I like knowing who people identify with the most, when they read a story. Is it the main character, the brave hero, the witty side-kick, the loser parent? Who do they think they are most similar to?
So there’s this story, with a rich father and two sons. The younger son demands an early disbursement of his inheritance, and after receiving it, he promptly throws it away on gambling, women, and the pleasurable life. The boy becomes a pauper, and while feeding some pigs, the light comes on. He decides to return home to his father and beg to be a family servant. Of course the father refuses to make his son a servant, but welcomes him with open arms and throws a huge celebration to welcome him home. The older son is obviously distraught over the unfairness of the situation, and complains that his hard work is never rewarded. The father tries to appease the older son, but basically, that is the end of the story.
I’ve heard plenty of sermons where we are the lost son, coming home. It’s sweet and touching, to know that we have a Heavenly Father who will throw a robe on our shoulders and a ring on our hand, and kill a cow to feed the friends.
And there are preachers who think the congregation in full of older brothers, and preach about hypocrisy and harshness. We need to let God work, they say. We can’t think of our lives as less godly or less deserving, just because God chooses to forgive someone less worthy than us.
But I just wonder if we might be missing the whole point.
Could it be that we are meant to identify ourselves with the Father? The rich one, the successful patriarch, the stable character full of wise words of wisdom. Let me explain.
The father saw the son from afar, while he was just entering the city limits, but hadn’t even made it to the driveway yet. He recognized him as his own. The resentment and anger that he had every right to harbor against his son was non-existent. Not diffused, not set aside, not pushed into a corner for discussion on another day. There simply was none.
The sight of his boy lit up his face, his mouth dropped open. Tears flooded his eyes and he started running.
No preparations of what to say, or how to behave, or how to handle the potentially awkward family tension. Before the son even arrived, before he even had a chance to experience the degradation and humbling sensation of returning with shame, the boy was met. In essence, he saw his son coming, and met him halfway.
Open arms of grace. Shouts of excitement and thrilling reunion. You are back, and I can’t believe it. I’ve missed you. I thought I lost you. Give me a hug, he says, and don’t leave again.
Stay forever this time.
I wish I knew how to do that.
To see someone who has hurt me, abandoned me, someone who has knowingly inflicted pain in my life. And to experience a sensation of love so deep that I am swept away by its resounding current. I can’t help myself. I see them coming towards me, thinking about reconciliation, wondering about forgiveness.
And I meet them halfway.
What kind of mind-blowing grace is that? You belong here, and I never wanted you to leave. Welcome back.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
Jesus loves the little children
(Another article I wrote when I was 14, that I found buried on my computer.)
Jesus loves the little children,
All the children of the world.
Red and yellow, black and white
They are precious in His sight,
Jesus loves the little children of the world.
How can Jesus love all the children of the world? When in their development do they become precious in His sight? How do we know He loves them?
Look at His life. A child's background or birthplace never prevented Jesus’ powerful love as He ministered to those in need. Children from Judea were brought to Jesus in Matthew 19:13, and His disciples thought He was too busy to care for them. But His heart was far too big to send them away. Later, in the city of Galilee, a man pleaded with Jesus to bring his twelve year-old daughter back to life (Matthew 9:25). The man was a well-known ruler and well accustomed to power. But yet he came to Jesus, knowing He was the only one who had both the ability and the love to heal a little girl. Jesus' touch revived her heart. Once a Greek Syro-Phoenician woman came and pleaded for her daughter's soul that was controlled by a demon (Mark 7:25). This woman was an outcast, deprived any honor or prestige from birth. And yet Jesus saved her daughter. You see, in Jesus' eyes there is no rank or degree, position, power, or race that will claim His love. He sees past all that into the heart. And that is exactly where He starts His miracles.
We know children were precious to Jesus from the minute of conception by researching Exodus 21: 22-24. In these laws, which follow directly after the Ten Commandments, God gave instruction concerning wounds received during a fight. If a woman with child was hurt during a disagreement between two men, the man who hurt her was physically liable for any damage incurred to her unborn child. Verse 23 reads, "But if any harm follows, then you shall give life for life". If you killed an unborn child, though accidental, you owed your life. God values every life He creates - even if it's only minutes old.
We know Jesus loved children, because of the way He treated them. One of my favorite chapters in the Bible is Mark 9, where we learn the story of Jesus solving a dispute with His disciples by using a little child as an example of humility. I especially love the way Jesus took the child "in His arms," as He taught His followers. Can you imagine being that little child? The one who got to sit in Jesus' lap, to be close enough to hear His heartbeat! To feel those strong arms of love wrapped around your small, fragile body. How secure that must have felt.
If children are precious to Jesus, and we are His followers, how can we claim to be neutral on the issue of abortion? Yes, we can recognize that each situation is different and unique, but also exactly the same. There is a child who deserves life, and a mother who is hurt. Everyone who has an abortion is in someway scarred by the wounds of that decision. Some make the choice out of ignorance - they just don't know better. Perhaps they don't have a caring family, or a trusted friend with open arms. Maybe all that stares them in the face is their failure, and a way to hide it.
Other mothers are aware of what they are doing - they know. They feel their baby kick inside them, wanting to live and move and breathe. But their minds overcome their hearts, and they choose death.
Then there are the few who become pregnant through a nightmare situation, such as rape. But why kill the baby? Has that child committed a crime? Punish the criminal, not the victims. And why are we so certain that God is incapable of resurrecting a tragedy by creating a masterpiece? We should stop placing human limits on an un-human God.
Yet even if we preach the message, some mothers will make abortion their choice. We will wish we could have been a stronger advocate for those beautiful eyes that will never see the light of day, the little hands that never get held, and the tiny heart that stops beating forever.
And we will grieve. Because some things just hurt.
Yet I find comfort - that somewhere, far beyond my own world, a little child comes running to Jesus. He turns when He hears the child's cry. Jesus wipes a tear from His own eye as He thinks of the familiar pain of rejection.
Then He opens up His arms, and gathers the child so close he can hear Jesus' heartbeat.
And that child knows beyond a shadow of a doubt - Jesus loves the little children.
Jesus loves the little children,
All the children of the world.
Red and yellow, black and white
They are precious in His sight,
Jesus loves the little children of the world.
How can Jesus love all the children of the world? When in their development do they become precious in His sight? How do we know He loves them?
Look at His life. A child's background or birthplace never prevented Jesus’ powerful love as He ministered to those in need. Children from Judea were brought to Jesus in Matthew 19:13, and His disciples thought He was too busy to care for them. But His heart was far too big to send them away. Later, in the city of Galilee, a man pleaded with Jesus to bring his twelve year-old daughter back to life (Matthew 9:25). The man was a well-known ruler and well accustomed to power. But yet he came to Jesus, knowing He was the only one who had both the ability and the love to heal a little girl. Jesus' touch revived her heart. Once a Greek Syro-Phoenician woman came and pleaded for her daughter's soul that was controlled by a demon (Mark 7:25). This woman was an outcast, deprived any honor or prestige from birth. And yet Jesus saved her daughter. You see, in Jesus' eyes there is no rank or degree, position, power, or race that will claim His love. He sees past all that into the heart. And that is exactly where He starts His miracles.
We know children were precious to Jesus from the minute of conception by researching Exodus 21: 22-24. In these laws, which follow directly after the Ten Commandments, God gave instruction concerning wounds received during a fight. If a woman with child was hurt during a disagreement between two men, the man who hurt her was physically liable for any damage incurred to her unborn child. Verse 23 reads, "But if any harm follows, then you shall give life for life". If you killed an unborn child, though accidental, you owed your life. God values every life He creates - even if it's only minutes old.
We know Jesus loved children, because of the way He treated them. One of my favorite chapters in the Bible is Mark 9, where we learn the story of Jesus solving a dispute with His disciples by using a little child as an example of humility. I especially love the way Jesus took the child "in His arms," as He taught His followers. Can you imagine being that little child? The one who got to sit in Jesus' lap, to be close enough to hear His heartbeat! To feel those strong arms of love wrapped around your small, fragile body. How secure that must have felt.
If children are precious to Jesus, and we are His followers, how can we claim to be neutral on the issue of abortion? Yes, we can recognize that each situation is different and unique, but also exactly the same. There is a child who deserves life, and a mother who is hurt. Everyone who has an abortion is in someway scarred by the wounds of that decision. Some make the choice out of ignorance - they just don't know better. Perhaps they don't have a caring family, or a trusted friend with open arms. Maybe all that stares them in the face is their failure, and a way to hide it.
Other mothers are aware of what they are doing - they know. They feel their baby kick inside them, wanting to live and move and breathe. But their minds overcome their hearts, and they choose death.
Then there are the few who become pregnant through a nightmare situation, such as rape. But why kill the baby? Has that child committed a crime? Punish the criminal, not the victims. And why are we so certain that God is incapable of resurrecting a tragedy by creating a masterpiece? We should stop placing human limits on an un-human God.
Yet even if we preach the message, some mothers will make abortion their choice. We will wish we could have been a stronger advocate for those beautiful eyes that will never see the light of day, the little hands that never get held, and the tiny heart that stops beating forever.
And we will grieve. Because some things just hurt.
Yet I find comfort - that somewhere, far beyond my own world, a little child comes running to Jesus. He turns when He hears the child's cry. Jesus wipes a tear from His own eye as He thinks of the familiar pain of rejection.
Then He opens up His arms, and gathers the child so close he can hear Jesus' heartbeat.
And that child knows beyond a shadow of a doubt - Jesus loves the little children.
What could have been
(I wrote this poem when I was eleven, and just found it.)
Today my heart was heavy
And I wiped away a tear
As I thought of all the little smiles
That never would appear
I thought of all the little lives
That were pushed aside
So one might have a plan to follow,
A place where they could hide
And even though the children
Were never really there
I cry because of all the love
Those children can never share
But the choice is made
And that is the end
But deep down my heart aches
For what could have been
Today my heart was heavy
And I wiped away a tear
As I thought of all the little smiles
That never would appear
I thought of all the little lives
That were pushed aside
So one might have a plan to follow,
A place where they could hide
And even though the children
Were never really there
I cry because of all the love
Those children can never share
But the choice is made
And that is the end
But deep down my heart aches
For what could have been
A few feet away
I stood just a few feet away, watching her cry. I held my hands behind my back, nervous and feeling incredibly awkward. What do you say to someone who is about to lose everything? How do you comfort someone who has already seen the poignant face of death, and is now being called to rise in its honor once again? Life is so absurdly short, I thought. Barely a vapor in the wind.
I picked up on some of the conversation in front of me, and it sounded like preaching. Not now, I thought with frustration. Now is not the time to discuss ways to cope with grief, or the surest method to understanding tragedy that God allows. My palms began to sweat with anger. Back off, I mumbled under my breath. Maybe there is not a reason. Maybe we cannot grasp it in our finite minds here on earth. Maybe sometimes life just hurts.
And now is a time to cry. For every day that was lost, for every laugh that was never shared, for each moment wasted. For the plans, dreams and futures that are dissolved in front of our eyes. For the mistakes that cause pain and the conflict that creates walls. For the sadness that wells up deep inside when we think about how much we will miss them. Clinging to a hope of a “someday” reunion in the white clouds seems a lifetime away when you are standing together under the rain, holding their hand and pleading with them not to leave.
I stuttered my words of comfort, feebly gave an embrace and then walked away. My efforts of consolation felt so incredibly inadequate. I walked outside into a warm, muggy day. The overcast sky was cooperating with the sense of depression that settled over my soul. Another one was leaving. Another casket would be chosen. Another memorial service planned. Another few months spent counting down the days left until sickness claimed his life. Why, God?
And these were the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. They were strong Christians, leaders in the church, huge investors in the kingdom of God. Serious about their faith, fervent in their desire for God. One failure after another had sent them to their knees. But they had catapulted over the hurdles, holding onto Jesus. Believing in a plan much larger than themselves.
Now the test results had returned: lung cancer, third stage, six months left. He denied it, she crumbled under the weight of it. Their hearts were still relentlessly clinging to Christ, but that didn’t deter me from shaking my fist at God in anger and pathetic weakness.
I could pray. That was my job, my assignment, and the only thing that I could do to help. As if that would even help, my heart whispered. What a responsibility. I could hear the patronizing tone, “Look, little girl, we want you to go sit in the corner and watch while we take this person’s life, make it a living hell, and then rip it away. Now go pray.”
Pray what, Lord? That you would heal him? Touch his physical body and remove the cancer? Or that you would simply be with him as he slips away? That you would comfort, console, and bring and overwhelming sense of your peace into his and her lives.
But that doesn’t make the hurt go away, Jesus. That doesn’t make me feel any more helpless. And if this is how you treat the best of your children, those who love you with their whole heart, mind, soul and strength, what lies ahead for my life? Hardship, heartache, loneliness? Do I even have the strength to trust you for the future?
I picked up on some of the conversation in front of me, and it sounded like preaching. Not now, I thought with frustration. Now is not the time to discuss ways to cope with grief, or the surest method to understanding tragedy that God allows. My palms began to sweat with anger. Back off, I mumbled under my breath. Maybe there is not a reason. Maybe we cannot grasp it in our finite minds here on earth. Maybe sometimes life just hurts.
And now is a time to cry. For every day that was lost, for every laugh that was never shared, for each moment wasted. For the plans, dreams and futures that are dissolved in front of our eyes. For the mistakes that cause pain and the conflict that creates walls. For the sadness that wells up deep inside when we think about how much we will miss them. Clinging to a hope of a “someday” reunion in the white clouds seems a lifetime away when you are standing together under the rain, holding their hand and pleading with them not to leave.
I stuttered my words of comfort, feebly gave an embrace and then walked away. My efforts of consolation felt so incredibly inadequate. I walked outside into a warm, muggy day. The overcast sky was cooperating with the sense of depression that settled over my soul. Another one was leaving. Another casket would be chosen. Another memorial service planned. Another few months spent counting down the days left until sickness claimed his life. Why, God?
And these were the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. They were strong Christians, leaders in the church, huge investors in the kingdom of God. Serious about their faith, fervent in their desire for God. One failure after another had sent them to their knees. But they had catapulted over the hurdles, holding onto Jesus. Believing in a plan much larger than themselves.
Now the test results had returned: lung cancer, third stage, six months left. He denied it, she crumbled under the weight of it. Their hearts were still relentlessly clinging to Christ, but that didn’t deter me from shaking my fist at God in anger and pathetic weakness.
I could pray. That was my job, my assignment, and the only thing that I could do to help. As if that would even help, my heart whispered. What a responsibility. I could hear the patronizing tone, “Look, little girl, we want you to go sit in the corner and watch while we take this person’s life, make it a living hell, and then rip it away. Now go pray.”
Pray what, Lord? That you would heal him? Touch his physical body and remove the cancer? Or that you would simply be with him as he slips away? That you would comfort, console, and bring and overwhelming sense of your peace into his and her lives.
But that doesn’t make the hurt go away, Jesus. That doesn’t make me feel any more helpless. And if this is how you treat the best of your children, those who love you with their whole heart, mind, soul and strength, what lies ahead for my life? Hardship, heartache, loneliness? Do I even have the strength to trust you for the future?
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Interfere
He must be so happy right now.
Mark it down! Another one broken to pieces. Just one more soul separated from the purpose laid out for it from before the beginning of time. A glimpse of eternity avoided for the shabby shadows of gratification.
Good work. You plunge into the heart of it all, aiming straight for the source of energy and light and meaning. Ripping it out without a trace of remorse or the slightest sign of regret, your design is complete.
Will you not intervene? Save once more. Spare one more.
God, this can’t be happening.
Interfere. Surely this isn’t the way it ends, because if it is, I want out. Book my flight. I want the destination where families don’t come apart and fathers don’t walk out the front door without looking back.
I want the place in the picture-book. Hands gripped tightly, pots of gold always at every end, plenty of wishes and rainbows for everyone. A marriage that doesn’t resemble a shredded paper document. Vows stronger than plastic credit cards.
He is so happy right now. He must be.
Mark it down! Another one broken to pieces. Just one more soul separated from the purpose laid out for it from before the beginning of time. A glimpse of eternity avoided for the shabby shadows of gratification.
Good work. You plunge into the heart of it all, aiming straight for the source of energy and light and meaning. Ripping it out without a trace of remorse or the slightest sign of regret, your design is complete.
Will you not intervene? Save once more. Spare one more.
God, this can’t be happening.
Interfere. Surely this isn’t the way it ends, because if it is, I want out. Book my flight. I want the destination where families don’t come apart and fathers don’t walk out the front door without looking back.
I want the place in the picture-book. Hands gripped tightly, pots of gold always at every end, plenty of wishes and rainbows for everyone. A marriage that doesn’t resemble a shredded paper document. Vows stronger than plastic credit cards.
He is so happy right now. He must be.
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