Happy New Year!

To start 2019, I watched a movie about the life of Jesus. I watched the wonder of all as something/Someone from another world came into ours. I watched His eyes – those eyes that saw us as we are and gave us heaven. Every need met, every sickness healed, every broken life restored. I saw joy and rejoicing – that of His followers at seeing firsthand the amazing glory of God, and of the crowds whose zeal to make Him King caused Him to exit. There was so much victory. So much overcoming of sin and death and sorrow. So much hope. And then, the climax, in Jerusalem – He is betrayed, taken captive, whipped, crucified. The jolt of it nearly physically jars me. I ride the plunge with the disciples. Our King! Oh, God – Death? HOW, for this King of Life? I reassure myself with reasoning – Oh, He has to go to heaven so overcoming can continue through His followers. Really? Yes, there were miracles. Yes, 3000 souls saved on Pentecost… But when I follow the lives of the apostles, the end is still death. And John, EXILE! Then… rolls and rolls of history-scroll that seem not to climax, but to regress, surge, dive, flicker, sputter… Like a replay: “Heaven is here! No, wait – time to die, time to wane, time to bury. I feel discouraged, perplexed. “Greater works than these shall you do…” – Where is this, and does it still always end in snuffing? When does it “fill the EARTH as the waters cover the sea” (Habakkuk 2:14)? What of our prayers and expectations for “on earth as it is in heaven”? Are His stripes truly for our healing? How do healing and death coexist? What was it like when Lazarus died the second time? Did it seem like defeat at that point? What can/should we expect as we follow this Man of Sorrows/ King of Kings? Life and healing, or ultimate disappointment?

Two things I am observing. One, He loves when I am enjoying life simply from His hand. Not screening for acceptability or value of investment, but making holy through thankfulness. And, second, He, like any good father, wants me to come running when my scraped knee is bleeding and I’m sobbing. He loves getting all slobbered on and using His cloud-soft hankie on my nose. He has my tear stains all over the front and sides of His clothes. He asks, “What happened?”, and listens attentively to every sob story with tenderness. Actually, I think this running for Dad-comfort and crying out the damage-details are a special kind of prayer. I think our coming to Him is exactly what He loves. Telling Him the story shows Him we know comfort and fixing are His specialties. I think it makes Him sad when tough kids suck it up and play loner big stuff instead of running to Dad. I’ve played “big stuff” way too much. It’s lonely rotten. We NEED a Dad to put His big hand on us and tell us we’re strong while He pours on the stinging astringent, squeezes on that oily balm, and hides our owies with skin-colored bandages. I feel like I’m writing a Psalm… Bless the Lord, oh my mind and emotions! When you get busted on the concrete, when you get wounded at play, when you smash your finger while hard at building, He, your Dad, has the First Aid kit ready! All your scuffs are grow-trophies in His eyes. All your voiced tears are songs of maturing in His ears. Come to Him, little wounded one. He loves to receive snotty noses. Come, and wail! He’ll hug you “better”. He’ll hug you into eternal “better”!

So here’s to “better” this year! To the mystery of victory active among us. Here’s to Daddy’s girls and boys. To snotty noses and tears embraced by tenderness. Here’s to heaven on earth. And here’s to the Dad who loves us to the cross and back.