How to survive your calling.

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I am always very wary of ‘worthy’ Christians.  Where does all the mess go?

I appreciate that this may well be my own insecurity.  Maybe there are people who are simply that sorted in life and faith that there’s never a hair out of place.  But not me.

Oh no, not me.

I’m the hot mess in the back pew crying, “Lord! WT* is going on?? I know you’re here, I know you’re good but SERIOUSLY??

I’m the one who looks at the American President and thinks we may well have got the President we deserve, but NOT the ideal candidate from God’s point of view.  I can’t go there, not even for Bill Johnson or my old buddy Eric Metaxas.

I’m the person who looks at the shooting in Las Vegas and weeps ugly tears at the stupidity of gun laws.  I don’t blame God or think God is exacting judgment.  I think the Lord, like me, is weeping. I’m not surprised by the brokenness of the shooter. we’re all broken.  But, thank God, I haven’t reached for an AK47.

I’m not the best person to have in a small group from church.  Because I immediately want to go really deep and really real.  I immediately want to swear just to shake things up a bit. It’s not coffee chat.  And it won’t wash with the “Praise the Lord, everything’s going to work out” crowd.  I’m the one sitting there thinking, “HOW? How can this be the fruit of righteousness? Of faithfulness? HOW could I/you have ended up here? HOW could this be the way the road went?”

I’m the one who knows I may well have got it wrong.  From my own inevitably limited point of view.

I’m the one who contributed to the whole mess in the first place.  I’m the one who agrees with G.K. Chesterton when he responded to the question posed by the London Times  “What is wrong with the world?” with this postcard:

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I’m with John the Baptist in the prison cell.  I’m with Elijah curled up in a foetal position.  I’m with Joseph in the pit. I’m with Elisabeth Elliott when Jim was murdered.

I’m not sorted, but I’m clinging on.  Because the Person I’ve met is real and proves Himself to be real every day in my life.  Through my kids, my friends, the beauty of creation, LOVE. And I owe Him, big time. I love Him.

I’m not where I want to be, I’m not doing what I want to be doing, I’m not living how I want to live.  But when I ask God, He says to me (as He did to John the Baptist), “Look at the fruit.”

I’m clinging on.

I’m surviving.

Jsg/Oct 17

 

 

Allowing for suffering.

Who first said “Time heals all wounds”? Was it Shakespeare?

Whoever it was, they lied. Wounds don’t simply go away, they need dealing with.

It’s one of those revolting bromides that serve only the speaker in the face of another’s pain.  A platitude surely sibling to other such unhelpful phrases as:

“It could be worse! Lucky you.”

Or, “It’s not as bad as you think.”

Or, “Calm down, getting upset isn’t going to help.”

Or, “I’m sure they didn’t mean it.”

Or, “Brave girl, no more tears!”

Or finally, “Don’t cry, dear heart. The milk is spilt.”

What is it about another’s suffering that plants in the human heart such a profound desire to minimise?  Isn’t it just about the discomfort of the observer?

Ironically, Christians can be among the worst offenders.

“Well, praise the Lord! They beam as you weep your guts out. “God is in control and He will bring all things together for good!”

I could slap them.

Don’t you remember that there were three days between the Cross and the Resurrection?  Three days of utter darkness and total despair?  Disbelief, doubt, desolation, abandonment, disillusion?  There was no whisper from Heaven, “Hold on, y’all! Sunday’s coming!

When Jesus went to raise Lazarus, he didn’t arrive with a brass band to shout: “Dry your tears! Weep no more! I’m here to save the day!” Jesus was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.  Jesus wept, loud noisy agonised snorting tears at the plight of his deceased friend and the beloved bereaved.  

So what is to be my healthy response to my own suffering?

What happens now, when I’m brought back “to the scene of the crime” as an adult? I’m a grown up now, surely I can handle it?

And I have, for a time.

But then I feel boxed in and desperate, choking. And the wounded child within me seeing no escape, finds their only release is to scream.

SCREAM blue, bloody murder.  It’s ugly, and wild, and hurtful.

“Don’t scream like that!” A trusted friend says.  “You’ve got to stop. It won’t produce the result you want.”

How sound and how rational that is from their position on the sidelines.  But the child within me is in battle.  Hurled back into the lifelong nightmares of my childhood and no amount of maturity is going to wipe that slate clean.  Because it’s not about me.  It’s about the others.

Sometimes suffering produces a train wreck.  And you must not be scared by that.  Suffering is hugely messy.

Faced with no way out and no discernible options, the child within you can scream and scream and s-c-r-e-a-m, no matter the age they are now.  I’m sure that screaming is not productive in moving toward resolution. I’m sure it’s not mature.  I’m sure it’s not shrewd.

But it is raw.

And real.

And undeniable.

And so so so necessary.  There might be a lifetime of screaming down there which needs to be released.

Being told to change course, or to alter your reaction to produce a better result, is meaningless in the face of soul-destroying, screaming, stifling anguish.  You are who you are. I know I am. Still. And the suffering is what it is.

I need the grace of Christ to allow me to scream.  Not the well-meaning advice of friends who tell me to stop or who have a better strategy. Who think it can do me no good to scream.

Because I can tell you this.  Suffering suffers no stratagem. It grabs you by the guts and screams at you, “LISTEN TO MEEEEE! I AM DYING!”

And, in suffering, part of you is.  You are dying to what you thought your life would be.  You are dying to how you wanted to be loved and known.  You are dying to hopes, expectations, dreams. You are dying to the person you have lost and perhaps never had. You are dying to what was not, in order to come into an acceptance of what is.

There are no shortcuts.

And unless in suffering you do die to all these things, nothing can grow from it.

“Very truly I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.”

Suffering refuses to rush toward resolution.  It doesn’t care about your comfort, it’s trying to heal you. So we must be willing to sit in the agony of it – our own and others’ – to wait for redemption. No matter how the rest of the world views it. Suffering can be a lonely place.

And redemption won’t come quickly, because it follows due process. In fact it may not come at all.

But to deny the suffering itself? How can that help anyone?

What I long for is freedom. Freedom beyond the pain.

And, as John Wimber used to say, ‘The way in is the way on.’

 

jsg/sept 17