Rattle My Chains

Even as I sit in slavery, behind bars, holding a gun to my own head, one of the absolute coolest things about Jesus is that He's content to sit there with me. This Man, this Son of God, who paid such a high price for me, who burst in and rescued me, who opened the doors of my prison cell longs that I would get up and walk out, but He does not demand it. He knows that I just don't know what to do with this.

And so, He comes.

And He sits.

He sits with me in the darkness as I fiddle my fingers around the gun, clicking and releasing the hammer, checking and re-checking the chamber. These bullets, they were meant for me and...and I just can't get over that. I don't know what to do about that. I take one out, roll it around in my fingers, then put it back in the chamber and lock it shut, shaking my head. I look up at Jesus, who so skillfully rescued me from my kidnapper and patiently, ever so patiently, is working even now to rescue me from myself.

He sits with me in the holding pen, His ears still bleeding from the awl of the auctioneer. We're free, He confirms with a smile spreading across His face, even though He bears the marks of a slave. We're free. We can leave at any time, yet here we stand, the two of us among thousands. Here we stand because I don't know where I would go or what I would do; I've never really thought about it, at least not as a real possibility, and He...He is not going anywhere without me. So here we stand, free as birds, surrounded by slaves, so close that we can hear the sounds of the jeering crowd as another and another and yet one more slave is brought to the block. Surrounded by mothers who are ripped from their children, sons who are taken from their fathers, brothers and sisters who are separated. Surrounded by weeping and aching and bitter pain. And I can't for the life of me imagine it any other way; I don't know where I would go. I don't know what's even out there. So here we stand, stupid smiles on our faces and faint echoes in our hearts, looking at one another. We're free.

He sits with me in the prison cell, my feet dangling off the cot as I kick at the chains that once held me there. The doors are wide open; the bars no longer hold me. But like Paul when the angel set him free, I cry out to the jailer, It's okay. I'm here. I'm still here. Something about the noise of the chains comforts me; it's all I've come to know. And when it's been too long, when it's been quiet for too long, sometimes even Jesus reaches over and rattles those chains, my chains, because He knows how the noise comforts me.

And that's where things start to change. That's where my heart starts to turn.

See, I love that I have a God who is willing to sit in the dark places with me, a God who understands that this whole freedom thing is harder than I ever imagined. I love that I have a God who will rattle my chains every now and then, but when I see Jesus sitting there next to me, my chains in His hands, something more than the sound strikes me. It's the sadness in His eyes that gets me. As He rolls each link around in His fingers, I can't help but watch and wonder what He's thinking.

It's not unlike the scene where He stoops down and begins writing in the dust in the company of sinners. I wonder how many watched His fingers and how many saw His eyes. I wonder how many were waiting on Him to speak, not words of condemnation, but, you know, something Jesus-y. (The accusers, of course, were waiting on vindication, but I wonder how many were waiting on tenderness.)

And here we are, just the two of us, and I'm having that moment. I'm having that moment where I can't breathe, where I'm watching His fingers and I'm watching His eyes, and I'm waiting for Him to speak tenderness, and all the while, the longer He plays with my chains, I feel something building up inside me.

It's shame.

It's this quiet little shame that knows that I have chosen, that I keep choosing, these chains over the God who is willing to sit here and play with them. It is this quiet little shame that knows it's been found out, that knows that He knows that I'm far more comforted by the rattle of chains than by the open door. I may even be more comforted by these chains than I am by His presence. It's this quiet little shame that counts bullets more than mercies. That's been bought but won't accept its price, won't claim its worth. It's this quiet little shame that we in Christian circles call conviction, and it's creeping in because of the goodness of a God who longs for me to leave this place, but doesn't demand it.

It's this quiet little shame that does demand more. It demands that I do something. It demands that I resolve the ache that it's placed in my heart. So what's a girl to do?

Do I pull my chains out of His hands, demand that He leave them alone? Turn my back on Him and continue to play in my bondage, continue in my darkness with this sense of His breathing over my shoulder? Do I walk out and find another cell somewhere, find a place where He hasn't come yet, where He won't follow me? Do I take His hand and lead Him out the door, forcing Him to go where I'm going, not permitting Him ever to leave me? Do I yell, scream, blame, condemn, hate Him for bringing me to a place where my heart aches like this at all?

More often than not, I simply crumble and cry, resting my head in His lap, letting His fingers run through my hair. I...I don't know how to leave this place, but I fall a little more into Him at every chance. I let shame nip at my feet until I cannot stand, then nip at my knees until I fall and then, and then...the God who is more content to rattle my chains than He ought to be catches me. He comforts me. He quiets the darkness, and here, I find rest. Rest.

We're free.

Free Indeed

For the past couple of days, we've been talking about how the people of God are far too content to cry Freedom! even while our chains continue to rattle, as though our freedom is a promise only of Heaven and not of this life we now live. But the Gospel message is clear on this: whatever Christ sets free is free indeed. Now, not later. In this life, not just in the next one.

So the question is: how, then, should we live?

At this point, you may be hoping that I have some insightful wisdom to share on this topic, that I have some neat little story that will help to put some skin and some understanding to this idea. You may be waiting for me to drop some truth that will make freedom seem not only real, but possible. If so, I have some bad news for you....

The truth is that I don't know. I haven't got a clue. I'm just as guilty of this chain-rattling freedom as anyone. I know in my head, and I understand in my heart that I'm free, that Jesus has already paid my price, bought me with His blood, taken my piercing as a slave, rescued me from the hostage-taker, opened the doors of the jail, and yet, the only thing I know about this freedom, about true freedom, is that I can't breathe. 

At the very moment that I feel most free, at the very second that I feel like I am almost able to grasp onto this idea of freedom in Christ, I become prisoner to my own breath, slave to my own heart that can't stop racing, hostage to my awe and apprehension. At the very moment of my freedom, when this world lets go of me, I become a slave to my own limitations, and they are many.

They are many because, I swear, most days, it feels like the only thing I know how to be in this world is a slave. It's so easy. Do what you're told, smile, be content with what you have, work hard, maybe you'll get more and maybe you won't, gruel for dinner. There's nothing to choose, nothing to know, nothing to hope for because it's all pretty clear, and I like clear. Clear is good. Clear is easy. I make a fantastic slave.

They are many because I'm just not very good at mystery. I'm not good at things that are so foreign to my heart. Freedom? What is freedom? How is freedom even possible? Who is this Man who so willingly, so faithfully, so lovingly steps in and buys me at the highest price, purchases me with His own blood? What am I supposed to make of a God who not only sets me free, but who takes my place? I don't understand the heart of a God who would do this, and I certainly don't understand the heart of a God who would do this for me. Me. The person I have to look at in the mirror every day. The person whose darkest shadows I know most intimately. Does not this God know my shadows? For me....for me, He does this. I don't get it. I don't understand. And mystery...mystery is hard. 

Mystery is hard, and heart is hard. This whole freedom thing, it makes my heart ache. As a slave, I don't even have to have a heart; there's no place for that here. But freedom...freedom demands not only that I have a heart, but that I listen to it. That I know its whisper. That I let it speak. Freedom demands that I let my heart long for something, that I let it ache, that I hold it with tender hands and wear it on tattered sleeves. It's not easy. It's not fun. Is this the life of a free man? Of what good is the ache...?

My limitations, as I said, are many, and I just don't understand this freedom. I don't know about it. I know it exists. I know it's true. I know it's real. I know that the moment that Jesus raised my price so high that only He could pay it, the chains fell off...but I keep kicking them around just to hear them rattle, just to hear that old familiar sound. I know that when Jesus came busting through the door and pulled the darkness away, that the gun that darkness held against my head fell to the floor...but I picked it up, just for old time's sake, just to hear that click of the hammer every now and again. I know that when Jesus stormed the prison and opened the doors, there was nothing to stop me from walking straight out...but here I sit, unsure where to go, uncertain how to move, letting the bars run through my fingers in some sick, twisted "comfort." 

I know that...I know that I am free, but I can't breathe. I can't draw a single drop of air into my awed and anxious lungs. I can't calm my racing heart. I can't...I don't know what to do now. I don't know what to do next. I'm free, free indeed, but....

...

Chains Rattle

We don't have to use the image of slavery to illustrate what is happening to us as a people; that's just one of the images that the Bible uses. We might use any number of other illustrations more contemporary to our present times.

We could note that we are hostages, living under the constant threat and powerful control of a world that would have us be anything but free. Then Jesus comes in, not as a hostage negotiator, but as a renegade. He neutralizes the threat, releases the hostages, and we shout for joy at being freed. ...then we go and put an offer on the very house where we were held hostage, all-too-willing to make these haunted halls our home, to make this atrocity our address. When guests come over, they ask, "How did you ever come to live in a place like this?" Well, we say, once upon a time, I was a hostage here. But I've been set free!

It doesn't make any sense.

Or a better image even still - we could say that we are prisoners, wrongly convicted. We could talk about all the time we've spent behind bars, the years we've accrued here. Then the Judge Himself comes by in person to give us the good news: our case has been revisited; we have been exonerated. We are free to go. But then the doors don't open right away, the bars don't fall down. And yet, here we stand with a big, stupid grin plastered across our faces. We are free! We stretch our hands through the bars and clasp our fingers together and breathe a big sigh of relief. Free, indeed....

And we're content to do all this. We're content to live this way - as slaves, as hostages, as prisoners, even while we continue to tell people we are free. Even while we continue to dance and to celebrate our newfound freedom in Christ. It's not that we don't hear our chains rattling, our ghosts calling, or our bars clanking; it's that we don't think it matters any more. It's that we're so assured of our future freedom that we don't even seem to mind that right now, we're still something far less than free. 

Even though we've been bought. Even though we've been rescued. Even though we've been released. We are a free people living in bondage, willingly, and we're telling people this is good. 

We're telling them that this is what Jesus does. 

This is not what Jesus does.

Heaven...heaven is only part of the plan. When we read through the Gospels, we get a very clear sense of what Jesus is doing here, what Jesus is doing now. Yes, He talks about the promise of Heaven. Yes, He foreshadows that great day to come. Yes, He speaks of the freedom, the redemption, the mercy to come. 

But He also heals the blind man. He opens the ears of the deaf man. He makes the lame to walk again and the mute to speak. He casts down the mighty and raises up the broken-hearted and calls the dead to life again. And every time He does this, it actually happens. These men and women, these blind men and sinners do not have to wait for some future day when all that Jesus has promised will come true; it's coming true now. 

The blind man doesn't continue to stumble around. Why would he? He can see! The deaf man doesn't pretend that he can't hear. Why would he? The music of creation is glorious! The lame do not drag themselves around on limp legs; they walk tall. Of course they do! The woman with the issue of blood does not continue to isolate herself from the community; she's clean now, through and through. Why would she continue to live as though she weren't?

And yet we, we who claim to know so much about this Jesus, we who have witnessed truly remarkable things from Him, we who know the power with which He speaks, loves, heals, walks...we are content to cry out, We're free!

...even as our chains rattle....

Free the Slaves

One of the powerful images the Scriptures have for our relationship with both the world and our Lord is that of the slave. And although being a slave meant something different in the time in which the Bible was written (indeed, it meant something different even in the Old Testament than it did in the New), there are some ideas that we must still pay keen attention to. 

For example, what should we say of our freedom, given the image of our slavery?

The other night, I was thinking about the slave auctions that used to take place in America and other regions around the world. I was thinking about what it must be like to be paraded in front of a wealthy audience, to look around and see all eyes looking at you, to be bound by chains in front of the very men who could buy your services...or your freedom. 

I was thinking about what it must be like to see Jesus looking back at you, to know that out of all the men, this one Man is the one who you know would set you free. We know that, don't we? Out of all of the options in all the world, there is one house where we are no longer destined to be slaved. This Guy has a reputation. We've heard about all the slaves He's freed. Now, here we stand, looking into His eyes; He's looking into ours. We both know...this is our one best shot. This is our only shot. This is our one hope. 

I was thinking about what it must be like to hear Jesus raise His voice, to speak above the crowd on our own behalf. I was thinking about what it might be like to be standing there, hearing all these potential buyers bid on the chance to have me, Jesus faithfully upping the bid with every breath. And not by just a little bit. Jesus is not content to pay just one penny more than the world is offering; He really raises the stakes. Whatever the world offers for you, Jesus raises ten-fold, twenty-fold, a thousand-fold. He increases your price, raises your worth until in the world's eyes, you're just not worth it any more. 

Now here's where many of us would start to wonder. Here's where it's easy to get full of ourselves. The world doesn't give up easily, but it's also no fool. For what seems like forever, our price goes up and up - a penny here, a dollar there, until we're into some pretty high numbers and then, one by one, the voices start falling off. Bidders starts to lose interest. Eventually we get down to just two who remain interested, and it's kind of a let down. A little bit, anyway. We go from hearing a hundred different voices to hearing just two, and we start to wonder why we're not worth it any more. We start to wonder why no one's still interested. We start to wonder how much longer these two will keep going, whether we're almost not worth it any more even to them.

And then, inevitably, one wins. He outbids even His final opponent, and it is then that we realize that what we have heard about Him is true. We realize because the auctioneer has come with an awl and pierced not the slave, but the new Master. He has driven this metal through our purchaser, rather than through our own ear. The sign of who we belong to is marked on the Bidder and we...we, the slave, know that our freedom is just around the corner. That in the space of just one breath, that as soon as we can hear Him speak, this Man - this Man who so raised the value of this slave - will set us free.

It's a powerful moment, a vivid image. Of that, there is no question. But what happens next is truly heartbreaking. 

Because as I was thinking about all this, as this scene was playing out in both my heart and my mind, I thought about how content we are to step down off this auction block, to know the One who bought us with His very blood, and to go back to the barracks. To go back to the corrals. To go back to the holding pen, waiting on the auction to be over. Waiting on the others to be sold. Waiting on our Master to come and claim us. As though that is not what He has just done. As though we are not really His until He comes to open the gate.

I thought about how convinced we are that this is the way that things have to be, that things ought to be. That this is the plan. That we, who have been granted our freedom at the highest price, are so willing to go back into our chains and our waiting. I thought about how we have been herded into the corners of the world, out of the arenas and into the holds. Smiling, because we know we are free; living as though we are anything but. 

It's tragedy at its finest. It's worse than the human atrocity of the auction block, for here, we are bought but forgotten. Here, we can only faintly hear His voice as He bids the same for another and another and another. And here, we live in happy union with those who sold for the same price, with the other slaves who know Who bought them.

We high five and shake hands and greet each other with joy. It's great, isn't it? We're free. 

We're free, we say, our chains rattling against the bars.... 

Language

At one point during the reign of King Hezekiah, a powerful army comes against the people of God. Rumored throughout the land as conquerors, this army has every right to brag - they have defeated literally everyone they have battled. They're undefeated. They have smashed gods, taken prisoners, and not looked back. And when they come to the people of God, they assume that none of that will change. 

They intend to do the same to Judah.

They intend so much to do the same to Judah that they've taken the time to learn the Hebrew language. When they come to the fortified cities, they do not rely on an interpreter or on the leaders or elite of Judah to know their language; these soldiers know the language of the people of God, and they speak it. Boldly. 

Hey, people of God. There's no use fighting us. We're going to do the same things to you that we've done to everybody else we've encountered - we're going to blockade you, attack you, defeat you, then strip you naked and carry you off while we pound your God into the dust and stomp all over Him. Unless, of course, you want to make it easy on us and just, you know, open the gate and come out like good little boys and girls.

The leaders of Hezekiah's administration are quick to respond, demanding that this bully army stop talking to the people in their own language and instead, speak to the leaders directly in a tongue that the common man would not understand. The army, of course, refuses to oblige.

And here we see one of the great troubles of the church today, perhaps throughout her history. We are caught in the same trap as Hezekiah's army - the world speaks all too well our language, and we respond by demanding some kind of cryptic tongue. 

The world knows how to speak of Jesus. They know how to talk about this Son of God. They know words like grace, love, hope, and mercy. This world can pull the red letters out of our Bibles more fluently than many of our Christians can, and they do it in a mocking tone. This world is bent on taking our God, smashing Him into a thousand pieces, and trampling Him underfoot as just another empty idol, just another worthless hope. 

Then we come back at them in our own voices, the voices of the high and lofty, the voices of the elite and educated. We don't use words like hope; we use words like sanctification. We don't use words like forgiveness; we use words like justification. We don't say Jesus; we say Second Person of the Trinity. We talk about Communion and Eucharist while the world talks about bread and wine. And we're happy to do this, as though our language somehow shields us from the misinterpretations of the world. We even shout to our soldiers, Do not listen to them. Their common language is laughable. They do not know our God if they do not know His big words.

I gotta tell you - if I'm a soldier on the front lines and I hear the enemy talking more God than I hear my commander talking, I'm scared. If the guy who is coming against me says more words that I understand than the one who claims to have my back, I'm listening to the guy who is coming against me. And all of a sudden, you know what? Maybe I'm willing to open the gate. 

Maybe I'm willing to come walking out like a good little girl. Maybe I'm willing to surrender to an invading army because it sounds a whole lot better to be led away defeated than to be carried away naked. Maybe I'm willing to let this world talk me into what it believes about my God because it feels like, the way they talk, they're the ones that can prove it. It feels like they're the ones not trying to hide anything from me. So yeah, maybe I'm willing to open the gate.

And the sad truth is that this is not just rhetoric; it's real. This is what is happening to the church right now. There are too many soldiers on the front lines who are willing to open the gate because the world is speaking a more conversational language about our God than our churches are. The world is telling us more about what Jesus sounds like than our pastors are. The world sounds like it's making a lot of good points because, at the very least, we understand what the world is saying; we don't understand the words that echo in our sanctuaries.

We have to change this. We have to stop pretending that the language of God is a high language. We have to stop talking with each other, and with the world, as though this is a tongue that most people just cannot understand. Jesus Himself spoke plainly; we ought to do the same. When we don't, we're creating a generation of Christians, a force of God's people, who are far too quick to open the gates and let another army just come walking in. And we are seeing where this leads us:

To a faith that isn't real because the Temple is empty. To a hope that isn't real because the hands that hold tomorrow also hold our necks. To a grace that isn't real because sin isn't real. To a truth that isn't real because it's not loud enough. To a God that's in a thousand pieces, trampled underfoot like dust because His people...because His people heard a voice that spoke to them in their own language and they opened the gates. 

Because being led away defeated feels so much better than being carried away naked.