Follow-Through: VH 8 (or 'the explosion of the hyperlinks')

I once prayed for compassion, to have my heart break for that which breaks God's.

And recently I've struggled with doubt, heavier than every before.

I woke at three-thirty in the morning, in despair, near panic attack. I was scared to death of losing all the things that my faith has given me. My family, my friendships, my future calling, my confidence, my ability to serve, my right-ness, in everything i've ever done or said. I was scared of losing these things, because I had no strength to hold onto my faith. I had no vision of hope, no concept of peace, no joy. I could not see Jesus, nor his applicability to anything in the world. I saw so much brokenness, so much lying, so much hidden sin and addiction. I saw people who named Christ and yet did not walk in His power. I saw people who named Christ and had not His joy. His peace. Me, for starters. I felt scared, unsure, un-confident, unsure. Shouldn't faith make me more sure, more joyful, more confident?

Much of this doubt comes from the 'standard' problem of a loving God who does not bring all people to Himself, in the end. There are a few verses that make it seem like maybe there's reason to believe that 'Love Wins' (Colossians 1:20, 1 Corinthians 15:22, 1 John 2:2, Romans 5:15, and others).

But when we look at these verses in context to the rest of scripture, to the testimony of the saints, to the understanding of the orthodox church, judgment seems very real. Harsh, wrathful. And I hate what that means. I hate hell, I hate that God would not bring all people to Him. It makes me frustrated.

I have spoken with many, many people, not least of which included my father, or Tim Udouj, or Amy Canosa, my many, many great friends, my community here at the Vista House, and in RUF. Wisdom from my roommate has astounded me. The encouragement and challenges from my constant Monday-breakfast companion has pushed me forward. Chats on the frisbee field, on the roof, in the car, over drum-making and worship practice, all these have encouraged me. Sometimes I wanted none of it. None of it. But it has been God's voice, I believe/hope/cling. Thank you, all of you. I will miss the ones I'm leaving, dearly. Since that night of fear, I have grown back towards hope, slowly, though I relapse from time to time. Recovery is hard.

Easter morning I had to face the hardest question I've ever faced. In the pitch black of the sunrise service, I sat with two great friends, who have encouraged me and blessed me imeasurable. And I fought a battle in my head. The question that I struggled to answer was this:
Am I willing to serve a God that sends people to hell?

And I could not answer that, for a long time. I genuinely wasn't sure.
What finally moved me to decision was not a view of God's love, or of His glory and his worthiness. It was the realization that to reject God because I hated what He was going to do did nothing but leave me alone, self-righteous, arrogant, and prideful. It did not let me love anyone. It did not provide hope of joy for anyone. It simply left me smug, and condemned.
And so I chose to follow God, still. I am broken by hell. I do not understand. But that does not give me the freedom to ignore it. It does not free me to love. Love frees me to love, and that's it. Not moral backbone, not human rights, not all wisdom, not tongues, or miracles. Love does.

I am having a miserably hard time recognizing the love of God these days.


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I told my parents not to come up until Saturday, assuming my friends would be doing something (as there has hardly been time to breathe in the past month). And, in fact, they are/were. They were hanging with their parents.

So, suddenly I felt lonely. I had the choice to tag along, or to spend some time alone. Michael kept telling me to stop thinking. He hit me in the face with a pillow when he realized I was still thinking. I didn't want to crash anyone's dinner, though I knew I could have: my friends are gracious. I didn't want to be alone, for fear of my doubts, my struggles.

But I wanted to rest. I wanted to be with God, to rest with Him, if it was possible. I knew I should be in the scriptures, but didn't want to. I'm genuinely afraid to open then, afraid I'll be disappointed, or hurt.

But the director here at the house wanted us to blast music at the 5k runners, so Michael and I set up the speakers, and he set up a sick classic rock 'dude looks like a lady' playlist, and went to dinner. I tried to get to Sunrift to buy rope, but was blocked off by the popo, so I came back. I set up a hammock to read and take pictures of the runners, drank a mothership and waited.

They came around the bend, running north, and I realized I was awkwardly close to the road. Then I remembered how much I was encouraged by the folks who cheered for me in my race. So I started cheering. And kept cheering. Turns out, I cheered for roughly 4000 runners. It was one of the most encouraging things I've ever done. People were encouraged. It was great.

Next I re-read THIS ARTICLE, called "Bearing the Silence of God", by Zira Meral.

Unbelievable article. READ IT. I emailed the guy. He likes Banksy.

In the middle, it says this:
"The incapacity of the modern church to reconcile the suffering of the global church with the God of love is evident. But, our highest good is not a problem-free life; it is to be like the Son."

I read that twice. To be like the Son. What was he like?

Luke 13:33-34 came to mind.
"Nevertheless, I must go on my way today and tomorrow and the day following, for it cannot be that a prophet should perish away from Jerusalem.’ O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not!"

I almost cried.

Because God's heart breaks for this. I think God hates hell, somehow. And I DO NOT understand why He doesn't lock it up and leave it empty.

But to know that God may be answering my prayers, that all of this fear and depression and darkness and doubt and frustration and anger, that it all may be God growing me in compassion-that my heart may be breaking for what breaks his- that is Good.

I hope that this is true. Follow-through is a hopeful thing, even when it feels like death, and doubt, and despair. Because, I think, follow-through means love. I think. I hope. I cling.

I'm in Greenville for the summer. Look me up.