The Broken World of God's Delight

We live in a broken world. We see evidence of it everywhere. I’ve said it—we’ve all said it—the world is broken. We derive some sort of comfort from this affirmation—comfort that this is not how things were meant to be, a comfort that gives us a strange form of hope that the violence, danger, and anger screaming at us from the news is not all there is.

But we cannot escape the sense of darkness. The diseases we cannot cure, the hostages we cannot save; the complicated wars we cannot disentangle, and the tensions we cannot diffuse. Another shooting, another body count, another lifeless form on the newsreel; millions without homes, millions without work, millions fleeing from, fleeing to, looking for a place to rest; the latest story of abuse or child-killing, the latest drug overdose, the latest act of terrorism. The headlines stream on. There seem few places to hide.

We cannot escape the confusion of innocent lives lost or the political and social situations too long-strung or complicated to fully understand. We lose loved ones—to death or to estrangement. We see the darkness of our world, the darkness of sinful beings grasping for power, for vengeance, for wealth. Perhaps we see this darkness in ourselves—and it terrifies us. It seems as though the state of our world can hardly become worse.

But there is nothing new under the sun, as Ecclesiastes says. From the beginning we have been killing, deceiving, doing whatever it takes to get ahead. For millennia, mankind has been concocting new ways of evil and imaginative forms of torture. Wars are not new. Refugees are not new. Abuse is not new. Evil, though it may continue to shock, horrify, or numb us, is not new. We live in a broken world—as mankind has lived since being expelled from the Garden.

How many times have you heard this ramble? When was the last time you heard someone bewailing the state of our world or preaching to the evil that swirls about the globe?

I find that typically in the Christian world, this message is used as evidence of the sinfulness of humanity (which it is), calling people to seek salvation. We’re called either to withdraw from the world, so we aren’t tainted by its darkness—or to go out into the world to do what we can to reach its helpless state. This is all fine and good—and perhaps deserves a longer discussion at another time.

But what I find in these sorts of conversations or messages is that we lose sight of the world as God’s good creation. Yes, the world is broken and dark and full of evil. But it is still the handiwork of God, its splendor still proclaims his glory, and it still offers abundant delights.

 

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Remember His Death

We’ve finally come to Holy Week. During these high seasons of the church calendar I deeply miss my Anglican fellowships. The Anglican high church rhythms force you into preparation, drawing your mind and your heart in anticipation throughout Lent. Easter Sunday is the peak of several weeks of celebration. But in nondescript evangelical Protestantism, Palm Sunday catches me by surprise, Holy Week slips by without much reflection, Easter explodes with a momentary flurry, and then we’re back to our normal operations. Can it be meaningful? Yes. But the brevity of it leaves little time for my heart and mind to be caught up in and shaped by the season.

This year I’ve been thinking about another related effect—we don’t spend much time meditating on the humanity of Jesus’ death. We don’t ignore it—and we certainly talk about it frequently in an abstract “Jesus died for my sins” manner. But my experience has been that we give it a nod then jump ahead to the resurrection—because that’s the big celebratory moment.

Do we sorrow with Jesus, for Jesus in the abuse and cruel death he suffered? Do we sorrow with his mother, Mary, as she watched her miraculously-born son be tortured to death? Do we sorrow with Jesus’ disciples, his closest friends, who fled, too terrified to watch? Do we imagine their doubt and sorrow as they sat in the foggy confusion of their friend, their Messiah dead, sealed in his grave?

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Don't Let Fear Shrivel Your Soul

Fear—how our human hearts are prone to it. We’re initiated as children with fears of the dark, of strangers, of monsters under the bed—only to continue to fears of public speaking, of people’s opinions, of money and financial stability. Our composed adult facades hide our fears of loneliness, of failure, of rejection, of the future, but inside we’re often still the small child cowering with the covers held with white knuckles over our heads.

Sadly the church is often no different. We’re afraid of being “led astray” by others’ beliefs, so we villainize and withdraw from those with different opinions and perspectives, even if they would call themselves fellow brothers and sisters in Christ. We’re afraid of our children being corrupted, so we shelter them in Christian bubbles. We’re simultaneously afraid of losing ground in society and becoming tainted by it. We get swept up in a culture of fear in which voices rise calling us to exclude those of different beliefs or carpet bomb those we consider to be our enemies.

Why are the voices coming from the church (or those claiming to be the church) no different from those within our culture? Why are the voices of Christians rising in fear?

Fear makes our souls shrivel, drawing back faith, drying up love. This is not the way of Jesus. This is not the picture of abundant life he offers us. This is not faith.

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Tell Them a Story

Do you remember the enchantment of stories as a child? Pleading for another book to be read, for another story to be told, a new tale spun?

When was the last time you told a story to a child, watching her eyes sparkle with delight, grow wide in horror, crinkle in confusion, watching her entire form become absorbed in the words coming from your lips?

Do you remember the novels that sparked laughter and tears, forcing you to hide your giggles or your sniffles in public, the novels which opened a new world, introduced you to new friends who became so dear to you that you were saddened to reach the last page, the last word, and close the cover to leave them behind?

Have you ever noticed the storytellers become the life of the party, animatedly recounting a tale, arms gesticulating, eyes dancing, the intonation of their voice captivating a room?

Oh the power of a story. Propositional truths can lodge in our heads, memorized and accepted, but stories—they sink down into our hearts, activating our imaginations, bringing conviction that cannot be expressed using facts and bullet points.

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Around the Family Table

There’s always been room for one more chair at the table. For several years, we held at fifteen around the tables stretching out of my grandparents’ dining room. Then boyfriends came, who turned into husbands, and added one, then two chairs. Now the arrival of the next generation brings new lives to the table. There’s never been a question of how we’ll fit everyone—we just nestle in a little tighter and slide another chair into place.

What fond memories I have of this scene—the cheerful bustling of the holidays, the laughter. We always seem to forget which way to pass the food, sending the bowls of corn and mashed potatoes into a jumbled cross-armed handover. Four or five conversations simmer at once, with some able to dip into all of them.

Over the years this family has pulled others into its fold, like some sort of very friendly amoeba. It’s a family with open arms, willing—and eager—to pull another person into warmth of being known, being loved. And the thing that’s so beautiful about it is that I don’t think it’s even a conscious or “intentional” decision.

I know I am running the risk of putting my family on some sort of pedestal—which is hardly my intention. But in an age in which so many of my generation face strings of divorces, family factions who will not speak to each other, aunts, uncles, and cousins strung across the country, and grandparents they see at best on Christmas or Thanksgiving, I feel so blessed to have a family that is functional, intact, and likes each other the majority of the time. I know that it’s a rarity.

It’s not completely idyllic—we all have our quirks and foibles, and we aren’t immune from the occasional familial spats, disagreements, and frustrations. But we know that the next holiday will find us squeezed around that same table again, engaged in the same antics as we have year after year. We’re family.

And what of the family of God—Christ’s beloved church?

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