Christi Iscariot

Imagine what it meant to Jesus to be betrayed with a kiss. . . .imagine the stench of hypocrisy that assailed His senses as Judas met him with the greeting of a friend when they both knew differently. Jesus had railed against hypocrisy with a special vehemence throughout His entire ministry. How is it that someone so intimately connected with Him could be utterly unaffected by what he had seen and heard? What did that feel like for Jesus? Was He angry?

Imagine what it was like for Jesus to hear Judas pretending to care about the poor as he continued to pilfer the group's funds for his own interests. And in spite of it, for Jesus to continue pouring Himself out for Judas' sake, His investment of time and energy undiminished by Judas' lack of progress. Was He frustrated? Did He ever feel like He was wasting His time?

Imagine what thoughts ran through Jesus' brain as He tenderly washed the dust and grime from Judas' feet, full of the knowledge that Judas was looking for a chance even then to slip out the door and betray Him. Did He wonder why He hadn't been able to win Judas' heart?

Imagine the anguish, on the cross, as Jesus felt the weight of Judas' cowardly, selfish sin fall on His own head and knew that His own Father could not bear the sight of Him because of it. Did He ever dare to hope that Judas might finally love Him, once He had paid for His sin and made for him a way back home?

Has He ever felt any of those things about me?

The Answer

I intentionally don't take an active interest in politics. It's not because I don't care. It's not because I'm naive and think it doesn't affect me or because I find it boring. It's none of those things. I don't invest myself in things political because it seems abundantly clear to me that those things are so very NOT the answer. Neither side, neither party.

However it is that Christianity came to be so closely identified with a particular political party is well beyond me. When did it get that small? George Bush didn't ruin our country and Barack Obama is not ruining it either. And there is not a man or woman in either party who is the answer.

I have plenty of opinions. I have my own ideas about what's right and best and fair. I have opinions about taxation and healthcare. But I know without question that more or less taxes is not the answer. Healthcare--whether we have it or don't--is not the answer either.

I have some really passionate feelings about immigration and how highly I regard a man who builds a raft and then sets sail on it across an ocean, steeled with hope. Who can denigrate that and why would they want to? Who deserves to live here anyway? And who is it that feels so comfortable making that judgment? But resolving the immigration issue is not the answer.

I believe the prerogative we have to take a baby's life before she's born is tragic and heartbreaking and wrong and I think our country will reap the consequences of its decisions--how many brilliant, talented people that would have changed the face of our nation forever have not had the privilege of birth? How different our future will be from what it could have been! But putting an end to abortion forever is not the answer.

Capitalism is not the answer. Democracy is not the answer. Prayer in school is not the answer.

Jesus is the Answer.

Only Him. Every time.

How ridiculous it is to me to attach any great importance to what bill our Congress does or does not pass, when it cannot possibly be the answer to anything at all.

Apart from Jesus, everything will fail. Apart from Jesus' plan of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you, everything will corrupt. Jesus is the Answer. He is Life. Without Him, everything will rot and spoil and die.

I see people that I love putting hope in things that might be meaningful, but still, they are not the answer. They are systems and methods of coping with our fallen-ness, not answers. Some methods are more successful than others, but coping is not the answer. The answer is the only One who can save us out of our fallen-ness and eternally redeem our lives.

I really don't have it in me to spend a lot of time or energy discussing politics, whether or not I agree with the conversation. It is just so NOT the answer.

7

She is seven.

Large brown eyes. Unexpected freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She was six when she learned to ride a bike. She was five when she lost her first tooth. She was four when she asked to be baptized.

Shaggy brown hair falling into her face. Dirty toes from a barefoot life.

She was three when she first dressed up for Halloween. She was two when we celebrated in Costa Rica. She was one when we moved.

Now she is seven. Seven and beautiful and more than my heart can hold.

I don't know why I feel so sad.

The "S" Bomb

At the end of the book of Genesis, Joseph drops a bomb. Really. He tells his brothers that what they had meant for evil, God had meant for good. It's the most jawdropping description of God's sovereignty that I have ever heard.

He doesn't condone what they did and say that "it was meant to be" or that "everything happens for a reason". He gives the reason: "you meant evil against me". What his brothers did sucked and he didn't make excuses for them or paint them as pawns in the hand of a God who was hell-bent on getting his own way.

Joseph is telling his brothers that God's omnipotence is so unequivocally complete that His good and pleasing and perfect will is accomplished in our lives--in all lives--without any compromise of our free will. We--with our smallish, finite minds, trapped in time and space and unable to comprehend things which do not begin nor end--have missed the boat that Joseph was on. We understand only that if a thing turns out the way it is planned, it is because something compelled it to be so. The only way we know to determine the outcome is to play with a stacked deck. And so we ascribe to our Creator the same brand of tyrannical power we find in a dictator--power derived from dominance and coercion. Or we cheapen His authority by labeling it simply "foreknowledge" as if He were looking in His infallible crystal ball without being involved.

His purposes, which are fixed and have been fixed since the dawn of time, stand and stand and stand and continue to stand. They stand and they will not be moved and man is free. He is free and his choices are real and his will is his own. And yet the purpose of God will stand. And we cannot comprehend a dimension in which these two true things can exist simultaneously. But they do. And He is.

Joseph got it. And so he dropped a bomb on his brothers that hopefully sent them spinning. Hopefully. Hopefully they got a sense of the Staggering Goodness that was thick enough and broad enough and wide enough to swallow their evil intentions whole and blaze all the brighter.

My Redeemer lives.

Wrinkles Are Not the Boss of Me

We recently had a birthday in our family and the birthday boy was unhappy. It seemed only to symbolize the approach of old age and his diminishing time left on the planet. Which is true, of course, but why is that so necessarily bad?

Myself, I feel at peace. I am in no rush. I don't want things to move any faster than they already are. But my past anxiety about aging, which was primarily wrapped up in vanity, seems to be vanishing in the face of what I view to be a much more exciting possibility. The possibility of finding out what I'm really made of. After all, it will be my chance to put my money where my mouth is. Time for the rubber to meet the road. All this time I have been convinced that I was a person of substance, of depth. At least, we hope for such things. We hope that our condemnation of things that are superficial will not end up including ourselves.

So, when I realize that I'm not that pretty anymore and my taste in clothes doesn't resemble anything remotely fashionable and my blood is not fresh and my generation is not up or coming to anywhere but the funeral home--then I will see whether I really had any depth after all, or if I was just a shallow girl in an intellectual's clothing. And if what I discover is disappointing, at least I will have the chance to change teams, if not out of the strength of my character, at least out of necessity.

It's going to be great.

Smells Like Foreknowledge

Once I saw this movie which had a great twist ending that I couldn't have predicted, and the movie was so good that I convinced a friend to see it, and I sat with her as she watched it all for the very first time, on the edge of her seat as I had been. As it came to a close, it was plain that she could barely stand the suspense and to ease her anxiety, I said, "Don't worry--he doesn't leave."

She turned to me, surprised and perplexed, and asked, "How do you know that?"

"Because I've already seen it."

"You're going to prevent him from leaving?"

"Of course not. I just know that he doesn't leave because I've already seen it."

"But if you know what's going to happen, that must mean you're making it happen."

"What are you talking about? How could I possibly make it happen? It's a movie! I watched it before you got here. I've ALREADY SEEN IT. I'm not making anything happen!"

"It's not fair! How can they be responsible for anything they've done when you already knew what was going to happen before it started?"

"Are you insane? Why can't you understand that I only know because I've already SEEN it???"


That's a ridiculous conversation. And a fictional one. Why would I ruin a movie for a friend? And why would I have a friend that was so unclear about the difference between reality and fantasy?

But sometimes I wonder if that is how God feels when He hears us debating the "fairness" of Him knowing the end of the story before it gets here for us. The "fairness" of His announcement--before they were born--that the firstborn son would serve the second. We question our free will and we question the validity of our own choices and maybe He's just saying, "What can you mean? I've already seen it."

Dear Diary

The following is an excerpt from the journal of Isaac, son of Abraham:

My life will never be the same.

I've just returned from a trip with my father. It was one Isaac that helped to ready the servants and the donkey and help with the cutting of the wood before we set out; it is a different Isaac that has returned home.

I knew the trip was odd. It was very sudden and my father had given no hint of it in the days prior. On the other hand, it didn't seem impulsive on his part. The servants were mystified and whispered among themselves as they made preparations. My father took no notice; he was distracted and seemed consumed with troublesome thoughts of his own.

We left early in the morning and, despite the unusual circumstances, I was not concerned until I saw my mother run from her tent and approach my father with large, questioning eyes. Whatever he said to her, she was not satisfied, and the uncertainty in her face as we walked away left me feeling strangely unsettled.

The journey was uneventful enough for the first two days. There was little conversation; my father was pensive and quiet and the servants followed his lead. But on the third day, my father seemed to spy something in the distance that was familiar to him and he commanded the servants to wait for us there with the donkey while he and I went on ahead. He said that we would return to them after we worshiped. It was a strange parting. The servants seemed perplexed, as was I, and my father was unusually tender with them as he gave his instructions. An expression of agony momentarily passed over his face as he lifted the bundle of wood to my back. For the first time, I started to feel like maybe the trip was not my father's idea.

I had many questions I'd planned to ask my father once we were out of earshot of the servants, but as we walked alone, the silence was more forbidding than I'd anticipated. The nearer we came to the mountain looming ahead of us, the more agitated my father's face became, and I started to become nervous.

I was finally able to summon sufficient courage to find my voice. I called out to my father and he responded. I asked him where was the lamb for the burnt offering? I first thought he had not heard me because he took so long to reply. But as I stood, he turned to face me with such an anguished and deliberate slowness that it frightened me. A full range of inexplicable emotions seemed to pass over his face until his eyes at last locked straight on mine. In that instant, I realized that he was not exercising his own will, but was instead submitting himself to the will of another. His eyes were full of tears and love as he answered in the gentlest of voices, "God Himself will provide the lamb for the offering," and his eyes shone fiercely as he finished the sentence with, "my son."

We reached the designated place--a place known only to my father--and he began to build an altar. At first, I watched. I watched as he became winded and tired from his labor. His body is old. He is old enough to be my great-grandfather. I know well the story of my unusual birth in my parents' old age, after decades of my mother's closed womb. I have heard it told and re-told with much joy and laughter and praise given to the One True God, whom my father serves. I felt certain that whatever was happening right then--whatever momentous occasion had brought my father and myself three days walk from home--had to do with this One True God. I love my father and my father loves Him. I began to help him build the altar.

When he started to bind my wrists, it was as if I were in a dream. The whole scene appeared to me hazy and unreal. My father's trembling hands worked the rope with dogged obedience, while his eyes--the only substantial reality to me in that moment--flooded with a staggering love. Neither of us spoke.

I knew that if I chose to resist, I could overpower him, but I did not want to. The minutes that it took for him to bind me and lay my impotent body on the altar built by our own hands--it could have been ten minutes or an hour--are the tenderest minutes I have ever spent with my father. In the surreal cloud of events, his overwhelming love was the only thing I knew to be true.

I lay on my back and stared at the blinding white-blue of the sky. My journey was over. My mother's face flashed in my brain. The sound of metal. My father's labored breathing. The tamarisk tree in Beersheba. The huddle of tents at home. The waiting servants. My father's face when he lay the wood on my back. A bleating in the bushes. Everything fell away. I could not feel the stones beneath my back or the coarse fibers of the rope. I was soaring straight into the white-blue brightness. The sun was warm and I was free. I breathed the aroma of the Eternal God. He had asked for me. I was here because He had asked for me and now I was asking for Him. White-blue brightness was the color of His eyes. He had asked for me. I was answering Him. I am here, I am here, I am here, I am Yours, I will always be Yours.

My father's silhouette stood in black contrast to the white-blue of His eyes. His dark, faceless shadow raised itself to its full height and the knife was outlined above his head. I am here, I am Yours, I will always be Yours.

Then came the voice. The voice that came from everywhere at once. The voice that spoke no language yet could not be misunderstood. The original voice from which all other voices have come. The voice that is home.

The voice with no language spoke my father's name. The voice with no language said to let me go. The voice with no language said that now He knew.

There was a silence and then a rush of cutting rope and mingled tears and passionate embrace. I sat on the altar, supporting my father's sobbing, exhausted frame in my arms. He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my hair.

Then we both saw the ram at the same time. The bleating in the bushes. His horns were caught in the tangle of the thicket and he could not get free. We sacrificed the ram provided by the One True God--our God, the God who had asked for me. We sacrificed and we worshiped. I have seen my father worship this God many times in my life, but for the first time, I worshiped with him. This Eternal God with the voice that is home is my God. This Eternal God who asked for me and to Whom I answered, "I am Yours".

My life will never be the same.

Appendicitis, and other thoughts about the Body

I'm in a time in my adventure with Jesus when He is revealing to me great and unsearchable things I did not know about His Body. So many scriptures I've read and sermons I've heard have pointed to the unparalleled unity that is characteristic of His church--the intensity of relationship found there that is representative of who He is and what He is like. The American blur in my vision has been ever so slightly corrected to allow me a somewhat clearer picture of His intention for His Bride.

This is new for me. The passages in the New Testament which refer to the church as a body are probably too familiar; they had lost their effect on me. The last time I remember seriously considering the metaphor (if it is one) was about 8 years ago. I felt then that God told me I was like an appendix in the Body of Christ. An authentic part of the Body, but a part that could easily be done without and wouldn't be missed much by the other members. A true believer that showed up for church--but nothing else. I did not want that to be my legacy. I started to show up and help out and feel my way towards something more meaningful.

It's a strange balance, however. . . .this awareness of being created with a specific purpose in a particular place in space and time and a role in the Body of Christ that is significant and unique, weighed against the knowledge that my participation does not make His church any more or less complete. While I may endeavor to make my role more valuable than that of an appendix, He has no shortage of organs for transplant if necessary. God doesn't seem to find Himself in a bind.

But that misses the point. The point is that in the process of growing and stretching from an appendix into some other more useful organ--somewhere in the monotony of days and tasks that exist in that space of time--there comes a sense of gratitude for the opportunity. A keener appreciation for the fact that, by virtue of ourselves, we have no business at all being involved in this Kingdom of Heaven, but yet, with tears and laughter, can say how grateful we are for the blessed assurance of knowing that we are in on it.

And now I'm in a place where the truths I am learning about the Body--His Body--have less to do with me and my role and more to do with my investment in the roles of others. My painstaking, keep-me-up-at-night, laborious, joyous investment.

And I have an unaccounted for excitement at being part of this thing called the church: a vital, complicated organism full of pieces that are united and not the same. I am drawn in by the mystery of the fact that I am not His Bride, but we are His Bride and I cannot extricate myself from you, nor do I want to, although I cannot conceive how it is that we have been knit so impossibly together.

He is showing me great and unsearchable things that I did not know, but they are not just for me. My walk is yours and yours is mine and in Him all things hold together.

That Night's Gonna Be a Good Night. . . .

The kids and I were just dancing madly around the house to the Black Eyed Peas "I Gotta Feeling", faces red and sweaty, with the dog speeding around us in circles. The energy and the sense of anticipation in the song is palpable. As we bounced around the living room with hands raised toward heaven, I could see us. . . .I could see the whole mass of believers, the waiting Bride of Christ, dancing in anticipation of the coming Prince on the white beaches of the crystal sea, singing out "Tonight's gonna be a good night!" I could feel the exuberant joy and the headiness of knowing that everything you've ever wanted or waited for in your entire existence is about to take place. The uncontrollable tears and chills and laughter of the knowing that His presence was so imminent. Of the certainty that we were about to be flat on our faces and caught up in His arms and dancing before Him and with Him. Swallowed up by the mystery of oneness with an endless throng of people whose faces were unfamiliar to me but whose spirits I recognized immediately. I worshiped. I was home. No words.

I wonder if God hears a song like that and perhaps grins to Himself and whispers aside to an angel, "They caught it there, you know. They caught a brush of a glimpse of what they're in for. I love when that happens."