Writers In The Storm

And now these three remain:  faith, hope, and love

But the greatest of these is love.

Why? 

Faith

Faith, in Jesus Christ, brought me to a saving knowledge of Him.  I understand what He did for me on the cross.  He died for me.  I should have been up there on the cross.  No evil will go unrewarded.  I escaped an eternity in damnation because He took my place.  My sins covered, forever, by His payment, on my behalf.  What could be greater?

Hope

I now live through this life with hope.  I know there are volumes beyond what we do here.  There isn’t a body on this earth that can’t enjoy the same hope that is in me.  No matter what sin has gone by.  Many people with a history of hateful sins came to Christ, and He made them white as snow.  Jacob. David. Mary Magdelene. Paul.  He counts these among His own.  He has promised me a place in His kingdom, forever and ever.  I don’t fully understand what that means, but I have Faith, and Hope.  What more could there be?

Love

He loves me.  He sent the Holy Spirit to indwell in me as a guide until He comes to claim me.  He expects me to love others in kind.  A task impossible without His love to pass through me.  When I fall back on unholy ways, when I forget to whom I have given my soul, when I am less than He made me to be, I still have His Love.  Unequivocal, Irrevocable, Undeserved. 

Faith, Hope, Love

And the greatest of these is, indeed, Love.

Amen.

I know many perfect people. Lovely, engaging, talented, smart. I can look upon any one of them and think  Why not me? That single question, and apparently the love of money, is the root of evil. It breeds envy.

I look at others, across the aisles at church, and wonder what I’m doing wrong. I barely remembered to comb my hair, and that one, over there, she’s cleaned, pressed, and singing sweet in to God’s own ear. At least that’s what I see.

Then there’s the one next to her. I can be praying one minute and wondering did-she-look-in-the-mirror-before-leaving-the-house the next. I know the sweet singer would never think anything catty like that. It’s just me.

But I know better. Love does not envy. It does not envy because love requires an acknowledgment of the other person. Of the burden, the uniqueness, and the frailty. Love acknowledges than in some manner or t’other, we all struggle.

I love being around loving Christians. When they are working on His wavelength, there’s no kinder more loving bunch alive. The paradox is that it can be a tough place to share an untriumphant testimony.

I remember being in a bible study that encouraged “group grope”, as I call it, the unbearing of our burdens with strangers. I had a particularly difficult situation at the time, but could not bring myself to ask these lovely people to help me pray about it. Perhaps it was pride. But the next week or so, a dear old friend called, and I shared the problem without any hesitation. What was the difference?

I knew she loved me. Whatever I told her, she would pain with me. She would triumph with me. She would earnestly pray with me. Envy keeps its distant. It objectifies the recipient in a way that denies humanity. It presumes to refute the struggle.

I remember a time when I had set an important goal, strove for it, and wrestled it to submission. It felt great. A lady I worked with at the time inquired about my accomplishment, and I recounted some of the steps I took to achieve it. She dismissed my concerted effort with her comment – Oh, you’re so lucky.

I wasn’t looking for praise from her. I thought she was interested in working toward that same goal. I had hoped to come alongside and participate in her achievement. But she didn’t want any level of intimacy. She wanted distance. She didn’t want my love.

Love comes with responsibilities. To honor, to cherish, to keep secrets, to praise and rebuke, to encourage only the best.

Envy can sit back and judge. It makes snide comments and ridicules. Envy points and laughs when I stumble.

Love, however, tells me when I have spinach in my teeth. Love allows me to take the next open stall. Love holds me to the standards that I profess. Love weeps with me and sings louder when I sing off-key.

I used to believe that perfection was an attainable goal. Theoretically possible, anyway. I thought I could draw a line in the spiritual sand, step across, and “sin no more”. Jesus commanded it. Why couldn’t I do it?

Even after I assumed the title, “born again”, I felt that now, finally, I should be able to live a sin-free life. 1 Corinthians 13:10 reads, “when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears.” If the Holy Spirit indwelled, then I shouldn’t be capable of sin.

As my friend, Bugs, would say, “What a maroon.”

I finally get it. God is the only source of perfection. When he returns to collect me, then, and only then, is my imperfection finally laid aside. My flesh can never fully overcome its nature.

God, through his Word and deed, has cleaned me up considerably. I’m darn near presentable. But never perfect. Not in this world.

I remember the old bumper sticker, “Not Perfect, Just Forgiven”. It held a gentle note humility that acknowledged our origin. I liked that one. Whereas the enigmatic, “I Found It”, sticker only confused and elicited the defensive one-upper, “I Never Lost It”, in response. One step forward. Two back. But my relationship with Christ can’t be summed up on a bumper sticker. I’m grateful He took me as I was. He didn’t wait for me to get-my-head-right before He claimed me as His own. Warts and all.

Over the years I’ve sought His counsel, through the bible, through prayer, through the wisdom of those He’s chosen to come-along-side me. To that end, He’s nudged me a little this way. Kept me from going down that-a-way. And always  always kept His loving eye on my little roving head.

I’m not the same. I’m new and hopefully improved. I do have that inner peace that surpasses all my understanding. Though that won’t always keep me from screaming like a howler monkey. But I don’t do it as often, because I’ve asked for help on that one.

I’m still human.

For the next while, we’re going examine 1 Corinthians 13.

Please go to the Blue Letter Bible for the full text.

Love may be patient. But I’m not. When I want it, or want it to go away. Now is always the best time.

I envision myself as the kite tail, with God as the kite. It often seems like a lot of blowing in the wind, aimless, constant buffeting against unseen forces. I can untie my little knot and be on my own merry way any time I please, but then I would lose contact with my kite.

Much of the joy, in being the tail, is that God is leading. I get to hang back, enjoy the ride, and bask in His glory. When God makes himself known to you, in a way that is undeniable, there is simply nothing better. These mountaintop experiences with God carry us through the valleys.

But He doesn’t want us staying on the Mountain, not when He’s moved on. Thus my kite tail, sails on as well, firmly attached to the One.

Sometimes, we can’t see anything in the thick of the storm clouds, not even the kite to which we’re bound. We wonder: Is He even up there? Is He really leading? Does He remember me at all?

Don’t ever pray for patience. The only way to learn it is by waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

The sweet times — moments with God — will come again. That would be the faith part. The clouds move on and there you are, still with God.

The waiting always has a purpose. I can look back and know the size of every cloud behind me. But God wants to see if I will enter it with him, or alone. Stay with him, or leave, midway.

He wants to teach me something while I wait on Him. To rest.

Wait and rest.

Firmly. Fully. On Him.

Somewhere past Toad Suck Park and Pickle Gap, a cabin nestles in the foothills of the Ozarks–the cabin I called home last week. I spent the Fourth of July in an Arkansas cabin outside of Mountain View, home to hillbilly humor and watermelon seed spittin’ contests. I witnessed both. My favorite part of the trip wasn’t the mandolins and the fiddles or the craft shows and cloggin’. Even fireworks with a mountain backdrop couldn’t compete with my most memorable moments–the time spent in the rocking chair on the cabin’s front porch.

One evening as I sipped tea on the porch a storm rolled over the mountains. Thunder and lightning punctuated the drama, followed by gentle raindrops. I closed my eyes and listened to the rain move over the mountains, then across the valley, and finally over our cabin. Then the storm churned again, over and over that night. More thunder, more lightning, more drizzle. A majestic midnight.

The next morning I cradled another cup of tea and watched the rain diminish, the mist rise, and the mountains clear before me as more rain announced its arrival. The drama continued, but the splendor wasn’t in thunder and lightning, it was in the quiet drizzle and the majesty of the mist rising on the mountains.

I was a privileged witness.

I felt like a child eavesdropping on a whispered conversation between adults. But this storm, these raindrops, this mist rising in the mountains–this was a secret place reserved for God alone. God spoke in the storm, and He whispered in the gentle drizzle. And He beckoned me, even welcomed me, in those sacred moments.

“God sometimes does His work with gentle drizzle….” (John, the monk, in the movie Amazing Grace).

I’m not good at “being there”. When my loved ones are hurting I hurt too. And I pray. My wonderful sister always says, “It’s not the least you can do, but the most you can do.”

But like your kid with a skinned knee, you want to do something. You want to kiss the owie and make it better. My kid’s nearly twelve, and he barely let me kiss his owies at three. What can you do for another grown-up?

I’m a clown. It’s a role we value in my family. We have many. But it’s one thing I can offer in a time of pain, a little comic relief. Of course, I am an acquired taste. My son has inherited that gift. When we were at my father’s funeral he was eight. My mother passed on when he was nearing three, so he didn’t remember the event. But at eight, he was aware of everything.

He held my hand during the church service, handed me hankies, and generally took care of me. All the big people around him were crying. I left the church service in tears.

As we hit the foyer, he whispers to me, “Do you want to hear a joke.”

It was a most inappropriate time to tell a joke, yet his timing was absurdly perfect.

“Well, sure.”

“Where do fish go to get married?”

“I don’t know. Where?”

“To the Salmontery.”

My reaction was an even mix of hysterical laughter and tears.

“Was it good?”

“No. It was terrible.” I hugged him. “But I love you for telling it.”

Later, he realized that a cemetery is where people are buried. He changed the joke line to “Where do fish get buried?” and tried it out on the rest of my clan.

He’s my son. I’m sure he’ll finish the rest of the act. There’s too much hurt out there.

God bless the clowns of the world. We won’t run countries. But, we hope to make them a tad friendlier.