Wilderness and Tender Words.

In the year that King Uzziah died...

I took a road trip to the Grand Canyon last weekend. There was really no reason for it. No real conscious “leading.” Pure impulse based on the notion that in my 29 years of living in reasonable proximity of it, I had never been. And, of course, the allure of escape every man occasionally experiences. 

It’s hard to find words for the sensation you experience as you peer over the ledge, but not in an “oh, it was so indescribable,” kind of way. The Grand Canyon itself is describable. An articulate man could describe the layers of colors, the picturesque backdrops, and the creatures that nonchalantly inhabit it. But this was more of emotional sensation because the sight of beauty is one of the times that men freely allow themselves to nod at their emotions. This one was a raw emotion that only comes from a million thoughts swarming through your brain. All of your senses respond to an an incredible stimulus before you, and all the emotions you have ever felt activate to form a sort of equilibrium. An equilibrium that almost looks like numbness in the same way that an airplane engine in full motion must look. Those are the times of no words for men.

It was everything everyone said it would be. Breathtakingly beautiful. Fearfully majestic. Crazy big. There was something about it that inspired courage too. There was something that made you want to spread out your arms and stand before heights you would never otherwise stand on with such defiance. 

Exhilaration, euphoria energy. I’m here. I almost felt a part of it, a part of its might. Men like those feelings.

and then you get even closer, and maybe a little too close. Close enough to the ledge to find that a few loose pebbles can trip a mighty man. 

It’s sobering to become aware that to call yourself a man, is really to say I am JUST a man. And a man is not part of the mighty cliff but susceptible to its dangers. There’s something sobering about remembering your mortality and seeing the all too possible plunge you would take down the steep cliffs. Sobering enough to want to admire from a distance. Perception of strength is not immunity. Humility is painful to the pride of man. 

The other day, I read in Hosea about what God had to say to Israel. “Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her.” Coming from a not-so-perfect relationship with my father as a boy, I don’t know how to react to the tender words. But in my hated moments of fear and insecurity, I learned why they are necessary, and why the wilderness itself is necessary. I learned why Peter needed to know that he needed to be rescued from drowning. And something strange happened there.

In that mili-second, I learned that to a man, beauty can me consumed by majesty. Beauty can be lost in overpowering strength and power. Beauty is hidden from me while my sight in consumed in the terrible, colossal, splendor before me.

And You will show not Yourself to me any less. You are mighty, powerful, holy. And inexplicably so, You will not conceal Your beauty from me either. You will not allow me to see you as any less than Mighty and Beautiful. Judge and Savior. Lord and Father. King and Friend. One to be feared and loved. Lion and Lamb… 

Wilderness and tender words. 

...I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted upand the train of his robe filled the temple. Above him stood the seraphim. Each had six wings: with two he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he flew. And one called to another and said: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory!”And the foundations of the thresholds shook at the voice of him who called, and the house was filled with smoke. And I said: “Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” Then one of the seraphim flew to me, having in his hand a burning coal that he had taken with tongs from the altar. And he touched my mouth and said: “Behold, this has touched your lips; your guilt is taken away, and your sin atoned for.”

Teaching Apollos.

I try to find Jesus in every scripture I read. I need to. It’s worthless without Him. I am worthless without Him.  But at times, for me, it’s sometimes hard to see Jesus in such bold characters as Apollos. What fervency, what zeal, what knowledge, what PASSION. At times, dynamic men like the inferior moon can appear eclipse the light of Sun–for the most part unintentionally… But Jesus is there… If you look close enough…

“Now a Jew named Apollos, a native of Alexandria, came to Ephesus. He was an eloquent man, competent in the Scriptures. He had been instructed in the way of the Lord. And being fervent in spirit,[d] he spoke and taught accurately the things concerning Jesus, though he knew only the baptism of John. He began to speak boldly in the synagogue, but when Priscilla and Aquila heard him, they took him aside and explained to him the way of God more accurately.”

Apollos knew the baptism of John, the need for repentance, the knowledge of sin. He knew that Jesus needed to come. He knew the duties of child of God. He knew the commandments and how miserably short we fall. But to be taught more accurately is to be taught to see the testimony of Jesus in the scriptures. Zeal is nothing without the right message. 

Zeal is nothing without the correct message

The abhorrence of sin is crucial, yes. Sin is evil. Sin is a direct offense to God, Himself, the Maker of the universe, Sustainer of life, and the perfect Judge of evil. But even abstinence from sin, without love to God is atrocious. It is a vile stench, and tragic betrayal. 

God does not want fearful servants more than He wants obedient children. The awe of God comes from the love of God. The more accurate message is Christ, and Christ crucified. Christ risen, and Christ exalted. Christ enthroned, and Christ returning.

Awe of God comes from the love of God.

Why is Christ so important, some may ask, to the obedience to God? Some may argue that if anything, the work of Christ would free us from obedience. Some may say that anything other than this would be an attempt to seek self-righteousness. And I fear that some love the relief of burden more than the Giver of relief.

Jesus gives us the means to love God. Jesus gives us the basis on why to love God. Jesus loves us before we can ever love Him. And my point is this: Love of God produces obedience to God. And obedience to God without love to God, is hardly possible at best (and amounting to nothing if achieved).

Jesus gives us the means to love God.

The words of Spurgeon cut to the heart on this matter:

“When I regarded God as a tyrant, I thought sin a trifle; but when I knew him to be my father, then I mourned that I could ever have kicked against him. When I thought that God was hard, I found it easy to sin; but when I found God so kind, so good, so overflowing with compassion, I smote upon my breast to think that I could ever have rebelled against one who loved me so, and sought my good.” 

Apollos learned something that day… He learned he is no longer a servant, but a friend. He learned God would serve him before he could serve God. And he learned that pleasure in God is possible–no, pleasure in God is ESSENTIAL in obeying God.

And may we learn this lesson this day… everyday… New mercies are presented daily… May we ravenously feast on them. May we zealously love God.

Just Listen.

I heard Your every word. Dissected each one, defined each concept, chewed it up 27 times before I… Before I spit it out.

My pen twirled across the paper at every word You spoke. I didn’t want to miss a thing. And I stopped mid-dance to catch my breath… 

But You kept on speaking…

Your words became faster, my hand got slower. Your voice became a whisper and I leaned in closer and closer… Your voice became fainter and fainter…

But You kept on speaking.

My pen kept on writing, my ears kept on searching, my mind kept on scrutinizing, while my heart kept on breaking. “I am determined,” I said, “I am resolved.”

But You kept on speaking.

I looked back at my notes, as I kept on writing… and then, only then, did I realize…

that was I weeping. 

Tear drops had blurred Your words, my very hand had smudged it. But yet will pay attention, yet will I be Your faithful pupil, yet will I write… Every. Word. You. Speak.

And You kept on speaking.

The pain in my hand slowed my pace, the tears in my eyes distorted my sight.

But You kept on speaking. And I kept on weeping. And I kept on writing.

Surrounded by my chaos, crippled by my determination to capture what the world could not contain, my pen fell out of my numb hands. Numb hands too futile to pick up a pen off the floor.

Having nothing to say, nothing to do, nothing to be, I looked up to see the Man still speaking to me.

At Your beckon, I looked down at my writing and realized that in my quest to understand, I could not see that You repeated the same to me thing over and over again… 

I wrote down the same thing over and over again. Over and over again.

“Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me.”

You put my pen down but not away,  

And You kept on speaking. You kept on whispering...

“Just listen.”

I breathed in, the kind of breath that fills my being. And breathed out the kind of breath that releases my being. I am Your son, before I am Your pupil. You must wash my feet before I serve You. I must love You before I can understand You.

“Just listen.”

Lord, I’ll listen.

Philemon

I picked the chess pieces up from off the floor 

and swept away the dust you shook off your feet, 

resolving to give in to my inability to forget (but to fight against my inability to forgive). 

Grace I will give, lower expectations I can never give… 

Because I love you. 

But you have chosen the circle in which you wish to dwell; 

I have chosen to wish you well. 

And now the salt I fought arduously against has lost its sting. 

The wound has almost healed, and I walk on to hatefully spite the aching.

Forgive you, I must; forgive you I will.

Forgive you, I do.

And as for the trust you all but killed,

I believe the bones will live, the Word fulfilled.

And in all these things… 

He, yes He… He wins.

He wins.

My Face to the Ground.

I woke up like this.

Unready to face the sun; unable to get out of bed. If only I could sleep just a little longer. If only I could sleep at all. If only I can fast forward to a sunny day, and leave the dead man to suffer, while I… while I sleep.

I hate the sound of my own voice. I hate what my body looks like. I hate the evidence of my failures. I hate my messy room. I hate my thoughts. I hate my ideas. I hate my ambitions to rise up. I hate my lack of ambition. I hate the ridicule I bring on myself. I hate the contrast of past accomplishment.

And I hate that everyone agrees.

Now where do I go? The world expects a happy ending, or they’ll stop watching. But they don’t know... They don't know  that I’m tired of running. The road is winding on and on like two mirrors facing each other. Which is the illusion? And does it even matter? 

With the last bit of energy left in me, I fall to my knees… and I vomit.

I push myself up, but my arms are weak… And I fall again… my face to the ground…

In this place with my face to the ground, there is no forward or backward. Only up… or down. 

And oh, how enchanting the seductive beckon of down! The sleep I crave, the rest I long for, fulfilled at last. Oh, what euphoria with this… bitter remedy. Yesterday, I took a picture of myself as a child from my mother’s dresser. Somewhere along the stars, his smile was stolen from him. His laughter was snatched away, and the shadows crept in at night. This child didn’t grow. He was stretched and beaten with a meat tenderizer until life was numbed. “In just a minute,” I assure him, “this will all be over.”

I push myself up, but my arms are weak… And I fall again… my face to the ground, eyes shut, and a cry for help on my lips... and my help came while my face was to the ground.

In this place with my face to the ground, there is no forward or backward. Only up or down. In this place the backward–the past, is gone forever more in the depths of the sea. In this place, the forward,–the future is not a reality to be grasped, but a distraction from NOW. In this place–in the now, my face is to the ground… 

...exactly where You wanted me in the first place. 

I was running full speed ahead but I could not find You anywhere. I ran full speed behind me, and when I arrived, they told me You left that place empty centuries ago. The Living cannot be found among the dead. 

My left fist become white as I clenched Your letters to me. The grip caused the ink to fade, and the paper tore, but now I know what You meant when You said Your words will never fade. 

In this place with my face to the ground, there is no forward no backward.  Only up or down… And with strength I do not posses but strength that is borrowed... I choose UP.

"Now when Herod was about to bring him out, on that very night, Peter was sleeping between two soldiers, bound with two chains, and sentries before the door were guarding the prison. And behold, an angel of the Lord stood next to him, and a light shone in the cell. He struck Peter on the side and woke him, saying, “Get up quickly.” And the chains fell off his hands. And the angel said to him, “Dress yourself and put on your sandals.” And he did so. And he said to him, “Wrap your cloak around you and follow me.” And he went out and followed him. He did not know that what was being done by the angel was real, but thought he was seeing a vision. When they had passed the first and the second guard, they came to the iron gate leading into the city. It opened for them of its own accord, and they went out and went along one street, and immediately the angel left him." Acts 12:6-10