Tag Archives: brokenness

A Familiar Edifice Amidst the Rubble

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From a normally comfortable, relatively safe, anesthetized life in middle or upper class America, I think the cross frequently strikes us as odd or even bizarre–at best, an incredibly dramatic demonstration of God’s love and self-sacrifice (perhaps a little over the top); at worst, a grotesque and unnecessary death that sets a role model for us to follow in nonviolent resistance and fidelity to faith. In the West, we don’t like to think about a God of wrath, a God of justice. We prefer a God of forgiveness, but we don’t really stop to think what He’s forgiving us from. God’s forgiveness couldn’t actually require that–could it? Surely, God can forgive freely without a penalty for sin and the cross was purely a result of men’s decision, not also a meting out of divine judgment. How could God do that to His only Son? How could God be that angry? From my, marshmallow soft corner of the world, things seem to run fairly smoothly most of the time. We’re all basically good people, right? We don’t really harbor evil in our hearts. We just make mistakes, have off days, crack under pressure, etc., etc. It is easy to forget how evil sin is, how deep it goes, how destructive it is. Until weeks like this, that is.

When you cannot turn on the television or the computer or the radio without being gut-smacked with staggering statistics of inequity, violence, and prejudice experienced by African American communities throughout your nation; with footage of innocent police officers being shot down in the street while protecting those drawing attention to these inequities; with mass murders all over the world via terrorist attacks with suicide vests and large vehicles plowing into crowds; of entire countries being wiped out by civil war and thousands upon thousands of refugees whose homes have been literally decimated fleeing for safety with nowhere to go … suddenly it becomes a lot harder to downplay the gravity or the size of the problem, or to reduce sin to “mistakes” or the blatant evil in humanity to just an off day or result of societal pressures. When it becomes impossible to run away or avert your eyes from the true nature of the problem, the simple solutions don’t seem that simple anymore.”Free” forgiveness doesn’t seem so free when you’re confronted with the cost of what’s been done to the victims. There must be some sort of justice, some sort of judgment, some sort of atonement. But, that seems to lead to some scary places.

I remember reading a passage from The Reason for God in which Tim Keller quotes a scholar from Croatia who lived through horrific violence in the Balkans and wrote that the ability to refrain from retaliation is only possible if you believe that there is a just God who will execute judgment for sin. He writes, “If God were not angry at injustice and deception and did not make a final end to violence–that God would not be worthy of worship….My thesis is that the practice of nonviolence requires a belief in divine vengeance will be unpopular with many…in the West…it takes the quiet of a suburban home for the birth of the thesis that human nonviolence [can result from a belief in] God’s refusal to judge. In a sun-scorched land, soaked in the blood of the innocent, it will invariably die…” (qtd. on p.76-77). We need a God of justice, a God who will judge, who will execute judgment for the horrific atrocities committed. And I do believe in a final judgment, but that still leaves me with two dilemmas: 1. If I am completely honest with myself, way down deep under my marshmallow facade, I can find evil lurking in my own heart and I know that I cannot expect judgment for others without also incurring it myself, and 2. While it is comforting to know that God will eventually punish all sin and execute judgment, it does not always seem that we can see Him acting immediately in the here and now, today. Does God see what is happening now? In this place? How do we try to move forward while waiting for final judgment to come?

I find myself scanning the horizon for any sign of hope. As I survey the devastation, I find a familiar edifice standing amidst the rubble: the cross. It does not seem so out of place or extreme or bizarre now, amidst this landscape of bloodshed and violence and oppression. In fact, it seems strangely relevant and accessible–even to my suburban, Western sensibilities. And I find that while I do not know what God is doing at this exact moment in any particular situation in my country or in the world, the cross is a permanent, prominent, undeniable answer that He is here; He is involved; He is active.

Today I am thankful for the cross: the proof that God is neither ignorant of nor indifferent or immune to the suffering and injustice in the world, wrought by the evil in men’s hearts. Today I am thankful for the resurrection: the proof that God is also not impotent in the face of such evil, and that even in the face of such evil and devastation, His justice and wrath are tempered with a desire for a solution better than mere annihilation of the human race. And I am thankful that because of the cross and the resurrection, there is hope for us.

Thank You, Father, for being a God who is BOTH just and merciful. Thank You for being a God of wrath and justice–that we can rest in Your justice and leave vengeance in Your hands when evil goes unpunished in the immediate by our society or our government. Thank you for Your justice that enables us to let go of the dual burdens of needing to exact revenge ourselves or of being crushed by despair over there being seemingly no accountability for evil in the world. Thank You for being a God of mercy and love–that we can face the horrors of the atrocities committed by our own society, our own race, and even our own hearts without the need to justify, deny, hide, or excuse them because You already know them all and have made forgiveness possible through the sacrifice of Your Son on the cross. Thank You for sending Him to us, and for accepting His sacrifice on our behalf and raising Him from the dead.

Thank You, Jesus, for absorbing the guilt and penalty of our evil and God’s just wrath upon the cross,  and for living a perfect life that fulfilled the law we had broken. Thank You for taking on human flesh and literally becoming one with us while we were Your enemies, even though You knew we would reject You and kill You–simultaneously creating both the ultimate climax of our sinfulness and the fulfillment of God’s wrath in response. Thank You for exchanging Your perfect righteousness with our perfect rebellion. Thank You for relieving us of the impossible burdens of the need to be above reproach and of being crushed by our guilt. Thank You for giving us the freedom to confess our sins without fear of condemnation and to repent, and for allowing us to hide ourselves in You and clothe ourselves with Your righteousness. Thank You for interceding continually with the Father for those of us who do.

Thank You, Spirit, for continuing to do the miraculous works of resurrection and new creation in our hearts–granting us the gifts of repentance and faith, turning enemies into brothers and allies, replacing fear and resentment with love and forgiveness, teaching us to place our wrath on the cross as well. Thank You for giving us something better than fair condemnation, vindication, etc.: thank You for giving us new life, healing, wholeness; for taking our enemies and our conflicts and giving us brothers and reconciliation instead.

Thank You for the ways I have seen You do this in my own life, and in my own community. Please, God, do this for my region, for my country, for my world. Please bring repentance, healing, forgiveness, and unity to all of us. Let us meet as equals at the foot of the cross and rise again as one body unified in Christ; let us outdo one another in confession and repentance and forgiveness. Give us the cross, Jesus. Give us Yourself.

Amen.

Broken Legs: Forced Lessons of Dependence on God

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Luke 15:5 “And when he has found [the lost sheep], he lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing.”

I can’t remember when I first heard about the supposed tradition of shepherds in the Middle East in dealing with a wayward sheep which continually wanders away from the flock on its own. The story goes that, if a sheep persists in leaving the shepherd’s protection and attempting to be self-reliant, the shepherd will find the sheep, break one of its legs so that it can no longer wander off, and then bandage it. Then, as the leg is healing, the shepherd carries the sheep on his shoulders until it learns total dependence and trust in him. By the time it has healed, the sheep becomes so dependent on the shepherd and so close to him that it no longer wanders off.

I do remember always seeing this story  as a very poignant one showing that God uses our brokenness. It reminds me of another verse I love, Job 5:17-18: “Behold, blessed is the one whom God reproves; therefore, despise not the discipline of the Almighty. For He wounds, but He binds up; He shatters, but His hands heal.” I think my meditations on the broken sheep previously only extended to reflecting on how gentle and sweet it must be to be carried and how loved the sheep must feel so close to the shepherd’s heart. When I came across Luke 15:5 in my devotions a few years ago, I again had this idyllic, pastoral picture in mind.

In recent years, however, I have begun to realize that the process of being broken and forced into dependence is not actually a romantic or nostalgic experience. Because of my own uncertain circumstances in life for the past several years, I have been forced to realize how incapable I am of controlling the factors necessary to provide for myself—health insurance, gainful employment, reliable income, etc. I have also realized that even what I do have—my health, my possessions, a functioning car, etc.—I have no control to keep. Everything I tend to find security in is completely vulnerable to breaking down due to circumstances beyond my control. I used to think I recognized my dependence on God’s provision and was grateful for my blessings, but these past years have shown me that I really had no clue how dependent on God I really am or how much I trusted in circumstances rather than Him. So, I have been meditating a lot on the wandering sheep with the broken leg with some new insight.

Here’s what I have discovered: Having your leg broken and then being carried is not a very pleasant experience. Broken bones hurt! And, honestly, the shepherd is the last person a sheep would expect to inflict injury. (This sheep’s initial reaction to having her leg broken is distrust, betrayal, and confusion, not deeper intimacy with the Shepherd.) Then, to add insult to injury, the wounded sheep must be carried around by the person who just inflicted pain and injury. It cannot flee its attacker because it can’t walk. The shepherd, of course, provides for the sheep during the healing process—tending the wound, bringing it food and water, protecting it from predators. However, it must take some time for the sheep to realize that the shepherd has its best interests at heart and is trustworthy. (This sheep tends to spend a certain amount of time cringing, anticipating another blow or injury, after a forced reminder of dependence; although, by God’s grace and with repeated practice, I don’t stay cringed as long as I used to.)

Even once the sheep realizes that the shepherd is not angry but demonstrating love, it must still be uncomfortable to be atop the shepherd’s shoulders. It can’t just graze when it’s hungry anymore. It has to wait for the shepherd to stop the herd and put it down. Meanwhile, it gets to watch all its fellow flock enjoy snacks as often as they choose, as they walk along. This might be stretching the cognitive powers of sheep a bit, but I imagine the broken sheep feels somewhat isolated from the flock, unable to commune on the same level. It may even feel embarrassed by public spectacle as its brokenness is on display on the shepherd’s shoulder—for all the world to see. Maybe it wonders if the rest of the flock pities it, despises it for its helplessness, or just tolerates it. Even when it has regained its trust in the shepherd, the sheep must wonder if it will ever be able to walk on its own again without pain. Will it ever be able to function as a normal, contributing member of the flock again? Will it ever be able to prove to the shepherd that it has learned its lesson and desires to be faithful by not running away again? Does it feel guilty that it is burdening the shepherd and taking his time and attention? It must feel useless, helpless, and pathetic; not to mention uneasy, sore, and apprehensive about the future.

In the midst of all this tumult of emotion and confusion, however, the sheep is close enough to hear the shepherd’s heartbeat. It constantly feels his shoulders and arms bearing it up. And, for the first time, it is able to see the world from the shepherd’s perspective rather than from the ground. Perhaps it is able to see some of the dangerous cliffs or other hazards that make it dangerous to wander off. Perhaps it sees where the shepherd is leading the flock. Perhaps it realizes how much smaller the sheep are than the shepherd. And all the while, according to Luke 15:5, the shepherd is “rejoicing” over the sheep on his shoulders, not resenting the burden or begrudging the necessity. The shepherd doesn’t just take care of the sheep; He cares for the sheep as well.

After almost five years of practice now living in forced dependence on God, I am overjoyed to report that it is possible to function as a member of the flock—even while my legs are broken, and while I’m begin carried. In fact, one of the greatest treasures I have found in this timBrandywine Creek State Park 018e is the gift of community with the body of Christ. As I have learned to lean on and be vulnerable with my Shepherd, even when it hurts, I have also learned to be vulnerable with my flock. And I have often felt His arms bearing me up through my church community. I have been richly blessed with brothers and sisters in Christ who do not despise, tolerate, or even pity me; instead, as I have been brave enough to show them my broken legs, they have responded by actually valuing me—finding strengths and gifts I didn’t think I had, and drawing them out for the strength of the body. They have encouraged me, enjoyed me, prayed with me, cried with me, and perhaps the most life-giving thing of all—they have believed rock-solidly in God’s perfect love and plan for me, especially when I can’t muster the strength to believe it for myself. This is a priceless treasure, worth more than any job, or paycheck, or 5-year-plan. Jesus has been faithful to His promises in Psalm 23 to make me lie down in green pastures, to lead me by still waters, and to restore my soul–even while He’s carrying me.

I am also happy to report, that I have come to know Jesus and to fellowship with Him on levels of intimacy I never would have imagined possible before, or known I was missing. I have begun to explore the depths of His heart for lost sheep, the reality of His suffering on every human level while on earth, and His passion to be my partner through every trial I face. I am slowly learning how to let Him love me. I would like to say that I have become the perfectly reformed sheep—who never wanders off or loses focus on the Shepherd, who always feels her Savior’s presence close by her side, who no longer cringes when some fragment of independence is snatched out from under her again. Unfortunately, I am still a sheep. Even when I think I’ve learned to walk in reliance on God and fully trust His plan, some new upset throws me into panic again, despite the fact that I know He’s carrying me. But…that’s okay because even when I’m scared, frustrated, skeptical, or apathetic, He’s still carrying me. The relationship between the sheep and the shepherd does not depend upon the sheep (praise God!), it depends on the faithfulness of the Shepherd. And I know that His love for me and His commitment to His promises never falter even a fraction. If I quiet myself in the midst of the circumstances, I can still feel His arms bearing me up and hear His heartbeat—close, close, close. And eventually, if my five-year-plan ever does work out, I’ll have a better appreciation of the fact that, in reality, I’m still being carried.