this use of the Psalms of Ascent, for several reasons:

1. The psalms are short and easy to memorize.

2. They are filled with references to Jerusalem and Zion, and the word Israel is used more

frequently than in other psalms.

3. They are full of liturgical phrases and benedictions, and have a particular emphasis on

blessings.[1]

Other than these common characteristics, however, they are a variety of different genres, and in fact, many are difficult to classify.

Psalm 126 is no exception. Interpretations differ as to whether this is a lament (communal petition) or a thanksgiving psalm. Much of this confusion in interpretation has to do with the fact that the Hebrew is ridiculously obscure. The meaning of the psalm is drastically affected by whether or not this psalm is in future or past tense. The NJPS is the only translation that translates the psalm in future tense, all other modern translations (including Eaton’s) place all the activity in the verses in the past. How the tense is translated is affected by one little word and its function in Hebrew grammar. This may not seem that important, but it is. The translation of this little word affects the interpretation of the whole psalm: whether it is past tense or not puts its setting either before or after the exile and thus gives it an entirely different meaning.

There seems to be good reason to translate it in past tense. Allen points out that the future tense is awkward: “The Lord will have had done great things” doesn’t make sense in English or Hebrew.[2] The psalm has the adverb az which can modify a future tense into a past tense.[3] With the exception of Eaton, the majority of commentators I read thought it was post-exilic writing, possibly by Ezra. One good reason for this is the stylistic and theological similarities between this psalm and the book of Joel (e.g., Joel 3:1).[4]

 Structure

The Psalm can easily be divided into two sections:

vv. 1-3: Remembering the restoration

vv. 4-6: Petition for renewal

It is so easily divided because of the parallel verses 1 and 4: “restores the fortunes” in verse 1 is repeated again in verse 4, “restore our fortunes.” The psalm is full of little couplets: “The Lord has done great things for us” is repeated twice verbatim; sowing in tears and reaping in joy is repeated and expanded; even verse 6’s “carrying the seed-bag” is paralleled by “carrying the sheaves.” It is a tight little poem, beautiful in its simplicity.

 Difficulties and Interpretation

The commentators I read really wrestled with the Hebrew wording in Psalm 126; “restores the fortunes” seemed to be the most problematic phrase. The word translated “restore” can mean a variety of things that are hard to carry over into English. Calvin and Eaton argue back and forth, metaphorically speaking, about whether or not the phrase translated as “brought back captives” in the NIV and “restored the fortunes” in the ESV would be better translated “restore greatly” or, literally, “turned the turning.” The Hebrew word Shibath can either mean captivity or reversal. Calvin suggests it is a play on words: that the captive ones have been turned around and brought home.[5] The basis of each translator’s decision is, again, the result of their theology. The question of Psalm 126 is its setting: is this psalm a prediction about Yahweh bringing his people back from exile, a psalm of thanksgiving for the Cyrus Edict, or a seasonal psalm about the harvest? I think there are elements of each interpretation that help us understand the psalm, but the majority, and some of the most reliable commentators I read—Calvin, Matthew Henry, Leslie Allen—conclude that this is a post-exilic psalm of praise.

The essence of the word Shibath is a dramatic reversal—something has drastically changed. Throughout the psalm this is emphasized: the imagery of water in a dry land (literally: “like the wadis in the Negev”: canyons in the arid south that would flood with water when the rains came), the dichotomy between tears and joy, sowing (death of the seed) and reaping (life for the community).  This concept is central in prophetic literature, specifically literature from the time of the exile onward. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Hosea—all are prophets of judgment and yet point forward to a time of great forgiveness, the “eucatastrophy,” when the community moves from a position of Divine wrath to Divine favor, from participating in death to being given new life. Whether it is referring to the return of exiles or simply the seasonal restoration of life to the community, the point is that God brings about restoration—a restoration so drastic even the pagan nations see and are amazed.

 Application

The Israelites looked back at their history to build their trust in God. When they traveled to Jerusalem to worship, they recounted to each other, through song, what God had done in the past. This restoration is a promise New Testament believers can cling to as well. Looking back at the dramatic reversal God has done in our lives can lead us to trust God more fully in the future. Furthermore, the promise of restoration is greater than simply salvation here and now—we are looking forward to a future Jerusalem, when God’s people scattered across the world will finally come home, and leave weeping in the past. This is the hope we cling to, and it is hope because we know our God can do it. In the midst of death, we have seen him bring life, and thus we can trust him. It is a reminder in a time of waiting that life will spring forth if we are just patient. God is working.

Mays commented that this psalm is traditionally read at Thanksgiving, as Christians look back on what God has done for them. It is also read as part of the Advent and Lent traditions.[6] Looking back on these two huge acts that God has done in history, how can we not look forward with hope? Paul’s words in Galatians ring true here: “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up” (Gal 6:9, NIV). Understanding the great reversal he has worked in our own lives makes our expectations for the future greater, as we look ahead and pray, “your kingdom come, your will be done,” we eagerly wait and expect to see “God moving…and his coming as brilliant as the sunrise” (Hab 3:4).

---

[1] Mays, 400.

[2] Allen, 184.

[3] Calvin, 96.

[4] Allen, 184.

[5] Calvin, 96.

[6] Mays, 400.

 

Inextricable

Sometimes it feels like everything in my life is interconnected, and I am following one theme as it weaves its way in and out of the crannies and corners of my life. This is what this song is. This is me trying to follow the theme of God’s love through my youth ministry and hermeneutics classes, through the restoration of a broken relationship, through a long and powerful email from a friend, a beautiful sermon by my pastor, Romans 8, and most of all, long conversations with my best friends. Particularly through Katie Jo, who lay on Carter lawn with me one afternoon and listened to my story and told me, with her fingers intricately interlaced together, that faith and love cannot be separated from each other because they are ontologically inextricable.

Inextricable

Tell the whole story

Hold nothing back

Lies must be silenced

They speak into lack

And I lack so much

If I wash my hands

Serve you at your table

Let go of my plans

I want you to thank me

I want you to need me

           

Life and death were in that room

Words hold that power

Looking into that cold tomb

Moments seemed like hours

And I ached once more to hold you

But we were not our own

I learn to rejoice with you

Even if still alone

I want to be humble

But I find it so humbling

 

I think this year I’m still learning

All that my God is teaching

And I watch you entwine your hands cuz

Faith and love are

Ontologically

Inextricable

 

He spoke her language

Like you spoke mine

Named her just as you

Call me your child

Tell the whole story

Hold nothing back

I tried not to listen

But you followed my tracks

And this is what grace means

The blessing is you

 

I think this year I’m still learning

All that my God is teaching

And I touch you, entwine our hands cuz

Faith and love are

Ontologically

Inextricable

 

I can’t be the surpriser

But I still try to fight

Strategy to defeat the enemy

Do the little things right

I want this time to be

Good for my soul

This is your grace in me

When I am faithful

An existential

Apprehension; it changed me

 

 

I think this year I’m still learning

All that my God is teaching

And I touch you, entwine our hands cuz

Faith and love are

Ontologically

Inextricable

Chapel Talk

I spoke in chapel two weeks ago. Here’s what I said….

________________________________________________

Let me tell you a story.

 

Once upon a time in a faraway land called Israel, some Crusaders built a church and called it St. Anne’s. The building they built was beautiful and perfectly symmetrical. They failed, however, to pay close attention to the details of the building. The columns on one side of the building had different capitals than the columns on the opposite side, and the designs on the windows didn’t match the windows next to them. In short, it was an imperfect building. But the shape of the building makes some of the most beautiful acoustics known to man; it has a way of multiplying the singers’ voices so it sounds like the angels have joined in the praise.

 

Hebrews 12 says when we come to church we are coming to a joyful assembly that includes the angels in Heaven. It really doesn’t seem that way. Last time I was at church, I didn’t hear any angels.

 

I spent quite some time being angry at God for the problems in my church. One night, after venting to one of my friends about my anger and bitterness, he told me to read psalm 73. The psalmist in psalm 73 pours out his complaint against the prosperousness of the wicked. The turning point for him is when he enters the sanctuary of the Lord and ponders the true destiny of both the wicked and the righteous. The psalmist realized that the treasure of the temple was not its gold, but the presence of God himself. But when I enter the sanctuary of the Lord, I don’t see God. I see his people. 

Have you ever been angry when you go to church? Have you cried because of how your church has hurt you? Have you been suffering and let down by a church that hardly knows your name? When you go to church, do you see the people and miss the treasure?

 

Me too. If you grew up in a 100% perfect church, turn to the person next to you and ask them to check your pulse. You’re in Heaven…or just really oblivious, and need to get to know your church better!

 

Believe it or not, you are a part of two churches. There is the church in your community that you attend—church with a little “c”—and the Church universal, Christ’s body—Church with a big “C”. I think I find it really easy to love the “big C” Church, but really struggle to love my “little c” church. There are many times that I have deeply commiserated with Jeremiah and Isaiah and their call to love a people who would not love them in return, and to speak to people who would not always listen. Does it sometimes feel like you give and give to your church without receiving anything in return?

 

I’ve wrestled with this a lot since I left home. How do I find my part in the “big C” church by serving my “little c” church? How do I love broken people who are so difficult to love? Why doesn’t anyone notice my needs or validate my calling? Why do churches fight, and wound, and split?

 

I haven’t found an answer to every question, but I do know this: we are engaged in a battle. I don’t know if you all are aware, but Covenant College is training you to fight a war. And this war may be fought in Africa or in the White House, but it is most commonly fought every Sunday morning at 10:00 when you go to church. Satan attacks relationships. He attacks them any way he can. He wants you to be hurt by your church. He loves to cause division. He wants you to curl inward and serve yourselves. And he’s getting somewhere—the Church is struggling. Only a hundred years ago The Netherlands, now one of the most pagan nations, was home to Abraham Kuyper. The light of the church is flickering in the US. Someone finally has to stand and fight, to say, “NOT HERE. Not on my watch.”

 

I’m super-pragmatic, and I hate it when speakers give a lot of directives without any practical way of following them. So what does it mean to stand watch, to guard your church from the Devil?

 

1.  Be faithful. You can’t love people you hardly know. You will make no impact unless you are faithful. Dig beneath the surface and really seek to be involved in the lives of those you are loving. Show up to one church regularly—this also models submitting to the accountability of the church.
2. Be quiet. You do not need to judge. I was complaining to my friend Nate one time about how people in the church judge each other on superficial things. Nate gently asked me, “what can you do to change that?” I was surprised at his question, but it made me realize: “I need to stop judging, or else I’m just judging the people who are judging.” Don’t judge. Accept that people are broken and that God is at different stages of working in them.
3. Speak truth. Although you don’t want to judge, the truth is so powerful. Don’t be afraid to speak the truth when God is calling you to do so. Follow God’s leading wholeheartedly and without fear.
4. REPENT. And I say it again, REPENT. Nothing hinders the growth and ministry of the church like sin festering in the congregation. Your sin affects the big c and little c church. Cleanse your heart. Submit to accountability and radically fight sin.
5. PRAY. Isaiah 62 says Because I love Zion, because my heart yearns for Jerusalem, I cannot remain silent. I will not stop praying for her until her righteousness shines like the dawn, and her salvation blazes like a burning torch. O Jerusalem, I have posted watchmen on your walls; they will pray to the LORD day and night for the fulfillment of his promises. Take no rest, all you who pray. Give the LORD no rest until he makes Jerusalem the object of praise throughout the earth. We need to be this faithful in pounding our fists against the door of Heaven and demanding that God keep his promises.

Finally, there is something about the church that transcends the people gathered every Sunday. We hold the light, but we are not the light. Because the Church is not about the people, we can be hurt and there can be division and the church can struggle, but it will not fail. The focus of the church is not itself or the community or anything but Christ. Cling to Christ.

We’re in a war. Things are not always going to be comfortable. But TAKE HEART. In Hosea 11, where God bemoans the faithlessness of his people, he still says, “someday the people will follow the LORD. I will roar like a lion, and my people will return trembling from the west.” God is doing the work of calling his people, and he is working amongst his church. As the hymn says, sometimes the darkness seems to hide him, but it is only hiding him. He is still there.

 

Maybe the Church is supposed to be messy and dirty and full of struggles; full of pain and sin and forgiveness, full of hurt and humiliation and brokenness; because the Church, rather than being something elevated and pure, is a fluid, moving organism that grows and struggles day to day. If the church is doing its job it will be full of sinners. It won’t be perfect. It hurts sometimes. But it is Christ’s.

Let me read you a story. [This is from Tales of the Restoration, by David and Karen Mains. The setting is a allegorical city which is ruled by the King, but is still struggling to understand what that means.]

At Play Plaza No. 9, the same angry scene greeted them. People shouting. Signs bobbing. Mud flying. Whap! Two opposing camps lined opposite sides of a street. Again, globs of mud hit the taxi windows.

The people shouted back and forth: “No, we’re the King’s people!” Whap! Whap!

To his amazement, Little Child saw another streetcleaner in the middle of the street. Like the first, he was pushing his broom, shoveling up tossed clumps of dirt, scooping it all into a bin in his cart and not saying a word. Wait, thought Little Child. Was this another streetcleaner, or was it the same man? It certainly looked like him. Same dungarees. Same flannel shirt. Same hardhat and boots. Could it be? How had he moved his cart through the streets to this place of conflict and arrived before the taxi?

Little Child watched the streetcleaner. He never shouted, he never threw back the clods of mud that hit him. A big man with an angry scowl stepped off the curb and shook his fist in the streetcleaner’s face. The streetcleaner said nothing, but looked long and silently at the giant of a man. Suddenly the accuser thrust his threatening fist into his pocket, backed off, turned, and ran out of the mob.

Who was this? Little Child wondered again. And as the crowd swirled around the taxi, he opened the door to get a better look. First he stood on the fender, rocking up and down, then he boosted himself higher onto the trunk.

A clod hit him in the back, but he scarcely noticed. From this height, he could clearly see the streetcleaner standing absolutely still. Mut hit the man’s cheek. At the impact his hardhat tubled to the street, and the man wiped blood from his eyes. Little Child gasped–they were putting stones in the mud! And then, then he could see the man’s hair, the gold glinting in the brown. Despite the turmoil of the people, the boy caught a full glimpse of the streetcleaner’s face.

At that, Little Child clambered from the taxi and pressed through the mob. “Make way. Make way.” He had to get closer. Without pausing to think, he stepped into the street beside the streetcleaner. He did know this man. Little Child fell at the man’s feet, tears blinding his eyes.

The streetcleaner stopped sweeping, rested his broom against the cart, and drew the boy to full stature. He looked quietly at Little Child, and his eyes were filled with the greatest sadness that Little Child had ever seen. “Ah, lad,” said the man. “And are you the only one standing by me to help clean up all this mudslinging?”

Little Child gulped and shook his head yes. He grabbed a pushbroom and began to sweep beside the streetcleaner. At first the crowd jeered and aimed mud at the dustbin. Then, when niether the man nor the boy replied in kind, mudslingers on both sides of the street threw mud at them.

As he had in Plaza No. 5, the streetcleaner guided a lost, frightened child to its parent. And after one long look and no words, the father lifted his child out of the dreadful melee and turned toward home. The shouts and the screams began to lessen. In silence the streetcleaner held out his hand, and a few people gave him their accusing placards, which he junked in the dustbin.

Little Child worked beside the streetcleaner, and the man paused a moment to brush the mud from the boy’s shoulders. In return, Little Child did the same for him. Seeing this, several people in the crowd, as though coming to their senses, turned to one another and brushed away the clods of dirt. Only a few were still shouting. Then, as though thinking the same thought at the same time, from both sides of the street several people walked to the bin and ditched their placards. Some took brooms and shovels from the cart and began to clear away the dirt.

A growing silence, a silence as still as the streetcleaner’s own, descended upon the crowd. Had they really been throwing mud at one another? How in Bright City had this begun? And why had it gone on so long? How had the anger become so hot and pitched?

Little Child looked again into the eyes of the man. Yes, the boy had seen him before. He had seen him as the most beautiful of men, had heard his voice commanding the winds and the thunder. Little Child had seen the lights in his eyes and known his laughter, the laughter that made every heart feel at peace.

It was the King, the King who had endured Burning Place to lift the dark enchantment which had held the city in the Enchanter’s power. Little Child had never seen him as now, in disguise like a common streetsweeper, his hands calloused from hard work, his face filthy from thrown dirt, pain shadowing his eyes. It was the King now cleaning up the mud the people of his kingdom had been slinging at one another. It was the King, suffering silently the blows of dirt that fell on him. It was the King with a wound on his cheek.

By now, the taxi vanguard had again encircled the crowd. But this time there was no honking of horns. A quiet, heavy and raw, had already fallen. Standing in the middle of the street, surrounded by people who had just been slinging mud at one another and shouting hateful words, Little Child could stay silent no longer. Truth, the words of truth came pushing urgently out of his heart. “People of the city! The King! Your King! This man is the King!”

At that, the people looked at the man, and with their anger finally vented, they saw him and knew him and realized what they had done. And Little Child, unable to bear the shame he felt as witness to their deeds, rushed into the streetcleaner’s arms and sobbed, his nose made muddy by his tears rubbing against the dirt still on the man’s dungaree bib and flannel shirt. The streetcleaner embraced him and patted his back, and whispered softly so that onl the boy could hear, “Hush now. Hush. hush. You have cleaned the streets with me. Good job, my boy. Good job.”

Friends, don’t be someone who throws mud, but sweeps it. Bring restoration and healing. Love people who are so hard to love. Repent and pray and cling to Christ.

Rev 1:12-20

When I turned to see who was speaking to me, I saw seven gold lampstands. And standing in the middle of the lampstands was the Son of Man. He was wearing a long robe with a gold sash across his chest. His head and his hair were white like wool, as white as snow. And his eyes were bright like flames of fire. His feet were as bright as bronze refined in a furnace, and his voice thundered like mighty ocean waves. He held seven stars in his right hand, and a sharp two-edged sword came from his mouth. And his face was as bright as the sun in all its brilliance.

When I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. But he laid his right hand on me and said, “Don’t be afraid! I am the First and the Last. I am the living one who died. Look, I am alive forever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and the grave.   Write down what you have seen — both the things that are now happening and the things that will happen later.  This is the meaning of the seven stars you saw in my right hand and the seven gold lampstands: The seven stars are the angels of the seven churches, and the seven lampstands are the seven churches. 

So in this passage, where is Jesus? Where is Jesus right now!?

Friends, in this battle for your church, you are not alone. Christ is with you, and in you, loving these people even more than you do. It is his church—big and little C. And he is a God of power.

Do you see the treasure? Do you hear the angels?