The (Bloody) Way of Love

God has brought something really affirming to me this morning. I can at times come so close to being taken out by the brokenness around me. I feel it like a tremor in my bones sometimes, particularly with those closest to me. I hold to redemption -- I'm alive by way of that great work of Jesus and for the sake of it for others is why I'm in counseling school now. I battle for others that the Kingdom may be won in their lives. But it still threatens me, the hurt of others. Over the last couple of weeks I've felt overwhelmed and exhausted. I'm not trying to "fix" anybody; I'm just desiring life in the deepest and most glorious sense for those I know (and for myself). But what Jesus brought to me is that I feel these quakes in my heart because of love. It is proof that my heart has been made and redeemed to love. It is the same suffering that Jesus experiences (Philippians 3:10).

But what I need to do with that now is to learn to stand in the face of it, to stand as a warrior even as I kneel as a servant. To desire life and freedom for others but continue to walk with Jesus wherever it is He's taking me. The offer and invitaiton for others is the same. "The direct experience of God is grace, indeed," said Ignatius of Loyola, "and basically, there is no one to whom it is refused." But the responsibility of following after Jesus rests on the shoulders of each person individually. I am to "seek life in the spirit of furious indifference to it," in the words of G.K. Chesterton, even for others. We each must "desire life like water and yet drink death like wine."

I have a close friend that's going through a profound change in his life -- or the possibility of change, at least. He is in a desperate place, a frightening one. Rock bottom, really. But, I don't think he's in such a foreign place as I would like him to be. I'd be comfortable if the seeming waste and debris of his life were because of a sin or God's wrath or Satan's strongholds. But I rather think he's where he is because of God's love, that the fierce love of God refuses to leave him where he is, and that He is even now unwraveling him from the thorns and brambles that he's got himself caught in. It's painful, and it's bloody, but it's also redemptive.

God waits to be wanted by us all. Having Him and having his Kingdom come through our lives and the ones we love will require all the violence of our "Viking" hearts in full-throttle (Matthew 11:12). To borrow from Robert Service in his poem The Law of the Yukon,

I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild,
but by men with the hearts of Vikings, and the simple faith of a child.

Maybe the disillusioned ex-literary professor vagrant Harry Sagan in The Fisher King said it best in relating the story of the Fool and the Fisher King: "...One day, a fool wandered into the castle and found the king alone. Being a fool, he was simple-minded, he didn't see a king, he saw a man alone and in pain. And he asked the king: 'What ails you, friend?' The king replied: 'I'm thirsty. I need some water to cool my throat.' So the fool took a cup from beside the bed, filled it with water, handed it to the king. As the king began to drink he realized that his wound was healed. He looked at his hands, and there was the Holy Grail that which he sought all his life! And he turned to the fool and said in amazement: 'How could you find that which what my brightest and bravest could not?' And the fool replied: 'I don't know. I only knew that you were thirsty."

May we find our hearts and follow the bloody and "foolish" Way of Love.

The Power of the Church

A few months ago I attended an AA meeting as an exercise for a class. I went as an "observer," though my experience drew me to understand I was more than that. I wrote the following afterwards:

I wasn’t sure what to expect as I entered the room. I had just met one of the regulars to the recovery group outside. I’ll call him Tom, a man who seemed joyous, whose friendliness and genuine interest in others was contagious. A man who reeked of alcohol. That had been, he explained, his addiction of choice, and he spoke of it throughout the time in the past tense as if it were something he had beaten. His conviction was so compelling that at several points I found myself wondering if maybe I had taken a whiff of something else, maybe a hint of alcohol wafting on the air from some other source. Maybe it had been on his clothes or even on his skin. Could it do that? Could years of abuse with the stuff cause it to meld somehow into the skin so that years later other could still detect it, I found myself wondering. A worse thought came to mind. Maybe I had imagined it. Maybe I had expected it and my mind had created the smell for me. I was repulsed at the thought. Throughout the meeting, though, Tom’s stumbling and slurred speech confirmed for me that he had not yet found his freedom from the clutches of the disease as he had so passionately declared.

Tom’s declaration of complete freedom from his illness seemed an exception rather than the rule. For the others, the tug-of-war between freedom (and life as its fruit) and imprisonment (and death as a result) would become the kind-of mantra of the evening, the theme to the lives of each of members who came. Addiction for the majority of them was not something they had completely overcome, but rather they had braved the journey away from it, and “addict” was not an identity they were quick to shed, aware of their propensity to return to its lair when the temptation came. It seemed to be an ever-present reminder for them of their desperate need of grace and strength from Christ. Nowhere before had I encountered such an immediate and practical appreciation of the Apostle Paul’s impassioned intention to “boast about my weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:5) and his understanding that Christ’s strength was made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).

Two ladies greeted me as I entered the room, Jane and Cheryl. Jane was quick to tell me that she had been a heroin addict for twenty years of her life. Cheryl’s addiction had been alcohol, though she said she had tried a variety of recreational drugs as well. They had both been sober for some time, but returned weekly to these meetings as a way to remind themselves that they are only a puff or a bottle away from destruction and that they needed the fellowship with others who could empathize with their weakness as well as remain authentic enough with them to challenge any inflated sense that they had it all together.

I took my seat beside a man reading his Bible. He seemed young, maybe in his late thirties, though his eyes and face, his numerous tattoos and scars, defied his age and seemed full of old secrets and stories. He introduced himself as Brad, and I came to see very soon that he was the elected teacher for the group. Whether he had been elected by the group or by God to teach I was never sure, for he was amazingly knowledgeable of Scripture and handled the Word of Truth with deep wisdom and passion. He spoke of addiction in terms of both disease of body and disease of soul, of both the assault from the Evil One and the assault from the flesh within. And he spoke of the real design and result of any addiction: the stealing of peace and joy, the killing of the deep heart and soul, and the destruction of relationships and purpose.

I later learned that Brad had once been a pastor, though it was unclear whether or not it was before or since his battle with addiction. For the benefit of everyone in the room, he was quick to tell his story and detail both the horrors of his addiction as well as his battle for freedom from it. And he was not alone in his gut-level honesty. It had seemed perhaps a requirement for the group, a kind of unspoken rule, that there would be no posing or pretending, and that each one would have the freedom here – if only here in all of the world – to be real and to share in the naked tragedies of their addictions as well as the unabashed triumphs as they came.

How Tom’s pretending fit into all of that I was never sure. No one called him on his obvious use of alcohol that day. He had seemed comfortable to share his struggle, though always in the past tense. Perhaps that was another stipulation of the group: that each member was free to be where they were on the journey, without fear of judgment or manipulation, the group itself acting as a kind of safety zone, a reprieve from the weight of others’ eyes and prejudice. Maybe Tom had needed this more than anything else, and he had found it here.

Nearly an hour had gone by as Brad led the discussion on the topic of knowing God and obtaining freedom from the imprisonment of addiction when the counselor brought in a well-groomed middle-class-looking couple and introduced them around. They took their seats across from me. The woman was pretty, well-dressed, and young. The man was tall, handsome, and fit, looking more like he belonged on a golf course or a basketball league than in a recovery group. The look of embarrassment on his face betrayed his discomfort. It was obvious that his wife was in distress, as if she would burst into tears at any second. After the introductions, the leader of the group, Shawn, asked the man simply and directly, “Alcohol or drugs?” The question dropped at the man’s feet like a lead weight, and he remained motionless for a few seconds trying to figure out how to answer. I had a picture in my mind of a trapped animal running back and forth trying to find a way out. He found none, and quietly answered, “D-d-drugs.” It was enough to burst the dam of his wife’s pain, and tears poured from her eyes. The man explained that he had smoked pot for years, and had hidden his addiction from his wife since their wedding a year ago. Devastated, she felt not only the pain of his addiction but also the betrayal of his secrets. It was Shawn, I think, who then said pointedly, “You’re only as sick as the secrets you keep.” We spoke more as a group to the couple, and the wife was given room to cry and to tell a bit of the story.

The entire meeting lasted an hour and a half, and then everyone got up, prayed together, said goodbye, and left. The introductions, the conversation, the teaching, and even the farewell had all been very simplistic, non-manipulative, easy. The regulars seemed to genuinely care about one another, and yet there were no attachments, no dependence upon one another outside of the concern within the meeting. Each, it seemed, had their own lives to attend to, to rebuild, to work at. And all gave room for each one to be human, full of weakness as well as glory.

What struck me perhaps more than anything else was this notion of “addiction.” Why is it that, though I do not have and never have had addiction to drugs or alcohol, I felt very much a part of the members’ stories, their lives, their teaching. Sharing with them I realized that we all have our whores that we run after instead of our One True Lover. My favorite bedfellows of resignation, of cynicism and noble despair – these are no less potent than those of drugs and alcohol, no less defining, and no less deadly. The power of the recovery group laid in authenticity with one another and desperate dependence upon the rescuing and sustaining grace of Jesus. The power of the church lies in the same.

Too Close for Comfort

O LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
above the heavens.

When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,

what is man that you are mindful of him,
the son of man that you care for him?

-Psalm 8:1, 3-4

Can you imagine what the enormous black sky, peppered with a million bursts of light, must have looked like to David as he peered into it? No other lights to compete with its glory. No light pollution to drown out its splendor. The only noises those of midnight bugs and bats and prairie animals. He is overcome as he beholds its magnificence. His heart explodes with wonder as he ponders it all. Its vastness. Its beauty. That God had time and creativity and enormity enough to create it all – not just once upon a time, but this night, right then where David was. Unique. Never again would he behold it exactly as it was then. Everything would move. All would be different the next evening as God set out again to lavish his universe with His creative passion, expressing Himself to his children, pursuing their hearts. David got it. In this moment, he was captured by this God-of-Love. He recognized God’s pursuit and wooing, and collapsed into it.

“What is man that you are mindful of him?” he asks as his jaw drops and his breath stops in his throat. “How could you even have time for man?” his heart wonders. And yet… And yet… God not only had time for David, but he did it all for him, to have his heart.

But for our modern, sophisticated, educated minds it is too much to think that God would create such a lavish universe just for us. Sadly, we come up with anything we can to distance ourselves from His passion: scientific reasoning to explain away His creations, stuffy academic postulations to push back His passion; equations and formulations to eradicate His desire. Explain it away. Keep our distance. We are "enlightened" to learn that the earth is not the center of the universe at all and translate it to mean that we are not the center of God's heart or longing or the point of His creation. We become insignificant specks of particles on an insignificant planet held in place by the awesome force of gravitation (not the power of God Himself) in an insignificant corner of one of a limitless number of universes. To translate, it means that we have become not the center of a cosmic battle, an invasion, a rescue, a Redemption, but meaningless and pointless accidents in a sea of atoms and subatomic particles.

We come up with our scientific posits because the Reality is too much to bear, much like those in C.S. Lewis's The Weight of Glory who cannot bear to walk upon the grasses of heaven as they are because the blades are so substantive, and they only shadowy wraiths, that they puncture their feet and cause great pain. They are unwilling to grow in their soul-substance by standing in the blinding light of the unbearable glory. We rearrange the order of the Psalm to read not "what is man that God is mindful of him," but "what is God that man is mindful of him?"

I understand. I do the same thing. I often wake and rush off to my checklist of things to do rather than stand or kneel in the Presence of the Creator. I dabble in distraction rather than confide or be confided in by this Friend (see Psalm 25:14), to know His deep heart. I work to secure my place in the world and with the people around me rather than revere the Lord God (revere = adore, applaud, treasure, worship, wonder at, fall for, cherish, embrace, cleave to, enjoy, desire, grab a hold of, run after). I suspect we all do this. The disciples did. On the Mount of Transfiguration, Peter, James, and John witnessed the astounding glory of Jesus revealed. Jesus took off his veil, so-to-speak, and Moses and Elijah were there, too, in their full glory. Peter and the other two were terrified and fell face down on the ground. Peter told Jesus that they could erect three shelters, one each for Jesus, Elijah, and Moses (Matthew 17:4). Tents, in other words. Tabernacles. Something to hide their blinding glory from the three disciples. It was too much for them. God honored their fear and sent a cloud to veil the glory from them. He will, it seems, only give us as much of Himself as we can bear.

But what happens when we pause and really consider even the work of creation? Spend half an hour doing nothing at all except staring out into the starry night. Don’t try to discover the constellations or name the objects you see; just let yourself be pierced. What do we discover when we do? That God is glorious. Copernicus gave us the heliocentric model of the solar system, that is, that the sun is the center and we orbit around it. We took that to mean that we were not the center of anything at all. That is where we got it wrong. Deadly wrong.

We are the center of more than we think.

Why would the earth need to “tremble before Him” (Psalm 96:9)? Why would “the heavens rejoice” and the “fields be jubilant” and the “trees of the forest sing for joy” (v. 11 & 12, 1 Chronicles 16:33)? Because the Lord “comes to judge… the peoples in his truth.” Or, in the words of Eugene Peterson’s Message paraphrase, “He comes to set everything right on earth.” Because of His redemption and rescue of His people… because He has set His heart on bringing us home (see Isaiah 44:23). Everything that God does is to bring us back to Himself (see Ecclesiastes 3:14).

God has made us for Himself. Adam and Eve lived in glorious union with God. But God’s enemy and ours came and stole God’s love from Him. Adam and Even fell from grace – that is, they fell from God. And now, a cosmic battle has ensued in which God has come with fierce intention to free us back for Himself. We are the center of a great cosmic battle. All of the earth is to shout to God with joy, you see, because He is powerful enough to cause His enemies to “cringe before Him” (Psalm 66:3) and to win us back from them. He is not only a restless Lover in pursuit of the bride that His enemy took from Him (that’s us), but He is also a Warrior with enough courage and power and strength to win us back. He will find us. He will win us. He will have us. Jesus coming, dying, and rising again has proven that much.

What is man that God is mindful of Him? Man is in fact God’s whole desire. His whole heart is bent on us. On you and me. Intimacy and communion and the adventure of His love is the whole purpose of God for us. That is the purpose for which we have been called (Romans 8:28).

God will give us as much of Himself as we will allow. Jesus is the glory of God fully revealed to us (Colossians 1:15). Through Him we can approach even God's throne with confidence and boldness, without fear or hesitation or reserve (Hebrews 4:16). We can come back to our Lover. We can come back home. This is the invitation of God to us through Jesus. This is our place. This is the beginning of our life -- the adventure of walking with God.

Lost the Story, Part II

Enemy-occupied territory---that is what the world is. Christianity is the story of how the rightful King has landed in disguise, and is calling us all to take part in a great campaign of sabotage.
-C.S. Lewis

It is this story that Christianity is about that is most assaulted and diminished. And regaining the Story is not an easy endeavor.

The plastic Aslan shield I found (See Lost the Story, Part I) had the effect of shaking me awake a bit to see how much of Reality I have lost over the last few weeks through routine and duty. God had me find it in order to raise that longing in me for a battle to be engaged in and for a King to fight for and for a people to help rescue, but there’s more He’s up to. The poet Henry David Thoreau warned us that “We must reawaken and learn to remain awake, not by mechanical aid, but by the infinite expectation of the dawn.” In other words, by believing beyond belief that we live now (and will live ever more fully) in a Story of great proportions. (It is argued that Thoreau never became a believer, but it is hard to dissect his deep thirst for life with the offer from the Life-Giver. Perhaps he never accepted the offer. Perhaps there’s more to that story we don’t know. But that’s for another time.) Apparently, there’s more God is up to even this week to reawaken me.

De and I went last night to a bookstore with some dear friends. I started looking through Philip Yancey’s new book, Prayer, per my friend’s advice. It is another piece of the discipleship-calling I hear Jesus inviting me into. He might as well have said, “Come, follow me.” Here’s what Yancey wrote:

When I started exploring the subject of Christian payer, I first went to libraries and read accounts of some of the great pray-ers in history. George Muller began each day with several hours of prayer, imploring God to meet the practical needs of his orphanage. Bishop Lancelot Andrewes allotted five hours per day to prayer and Charles Simeon rose at 4:00 a.m. to begin his four-hour regimen. Nuns in an order known as “The Sleepless Ones” still pray in shifts through every hour of the day and night. Susannah Wesley, a busy mother with no privacy, would sit in a rocking chair with an apron over her head praying for John and Charles and the rest of her brood. Martin Luther, who devoted two to three hours daily to prayer, said we should do it as naturally as a shoemaker makes a shoe and a tailor makes a coat. Jonathan Edwards wrote of the “sweet hours” on the banks of the Hudson River, “rapt and
swallowed up in God.”

I interviewed ordinary people about prayer… Is prayer important to you? Oh, yes. How often do you pray? Every day. Approximately how long? Five minutes – well, maybe seven. Do you find prayer satisfying? Not really. Do you sense the presence of God when you pray? Occasionally, not often…

Pretty to-the-point, huh? Here’s the thing. I didn’t feel guilty or condemned or running around in my brain grasping and trying to figure out how to pray more. I’m not even sure this is what Jesus meant in bringing me to that portion of the book. What happened, though, was a certain kind of drawing. Something inside clicked. I said to myself, “I want that.” I want a deeper intimacy through prayer, a life lived more fully by abiding more deeply and immediately in Christ.

The disciplines are an important part of life with and in God. I know that has been largely lost in the Western church, but there is a move to bring them back to their rightful place as aids to help us live the life Christ has won for us. Dallas Willard brings to light the fact that Jesus never commissioned us to make Christians of all nations, but rather disciples, those who would do what they saw Jesus doing. And, well, Jesus spent quite a lot of time praying and communing with the Father, among other things. John Piper described prayer as “the walkie-talkie on the battlefield of the world. It calls in for the accurate location of the target of the Word. It calls in to ask for the protection of air cover. It calls in to ask for fire power to blast open a way for the tanks of the Word of God. It calls in the miracle of healing for the wounded soldiers. It calls in supplies for the forces. And it calls in the needed reinforcements.” That, of course, only makes sense if you are living in a Story where battle plays a major role. C.S. Lewis understood that, calling this world “Enemy-occupied territory.”

So last night I have it in my heart to rise a little earlier than usual this morning, and I set my alarm to help me up. But this is where the phrase “Enemy-occupied territory” is stripped of all cliché and all romantic allusions. I struggle – I mean, really struggle—to get out of bed, knowing I need this like I need food or breath and yet unable to force my muscles to push against the weight of gravity and heaviness. I lay there for awhile and kid myself into believing I can pray without getting up. Naturally, I fell back asleep. Forty-five minutes later I finally roll myself out of bed and head for another room, where I am hammered again by evil spirits that are troubling me (like in Luke 6:18), and I cannot even concentrate because of doomsday thoughts swirling in my tired head. Finally, after half an hour of trying to break through, I give up and head to the shower.

Now, I’m not saying that I am a loser for not being a “spiritual giant” like George Muller or Charles Wesley. It’s not my goal here to become a spiritual Charles Atlas or anything of the like. It’s that I genuinely desire to drink from the life-giving water that is God, and it is opposed.

It is hard to fight through all that is set against our life in God. If you don’t believe we are at war and that your heart is the target of our Enemy, just try spending unending hours in quiet adoration or passionate pleading or joyful communion with God. It happens, it can, it does. It’s won for us – that’s how we are called to come to the Lord God (Hebrews 4:16). But it does not come often without a fight. It becomes readily apparent why we must suit up in spiritual armor.

It was not until I was driving in to work this morning that something finally broke through. The lines of communication with God were unjammed somehow – maybe an angel came or my attempts at exercising the authority of Christ triumphed – and I felt as if I could breathe again, and lift my head beyond the ground just beneath my feet. I had the opportunity to take some time during lunch to drive around and pray. And I will set my heart to rise again tomorrow morning and “enter boldly into the throneroom of grace” and remain there throughout the day enjoying God and being enjoyed by Him. Because I must if I am to come alive to Him and to the Story of Reality.

Lost the Story, Part I

With every step of our lives we enter into the middle of some story which we are certain to misunderstand.
-G.K. Chesterton

It’s been a difficult weekend, with so much of our deeper life and movements in the Kingdom of God opposed and thwarted. Homework this weekend has been soul-killing in its intensity and its propensity to steal time for other things, like sleeping and spending time with De. And I have not fought well for my time with God in the disciplines needed for my training in living well in this Kingdom, in my growing up into God: study, prayer, journaling, fasting, silence and solitude, service, and the like.

And I think I know why it’s been especially difficult to follow Him into those places of connection. The epiphany came while taking some time away from homework to take a walk with my niece and nephew who were spending the weekend with us. Being the imaginative kids they are, it’s hard for them to stay on the street when walking. And being the imaginative kid-at-heart I am, it’s hard for me to keep them on the street. We found a cement culvert that had collected all sorts of paraphernalia during the last storm. Walking among the mess, I saw a broken shield on the ground. It was in three pieces, and I only found two, but it was evident that it had been some kid’s play shield, made of plastic. The most striking feature of it, though, was the image embossed on its crest. It was a lion’s head, with full mane, and its face a mixture of kindness and ferocity, as if were this lion to come alive and step outside its plastic barrier you wouldn’t be able to decide if you should run from it or hold your breath in anticipation and hope that he would speak to you. It was clear who this lion was. Even the kids knew. It was Aslan. My nephew exclaimed, “This was Peter’s shield!”

My pulse quickened. It’s an odd thing to become alerted and aroused at the site of a plastic bit of trash, I know, but you should have seen it. It looked almost real, and only its flimsy thinness gave away the illusion. I longed for it to be real, to be heavy with iron and steal and leather. A real shield. For a real battle. In a real story.

And then I realized why my devotions are so hard to pursue lately. They are not necessary training, mission-specific orders, a place to have battle wounds healed, the interior tent where the Commander awaits our meeting, a time away from the front lines to regroup and recharge and reassess. They are a disconnected set of duties that have little to do with my life because I have lost the story of the Kingdom advancing upon the dark forces of the Enemy by the violent-hearted for the rescue of God’s precious ones. For were I to have my eyes opened, my ears attuned, my heart laid waste by that reality, I would be a fool to miss one weapon or one moment or one command the Lord of Hosts, the Commander of this Invasion, would give me, and I would set my face like flint to seeking Him for my life and, by way of it, for the lives of others He has it in his heart to rescue.

Trained for Battle

So much of my heart’s courage (and with it, hope), passion (and with it, love), and desire (and with it, faith) is either stolen away by these enemies of mine – the world, Satan, or my flesh – or simply squeezed into such a small corner of my life as to be for all practical purposes nearly non-existent. This happens often. Too often.

Recently I had a conversation with the Lord God concerning this battle. I share it here. The italicized portions are the words I heard God speak; the others are my own.

Are you tired yet of so much of your heart being stolen from you?

Yes, Lord! Yes I am.

Then why do you allow it to be stolen?

When can I be released into my giftings for your Kingdom and for your glory, Lord?

My son, I love that desire in you. It is from me. But if you were to be released now before you were able to stand in my authority where you now find yourself to be, you would be destroyed. You must first be trained to walk in my authority. I want to develop that in you. Your giftings are not a replacement for character. Now, are you ready to stand in my authority and fight against all my enemies and yours in my name, enemies that have for too long now opposed that great and mighty work and life in you? Are you ready to fight to the death for your freedom, knowing that to live without it is to not live at all? Are you ready to bring down all strongholds against you and DeAnn and all that sets itself up against the knowledge of God? Are you ready, my valiant warrior, to walk with me into your full freedom and to remain there with me despite the cost?

What will the cost be, Lord?

Ah. The cost is high, my son. But two things you must remember. One, that no cost can be too high for freedom. The reward is greater still. And two, I have already paid the greatest cost. Nothing you forsake or encounter will measure against it.

Of course, my King.

Now, are you ready?

I am ready. I want to stand with you as you say, Lord God. I want freedom and life. I want freedom and life – more than anything – and I believe you came to give it to me and to others through me.

I came to win it for you. You must walk in it yourself. Choose to, and be resilient, fervent, steadfast, and ruthless for it – for your heart, my son, and for others. It will take battle. I will lead you in it all. I will train your hands for battle and you will have skill over even what you have already experienced. You will know what it is to war and to be victorious over your enemies. Do you want that?

More than anything!

Then come with me. It’s time to stand.

No Small Role

What is it about days upon days of busyness that steal so much of what it means to really live? I'm always amazed at how long I can go on fumes, coasting in my most important relationships – with God, with my wife, with friends.

One of the most astounding works or results of the Cross is that the veil was torn away. Nothing separates us any longer from that most treasured and long-desired place of intimate communion with Christ. He came to seek and to save what was lost – what was lost between us and Him, what was lost in ourselves, and what was lost between each of us. He came to rescue and restore all of the lost fellowship of heart that we gave away at the Fall. It has been more than restored, but we must act on that deep work. We must appropriate it and enter into it and ask the Spirit of God to bring it into and over us daily. Otherwise, we end up living in a kind of casual agnosticism where we begin to think of the world as a disappointing but benign place to live and of God as a distant Sovereign King but not an Intimate Friend.

The Invitation of Christ has snapped me back into reality, back into the recognition that there are only two kingdoms in this world, and they are both fiercely opposed to each other, (Colossians 1:13 - For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves…) and back into the reality of our place in it. (You might call the gospel of Christ simply Reality, capital R, in line with Brennan Manning's reference to Christ Himself as "the Really Real.")

This Invitation is an invitation to watch and be confounded by the way Jesus loves, and then be broken by our call to love the same, knowing that to walk where Jesus walks is to inhabit a far more dangerous and far more glorious (and sometimes far less noticeable) role in this world than we ever dared fear or hope for. And it is a role we share.

I recently watched the new X-Men movie. I'm not a huge fan of Marvel comics and all of that, but here's something that blew me away about the story. Essentially there were two factions (or kingdoms) in the X-Men world – those who supported the mutants and those who wanted to oppress them. And you had to be on one side or the other. Those who weren't were sort of just pawns, really, or extras to make the cities fuller and seem more lifelike. They were not important characters. The movie builds to a final battle, one to end all battles. Ultimately, it came down to (no surprise here) the "good mutants" fighting the "bad mutants," but neither side fought alone. Each character had his or her skill or specialty or gifting, and each needed the gifting and call of the others in the battle. Each had their own sphere of influence and authority over certain things in the world – one could manipulate metal, one could manipulate the weather, one could manipulate fire, one could run through walls… you get the picture. To watch any one of these figures you begin to think, "Wow. I'd want that power." And then you see another one and you think, "No, I'd want that one." But then there would be another. Soon enough you begin to realize that, as glorious as each of these characters were in living out their identities, and as powerful as they could be, they are humbled by the giftings of others. The ultimate reason, you see, that each of them had these powers to begin with is because they were needed.

What a picture of our place in the Kingdom of God. Our roles are not small. And neither are they solitary. We will be taken out so quickly if we begin to think they are. Casual agnosticism is a deadly poison, and our Enemy will use the subtle erosion of busyness and distraction (the two greatest weapons used against us in our culture) to slowly euthanize us away from Reality.
"We must reawaken and learn to remain awake," warned Henry David Thoreau, and he couldn't have been more right. How? He finishes with a call away from the busyness and distraction that our modern world offers and into the hope that is the gospel: "Not by mechanical aid [or we might say by the aid of technology or entertainment or programs], but by the infinite expectation of the dawn."

The dawn is coming, sooner than most of us think, when all will be set right, when all manner of things will finally be well. Until then, we walk before the Lord in the land of the living (not the sleeping or the dead, Psalm 116:9) with our eyes firmly fixed on the Rescuing One, whose life is our light in this dark place (John 1:4).

Into Battle

Oswald Chambers once said that if you want to learn how to pray, read the Psalms. I tend to agree. You’ll find there those who really are the passionate and violent at heart, a quality that Jesus said you would need if you were to grasp ahold of the Kingdom (Matthew 11:12).

This morning I was praying a request that’s become commonplace for me, but so crucial, that I would be given intercessors – men and women who would be drawn to pray for my wife and I. It’s so, so vital for us at this point in our lives. With that in mind, I thought I’d stir up a bit of what Christ is leading us into praying for our lives together and for his Kingdom come through us. This is how we often pray for our friends, because it is how we need to be prayed for by them.

That we would enter into full work of the Cross (Gal. 2:20; Col. 2:13-15), the Resurrection (Rom. 5:17; 6:5-11), and the Ascension (Matt. 28:18; Eph. 2:4-6, 1 Jn. 4:4) of Jesus.

That the Holy Spirit to be so near to us, our very present and wonderful Counselor, Comforter, Strength and Guide (John 14:16, Acts 9:31, Eph. 1:13, John 15:16, John 16:13).

That we would have the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, that we would know God better (Eph. 1:17) and that we would keep in step with the Spirit (Gal. 5:25). We want that we would walk in the fullness of the giftings given us (Eph. 4:8, Eph. 1:3) and that we would be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power (Eph. 6:10-18).

In the same authority as heirs, we summon angels on our behalf (these "Mighty One" as the Psalms portray them, Psalm 103:20) to serve as ministering ones of for us (Heb. 1:14). Remember that it only took two of these glorious creatures to destroy all of Sodom and Gomorrah (Gen. 19). Ask for them over us.

Don't buy into the lie that we're supposed to be bleary-eyed and listless, so we should just endure whatever comes to us with smiles. Some hardship is given us so that our hope and love may deepen and our reliance on Christ may grow, yes (Romans 5:3-5, 2 Cor 1:9). But, sadly, some we endure for no other reason than we haven't taken our place yet in Christ or that others haven't been raised to pray for us. Don't glory in that. Rather, pray. Without ceasing, pray.

I want life for my family and friends. More life, more and more life (John 10:10). I want all our brokenness redeemed and our hearts restored, all blindness healed, freedom proclaimed for the prisoners, and the Good News given to us each. (Acts 16:40, Isaiah 61:1, Luke 4:18-19). I want this. Want it with me, and beat the ground with your desire (John 1:38, 2 Kings 13:18-19).

Paul had his own intercessors, raising the shield of faith and sword of the Spirit on his behalf. He talks about his time in Asia and how some great oppression had him in despair and the grip of death. In his letter to the church in Corinth, he recalls this time, finishing with "On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us, as you help us by your prayers..." (found in 2 Cor. 1:8-11).

The Living God has raised up intercessors for us. We are they. One day we'll see that fully. One day we will strip our sleeves and bare our scars and say, "this I took in service of the King in that great battle..." The hits we take for others are for the glory of Jesus, and one day we will share in all of that. That's the invitation. In the meantime, we fight past what we can see, one in spirit, contending as one man for the faith (Phil. 1:27).

And we offer Christ our gratitude for your faith (and with it, vision), for your hope (and from it, courage) and for your love (and though it, passion) - 1 Corinthians 13:13.

The Haunting

I am recently experiencing the Haunting of God through the edgy, sharply raw sounds of Alanis Morisette's voice and the music in her song "Wunderkind" from the Narnia soundtrack. I'm being awakened, again, into some epic story going on to which I know almost so deeply you can say instinctively that I play a part. A large part. Not by default, and not one I will enter into passively. But I am destined to a place, to a role, in a story where, as Alantis sings, "great will be done."

And this calling is beckoning me to take it, to press beyond all the earthly stuff that has kept me bound and forever attempts to coil my legs with his tentacle hands: those things of work and worries and dreams and will they survive to see the life of day? This Calling says intrinsically not to kill those dreams or desire but to let them go a bit so that they can be found again in a greater context - the context of my life lived in the Kingdom and in this calling. "Seek first this Kingdom," it seems to be stating through the fog of sleepiness and fear. "Abandon yourself to the mystery of who you truly are. Embrace that. Embrace Me," is spoken through the music and words by the Great One who is both present here and hauntingly beyond drawing me toward that life.

And this Beckoning - it is deeper, so much deeper than words, so that I find it difficult to even feign an attempt of accurately capturing it with words. Indeed, I'm finding that impossible, to capture it. So maybe a hunt to the thing, like a roadsign to a beautiful city, is all I could hope to do. And the response itself, like the calling, demands something deeper than words as well, a response that is authentic and to be so must come from the core, the heart, and must come from all of it.

This morning while listening to this haunting I find myself praying without trying and even without wordding any thought. It is deeper speech, and I'm almost basking in the listening, the hearing, of my Savior's utterances that are, once more, deeper than words, like the unspoken years and wooings of a groom's winking eye toward his bride and for him the golden rays reflected from her hair as she swivels her head in his direction to catch a glimpse of him, and their eyes momentarily lock and they know what no one else knows, that something and everything that binds them at the level of soul. It is the unspoken acknowledgement of a father sitting somewhere in a sea of onlookers as he nods his proud and approving head in the direction of his staged son who, after stretching all performance long, finally catches his dad's face, suddenly knowing that all along his eyes were never averted or diverted or distracted from his son, and the dad's delight stretches into the years when the boy will grow to be a man himself. O stem, O stock. And like a comrade's smile held by something known and about to be revealed to his friend as he quickly tilts his head in the direction of this something with the invitation to follow to this shared secret. Something between them, like shared battle strategies between army generals. No words are spoken. No words are necessary. In fact, the moment may be dimished by them. There is sahred excitement, shared knowing, shared joy, shared pleasure.

Jesus is saying this to me today. "Saying" is a limited word, as it is not speech, but then all these words are limited. He's inviting me to let myself be haunted and all things lost in me to be hunted and captured and rescued and freed. I feel Him saying to me to be still and let His voice come undiluted and even unchallenged by my own voice. This is my daily prayer today. It seems I have all today and that He has made all provision necessary without my asking anything, though I'm asking for Everything. Today I am to let my heart be taken in and filled with all He wants to bring me, and I am to stay with Him in it. Come, Lord Jesus. Bring all to my heart today of the Life, present and full, that You have come to bring.

To understand the words of our Lord is the business of life. For it is the main road to the understanding of The Word himself. And to receive him is to receive the Father, and so to have Life in ourselves. And Life, the higher, the deeper, the simpler, the original, is the business of life.

-from George Macdonald, Unspoken Sermons

That We Might Live

A dear friend of mine and companion in this War Between the Worlds recently invited me to participate in a battle for the hearts of men in the Kingdom. I know none of them… yet… but they are no doubt key warriors, prophets, kings, and lovers of God, needed so desperately in this hour.

And I’m struck by the invitation. My response was an immediate, yes. What else would it be? What else would I want to give my time and energy to?

I feel like Thomas who said, in response to Jesus' insistence of going back to Judea where the disciples just knew he would be killed (and they with him), "Let us also go, that we may die with him" (John 11:16). Where else would they go, after all? (John 6:68). This was life for them, that they would know Christ, and part of that knowing came in walking right into the line of fire if that’s where He was headed. It makes me think of Paul who said that his worship of God was intrinsically tied to his serving Him, which meant that he would make this good news known (See Romans 1:9 in The Message.) The Amplified reveals what Paul meant by serving, “rendering priestly and spiritual service.”

I know by past experience the richness of encountering God in this type of battle. It is the glory of knowing a commander and being invited to participate in the strategies of war with him. It is the privilege of being a part of a Grand Rescue. And it is a part of the process of becoming “whole and holy” in the image of the Lion of Judah and by his awesome love, hotter than fire, more alive than breath.

Invited in, initiated in, I head into battle once more, for the treasures Christ came to ransom and set free. Through it all, I find it is me, as much as anyone, who is being won and known (Psalm 139:23)

Restored Deeply

Thinking on the awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping splendor and glory of the Parthenon in Athens as it stood tall and proud centuries ago, the chapels in Rome at the height of the Empire - their ceilings painted frescos, their architecture ornate and powerful, and the bold stature of the pyramids of Giza and the wonder of their inception, it's no wonder that Francis Shaeffer used the phrase "glorious ruin" to describe our condition. We were once glorious as we walked with God, our hearts knit intimately and passionately together, bearing the image of this Wild Lover in our beauty and strength and splendor. Our aliveness was His glory, our hearts His greatest treasure.

And so it is still. His all-consuming desire, compelling and provoking the greatest invasion ever known, is to have us restored.

"You will no longer call me Master... but husband... and you will be called Sought After, the City No Longer Deserted."

This is what the Lord says – your Redeemer, who formed you in the womb... I am the Lord... who says of Jerusalem, "It shall be inhabited," of the towns of Judah, "They shall be built," and of their ruins, "I will restore them.’
-Isaiah 44:24, 26

I will restore them. His intention is clear, and not all the forces of hell can stand between Him and his mission... our restoration. To Him, with Him, in Him. To be His, fully and wholly and completely.

And not just restored, but set free. "It is for freedom..." That, from the heart, we are set free (and set loose) to live fully and abundantly, intimately bound with this Lover, following Him into the battles and adventures ahead.

And this, for those of us who are His, is the work that Christ began in our hearts and continues still. Apparently He means to complete it (Don't believe me? Reread the prophets!)

I just wanted to share that with you. I learned something from C.S. Lewis - that people need more to be reminded that instructed. That's my experience, too. I forget.

Don't lose heart. Don't become discouraged or drained. It's tough here, I've found out. Discouragement, though, leads to desperation, and desperation to despair. But not all the fiery volleys of the Evil One nor the intentions of deceived men can thwart the abandoned and lavish intentions of Christ for you.

Remember that the Wild One is crazy after you today, and He will have his way with you. No matter what. Not even you can stop 'em, not now. There is one thing that you're not disqualified from, and it is, I think, the coolest of all: deep, from-the-heart, intimate, life-giving friendship with the Master, the Commander, the One Who Wants You, the Wildest Lover ever known.

Calvin Miller tells the story a trip he took to the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Australia. He and his wife snorkeled to catch glimpses of the beauty of the reef and underwater coral life. Their son, though, scuba dove. Later that evening they shared stories of what they each saw. Calvin realized that really, they both saw the same things. But, Calvin saw them from a distance, and in exchange for the opportunity sported a sunburned back; his son explored the intricate textures of the immense reef and all the life it had to offer him, and in exchange was burned forever with the imprint of extravagant beauty... which was only a hint at the real Beauty.

The Invitation, then, is to explore the depths of riches and shimmering treasures that lie at the heart of the Father. The adventure awaits. Let's reach to the depths, for surely that is what, in our original splendor and restored glory, we were made for. It's Him, all Him.

More to Say

"I have much more to say to you, more than you can now bear. But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all truth. He will not speak on his own; he will speak only what he hears, and he will tell you what is yet to come. He will bring glory to me by taking from what is mine and making it known to you. All that belongs to the Father is mine. That is why I said the Spirit will take from what is mine and make it known to you.
-Jesus of Nazareth

I remember Martin Luther saying that God wrote the Gospel in the Bible, yes, but He also wrote it in the trees, and the sky, and the birds… and I would add that He wrote it in the great stories of all our lives.

Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. There is so much in it that I hardly know where to start. When I try to put it into words, I stumble and stutter, because there’s more of a swirling and burning of something deep inside than there is language in which to utter it. It’s like the roar of a waterfall, deep calling to deep. The silence, maybe before some great storm on the horizon, or the stillness in the eye of it.

What is it about the story? It’s an epic. There is real heroism. Good versus evil. The crucial roles of the characters in the story. The drama – will it be good, how will it end, what will become of them? The great battles that draw a man taut like an arrow in a bow, and then release him to soar with courage and strength – that pull him into something big and heroic, where he knows his part and lives true to his name. The fellowship and brotherhood, and the joining in with others of like mind and spirit on a quest and adventure of deep mystery and purpose, each giving everything of themselves out of a bond and trust and love. The great evil that lurks and hunts and preys, and the good that ultimately wins, even though all may be hanging on the faith of just one.

In the characters of Legolas and Aragorn, there is so much that I long for. First, I want to be like them. There’s a part in the Fellowship where they are in the caves of Moria running from the Balrog, and Boromir runs down a short staircase that ends in a drop-off, and he’s nearly lost his balance and is close to falling. Legolas runs behind him, and wraps his entire body around Boromir’s, and pulls him back to safety. It’s not a gentle tug; Legolas doesn’t just grab his clothing – he throws himself fiercly onto Boromir, and then pulls him back with all his might. Later when they are jumping over the break in the staircase, Legolas jumps first, then turns to help the others across. He first grabs ahold of Gandalf as he jumps across. When Gimli jumps, he nearly falls, but Legolas grabs ahold of him and pulls him, too, to safety. When Aragorn jumps across holding onto Frodo, Legolas again throws himself around Aragorn and steadies him until he is able to run. Only then does he lead them the rest of the way down the staircase.

I want to live as Aragorn does. His true identity is in his kingship, but the darkness of Fangorn Forest, the battle at Helm’s Deep, the bottomless crevices of Moria and the snares within the deep caves, the hot fires of Mordor, all foreshadow the inner haunting within him and the fierce war against his own identity. Will he come into his own? Will he step into his place as heir and offer his heart for the kingdom of Middle Earth? Even as a tracker, he lives to serve and protect and lead, even though he could live to be served… much like the way Jesus lived, coming as a bondservant. And as king, Aragorn returns to rule and reign over Middle Earth with honor and justice and, after the war to end all wars at Pelennor Fields, with peace. Much like the coming return of our King. Is this not a picture of the real Kingdom, the Greatest Story?

And to that, the greatest of all stories, the one today I am called up into to live in and out of, I tip my hat, I raise my glass, I sing my song. To that King, the King humble enough to shadow Himself into Hollywood pictures, to come so far to make His home here, (right here!) and generous enough to invite us to ride alongside Him in this Battle Between the Worlds, I offer my heart and all of my life.

All I love of Legolas and Aragorn, and all the other great heroes in the stories I cherish, is Jesus - the Heart behind them all.

Staying Alive

I watched some of The Last of the Mohicans over lunch today. The tape was already poised at the waterfall scene. Seeing Nathaniel's intensity as he squared Cora in the eyes and commanded her to "stay alive" hit something solid in me, and I broke down weeping. I am in two places at once: I am Cora, watching as my Rescuer leaves but with the promise for my ransom and return to take me back. And I'm also Nathaniel - or, at least, want to be: a man with steetly determination, courage, vigor, life, here to rescue the beloved wherever she may be held captive, "no matter how long it takes, no matter how far." To come after her, to find her, to win her back.

And that's what makes me come alive. I've never felt more alive than when I am living from my heart for the hearts of others, pouring out my heart and soul that others may go free. Why do the important things fade so quickly? Why does Reality seem to darken, as if I were losing precious blood from some hidden wound or gasping for air after being slammed in the chest, and so my days are defined lately by struggling just to breath and raging, as the poem puts so well, "against the dying of the light"?

It's been almost non-stop since January, this battle. And the Enemy - the Thief... it's like that game I played when I was a boy where I put something in my hand, clenched tight my fist, and then held it out to someone smaller, like my little cousin, and dared him to try to break open my fist and retrieve the prize. And sometimes I would feel that he was winning, and my fist is opening up and I can't do anything to stop it, except maybe grab it with my other hand or just try running away from the offender (surprised, all the while, that he had the strength to do that afterall). Something precious is being stolen... I can feel it. And I'm desperate that it not be.

Holy Spirit, give me the gut-level courage to abide in You this day, to stand in You, to submit to You, to learn of You, to watch You, to be loved by You, and to resist Your enemy and mine.

We win... but not yet...

This came as a letter from a dear friend of mine...

This week one of our local television stations did a special report on the last surviving soldier from the group that raised the flag over Iwo Jima in World War II. The story told of the extreme bravery and risk it took to get to the top of the mountain that was full of tunnels occupied by the Japanese soldiers.

Most all of us view that photo as symbolic of the end of the battle, the victory is won and the flag goes up to declare it. This is only partly true. The soldiers were able to raise the flag but the battle for Iwo Jima raged on for another 30 days, and thousands of lives were lost in those thirty days. Even though the US soldiers outnumbered the Japanese soldiers by almost three to one, the fighting was fierce and almost 7,000 US Marines lost their lives, out of about 70,000 on the front. The Japanese soldiers knew they faced defeat, outnumbered and effectively cut off from reinforcements. They were instructed to kill ten Marines before they were killed themselves.

It struck me that there is a huge correlation with our spiritual battle today. Christ’s death on Calvary raised the flag of victory, declaring the end. To this day however the enemy is fighting. Knowing they face defeat, they are taking out as many as they can.

Victory is already ours...but not yet.

The Risk of Setting Sail

Futile, the winds, to a heart at port.
-Emily Dickinson

Setting out with God is dangerous. Out on the horizon certainly lies great adventures, but also great mysteries. The sun sets past some distant land, and the haze and glow of twilight settles first over the mast, and then the trim, and then your face. The rope rests in your hand, the other end tied firmly to the dock. You wonder about letting go, about letting the breeze that’s kicked up this evening give its all into those sheets. Where might it take you if you do let go?

I know it's tough, but that's the battle right there. We are free... but are we willing to believe that, really... and are we willing to trust in the heart of the One who set us free, to let this rope slip through our hands, the Wind of his passion for us take us out there on the waters?

I want to walk with my Lord. Remember in John when Jesus mentioned going back to Jerusalem, and the disciples just knew that would mean his death. Thomas spoke up and said they'd go with Him if He chose to go anyway, knowing it would mean their death as well. There it is, this secret, this life of “holy longing,” as Augustine put it. He is moving. Aslan is on the move. The Spirit hovers. The Wild One calls your name, your true name, a name you've never been called before. And when He does, your heart burns because somewhere deep you hope beyond hope that it is true, that that really is who you are… and whose.

Carl Sandburg wrote, "The sea is never still; it pounds on the shore,
restless as a young heart, hunting. The sea speaks, and only the stormy heart knows what it says."

Who's ready for the stormy seas? Who's ready to set sail away from predictable, “responsible”, organized, sanitized beliefs and lives, and push out into deep waters, all because they, too, want to walk humbly with their Lord? Who's ready to push toward and pursue others' hearts, just for the sake of their hearts and because you know they are worth it and they matter, because you matter and have mattered to God and you really believe and set your hope in that?

Who is ready to trust in this crazy, kooky, insane, wild, unfettered, unflinching, humiliating kind of love and model their lives after it? Who is ready to move with the Spirit of Christ – to be motivated, to be changed, to be daring enough to live in freedom and bold enough to believe it for others even when they can’t believe it for themselves and love even if it doesn’t change things and to be meek enough to rejoice in inheriting something great from the Kingdom… maybe even, maybe even Christ Himself? And maybe He is after all our hearts’ greatest desire, underneath everything else. Maybe He really is our hearts’ true home, the Lifter of our Heads, the Joy of our Salvation.

It can be hard, this kind of believe. It can be so hard, hard enough to take all the guts and violence of a man’s heart. Moses was familiar with that – with weariness from the journey and the battle and with the passion that laid him waste. And God had Herr and Aaron raise his hands for him so that the battle would be won.

The battle is raging right now. He’s not left a single one of us to do it on our own. “So lay down your fears, and come and join this feast… He has brought us here, you and me…”

Lord Jesus, whenever there was a storm on the Sea of Galilee, and your disciples were terrified, they called to you for help. For two years they had followed you, had been with you, learning the art of living. They had seen you give sight to the blind, make the deaf hear again and the lame get up and dance. Funerals turned into festivals and death turned into life. And yet, when they saw you walking on the water in the middle of the storm, they thought You were a ghost. Their minds and hearts still could not fathom You, could not contain You. In the middle of the wind and fury of the storm, You stood, You watched, You loved. Then, in their terror, you breathed into their faces the breath of new life yet again, the reality of who You were, another piece of Your heart for them. And they worshipped You, out of holy terror, out of reverence for the mysterious, unexplainable. You, as containable as a fish net can contain a hurricane... Your grace. We can only be brushed by it, and left ruffled and alive in its wake.

You who commands the wind, blow on our hearts, breathe on our souls. Bring to life those things dead. As you teach us to give things to you, good and bad, empty hands, show us, by Your grace, what you mean when you say that by losing our lives, we gain Yours... real life, full life. This wind, this Spirit in our hearts, the wellspring of life, is the very air we breathe. It is Your holy presence living in us. It is the wind of Your Spirit that blows the low-lying black cloud completely away (Rom. 8), allowing us to run free again like a child (Ps. 63), and to join You in the work You have laid out for us since before time began.

Lord, will you fill these fish nets with fish, after casting us over in deep waters. "I am ready for the storm, yes sir ready. I am ready for the storm, yes sir ready..."

Missing Love

Lots of hurts have been exposed in the recent battle I’ve found myself in. I’m broken. Feel like I’m waking up to punctured lungs. I’m breathing, but it hurts. Found this song in shuffling through some CDs. Sitting here weeping hearing it. I hope you’ve heard it, because the passion of the music is half of it. But here are the words.

Missing Love
PFR

I spent my life learning to survive.
Walked down these roads
hoping each one might lead me home.
I learned early on
That trust can come undone
And leave your heart guarding its deepest part.
But you got in through the marrow and bone
Shed some light where none had shone

I lost I found
I was missing love missing love
I fought to stand my ground
I was missing love oh missing love

Can you teach me
to live as one who’s free
From fear from shame
and the lie that I’ll never change
Help me to see myself through a lover’s eyes
No more mask no disguise

I lost I found
I was missing love missing love
I fought to stand my ground
I was missing love oh missing love

You found me
and made me whole again
My savior my friend

I lost I found
I was missing love missing love
I fought to stand my ground
I was missing love oh missing love

That’s what I had done – learned to survive. And trust always came undone, left me to guard the deepest parts of my heart from the God who created it. And I want to learn to live as one who’s free. I don’t want to be set free now – Jesus has already done that. Now I need to learn to live as one who is free. And oh, to see myself through a Lover’s eyes, and stand naked before Him, no masks, no disguise. And I love how he sings, “I lost. I found I was missing love…” I feel like in these last couple of weeks that I have wrestled so hard, struggled with so much. So now, in light of “losing” a wrestling match (if that’s what this has all been about), there’s hope of finding more. Russian poet Rainer Marie Rilke said that what we choose to battle against is so small, and the victory itself makes us small. But what chooses to battle us is big, and we are birthed into life by our defeat. And so, this is what it is to be birthed into life: being defeated by constantly bigger things. Maybe this is a part of that for me. The thought of letting go of the possibility of some things I had held onto so tightly for hope brings up a lot of disappointment and a lot of uncertainty. To say that those are just part of the Mystery in this journey is true, but it doesn’t feel all that helpful. What is God up to in all of this? I’m not sure, but if the song gives any clue, it may be my defeat, so that I may walk up out of a river gorge with a limp but also a new name (“to see myself through a lover’s eyes”).

Lord, where are your friends?

Divide and conquer. It's a first strategy of the Enemy. Separate them, confuse them, cloud them over with a fog until they wander from each other in search of a clearing; or better, pummel them, blast them with cannons of fire so dense they hunker to the ground in defense, slowly losing heart as the shadows of fear or indifference have advanced upon them like an invading army.

I've felt this today. It starts subtle, but the lie goes along these lines, "You are alone. Look around you; no one 'lives from the heart' or seeks God or desires Life or loves or lives in the Reality. Just give in. Just take it easy and let loose your guard. Hakuna matata. No worries."

In the only way I know how, I'm coming against that lie. Like Elijah, I need to remember my allies... my friends and His. I’m so grateful for those I’ve been given to journey with who answer the following questions with a resounding, “Here I am.” Their response is a signal flare on the battlefield telling their position, giving me courage to remember in whose company I battle and journey.


Lord, where are your Friends?

Where are those girding themselves with the armor forged in the fires of passion to fit Your waist, Your breast, Your arms, Lord?

Where are those who have yet to beat their swords into plowshares, and whose weapons are crimson with the blood of war?

Where are the crying, the wailing, the sick and broken pouring out tears of rage against the accuser for their own?

Where are the mourning and rejoicing travelers to the heavenly kingdom who pause long enough to help those too tired to walk?

Where are those thirsty, hungry, desirous and sensuous men and women who are preparing to take their place as the Bride in the eyes of her Lover,

And those who have made their beds, never to lie in them again until the return of their Groom?

Where are the seeing who know they're still blind and the wise who know they've understood so little?

Where are the weak and rejected, the poor among us longing for a better Home?

Where are those who have felt the heat of the Fire and who have crossed over the line to jump into the burning flames?

Where are the wobbly-kneed who have felt the earth give way beneath them and know it is passing so soon?

Where are those who have heard the Summons and are removing their sandals with the thought ringing in their minds, “In light of this, what else could I do?”

Where are those faces set link flint, whose unblinking bleary eyes are ready, waiting?

Where are the passionate, the consecrated, the holy lovers that have gone down to the village to meet with the one for whom their hearts were made?

Where are those searching their hearts for the answer to the question, “What is it you want?”

Where are the brave and foolish that have tasted and are wasted now for Life?

Are they doing their day-to-day duties, alone, under the scorching midday sun – carrying water home to one of their many bedfellows?

Are they peering from their view in the fork of a tree through the crowds, stretching to hear, pressing in to catch a glimpse?

Do they scream in the streets for knowledge of Who it is among them?

Do they clamor and tear without caution at the roof to find an opening so they can be near, and so their own friends might live?

Do they walk up, wet with weeping, to the feet of the Fearer to tell of their dying daughter, remembering with what authority He came?

Do they sing? Do they know their breaths are the exhalations of the One so close, of the One within?

Do they peer now, with hearts laid waste by Love, into the souls of those near them, just for the joy of knowing the greatest of all creation and the beauty placed their by the Master?

Are they alive? Do they work and journey and fight with conviction and compassion because of some deep joy set before them?

Lord, where are your Friends?
©2005, Brian Fidler