(shared from DarkLight)

“Nicodemus, the man who earlier had visited Jesus at night… brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about seventy-five pounds.” (John 19:39)

Nicodemus, who first visited Jesus in secret, now comes to serve Jesus in the open. But Jesus is dead. Nicodemus proclaims his faith over a dead God.  In his own way, he proclaims faith in a dead God. Even more, in a dead God who, by all appearances, has failed to fulfill his promises.

That is a dark place to be. How do you have faith when the source of all light has gone out? How do you have faith when the things he has promised you are buried with him in a tomb? How do you have faith when God is dead?

 There is something profoundly beautiful about Nicodemus throwing his lot in with a man who claimed to be God but who was just crucified as a criminal. It feels like an act of defiance, like a bold stand taken against all the darkness and death that weigh heavy over all the earth.

I want to believe like that.

On the personally apocalyptic album Pale Horses, Aaron Weiss (lyricist/vocalist of mewithoutYou) sings, “This is not the first time God has died.” It is a powerful and helpful reminder. For those moments when the promises of God have not come through as expected, for those moments when all you hoped for is clutched securely in the hands of death, for those moments when God has died in your life, it is encouraging to remember that God has died before.

But the God who died also came back to life again. The tomb, not his promises, is empty. He will come back to life for you, too. Until then, however, you have an opportunity to stand courageously with Nicodemus and proclaim your belief in a dead God to fulfill all of his promises.

This is not the first time God has died. And it won’t be the first (or last) time he conquers death.

(shared from DarkLight)

I love the beginnings of stories. As characters are introduced and the plot begins to take shape, there is this delightful sense that something wonderful is about to unfold. One of my favorite story beginnings is from The Hobbit.

In the movie, there is this fantastic scene between Gandalf and Bilbo. The quest of the dwarves for claiming gold and conquering a dragon has been laid out, and Bilbo has been invited into this grand adventure. However, he has shrunk back at the magnitude of the risk involved. Gandalf is trying to convince him to abandon his rather meaningless life, sign the contract and join the quest. He tells the story of one of Bilbo’s ancestors who, although a hobbit, was also a great warrior. The scene concludes with the following dialogue:

Gandalf: You’ll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back.
Biblo: Can you promise that I will come back?
Gandalf: No. And if you do, you will not be the same.
Bilbo: That’s what I thought. Sorry, Gandalf, I can’t sign this. You’ve got the wrong Hobbit.

You can feel the tension so strongly here between who Bilbo is and who he could become. In the book it is especially clear that part of Bilbo longs for something more, and yet there is a part of him that thinks the cost is too great. And so he must decide: take the risk and gain the possibility of something far better than he has ever experienced, or play it safe and accept that this is as good as it gets.

Bilbo is not the only one to have faced such a decision. There was once a man, an invalid who lay by the pool of Bethesda, hoping for a miracle. For thirty-eight years he has been crippled. Then Jesus shows up and asks him a puzzling question: “Do you want to get well?” (John 5:6).

This question has always fascinated me. It seems a little insensitive at best, and completely ridiculous at worst. Imagine going into a hospital and asking a patient if they want to get better. But, of course, Jesus always asks the best questions. Not because he doesn’t know the answers, but because he is inviting us into discovery.

This question is deeper than it looks at first. “Do you want to get well?” The sad truth is not everyone does. Sometimes it is safer to stay sick. Because to hope for healing, to seek that kind of change is to risk. Risk looking like a fool. Risk getting your hopes dashed. Risk that the offer of a better life will not come true, leaving you more crushed than if you’d simply settled for less.

And so many do settle for less. But Jesus is always inviting us into more. Jesus opens the door for the invalid to enter into new life: “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk” (John 5:8).

The crippled man takes the risk and chooses to trust in Jesus. He gets up and walks into a challenging, complicated, yet beautiful story with Jesus. And somewhere far away in Middle Earth, Bilbo also finally chooses the better story - partly in order to prove himself, and partly because Gandalf gives him a little nudge in the right direction. (In Corey Olsen’s book, Exploring J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit,” he notes significantly that “Gandalf is not just a storyteller; he is a storymaker” [p. 19]).

Jesus is calling each of us into a better story, too. I think our questions are usually very similar to Bilbo’s: Can you promise I won’t get hurt? Can you promise it will be easy and comfortable? Can you promise it will be as I expect, with no surprises or detours? The answer is a definitive no. But you can know this for sure: you will never be the same. And you will be living a story worth telling. And whatever happens, you will be walking in the path of Jesus, the greatest storymaker ever.

The sun sets on Bethlehem’s horizon, dragging with it the heat of the day. The dark and the chill of the night creep in, spread across the land, find their way through open windows, cracks in walls, find their way into skin and bones, make themselves at home. A people living in darkness kneel in darkness, heads bowed by a weight they cannot shake, and beg God for mercy. Beg him for a miracle. Plant yet more tears in the poisoned soil of their lives.

The first Christmas day has risen and fallen. The wait is over. Jesus is here. But for every joyful shepherd or seeking wiseman, there are thousands who go to sleep that night still waiting for their miracle. Still unaware that God has not only heard and answered, but become. Immanuel. Redemption has arrived.

The wait is over, yet still they wait. Still they wake in the middle of the night, plagued by trembling heart and aching soul. They cry out in the all too familiar refrain: “How long, Lord, how long?” For all they can see, the promise of God is still unfulfilled. For all they know, there is nothing to believe in but silence and emptiness.

Across town, the promise lays asleep in a manger. The miracle sleeps. Light asleep in darkness.

 

This will not be the last time Jesus sleeps. This will not be the last time the power of Jesus underwhelms, delays, displays itself as apparent inaction. The storms will come and Jesus will sleep in the sinking boat. The dead will be buried and Jesus will sleep for three more nights. The cross will kill and Jesus will sleep.

If I am honest, sometimes I wonder if he is sleeping still. We wait and wait and cry and beg for mercy. For miracle. We hang all our hopes on him and wonder if he will ever show up. Jesus sleeps and we resign ourselves to our inevitable end.

Christmas tells a different story: Immanuel, God with us now. Jesus has shown up, though maybe not in the way we expected. The promise has been fulfilled, even if our eyes can’t see it. The miracle is a reality long before we ever see the proof. Jesus sleeps, but the storm will be calmed, the dead will rise, all things will be redeemed.

“Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
 yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in God my Savior.”

(Habakkuk 3:17-18)

“He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—

how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?”
(Romans 8:32)

Bridges and ships and safety nets,
long since left in ashes.

I find the edge again,
force broken bones to rise,
fall again.

-----------------------------------

 

As many of you know, I am not a big fan of most of what passes as CCM on the radio these days (or, for that matter, pretty much anything on the radio). But once in a while something comes out that strikes a chord in me, and this song struck me with this: defiance.

Yes, defiance. Don’t be fooled by appearances, or the way it sounds, or the fact that the Newsboys aren’t the Newsboys anymore. Listen to the opening lines:

“In this time of desperation

when all we know is doubt and fear
there is only one foundation:
 
We believe.
We believe.
We believe.”




Do you see it? Defiance against all that we see around us. And yet I couldn’t help but think: this is absurd. The song goes on to say all these different things we believe as Christians. Jesus. The Resurrection. The Second Coming. New life. These are things we believe in in spite of the fact that everything around us screams the opposite. The evidence we have, the facts we see cannot be ignored: desperation, doubt, and fear. And yet… we believe.

And yes, it is absurd. I understand why our critics scoff. It is as if we stand at the shore of the Red Sea with an Egyptian army bearing down on us and say, “We believe we can still escape… and defeat the enemy.” It is as if we stand in front of a fiery furnace and say, “We believe the flames will not burn us.” It is as if we kneel, crushed by the power of shame and sin, and say, “We believe grace is more than enough to raise us up again.”

Absurd… if we are wrong. But if we serve a God who performs last-minute rescues, if we serve a God who specializes in doing the impossible, if we serve a God whose love is the most powerful force in the universe… then absurdity becomes breathtaking power. All we see and know and can imagine is not the only reality. This is not as good as it gets. God is not done yet. He gets the last word.

“And the gates of hell will not prevail
for the power of God has torn the veil.
Now we know Your love will never fail.
We believe. We believe. We believe.”

So join with me and say: we believe.

If you are on the edge of something beautiful, say: we believe. If you are shattered in defeat, say: we believe. Wherever you are, whatever you face, say: we believe. Because there are blessings unseen in the hands of God just for you. It is terrifying, I know, but throw yourself into belief, fall into the unknown, and trust that Jesus will never fail you.

 We believe.

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (John 20:29).

I love you through a glass darkly,

dimly I perceive you in these pleasures –

light on my face, warmth on my skin.

Would I love you the same

under a cold and distant sun?

You shine nonetheless –

foolish, wasteful to my shaded eyes,

wasted as I love the love, leave the lover.

I cannot escape, cannot run far enough.

You pursue me with a thousand gifts –

glimpses of you just beneath the surface,

just behind the veil of your disguise.

Even in your shadow, I see you and know:

I do not yet see, do not yet know,

cannot comprehend and yet cannot deny.

All my blind stumbling, desperate grasping –

yours is the face I wish to find.