Yesterday I received an email from a co-worker who is also an alumnus of Virginia Tech. The email told the stories of one of the families who lost daughter in the on-campus killings earlier this week. Since I don’t usually watch the news, I had only read a few headlines about this painful event. Her email put a human face on this story. By humanizing this story, I could enter into the grieving at the loss of lives. Below are a few thoughts that came to mind as I reflected. I would hope that we would not simply observe the pain of those grieving families but may we also weep with those who weep.
There are pains so deep, so crushing, so horrible that our thoughts cannot contain them. We think if we can just explain them, define them, categorize them, or even spiritualize them, we will somehow gain power over them.
But we won’t.
Evil is real. The dark terror of evil cannot be contained by our minds, our media, or even our government policies. In a world of enlightened ideas and unlimited progress, the reality of evil continues to strike. And if we’re honest, we know that evil strikes through even our own hearts.
What do we do when a horrid evil is unleashed before our eyes? How do we respond? If we were still human, we would respond by grieving, moaning, and crying out in agony and despair. But we’ve forgotten how to mourn. We’re too sophisticated for lamentation.
Instead, we watch the news. We collect information, analyze it, dissect it, and reduce the horror of evil to some manageable bit of data that is stored with all the other bits of data that crowd our mechanized brains. God have mercy on us and teach us to weep with those who weep.
Facing the sudden tragic loss of lives, we are mystified. Questions cloud the heart and mind: Why? Why the suffering? Why the obscene evil? But there are some questions we simply cannot ask. The book of Job reveals the futility of asking, “Why must we suffer?”
Sure we can theorize and theologize and spiritualize, but all our wrangling brings us no closer to real answers that feed the human soul. Instead of asking “why suffering” and “why evil,” our souls long to ask another question, “Where are you God?”
Where is the absent God in our despairing heart of darkness?
Despised and rejected.
Stricken and afflicted.
Wounded and bruised.
Hanging on a cross.
He is bleeding and dying and entering into the deepest depths of human pain and suffering. Though we fall under the weight of suffering, we cannot fall lower than the “Man of Sorrows.”
He embraces us in our suffering. He enters into our mourning. He teaches us to pray rightly, “My God, My God why have you forsaken me?”
For just a few moments, let go of the need to know; the need to answer why; the need make sense of tragedy. Let go and follow the pattern of Jesus who truly weeps with those who weep and suffers with those who suffer.
Jesus can teach us to mourn, to grieve, to ache at the pain within us and around us. He can restore our humanness. He can free us from the tyranny of information without love and restore us to loving bond with brokenhearted. He can teach us let go of our need for quick empty, solutions to evil and pain. He can teach us to cry and grieve and wait upon a comfort that can only come from the Spirit of God.
O LORD, God of my salvation,
I have cried out day and night before You.
Let my prayer come before You;
Incline Your ear to my cry.
For my soul is full of troubles,
And my life draws near to the grave.
I am counted with those who go down to the pit;
I am like a man who has no strength,
Adrift among the dead,
Like the slain who lie in the grave,
Whom You remember no more,
And who are cut off from Your hand.
You have laid me in the lowest pit,
In darkness, in the depths.
Your wrath lies heavy upon me,
And You have afflicted me with all Your waves. Selah (Psalm 88)
My eyes flow and do not cease,
Without interruption,
Till the LORD from heaven
Looks down and sees. (Lamentations 3:49-50)
Showing posts with label suffering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suffering. Show all posts
Friday, April 20, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Meeting Jesus on the Road to Die
Paul met Jesus. Crossing a plain in the fiery sun, he fell under the piercing reality of heavenly light. He encountered Jesus in ways that time and space cannot contain, and Paul’s word could never fully explain.
Paul met Jesus.
He communed with Lord of all creation in the crushing blows of affliction. Beaten, stoned, left for dead, this broken man despaired of life, assuming his body had been given over to death.
Paul met Jesus in the cruel betrayal of trusted friends. The loved ones that he had invested his life into abandoned, rejected and turned their backs on this weak fool. As a humiliated captive paraded before a jeering world, Paul lived the words, “My God, My God why have you forsaken me.”
Paul met Jesus—not simply in third heaven visions of rapturous glory but in the embodied communion of suffering. As he fell forward into a lived death, Paul discovered another, deeper, richer communion. Beneath the pain of the cross, Paul met Jesus in the living comfort of God’s ever-consoling Spirit.
There is a life discovered only in death.
In the midst of affliction and comfort, Paul met Jesus in the prayers of God’s people. Even as Paul entered into a communion of love with the Savior, he discovered another communion as well: the sweet and mysterious communion with the frailty of God’s people. For the Spirit of Communion bound Paul with God and with God’s people.
In his journey to far country, Paul discovered a mystery the Savior prayed for his disciples before leaving. were called out of darkness and into light. They were called to be the friends of God.
The friending of God and God’s people is revealed in the weakness of suffering, of betrayal, of loneliness, of the cross. For we truly must love one another as Christ loved us. In his gracious love, the Spirit of God leads us to the place of the skull.
This is not a cruel joke, but a mystery of love that frees us from an exclusive self love that can never know the sweet bonds of communion. In weakness and death, we can finally embody the reality of a love that cannot die, that cannot be quenched, that cannot fail. We discover a love the Savior calls “everlasting life.”
In both agony and ecstasy, we are bound to the Lord by the Spirit, and yet not to the Lord alone but to the Lord’s people.
Each of us are graced to know Judas and Peter. The fellowship of God, the Holy Spirit, ministers to us the wounds of the cross through Judas and Peter. And yet one, in the mystery of love, will become the friend who sticks closer than a brother. The betrayer will become the lover.
The mystery of this gospel is that it is not carved in stone. It is not forged in immoveable forms that cannot change. Rather, it is stamped on the weakness of the human heart. The same heart that is fickle, untrustworthy, deceitful, and selfish. And onto this weak form is stamped the beauty of a love that will survive death and burn eternal.
As we stumble toward Golgotha, let us embrace those who have forsaken us. Some like Judas will run away. But others like Peter will become the rock upon which a communion that cannot be shaken will be formed.
Let us know the bonds of communion in suffering and comfort, in joy and sorrow, in betrayal and love. May the Spirit of Communion fulfill the great and wondrous prayer that we all might be one even as the Father, the Son and the Spirit are one.
Paul met Jesus.
He communed with Lord of all creation in the crushing blows of affliction. Beaten, stoned, left for dead, this broken man despaired of life, assuming his body had been given over to death.
Paul met Jesus in the cruel betrayal of trusted friends. The loved ones that he had invested his life into abandoned, rejected and turned their backs on this weak fool. As a humiliated captive paraded before a jeering world, Paul lived the words, “My God, My God why have you forsaken me.”
Paul met Jesus—not simply in third heaven visions of rapturous glory but in the embodied communion of suffering. As he fell forward into a lived death, Paul discovered another, deeper, richer communion. Beneath the pain of the cross, Paul met Jesus in the living comfort of God’s ever-consoling Spirit.
There is a life discovered only in death.
In the midst of affliction and comfort, Paul met Jesus in the prayers of God’s people. Even as Paul entered into a communion of love with the Savior, he discovered another communion as well: the sweet and mysterious communion with the frailty of God’s people. For the Spirit of Communion bound Paul with God and with God’s people.
In his journey to far country, Paul discovered a mystery the Savior prayed for his disciples before leaving. were called out of darkness and into light. They were called to be the friends of God.
The friending of God and God’s people is revealed in the weakness of suffering, of betrayal, of loneliness, of the cross. For we truly must love one another as Christ loved us. In his gracious love, the Spirit of God leads us to the place of the skull.
This is not a cruel joke, but a mystery of love that frees us from an exclusive self love that can never know the sweet bonds of communion. In weakness and death, we can finally embody the reality of a love that cannot die, that cannot be quenched, that cannot fail. We discover a love the Savior calls “everlasting life.”
In both agony and ecstasy, we are bound to the Lord by the Spirit, and yet not to the Lord alone but to the Lord’s people.
Each of us are graced to know Judas and Peter. The fellowship of God, the Holy Spirit, ministers to us the wounds of the cross through Judas and Peter. And yet one, in the mystery of love, will become the friend who sticks closer than a brother. The betrayer will become the lover.
The mystery of this gospel is that it is not carved in stone. It is not forged in immoveable forms that cannot change. Rather, it is stamped on the weakness of the human heart. The same heart that is fickle, untrustworthy, deceitful, and selfish. And onto this weak form is stamped the beauty of a love that will survive death and burn eternal.
As we stumble toward Golgotha, let us embrace those who have forsaken us. Some like Judas will run away. But others like Peter will become the rock upon which a communion that cannot be shaken will be formed.
Let us know the bonds of communion in suffering and comfort, in joy and sorrow, in betrayal and love. May the Spirit of Communion fulfill the great and wondrous prayer that we all might be one even as the Father, the Son and the Spirit are one.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Advent Peace
The songs we sing to celebrate this season carry profound messages of hope and possibility in the midst of dark nights and sometimes even darker days. One song that captured my heart last week is the familiar “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”
For many of us, the words of the first verse echo easily through our minds after years and years of singing:
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious night of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold:
“Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,
From heavens’ all gracious King;”
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
This verse brings to mind the stories of childhood: shepherds in the field; Mary and Joseph in the stable; a glorious display of heavenly light as angels proclaim the good tidings of heaven. These images make me feel warm and safe—like the world is all right.
But the world is not all right.
It is easy to sentimentalize the sweetness of the angelic images and forget the arresting power of the song. Verse three paints a picture much closer to home:
Yet with woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And men, at war with men, hear not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife
And hear the angels sing.
We may sing of Christmas cheer, but our world aches of war and rumors of war.
War infects this world. Each moment on earth reveals more cruelty, more hatred, more human aggression. Nation attacks nation. One race fights another race. Fathers turn against sons and sons turn against fathers. Brothers kill brothers; lovers deceive lovers. And even the human heart divides against itself. We are at war: inside and out.
Beneath our bullets, our fists, our angry hearts, a soft refrain persists:
“Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,
From heavens’ all gracious King;”
During Advent, we pause to hear the steady plainchant that reminds generation after generation after generation: peace is coming. Unmoved by our constant striving, the promise of peace continues to echo and ripple into the fabric of all creation.
Advent reminds us to stop, to wait, to watch, to listen. For the Prince of Peace has come, is coming and comes even now. As we behold him, we are changed. Like the lonely shepherds, we rise up and follow. We follow the infant king to the place of peace: the cross.
Yes, even as we rejoice in the birth of a baby, we cannot ignore the death of a Savior. The path to Bethlehem ends at Calvary. The Advent wind whispers, calling us to follow the true Peacemaker into the ways of peace, into the place of cross.
Peace begins not with a treaty, not with a protest, not with gunshot, but with a cross. We embrace the place of death, laying down our rights, our needs, our glory, our importance, our name, our reputation. We lay down our lives. And in the wonder of Advent, we discover His life and His peace flowing out through us in love.
Come O Advent King. We are weary and worried. The war inside us breaks out all around us. We hurt the ones we love. We betray our friends. Our world reflects our hearts. We suffer and we cause those around us to suffer. Have mercy upon us. Lead us in the way of peace. May we sing, may we live, may we embody the angel song:
For lo! The days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years,
Shall come the time foretold
When the whole heaven and earth shall own
The Prince of Peace their king
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.
For many of us, the words of the first verse echo easily through our minds after years and years of singing:
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious night of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold:
“Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,
From heavens’ all gracious King;”
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
This verse brings to mind the stories of childhood: shepherds in the field; Mary and Joseph in the stable; a glorious display of heavenly light as angels proclaim the good tidings of heaven. These images make me feel warm and safe—like the world is all right.
But the world is not all right.
It is easy to sentimentalize the sweetness of the angelic images and forget the arresting power of the song. Verse three paints a picture much closer to home:
Yet with woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And men, at war with men, hear not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife
And hear the angels sing.
We may sing of Christmas cheer, but our world aches of war and rumors of war.
War infects this world. Each moment on earth reveals more cruelty, more hatred, more human aggression. Nation attacks nation. One race fights another race. Fathers turn against sons and sons turn against fathers. Brothers kill brothers; lovers deceive lovers. And even the human heart divides against itself. We are at war: inside and out.
Beneath our bullets, our fists, our angry hearts, a soft refrain persists:
“Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,
From heavens’ all gracious King;”
During Advent, we pause to hear the steady plainchant that reminds generation after generation after generation: peace is coming. Unmoved by our constant striving, the promise of peace continues to echo and ripple into the fabric of all creation.
Advent reminds us to stop, to wait, to watch, to listen. For the Prince of Peace has come, is coming and comes even now. As we behold him, we are changed. Like the lonely shepherds, we rise up and follow. We follow the infant king to the place of peace: the cross.
Yes, even as we rejoice in the birth of a baby, we cannot ignore the death of a Savior. The path to Bethlehem ends at Calvary. The Advent wind whispers, calling us to follow the true Peacemaker into the ways of peace, into the place of cross.
Peace begins not with a treaty, not with a protest, not with gunshot, but with a cross. We embrace the place of death, laying down our rights, our needs, our glory, our importance, our name, our reputation. We lay down our lives. And in the wonder of Advent, we discover His life and His peace flowing out through us in love.
Come O Advent King. We are weary and worried. The war inside us breaks out all around us. We hurt the ones we love. We betray our friends. Our world reflects our hearts. We suffer and we cause those around us to suffer. Have mercy upon us. Lead us in the way of peace. May we sing, may we live, may we embody the angel song:
For lo! The days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years,
Shall come the time foretold
When the whole heaven and earth shall own
The Prince of Peace their king
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.
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