to suffer well

The problem of reconciling human suffering with the existence of a God who loves, is only insoluble so long as we attach a trivial meaning to the word ‘love’, and look on things as if man were the center of them.

-C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

♦  ♦  ♦

Job and suffering may well be synonymous the world over, but God defines things differently. His language is of a higher ascent—sometimes allowing the true meaning of things to develop over time. That’s why it’s important to read carefully all forty-two chapters of the book of Job. Its length is perhaps God’s cue to take a closer look at the rendering of a man who knew how to suffer well. 

Since antiquity many have found a measure of comfort when encouraged to compare their heartache to Job’s. A cursory glance at the ordeals he endured uncannily snaps one back into reality and works an ephemeral cure should self-pity ever begin to drip its goo. But the book of Job was intended to say much more than this—God is never long-winded.  

Both feet firmly planted on the ground, Job is well aware early on that his great contest with the devil is not some freakish wind that will soon blow over. But the persistence and severity of the testing takes its toll and drags him, in all his humanity, to the gutter where cursing the day he was born and the swollen mire of bitter complaint wins him nothing but a sympathy parade of friends. His wife probably let them in.  

Skin-scabbed but still amazingly eloquent, Job is finally addressed by God in chapter thirty-eight and told to be quiet and to brace himself like a man. Job beats his breast in earnest, barely able to whisper a prayer. Once put in his place, he is again told in chapter forty to brace himself like a man. God has a way of getting His point across.

Job’s medal of honor shines in that he never once shook his fist at God. His integrity won the day and defined the man. The latter end of Job’s life is a glorious monument to the fact that God takes pleasure in a man who understands something of Divine prerogative, even when Divine prerogative means taking forty-two chapters to say so.

 

Job in despair

-Chagall

 Lithograph, 1960

 

modus operandi

For criminologists to nab a serial suspect, they study his modus operandi—the pattern or method of procedure used as evidenced by their string of crimes. Ultimately, their behavior is what gives them away. Not a pretty subject, but instructive, nonetheless, for understanding people, including ourselves. 

The thing about modi operandi is that everyone has one, criminal or not. Simply put, it is that thing which makes one tick. Most people are oblivious to what makes them tick. They just tick and keep on ticking until they tick no more. Like Esau. His M.O. was all about what was in front of him, literally. He never bothered to concern himself with matters such as blessing or birthright. His god was his stomach. He was all about the food. And that’s what he got. Soup.

But there are those who live for grander, holier purposes. Their entire reason for being courses through everything they do, no matter how mundane. Yes, even diapers. Especially diapers.

By far, the grandest and most holy purpose, or M.O., is to live for the glory of God. The two Moravian missionaries had it right. This was their M.O. from the outset. They had nothing to lose. This world was not their home, let alone the comfort of sitting down to a bowl of lentils. 

   

theology

Dreams and goosebumps do not a theology make.

So many people want to know God, but often their methodology is whacked. To know God on our own terms is to not know Him at all, but to seek Him according to His Word is to find Him. When we acknowledge Him in all His glory and seek His face in prayer, there then exists a possibility for making a good pot of theological stew. 

Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth.

 2 Timothy 2:15

Every Christian is given a mandate to pound out a theology that brings glory and honor to God. What’s curious about the passage above is that it’s surrounded on all sides by admonitions to avoid godless talk and aberrant beliefs. Not a word about buying the latest commentary or theological tome. Only a call to holy living and various exhortations to guard against falsehood.  Aren’t these the ingredients called for when preparing a sound Biblical theology?

Theology—honest, good theology—opens up a plethora of knowledge about God, but study alone will not bring anyone closer to God. Put another way, hours of zoological study will not necessarily make a good zookeeper. A good zookeeper must love animals to ensure proper care. Same principle applies to knowing God. For theology to truly “go somewhere,” faith must be fleshed out in obedience to what He says. Otherwise, those coveted soup bones will remain on the counter and left to rot for lack of a sizeable pot. Nobody eats.

Hopefully, my taste for theology is maturing, but the way I go about things can be noisy. I’m the one usually found banging the side of the pot trying to separate truth from lie. Let me at the good stuff. I’m craving a sample of something lean and on fire. Something that tastes better the more I chew. I need food that sticks to my ribs and can sustain me through the bleakest of winters.

So I’m blowing dust off the lids of some old hymns, reading Psalms and Proverbs and downloading sermons from heavyweights like Whitefield, Edwards, Tozer and Spurgeon. And, yes, I’m grateful for the array of commentaries and reference tools. But one thing I’ve done that has made all the difference: I quit reading the Bible like it’s a daily horoscope. Instead, I regularly take all sixty-six books and imagine them lined up in front of me and I pick one. With yellow highlighter in hand, I begin by trying to learn something of the writer, understand its historical context, and proceed to read carefully—in large chunks at a time. I chew slowly and take a few breaks here and there. Good theological stew takes time to digest.

Then guess what happens? I get up from the table and life smacks me with an ideology that doesn’t match with mine. Or some other conundrum presents itself unsolicited. Where’s my slotted spoon when I need it? I wait to give my systematic theology a chance to kick in. Sometimes I wait days or weeks at a clip. When it comes to getting clarity, timing can be iffy.

Meantime, I pray and ask God to show me what it all means. Without fail, He answers. Makes me feel like a hunter; I feast for weeks and there’s enough for everybody all around. My cooking secret isn’t sensational, but it is deeply satisfying:

A theology that truly glorifies and honors God is best left to simmer a long, long time. Expect it to take years.

                                              

motherlode

I believe that God wants us to long for Him with the longing that will become lovesickness, that will become a wound to our spirits,
to keep us always moving toward Him,
always finding and always seeking, always having and always desiring.

-A.W. Tozer

 

 So that explains where I’ve been the last six months. I took the long way around summer and spent most days walking along the country road near where I live, pained by the strike in my soul – looking at everything through brimming eyes. Empty-handed, I was in search of the One I love.

I had little urge to say anything. The thought of writing was abhorrent to me - all my blurry thoughts seemed unworthy of the One I was longing for. More interested in hearing something instead, I was resigned to let desperation lead on as it had the better of me anyway. I kept walking.

So what did all those sunlit and stone-kicking hours turn up?  Hopefully a higher Vitamin D count. Definitely a renewed sense of vigor. And a profound enlargement.  Something about pulling back from the electronic din in search of quietude that affords the soul  huge rewards. 

But He is what I went searching for and that is what took me so long in coming back. I had found the motherlode. My hands are now full.

 

 

 

signs and symbols

Growing up, my parents’ friends were to me more like figures from a wax museum. Somewhere in my psyche, I thought they would never age, let alone die.  I studied their peculiar laughs and lifestyles from the darkened chamber of my bedroom while they carried on unawares in the adult world of all their empty vices.  As it turned out, most of them did end up making it to my wedding—their social accomplishment and my free token pass into adulthood. What mattered back then. But now, decades later and several states removed, either their outlines have faded  into the shadows or I’ll hear of their death months after they’ve been buried underground. Their biblical significance is fulfilled in the Scriptures:

“All men are like grass…”

But since then, I’ve learned there are some people who jut out from the grass like erected metal sculpture, huge pieces of undeniable art—signs and symbols from the Lord—chosen ones who perform God’s alien task.  They renovate entire landscapes and renew every square inch of fertile ground stepped on just by breathing. This is the hidden place where God makes a reservation to work His wonders, causing men to stop and ponder the deep things of God.

A number of years ago at a church meeting, I happened to meet a burly, middle-aged man—he would’ve passed for a stereotypical corporate raider if he had dollar signs in his eyes, but I saw none. Instead, they rejoiced a buoyant blue, and he walked around as though on parade, quietly celebrating an entirely different success. His wife and children seemed genuinely happy to be following in his train, like eager attendants willing to pick up leftover confetti after a long war. Held together by an unspoken victory, they beamed like proud recipients of a great reward, wearing only gratefulness for their sash.

What I remember most, though, is how thrilled this man was to be in his own skin. When he held out his hand to shake mine, he introduced himself by saying, “Hi, I’m Broken.” Like a dog, my ears immediately perked up and my nose twitched—on the prowl for more of that good stuff I smelled. I didn’t talk with him long, just long enough to note a certain zeal and sweetness about him, the kind that no matter how deep goes the knife, all that comes up is honey. I asked him where he got such an unusual name. He said, “When God broke me.”

Without a single trace of human effort, God seized that day a massive amount of spiritual real estate in the souls of men, namely mine.

We are signs and symbols in Israel from the LORD Almighty,
who dwells on Mount Zion.

Isaiah 8:18

storing oil

 Matthew 25:1-13

 Store up! Store up!

Store up for yourselves treasures that cannot be destroyed.
The days that are coming upon the earth are unprecedented -
days of trouble and turmoil – tremors and horrors -

But My people will shine -
They will have no fear, nor will they have any lack of water or bread.
They will arise through thick clouds of darkness
and sing a song of battle set to the tune of the Bridegoom.
Then a war cry will be heard in the land and many will see and fear
and put their trust in the Lord.

Store up!
Store up!

Store up for yourselves righteousness,
store up for yourselves the oil of My anointing -
for days are coming upon the earth that are unprecedented.

Behold, I am coming soon!

 I received this word on August 16, 2005 while sweeping my kitchen floor, less than two weeks before Hurricane Katrina hit land.  

 

 

  

when fig leaves fall

  Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.

Psalm 17:8

 ♦   ♦   ♦

Some mornings I wake up feeling more revved than others—with all systems go before Darjeeling, albeit it is rare. Today was one of those days. I appreciate the strength; it harnesses me in a way nothing else does, especially with two growing boys to feed and neighbors to love. Now, I need it in a whole new way as I ride this rollercoaster of current events along with the rest of the country.

I admit things have been more itch than scratch lately. Similar to nursing a low-grade fever that keeps me sufficiently weak. I am so narrowly focused; few things concern me anymore. I’m becoming like the elderly who circle talk about the weather, the bad breakfast, and where they may have put their glasses—the three majors that leave little room for minors. Oh, I might stick my head outside to check for rain before going on a walk, but I keep it buried between my knees otherwise. I sip tea at different intervals throughout the day, too.      

I might be alarmed if I thought this was a self-contained experience, but I know it’s not. What defaults to being a bad taste in my mouth is more widespread than that. Red sky, faith and headline news tell me we’re a nation under siege. This time, God is judging with the broad end of the broom.  

No longer code spoken underground among a few, this national sweep has hit the airwaves, getting picked up by brainwaves everywhere. A subclinical post-prosperity anxiety is pervading like Wal-Mart. How do I know? I’m reading the signs. One late night TV mouthpiece recently said, ”Everything is amazing right now, and nobody’s happy.” He got applause for that. I’m glad someone noticed, but who said it’s supposed to be about happy? Isn’t that a bit on the level of Romper Room?  Granted, we may not gaze upon a billion stars at night to actually count them, but I’m afraid we’ve forgotten the One Who has named them. God is patient, but He disowns those who disown Him. Nations included. Time is overdue we pay attention.  

Yes, America is ablaze morally and spiritually—God sets fire to things He wants burned up. Look how we’re being hit with such precision economically. Our pockets are on fire; we smell smoke. Deep down, we’re desperate for answers. We already know it’s going to take more than a massive federal bailout to turn things around. This nation is being brought low, poised for a hard land on her knees. 

Our worst mistake would be to find renewal of our strength. Adam’s error was written in ink, encoded into our DNA. We keep devising a plan to save ourselves. But if we would do our homework, history would show that every fig leaf eventually falls.

And as this one does, only the humble and repentant will have the strength to come out of hiding to stand naked before God. It will be a nation separate and free from shame, clothed in contrition, a mighty and trembling army blessed and sent out to echo Isaiah’s cry:

      You were wearied by all your ways,
       but you would not say, ‘It is hopeless.’
       You found renewal of your strength,
       and so you did not faint.

      ”Whom have you so dreaded and feared
       that you have been false to me,
       and have neither remembered me
       nor pondered this in your hearts?
       Is it not because I have long been silent
       that you do not fear me?

       I will expose your righteousness and your works,
       and they will not benefit you.

      When you cry out for help,
       let your collection of idols save you!
       The wind will carry all of them off,
       a mere breath will blow them away.
       But the man who makes me his refuge
       will inherit the land
       and possess my holy mountain.”

Isaiah 57:10-13

 

There’s No Pill-Wall Street Journal- March 13, 2009

ides of march

 

The fog is finally starting to lift and the chill is almost gone. It’s the reason we decided to get married in April. In our book, March is still the dead of winter.

To marry is a decision that leads to the million and one other decisions you get to make as a couple. Nobody told us it would be a trip to the moon, but we had no idea it would take nearly twenty years to find our stride. 

Having spent our fair share of days standing knock-kneed in the wind, we can vouch that marital know-how is achieved by neither dummies nor the faint of heart. Marriage is an as-you-go lesson in higher learning based on the art form of walking in step together. Every decision, seen and unseen, is for better or worst. Brave souls only may apply.

Some decisions we have had to make on the spot, like when our youngest was rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night. To ride along in the ambulance or follow by car? Others have been more impulse-driven, for grander purposes - as in when we bought our first dining room table and had nowhere to put it but the entryway of our one-bedroom apartment. It served as the honoree of all other hopes. Posterity held sway something fierce back then. But good decisions are the backbone of a solid marriage. The table is now in the kitchen, every nick and stain ours. 

Picasso once said, “It takes a long time to become young.” I say it takes a long time to learn how to love. Wedding bells and a fistful of dreams a marriage does not make. Behind tufts of tulle and cake-smeared smiles stand masked two selfish beings God has joined for the purpose of reflecting His glory. That’s the ultimate high wire act everyone wants to see. How does a couple go about making that happen?

All I know is that it takes time. Better throw away the watch. Time is what allows the “mother”  to collect at the bottom of the wine barrel while everyone except the two of you are at the party next door. You’re both home instead, duking it out, stirring up all that good bacteria making happen things like growth and understanding. Gobs of time and a measure of obscurity are needed for such things. Where every angle and odd-shape can be discussed in full. How else does agreement form? And it takes grace. Can’t forget grace. Without it, we are truly motherless, lacking culture and cure. With it, we’re more than halfway home. We are home free.

Song of Songs says love is as strong as death. I never understood that passage until a friend  told me how when she walked down the wedding aisle, she saw it as more of a death march. A bit older and on her second marriage, I heard her. Not much fog left for her to cut through. Instinct told me she was ahead of the curve; I was never quite the same after that conversation. 

Another reason we didn’t marry in March. The Ides. We knew to beware. Besides, things would bloom come April.

Our best decision to date.

 

pho house

Every country has a national dish, one the people are proud of. It even may not taste very good, but it’s what they identify with and have come to love.

The first time I walked into a pho house, I knew I had entered a land of strange ritual unaware. For one thing, the Vietnamese love their pho. It’s what’s on the menu for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Variations of the broth abound, ranging from mild to spicy-hot, North to South, but the secret is in the onions – they’re charred. Some bowls have nothing more than a lone noodle afloat, others come with a plate of garnishes for a dozen effects. No matter, it’s pho they come for. In a simple storefront I watched them, cafeteria-style, carry their bowls to the table in silence while I sat oddly among the sips and stares. The only American, I was ready to taste what all the fuss was about.

Home schooling is a lot like making pho - at least it is in our house. Every morning, I throw my bones into the pot of boiling water and let them simmer for hours until all the marrow leeches out. I have no idea what the end result will be, I just know I’m giving all I’ve got. Taste tests happen along the way, with exact measures of this and that constantly up for evaluation. The prized first ladling won’t be available for a while. Real flavor takes time.

Meantime, our 8-year old hacks away at nouns and their related pronouns in the kitchen or car – depending, while our 13-year old calculates how long it will take before he finishes the day’s math. He’s got better things to do. Tonight he gets to defend his title at the regional spelling bee one last time; words are all that matter today. Eighth grade looks nothing like seventh. His Doc Martens don’t fit him anymore. Nothing does. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s something I’m doing with the pho. 

Home schooling is a massive test kitchen. It requires faith in the basic recipe and the means for procuring specifics that sometimes take you to exotic places, usually the ones inside your child’s mind. 

Every day is another attempt at perfecting my pho. Time to go char some onions.

 

an honest man

♦   ♦   ♦

Diogenes made his point well when he walked through Athens at noon with lantern in hand looking for an honest man.

The wise have always known it takes more than broad daylight to find a truthful soul. It takes something bigger, more powerful – with arms strong enough to rip the curtains down and grant the world full exposure. What turns a person inside out and get him to stay that way must flex enough muscle to make him cry uncle.

But Holocaust survivors are a country all their own. They tell the truth because the horror of the lie they endured taught them how. The hush of the unthinkable is remembered with certain restraint; they have proper respect for evil. Their stories are often sparse, but no less riveting. Tone of voice tells all. I welcome their stories, not so much for the record of brutality, but for their honesty. It is a gift.  

Alex Kurzem was a young Jewish boy who initially escaped capture from the Nazis by running away from home in the middle of the night. In a recent spot on Sixty Minutes, he recounts the moment in 1941 when he stood on the edge of a hill that overlooked the freshly dug shallow pit where his mother, brother, and sister were taken to join countless other Jews for execution. “If only I had not looked…”

Mr. Kurzem’s eyes brim with testimony as he traces back to his formative years. The extraordinary and torturous events he suffered might raise anyone’s doubts if  they could not have been verified. Even if they were not, why would this now elderly man bite his fist to keep from screaming while visiting his mother’s grave when his only intention was to lay a rose?

His story is more than remarkable. It’s a treasure out of darkness.

His severe losses, including early records of birth and address, gained for him a way of seeing things differently. His attitude carries no taint of bitterness. All that remains is a childlike broken spirit. He recounts how each morning he wakes up and wishes himself a happy birthday. With a twinkle in his eye, he says, “One day I’ll strike it lucky.”

Alex Kurzem’s story is told for the glory of God. His face is the map of honesty, proof of birth for a man come home.

 60 Minutes: Secrets of a Nazi Mascot