When I say "Samaritan," what do you automatically think of? Before I understood Bible history or different people groups in the New Testament, I thought a Samaritan was a good neighbor. I did not realize that Samaritans were frowned upon by the Jews. I did not recognize the negative connotations that were implicitly held by the word "Samaritan." Samaritans were half-breeds. They had a defective devotion to Judaism, and they were connected ancestrally to pagans. Jews believed that in crossing Samaritan land, they would be contaminated. As a child, I did not know this, although I knew the parable of the good Samaritan. In retrospect, I find that Samaritan held a very positive connotation in my mind. I find it fascinating that Jesus' interactions/parables about Samaritans were both positive and didactic for the rest of the Christ-followers. The Samaritan woman at the well and the Samaritan who cared for the beaten, dying man both served in ways that were to be emulated by all.
What I see first is that Jesus did not restrict His examples to Jews. He actually seemed to enjoy using those who were socially and culturally "less than" as a way to presenting the universality of the gospel. This was also a way of showing that true devotion, compassion, and love can be evidenced by all people of every nationality.
I guess that I was mostly struck today when I hit the word Samaritan and realized that I recognize it as a positive term. One imaginary man in a parable influenced forever my idea of what type of person is a Samaritan. "Who was a neighbor?” Jesus asked. The one who was the least like a neighbor to begin with became the truest neighbor possible. Jesus tells the religious scholar, the devout Jew, to go and do the same as the Samaritan.
Jesus turned labels upside-down and inside out. The label of Samaritan holds more tenderness in my heart than the label of Jewish leader or religious scholar. How interesting.
Love: It is the greatest of all. Eagerly desire the gifts of the spirit, but above all desire love. What did this Samaritan have that the others did not have? Love. I want to let love influence everything. Who can give the gift of belovedness to others? Only the beloved can do that. Stigmas and stereotypes externally do not take away my identity as the beloved. The socially lowest of low were able to give love because they were loved infinitely by the creator of the universe. His love does not discriminate. It does not label. It does not diagnose or stereotype or write someone off as untouchable. As His beloved, now I can love. Just like the Samaritan.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Making Me Beautiful
Every cloud has a silver lining. What the heck does that mean? Clouds don’t have linings. They are vapors. And if they had linings, they couldn’t be made of silver. It is not flexible enough. It is metal, not cloth. Silver lining in clouds is impossible. Can there be good embedded in every situation?
Finding out from the doctor that the growth is malignant? The dreaded call that brings your life to a crumbled heap? The rejection that leaves your mind reeling and your faith in humanity shaken? The medical malpractice that brings your world to shambles? The job loss that leads you to destitution? Are there always “silver linings” whatever the heck they are? While silver lining doesn’t compute in my brain, I see in retrospect that every crisis carried with it a special touch, lesson, or revelation from the Lord. Sometimes, it took years to see the great grace that was embedded in the tragedy. Other times, it took days. At this point, I am still waiting to see the redemption of some losses.
Why does God have to allow clouds? Why do we even have to look for silver linings? We live in a fallen world. I get that. We face personal sin, environmental disasters, and physical illness. But why does such excruciating pain exist? Why do I have to face those moments, hours, and days that weigh on my chest and threaten to suffocate my spirit? Why do I have to crumble in a heap on the cold floor in my empty room in order to learn these lessons of the faith and see God’s hand more clearly? In hindsight, I guess I am glad for the pain—I think. But man, it is terrible.
What about when it is my fault? When I make a stupid choice or react unhealthily to an environmental stressor? What about when I dig myself deeper and deeper into a hole of self-pity or shame? Can God redeem those moments of utter disobedience or sheer ignorance?
What about when I have no control over the matter? What about through oversight or malevolence, I am wronged? What if sickness hits? What if accidents bring life to a screeching halt? Is there grace that is great enough to bring good out of these circumstances?
Sometimes the losses are unfathomable and I can never get back what I once had. But I must believe that God can bring some good from the pain. The pain is not in vain. Nothing does not pass through His allowance unnoticed. He knows. He knows the loss. He grieves with my loss. He sits next to me as I writhe in pain on a cold floor. He holds me in His arms as I weep. He lets me snot on His shoulder. He reminds me to take the next breath when I forget to breathe. He picks up my feet to walk when I cannot seem to gather the energy to take the next step. He holds my hands in His tender palms. He is gentle. He is kind. He is the stark contrast against the background of chaos and brutality. He is grounding when I am not sure what is up and what is down. I may question everything else but I know that HE IS.
Sometimes nothing makes sense. Sometimes the hurt is deeper than I am thick. Sometimes I pray for relief and relief doesn’t come. Always He is faithful. This isn’t cliché. It isn’t cliché because I know what it means. It isn’t a trite statement. It is the story of my broken life. It creates a tapestry out of my life of shattered pieces. Only God can make something beautiful out of the mess that is Megan. And He is making me beautiful.
Finding out from the doctor that the growth is malignant? The dreaded call that brings your life to a crumbled heap? The rejection that leaves your mind reeling and your faith in humanity shaken? The medical malpractice that brings your world to shambles? The job loss that leads you to destitution? Are there always “silver linings” whatever the heck they are? While silver lining doesn’t compute in my brain, I see in retrospect that every crisis carried with it a special touch, lesson, or revelation from the Lord. Sometimes, it took years to see the great grace that was embedded in the tragedy. Other times, it took days. At this point, I am still waiting to see the redemption of some losses.
Why does God have to allow clouds? Why do we even have to look for silver linings? We live in a fallen world. I get that. We face personal sin, environmental disasters, and physical illness. But why does such excruciating pain exist? Why do I have to face those moments, hours, and days that weigh on my chest and threaten to suffocate my spirit? Why do I have to crumble in a heap on the cold floor in my empty room in order to learn these lessons of the faith and see God’s hand more clearly? In hindsight, I guess I am glad for the pain—I think. But man, it is terrible.
What about when it is my fault? When I make a stupid choice or react unhealthily to an environmental stressor? What about when I dig myself deeper and deeper into a hole of self-pity or shame? Can God redeem those moments of utter disobedience or sheer ignorance?
What about when I have no control over the matter? What about through oversight or malevolence, I am wronged? What if sickness hits? What if accidents bring life to a screeching halt? Is there grace that is great enough to bring good out of these circumstances?
Sometimes the losses are unfathomable and I can never get back what I once had. But I must believe that God can bring some good from the pain. The pain is not in vain. Nothing does not pass through His allowance unnoticed. He knows. He knows the loss. He grieves with my loss. He sits next to me as I writhe in pain on a cold floor. He holds me in His arms as I weep. He lets me snot on His shoulder. He reminds me to take the next breath when I forget to breathe. He picks up my feet to walk when I cannot seem to gather the energy to take the next step. He holds my hands in His tender palms. He is gentle. He is kind. He is the stark contrast against the background of chaos and brutality. He is grounding when I am not sure what is up and what is down. I may question everything else but I know that HE IS.
Sometimes nothing makes sense. Sometimes the hurt is deeper than I am thick. Sometimes I pray for relief and relief doesn’t come. Always He is faithful. This isn’t cliché. It isn’t cliché because I know what it means. It isn’t a trite statement. It is the story of my broken life. It creates a tapestry out of my life of shattered pieces. Only God can make something beautiful out of the mess that is Megan. And He is making me beautiful.
Monday, October 5, 2009
What if it wasn't your fault?
I lived in a world of fault. It was my fault for everything, down to natural disasters. It was my fault for family dysfunction and illness. I was somehow responsible for everything. I was the one who deserved punishment. Now, this is natural in some stages of development, when the world seems to revolve around the child, but somehow I maintained this weight of responsibility. It was like I was frozen around age six when I blamed myself for everything. When it looked like it could have been some one else’s fault, it just meant that I had to look a little deeper to find that I was the culprit. More recent traumas have occurred, and I blamed myself for them. I still do.
My mind floods with “what-ifs”. What if somehow I caused the lightning to strike my house? What if I set myself up for the tremendous bullying? What if I set out, choosing to develop the illnesses of adolescence and early adulthood? What if I had caught the medication blunder? What if I had exercised more will power? What if it really truly was my choice and my fault and I am truly solely responsible? Of course, I am responsible on many levels. I am not denying that. I am just questioning the extreme self blame that I have lived under.
The question was posed to me tonight, “what if all of this wasn’t your fault?” What if? What if it had nothing to do with my choice and my failures? What if it was just the result of the fallen world, and the failures and sins of others? What if I have been placing the blame on the wrong shoulders and crumbling underneath the undeserved weight? What would be the implications of this exoneration?
Now, I am not willing to admit that this is entirely the case. I am willing to accept that in some cases, I was the victim. I was the victim to events that should have never transpired and medical malpractice that should have been prevented or even caught before such traumas occurred. But the message of tonight is simply the question, “what if it wasn’t your fault?”
It seems wrong to ask it. It seems like I would be shirking responsibility, not accepting culpability of actions that I may have chosen. It is the reverse of the question that has been haunting me for years: What if it was your entire fault?
I answered this question with “yes,” because this is what the lies were screaming. I accepted the blame and shame, and now I see the destruction that it produces. I set out to punish myself, to pay a form of penance. I did not need to forgive anyone else. No one else was to blame, and I never could forgive myself for all of those horrible things. The list was just too long and heavy.
I don’t yet know how to answer the question, “what if it wasn’t your fault?” This could mean that I have a lot of people to forgive. It also may make it easier to forgive myself.
I have so long blamed myself that it seems foreign and bizarre to think that it could be anything other than my fault. I know, however, that the shame attached with who I am as a person is inappropriate. I also know that there is now therefore no condemnation for those who are in Jesus Christ. That truth has not quite hit my heart yet, but I trust that it will as I seek to recognize the truth of His word and to know Him more completely.
It seems that my posts have come to develop more into questions than answers. I like answers. I like to understand and be able to make sense out of things. I trust, however, that in time, this will make more sense in a heart knowledge kind of way. In the mean time, I will keep asking and seeking. It could be that it is not so much about the answers but about the One to whom the questions are directed.
My mind floods with “what-ifs”. What if somehow I caused the lightning to strike my house? What if I set myself up for the tremendous bullying? What if I set out, choosing to develop the illnesses of adolescence and early adulthood? What if I had caught the medication blunder? What if I had exercised more will power? What if it really truly was my choice and my fault and I am truly solely responsible? Of course, I am responsible on many levels. I am not denying that. I am just questioning the extreme self blame that I have lived under.
The question was posed to me tonight, “what if all of this wasn’t your fault?” What if? What if it had nothing to do with my choice and my failures? What if it was just the result of the fallen world, and the failures and sins of others? What if I have been placing the blame on the wrong shoulders and crumbling underneath the undeserved weight? What would be the implications of this exoneration?
Now, I am not willing to admit that this is entirely the case. I am willing to accept that in some cases, I was the victim. I was the victim to events that should have never transpired and medical malpractice that should have been prevented or even caught before such traumas occurred. But the message of tonight is simply the question, “what if it wasn’t your fault?”
It seems wrong to ask it. It seems like I would be shirking responsibility, not accepting culpability of actions that I may have chosen. It is the reverse of the question that has been haunting me for years: What if it was your entire fault?
I answered this question with “yes,” because this is what the lies were screaming. I accepted the blame and shame, and now I see the destruction that it produces. I set out to punish myself, to pay a form of penance. I did not need to forgive anyone else. No one else was to blame, and I never could forgive myself for all of those horrible things. The list was just too long and heavy.
I don’t yet know how to answer the question, “what if it wasn’t your fault?” This could mean that I have a lot of people to forgive. It also may make it easier to forgive myself.
I have so long blamed myself that it seems foreign and bizarre to think that it could be anything other than my fault. I know, however, that the shame attached with who I am as a person is inappropriate. I also know that there is now therefore no condemnation for those who are in Jesus Christ. That truth has not quite hit my heart yet, but I trust that it will as I seek to recognize the truth of His word and to know Him more completely.
It seems that my posts have come to develop more into questions than answers. I like answers. I like to understand and be able to make sense out of things. I trust, however, that in time, this will make more sense in a heart knowledge kind of way. In the mean time, I will keep asking and seeking. It could be that it is not so much about the answers but about the One to whom the questions are directed.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Talitha koum (Jairus' story)
She was dying. She was just twelve. I didn’t care anymore how it looked. I could pretend that I didn’t believe to save face in front of the other leaders, but it wasn’t about saving face anymore. My little girl was dying. There was no hope besides this Man. I may lose my position. But it didn’t matter. She was worth it. I couldn’t remember life before her. She was the sun that lit my days. Her smile could melt even the coldest heart. But now her lifeless body lay on her deathbed. She was only twelve. She would never see thirteen. Unless….
But that Man was here in town. I had to leave my little girl’s bedside to get to him. That was the hardest thing I would ever do. I heard that He was coming back across the river….if only I could get to Him and ask, and He would heal her. There was word that He healed the sick, cast out demons, made blind see and made the lame walk. He could certainly breathe life back into my precious daughter’s lungs. I wasn’t sure about this Messiah thing, but I knew He could heal, and that was all that I needed. So I ran as fast as I could. I left the wailing and weeping crowds outside of my house. I kissed my wife as I left, cradling her chin in my hands, and I promised her that this Jesus was real, and that He would bring our little girl back. With tears streaming down her face onto my hands, she nodded, mutely.
There He was, with the three that were continually with Him. His was the face of hope. This was the man who healed in my temple. He was the one whom I had wanted to kick out. He was too much of a spectacle. He had led too many of my followers astray. He was a heretic. As a whole, we wanted nothing to do with Him. Now I wanted everything to do with Him. Let Him be a heretic. Just as long as He can save my child. So there I was. I had never flung myself at anyone’s feet before, let alone the feet of one of such controversial teachings. And I lay before Him, as a slave! I knew all He would have to do is touch her. I had seen Him do it before. She had a future, and it was slipping away. I wanted this Man, whoever He was, to give life back to my little girl.
He conceded. I was speechless. This man, Jesus, was following me to my house!! My baby will live! We will have tomorrow with her, and the next day. She will become a teenager, and then a beautiful woman! She will have children, and we will hear her sing again and see her dance again. She will play and run and be filled with life! Hallelujah! And, yes, I will believe in you, Jesus. If you save my daughter, I will turn my world inside out. You can wreck my world. Take away my position in the church. Even take my life for hers. Whatever you want. Just give my daughter back her life.
Wait! Why are we stopping? What?? He felt someone touch His robes?? Listen to your disciples, Jesus. It doesn’t matter. People are crowding in on you. Everyone is touching You. I need you to touch MY daughter. Please, don’t stop walking. We don’t have much time. Time may have already run out! Oh, there she is. That is that woman who is contaminated. We don’t touch her. NO! We don’t have time for her now. My little girl needs Jesus. Now, Jesus is talking to this woman….she is healed….another miracle….ok. That’s enough. It is my little girl’s turn.
I see them in the distance. My stomach drops. I can’t see them anymore through the cascade of tears. How did I get down on the ground? Don’t tell me. PLEASE don’t tell me…. I will order you to be killed if you tell me….she isn’t dead. She can’t be dead. She was breathing when I left. She was talking yesterday. She was running around and dancing three weeks ago. NO!! She can’t be dead. JESUS PLEASE….TELL THEM. No, you can’t tell me not to bother the Teacher. He is the SAVIOR, and I WILL bother Him until my child is alive!
Then followed the cryptic words that replaced the words that I wanted to hear: “Do not be afraid any longer. Only believe. “
Ok. It was all that I had. All I could do was believe. There was no where else that I could place my trust. It was either believe or admit defeat. And I could not believe that she was dead. So I let Him lift me up from my crumpled heap and we walked forward toward my house. I was like one lost in a trance. It was the beginning stages of shock, so I followed, dumbly, blindly, mutely. I did not feel my legs. The only thing that was evident was the drum beat of my heart in my ears. My daughter’s laughter echoed in my mind. I could not allow myself to forget it. Oh, please God, allow me to hear her laughter in real life again.
We stopped again. Why did we stop? We have not entered into my house. Oh, all the crowds. Why are THEY wailing? She is MY daughter. Then Jesus responded to them with the most beautiful words that I have ever heard in my life. These words will echo in my memory as long as I live: “The child isn’t dead; she’s only asleep.” I am still mute. Why are they laughing at Jesus? In an instant, they went from weeping to laughing. They don’t really care at all. Slowly anger flooded my vision. Then I saw Jesus, and He led me into the room. HER room. My wife’s face was contorted with the greatest sorrow I could ever bear to see. I wondered if mine looked the same. We were never meant to bury our children.
I forced myself to look at the bed. There she was. Or there was her body, lifeless, empty. But Jesus took her tiny, fragile, white, cold hand, which was swallowed up in His ruddy, carpenter’s hand, and He said, “Talitha koum.”
My heart leapt. My daughter immediately arose. The speed in which the color returned to her face was astonishing. She hadn’t stood in days. And now she was walking around. My head spun. For the third time that day, I fell to my knees. I heard the laugh. It was her laughter! She was alive! She was alive! She was alive! I peeled my eyes off of my beautiful ray of joy to gaze on the face of the One who gave her back to me. He saw my gratitude, and in His eyes, I could see the commission. My wife had already enfolded our little girl in her embrace, so I wrapped my arms around both of my girls. We wept. We all wept. Then we heard a little growl. It was her tummy. She was hungry….before Jesus walked out, He said, “Go get her something to eat.” I swept her up in my arms, and we followed her mother down to the kitchen to feed our daughter dinner, and we rejoiced that we would have the pleasure of feeding her many more.
But that Man was here in town. I had to leave my little girl’s bedside to get to him. That was the hardest thing I would ever do. I heard that He was coming back across the river….if only I could get to Him and ask, and He would heal her. There was word that He healed the sick, cast out demons, made blind see and made the lame walk. He could certainly breathe life back into my precious daughter’s lungs. I wasn’t sure about this Messiah thing, but I knew He could heal, and that was all that I needed. So I ran as fast as I could. I left the wailing and weeping crowds outside of my house. I kissed my wife as I left, cradling her chin in my hands, and I promised her that this Jesus was real, and that He would bring our little girl back. With tears streaming down her face onto my hands, she nodded, mutely.
There He was, with the three that were continually with Him. His was the face of hope. This was the man who healed in my temple. He was the one whom I had wanted to kick out. He was too much of a spectacle. He had led too many of my followers astray. He was a heretic. As a whole, we wanted nothing to do with Him. Now I wanted everything to do with Him. Let Him be a heretic. Just as long as He can save my child. So there I was. I had never flung myself at anyone’s feet before, let alone the feet of one of such controversial teachings. And I lay before Him, as a slave! I knew all He would have to do is touch her. I had seen Him do it before. She had a future, and it was slipping away. I wanted this Man, whoever He was, to give life back to my little girl.
He conceded. I was speechless. This man, Jesus, was following me to my house!! My baby will live! We will have tomorrow with her, and the next day. She will become a teenager, and then a beautiful woman! She will have children, and we will hear her sing again and see her dance again. She will play and run and be filled with life! Hallelujah! And, yes, I will believe in you, Jesus. If you save my daughter, I will turn my world inside out. You can wreck my world. Take away my position in the church. Even take my life for hers. Whatever you want. Just give my daughter back her life.
Wait! Why are we stopping? What?? He felt someone touch His robes?? Listen to your disciples, Jesus. It doesn’t matter. People are crowding in on you. Everyone is touching You. I need you to touch MY daughter. Please, don’t stop walking. We don’t have much time. Time may have already run out! Oh, there she is. That is that woman who is contaminated. We don’t touch her. NO! We don’t have time for her now. My little girl needs Jesus. Now, Jesus is talking to this woman….she is healed….another miracle….ok. That’s enough. It is my little girl’s turn.
I see them in the distance. My stomach drops. I can’t see them anymore through the cascade of tears. How did I get down on the ground? Don’t tell me. PLEASE don’t tell me…. I will order you to be killed if you tell me….she isn’t dead. She can’t be dead. She was breathing when I left. She was talking yesterday. She was running around and dancing three weeks ago. NO!! She can’t be dead. JESUS PLEASE….TELL THEM. No, you can’t tell me not to bother the Teacher. He is the SAVIOR, and I WILL bother Him until my child is alive!
Then followed the cryptic words that replaced the words that I wanted to hear: “Do not be afraid any longer. Only believe. “
Ok. It was all that I had. All I could do was believe. There was no where else that I could place my trust. It was either believe or admit defeat. And I could not believe that she was dead. So I let Him lift me up from my crumpled heap and we walked forward toward my house. I was like one lost in a trance. It was the beginning stages of shock, so I followed, dumbly, blindly, mutely. I did not feel my legs. The only thing that was evident was the drum beat of my heart in my ears. My daughter’s laughter echoed in my mind. I could not allow myself to forget it. Oh, please God, allow me to hear her laughter in real life again.
We stopped again. Why did we stop? We have not entered into my house. Oh, all the crowds. Why are THEY wailing? She is MY daughter. Then Jesus responded to them with the most beautiful words that I have ever heard in my life. These words will echo in my memory as long as I live: “The child isn’t dead; she’s only asleep.” I am still mute. Why are they laughing at Jesus? In an instant, they went from weeping to laughing. They don’t really care at all. Slowly anger flooded my vision. Then I saw Jesus, and He led me into the room. HER room. My wife’s face was contorted with the greatest sorrow I could ever bear to see. I wondered if mine looked the same. We were never meant to bury our children.
I forced myself to look at the bed. There she was. Or there was her body, lifeless, empty. But Jesus took her tiny, fragile, white, cold hand, which was swallowed up in His ruddy, carpenter’s hand, and He said, “Talitha koum.”
My heart leapt. My daughter immediately arose. The speed in which the color returned to her face was astonishing. She hadn’t stood in days. And now she was walking around. My head spun. For the third time that day, I fell to my knees. I heard the laugh. It was her laughter! She was alive! She was alive! She was alive! I peeled my eyes off of my beautiful ray of joy to gaze on the face of the One who gave her back to me. He saw my gratitude, and in His eyes, I could see the commission. My wife had already enfolded our little girl in her embrace, so I wrapped my arms around both of my girls. We wept. We all wept. Then we heard a little growl. It was her tummy. She was hungry….before Jesus walked out, He said, “Go get her something to eat.” I swept her up in my arms, and we followed her mother down to the kitchen to feed our daughter dinner, and we rejoiced that we would have the pleasure of feeding her many more.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Degrees of Healing
As I studied Mark 8:22-26, I was astonished at an element of the story that I have always overlooked. Here is the passage in the NIV:
“They came to Bethsaida, and some people brought a blind man and begged Jesus to touch him. He took the blind man by the hand and led him outside the village. When he had spit on the man’s eyes and put His hands on him, Jesus asked, “Do you see anything?” He looked up and said, “I see people; they look like trees walking around.” Once more Jesus put His hands on the man’s eyes. Then his eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly. Jesus sent him home, saying, “Don’t go into the village.”
Why is this miracle different than the other miracles surrounding it? I was astonished that the healing did not “work” initially. He could see better, but he could not see fully. Previously, in this same chapter, Jesus had performed the incredible miracle of feeding the 4,000. He did this completely on the “first try.” There was no step one, and then step two. His miracles never had worked in the degrees that this one was composed of. Was this specific miracle flawed? Was there something wrong with the blind man’s faith? Did he not have enough faith? Was Jesus’ touch not quite as influential as it should have been? Was this blindness especially severe? Jesus doesn’t offer any reasons, nor does the author of Mark. As students of the word and sensitive recipients of the Spirit’s messages, we can look a little bit deeper, and we can make some guesses.
I was so perplexed by the slow progression of this miracle. It seemed almost like a trial-and-error process. It deeply disturbed my spirit, and I could not understand why. I got some help from the great biblical scholar Matthew Henry in my understanding of this passage.
Jesus could have been taking this man slowly through healing, building his faith in steps, so that he could see the full healing more completely. This gradual nature of this miracle was not typical. The man looked up after the first touch, with his sight somewhat recovered, but he could not discern great details. Men were only distinguishable from trees in that they were walking around. But Christ doesn’t only heal partially. He wants to say, “It is finished.” So He placed His fingers in the man’s eyes again, and this time he looked intently. He could see clearly.
Christ would not be boxed. He would not be tied to a specific prescription of healing. He still won’t. We try to package Him, and He breaks the mold. Henry says, “Providence gains the same end in different ways, that men may attend its motions with an implicit faith.”
Why does this hit me with such power? The reason is this: I did not experience immediate healing. Hands were laid on me, and I was healed. Partially. I found freedom that I had never known before. Previously, I had never been able to even see shades of light. I had never beheld people or trees, so the blurry image of tree-people was pretty good. Then the Lord asked, “What do you see?” And I told Him. He was not finished. Next, I saw the outline of their silhouettes, the shading of their clothes, and the backdrop of the green, but there was no detail. It was better than anything I had ever seen, so I was pretty happy. Jesus asked again, “child, what do you see?” I told Him, but He still had more. He will keep building my faith. He will keep increasing the power of my vision until I am finally able to look intently and see crystal-clearly. Until then, He will keep asking “child, what do you see?”
Some people find complete healing at once. Their faith may very easily be stronger than mine. He can heal immediately. He made the deaf hear immediately. He restored the sight of some blind men immediately. He raised Lazarus with one beckoning call. The cool thing was that this blind man got two touches from Jesus, while the other recipients of His healing only got one touch or a word.
I do not resent this progressive healing. God knows what He is doing. He is healing by degrees not because my God is less powerful or incompetent. He is meeting my need right now. And yeah, the people and scenery that I observe now are a little bit blurry, but I get to spend the process with my Lord as He keeps on anointing my eyes with His blessed touch. He won’t stop until He can say, “it is finished.”
“They came to Bethsaida, and some people brought a blind man and begged Jesus to touch him. He took the blind man by the hand and led him outside the village. When he had spit on the man’s eyes and put His hands on him, Jesus asked, “Do you see anything?” He looked up and said, “I see people; they look like trees walking around.” Once more Jesus put His hands on the man’s eyes. Then his eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly. Jesus sent him home, saying, “Don’t go into the village.”
Why is this miracle different than the other miracles surrounding it? I was astonished that the healing did not “work” initially. He could see better, but he could not see fully. Previously, in this same chapter, Jesus had performed the incredible miracle of feeding the 4,000. He did this completely on the “first try.” There was no step one, and then step two. His miracles never had worked in the degrees that this one was composed of. Was this specific miracle flawed? Was there something wrong with the blind man’s faith? Did he not have enough faith? Was Jesus’ touch not quite as influential as it should have been? Was this blindness especially severe? Jesus doesn’t offer any reasons, nor does the author of Mark. As students of the word and sensitive recipients of the Spirit’s messages, we can look a little bit deeper, and we can make some guesses.
I was so perplexed by the slow progression of this miracle. It seemed almost like a trial-and-error process. It deeply disturbed my spirit, and I could not understand why. I got some help from the great biblical scholar Matthew Henry in my understanding of this passage.
Jesus could have been taking this man slowly through healing, building his faith in steps, so that he could see the full healing more completely. This gradual nature of this miracle was not typical. The man looked up after the first touch, with his sight somewhat recovered, but he could not discern great details. Men were only distinguishable from trees in that they were walking around. But Christ doesn’t only heal partially. He wants to say, “It is finished.” So He placed His fingers in the man’s eyes again, and this time he looked intently. He could see clearly.
Christ would not be boxed. He would not be tied to a specific prescription of healing. He still won’t. We try to package Him, and He breaks the mold. Henry says, “Providence gains the same end in different ways, that men may attend its motions with an implicit faith.”
Why does this hit me with such power? The reason is this: I did not experience immediate healing. Hands were laid on me, and I was healed. Partially. I found freedom that I had never known before. Previously, I had never been able to even see shades of light. I had never beheld people or trees, so the blurry image of tree-people was pretty good. Then the Lord asked, “What do you see?” And I told Him. He was not finished. Next, I saw the outline of their silhouettes, the shading of their clothes, and the backdrop of the green, but there was no detail. It was better than anything I had ever seen, so I was pretty happy. Jesus asked again, “child, what do you see?” I told Him, but He still had more. He will keep building my faith. He will keep increasing the power of my vision until I am finally able to look intently and see crystal-clearly. Until then, He will keep asking “child, what do you see?”
Some people find complete healing at once. Their faith may very easily be stronger than mine. He can heal immediately. He made the deaf hear immediately. He restored the sight of some blind men immediately. He raised Lazarus with one beckoning call. The cool thing was that this blind man got two touches from Jesus, while the other recipients of His healing only got one touch or a word.
I do not resent this progressive healing. God knows what He is doing. He is healing by degrees not because my God is less powerful or incompetent. He is meeting my need right now. And yeah, the people and scenery that I observe now are a little bit blurry, but I get to spend the process with my Lord as He keeps on anointing my eyes with His blessed touch. He won’t stop until He can say, “it is finished.”
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Full
I am sick of swallowing my emotions. I am nauseous all the time, and I know that is why. Somehow, somewhere along the line, I bought into the belief that people can’t handle my emotions, that I can’t handle my emotions, and that God doesn’t want to handle my emotions. I have believed that they are morally wrong to have. I have bought into the lie that true healthy Christians can’t feel fear, anxiety, anger, hurt, jealousy, and sadness. Those feelings are unacceptable. Because they were not allowed in my world, and because I felt them on a regular basis, I got really good at “swallowing” my emotions. In carrying some overlapping blog themes, swallowing emotions is kind of like swallowing gum: not so good for the digestive track! The emotions are too much for people. They will scare people away. They will reveal what a hopeless case that I am. They are too big. If I let my emotions out in a room, they would expand like flubber, filling up the entire room, plastering those poor souls within to the walls, gasping for oxygen. I kept on swallowing these “flubber monster” emotions, and wondered why there was no room for food. Why did I always feel so full?
I have come face to face with a multitude of emotions over the past couple weeks. I have faced rage and devastation as the primary emotions. I allowed myself to cry for all of ten seconds yesterday before apologizing profusely, shoving it back in, and trying to paste on a happy face. With all these good Christian people around me at Asbury Seminary, I assume that holiness abounds. There is no room for a basket case like me amidst the greatly sanctified chosen ones here at Asbury. At least that’s what this shame keeps telling me. You think that I would learn by now not to listen to anything with the name of shame.
I have noticed a trend in my life. When go through intense seasons of battling very powerful emotions, I become less and less hungry. In fact, I feel pretty full all the time. I am literally swallowing my emotions. This is no good for the process of recovery. I am supposed to be eating food, not feelings. I have found that feelings have no nutritional value, and in fact, they burn quite a few extra calories.
One of the best ways to unload the truckload of feelings is to have a good cry. After my best cries, I feel famished. It is those times that I finally have emptied out the feelings to make room for the food. Catharsis is fantastic, but it seems so dangerous. Sometimes, crying alone is terrible. Sometimes, or often, I need someone or some people in the community to carry my sorrow with me, or to cry with me, or to laugh with me, or to scream with me. This is so scary. What if I scare them off forever? What if truly no one can love me enough to handle my massive emotions? What if I turn into the flubber emotion monster myself?
I don’t know what this healing is going to look like. I don’t know how long it will take, who it will involve, or what I will have to do. But I have to believe that God brings healing through His Spirit at work through His body in our communities. He loves us through each other. He made us for relationships, and He made us not to swallow all of our emotions to the point that there is no room for dinner.
I have come face to face with a multitude of emotions over the past couple weeks. I have faced rage and devastation as the primary emotions. I allowed myself to cry for all of ten seconds yesterday before apologizing profusely, shoving it back in, and trying to paste on a happy face. With all these good Christian people around me at Asbury Seminary, I assume that holiness abounds. There is no room for a basket case like me amidst the greatly sanctified chosen ones here at Asbury. At least that’s what this shame keeps telling me. You think that I would learn by now not to listen to anything with the name of shame.
I have noticed a trend in my life. When go through intense seasons of battling very powerful emotions, I become less and less hungry. In fact, I feel pretty full all the time. I am literally swallowing my emotions. This is no good for the process of recovery. I am supposed to be eating food, not feelings. I have found that feelings have no nutritional value, and in fact, they burn quite a few extra calories.
One of the best ways to unload the truckload of feelings is to have a good cry. After my best cries, I feel famished. It is those times that I finally have emptied out the feelings to make room for the food. Catharsis is fantastic, but it seems so dangerous. Sometimes, crying alone is terrible. Sometimes, or often, I need someone or some people in the community to carry my sorrow with me, or to cry with me, or to laugh with me, or to scream with me. This is so scary. What if I scare them off forever? What if truly no one can love me enough to handle my massive emotions? What if I turn into the flubber emotion monster myself?
I don’t know what this healing is going to look like. I don’t know how long it will take, who it will involve, or what I will have to do. But I have to believe that God brings healing through His Spirit at work through His body in our communities. He loves us through each other. He made us for relationships, and He made us not to swallow all of our emotions to the point that there is no room for dinner.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Advocate-Counselor
The Lord calls His followers to justice. I love the verse in Micah 6:8 which says that the Lord requires of us to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God and with men. Until tonight, I have had yet to experience such a heavy weight of responsibility as a counselor. There is a call for justice, and those who cannot speak for themselves need someone to speak for them. If it is true that the Bible mentions over 500 times the topics of the poor, the widows, and the orphans, I need to aid in their protection and care. This means advocacy. Jesus plowed the way of turning the social structure upside down, where the poor populate God’s family, and that it is virtually impossible for the rich to inhabit the kingdom of heaven. The way up is down in the economy of the Lord. The Lord has provided the world with enough resources, if those who have in abundance will give freely to those who have not.
John Wesley continually emphasizes the social responsibilities of Christians. I love his elevation of social holiness. We do not live in vacuums, and we inhabit a world full of broken people. I am reminded of a verse that the Lord has lain continuously on my heart. Isaiah 61 says that the Spirit of the sovereign Lord is upon me, because He has anointed me to bind up the brokenhearted, to bring freedom for the captives, and release to the prisoners, to bestow on those who weep a garland of praise. His Spirit is upon me not for my own benefit alone. His Spirit has anointed me to go out and love through many means. One of those means is through the pursuit of justice and social advocacy. Who will act on the behalf of those who are crushed if those who are enabled to do so choose to do nothing? In my education and knowledge of the oppressed and poverty-stricken, I am now responsible. I think of the song “Albertine” by Brooke Frasier, which says, “now that I have seen, I am responsible. Faith without deeds is dead.” There was bliss in my former ignorance, but now that ignorance has been eradicated. Now I must choose how to respond.
In the system of righteousness, I acknowledge that God is the God of retributive justice. I leave that up to Him. I have responsibility in the realm of sharing the message of restorative justice, where Christ died for the sinners. Next, I have the calling to administer distributive justice through sharing all that I have with those who have nothing.
I am so quick to forget the affluence that I live in. I consider the debt that I am building and the very tight budget that I operate on. I restrict my driving to save gas money, and calculate expenses so that I can come up positive in my bank account. Working as a work study, I devote my income strictly to tuition. I am living on borrowed money. My privilege is that I have access to this borrowed money, and that I will finish this process more qualified and equipped to generate a stable income. There are many who are infinitely worse off than I am. This was an incredible eye-opener tonight after several weeks of self-pity and panic. There are many who have limited educational, emotional, social, and foundational resources, leading to deeper despair. This is despair leads to a soul poverty that runs much deeper than a bank account. It is a poverty of soul, and this is the poverty that destroys.
As a counselor grows out of self, there is a universal awareness, and a more global calling. We cannot interact with individuals on a micro-level and not find ourselves broken for society on a macro-level. I am almost inclined at this point to consider it unethical to counsel and not to feel the need to advocate on some level. Deeper understanding of the core issues of humanity leads to a greater awareness of the global need for healing and restoration. This sounds amazingly exhausting and discouraging. I am sure that there are great rewards along the journey as well. It has to be a calling, or else it will grow very old very quickly. I feel the calling, however, and I cannot do anything but respond as Isaiah did. Therefore, I stand up in this system of injustice and cry, “Here I am Lord! Send me!”
John Wesley continually emphasizes the social responsibilities of Christians. I love his elevation of social holiness. We do not live in vacuums, and we inhabit a world full of broken people. I am reminded of a verse that the Lord has lain continuously on my heart. Isaiah 61 says that the Spirit of the sovereign Lord is upon me, because He has anointed me to bind up the brokenhearted, to bring freedom for the captives, and release to the prisoners, to bestow on those who weep a garland of praise. His Spirit is upon me not for my own benefit alone. His Spirit has anointed me to go out and love through many means. One of those means is through the pursuit of justice and social advocacy. Who will act on the behalf of those who are crushed if those who are enabled to do so choose to do nothing? In my education and knowledge of the oppressed and poverty-stricken, I am now responsible. I think of the song “Albertine” by Brooke Frasier, which says, “now that I have seen, I am responsible. Faith without deeds is dead.” There was bliss in my former ignorance, but now that ignorance has been eradicated. Now I must choose how to respond.
In the system of righteousness, I acknowledge that God is the God of retributive justice. I leave that up to Him. I have responsibility in the realm of sharing the message of restorative justice, where Christ died for the sinners. Next, I have the calling to administer distributive justice through sharing all that I have with those who have nothing.
I am so quick to forget the affluence that I live in. I consider the debt that I am building and the very tight budget that I operate on. I restrict my driving to save gas money, and calculate expenses so that I can come up positive in my bank account. Working as a work study, I devote my income strictly to tuition. I am living on borrowed money. My privilege is that I have access to this borrowed money, and that I will finish this process more qualified and equipped to generate a stable income. There are many who are infinitely worse off than I am. This was an incredible eye-opener tonight after several weeks of self-pity and panic. There are many who have limited educational, emotional, social, and foundational resources, leading to deeper despair. This is despair leads to a soul poverty that runs much deeper than a bank account. It is a poverty of soul, and this is the poverty that destroys.
As a counselor grows out of self, there is a universal awareness, and a more global calling. We cannot interact with individuals on a micro-level and not find ourselves broken for society on a macro-level. I am almost inclined at this point to consider it unethical to counsel and not to feel the need to advocate on some level. Deeper understanding of the core issues of humanity leads to a greater awareness of the global need for healing and restoration. This sounds amazingly exhausting and discouraging. I am sure that there are great rewards along the journey as well. It has to be a calling, or else it will grow very old very quickly. I feel the calling, however, and I cannot do anything but respond as Isaiah did. Therefore, I stand up in this system of injustice and cry, “Here I am Lord! Send me!”
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