Arriving "Home" Again

One of the curses of adulthood is losing our childlike perspective on the world. As we grow older, we tend to abandon the curiosity, faith and innocence that defines childhood. We can never re-gain the perspective on life that we had when we were just beginning its journey--or can we?

T. S. Eliot, one of my favorite poets and philosophers--since all poets are at least amateur philosophers--commented on this one time: "And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started. And know the place for the first time."

While he isn't specifically addressing losing our childlike perspective, he is talking about our nearly endless search for meaning and understanding life. As humans, we are almost destined to spend our lives "exploring" or searching for the manner in which we can make sense of life. In a way, we are "exploring" various avenues or directions to find what we may have lost when we started.

Another way of saying it (without the eloquence of Eliot): "And the end of all our exploring to find meaning will be to arrive where we started. And realize that what we left behind was perhaps what we had been searching for the entire time."

Not specific situations or particular narratives but a time when our approach to life wasn't infused with the constant wearing down of the human condition. Newness, creativity, innocence, trust, optimism, embrace vs. pushing away ... all these and more point to the things we left behind.

And when our exploring is complete, we will arrive where we started--but we will experience it as if for the first time.     

What are you thankful for?

We’re entering that festive time of year known as “the holiday season.” We’ve just walked through Halloween and are quickly approaching Thanksgiving and Christmas. In the U.S., “the holiday season” is often characterized by spending time with family and sharing in the ups and downs of the previous 12 months.

During November, however, particular attention is paid to the notion of giving thanks, as we celebrate Thanksgiving. Around the holiday table many families take turns telling each other what they are thankful for. These proclamations usually run the gamut, including family and friends, health, general well-being, a good job, a recent vacation or many other tangible blessings.

Amidst this roundtable of thanks, however, usually runs an undertow of emotion from some people that usually goes something like this: “What do I have to be thankful for? My husband passed away this past year?” Or, “I lost my job six months ago, and I’m about to be foreclosed on by my bank. What can I possibly give thanks for?” Or even, “God, where were you when I experienced a life-changing diagnosis three months ago? I feel empty, alone, in desperation … waiting for you to comfort me.”

These are real and common emotions and predicaments felt by many. In the season of giving thanks, some might wonder how they can embrace this attitude of thanksgiving when all they feel is pain and despair.

Yet the idea of “giving thanks” is so thoroughly rooted in Scripture, it’s difficult to ignore, even when we want to pass by those verses or forget those particular episodes. 

You can hardly read through the book of Psalm without reading numerous times “give thanks to the Lord.” And oftentimes, that giving thanks is wrapped around an episode of betrayal or hardship or illness or pain.

So when we read in 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18, “Rejoice always,  pray continually,  give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus” (emphasis added), how do we respond?

The answer will depend on our perspective. 

Like many, this has not been an easy year for me, and the bitterness of the death of a loved one still strongly grips my soul. In the midst of this pain and desperation, we are asked—no, urged—to “give thanks in all circumstances.” Not just in those circumstances where we get that new job or remain healthy or watch our kids grow up to be mature and God-fearing adults.

No, we are to “give thanks” when our loved ones die, when our jobs are down-sized and even when our own lives sting with the pain of mortality.

Yet as I was reading through this section of Scripture, I realized two things that should comfort believers on this journey.

Nowhere in this section does Paul say “giving thanks” will always be easy. But he does hope that God will sanctify us completely through our ordeals. To “give thanks in all circumstances” means to allow the Holy Spirit to define and direct our relationship with Him through all sorts of trials. It doesn’t take the pain away nor does it make these difficult times move more quickly.

But Paul encourages us that God will keep us through these trials and bring us home to completion.
Secondly, and most importantly, the beginning of this chapter reminds us that we are like transients on this planet. Even though it’s nearly impossible to understand and embrace sometimes, this world is not our final resting place. We are made in the image of God and are destined to spend our lives with Him—without any more pain, hunger, despair, death or fear.

It’s much easier to embrace the idea of giving thanks regardless of our circumstances when we understand and live each day with the idea that the Savior is currently preparing a place for us, a place uniquely designed for us just as we are uniquely designed in His image.

We can give thanks in our circumstances when we understand that our future home will far surpass anything we can experience on this planet. That certainly doesn’t mean it’s easy, but it should give us insight into the future.
 
So with this in mind this Thanksgiving—and the entire year over—what are you thankful for?

What’s your story?

Have you ever read a good book and been drawn in particularly by the life of the main character? Maybe it’s her circumstances; maybe it’s his ability to find hope amidst tragedy; maybe it’s her attitude or his faith; or maybe you’re attracted to the character because you identify with some part of her life.

Regardless of the reason, this capability to be drawn in reveals the power of story.

Last month, I had the opportunity to attend the Christian Community Development Association’s (CCDA) annual conference in Minneapolis. During the opening night’s plenary session, speaker, author and activist on Native American issues, Richard Twiss, gave the address to a packed house.

Twiss talked about this issue and how each of us is a story and also part of a much larger story or meta-narrative. Collectively, we are part of the story of the human race, part of the story of our nation, community, church group and family. But we also inhabit and are the main character in our own unique story. No one else plays the lead character in this story.

As someone who loves story and is always enticed by good ones, Twiss’ comments got me thinking about how we are also individual stories amidst the larger Christian story: the story of creation, fall, redemption and restoration.

And like all stories, our individual ones have a beginning, a middle and an end. There are plots, climaxes, conflicts and conclusions. There are supporting characters, antagonists, protagonists, minor characters and numerous others, and they all play some role in our individual story.

We also know that Jesus loves stories. When He told them—many of them in the form of a parable—they were often filled with conflict, difficult choices, mistakes and restoration.

The woman caught in adultery is one such example. Her “story” was filled with conflict, bad choices, disapproval and seeming hopelessness. But in the end, her “story” takes a surprise turn.

Just when we think her life will end—her hope finally running out—Jesus enters her “story” and rescues her, redeems her, saves her.

Her story had a beginning; it had conflict; it had a plot; it had a decisive scene in which the rest of her story would ultimately rest. It had all the elements of being a wonderful novel in the 21^st century.

Each one of us also inhabits this same story. We’ve had a beginning; we’ve had conflict; we’ve endured hardship; we’ve enjoyed prosperity; we’ve suffered through the efforts of antagonists and been blessed by protagonists who have helped us through difficult times.

And—at one point in time—our stories will end.

While we’re still in the midst of our stories, we can contribute to the next plot, the next high point, the next significant moment. We have the opportunity to redeem our story, write a new plot, develop an additional season of fruitfulness, contribute to the story of others.

In our broken world, too many people believe their story is already written. They believe the chapter they inhabit right now is the one they will inhabit forever. They believe that nothing more positive can ever be written about their story. It’s basically done.

As we saw with the woman caught in adultery, Jesus can—and does—write new chapters for us. His pen is ready, eager to write a chapter filled with hope and new endeavors. How much more is He eager to write about restoration and redemption than about failure and betrayal?

That doesn’t mean those words will come easily. They don’t for novelists, and they don’t for the authors of each of our stories. Yet Jesus is sitting at our writing desk—right next to us—waiting for us to pick up the pen and collaborate with Him on this story.         

What’s your story?

Copyright (C) 2012 Minnesota Christian Examiner

Is there such a thing as spiritual loneliness?

I've been wrestling with a concept lately, wondering if it's a legitimate condition or something that has bled over from our culture. It's the idea of spiritual loneliness. Upon hearing that phrase, some might immediately respond: We can't be lonely--in a spiritual sense--if we're in a relationship with God.

That may be true.

However, reading about some of the old-timers like D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones and his book “Spiritual Depression” and others makes me think it's not only possible but maybe even unavoidable to experience some type of spiritual loneliness during our lives.

As best I can define it, spiritual loneliness is a condition where someones doesn't necessarily feel separated from God. Nevertheless, a person experiences seasons in which their soul may be prone to wander or question and they want nothing more than to be able to express those feelings to someone. Not feeling particularly comfortable with or attached to someone and unable to express those issues, that person enters into a time when those questions and doubts can lead to spiritual loneliness.

Coupled with that condition is a fear that no one will ever hear their story, the complete story of who they are and how they were shaped--the incredibly unique story of how they came to be and what they are becoming.

No easy answers come to mind to address spiritual loneliness, other than making sure we all are available to someone who is in the midst of those wanderings and questions.  

 

 

Is God There?

We hear that question--or some derivation of it--often. Where is God?

For many, this question becomes most pertinent during dry seasons of prayer, times when God feels distant or maybe not even there.

I wonder, however, when we encounter one of those dry seasons if we need to look "differently" for God. Let me explain.

Many dry seasons revolve around the practice of prayer. We eagerly seek God and His counsel--for some issue, some relationship, some need--yet we don't hear from Him, at least not in the way we want Him to respond.

Those dry seasons of prayer are disheartening, painful and oftentimes result in despair. We just want God to speak to us, give us some sort of sign that He is listening and hearing our desperate pleas. Yet often we only hear the proverbial crickets, barely breaking the silence that our desperation has created.

Several years ago, I was in the midst of a difficult time. I was praying--often and with much emotion--but no response from God was seemingly apparent. Every day seemed to be just another excursion into the mystery of unanswered prayer.

Looking back at that situation now from a different perspective, however, I can see that God was speaking to me. It wasn't necessarily in the way I wanted to hear His response, but He did respond to my prayers.

Every afternoon, at almost exactly the exact time, the same song would pop into my head. It included the words, "There is a light at the end of the tunnel." I really didn't think much of it at the time. Nevertheless, looking back on that, I am positive it was God's encouragement to me that He hadn't forgotten me, hadn't tossed aside my requests and moved on to other, more important things.

He had responded to my pleas, just not in the way I had expected--or wanted--Him to.

Dry prayer seasons will engulf all of us at some time. When you are in the midst of one next time and God doesn't seem to be speaking, look around you. See if He is speaking in some other way, some nontraditional way. Through a friend, a song, an unexpected word of encouragement from a friend.

The promise never to leave us or forsake us is still in effect. We just might need to look more diligently and not always in ways we expect.

A fatherly testimony

Here we are, sitting in your work van, a white, ’71 Ford van with barely more metal than rust holes. The windshield has a world map of cracks that grows larger each passing season. The seats, more exposed cushion than vinyl, precariously hold our bodies on this calm and muggy summer afternoon. 

You’ve just returned home after working another twelve-hour day as a carpenter in our small, rural Minnesota town. Your arms, tanned from hours laboring under the sun, straddle the steering wheel as you readily look over at me in the passenger seat and ask me how my day was.

This is the ritual to which I’ve assigned myself. Each day, at precisely the same time, I run home from wherever my nine-year-old curiosities have driven me that day and wait for your arrival. Most days I’m exploring the woods that surround the river as it meanders through our neighborhood. 

Always arriving home a few minutes before you, I wait inside our house, straining my head out the large picture window to see when your van turns the corner and pulls up outside. If for some reason I don’t see the van when you turn the corner, I can usually hear the van’s disjointed shifting as it comes to rest near the curb in front of our house.

Before you have a chance to turn off the ignition, I’ve already made my way into the passenger seat. You move your black, cement-stained lunch pal from the passenger seat to give me room to sit. After we say our hellos, I sheepishly look over at you and ask the question, the one I ask each day: “Did you bring me any wood?” 

Your job as a carpenter and my joy at building tree houses and other contraptions makes us a good combination. I already have enough wood to build several go-carts, tree houses and ladders. Maybe it’s the father-son ritual that makes me keep asking.

We sit for a few more minutes, not saying too much, but reacquainting ourselves, father and son. You’re in your mid-40s by this time, still somewhat rugged and in great shape. I look up to you.

We walk the fifty or sixty feet from the van to the house, where mom has dinner prepared. You wash up and sit down at the table, happy to be home from work and with your family. Your demeanor, always reserved and humble, doesn’t let on to this much—but I can tell. You become more relaxed, patient and your smile is more evident.

After dinner, you are exhausted from your day of climbing roofs, hauling cement, and pounding countless nails into shingles and two-by-fours. You crumble onto the couch. The TV silently beckons your attention, but you don’t watch it, your mind and body having their first real chance at rest all day.

But as usual, and this must be part of my ritual, too, you begin to perk up after a few minutes, me hovering over you and asking when we can go outside.

Even though it’s early evening, the sun and humidity have not released their stifling grip. In the garage, clean and always in order, we grab our baseball mitts and head out to the back yard. My mitt, just recently purchased from the local Coast to Coast store; your mitt, the leather stained dark from numerous chemicals intentionally and unintentionally spilled on it over the years, is worn and held together by one leather string. We grab a baseball, one of about ten I have in an ice cream bucket by the back door.

Baseball is probably the easiest sport for you to play. Since an accident with a joiner at work left you without significant parts of two fingers on your throwing hand, you struggle to grip firmly most balls. A football is nearly impossible for you to throw, but you still play catch with me. A basketball even harder, as the flick of your wrist releases very little power to the ball when two of the most powerful fingers used in this action aren’t there. Yet, on occasion, you still shoot baskets with me.

We play catch for fifteen or twenty minutes, father and son. You don’t have trouble with throwing the ball a certain distance, but your accuracy is shaky. And when we’re done, you move to the garage and putz around, repairing things that need repairing and straightening up the mess I probably made. I run over to a friend’s house and spend the remaining daylight hours riding bike or climbing trees.

Now some thirty-odd years later, I’m a father myself, with the same worries, fears and joys that you experienced. Though you aren’t a man of many words, a man who relies heavily on talking to communicate things, you clearly communicated many things to me. While your faith is strong and important in your life, you rarely talked about it. 

But that didn’t matter to me. I understood who you are and the important things in your life. And to me, those wonderful occasions when we, father and son, played catch in the backyard, those occasions communicated more to me who you are than all the words you ever spoke.

"A Room Called Remember"

I've been doing a lot of remembering lately. We've experienced several illnesses and deaths in our extended family the last several months. These events always conjure up memories, some good and some not so good ... but all important in some way or another.

Frederick Buechner writes about the importance of remembering in his book "A Room Called Remember."

He writes that it's good "from time to time--to enter that still room within us all where the past lives on as part of the present, where the dead are alive again, where we are most alive ourselves to the long journeys of our lives with all their twistings and turnings and to where our journeys have brought us. The name of the room is Remember--the room where with patience, charity, with quietness of heart, we remember consciously to remember the lives we have lived."

Those "remembrances" form the foundation of who we have become and in many cases why we have become this particular person. The people we have met, interacted with, loved ... they have immeasurably impacted and shaped us. Many times without our realizing it.

As I have been doing some "remembering" these past few weeks, I can't help but feel blessed, grateful. As Buechner says, it's during our trips to the room called Remember where "the dead are alive again" and "where we are most alive ourselves."    

Writing and emotional upheaval

I had one of those days recently. A day when hope was quickly snuffed out by disappointment. A really neat book project got the green light but soon after I received word that an article I wrote--something I had invested a lot of emotional energy in--was rejected by a magazine.

After doing this thing called writing for so many years, you would think I would be used to these days. And to some extent I am. Writers trudge to their writing desks or laptops each day, hoping maybe this is the day (or week or month) when the news will only be good, when the acceptances will far outweigh the rejections.

That's never the case, however. And maybe it shouldn't be.

At times it seems as if our highs can only rightly be defined by--or informed by--the lows that we have experienced. If we only experienced one or the other, they both would eventually become meaningless. That certainly doesn't make it easier when rejections--be they articles, books or relationships--far outweigh the opposite. Yet how many of us can point to times in our lives when the "lows" played a huge role in who we are today?

That's what I've been wrestling with these last few weeks--how pain, disappointment and loss inform and shape us. I'm still working through this but am realizing the powerful impact they have on our lives.

Another life?

The holidays are always compelling times for many reasons. First, regardless of religious tradition, they are a time of deep reflection and significant observances.

The holidays also tend to be the time of year when family and friends gather to renew their relationships and celebrate—or observe—their particular faith traditions. It’s that unique point in time when I think we get a glimpse of heaven.

Let me explain.

As a Christian, the holidays are a time when we celebrate the birth of the One who took on human form, suffered, died and rose again so that we would have the opportunity to spend eternity with Him. At its core, Christ’s mission was relational. His time on earth was often defined by loneliness, however: His suffering, His trial, His death all were essentially experienced alone.

Nevertheless, the transfixing and life-altering aspect of that mission was that the loneliness Christ suffered would no longer be mandatory for us; we now had a vision of what life in Christ would be.

Back to the holidays. Each year—if you are like most families—while you celebrate you are also in some ways mourning the loss of an aunt, a brother, a cousin or parent. As we grow older, those holiday celebrations are inevitably missing someone special. If you’re fortunate, those missing are not forgotten. Stories are regularly told and memories are shared of the one who has passed last year or last decade. It’s a time when lives are remembered and a glimpse of relational restoration is grasped—albeit only slightly.

The fact that we mourn and remember those who have passed on—to me—is a reminder that God created us for the restoration that is to come: where parents, siblings and friends will be reunited with those who have gone before. At once it’s a beautiful reminder and also one filled with longing for the age to come.

Life Began at Death

I'm convinced nearly every person has one of these moments. Frederick Buechner described it as the day life began for him; it was the day his father committed suicide.

For some, this "when life began" moment revolves around the death of a loved one, the loss of a house or a job, or the diagnosis of a life-threatening illness. Regardless of the specific event, this moment in time changed the life of the person who experienced it.

For me, that moment was Nov. 26, 1989. It was the day one of my best friends was in a car accident; he died several days later.

After you experience a "when life began moment," several things usually occur. First, you begin to question your belief system, those things you trusted and put your faith in--almost without thinking. You also begin to notice things differently. Something a friend says, the way your kid smiles after doing something funny, the way your house smells after arriving home from a trip or a long day at work.

At the root of a "when life began moment" is the struggle--sometimes overtly and sometimes subtly--between what writer Mark Buchanan called the "borderland." It's the area that exists between belief and unbelief.

A "when life began moment" nearly always delivers a person into this borderland. What do I believe anymore, what happened to the life I had planned, why did misfortune choose me? It's a struggle on many levels: emotional, spiritual and even aesthetically.

And, it's what this blog--Beyond the Borderland--will delve into each week.

We'll have some fun too. But ultimately, we'll look at life, writing and how to travel the path between belief and unbelief. I hope you tag along!