Writers In The Storm

I’ve had a few non-encounters recently that I feel compelled to confess. While out shopping, I’ve seen acquaintances that I have avoided. I’m sorry, Lord. Please forgive me.

Two of the people I met and prayed with in bible study. The third I knew from high school. I don’t know what held me back from greeting them. Fear of awkwardness, maybe. I stink at small talk.

Each of the non-encounters left me with a streak of anxiety. I hadn’t seen these people in years. Maybe I wanted to avoid the catching-up or the interruption in my shopping-eating-talking with someone else. Someone with a higher value.

I’ve concluded that the anxiety was spiritual conviction. Partly at acting like a juvenile and partly because I may have missed a chance for blessing. Mine. Hers. I’ll never know on this side.

I know I’ve been a poor witness. I know God would have blessed any choice toward graciousness, in some way. I know now that the encounter offered an opportunity.

God doesn’t need me. He allows me. I don’t know the number of my days, but He does. And I don’t want to miss any more angels He may send my way.

The first time I read the bible in its entirety, I started in the book of John, at my wonderful sister’s suggestion, and kept going until I came around the horn again to John. My background held little bible reading, so the book contained many surprises for me. People got mad at God.

Subsequently I’ve learned that many people are mad at God, for various reasons, but at the time, it was a singular shock for me. I’ve been known to have a temper, so that wasn’t the salient point. But mad at God? The maker of the universe? What hubris? What temerity? What intimacy. And I was jealous.

It took awhile to sort my feelings about this. I encountered the first fist-clenched railing against our Lord with fear and trembling, expecting to read about lightning bolts clattering from the heavens to leave only the burnt remains of the complainer. But God let him rail. He indulged the pain, anger, and disappointment, and He answered.

Why did he bother to answer?

The complainer was one of His own. The two were on a first-name basis, so to speak. That’s when my muddle turned to jealousy. I couldn’t get mad at God, because we weren’t yet intimates. I kept Him outside my personal inner circle. Mind you, my inner circle at that time was more of a dot.

Many walk around angry at God, but they won’t take their anger to Him. They turn from God, because they refuse to leave their pain in His care. He invited us to lay all of our concerns at His feet. We can either trust him with it, or wear it like the chains of Jacob Marley. Honestly, who else wants it?

So I prayed that I might be able to get mad at God. Not that I had a ready list. But it implied an intimacy and that elusive “personal relationship” with God, that I wanted, but never before understood. I could also give Him my fears, my frailties, and my failings, and He would answer me.

So I prayed each day, all day, as things arose. An awkward conversation. An unsure decision. Running late, anxious for an appointment. In every case, He met me to stand in the gap and smooth my soul.

My path had its share of crooked turns, pitfalls, and mismarked trailheads. God led out of my own personal wilderness. I like to think I love much, because I have certainly been forgiven much. How can I get mad at that? But if I do ever find a reason, I know He will allow me an intimate setting in which to state my case. And I will never lose His love.

When we face overwhelming, painful circumstances, we typically don’t see our “Lazarus rise from the grave”-our loved one doesn’t sit up in his coffin and walk away from his own funeral, our illness worsens, and our dreams may shatter into a million tiny pieces. We believe. We ask. But whatever miracle we’re begging from God doesn’t happen. And we find ourselves groping for a God we don’t understand. How do we respond to the disappointments we face when Jesus doesn’t perform as we wish-when He doesn’t rescue us?

Disappointment with God is the place where our journey with Him begins. It’s at this place of resignation where we take the broken pieces of our life and lay them at His feet. Disappointment is where I no longer have expectations of the way my deity should behave, and my dreams are no longer punctuated with “Lord willing” because I’ve already discovered that He hasn’t been willing-at least not now, not my way. This place of broken emptiness is highlighted only by the certainty that God is faithful and God is good-and God defines what that goodness is. This is the place I begin a walk with Him, a walk where He tells me He is enough, and yes, He holds my hand even when my grasp fails.

Jesus invites us to bring our disappointments to Him, just as Jesus welcomed Mary’s disappointment and accusation-”If You had been here, this wouldn’t have happened.” In other words, “Where were You when I needed you?” Sometimes He is silent. (Mary heard no word for four days after Jesus was contacted.) Other times, He gently points out truths along the way. He cares, He is always present, and He’s doing something good. My responsibility is simply to trust Him.

When I’m disappointed with God, it’s usually a tip-off that my heart is clutching an expectation, or I’ve elevated a wish to the position of entitlement-God owes me. I’m continually amazed how graciously God woos my heart to Him when I become discouraged, when I begin to lose heart in my struggles.
Mary got her miracle. Thanks to Jesus, Lazarus walked out of the grave. But I’m convinced that Mary would’ve anointed Jesus’ feet with the most costly perfume even if Lazarus had remained in the grave, because we see evidence of her devotion before Lazarus rose-she fell at Jesus’ feet when He finally showed up. In the midst of her most overwhelming disappointment and in spite of the pain, her faith remained intact.

Mary reminds us-don’t sit in the chair of disappointment long. Move to the place of worship, first in laying the disappointment at His feet, then to sacrificing the most costly possession of our lives to Him-the broken pieces of our hearts. Three times we see Mary at Jesus’ feet: as she listens and delights in Him, then pours out her grief to Him, and later anoints Him with costly perfume as an act of worship, devotion, and sacrifice. Disappointment is a part of our journey with Him, the path that ultimately leads us to worship.

(John 11 and 12).

Go to JaymeDurant.com to see “Disappointment With God, Part 1″ and “Disappointment With God, Part 2″

For those who love the Lord, He promises:   I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten. *  The locusts gnawed their way through many years of my youth, but this promise always struck me as meant for someone else.  Surely this promise was intended to soothe the ones subjugated to evil through the misfortune of miserable parents, extreme poverty, or through some form of victimhood.

And what a beautiful promise.  A someday promise.  Like a voucher for wonders that can be redeemed only later.    It couldn’t apply to the rebellious willing participants of disobedience, self-will, and defiance.  Like me.

But God delights in those who scurry for cover beneath His spreading love.  He greets each of us with comfort, warmth, and grace, because He loved us while we were unlovable.  His protection is security beyond any stonework, tunnel, or mountain of gold.  He loves me.  He loved me while I denied Him.  He waited with patience for me to return to His arms.

And now I understand that the years the locusts ate have already been returned to me.  I live with a simple peace in my heart that, indeed, surpasses all my understanding.  I know a singular joy that rules in my soul. 

Jesus loves me.   Because of that fact, I am fit for a King.

* Joel 2:25

Things to remember the next time I fly:

Weigh my bags at home.

Remove 4.5 pounds from my luggage before I get to the airport.

Don’t pack my undies on top.

Check my carry-on for perfume bottles hidden in the lining.

Okay, I admit this is a blonde thing—never tell the inspectors my luggage is borrowed.

Computer bags leave blisters when I shift the extra 4.5 pounds of essentials from my suitcase to my carry-on—use a backpack.

Eat well before the trip and plan to arrive at my destination a few hours earlier than necessary to allow time to locate my lost luggage when I get off the plane.

If it’s a full flight going home—including small animals and a hockey team—and the Cowboys are playing, take the free ticket/meal/hotel offer to give up my seat and stay overnight, especially if my kids have homework due the next day.

Disregard the previous item on this list if my luggage is over the weight limit—no free ticket/meal/hotel is worth going through the check-in process again.

When I have a middle seat, grab at least one armrest before the guys next to me are seated.

Ask the flight attendant for another seat the minute the man next to me claims to be a martial arts instructor specializing in taking full-force kicks to the groin.

No matter how many books I remove from my suitcase, it will always be 4.5 pounds over the maximum allowed weight, so go ahead and pay for overweight bags when I reserve my ticket.

The Roman Centurion, of New Testament fame, surprised everyone with his faith.  His culture encouraged obeisance to multiple gods.  Nothing in his experience as a Roman citizen, military leader, or occupier of Capernaum suggested that he might humble himself to request the healing services of a sandal-footed Nazarene.  A Jew.

Another knew Jesus from the womb.  His birth foretold in the book of Isaiah, John the Baptist cried out a message of repentance in the wilderness.  He lived in preparation for the One who was to come and save.  The Messiah.

John baptized his followers in the Jordan with water.  He spoke of a day when another would come to baptize with the Spirit.  There, in the middle of the river, among his followers, with the heavens opening and the voice of God proclaiming love for his Son, Jesus, John had absolute clarity of purpose.

But the heavens eventually closed, the reverberation of God’s voice faded from his ears, and Herod, tired of his haranguing rebuke, arrested John.  He lay in a dark cell somewhere in the palace, contemplating the severity of his situation.  He heard news of Jesus’ ministry.  He bid his friends to go to Jesus and ask Him, “Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?” *

Born to make straight the way for our Savior, yet in his bleak hours, John doubted.  Wasn’t someone supposed to rescue him?    Was he right back in the desert, that God had anointed Jesus?  Didn’t these prison chains belong on Herod?

I know God has a special plan for me, but with the earthly measure I take, it will never compare to John’s.  And I doubt.  Not fundamentally, but in situations, in moments, in shadows, the fear I lived with before I came to understand, stalks briefly through my veins. 

I thank God for His inclusion of this particular testimony.  Even John the Baptist sometimes felt utterly, wearily, hopelessly, human. So it’s not just me, and I’m in excellent company.

* Matthew 11:3

I drew a picture of my father once, a three-quarter profile, and it looked remarkably like Ernest Borgnine.  I might have been disappointed had my father not resembled Ernie to begin with, though more handsome.  About the same age, both were second gen Italians, former boxers, and served in the U.S. Navy.  The real navy, not just on the PT 73. 

I watched McHale’s navy as a kid.  Whenever I must admit to watching something lame during that era, which McHale’s navy was not, my husband is kind enough to remind we only had three channels.  That explains my knowledge of Flipper.

Ernie’s always held a special place in my heart, as much as any celebrity can.  In Franco Zeffirelli’s production of Jesus of Nazareth, Ernie played one of my personal bible heroes.  The Roman Centurion. 

Our pastor talked about him this week, the centurion, not Ernie.  Catholics feel his echo through the ages.  One of the rituals in a Catholic mass, after communion, is to say, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word, and I shall be healed.”  It’s not a direct quote from the bible, as the Centurion wanted healing for his servant, but an echo all the same.

Growing up, I loved that part of the mass.  It rather said it all, in my opinion.  The Roman Centurion was an educated, well-connected, battle hardened soldier. 

In the bible, he told Jesus, “I am not worthy that you should come to my house. But only say the word, and my servant will be healed.”  For someone in the position of a Roman Centurion to humble himself publically before Jesus, bespoke a spiritual understanding of Jesus’ true nature.  It also revealed a tenderness for another human being.

Christ declared, “I have not found anyone in Israel with such great faith.”

The Pharisees undoubtedly made another note in His file.

And I can’t imagine a Roman Centurion without picturing Ernest Borgnine in costume.  Inspired casting. But the simple testament he made, as the dreaded enemy of Israel, is still with me. 

Years later, when I needed to reconnect with my God, I stated something similar in my heart.  All is right between me and my God. 

I said it.  I believed it.  I knew that He would make it so.