Death, thou shalt die

The famous poet, John Donne, once wrote: 

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou are not so …

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

That sentiment is a powerful reminder of life's ultimate victory. Death's reign is temporary; life's is eternal, thorough and complete.

(Thanks to Philip Yancey for the reference.)

When God was Silent

The bright morning sun and clear blue sky did little to encourage me that summer morning. As had been my pattern for the past several weeks, I was preparing to travel twenty-five miles to the cancer treatment center where my sister, Deb, would receive chemotherapy for her stage IV pancreatic cancer. The doctors had told us there was little chance the chemo would do any good, but my sister was holding out hope for a miracle—and so were we.

            As I did each time I made the trip to Deb’s chemotherapy treatment, I prayed that God would somehow make himself known that day. I didn’t know how or in what manner this prayer would be answered, but I asked him to help us see his light and sense his presence during the day’s treatments.

            Nevertheless, it didn’t seemed to happen. The news from the doctors was never good, and my sister’s condition continued to deteriorate quickly. At the last of these chemo treatments, Deb was hospitalized for what turned out to be the final time before she passed away.

            I realized soon after her diagnosis that Deb’s healing—or even her living for several more months—would take a direct intervention from God. It would take a miracle. And I prayed for that desperately. But even if God chose not to heal her, I wanted him to at least make himself known in the midst of her dying—some way, somehow. I couldn’t define how that would happen, but I thought I would recognize God’s hand—or voice—somewhere in the journey.

            But I didn’t.

            In fact, as I was going through those heart-wrenching months of watching my sister die, I didn’t particularly sense or feel or hear God at all. It was almost as if he wasn’t there—like he was hiding, withdrawing himself from my life.

            This was similar to experiences I heard other Christians talk about—a time when God seemed silent, distant, unreachable. And often these times were during desperately difficult periods.

            As the weeks turned into months after Deb’s death, I began to think more deeply—and probably more clearly—about God’s seeming silence. I talked with others and read books about making sense of this experience. Yet I couldn’t shake what felt like God’s abandonment during a time when I needed him most.

            In general, we often associate silence with contentment, comfort, and rest. But when it comes to hearing God’s voice or feeling his presence, we tend to think of silence in the context of loneliness, despair, pain.

            To make matters worse, it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking the times of silence mark a period when God is disappointed with us somehow—withdrawing his presence as a protest or to discipline us for some action or inaction.

            There is a popular bumper sticker that precisely captures this sentiment: “If you do not feel close to God, guess who moved?” However, it misses the point entirely.

            About three months after Deb’s death, I began to develop a more nuanced picture of where God was during her illness. As I read Scripture and thought about it, one image stuck out in my mind: the image of a mother caressing her child in the midst of a storm. It’s the sense of being “bundled up” in the arms of a loving parent.

            Silence doesn’t have to mark God’s abandonment of us. It can just as easily mark his “bundling up” of us, much like a mother bundles up her child before going out in the snow and cold. She might not say much to the child, choosing instead to concentrate her energy on keeping her child warm, safe, and comfortable. When the time comes—possibly when they arrive at their destination or when they arrive back home—she may then open up to her child, telling her about their trip, how much she loves her, and why they are here.

            That bundling up image is what I came to believe God was doing to me—and other family members—during my sister’s illness.

            It’s also a notion demonstrated in Scripture, where numerous times God is referred to as our father and protector. This image has been popularized by the poem “Footprints of Jesus,” where the Son of God is depicted as carrying us (bundling us up) during times of trouble and difficulty.

            As I began to feel more comforted by this idea, I also began to notice tangible ways God’s presence had guided us through those devastating months. I began to remember how little fear or anger Deb had expressed during her illness. She never cried out in panic about what was happening to her. She never expressed any doubt or trepidation with God. She was always encouraging to us—and to the medical staff—regarding her condition.

            I remembered how God was filling Deb with his presence and giving her the comfort and assurance she needed to navigate her journey. That infilling was also used to comfort those of us who were traveling with her. By comforting her, God had ultimately helped comfort her family and friends. We heard no audible voice, we did not feel his presence. But I now see that God’s comfort to Deb was more powerful and life-changing that anything an audible voice could have provided.

            When I would walk into the cancer center looking for some sign of God’s presence or his light, I ended up looking right past the most visible expression of this—my sister. Through Christ, all the assurance, comfort and light was there right in front of my eyes.

            Although I thought God was silent during my sister’s battle with cancer, he wasn’t. He filled Deb with his grace and assurance, and he bundled me up. Without her grace-filled attitude and perspective, I would not have been able to walk through those terrible months—her illness and death would have been unbearable.

            As a mother bundles up her child to protect her from a storm, so too does our loving Father, who prepares, protects, and provides for his children during life’s unspeakable tragedies. While we might believe God is silent during our struggles, he in fact is working—often behind the scenes—to insulate us from conditions and experiences that otherwise we would not be able to handle. 

           

(C) The Covenant Companion, March 2013

You mean there is hope?

Some of the stories are just heartbreaking. The people involved literally had no—or little—chance of finding success in their lives. One young girl started smoking marijuana at the age of four. How did she do that, you may ask? Her mother held her down and blew smoke into her lungs, hoping the effects would calm her down. Several years later, the young girl was on crack and heroin.

I heard similar stories about women and girls during my recent trip to Healing House, which is a residential treatment facility for women and their children. Healing House is under the organizational umbrella of Metro Hope Ministries, which also offers a men’s treatment facility.

The stories I heard that day made me realize—again—how fortunate many of us are. Thankfully, few of us ever had to deal with a mother who intentionally tried to get us high when we were a toddler. Or had to grow up in a household where generational poverty was the norm, with no idea how to escape it. Or grew up in a 
household where generational prostitution was viewed as “normal.”

No, mercifully most of us didn’t experience those life setbacks. We didn’t begin life several steps behind starting line.

Yet for these women—and everyone else—there is hope. If the gospel is about anything, it is about hope and restoration.

The Apostle Paul’s life always inspires me. Here was a man who did enjoy a good upbringing and was thought of highly among his peers. So highly, in fact, that he was a major force behind the persecution of Christians, these new Christ followers who some thought threatened the reigning religious landscape.

His hands were stained with the blood of murdered Christians, yet he ultimately found Christ—or Christ found him—and his life was redeemed. He went on to spread the message of those he tried to kill: the message of hope, redemption and healing. And he was largely responsible, along with the Holy Spirit, with spreading this newfound faith across the Middle East and parts of Africa and Europe—and beyond.

A life redeemed, indeed.

Similar stories play out each day across the world of people finding hope through a church, ministry, friend or a direct intervention from God. The details may vary, but the essential characteristics are the same.

Who could have imagined looking at Paul that one day he would become a leader in the “sect” that he once targeted? How about the kids who grow up in homes where generational poverty, addiction and prostitution are the norm? Few people give them a chance either.

Yet many of them find a way out—in the here and now and for eternity.

Many years back the term “pre-believers” became popular among some missions-minded people and those involved with evangelism. They felt it took the negative connotation out of “unbeliever” or “unsaved” and spoke to the hopefulness that they would eventually find Christ.

As believers, instead of seeing someone as an addict or as someone beholden to negative forces, maybe we should see them as pre-healed, someone who has yet to hear of the love, healing and redemption of Christ.

Then we can take it upon ourselves to be the one to share that gift with them, either individually, through our church or through a ministry like Healing House. Think of the impact upon those hurting this could have?
 
So the next time someone looks at you with desperation written on their face and says, “You mean there is hope?,” you can reply, “There sure is. Let me show you.”

Don't be defined by your past

I’m convinced God likes to create new things. I came to this conclusion not just by looking at the universe and the wonders of His creation, but also by looking at our own lives. While creation no doubt points to God’s uniqueness in creating something out of nothing, I believe He also likes to create new things out of older, used and damaged things.

As we enter a New Year, people like to make resolutions about changed behaviors, habits or commitments; but God is always ready to “create” something new in those He patterned after His own image.

The problem with making new resolutions is that the person remains essentially the same, subject to the same temptations as before. That’s why gym and fitness centers see such an increase in members the first couple months of each new year. People have made their commitment to change—to get in shape—but slowly that commitment becomes a nuisance and then ultimately it becomes an afterthought.

Creating something new in Christ has the potential to withstand the natural challenges we face in our modern society. Why? Because that change works its way outward from the heart to our expressions, behaviors and actions.

I’ve always been intrigued by the story of the adulterous woman in John 8, perhaps because of its starkness and clear delineations of before and after.

The religious leaders of the day bring before Jesus a woman caught in adultery. Not someone who was accused of committing adultery, but someone “caught in the act” of it. This was a serious offense. One that normally resulted in stoning.

Jesus remains calm during the entire episode, perhaps too calm from our perspective. But when He does speak, the reality of the dichotomy between His kingdom and that of the world couldn’t be starker.

After Jesus challenges the religious leaders to condemn the woman—those without sin to begin the stoning—slowly the crowd disperses, “the older ones first.”

Now it’s just Jesus and the woman, the one whose very life was seriously threatened no more than a few minutes before.

Jesus asks her, “Where are they? Has no one condemned you?” “No one, sir,” she replied. “Then neither do I condemn you …. Go now and leave your life of sin.”

The kingdom of this world would have condemned her, leaving her either dead or forever stained by the realities of her past.

Jesus’ kingdom gives her an opportunity to change, to become something she couldn’t be on her own, someone who can make eternal differences.

And notice Jesus doesn’t say to her: “Look, you were caught in a very bad sin. Your life will no longer be the same. You will forever be defined by this sin. Your life is essentially over. Go now and live saddled by your past actions.”

No. Jesus tells her she is not condemned and to leave her life of sin.

We don’t know for sure what happens next in this parable—or event. But I wonder if she embraced this newfound gift and lived the life she dreamed of living, free from her past, the hurts she carried with her and the shackles of that which had come to define her.

And that’s the opportunity each of us has now. We can make resolutions to change—and those are not in and of themselves bad. But Christ offers us an opportunity to become someone we can only be through Him.

This past year may have been filled with setbacks, struggles and failures. Maybe we lost our job, lost that significant relationship or fell into sin.

Christ’s offer to us hasn’t changed, and we don’t need a date on the calendar to begin anew. Just as He offered new life to the woman caught in adultery, Jesus offers new life to you and me.

Will you take Him up on His offer?