Not My Fight

One of the greatest temptations I think we have in this world is to fight. We like to argue, to take a stand, to be right about something. And we're generally willing to diminish someone else's standing to raise our own. 

There's been a lot of opportunity lately for Christians to fight. Some in this world are even trying to bait us into it. They want to press our buttons so that we throw punches instead of wash feet. They want us to shout instead of serve. They want us to fight instead of forgive. They want us to lose our love. 

And I'm not innocent. I have to admit that sometimes, I get suckered into all this drama. Sometimes, I want to speak love so loud that I forget to actually live it. And I come off fighting. Not because I want to fight, but because that's the language of this world so often. The loudest voice wins. The strongest argument wins. The biggest following wins. 

It's so easy to fight.

When I came to understand this and began to realize how deeply this fighting was weaving its way into my life, I had to figure out how to get out of it. It seems like such a noble prayer to pray, "Lord, if this is not my fight, then take me out of it." I've prayed that prayer. I've prayed for God to give me the strength to keep quiet, to step back, to stand at a distance and be broken-hearted, but not baited back into the ring. 

The trouble is that for as noble as it sounds, as disciplined as it sounds, it doesn't hit at the heart of the problem. When you get so used to fighting in your life, and it's so easy to jump in and start throwing punches (even punches in the name of "love" because that's how we Christians so often fight, or tell ourselves we are), asking God to take you out of the fight is a lot like asking the coach to bench you. 

You're not fighting, but you still want to.

Every word you want to say is sitting on the tip of your tongue. Every punch you want to throw is trapped in your clenched fists. You're just waiting on the bell to ring so you can stand up, toss off your coat, and get back in there. You're planning your next attack, even while holding yourself back, and it all becomes eventually unfair. You could win! You could really win. You've convinced yourself of that. But you're not allowed to throw any more punches. You're not allowed to make any more points. 

It's inherently unfair. Here you are, poised to win, and you're sitting on the sidelines because of all things, you prayed to be benched. 

So here's the thing: I've prayed that prayer. I've asked to be benched. And it doesn't work. Because I live my life wanting to fight, but choosing not to, and the tension is just incredible. The anxiety is tremendous. It stirs up more trouble in my heart than it settles. And at some point, I decided it was my prayer that was off. So...I changed it. 

I don't ask to be benched any more; that doesn't work. I don't try to discipline myself into staying out of it; I can't. It just makes me want to be in there all the more. I no longer pray, "Lord, if this is not my fight, take me out of it." That just puts me in a tougher spot. 

Instead, I've taken to praying, "Lord, if this is not my fight, take it out of me." Let me walk away and not look back. Let me leave the arena altogether. Let me hear the bell and not even flinch. Don't put me on the bench; I can hardly handle it. Instead, put me somewhere I can be of real use. Put me somewhere forgiving, not fighting. Put me somewhere serving, not shouting. Put me somewhere loving, not losing. Lead me out of here, Lord, because if I stay, I won't be able to help myself. I'm a fighter. Make me a friend. 

Sometimes, I have to pray that prayer over and over. I look at the fight, and I'm tempted. And it would be so easy to jump back in. But I settle my heart and pray again, "Lord, if this is not my fight, take it out of me." Every time I want to make a point, I pray, "Lord, if this is not my fight...." Every time I want to throw a punch, "Lord, if this is not my fight...." Lord, if this is not my fight, take it out of me.

And you know what? He usually does. Because most of the fights in this world? They aren't mine. As much as I may want a piece of the action, these are not my fights.

Most of the fights in this world? They aren't yours. Let them go. Walk away. Go somewhere you can be of real use. Forgive. Serve. Love. Pray. "If this is not my fight, Lord, take it out of me." 

Cornerstone

Peter says something interesting in his first letter. It's an idea that is seen throughout Scripture, from the first Temple to the Second: it's about the cornerstone. 

The cornerstone is an interesting piece of construction. It has to be laid just right or the whole building will be askew. It has to be laid straight and also at a right angle, so that the building goes off square in both directions. It has to be set firmly so that it doesn't move when the other pieces start to come around it. It must be set deeply enough that it gives the building root but not so deep that its structural importance is lost. In other words, it must be perfectly right. Or everything else is going to be terribly wrong. 

The cornerstone in Scripture is a reference to Jesus. Jesus is the first piece God is going to put in place. And sometimes, I think that's kind of hard to narrow down. I mean, what part of Jesus? His birth? His ministry? That one day on the mountainside? That other day on the mountainside? Jesus in the courtyard, refusing to speak in His own defense? Jesus crucified? What is it about Jesus that we're supposed to be building around? And I think....no, I know...I ask this question more around this time of year, around Easter. Because there's something about being torn between the Cross and the grave that's hard for me.

The Cross was God's redemptive act; it's how we build a life in God at all. It's the sacrifice that allows us to come before Him, holy and pleasing. There is no Christ without the Cross; we have no hope without this redemption. But the grave was God's eternal act; it's the promise of forever. And we need that, too. I could drive myself crazy thinking about such things this time of year. 

But this year, I haven't had to. Because of what Peter says. And here it is:

I am laying a chosen and precious cornerstone in Zion... (2:6a)

I read that and I can't help but wonder if it's not Good Friday/Easter that Peter is referring to. God has laid a chosen and precious cornerstone - Christ, always Christ - in a grave in Zion. 

Which sounds like maybe the grave is the thing, but no. This is the beautiful harmony of the Cross and the grave. The cornerstone is the crucified Christ, that which is being laid. The grave is the foundation on which He is being laid. So there's no tension here. There's no wondering what part of Jesus we're supposed to be building our lives around. It is the crucified Christ set in the grave; it is sacrifice resting in promise.

It is redemption nestled in eternity. 

That's the cornerstone. And that's not to say that when the Christ comes out of the grave, all is ruined. No. The crucified Christ is still the stone to build on, and the grave - even empty - is still the place on which to build.

And whoever believes in him will never be ashamed. (2:6b)

Mending the Tear

Today is Good Friday. It is the day that, nearly 2000 years ago, Jesus died on the Cross. At His death, the earth shook. The dead walked out of their graves. And the curtain in the Temple - the heavy drape that separated the Holy from the Most Holy Place - tore in two. 

And we've been trying to mend it ever since.

I think it was this torn curtain, more than anything, that shook our sense of God that day. Even more than the empty grave, it was this torn curtain that taught us something new about God. The grave...it doesn't require anything from us, except perhaps to believe. The curtain...it requires a lot.

Man thought he had God figured out. He thought, under the Law, that he knew what God required of him. It was all spelled out right there. Man had spent thousands of years trying to get the law right, trying to work out the kinks, trying to figure out how to live. And then the curtain tears, and it's not just that man is welcome into a new place, the Most Holy Place. It's that man can now see that place at all. 

And here's the scandal of it: The Most Holy Place is the place where God has dwelt among His people. It's the place where God has truly lived, in smoke and fire, in cloud and fog. After all this time that man has spent trying to figure God out, all these understandings man has finally come to, all that man finally thinks he knows, the Most Holy Place mocks him. Because it reveals how God has truly lived among His people.

Which has so little to do with Law and everything to do with Love. 

As if the example of Jesus isn't enough, man can now see the Throne of Mercy. He can now see how mercy finds it place above the Law, which is tucked away in an Ark. He can see how the angels guard mercy, but it is mercy that guards the Law. It shakes everything we thought we knew. It shakes everything we've been working toward. 

And it's easier to sew a new curtain than it is to live a new life. 

It's easier to find a way to tuck God back into that box, into that secret, Most Holy place, and to leave Him there. It's easier to find a way when we think about it to be drawn back to law, back to right and wrong, yes and no, black and white. Thou shalt not.... Thou shalt not.... 

Thou shalt not. 

It's harder when God becomes Love. Love is...messy. It's hard. And we see that when the curtain is torn. We see how messy love really is when we see the place that Love has been living for so long. It's not so easy any more. God desires love, but...what is love? It's not law. It's not right and wrong, yes and no, black and white.

It's shades of grey and drops of blood. It's beads of sweat and streams of tears. It's mercy. And..it's messy. 

We spend so much time trying to mend the curtain, like something's gone terribly wrong here in the Temple. But it is God who desired that we finally see the Most Holy Place. It is God who wanted us to see what He really looks like, living among us. It is God who tore the curtain, from the top down. So isn't it time we put down our needle and thread and open our eyes? Isn't it time we look at see what God Among Us really looks like?

Isn't it time we put the Law back in its place - tucked safely under mercy - and start figuring out what Love looks like? Sunday's a-comin'. Isn't it time we get Love right?

Eggs

Everybody's always asking, which came first? The chicken or the egg? The Bible has a beautiful answer for that. Genesis tells us that God created the earth fertile and ready to reproduce, so the answer is: 

A chicken with an egg in it.

The life that God created had the seed of life within it at its very conception. God, from the very beginning, created life within life. 

Why do I bring this up now? Because this is a season in which we're all looking for eggs. Eggs, it seems, represent a new life. We know it's in there. We know that just on the other side of that shell is a life waiting to spring forth, just as we know that just on the other side of that stone, new life waits in the grave. He's waiting for just the right time to come busting out of there. And that time is coming soon. That time is Easter morning.

So we go hunt eggs. We go out looking for new life without realizing that, like the chicken, it's been inside of us this whole time. God created you with this new life in mind, with a way to bring you back to Himself. He created you fertile for the faith, with this special little place inside of you that can't help but nurture what He's growing in you. 

And what is He growing? Redemption. Pure and precious redemption. He's growing the you that you were always intended to be, the you that has to be tucked away for awhile to develop well before you burst forth into His glorious Creation and manifest His incredible grace.

Most of us wonder a great deal about who we are. Are we the broken woman we see in the mirror? Or are we that rush of holiness we feel when we come in contact with the spirit of God? At our very core, we want to know which is real. Are we saints or sinners? Are we chickens or eggs?

The answer is: we're both. We're saints and sinners. We're chickens with eggs in them. 

New life is growing in you already. This Easter, crack it open.

Second Sabbath

I have written before (although I cannot seem to find it right now) about Jesus in the grave between Good Friday and Easter. I have wondered what He was doing with that time. I have theorized that although He was fully God, He embraced death as fully man and stayed in that grave those three days. 

What was He doing in there?

As I have thought about this again this year, because I tend to have the same thoughts when Easter rolls around, I think that for the first time, perhaps I know: He rested.

Time is a funny thing in the Bible. The writers don't calculate time the way that we do. We're told that Jesus spent three days in the grave, and that's because He spent part of Good Friday there, the very last few minutes of it. He spent part of Easter Sunday there, the very first few minutes of it. But He spent all of Solemn Saturday (a term of my own coinage) there. And that Saturday? That Solemn Saturday? It was also the Sabbath.

And so, He rested.

We know it was the Sabbath from our understanding of Jewish law. But even if we didn't know, the Bible plainly tells us. It's why Joseph of Arimathea was in such a hurry to get the body in the grave; he couldn't bury a man on the Sabbath. If He didn't entomb the Christ on Good Friday, the body would have to rot somewhere until Sunday. It's also why the women didn't go to the tomb until Sunday morning; they couldn't travel on the Sabbath. Two very deliberate reminders that that middle day, that Saturday, was a day of rest for everybody.

Including the Son of God.

By that point, He probably needed some rest. We read in the Gospels that every time He tried to sneak away for a few minutes to Himself, the crowds found Him anyway. They followed. They pressed in. They brought their sick, their infirm, their lame. They were hounding Him at every turn. After three years of very public ministry, rest was a welcome gift. 

But it's more than that. Rest meant something special to God. Rest for God comes after a series of good works, works at which He sits back and declares, "It is good." And it comes not so that He can take a short break from His work. No, for God, rest comes when His work is complete. Both of these things are true about the work of Christ by Solemn Saturday - it is good, and it is finished.

It is good because God has made a way for His people to come back to Him. He has manifest redemption before their very eyes. No longer must sin separate God and His Creation; the Christ has ransomed the world. God finally gets what He longs for - His people. And His people finally get what they so desperately need - their God. The two get to walk together again. He can reach out and take their hands; and they can reach back and take His. His nail-pierced hands. 

And it is finished. The earth has shaken, the curtain has torn, the dead have walked out of their graves. Think what you want about the Cross, but there's no denying it. Something happened. Something happened that has never happened before and will never happen again. No power of Hell, no scheme of man can ever un-shake the earth. It's over. Jesus wins. 

And so, He rests. That's what He's doing in the tomb on that one full day. He's resting, in the way that only God can rest. It's the second real Sabbath in the history of time, and it's His. 

Rest, my Lord. Rest well. 

It is good. And it is finished.