Sunday, March 25, 2018

When Thinking About Death, Bring the Wine...

If you’ve watched NBC’s This Is Us, you know about Randall’s “Worst Case Scenario” game that allows him to rapid-fire all his fears aloud in the hopes that listing them will make him feel better. 
  • He plays it with his wife, Beth, to articulate concern about their foster child, Déjà. “I’m afraid she’ll kill us in our sleep."
  • He plays it with his brother, Kevin, to project his anxieties over their family dynamics: “What if after Dad died, I got so absorbed in my own life that I stopped looking out for my sister?”
I’m not sure if this is a healthy practice or not, but in recent days, I’ve been playing Randall’s game to consider my own fears around death.

In studying 2 Peter, I’m struck by the fact that Peter can talk about his impending martyrdom with such ease (2 Peter 1:13-15)—instead of fear for his future, Peter is filled with an urgency that his readers, the church in exile, may “be diligent to be found by [God] without spot or blemish, and at peace” (2 Peter 3:14)

But this is not yet me. I still fear death. So here are my “Worst Case Scenarios”:
  1. I fear that I will drown in my car and not be able to save my baby buckled in the back seat (because I’m profoundly claustrophobic and also a mother)
  2. I’m afraid that when, in heaven, God asks me, “Why should I let you into my kingdom?” that I’ll choke and say something wrong like, “I served you.” (I am not good at thinking on my feet).
  3.  I’m afraid because I’ll have to stand before God alone—and I’m so used to leaning on John (my husband) for strength. (I am complementarian, after all 😏) 
It’s easy enough to find solid, scriptural ways to address these fears:
  1. God is sovereign over my life and the lives of our children. He will not leave us (Matthew 7:11; Hebrews 13:5-6).
  2. I know that I have a mediator, Jesus, and an advocate, the Holy Spirit, who will plead my case for me. I can rest in Christ’s completed work. (1 Timothy 2:5; John 14:16-18)
  3. Alone, yes, but not unclothed. “I will greatly rejoice in the LORD; my soul shall exult in my God, for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation; he has covered me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decks himself like a priest with a beautiful headdress, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels” (Isaiah 61:10). 
And yet, still the anxiety can creep in. I still tense when I cross any of the bridges over the Guadalupe River. I still know some degree of terror at the idea of entering the throne room of the Most Holy to have all my own brokenness laid before Him and the assembly.

It is sobering.

In allowing these fears to roll over me this week, I was struck by an article that, perhaps, can help any of us who long for the courage of Peter to take one step forward—out of fear and into his marvelous light (1 Peter 2:9).

The article is titled, “Don’t Ever Stop Drinking—Water, Milk,and Wine: Three Promises for the Thirsty,” wherein the author, David Mathis, suggests that believers satiate themselves on:

Water for Life
Milk for Strength
and…
Wine for JOY!

Yes! Isn’t this what my explanations had been missing?
Photo Credit
  1. I could recognize the lack of ability to save myself from God’s wrath, and so I drink the water for life. (John 4:14)
  2. I could recognize the fear in myself to present myself to God as holy, and so I drink the milk for strength. (1 Peter 2:2-3)
  3. But, I had deprived myself the wine. I had not recognized my need for delight-- the possibility that, in that throne room, all my deepest, least articulated delights are met. They are “like precious oil on the head, running down on the beard, on the beard of Aaron, running down on the collar of his robes!” (Psalm 133:2)
For me, death still stings but it can be dulled by delight. So, perhaps in spending less time articulating my fears and more time dwelling in my delight, my joy, my Jesus, I will someday find that those fears are washed away. In this way:
  1. I celebrate that, one day, I will put off this tent and be with my Jesus, my babies, my John David in the beautiful kingdom, and death will only have been the doorway into my deepest joy.
  2. I celebrate that, when seeing Jesus face-to-face, he will welcome me because of his own work for my salvation.
  3. I celebrate that my friend, Jesus, awaits and welcomes me to his home amongst the great cloud of witnesses. There, my hope shall be made sight!

“In that day
the mountains shall drip sweet wine,
and the hills shall flow with milk,
and all the streambeds of Judah
shall flow with water.” (Joel 3:18)

Sunday, March 11, 2018

Paper Tigers

In preparing for a recent Bible study, I was reading Proverbs 22:16, "The sluggard says, 'There's a lion outside! I shall be killed in the streets!'"
At first, I trusted the man: "What do I know about Old Testament animal control?"
Then I laughed at the man: “Oh, that’s ridiculous”
But then I was annoyed at the man: “Get over your dumb excuses and get out there!”
Then I realized I was the man: “I can’t share the Gospel with people-- they’ll reject me. I can’t lovingly address sin in someone’s life-- they’ll get mad at me. I can’t openly share my convictions about abortion-- someone will confront me.”
I didn't want him to be me, and at first, I prided myself on the fact that he didn't look anything like me. I'm in school. I'm a mom. I'm involved in stuff. But if we constantly look for ways that the Bible does not apply to us, we may just find that when people look at us, they see that the Bible is not reflected in us. 
And, dear ones, the enemy wants nothing more than for lazy Christians to look weak before paper tigers.

While there may be some degree of truth to our fears (there probably was a lion somewhere in the Ancient Near East-- just probably not within 100 miles), we often use it to justify ourselves. John Piper has an excellent thought on this passage. He explains that the sluggard's statement suggests that he either believed what he was saying (which would make him irrational and paranoid) or made it up (which would make him a liar). Either way, Piper suggests, disordered love makes him (and us) crazy and lazy. My love for self-preservation, and dis-love toward the rewards of Christian courage, have made me delusional, dishonest, and downright lazy.
Unfortunately, Solomon doesn’t offer a solution in the following verses, but the Scriptures do not leave us without answers. If we are to get up off the sofa and drop our excuses, it will be because we catch a glimpse of something more delightful, more beautiful than falling asleep with Cheetos on our chest.
No matter our justifications, real or imagined, perhaps we need look no farther than Matthew's Parable of the Talents (chapter 25). To the servant who was afraid and reaped no increase on his talents, the Master is fierce: "You wicked and slothful servant [ . . . ] take the talent from him." But to the one who set about the work of the kingdom, his Master is generous: "You have been faithful [ . . . ] Enter into the joy of your master." And, while not part of the same pericope, the verse that follows this passage is the clincher (and the example we need): "When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne" (v.31). 
Seated, resting. Jesus knows the time for action and the time for rest. May the Holy Spirit give us discernment to know the difference between godly restraint and fearful laziness.

Monday, May 9, 2016

I Wore White on Mother's Day: Reflections 8 Weeks Later


BLACK ON EASTER
On Easter Sunday, I was away in San Antonio. John Ezekiel had been buried the Monday before. John was out of town, and through a course of events, I found myself sitting alone in a church I had never attended before. I had hoped to remain anonymous. I had also not planned well, and therefore found myself with only skinny jeans and a black tank top as options for what to wear to this formal church where there was potential I would see some of John's colleagues who were on staff there. That morning, I raided my tiny mom's closet and found a dress that said it was my size, but inevitably hugged in all the wrong places. Did I mention she's tiny? In a desperate attempt to cover myself, I pulled on one of her (also tiny) black sweaters and pushed up the sleeves so people wouldn't notice it was not actually intended to be 3/4 length. I had seen this going like Sandra Bullock in Hope Floats where she just pops into her mother's closet and finds something stunning to wear for the funeral, but that didn't happen. Needless to say, it was a hot mess. Looking at myself in the mirror, I realized I was also wearing all black. I shrugged. At least it reflected my mood. Hoping to remain anonymous, I drove to the church with the clock reading 10:01. I sat at the back. By myself. Praying to be left alone. Maybe if I'd worn more dark eyeliner and not a patterned sheath from Dress Barn, I would have conveyed my message better.

Inevitably, the entire church looked like a basket of pastel Easter egg congregants. I tugged on my too short skirt, tried to get the sweater to close across my chest, and prayed they would forget to do the meet-and-greet at the beginning of the service. No such luck. Not long after, a family with 100 children in little, perfectly starched, white, monogrammed dresses came skipping in and sat next to me. Why hadn't I worn more eyeliner? I scooted further down the row. 

Fast forward: Easter, resurrection, clapping, song, song, prayer. And now time for communion... where every member of the church will get up out of their seats, parade down the middle row of the church, and receive the elements at the very front. This was terrible for my anonymity and my outfit. As I made my way up front, I felt like I should apologize to every person along the aisle for wearing this too-tight dress to church and desecrating Easter with my black. 

WHITE ON MOTHER’S DAY
Fast forward 6 weeks. I'm at my home church. And today I feel like wearing white. It may have taken longer for the resurrection to come to this broken heart, but like the timeless, worshipful sacrament of communion, it remains and waits and eventually woos us out of our seats, in spite of our despair and poor wardrobe choices, and ministers to us in spite of ourselves. 

And it is in these eight weeks since we said good-bye to our little boy that I’ve wondered at the “weightiness” of suffering. What does it mean for us to know Christ in his suffering and why would we want that for ourselves?

This suffering, this despair, this call to give our baby back, this brokenness and questioning-- it is deep and significant. It cannot only be for the purpose of helping others. I cannot believe that it is arbitrary. I must believe that is preparing for us an "eternal weight of glory" that surpasses the joy of an entire lifetime with John Ezekiel (2 Cor. 4:17).  And this is not said lightly. 


WEIGHED DOWN WITH GLORY
As I wonder at this eternal weight of glory that comes with suffering, I think about when Jesus appeared in his glorified body to his fearful disciples hidden in a locked room (Luke 24). I used to think that he had passed through the wall like a ghost (like they did-- see verse 37), but I'm beginning to wonder if it was not him who was "less tangible," but rather the wall itself that had to succumb to his more whole body. Jesus himself says, "Look at my hands and my feet. It is I myself! Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have" (Luke 24:39). Could it be that his sufferings produced a glorified body that bore the "weight of glory" that made him more real than anyone or anything on earth? And if this is possible, could it be that when we taste of this suffering, we are becoming more real tooAnd what if, in suffering, we become “pressed” to such a way that we become more solid-- that our resurrected bodies are already taking shape in part in this life as we become more real through pain?

ETERNAL WEIGHT OF ENTERING OTHERS’ SUFFERING
Even Abraham recognized this life was a "tent" and he was preparing for a "city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God" (Heb. 11:10) and it was credited to him as righteousness. Could we, too, approach suffering as God's way of making us more real? And if suffering is already beginning to prepare us for this more whole, more real body, could it be that when we enter the sufferings of others, it is also having this same effect? And when everyone else is running from suffering, couldn't it make sense that it is the believer who can face it for themselves or on behalf of others with assurance? Could this be our motivation for not shying away from the sufferings of others, but rather moving toward them with love and sobriety? Don't we simply join with Paul in wanting to "know Christ, and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of his sufferings, being conformed to his death; that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead"? This is not to say that we should seek out suffering for ourselves, but rather, that we can face it with more certainty of its purposefulness in our lives. 

Joining with others in their suffering, then, is a way of joining with Christ in his. And this, in turn, produces an eternal weight of glory. But sometimes it’s so hard to know what to do. What can be done to share in someone's suffering who has lost a baby, a loved one, or the hopes that were lost to a dream unfulfilled. How can we enter someone's suffering to better know Christ in his?

HOW CAN I ENTER OTHERS’ SUFFERING?
Not everyone is the same, but these things have profoundly touched me when people do them, and in experimenting with them, I'm watching how meaningful they seem to be to others:

    Speak their name. I love when people use John Ezekiel’s name. Most likely, that name is never far from a grieving person's heart, so drawing it to the surface, even if it makes them cry, still says that the person who died matters to you too. 
    Ask what they were like. I spoke to a woman today who had lost her mother in February. Normally, I wouldn't know what to say, but to this, I just asked, "Was she like you?" And it was amazing to watch her light up as she showed me her mother’s picture and talked about her beautiful red hair and meaningful impact in this life. When John Ezekiel died, the hospital took pictures of him for us. Because it was just me and John in the room, no one else from our family got to meet him when he was alive. However, after we got home, my dad asked if he could someday, when we were ready, see the pictures. It was profoundly meaningful to me that he would ask to see the grandson he never got to meet, even though the pictures may be hard for him to look at. He was willing to be saddened or look at death on our behalf. Profound. How I long to talk about John Ezekiel to those who didn’t get to meet him, but so many are afraid to ask for the sake of not saddening us, and it makes me wonder at others who might also be eager to honor their deceased in this way. Or what if we asked if we could bring flowers to their family member’s gravesite? Things that recognize the deceased sometimes have more impact than those that recognize the living.  
    Don't be afraid to make someone cry. I think a grieving person can be sad or cry and still be okay. Before church today, three of my dear friends and I found ourselves tucked in a quiet room laughing and chatting about coveting casserole dishes, but it ended with tears over what this day meant in light of the women represented there: two with miscarriages within the past six months and two with budding baby bumps. Each understood the weight of life and loss. One finally said, "I wanted to wish you a Happy Mother's Day, but I didn't want to make you cry," and yet with tears in all our eyes, it was profoundly meaningful. These dear friends risked something in bringing up pain, but it brought more healing to us all. Jesus isn't afraid of our pain, and when we risk and enter into the pain of others, there's the opportunity for us to enter into the joy of the resurrected life too. 


What a weighty mystery.