Me, the Stone

The life of faith, for me, often feels like a skipping-stone.  You sling it out into the river, and it touches for only the briefest of moments before springing, arching back into the air, drifting, drifting, until it skips again.

There are moments, crisp, poignant, clear moments, when all I know is God.  When every bit of my experience is consumed in the present, the Word breaking in harshly, as through glass.  All pretense is shattered, and I respond reflexively.

Recent moments like that:

• Reading Ezekiel, and recognizing the shame that accompanies so great a salvation, and almost being brought to tears. A sharp, fast skip.
• Listening to the story of a coworker who shares of the early death of a sister in an automobile accident years ago.  Abrupt, and melting my awareness into a sweet, deep sadness, with a yearning for redemption.
• Realizing, in working through conflict with Lizzy, that God has committed to me so deeply as to negate the danger of my failures, past and present, and future.  A slow skip, steadily dawning, deepening, before fading away again.

Often these moments are the very things I write about here on the blog.  Perhaps my writing is the ripple produced at each brief contact.  I hope my ripples go still further, that these moments drive life and hope and peace into the world around me.

Yet, so much more of my life, day-to-day, resembles the drifting of the stone through the air.  There is a loss of gravity, of pressure.  The weightiness of life, the meaning of each moment fades away like the coffee shop music playlist- you never know that the album has ended, until it's been silent long enough to make us all feel awkward.

And so I live, often with an awkward, uncomfortable sense that this is not one of those moments.  I do not perceive contact with anything greater than myself.  I see no ripples, feel no pressure, lack proper emotion. It can be debilitating, the gaps, the dry, empty air between bits of water.  And, should I dwell on my present experience (or lack thereof), I am prone to despair, and frustration, and bitterness.

But if I choose to remember, if I look back at all the moments in which I have grazed the surface of the water, the moments when all has been compressed into certainty and clarity and purpose and hope, often I find the courage to continue.

Israel is repeatedly told to remember.  Half of the Old Testament is plagiarized, I'm confident, repeating what has already been said.  How many times must the tale of Abraham the patriarch be retold?  Or the story of Moses and the Exodus?  Must we really hear again of the conquest of the promised land, and the establishment of Israel?

Yes.  We must hear it again.  Because we are a forgetful people, quick to define ourselves by our present circumstance and not by our roots, our narratives, our stories; our skips.

Man was created in the image of an eternal God, and somehow our minds were not meant to merely consider the present.  We are to hope in the future, indeed, and also to remember the past.  Because in the past we often see most clearly the hand of God, and the Figure of redemption being indwelt within us.

And I hope, as I grow older, that the skips will become more frequent, as a stone slows near the end of it's path.  And I do look, with eager anticipation, towards the moment the stone sinks.  What a glorious day that will be.

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Practically, I have a stack of flashcards by my bed.  When something occurs that I perceive to be His hand, I write it down.  I have dozens of healings, provisions, prophecies, words, encouragements, scriptures- the stack is roughly an inch and a half thick, and growing.  I recommend something like it for you: an Ebenezer, a system of remembrance.  The stack has been crucial, particularly on those nights I've gone to bed laden with doubt or awoken in heavy anxiety.  I also blog, to meditate on the stories of God.  And I read scripture.  Re-placing myself in the story of redemption (global and personal)- it's a wonderful means of grace.

Isaiah 54:4-8, or Easter

"Fear not, for you will not be ashamed;
be not confounded, for you will not be disgraced;
for you will forget the shame of your youth,
and the reproach of your widowhood you will remember no more.

For your Maker is your husband,
the Lord of hosts is His name;
and the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer,
the God of the whole earth he is called.

For the Lord has called you like a wife deserted and grieved in spirit,
like a wife of youth when she is cast off, says your God.

For a brief moment I deserted you,
but with great compassion I will gather you.

In overflowing anger for a moment
I hid my face from you,
but with everlasting love I will have compassion on you,"
says the Lord, your Redeemer.

The act that confounded our minds and silenced our mouths for shame is the very act that empowers the words of Isaiah.  Fear not.  It is the same act which removes our confounding and our disgrace, the very act which covers our shame and clothes us with security, peace and light.

The Almighty has become our Husband, in total compassion and love.  As Boaz, He who had no compulsion to cover us has wrapped His coat around and redeemed us.

The sense of God being far off is now only fleeting.  It is temporary.  The perception of the wrath of God is not lingering, but passes overhead.  And I think these words may offer to us a glimpse of the Father's heart towards His Son, deserting for a moment's space, anger overflowing, but returning to perfect union again.  And, unfathomably, returning to a union that has made space for us.  You and I may now existing in relationship with the Maker, the Lord of hosts, the Lord of Israel, the God of the whole earth.

The joy of the resurrection is mirrored in the sunrise.  As light bursts into darkness, I am often awoken, beams piercing the dusty eastern windows in my attic room and stretching to my pillow.  Right around 8, these days, though it'll get earlier as the days lengthen.

But the sunrise occurs without me, to me.  It is an external joy in which I participate, but to which I do not in any way contribute.  Sunrise has a beauty of it's own: truly, I do not add to it.

So too the resurrection.  Were I a bystander, watching, the joy of life returning to the Son would be enough to stir my soul, to pare off my dim dreams and wonder at reality.  If the world grew dark at the crucifixion, I believe the sun rose brighter on Sunday.  I believe the earth responded to the reunion of the Father and Son, and to the reunion of flesh and spirit.  The earth shook as the stone was rolled away.  It shivered awake.  Joy had returned to walk in the garden.

And now with everlasting love the Father will meet the Son.  The deed had been done, and peace ensued.

Yet, as though watching were insufficient, we now have been invited to participate.  As the sun rises I am drawn to sing, to pray and read and cook and eat and water the seedlings on the porch.  And as the God-Man rose, the compassion that did follow the Father's wrath then followed us.  The love of a Husband, a good husband, henceforth wrapped us in light.  God, whose face was no longer covered, now pursued us.

And so there is immeasurable hope now, for those who are tempest-tossed.  Those who are afflicted, weary, ashamed, silently begging.  Peace is extended.  There is joy for those who have suffered immeasurable pain.  There is hope, for the children who have passed away, and their parents, and their brothers and their sisters.  Because the One who was lost rose again.  Redemption has come, and the whole earth rejoiced.  For truly all creation had been barren for so long.