Clasped Hands

When we are infants we flail and move, but without destination. Our bodies communicate the desire to be touched, to be loved, to have our presence taken care of by someone able-bodied and heartwarming. We are completely incapable of survival and confidence nor the ability to cope and adjust to the anguish we feel in our bodies and psyches. We have a frightening need for the ones to whom we belong to assure us and graciously accept responsibility to coddle our pain. There is so much forgotten tenderness in the life of a child turned adult. When we grow and become increasingly absorbed in the voices of the world, the voices of the home are drowned out. Our adolescence carries us into an age of exploration and devotion of our worth to the ifs of worldly gain. I and a lovely friend of mine are reading through Henri J.M. Nouwen's, "The Return of the Prodigal Son" and he writes so justifiably:

"The world says: 'Yes, I love you IF you are good-looking, intelligent, and wealthy. I love you IF you have a good education, a good job, and good connections. I love you IF you produce much, sell much, and buy much.' There are endless 'ifs' hidden in the world's love... It is a world that fosters addictions because what it offers cannot satisfy the deepest craving of my heart" (Nouwen, 42).

And this truth carries with us important questions. One being: what brought us to such bondage? I don't mean to ask this in a theological or philosophical sense that could serve as a means to intellectualize the answer; I mean to ask this in a very personal way. Initially, I tended to rationalize my answers for this question rather then to intimately and honestly examine how my growth was fostered through the relationships, parenting, circumstances, and happenings of my childhood. Throughout the course of our upbringing the voices from our homes mostly celebrated and adored our presence or disinherited and resented it in subtle or dramatic tones. At some point, there becomes a paradoxical reality in which what we felt we received or needed in the home conflicted with what was truly communicated in the home or from the world outside of it. How often as a child did I insist for permission to watch TV and fixate my mind towards the messages of other homes and other worlds and other cultures (including western media) that could invade the messages that my mother and father wanted to get across!? How often have we experienced competition and the need to build defense systems academically, socially, religiously!? The belief for a lot of traditional families is that at home we are brought to our deepest sense of belonging, love, and affirmation and from it sprouts self-confidence to encounter the outer voices of 'ifs'. Even relatively, healthy people who experience an adequate dose of benediction in their households may recognize a nourishment unsatisfied by the nuclear family; their fellow human beings who might be good, praiseworthy, loving, and self-sacrificing, but limited... but human.

Rembrandt's painting, 'The Return of the Prodigal Son' is inspired by the Parable of the Lost Son (Lk. 15:11-32) and it's inspiration dribbles unremittingly into the quandaries of the spiritual life. As a curiously driven adolescent, my wayward heart ventured into distant country through minor, but certain moral escapades entangled into a thicket of power, self-worship, and instant gratification; absolute zero humility meshed with a lustful hunger to possess what I could get from family, friends, and strangers. From a childhood that made me feel like I was a 'nothing' comes with it the inner struggle of an over-exuberant drive to prove I am without-a-doubt someone incomparably above all other 'somethings'. When I give in to this way, I take up arms, and I give presence to distant country, far off from the voice of our Heavenly Father.

"Consider, brothers, how you were called; not many of you are wise by human standards, not many influential, not many from noble families. No, God chose those who by human standards are fools to shame the wise; He chose those who by human standards are weak to shame the strong, those who by human standards are common and contemptible -- indeed those who count for nothing -- to reduce to nothing all those that do count for something, so that no human being might feel boastful before God. It is by him that you exist in Christ Jesus, who for us was made wisdom from God, and saving justice and holiness and redemption. As scripture says: 'If anyone wants to boast, let him boast of the Lord'" (1 Corinthians 1:26-31, NJB).

I agree with Jean Vanier, founder of L'Arche, when he speaks of how people with a disability have a special vocation in the world [1 Corinthians 1:27-29) for each day I live within a world bonded to the marginalized, I realize, as my teachers, those whom I assist in life call me to become more selfless, more giving, more loving, more gentle, more forgiving, more patient, and more beautified in my heart rather then my image. Those who are oppressed and forgotten are the ones who mirror a cry for us to reach deep within our own humanity and discover that which is the Spirit of God, dwelling within, calling us to be vulnerable, meek, and malleable so our hands and feet and mouths may bear His Grace and Love and Life at the tips of it. We are called to be with the lowliest and blessed, not the popular and empty.

"We need to hear that gentle, inner voice of God who tells us: 'You do not need to pretend. You do not need to hide your weakness. You can be yourself. I didn't call you to l'Arche or to another form of community first of all to help others or to prove that you were generous or efficient. I called you because you are poor, just like the ones you came to serve, and because the Kingdom of God is promised to the poor.'"(Befriending the Stranger, Jean Vanier, 17)

God desires for us to claim our identity, our preciousness like that of the relationship of a dependent infant with their daddy, Abba, and to become faithful in that cherished reality as His beloved son or daughter in whom His favor rests (Song of Solomon 7:10; Matthew 3:17). Indeed, I AM a forgiven sinner saved once and wholly by the gracious act of the willingly crucified Son of God, Jesus Christ. I began my walk with Jesus when I ran back home and into His arms from the sheer jubilation of this truth. This jubilation can carry us a long way, but over time there might become a hidden transition from one attitude to another. The journey of the Prodigal Son is not the only call to homecoming in Rembrandt's painting and, frankly, it is a rather comfortable and redeeming role compared to the eldest brother. The Prodigal's strife is a "classical human failure with a straightforward resolution. Quite easy to understand and sympathize with" (Nouwen, 71).

The eldest son in the painting stands upright and self-righteously, taller then that of his father! His eyes look disapprovingly on the embrace of his father and younger brother and his mouth is pursed shut. He remains at a distance with no foreshadowing display of receiving his brother similarly to his father. He has disowned his brother for his irresponsibility and his father for his foolishness and favoritism. He is lost in jealousy and resentment, standing with clasped hands. What was going on here?

"As the eldest son in my own family, I know well what it feels like to have to be a model son. I often wonder if it is not especially the elder sons who want to live up to the expectations of their parents and be considered obedient and dutiful. They often want to please. They often fear being a disappointment to their parents. But they often also experience, quite early in life, a certain envy toward their younger brothers and sisters, who seem to be less concerned about pleasing and much freer in 'doing their own thing.'" (Nouwen, 71)

"He was obedient, dutiful, law-abiding, and hardworking. People respected him, admired him, praised him, and likely considered him a model son. Outwardly, the elder son was faultless. But when confronted by his father's joy at the return of his younger brother, a dark power erupts in him and boils to the surface. Suddenly, there becomes glaringly visible a resentful, proud, unkind, selfish person, one that had remained deeply hidden, even though it had been growing stronger and more powerful over the years" (Nouwen, 71).

In the vagabondage of our spiritual lives, we can commit to being home, a disciple, a lover of God and His children, but must be weary of a heart meandering about, watching over the horizon because it is discontented with home, and someday standing with clasped hands over the things and people that God delights in. The challenge that unfolds before me is now less like that of the Prodigal Son's, faroff-ness returning home and to an embrace, and more like that of the eldest brother, one of resentment and entitlement needing to be let go; needing to choose gratitude and trust over rivalry and praise. The eldest sibling within us needs to embrace the notion that he or she is not less loved, favored, or adored by their Abba, but it takes a steady diet of humble-pie to liberate this bondage. When the eldest son within me becomes unrestrained, complains louder, and fumes over not being given the rightful due for my labor or others being praised for less toil than I believe I suffered, I must clang a resounding cymbal that blares:

'I am no better (or worse) then the other,

I am no less a sinner (or saint) then the other,

I am given no more (or less) then the other,

and I am no more righteous.

I am beloved and I choose to abandon this burden and celebrate!'

Nouwen suggests that Rembrandt depicts the setting of the house and the fields from the Parable in the darkness and light of the painting. There is a smudge of light permeating from the face of the eldest son, but he stands in darkness. His clasped hands are so closely pressed to his underbelly; he seems motionless yet anxious to escape. The father's light brushes up against him, but I get the sense that it is fading; waning away back to the fields. The eldest was done with his day of labor, returning home for some R&R and a meal, probably selfishly proud of his body of work, but he heard music and dancing and became suspicious of all things! After cross-examining a servant, he refuses to go in next!

"Now the elder son was out in the fields, and on his way back, as he drew near the house, he could hear music and dancing. Calling one of the servants he asked what it was all about. The servant told him, "Your brother has come, and your father has killed the calf we had been fattening because he has got him back safe and sound." He was angry then and refused to go in, and his father came out and began to urge him to come in;but he retorted to his father, "All these years I have slaved for you and never once disobeyed any orders of yours, yet you never offered me so much as a kid for me to celebrate with my friends. But, for this son of yours, when he comes back after swallowing up your property -- he and his loose women -- you kill the calf we had been fattening" (Luke 15:25-30).

Being born again, we still need to grow up. Often, my self-righteous, angry, resentful, and prideful behavior is symbolic of a deep-seeded notion that God has overlooked, unappreciated, and sideswiped the favor He may once have held in me. This emotional storm puts us in paralysis. It's a vicious cycle that leaves us nowhere; crawling in an exercise wheel for mouses. We get so internally clouded that we fail to receive our brothers, sisters, and even our Heavenly Father as family. The fog gets so thick we no longer notice that Abba came out to us as well and said in the most loving way:

"The father said, 'My son, you are with me always and all I have is yours. But it was only right we should celebrate and rejoice, because your brother here was dead and has come to life; he was lost and is found" (Luke 15:31-32).

Feeling most like the eldest son nowadays, the choice has been offered and the invitation read. Do I stay in the field, as the sun falls, and insist on my resentment for not feeling beloved in the heart of God? Do I reject He whom bled through forsakenness on a cross so that I might collapse into the embrace of our Heavenly Daddy? As enticing as it sounds to stand cold, alone, and forgotten in the fields at night, I'd rather eat, dance, sing, and laugh in the warmth and light of the party. I'd rather sink my exhausted face into the lining of the Shepherds robe, bow my forehead into His Heavenly kiss, and allow the tenderness and uprightness of His touch carry the burden of all the self-righteousness, self-hatred, and resentment that has made each step in life feel o so heavy. I must remain in Him by holding closer to my heart the truth that I am His Beloved then the lie that I am not; that I am only half-loved or that He has grown tired of my shenanigans. In every way, He loves us.

Every

way.

"While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was moved with pity. He ran to the boy, clasped him in his arms and kissed him" (Luke 15: 20).

"My son, you are with me always and all I have is yours" (Luke 15: 31).

One Lovely Moment

(Photo by: Rebekah Stratton)

"The life of man passes away suddenly as a shadow" - Thomas a Kempis

Our lives are not guaranteed the next breath. We are not presently enduring through the worries of tomorrow or absolving the regrets of yesterday ever. We have one moment; one present and lovely moment to seize God's gift of life and it comes in no other form, but the dual reality of here and now. Experiencing the reality of what is true and what is actually happening is what we can delight in. This is why to be alive in the present breath is so precious and to be elsewhere in thought with any more occupation with the past or future then a gentle foresight is so life exhausting. Almost always, we delight in what we experience more than what was experienced or will be. I've found that often I plead God to be felt, known, glorified,beautified, and present in my presence in the now more than any other instance.

"It is an act of radical trust- trust that God can be encountered at no other time and in no other place than the present moment. Being fully present in the now is perhaps the premier skill of the spiritual life" (Manning, Ruthless Trust, 150).

Too many moments of lavish, precious, beauty have I wasted in the preoccupation of what is not the here and now of what I have been given. In my spiritual life, God's providence seems felt and true less so in the moving of the mountains and more so in things I observe outside the windows of my study: the laughter and smiles of toddler-aged sisters rejoicing in their discovery of flower-like leafs, the birds dancing off the sky as if it were a stage to their ballet, and that overcast sky, pierced with sunlight that blankets the Earth through only pocket-sized breaks in the clouds- that sky that flows like an upside-down ocean in whom it's clouds are like waves that do not crash. And so it is, in these attuned moments, there exists the opportunity of life to be lived fully and for God to be exalted. His goodness surrounds us in both the mundane and the exhilarating, but it takes a special fidelity to the reality we live in, the present moment, the here and now, to be fulfilled in the only moment we have been assured of.

It is difficult when circumstances are not preferential or easy-going. There is too much fiddling with what we desire or dwelling on what we have not received and most times an agony with the present grief of that particular moment. In such moments we are starving for an escape, for what might be next, in hopes that it carries us through the anguish. Our living must long for God's gentle grace to bestow upon us a perspective that is grounded in a romantically, true, Truth: that we are blessed, saved, kissed by His Son and His Creation. We are pinned into a state of Grace when there is harmony with this exact reality and we find ourselves stuck in His love and affection and the compassion that all of life surrounds us in.

Those who are unable to hide the pieces of their brokenness and weakness like the physical deformities or social awkwardness that can be telling of a disability, the aged face of the elderly, the famished face of the impoverished, or the grotesque face of lepers are often marginalized due to the fact that they are living, breathing windows into our own fragility. The marginalized remind us of our brokenness, our weakness, our unlovable deformities. We want power, control, the illusion that life can be seized and in this possession that we are invincibly powerful. Inside this hollow power is a strong hope that it defines my value as great and that that greatness amends my character flaws and deep-seeded hurts. The marginalized walk stripped free of this illusion because they are knee-deep in the reality of their brokenness and it has imparted on them no escape-route. Over time they simply wish to live and to love the most that they are still able to love and appreciate. They embrace their reality, regardless of the circumstances, and this is why they own the keys to a divine love and joy. Their abandonment from non-reality helps them live more fully in every moment so they have the most presence to offer, the most love to offer, the most smiles to offer, and they offer the most acceptance of our brokenness and fragility. The marginalized are natural grace givers and wingless angels- they are Christ Jesus, in whom He associates Himself and His Kingdom with.

There is a man I assist who came into community with a lot of inflicted pain; he had been mistreated and hated and groomed to defend himself in order to be noticed, to be acknowledge, and to feel alive. He finds beauty in the most subtle details, yet he lacked the acknowledgment of his own beauty through years spent in an institutional life. He is desperate to connect; his cry of brokenness is a cry for relationship. In the depths of his inmost, mute, being he cries most every day to feel tied to others and for others to affirm this connection. At L'Arche, he has found in himself a greater peace of mind and healed wonderfully, but there is no robbing ourselves of the special anguish we hold.  It is an anguish that reminds us now is not the time in which God's Will is fully realized, the perishable is raised imperishable, and the sting of death is withheld its triumphs. My L'Arche friend's cry for connection can manifest itself in anger and painful outbursts, but most times it is a cry of subtlety and soundlessness. I often take my friend for a walk and hold his hand. My hand is a source of security, connection, and appropriate affection for him. I use to think that gripping his hand tight and powerfully would send to him a primal message of superiority and strength, but learning to love through letting go of control and embracing weakness has become the central theme of my life at L'Arche. Now, I feel the weight of his hand, his firm grip, and I loosen and tighten accordingly to the situation. When he has to take a risky step, he holds tight, but other times he loosens up to enable a happy waive to the planes flying over our heads or to pet a dog that has joyfully approached. There is so much centralized focus in the physical embodiment of love and assurance and security with this friend of mine. He is, for the most part, nonverbal by choice. His choice expresses a difficulty to cope with the trauma of his life and his loved ones who have now passed. It's almost as if a part of his heart numbed in the passing of these dear family members and he wishes not to give it to anyone else in the same way. Perhaps he talks less to connect less after experiencing this heart trauma, but only God knows the whys and what-fors. God hasn't called me to analyze my friend so much as He has called me to walk with him, to hold him, to bring forth an inner peace through an environment of love, acceptance, and care. The primary mission of L'Arche is to love the body; to care for the physicality of our core members first with the understanding that it can transform the spirit. It is our belief that the inner-pain inflicted by societal rejection of disabled bodies can be salvaged and healed in a community of love and acceptance of their whole beings; mind, body, heart, and soul. So first, I walk, I talk, I grasp, I do my best to see his view, to feel his emotion, to understand his cry and to remedy it with something constructive and often ordinary- like petting a friendly animal or getting some fresh air or sharing a cup of coffee across a table. His moments of peace have taught me the necessity to be gentle and tender and in this I realize that when I hold his hand during our walks there is an exchange of intimacy occurring. Not a romantic, possessive intimacy, but an intimacy that helps us become attuned to the present moment; an intimacy that sits and settles and calmly instills companionship. My friend has become my teacher; a teacher to the lifestyle of the here and now, the present moment, the 'all-we-have-left' of today.

Another teacher of presence to the present is the story of a stranger. He is a man I often see who sits in the same seat, around the same hour, in the same coffee-shop I like to attend. He is old, senile, slow, and smiley. I've found myself greatly annoyed by his presence because it seems weak and desperate for the attention of others. He often gets up, walks around, makes small talk with the locals, and returns to his seat. When he gets up from his seat about ready to make his rounds, I imagine a mental image of me crunching my eyes shut, crossing my fingers, and thinking, 'Please, please not me, please don't talk to me! Let me read and study and sit in solitude and silence! I did not come to appease your need for relationship in this day.' Many times I've avoided and squandered his invitation to converse. I have overheard his conversations with others plenty (having a few with him as well) and have realized that as mundane the transaction can be his temperament is symbolic of an inner-peace that I have not reached nor can fully fathom. Children run to him, giggling, seeing in his physical weakness and wrinkled face a tender smile. They bring a human face to this man- a loving compassion for the prized human being he is despite his societal status, but also because he brings these children a human face as well. In all the children's naivety, silliness, and smallness, he regards them as precious beings who deserve the greatest of love because their zest for life and innocence is pure gold. In fact, this man is not simply human, but uniquely human... for he sits and marvels at the world around him. He is not desperate to taste his drink, to brazen an important phone call,to read a book, to type away on a lab-top, or to pay and bolt out of there. He searches and sees out the window a world that must be appreciated, he sees in everything a view to be mesmerized. When a toddler runs to him and acts silly he doesn't demand respect or proper-behavior, he simply rejoices in their joy, pinches a rosy-cheek, and lets them scurry off while he converses with the parents. He is a man who has learned, in all the rugged years life has brought him and that he has brought onto himself, a simple desire to sit and see and experience in a state of contemplative gratitude- grasping the here and now of his life and in so doing, making each breath a song of worship to His Abba. This is a practice that many of us have not practiced well enough.

"Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." (1 Thess. 5:16-18)

There is gratitude to be discovered and uncovered in all circumstances; we're being encouraged to give thanks because in every moment there is reason to be thankful. It is not grounded in our illusions or our worldly renowned treasures because they are all what God's Spirit speaks through Solomon as, "a chasing after the wind" (Ecclesiastes 1:14). As Jesus commands the storm, "Quiet! Be still!" (Mk. 4:39), so does He command the storm within us. A ruthless trust in Him can devour our worries in the beauty of the here and now. Jesus tells us to watch the birds in the sky and not to worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will take care of itself; that our days are riddled with enough trouble of its own (Mt. 6:26, 34).

Jean Vanier says in an interview, "The big thing for me is to love reality and not live in the imagination of what could have been or should have been or what can be... and somewhere...to love reality and then discover... that God is present." I hear in these words that the most necessary thing is to love exactly who and what your reality is made of. It can be someone on your heart who is not present or someone fully present whom your heart beats in ignorance of and in this attentive, intentional, gratitude of your reality, God's felt absence or felt rapture entangles our faithful trust to our Abba- similar to those last words Christ uttered before His last breath atop Golgotha, "Father, into your hands, I commit my spirit" (Lk. 23:46).

So when you breathe, breathe with a ruthless trust. A trust that is not entitled, but grateful. Be vulnerable to the worthiness of each passing moment. Be humbled through the knowledge that your life is a passing shadow. Give presence to the present and acknowledge the rhythm of your growing-up son or daughter or sibling or self; the sound of music traversing through nature's wildlife; the motion that naked, winter, branches make swaying to and fro with the wind; the laughter of your present friends; the tears of a loved one or a crying nation. There really is only here and now to acknowledge life as gift and give thanks to the Giver.

Are you listening?

This is it. This is all we have to salvage and to savor. Here and now.


Writing while listening to: David Crowder Band- "O God Where Are You Now (In Pickeral Lake? Pigeon? Marquette? Mackinaw?)"

The Rabbi's Heartbeat

"The disciple Jesus loved was reclining next to Jesus... He leaned back on Jesus' breast" (John 13:23, 25).

Brennan Manning restores the weight of such a historical event in his work, Abba's Child: "John lays his head on the heart of God, on the breast of the man whom the council of Nicea defined as 'being coequal and consubstantial to the Father...God from God, Light from Light, True God from True God'...God allows a young Jew, reclining in the rags of his twenty-odd years, to listen to His heartbeat!" (121-122).

I've wildly obsessed over the thunder of Abba's embrace depicted in the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32). I'm convinced it must be good to be neurotically beguiled by the imagery of tenderness in the life of Jesus. How great the temptation is to indulge the self-cynic and employ that tit for tat, impostor of a god who's identity is less famously known as insecurity, self-hatred, self-pity, and self-worship. There is a faith dichotomy growing in the culture of our Churches and hidden in our self-righteousness that announces, 'God loves, likes, accepts, and embraces me only when I am a good boy or girl.' Fathoming Jesus it is easy to distance ourselves from His heart and get heady because our minds are rambunctious. There is no stillness or freedom from all the inner commotion.

I went searching for a word from God amidst the tranquil beauty of Plum Island beach on the edge of Massachusetts. An odd, off-the-beaten path of broad, bulked, boulders formed a bridge out to the rougher waters of the shore. I perched at the cliff of this path atop the ten foot highth of a center boulder with music and Bible in hand...none of which was necessary. Beginning to schlepp back the leathered corners of my bible, I glossed over an opportunity to see our Abba in the eye of His beauty before a cantankerous boom shivered my sense of security so defiantly it nearly knocked me into the waters of a wintry beach. The boom was that of a crashing wave.

We need to be hushed to hear.

If we are not then all the clamor rips us apart from the birds in the sky and the lilies of the field (Matthew 6:26, 28) or in my case the rage of the sea. All the headiness, all the outpouring of time and energy in performance and persona, all the innocent questioning and pondering can create such a thick babel that we become deaf to the soft and tender nature of His heartbeat. I am envious of that disciple to have physically encountered the thump of our Abba. Perhaps you may recall the quiet oneness of resting an ear on the bosom of a parent or love. The experience can be so infantile and safe...so intimate.

We require such an intimacy to deliver us to a place of understanding that the Spirit is willing and present; that the resurrected Christ has come, ascended, and shall return and who resounds and surrounds us now. Manning refers to this with the term present risenness. I enjoy how Alexandre Dumas, Pere's character, Mercedes, speaks of God in the adaptation of the Count of Monte Cristo, "No, He is in everything. Even in a kiss." Mercedes passion shares a sweet resemblance to the words, "I am with you always..." (Matthew 28:20). We are blessed when we receive moments in tune with the present risenness of God because it is this moment exactly where we feel unified to God and comfortable enough to lean back on His breast. We stop fearing Him and all His uncontainable majesty because we caught the simplest notion of His love and adoration for us. It must reflect similarly the eruption of emotion a drenched and well fed Simon Peter had at the shores of Tiberias (John 21:7-22). To build faith in His present risenness one must discover His present tenderness and this might only be possible through trusting the nature of divine Love.

"In love there can be no fear, but fear is driven out by perfect love: because to fear is to expect punishment, and anyone who is afraid is still imperfect in love" (1 John 4:18).

Fear clogs the artery of the Great Rabbi's heart, thus His love will not flow throughout our being. Having faith in God's love bypasses the whispers of doubt circulating throughout our intellectuality. In fear and doubt the feet are like cement blocks that cling us to the worldly. In the wake of the Resurrection of the Christ, Thomas professed his doubt through the knowledge of how very dead the Great Rabbi hung at Calvary:

"So the other disciples said to him, 'We have seen the Lord,' but he answered, 'Unless I can see the holes that the nails made in his hands and can put my finger into the holes they made, and unless I can put my hand into his side, I refuse to believe' (John 20:25)"

Jesus sought him out eight days later:

"Peace be with you,' he said. Then he spoke to Thomas, 'Put your finger here; look, here are my hands. Give me your hand; put it into my side. Do not be unbelieving any more but believe" (John 20:26, 27).

It is through passages like these and that of John 13:25 that I believe God is saying to us all: "I am willing to let you touch Me. Hush and come closer...feel My wounds and hear My heart for it is yours. Why are you so frightened, you who have so little faith?"

This profound vulnerability is the God whom my heart breaks for and whom I yearn to be defined under. Defining ourselves as the object of His affection claims the Truth of who we are: "I am my beloved's, and His desire is for me" (Song of Solomon 7:10). Awareness of our belovedness steals us from all the commotion and babel telling us otherwise and we don't become aware without an intention to remain in Him, the Great Vine.

"Our longing to know who we really are- which is the source of all our discontent- will never be satisfied until we confront and accept our solitude. There we discover that the truth of our belovedness is really true. Our identity rests in God's relentless tenderness for us revealed in Jesus Christ" (Abba's Child, 52-53).

Having respect and awe for God is more than lovely, but too much so can border fear. When we cross that border we live in the heady adult-land that drowns out the beckoning voice of Jesus. How do we receive Jesus like a little child? A child has a silly entitlement to what they want; 'give me this- give me that' and they expect to receive in the most selfish and obnoxious manner. Having that silly expectancy of complete entitlement to the lap of our Abba and His arms and His lips and His heartbeat is what will sooth the soul. I cannot come near to Him without knowing Him as Abba. I cannot rest in Him unless I allow myself to. The only way I can trust myself to do so is to know who I truly am. It only hurts when I live like a slave to whether or not I've been a good boy- efficient, well-liked, righteous, sacrificial, wise, feeling impenitence through counting my penitence's. We must allow ourselves to be subdued by the awe of Calvary and the roar of Abba's heartbeat; to question and to tantrum like a child but at the end of the day lay exhausted on His breast and to understand that it is in the nook of His arms that we are home.

"As John leans back on the breast of Jesus and listens to the heartbeat of the Great Rabbi, he comes to know Him in a way that surpasses mere cognitive knowledge... In a flash of intuitive understanding, John experiences Jesus as the human face of the God who is love. And in coming to know who the Great Rabbi is, John discovers who he is- the disciple Jesus loved" (Abba's Child, 122).

The Great Rabbi beckons, "I am willing to let you touch Me. Hush and come closer...feel My wounds and hear My heart for it is yours. Why are you so frightened, you who have so little faith?"

The Gospel of Grace

"The American church today accepts grace in theory but denies it in practice" (Manning, 16).

"As Jesus passed on from there, He saw a man named Matthew sitting at the tax office. And He said to him, 'Follow Me.' So he arose and followed Him. Now it happened, as Jesus sat at the table in the house, that behold, many tax collectors and sinners came and sat down with Him and His disciples. And when the Pharisees saw it, they said to His disciples, 'Why does your Teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?' When Jesus heard that, He said to them, 'It is not the healthy who need the doctor, but the sick. Go and learn the meaning of the words: 'Mercy is what pleases me, not sacrifice. And indeed I came to call not the upright, but sinners'(Matthew 9:9-13)."

Brennan Manning expounds on the Gospel of Grace in his book The Ragamuffin Gospel,

"The Kingdom is not an exclusive, well-trimmed suburb with snobbish rules about who can live there. No, it is for a larger, homelier, less self-conscious caste of people who understand they are sinners because they have experienced the yaw and pitch of moral struggle'(23) and 'The gospel of grace nullifies our adulation of televangelists, charismatic superstars, and local church heroes. It obliterates the two-class citizenship theory operative in many American churches. For grace proclaims the awesome truth that all is gift. All that is good is ours, not by right, but by the sheer bounty of a gracious God. While there is much we may have earned- our degree, our salary, our home and garden, a Miller Lite, and a good night's sleep- all this is possible only because we have been given so much: life itself, eyes to see and hands to touch, a mind to shape ideas, and a heart to beat with love. We have been given God in our souls and Christ in our flesh. We have the power to believe where others deny, to hope where others despair, to love where others hurt. This and so much more is sheer gift; it is not reward for our faithfulness, our generous disposition, or our heroic life of prayer. Even our fidelity is a gift. 'If we but turn to God,' said St. Augustine, 'that itself is a gift of God.' My deepest awareness of myself is that I am deeply loved by Jesus Christ and I have done nothing to earn it or deserve it" (25).

Sitting in A/C operated, four-walled, roofed rooms, holding leather bound Bibles with embroidered signatures, and fluffing about with our newly ingrained phrases of spiritual or philosophical eccentricity gets old...fast. We get complacent and lazy and treat the heart of Jesus as if it were some mysterious insignia meant only to be poked and prodded with from a distance. Then we dishonorably pass this off as humble and gracious word offerings that allow us to rot selfishly in our own disarray of His majesty and our depravity- never closing the gap. I've done this...and felt proud of myself after. With a string of tiny, inane moments of self-pity and false-worship, the ego becomes covered and canopied with a sense of entitlement to the right hand of God's throne.

I was talking with a friend of mine discussing the realities of what it felt like to go to South Africa [not to imply that one would need to go to South Africa to encounter this] and introduce ourselves to people whom we, in a matter of days, were standing above their graves; befriending people on the precipice of passing. For me, one of the things this made me wonder about was, 'What is it all about? Whatever it is I do in Your name, Lord, what is the point and is it of Your heart?' There was a bare-naked truth to the gospel of grace I had not experienced happening.

No more ruminations in the A/C room about how one felt about a spoon-fed scripture verse were needed- simply prayer, presence, and compassion. The role of love had less justification as an advocate then it did as a recipient. Realizing this, I felt caught up in a web of hierarchical spirituality that at the heart of it was the idea that I was not good enough...not old enough...not pure enough...not smart enough...not prayerful enough...not (fill-in-blank) enough to receive the beloved embrace of my Abba and to give it. In other words, there was always 'work to be done' to bask in the effervescing light of The Creator, before I could shine that light on others.

In response to 2 Corinthians 12:9 [...my grace is enough for you: my power is at its best in weakness...], Manning writes,

"Whatever our failings may be, we need not lower our eyes in the presence of Jesus. Unlike Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre Dame, we need not hide all that is ugly and repulsive in us. Jesus comes not for the super-spiritual but for the wobbly and the weak-kneed who know they don't have it all together, and who are not too proud to accept the handout of amazing grace. As we glance up, we are astonished to find the eyes of Jesus open with wonder, deep with understanding, and gentle with compassion" (Manning, 28).

Observing the bewildered and dying in a raw manner forced me to contemplate how big 'my agenda/my role/my opinion' was in the grand scheme of things. We have to constantly allow an inner-death to take place when we confront reality in the backdrop of a cozy discipleship. For those of us who have experienced the lull of privilege, consider yourself blessed when that background becomes front and center. One professor of mine called it being 'broken for the ordinary'.

Some of us are deeply weighed down by the pressures of legalistic Christians. The god of the legalistic Christian is 'unpredictable, erratic, and capable of all manner of prejudices. When we view God this way, we feel compelled to engage in some sort of magic to appease Him' (Manning, 40).

But this is your God- the God of the gospel of grace. He is a God who,

"out of love for us, sent the only Son he ever had wrapped in our skin. He learned how to walk, stumbled and fell, cried for His milk, sweated blood in the night, was lashed with a whip and showered with spit, was fixed to a cross, and died whispering forgiveness on us all" (Manning, 40).

There are circumstances in life that place a buffer between much of the world's sufferings and our own which can transmit a sense of guilty discipleship. If our hearts can tame that discord though, we can alleviate ourselves from the chains of good works and grow a tender desire to be the hands and feet of Jesus. His heart was not only meant to be poked and prodded with in intellectual awe, but to be consumed and forged in love for the poor in spirit, the weeping, the meek, the merciful, the hungry and thirsty for righteousness, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, the persecuted in His name [Matthew 5:3-12, Luke 6:20-26], the parched and starved, the black sheep, the repulsively naked, the suffering, and the imprisoned [Matthew 25:31-46].

Many Christians might struggle with blameworthiness, but service in the name of 'my guilt' is not a reflection of God's love.  On the surface there might be talk of virtue, social justice, philosophical observations, things that are comical or fascinating, but things meant to deviate from the source of our pain. With knowledge of the 'what', self-condemnation might supersede such drive. We are yet to find a true liberation of grace within the areas of life our soul cries out for. We are yet to allow the yoke of guilt to be lifted. For me I needed to hear: 'It's not your fault' and I needed to hear it over...and over...and over again.

There is a cool song from Switchfoot called 'Always' (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=85vi2pB1T5c&feature=related). The lyrics go:

This is the start
This is your heart
This is the day you were born
This is the sun
These are your lungs
This is the day you were born

And I am always yours

These are the scars
Deep in your heart
This is the place you were born
This is the hole
Where most of your soul
Comes ripping out
From the places you’ve been torn

And it is always yours
But I am always yours

Hallelujah!
I’m caving in
Hallelujah!
I’m in love again
Hallelujah!
I’m a wretched man
Hallelujah!
Every breath is a second chance

And it is always yours
And I am always yours

This song, so fragile and moving, helps me reflect on where God loves and showers His grace upon me. It did not look like plaques or degrees of knowledge, praise, or accomplishment, it did not look like me punching out Church-attendance cards, leading mission trips, bible studies, or any thing like it.

No.

MY start, MY heart, MY lungs, MY scars, MY day of being born anew will ALWAYS look like 15-year-old, brokenhearted, guilt-ridden, tear-driven, dumbfounded, little Ryan face down on his knees, in the center of a dark bed room, joyous from the whispers of God's forgiveness roaring deep into my bones and completely enveloped in a well of God's grace made sufficient for me in all my unending weakness.

He is always yours. He will prevail through the strongholds of self-induced cages, the shadows of guilt-built basements, and the nooks and crannies of calloused hearts.

There's no need to pick yourselves up by the boot-straps as Manning states. Surrender. Hallelujah, we are wretched sons and daughters given the grace to cave in and the breath to sing and dance a second chance.

This is Love and Grace in the purest, most unabashed form and it's

always

yours.