(Good) Friday

Hence, when Christ is hanged upon the cross, he makes himself subject to the curse. 

-John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion (II.xvi.6)

It is not in spite of the Cross, 
in spite of its evident "weakness", in spite of human impotence and frailty, 
that He reveals Himself to us as Son of God, but particularly on the Cross.  
It is precisely the folly of the Cross which is the wisdom of God.

-Emil Brunner, The Christian Doctrine of Creation and Redemption, (II,12,D)

A youth pastor in Grand Rapids died in a house-fire alongside his infant son; a married man, a family man, a servant of Christ.  To be human is to walk daily with our finitude before us, haunting our minds, as the brevity, the brittleness, and the ephemerality that is all so part of the human condition hangs above us like a dark, imposing cloud .  But the question still lingers like a bitter odor or taste: where is God in all of this?

Where is God when it all falls apart?  Where is God when bad things happen to the righteous to the point of sheer absurdity and fleeting vanity (Ecclesiastes 8:14)?  What happens when it seems that God has all but forgotten those who seek Him, who remain waiting for the Savior who never seems to come (Lamentations 5:19-22)?  What are we to do when the very ground we walk upon feels cursed and our heart desires nothing more in its despair than to avoid the very thought of this supposedly compassionate deity (Psalm 38:13)?

Today is Good Friday, though the "Good" is surely a sardonic and sour cup to drink.  On this day a beloved friend, a respected teacher, and a mother's son was led to a humiliating and excruciating death to the sarcastic scorn of his own people and the despondent downward glances of those who trusted his words, who believed he would change the status quo, and who loved him, dearly.

What is it like, to watch your hopes and dreams and anticipations hung before you, scourged and bleeding, groaning and gasping for air.  All of us have faced those aching disappointments which tear away at the corners of the soul: the effects of a recession, the doctor's report, the crumbling of a relationship, the words whose sting still pangs, the abysmal chasm of depression which can never be quenched or filled

And death.

Here hung the one they called Lord, the epitome of humiliation, the hope of the better world to come now wallowing in a criminal's crucifixion.  What did his mother think as he called out in a coarse murmur "Woman here is your son" as he nodded his head towards the disciple whom Jesus loved (John 19:26)?  What did the disciples feel at the broken cry of "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" (Mark 15:34)  How heavy was the heart of our Savior who, in the garden the night of his betrayal, who alone without comfort or consolation openly told his disciples "My soul is dolefully heavy, even to the point of death" (Matthew 26:38)?  Yes, even Jesus was grieved.

The problem with words is words bear no weight; they may be saturated with meaning but until we can truly be beckoned into that experience can we truly correlate words with a concept, a thought, or a feeling.  So we rush through the Passion of our Lord, we see it as mere symbolism and move on with our lives and never realize that the same agony which chars our hopes and dreams to ash is the same agony which a mother felt staring at her bleeding son, his friends felt as his anguish, and our Lord and Savior felt before he faced the cross our of his love for us.

Where is God when it all falls apart?  He's beside us, sharing our deepest pains with an empathy that knows all too well what it means to be human, what it means to live in a world ravaged by incompleteness and pain, and what it means to face death.

Sometimes, its all too easy to lose hope in a God who doesn't seem to listen, who seems to be high above us with the ability to change our tormented and crumbling existence but has no desire to become involved, who seems to let the world be with no rhyme or reason while those who pray and petition to him with pleading and wailing only the hear the stark silence hanging.  But hope comes on Easter morning, hope comes in the wounds of his hands, hope comes in the reconciliation of all peoples, the forgiveness of our many trespasses, and the promise of the resurrection and eternal life.  It is the hope of a God who is not impassible, impenetrable, or apathetic, but is one who relates to us, who lived and breathed among us, and suffers along side us.  It is on the cross that God reveals who he truly is; our Savior whose power is strong enough to throw off the yoke of sin from our shoulders, and yet is low enough and near enough and human enough to weep when we are weeping and be downcast when we are downcast.

I do not have answers, all I have are questions.  But I do know this; that even the in the darkest tragedy the light of Christ finds its way through, not in the grandeur of fireworks and beatific divinity, but in the compassion of one who made himself like us in order that we may not suffer our sorry state alone for He has already suffered it for us.

He died for me.  And you.  And that is why Friday is truly Good.

Pray often

A Craving for Bean Dip

 For the Kingdom of God is not food and drink -Romans 14:17

A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill will hold more than his belican,
    He can take in his beak
    Food enough for a week,
But I'm damned if I see how the helican. -Dixon Lanier Merritt "The Pelican"

My fiancee Hana knows me better than I know myself, quite an accomplishment if you know this befuddled and oft twisted Gordian Knot.  With an acute psychological prowess, rivaled only by the most ferocious of shrinks, she makes light work of whatever is going on in my head.  However, her mind reading skill pales greatly compared to her skill to read my stomach.  If it's true a man's heart is his stomach, then she's wowed me quicker than Justin Bieber in a throng of middle school girls.

How I yearn for her Pumpkin Dip with Ginger Snaps, her famous Dirt Pudding, and the world-renowned Smith Family Bean Dip!  (Please give me a second as I wipe away the trickling trail of saliva lingering along the side of my mouth and attempt to subdue the sudden rumbles and grumbles of my stomach.)  It's nights like this that I can't help but think that it's not a coincidence of cheap irony that the Greek word for "stomach" is the same word used for the inner hollows of a ship. 

Yet, even more than my gut quakes for her cooking (and we haven't even gotten to her grilled mushrooms) my heart hungers for her presence.  Tonight I hunger for her delicacies, but every morning, noon, and night I find myself starving for her company, her laugh, and her presence.  No matter how I attempt to allay and subdue the gaping chasm and bottomless emptiness, there is no amount of Tom Waits ballads, pictures, or memories which can fully satisfy this superlative need to be with her.

Einstein once said that "an empty stomach is not a good political adviser."  Esau would certainly agree; an empty stomach was enough to cause him to sell his birthright for a bowl of lentil stew (Gen. 25:29-34).  Such hunger cripples a person; it digs at them subtly yet viciously.  It changes someone, suffocates one's true self and replaces it with a stifled shadow of their true self, drifting like a phantom through the drudgery and monochromatic structures of the daily rat race.

But even in these moments of utter hunger and thirsting for her touch, her voice, and her company, there is hope.  What a comfort to know that this semester brings an end to this distance and this hunger for her.  I find myself counting the days, anticipating the rising eminence, and everyday finding some joy knowing that the homestretch is slowly shrinking.  I cannot wait to be married.  I cannot wait to wake every morning to her voice and fall asleep next to her.  I can't wait to feel like myself again.

I hunger for Hana's Bean Dip and I starve for Hana's presence, but how often do I, or any of us, hunger for the coming Kingdom of God?  How often do I yearn for the day when Christ's compassion and love is extended beyond the cruelty and disdain of humanity?  On that day;

They will neither hunger nor thirst,
   nor will the desert heat or the sun beat down on them.
He who has compassion on them will guide them
   and lead them beside springs of water.  Isaiah 49:10

Yet, we get so comfortable here and have superficially filled this hunger with knick-knacks and inordinate ends which really had no meaningful end to begin with.  We have become complacent; satisfied with Dirt Pudding when what we really needed was the one who concocted and created that pudding with selfless love.  Our hope is in Christ, whose act of the cross has opened the Kingdom up for us, that we too may share in the life which can only flow from him; a living hope from the redemptive power and faithful promise of Christ (I Peter 1:3-9, Hebrew 11:23).  It is only when we leave behind the  our current state and look beyond flashy billboards and the constant blaring din of bombarding noise that we may actually be able to truly realize that what we considered the solution to our hollowed hearts was nothing more than offal fill where the over-abundance of Christ's love and promise was always meant to go.

Until then, may your empty stomachs remind you of the full promises of God.  And then, may you fill them with Bean Dip, one and all!

Meekness

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth

- Matthew 5:4

 Like an ox, his head bent meekly, he waited for the blow of the axe which was raised over him -Leo Tolstoy

 Toil itself was a blessed means for making the men more gentle towards each other; just as horses that work together grow gentle, and will stand quietly side by side 

-Xenophon, Cyropaedia (2.1.29)

Once upon a time, in England during the reign of William the Third of the House of Orange (a solid Dutchman if i do say so myself) a prominent Anglican bishop was in the market for the highest quality banquet chairs money could afford.  The bishop himself, being a man of impeccable taste for the eclat and elegant, was always adorned in impeccable ecclesiastical garb with all the necessary accoutrements with an air of regalia which demanded respect.  

At that time, the best craftsmen in the city were the Quakers, a small group of Christians who were known for their simple lifestyles, quaint manners, and gentile friendliness.  The bishop inquired for a certain Mr. Hobart to come and consider the bishop's request.  The next morning Mr. Hobart's apprentice, John Evans, arrived at the bishop's door as Mr. Hobart was out of town that morning.  The bishop's assistant admitted the young Quaker into the main chamber and, which a hint of disdain in his voice, bowed to the cleric and said "My Lord, the Quaker to see you."  John Evans, without a bow or even a tilt of his wide-brimmed hat smiled and yielded a wide grin;

"Good morning, Friend."

Needless to say, the bishop was caught off guard.  As he showed John Evans his banquet chamber and the old chair he thought to himself, "So, this is one of these Quakers.  I have never spoken with one of them before, but have heard that they never remove their hats, bow to prince or power, and address as all 'Friend'.  Even my own wife addresses me as 'My Lord'  while this young, plesant fellow doesn't even tip his cap."  

After taking measurements and instructions from the bishop, writing a few notes, John Evans provided an estimate.

"When will these chair be completed?"  The bishop asked.

"Friend, I cannot say, but Friend Hobart shall be here on the morrow to provide further details and present thee with a final cost."


"Sounds well" the bishop smiled "I will expect him. Many thanks."  


The next morning Mr. Hobart arrived, terribly nervous to say the least.  He had never had a bishop as a client before.  As he hustled across the cathedral ground he practiced bows and attempted a few shaky greetings for the eminence.  Meanwhile, the bishop was concluding a meeting with an array of priests and government officials, gushing over how delightful his meeting with John Evans, the Quaker, was the prior morning.  "I admire that man" the bishop announced "calling even me, the bishop, 'Friend' without even the slightest of bow.  He was completely impartial and treated me like any other person in England.  Surely he must have felt pressure to do so; surrounded by the cathedral buttresses and lavish surroundings.  Yet, he did not bend his humble demeanor a bit.  Come with me and meet this John Evans' boss with me and see what I am saying for yourselves!"

As he finished the bishop's attendant announced the arrival of Mr. Hobart, who by now was quite clammy, bowing low to the ground before stammering out a "My Lord" as he nearly threw his hat off the top of his head.  

The bishop, enduring the smirks and chuckles of the officials and priests alike, shook his head and tersely stated "please sent your Mr. Evans, I will do further business with him" as he headed to his chambers, embarrassed.  Mr. Hobart, confused and slightly embarrassed himself, slowly headed for the door.  But the bishop, a kind-hearted and understanding man, met him there.


"Mr. Hobart, you are a Quaker.  Be one, and do not be intimidated to be what you are not or compelled to act otherwise."

Meekness surely is not weakness.  On the contrary, it is the will and fortitude to stand firm in the midst of temptation and frustration, influence and affluence, the popular and the powerful.  Indeed, the word for meekness in the New Testament is the same word used to describe the taming of a powerful stallion, the controlling of one's spirited emotions (Plato, Republic, 375c) or even the subduing of a god (Euripides, Bacchae, 436).  Meekness is not passivity, it is not shyness, it is not the usual Michael Cera character.  Rather, it is the volition to silence our desire to be the center of attention, the strength to quench our inordinate yearning to appeal to the minority who control the majority, and the difficult task of stiffing the calls of cut-throat success and power in exchange for genuine compassion and self-sacrifice in the very nature of Jesus Christ.  

I find it so odd that it is the meek who inherit the earth.  That's just it; the meek don't want to inherit the earth.  The meek want to get dirty, to dive headfirst into the world, to carry the burdens of others, but they surely have no desire to own, to inherit.  For the meek, it is never about power, ownership, or authority for that belongs to Christ (Matt. 28:18).  Those who are truly meek like their Lord and Savior are kind enough to love those very different from themselves, empathetic enough the respect those in the darkest places, and tenacious and audacious enough to do so without a single thought to their own right to greatness.  By their strength they make themselves weak, by their outstanding morality they associate with those of outstanding depravity, and by their indomitable voice they remain silent.  


I need to be this. We all do.  How different the church would be if our hearts could be tamed to the will of Christ and our intentions to the well-being not just of our friends, our community, and our church, but the world and those who live in it.  At some point, we must be willing, by faith, put aside our own agendas and initiatives and be willing to submit to Christ, even when it burns.  As Oswald Chamber said "the secret of a disciple's life is devotion to Jesus Christ, and the characteristic of that life is its seeming insignificance and its meekness."  Putting aside our own indignations and reservations, may we not be afraid to call all 'Friend' and respect all in the way of Christ, not for the sake of some feel-good idealism or social reformation, but for the sake of Jesus Christ.


Have a blessed evening, Friend.