I put on
black yesterday and climbed the stairs of my church to honor my friend Susan
Fitts. Susan loved Jesus, she taught the Word of God with care and conviction,
and she interceded for countless others daily. She helped found our church. I
grieve for Susan’s family and for our church body, and for the huge hole
unveiled in her absence.
Today, my
mom put on black and stood with her friend Cheryl while they mourned her
husband Ray Ivey. Ray was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer about a year ago,
and my dad wrote Ray a letter every week during his battle. Dad reminded Ray of the Truth and the Way,
and he offered up encouragement and no doubt humor for the journey. My dad’s
last letter to Ray arrived right on time, a few days after Dad died.
I wandered
around my dad’s office that first day after he passed away, trying to figure
out his latest thoughts, trying to catch a scent of him or find some piece of
what his hand touched last, desperately trying to feel closer to him. I found a
piece of scribbley yellow legal paper with Ray’s name on it. It was the next
installment of his written legacy to Ray Ivey.
Spelled out in his awful penmanship was the life-giving, uncorrupted,
eternal Word of God. Not a letter of it will pass away. I know my dad never
guessed he would beat Ray to heaven or that his big country grin would be part
of the glad entourage waiting to greet his old friend.
Ray and
Susan entered into Paradise, alive indeed, away from their decayed and sick
bodies.
Still, there
is brokenness all around me. Sadness and loss are woven into each story as every
joy ultimately ends in tragedy here on earth. Along with the most radiant
wedding ceremony or birth of a child comes the looming fact that one will likely
suffer the death of their beloved. The one left behind will mourn and grieve
and have to learn life all over. I look
to my left and a beautiful high school girl in my town is killed in a car
accident. I look to my right and a senseless act of violence has left my friend’s
husband teaching his brain how to work again. No one escapes.
I know what you are thinking—this girl needs
medication. And while I probably do, stay with me on this one.
John Piper
reminded me this week that NONE of it is meaningless. For those who trust in Christ, every tragedy
will end in JOY. And every minute or gigantic piece of suffering in Christ’s
name is producing for us an eternal weight of glory.
But for now we are stuck somewhere muddling in
the mush pot, between the tragedy that has happened and the looming joy that
will someday come. And in this middle ground, our hearts join with ALL of
creation and GROAN for Jesus to come back and make all things right and new. We
long for that distant memory of Eden, where we commune with God and there is no
sin or suffering or death, and we plead with Him for that day to come again.
I look back at my life, the first 34 years,
and see how blessed, how very charmed my life has always been. How whole and
un-broken, by comparison to what it is now. I have friends who grew up in
broken homes, wrecked families, who are well-acquainted with the effects of the
fall.
I, on the
other hand, danced through my childhood and adolescence with joy and with
anticipation for more of life to find me. This is largely because I lived each
day knowing how very loved and treasured I was by both of my parents, a total
gift. But there is no perpetual summer, no eternal daylight. Eventually, times
of sorrow and death pervade every life. The question becomes what will we do
with it?
Get
this: Jesus said,
“ ‘The stone
which the builders rejected,
This became the chief corner stone’ (Jesus is talking about Himself here)
This became the chief corner stone’ (Jesus is talking about Himself here)
18 Everyone who falls on that stone
will be broken to pieces; but on whomever it falls, it will scatter him like
dust.” (Or “will be crushed” in the NIV)
Luke 20:17-18
There are only two categories Jesus
mentions here. Jesus drew a distinction between those who fall on the
stone and those on whom the stone falls (specifically addressing the Pharisees
here). Those of us who fall on
Christ, who trust Him, we are broken to pieces. Those on whom the stone falls, those who reject Christ, are scattered
like dust, or as the NIV states, “will be crushed.”
There is no third category, no room for
us to skip merrily around the stone singing “The Hills are Alive” or to sit on
the stone and draw sunshines and smiley faces with sidewalk chalk. There are
those who are broken and there are those who are crushed and scattered like
dust. Period.
If we have trusted Christ, we know that
we can never be crushed or completely destroyed. “But we have
this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from
God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in
despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.” 1 Corinthians 4:7-9
So we are not crushed, but the other
option is to fall on Christ, the Cornerstone.
We fall on Christ, and get--- what?
Broken.
Into. A million. Little. Tiny. Pieces. This is how I feel. And this is what God promises for those
who fall on this stone, Jesus. I feel like I can’t move, can’t breathe
sometimes. I definitely feel like I can’t do laundry or dishes or clean
toilets. Or change dirty diapers.
God has thoroughly, swiftly, and completely broken me.
Why is this surprising? This was the very
way of Jesus, His own body broken for us. And when we take and eat the
Lord’s Supper, we partake with Him of both the suffering AND the redemption. We
don’t get one without the other. We partake in His suffering SO THAT we will partake
in His glory. Everyone who would proclaim His Gospel drinks the same cup. Death
and life. Suffering and glory. Emptiness
and fullness. Sorrow and joy. Brokenness and wholeness, together.
Remember that line of the song “To
become like You in Your death, my Lord, and to know You in Your suffering?”
There is no deeper way to know Jesus than in suffering and brokenness. I don’t
think we truly know anyone until we walk through suffering together. I didn’t
really know the depths of Marcus’ heart until last year when we knelt together
on the beige carpet in our bedroom with buried faces, crying out and begging
God to spare Marcus’ life from the cancerous mass in his lung. We were
heartbroken, afraid, and in shock, yet completely united in our suffering in a
way we never had been before.
It is the same way now with my mom and
brother, and Marcus and my sister-in-law, Melanie. We have always loved one
another as a family, but the bond is so much deeper now, as we are walking
through loss and suffering together. We have never loved each other so well. And
I know I have never felt so spiritually alive even though a part of me feels so
totally dead.
Tonight I
carved a pumpkin with my kids. I had this whole super spiritual lesson all
lined up. It was going to be straight awesome, something they would look back
on with warmth and joy and do with their children someday. I was going to talk
about how carving a pumpkin is much like what Jesus does for us. He takes all the yucky stuff out of us. He
gives us new eyes to see and new ears to hear, a mouth to tell others about
Him, and we are to be a fragrant aroma- I know this is a stretch, but it’s a nose,
OK? So then, we cut holes for eyes,
nose, mouth, and… ears?? We actually ended up drawing ears on (complete with earrings)
with a Sharpie. Classic.
I thought I
was going to see their little eyes illumine with understanding. I thought their
hearts would leap with new found love for one another and for God. I thought
they would shout out in unison, “I want Jesus to change me like our pumpkin!!”
Instead, I had crying at the sight of the “goopy
stuff,” cartwheels, fighting over the shapes of the eyes and nose (I am not
joking), cartwheels and back walkovers, the baby running around with permanent
markers writing on EVERYTHING, more cartwheels, knife-wielding (no names),
crying, and still more cartwheels. I eventually ordered everyone away so I could
carve my pumpkin in peace. I then passive-aggressively poked holes and virtually
tortured my pumpkin (and myself in the process)… all to put a light inside for
others to see (and for it to look cute on my porch, let’s be honest). Clearly, not
the way I pictured it.
Through the
holes, through the ripped out guts, through the pumpkin completely emptied of
its pumpkin-ness, there is a blaze of light. It had to be broken and empty and
carved just right-complete with Sharpie earrings-to become beautiful, to be a
vessel, to be something other than just a pumpkin.
We have this treasure, the very glory of Almighty
God in our jar of clay, our body. And when does the light inside the jar shine
most brilliantly? When the jar is, well…broken. When things don’t go quite as
planned and we are disappointed. When we are sorrowful and sick and we have
come to the end of ourselves. When our hearts are carved up. When enough of
what we have is removed to make room for the One who is our portion, our All in
All.
So what am I
supposed to do? I am acutely aware of the fact that I am broken. Then what? How
can I allow Him to use my empty brokenness and make me a vessel? What should be
my response to Him breaking me?
The sacrifice of praise.
The very
word “sacrifice” implies that it costs us something. Praising the Lord, in
fact, thanking Him, when trying times
come is a true act of worship. We will praise God in heaven, certainly. But in Paradise, there is no sadness and
nothing is broken. Praising Him will flow naturally from His presence and glory
when we see His face. Then, we will have no reason NOT to praise Him.
However, we
will never, ever again have the same
chance to praise the Lord through pain and suffering NOW as we do here on earth,
before our faith is sight, when everything tells us NOT to praise Him.
When with
crooked hands and tear-stained cheeks we lift our heavy, broken hearts, we offer
a sacrifice of praise. To bless His
name when we are sick, when someone we love dies, when a child is delayed,
when a marriage is broken…when we are seeing dimly and not face to face, when
it costs us everything, this is the sacrifice of true praise. And a tiny flame
is ignited in our hearts.
We are
basically saying, not because I have but because YOU ARE, I will praise You. No matter if my circumstances don’t feel good, You are always good and
worthy to be praised. And the tiny flame grows ever so slightly.
My friend Jenny
Lynn reminded me that when we command
ourselves in intense suffering to “Bless the Lord, O my soul” just as David
did, the comforting power of the Holy Spirit is unleashed in us. God’s peace
blazes in the darkness of affliction when we turn from looking inward to gazing
upward. Pain to Praise. Worn out to Worship. Broken to Blessing. And the
flame shines brighter.
So while I
am in the mush pot, the middle, between the disaster and the Day…
Help me,
Lord Jesus, to offer you the sacrifice of a busted up, decimated, desperate
hallelujah. And would You shine ever so brightly? Take out all the goopy stuff
and give me new eyes to focus not on what is seen but on what is unseen. Carve
me up. Give me a new heart just like Yours, that does not love based on gifts
or deeds…but loves and worships just because of who You are and what is to
come. I can offer You nothing that will make You love me more. And I want to
get where the depth of my affections never waver based on what You give or what
You take.
The Great I AM…worthy, worthy, worthy…
And please, come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Totally worth the listen- Click here for "Though You Slay Me" Shane and Shane (featuring John Piper)
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves
those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:17-19
“My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken
and contrite heart you, God, will not despise.”
Psalm 51:16-18
“The Spirit
of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to proclaim
good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to
proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners.”
Isaiah 61:1-3
