Fire and Fog

God's people have a history of feeling a little lost.  Or really lost, sometimes, as the wilderness experience in Exodus reminds us.  In those times of wandering, it's hard to know really which way to go, what to trust in, what to hope for, what to believe in, which way to turn.  The answer, so far as we can surmise from God's word, is simple but more easily said than done:

Walk toward the fire and into the fog.

Now, that doesn't seem right.  That doesn't seem comfortable.  That doesn't seem logical.  That doesn't seem fun.  The fire and the fog?  That's worse than the wandering!  In all my wandering, I'll admit - I spend most of my time trying to escape the fire and trying to find a way out of the fog.  So this...seems counterintuitive at best, kamikaze at worst.

Yet this is precisely the way.  Because as the journey of God's people tells us - it is by the fire and the fog that He led them.  It is by the fire and the fog that He leads us.

In the night, by fire.  In the darkness, by flame.  In the hard times, by trial.  When it seems things can't get worse - we've got no rest, no shelter, no place to lay our heads.  No security to shut our eyes.  Nowhere to call home.  Our stomachs are growling.  The day's manna is gone; the quail is rotting; we wonder what we might eat tomorrow.  In those tough times, God says, walk toward the fire.

Walk toward the hard times.  Lean into the trouble.  You will find enough.  You will find providence.  You will find faith.  You will find trust.

You will find God.

It's what happened in the desert.  In the toughest of times, in the darkest of nights, God's people didn't know.  They didn't know how long this would go on, how they would make it.  Their provisions had long run out.  They were scared.  They were weary.  They were wondering.  They were wandering.  And when the darkest nights had fallen, they cried out to God - have you brought us here to die?

Then...manna.  Bread from heaven like dew drops on the ground.  Water.  Out of the hardness of the rock flowed a refreshing stream.  Enough for one day.  This day.  Tomorrow, they would have to trust again.  Tomorrow, they did.

Over the course of 40 years, they learned what it meant for God to provide.  They knew what it meant to trust Him.  They knew what today meant and what tomorrow would have to mean again.  Each man ate until he was satisfied; each woman had her fill.  They found enough.  They found providence.  They found faith.  They found trust.

They found God.

And in the day, by fog.  By a cloud of smoke that blocked their view.  By a haze so heavy they couldn't see the Promised Land.  They didn't know where they were.  They didn't know where they were going.  They thought for sure they had passed that rock already...twice?  Three times?  They probably longed just to see.  But God says when you don't know where you're going, walk into the fog.

You will find rest.  You will find guidance.  You will find trust.

You will find God.

This, too, is what happened in the desert.  In the fog by day, the camp settled.  They found rest.  The column of smoke guided their journey; it told them the next step even when they couldn't see the destination.  They learned to journey one day at a time, one tiny step at a time, from camp to camp until one day, they looked up and saw the Jordan.  On the other side of the Jordan, they saw the promise.

We all feel a little lost now and then.  Sometimes, really lost.  But there is something to do when we wander.

Walk toward the fire and into the fog.

There...is God.

And the next thing you see could be the Promise.

So Sue Me

You can tell we are a people who are arrogant about our woundedness (and undeserving-to-be-wounded nature) by how ridiculously busy our civil court system is.  We sue each other at the drop of a hat, taking our beef to court because we think we're getting shortchanged any other way.

After a gunman broke into an elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut, the family of a slain 6-year-old filed suit against the school district for not protecting their daughter.

Passengers aboard the crippled Carnival cruise ship refused the company's generous atonement offer so as to preserve their right to sue...then promptly sued Carnival for the disastrous adventure they were forced to endure.

We don't want to be wounded.  We don't think we deserve to be wounded.  And if we are wounded, someone is going to pay - whether it's their fault or not.  Whether they've already offered to pay or not.

And see, that's the problem.  We think that every time we're wounded, someone is at fault.  There are no accidents.  No random mysteries of the universe.  Someone should have always foreseen, and always prevented, pain wherever we find it, and if they failed to....they should pay.

In 2008, I slipped on a slick patch of sidewalk in an ice storm and seriously damaged my shoulder from the landing.  I went back into the building (I had been on my way out) and explained what happened to the lady working the front desk.  I told her they might want to put a bit more salt down out there, and I turned to leave.  She was panicked - was I ok?  No.  My left arm was shooting with stingers, but I smiled at her and told her I just wanted her to know so that no one else got hurt.

Some argue I should have sued!  They ought to take better care of their property than that!  But the truth is that most of their sidewalks were well-salted and the area in which I had fallen was sort of small ramp built in where I had just happened to step awkwardly as I was side-cutting the sidewalk to get to my car.  It wasn't their fault I fell; it wasn't my fault.  It was just one of those things.

The family suing in Newtown - they claim they don't want the money they're asking for.  They really just want changes to be made so that other children are protected in their schools.  But that gunman shot through the door to get into that school.  He killed the staff in the front office that stood between him and the children.  The same parents would be outraged if we locked our children down.  So where's the blame?  Dead, with the gunman.  With all reasonable security, the school had done its best; it's not their fault a man with an axe to grind and bullets to waste decided to tear through their security to get at their children.  It's one of those things that just happens.

Carnival cruise lines offered refunds to all of their passengers.  They added bonus cash, money toward a future trip, and transportation home from the wounded ship once they reached shore.  They were sincerely sorry for what had happened, something no one had seen coming, and wanted to make amends for the experience.  But people rejected the generous package only to turn around and sue.  Does the court make Carnival more at fault?  Less at fault?  Do the courts make compensation somehow more satisfying?  No.  It just ties things up.  Because accidents happen, and Carnival did their best to make amends for torturous amenities.  It's not a cover up.  It's not a scam.  It just happens sometimes.

Things happen sometimes.

And I think we need to be a people with more grace for those things.  We weren't given a perfect world; we inherited a fallen one.  We weren't promised that things wouldn't fall apart; they already have.  God never said this is a place not to suffer; He guaranteed there would be suffering here.  God told us things would happen.  God told us thinks would break.  God told us we would hurt.  God told us this whole thing was falling to pieces, us included, and that's part of the package.  It's how things are.

Our security does not come from a court system that puts everything back together, that divvies out justice and money in order to appease the woundedness we suffer.  Our security comes from knowing we have a God who promised things would fall apart then promised never to lose the pieces.  Our security comes from knowing that God protects us, defends us, redeems and restores us.  Our security comes from knowing God's got this - He's got every little thing that just happens.  And every little thing is going to be ok.

Because God's got the pieces, and though it's hard sometimes to feel all of our cracks, He'll never lose a single one.

I'm dismayed sometimes at how much we think this world owes us beyond what God has promised and beyond what God has provided.  The world doesn't owe us anything, wounded or not, and there's not one dime I would take that would make sense (get it?  cents?) of anything that happens down here.  Stuff just is.  Let it be.

Then if you really have a beef with something, take it to God.  Run to God when your heart aches.  Journey to Him with all the beef you have with this broken, fallen world He's put you in...and offer that meat as a sacrifice on His altar.  It's the only good and holy thing to do with it.

Intended, Redeemed

Yesterday, I said that maybe it's not all bad that we see ourselves without grace.  Here's why:

It means we still have one eye on Eden, on the way things were supposed to be.  We still have an inkling of how God intended all this.

We weren't meant to be wounded.  We weren't meant to be weak.  We weren't meant to be empty or have need.  The fact that we are offended by such things means on some level, we remember what life was supposed to be like.

But we can't let that make us arrogant about now.  Because those hopes and dreams have fallen and we are fallen men and women, just as much us as the man standing next to us and the ground on which we are standing.

And while we may think we're doing God a favor by holding adamantly onto our perfect intention, such is not the case.  We actually make it harder to love Him.  In turn, we make it harder to know how much He loves us.

It's harder to love Him because our fallen nature in our ideal perfection shames us.  We don't feel like we measure up.  We know how much less we are than what we could have been intended to be.  We know we're not there yet, and we think it's our fault - because we are still blaming our fallen world for holding us back and ourselves for being held back by a fallen world.  If we know we are not God's perfect creation, we have a hard time convincing ourselves to turn to Him.  He should be ashamed of us; we know we are.

We are ashamed to go fallen to Him and we are embarrassed to think He would come humbled to us.  We wouldn't want God to be here, in this mess, even if meant being next to us because He's better than that.  And we ought to be better than this.  We wouldn't want His pity.

We fail to recognize it is grace.

God appreciates our eyes that still see Eden.  He loves that we know it wasn't supposed to be this way, that we weren't supposed to be like this.  He cherishes that piece of us that isn't ready to die fallen.  But He knows we're fallen anyway.

It's kind of a curse.

When we are able to look in the mirror and meet our reflection with grace, that is not a betrayal of God.  That is not a slight of Creation.  It doesn't mean we've given up on Eden; it means we've given ourselves over to the Cross.

In a fallen land, we are never going to be as God intended.  We are never going to be a perfect creation.  And that's not the plan any more.  That's not the goal.  That's not the relationship.

Today, God's perfect idea is not that we would never be wounded; He's promised that we would be.  So that He can mend our fallen flesh.  His perfect idea is not that we would never be weak; He knows that we will be.  So that He can be our strength.  His perfect intention is not that we would never be empty, never have need; He forms us empty.  So that He can fill us up.

Our relationship with God is no longer based on walking together with a breeze at our backs; our relationship is now based on walking together with a cross on our shoulders.  We are headed to Calvary, fallen men and women with a gracious God who has more up His sleeve.

If only we would look in the mirror and embrace that we are less.  And that that's ok.  Our less does not betray God; it invites Him.

It invites His tender mercy, His perfect strength, His redeeming grace.  This is how God sees us now, and this is how He loves us: not as He perfectly intended but as He graciously redeemed.

Knowing this, we are also invited.  We are invited to give ourselves a tremendous gift - a measure of grace for our fallen flesh.

Lord knows we need it.

Self, Less Grace

It's unimaginable that God has such grace for you and me.  Particularly when we realize what little grace we have for ourselves.

It is one of life's hardest lessons, and one God is working me toward a little more each day.

I love grace.  I love the idea that when I'm not enough, there is plenty to round me out.  I love the idea that when I've fallen short, there is a measure to make me stand tall again.  I love the idea that all of my emptiness is filled by this simple little thing called grace.  I love the way grace makes me feel.

And I love the way it feels to pour my grace out on others.  It's not so hard, you know?  I mean, I don't find it difficult to find it in me to meet someone else's heart with grace the same way God has greeted mine.  It's not so hard to find myself thinking that, you know, they're people, too, and we all need a little grace.

It is exceptionally hard, though, to find me thinking that when I'm looking at the woman in the mirror.

What is it about ourselves that we have such a hard time extending grace to our own ragged reflection?

We don't take enough responsibility for our own hearts.  We are arrogant about our wounds, adamant against our weaknesses, and ignorant of our need.

We are arrogant about our wounds because we don't think we deserve to be wounded.  So when something stings, someone must pay for our pain.  We hold the rest of the world accountable for the ache in our heart because we cannot fathom that we are worthy of the hurt.  They have disrespected, discounted, and dismissed us by choosing to wound us, and we won't let them forget it.

When we have not the grace for ourselves to embrace our wounds, it is we who do not forget.  And we greet our world with resentment.

We are adamant against out weaknesses because we know ourselves.  We know what we are capable of and not capable of, and we are a people who refuse even to try when there's a good chance we might fail.  So when we fail, something went wrong with something not us.  There was a glitch in the system.  There was a breakdown somewhere.  There was something not ready, something amiss, something wrecked that kept us from succeeding.  We labor to correct our circumstances because we cannot find the grace to admit we could not do/be what we should have done/been.

When we have not the grace for ourselves to embrace our weaknesses, it is we who fail ourselves.  And we greet our world with domination, control.

We are ignorant of our need because by this point, it's plain we see no problem with ourselves.  It is our world that betrays us, our circumstance that foils us.  It is this place falling apart around us that dooms us to something less, and we have convinced ourselves that if we can control our circumstance and command our world, we would be all we are.  So when we find ourselves with any need at all, it is the need for the world to get on board with our being awesome.  It is our need for the rest of creation to get out of our way.

When we have not the grace for ourselves to embrace our need, it is we who drown in emptiness.  And we greet our world with bitterness.

The problem is not necessarily how we see ourselves.  The problem is not that we resent being wounded, that we expect more of ourselves, or that we feel held back here.  That...is something maybe rather beautiful that I will talk more about tomorrow.

The problem is that we fail to see ourselves with grace - the same grace we drink of from our Lord, the same grace we extend to the man not in the mirror. 

When we have not the grace for ourselves to embrace our own heart, it is we who diminish ourselves.

When we can only see ourselves less (without) grace, we cannot help but see ourselves as less.  And that's a problem.

A problem that needs grace.

To be continued...

On Fear

Fear falls into two basic categories - rational and irrational.  The most powerful example I've seen of irrational fear is when, after a nearly-four-hour bus ride, an entire field trip of girls decided they didn't have to pee so bad after all because the only available bathroom was covered - literally covered, wall-crawling covered - in completely harmless wood spiders.

Rational fear is a bit more insidious.

Rational fear is based on the kind of thing that might actually happen.  In fact, it most likely will happen at some point or another.  And oddly, it is the very possibility that the object of our fears might come to pass that turns our rational fear into all kinds of irrational behavior.  When we are honestly afraid of something that might actually happen, we start living our lives in a way that braces for that very thing.

Guilty.

Remember....remember in the 90s when we all heard the story of that family somewhere around the world who found the six-foot snake in their toilet?  Remember...how we all treated out toilets just a little differently for the following few weeks, months, in some cases years?  We hadn't considered the possibility but when we realized there could actually be a giant snake sneaking in through our pipes, we took some precautions.

In the past several weeks, almost every day has seen some story of a vehicle careening off an overpass.  You didn't think it could happen - those railings should be enforced to prevent that - but knowing it is a possibility could change the way a person drives.

The truth is our rational fears are rational precisely because they could one day happen.  They might in fact likely one day come to pass.  

Then the question becomes: how do you live with rational fear without becoming an irrational basketcase?

And the answer is: you don't.

You can't.  Fear and living are mutually exclusive.  Because the truth is that when you convince yourself it's not going to happen...enough that you are able to live through the fear...and it finally does happen, your fear is confirmed and you hate yourself for giving up your diligence, which only pushes you further into irrational paranoia because it happened once when you weren't looking and damned if it will happen again.

One day you wake up and realize all the time you've missed waiting on the snake that's never coming to your toilet (or your washing machine; I heard that one a time or two, too.  You're welcome) and steady hands that aren't going to send you careening off an overpass or a house that never burned down or a tornado that never came or a spider that never bit you.  In all our fear based on the one possible moment that might actually happen that would devastate, diminish, or devour us, we are forgetting, neglecting, and completely missing out on the millions of moments between fear and forever that we could be living right now.

Wonderful.  Fantastic.  Beautiful.  Blessed moments that are the essence of life as we know it.  These are God's beautiful gift to us.

Which is why He has not given us a spirit of fear.  Because we cannot have both.

We can have this moment, this holy moment with the full presence of God and all He has gifted into this brief breath for us to experience, to enjoy, to bless, to be blessed by....or we can have one eye on the next moment that's maybe coming but maybe not and maybe today and maybe tomorrow and maybe not until we're ninety.  We cannot have both.  We cannot believe God for right now if we are busy questioning Him for later.

And that's a tragedy.

It wasn't that long ago that I wrote about fear and faith.  And to tell you the truth, I haven't won that battle.  Not yet.  I have good days and bad days, and days when I am praying and crying and days when I'm cautiously confident.  As time goes by, and I search more to rest in this moment and not worry about the next one, I find that my prayer is changing.  It's changing from a desperate, panicked, agonized prayer for the absence of whatever I might be afraid of, or even the absence of fear....into an exhausted, hungry, thirsty prayer for courage.

God has already answered my fear.  Of this much, I am sure.  God has answered my heart that fears, that fears even when it doesn't want to and even when it knows it shouldn't and even when it somehow simultaneously pretends to believe it has no reason to fear, which it knows but sometimes, the heart gets the better of me.  God's already answered all of that.  In Him - in this holy moment - there is no fear.  So a prayer for Him to do what He's already done is redundant.  I'm finding it better to pray for strength, for courage, and for a brave heart that believes Him even when it would rather worry.

And that gives me this moment.  No matter which one comes next.