The Ridiculous and the Sublime

Ridiculous me

I’m embarrassed. I go to God in prayer and I think about the things I’ve asked for in the last few years and I wonder if my face is turning red with shame. How can I face this big, glorious, all-powerful God who is above and beyond all that exists and who created the universe out of nothing, when my prayers have been focused on the selfish, the trivial, and the mundane for so long?

There are people all over the world who don’t know where their next meal is coming from, who’re living in war zones, who’ve been sold into slavery, who’re being abused and tortured. And I’m begging God to take away the minor annoyances in my life?

How can I be so self-centered after all these years of following Jesus? Doesn’t God have better things to do than to micromanage all my little complaints? I’ve been praying to the sublime about the ridiculous.

(Had to look up the exact meaning of the word sublime. I like Wikipedia’s description the best: “the quality of greatness, whether physical, moral, intellectual, metaphysical, aesthetic, spiritual, or artistic. The term especially refers to a greatness beyond all possibility of calculation, measurement, or imitation.” That’s God.

While dictionary.com defines ridiculous as “causing or worthy of ridicule or derision; absurd; preposterous; laughable,” I’m using it more loosely here to mean trivial. But I imagine that some of my requests could seem absurd or laughable to God compared to the really important issues that He deals with every day.)

My life started falling apart in 2019. The stresses just kept coming until, by the end of 2021, I was pretty well wiped out, physically, mentally, and emotionally. All I could think about, all I could pray about, was how to take the next little baby step. My prayers became self-centered and small.

The healing began in 2022. Today I’m much better than I had been, even though I’m not completely back to “normal.” I can look beyond my self. I can deal with the minor challenges in life without feeling overwhelmed and sending up panicky pleas to God.

I thank Him frequently for this improvement. But as I sit down to pray I’m embarrassed by my immature thoughts and requests over the last few years.

I have to wonder how God sees me. Has He been rolling His eyes and sighing with impatience every time I’ve prayed about the problems that a really big God might consider ridiculous? It’s easy to imagine that He might have been. But then I turn to the Bible for a better understanding of who He is.

The depth of God’s compassion

In Matthew chapter 6, Jesus encourages His followers to stop focusing on all their physical necessities. Sounds like maybe He’s telling me I shouldn’t be praying the way I have been. But why does He say not to worry? Because He doesn’t care? Because all those things are too small for Him to even think about?

No. He tells us to relax because He’s so deeply concerned about our needs that He’ll provide for them. God feeds the birds of the air. We’re much more valuable than birds. He clothes the lilies of the field. We’re much more precious than lilies.

The spiritual aspect of our lives is far more important than food and clothing, and yet He has so much compassion for our material side that He gladly gives us nourishment and protection. The most sublime Being in the universe really cares about even the most ridiculous things.

Jesus says in Luke 12:7 that the very hairs on our heads are all numbered. That’s not just a specific count that He can learn once and tuck away somewhere in His vast mind while He moves on to more important issues. How many hairs have I lost in the time that it’s taken me to write this article? How many new ones have begun growing in? And God’s keeping track of all of them? How trivial is that?

Jesus’ point isn’t that the God of the universe lets Himself get distracted over unimportant details (like I do). It’s that He knows me so well and loves me so much that He’s fully aware of even the most minute, ever-changing facts about who I am.

Peter writes that “with the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day” (2 Peter 3:8). In God’s eyes, a little thing that we all experience (the ridiculous day) is no different than a span of time that goes well beyond our life expectancy and our comprehension (the sublime thousand years).

According to dictionary.com, either Napoleon or Talleyrand made the famous comment, “From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.” Quora.com explains the quote as referring to “a sudden negative change in condition.” The fall of the mighty.

But maybe it’s also true in another way. The sublime God, who is great beyond all possibility of calculation, measurement, or imitation, by His nature is but a step from things that are trivial, absurd, and laughable, things like me and my minor concerns. Not that He could ever fall to my level, but that He chooses to meet me there.

And so I realize that I don’t need to feel ashamed. Yes, my prayers were selfish and mundane. But I’d been battered by so many stresses that my body, mind, and emotions were in a bad place, where the ridiculous overwhelmed me and it took a great effort to catch a glimpse of the sublime.

If God knows the number of hairs on my head at this very moment (oops, there goes another one; now He has to revise His count), then surely He understands my weakness at those times when I can’t see beyond all my little problems. Our sublime God stoops to embrace the ridiculous.

 

 

Joy and Sorrow at Christmas

Different views of Christmas

Words to a Christmas carol, as I remember them from my childhood:

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.
Please put a penny in the old man's hat.
If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do.
If you haven’t got a ha’penny, then God bless you!

My impression of our expectations of the Christmas season today: Get excited! Be happy! Put up flashy decorations. Enjoy the great American pleasure of shopping. Eat holiday foods. Drink holiday drinks. Party. Escape from the hardships of life.

But then I look at the thoughts in the old carol. First joyful anticipation—looking forward to the birth of Christ and a fat goose to feast on. Next a poor old man. A prayer (expressing hope and compassion) for God’s blessing if you’re so broke you can’t even give away half a penny. All enfolded in an upbeat melody. Real joy in the presence of real suffering. A joy that opens the heart to give to those in need.

Which of these two images is more consistent with the first Christmas?

The up side

There were many happy moments surrounding Jesus’ birth. When Mary visited Elizabeth during both of their pregnancies, they praised God and celebrated together. (Luke 1:39-56)

An angel of the Lord appeared to lowly shepherds, bringing good news of great joy. A great company of the heavenly host suddenly joined them, praising God. (Luke 2:8-20)

Wise men from the east followed a bright star to Bethlehem to worship Jesus and present Him with precious gifts. (Matthew 2:1-12)

It’s good and right for us to celebrate His birth with joy and thanksgiving. God living among us in the flesh was the greatest gift the world had ever been given. The very idea that He would live a human life, with its roughness and dirt and hungers, leaves me in awe of His undeserved love and compassion. How can I help smiling and laughing and feasting and giving generously?

But what about those who are experiencing sorrow and pain at this time of year? Are they supposed to just ignore the aching, plaster on a fake smile, and join the celebrations? Should they feel guilty if they’re unable to pump up the enthusiasm that the season seems to demand?

The down side

There was another side to the months surrounding the first Christmas. A solemn side. A dark side. A painful side.

Mary and Joseph faced the unjust judgment of all their friends and neighbors when she became pregnant before they were married (Luke 1:26-38). They were required by a decree of Caesar to make a difficult journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem shortly before Jesus was born. When they arrived in that overcrowded little town, the only lodging they could find was in a stable. That’s where she had her baby. (Luke 2:1-7)

I have a tendency to romanticize their lives at this point. Look how they loved each other, if they were willing to go through so much together. Look how strong their faith was, as they obeyed God every time an angel gave them new instructions.

It seems almost blasphemous to think that they might have questioned God or complained or even just felt weary and discouraged. And yet they were human. And young. They didn’t fully understand what God was doing through them (Luke 2:33). They probably weren’t the perfect pair that I’ve always imagined.

When the Magi came, King Herod was so alarmed by their statement that they were seeking the king of the Jews, that he ordered all the baby boys in and around Bethlehem to be killed. Mothers were helpless as their precious children were murdered. Joseph and his little family fled to Egypt for safety. Another uncomfortable journey. (Matthew 2:1-18)

We could easily make Christmas a time of mourning and sorrow if we chose to look only at the dark side of the times. That obviously wouldn’t be appropriate.

But I think it would be okay to grieve even as we rejoice. To recognize that, as long as Satan is active on this earth, he will attack most viciously when God is pouring out His greatest blessings. And as long as we live on a planet broken by the Fall, pain will always hover around even our most joyful days.

Being both up and down

In spite of my caricature above, in some ways we Americans do experience both joy and sorrow at this Christmas season. We’re more aware of the needs around us now than at any other time of the year.

People give more generously. Organizations provide holiday meals. Children with impoverished or imprisoned parents receive special gifts. We recognize certain kinds of suffering and our obligation to help reduce it.

But do we allow those who are hurting in other ways to feel their pain? Or do we subtly pressure them to get with the program and rejoice?

A Christian friend shared a recent experience with me. Her husband’s health is declining. When she went to an event at church (alone, as her husband was too sick to attend), her heart was heavy with the sorrow of watching him suffer and of knowing that their marriage of more than fifty years was coming to an end. Her pain was intensified as she noticed other women in similar positions laughing and joking.

Her conclusion as she was telling me the story was that she’d had a bad attitude. She should’ve been able to put her grief aside, as those other women were apparently doing, and rejoice in our Savior.

Why can’t we do both? Both grieve and rejoice. Feel the very real pain, as many of the writers of the Bible did. (Especially the prophets and psalmists.) Even Jesus wept. Even when He knew that great rejoicing was only a moment away. (John 11:1-44)

This is the Christian life. It hurts. We suffer. We can’t and shouldn’t downplay that suffering. But the rejoicing is so much fuller than the sorrow. Jesus was born and walked among us. He died to give us eternal life. He rose from the dead. There is now no condemnation for those who follow Him. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. (Romans 8:1, 38-39)

But the pain still lingers. We can get through it because, as one who lived life in the flesh, Jesus is with us in that pain.

Just like in the Christmas carol. We can enjoy the feast without ignoring the sorrow. An old man stands on a street corner begging. Others are so poor they can’t help him out. But Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, we have the privilege of praying to a compassionate God to bless the needy, and the overall melody is upbeat.

 

 

Binding up the Wounded

Healing and binding up

According to Psalm 147:3, the Lord “heals the brokenhearted . . .”

That’s what I want. When my heart is broken, when I’m suffering from the pains of this life, I want to be healed. Instantly.

“. . . and binds up their wounds.”

But that’s not what usually happens. Most of the time, God begins the healing process by binding up my wounds. He cleanses the area, applies medication, and covers it to protect it from infection. But the cleansing and the medication can sting. The injury can still ache. And a complete recovery can take days or weeks or even months.

How thankful am I for that binding up? Am I on my knees in gratitude for the cleansing, the medication, and the protection? Or do I resent the sting, pick at the scab, and hold back my praise until I’m completely whole again?

The world tells me I don’t have to go through a long messy process to feel better. I can distract myself through mindless entertainment or busyness or shopping. I can dull the pain with physical pleasure or alcohol or drugs.

But that would be providing a bandaid and temporary painkiller where a more thorough treatment is needed. It would be letting the numbed and hidden wound fester and deepen, rather than healing it.

Next steps

After the doctor has done all he can to treat my illness or injury, my body goes to work to continue the process. In the same way, when I’m emotionally and spiritually bruised and broken and bleeding there are things I can do to contribute to my own recovery.

Trust God. Rest in His everlasting arms. (Deuteronomy 33:27)

Worship Him. Both privately and in my church.

Read the Bible, especially the books that soothe my soul.

Pray. Pour out my heavy heart to Him (Psalm 62:8). But also counteract my toxic self-centeredness by expressing my concern for others and my gratitude and praise to God.

Seek fellowship with my sisters and brothers in Christ for their support. And for their teaching and correction.

Confess and turn from my sin. Obey God’s commands.

He’s the One who enables me to do all this. Just as He created my body to be capable of fighting off infection and recovering from injuries, His Holy Spirit provides me with access to the desire and the wisdom and the self-control to foster my emotional and spiritual well-being.

How thankful am I for that desire and wisdom and self-control? How often do I fight it instead?

It can be so hard to trust Him. And to find time to worship and read and pray and seek out other Christians. It’s hard to overcome my pride enough to confess my sin. And to turn away from it and obey His commands. I want the blessing of wholeness without the effort that it takes to get there. Even when God offers me all I need to succeed.

A slow process

Isaiah speaks of binding up the brokenhearted (61:1), not of immediate wholeness. And he’s talking about Jesus (Luke 4:16-21). I always think of Jesus’ earthly ministry as one of instant, miraculous physical healings. No binding up. Just a few words and touches, and everything is fine again. That’s what usually happened.

But maybe that physical healing was just the binding up of wounds, not a complete cure. Maybe the real healing was spiritual, a slower process occurring over time.

Jesus’ miracles were signs intended as a witness to help people see that He’s the Son of God. The miracles performed by the early Christians were given to support their message. Since that time, instant cures have become rarer. The slow process is much more common now. How thankful am I for that slow process?

I can look back and see how God has grown me through gradual healing, and praise Him after the fact. But do I thank Him as it’s occurring, knowing that the testing of my faith develops perseverance, so that I will become mature and complete, not lacking anything (James 1:2-4)? Am I ever thankful for a process that will lead to my not lacking anything at all? Why not?

Brokenness and binding up

Sometimes our brokenness is a direct result of our sin. Psalm 51 was written by David after the prophet Nathan confronted him with seducing Bathsheba and having her husband, Uriah, killed (2 Samuel 12). David says that a broken spirit (in this case, broken by the conviction of sin) is a sacrifice to God. Sacrificing hurts. Facing our brokenness and offering it to God hurts.

Amazingly, though, even after we’ve committed loathsome acts of pride and greed and lust in the presence of our holy God, He binds up our brokenness when we simply repent. And that binding up, that forgiveness, comes quickly. David says to Nathan, “I have sinned against the Lord.” Immediately, Nathan replies, “The Lord has taken away your sin.”

But it’s only a binding up, not a complete cure. David suffers the consequences of his rebellion when the child that he and Bathsheba conceived dies several days later.

God uses our brokenness over sin, including the physical results, to draw us back to Him. How thankful am I for that brokenness? Without it, I’d continue on my merry way, ignoring and defying Him. I’d reach the end of my life having missed the greatest blessings that come from walking with Him in increasing intimacy.

Dear God of grace and mercy, help me to be more thankful for Your hand in my life, knowing that Your binding up of my wounds is the best means of obtaining the deepest kind of healing. Even though the treatment often stings. Even though the pain lingers for a while. And even though it’s just the beginning of my cure.

 

 

Words

A painful loss

Opening the email app in my phone one morning. Kind of in a hurry. Skipping over the promotions and the daily news feeds. Spotting a note from my church. These don’t come often, so it must be important. Reading it.

“Francine died today.”

Crashing. Aching. Burning. Crying.

No, God, no. No, no, no. Not Francine. No. This can’t be. The pain is too great.

I’m not hurting for myself. I barely knew Francine. I’m grieving for her two children, both in their early twenties, one with special needs. Her mom was her advocate.

Francine’s husband just died three months ago. In their fifties, without any life-threatening health issues that they were aware of, both losses were unexpected.

How can their daughters possibly cope with their deaths? How can they possibly live with the trauma?

Trying to pray

I’ve never met the two of them. It sounds like they have plenty of support. Trying to contact them might be more intrusive than helpful.

The best thing I can do is to lift them up in prayer. But how do I pray? My words feel too shallow, too sterile. Like giving God a to-do list. Words seem too small to cover the enormous breadth and depth of their heartbreak and shock.

The news affects me physically, not just in the intellectual and emotional realm of words. I cry. My stomach tightens up. My breathing becomes sighing. I need something more than mere words to pray with.

But I don’t have anything more. Words are the highest form of expression that God’s provided for us. How do I go beyond that?

For the next few days, I use whatever words I can in my prayers for these two dear young people. Although I don’t do it to be selfish, it also helps me. It’s a good outlet for my own grief and horror and anger. I need to bring my emotions to God, rather than letting them come between us.

Today, as I try once again to pray, and once again feel helpless in finding the words to express my greatest concerns and desires for Francine’s daughters, I feel a certain freedom to forget the search for words and simply sit before God with an open heart. Could there be anything wrong with that?

Maybe.

The importance of words

There’s a danger in praying without words. The threat of laziness. Especially in a lazy culture where we’re always looking for shortcuts and conveniences rather than depth and meaning. Avoiding words lets me avoid the struggle.

If I don’t have to struggle to find words, then I don’t have to struggle to understand and come to terms with the tragedy that’s hit these two young women. I don’t have to struggle to deal with and work through my anger and confusion. I don’t have to struggle to understand how God can be present in this situation. Without words, prayer can become a time to just sit and wallow in my feelings, in my self, rather than turning to God.

My friend Kyle, who was one of the best pray-ers I’ve ever known, once asked me if I thought it was possible to pray without words. (Posing the question, as usual, before even hinting at his opinion. And, as usual, I responded without stopping to ask or wonder what his opinion might be.) I immediately said yes, but it should be rare so it doesn’t become a cop-out.

Because of the dangers and pitfalls that can occur, Kyle stated very strongly that we should never attempt to pray without words. Such an exercise couldn’t even be labeled prayer.

In response, I cited my first depressive episode. There were times when I was completely mentally unable to string two words together. But I needed to pray. And I did. Without words. And somehow I knew that God heard me.

God sees into the depths our hearts. Even when we do use words, they’re not enough to convey the fullness of our experiences. They’re so inadequate that we need the support of the Son and the Holy Spirit, as they pray to the Father for us (Romans 8:26 and 34). Our words are so inadequate that the Holy Spirit “intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.”

And yet the Bible is full of prayers written out in words. The Psalms contain many examples of working-through prayers. They start out in anguish or fear or anger. But as the prayer continues, it becomes praise to God for who He is and what He’s done. Without the words used in the early part of the psalm, could the writer ever reach the joy or comfort expressed at the end?

Some might argue that using words can be just as shallow as praying without them, and I would agree. Repeating the same phrases without thinking. Simply saying, “Lord, I pray for John,” without mentioning what John needs.

I once sat in a Bible study where the leader asked for prayer requests. We brought up some very specific concerns. Instead of laying each of them before the throne of God, the leader just went down the list name by name, and asked for His will to be done in that person’s life. It felt so empty.

These types of prayers cater to our laziness as much as praying without words does. Words need to be backed by thoughtful awareness, and sometimes even struggles. They need to be spoken (if only in our heads) with the recognition that we are in the presence of the almighty God, the creator of all that exists, the One who is above and beyond all that we can comprehend. A big God who expects and encourages us to go deeper and higher in our communication with Him.

Words are important to God. He created all that exists through words (Genesis 1). The Bible is called His Word (e.g. Matthew 15:6). In John chapter one, Jesus Himself is referred to as the Word. Words aren’t just a human construct that we can dispense with or rise above in our prayers. They relate very intimately to the triune God.

Praying

And so I usually make every effort to put my prayers into words. Sometimes it takes a very great effort. But, as with the psalmist moving from anger and depression and disappointment to joy and praise, it’s well worth the work.

Right now, in this moment, though, I don’t know how to express all the anguish and fear that I feel for Francine’s daughters.

Right now, while the wound is so fresh, I sense that it’s okay to spend a bit of time simply praying without words, letting my grief for those two young people touch the heart of God and leaving the rest up to Him.

Later, I’ll return to the struggle to find the words, because that’s the example God gives us in His Word. But I’ll also trust Jesus and the Holy Spirit to pray more deeply and effectively than anything my puny words can express.

 

 

I Love This Church

The church at its best

Sitting in Sunday school one morning. A pleasant surprise. First a confession from a leader named Bob. Then the spontaneous response.

Bob’s been through a lot in the last year. The sudden death of a young mother within his extended family. Painful and scary health issues for him and his wife and their adult children.

In addition, he and a few of his cousins have decided to take a road trip to visit some places with special connections to their childhood. They all agreed that it would be best if Bob would organize it. He’s excited about the trip, but putting it together is a big job, and he feels kind of lost as he tries to figure out the details regarding where and when and how.

Today, as expected, he opens the class with greetings and announcements. Then, unexpectedly, the confession. He’s struggling with all the stresses in his life right now. He’s feeling small and and weak and overwhelmed. With drooping shoulders and a weary expression on his face, he asks for our prayers.

Next the spontaneous response. Sylvia stands up, pulls an empty chair out from a table, and tells Bob to sit down. A group gathers around him and places their hands on his head and shoulders. They take several minutes to pray out loud for him. After the final “Amen!,” I turn to the friend next to me with a hint of tears in my eyes and say, “I love this church!”

We’re not a charismatic church or class. Some hands are raised during the worship service, and once every few years we lay hands on someone to pray for them, but most of us express our love and gratitude and dedication to God more calmly and quietly.

Personal prayer requests tend to be limited to concerns about health issues, jobs, or travel safety. The externals, not the internals. When I’m praying at home, I have to remind myself to extend my intercession to include the spiritual side as well as the physical.

This morning we’ve broken through a barrier that prevents us from sharing more deeply. A leader in the class has admitted his weakness by asking for prayer for his emotional and spiritual needs. He had the courage to make himself vulnerable to accusations from the evangelically correct: If he was really a good Christian, he should be strong enough to handle all this. If he was really a good Christian, he should trust God better.

And we didn’t respond in judgment. We didn’t rush to assure Bob that God is in control, so he should just accept the situation and be happy. Our hearts were open to his pain. We valued his spontaneous confession. We surrounded him with love and understanding and prayers.

This is the church at its best.

The foundation

How did we get here?

Church leadership has a lot to do with it. Our head pastor sets an example. He’s real. Human. We know that he faces the same struggles as we do.

Recently, a friend and I were talking about the strengths in our church. Without going into the specific details, she told me that several years ago she had asked Pastor for guidance regarding a problem within her family. Over time it became clear that his advice was pretty bad.

She went back to him feeling disappointed and a bit angry. He freely admitted that he was wrong and humbly apologized. No attempt to justify himself or to place the blame on her.

During the time that I’ve been going to this church, I’ve seen Pastor grow spiritually and in his ability to communicate more compassionately. I don’t know that I could say that about any other pastor in any other church that I’ve belonged to.

The age of my Sunday school classmates might have something to do with it, too. I’m in my mid-sixties. More than half of the class is older than me.

Several have lost spouses and adult children. Many have chronic health problems. A few are experiencing financial difficulties. Some grieve over children who are abusing drugs or alcohol or who’ve strayed from the Truth. At least one has had to face the trial of seeing her son sent to prison on drug-related charges after years of attempts to get him through rehab successfully.

Suffering tends to either drive people apart or draw them together. We tend to respond to it in one of three ways: by denying the pain, by doing the opposite and constantly griping about it, or by working through our sorrow with the support of those around us.

In my experience in the past, many church members who were hurting either left or felt pressured to pretend in order to continue attending. I don’t know if there’s been a shift among evangelicals in general or if my church is an exception to the rule, but more people here seem to remain through the tough times as they draw together and reach out for support.

Maybe we can be trusted with our leader’s vulnerability because we’ve been in his shoes and we’re willing to admit it.

Room to grow

As good as it is, my church has its shortcomings, too. Some of the teaching is shallower than I’d like it to be, but it’s better than other churches that I’ve been in. In spite of our concern for each other, as demonstrated this morning, it can be difficult to build deep relationships.

One of the biggies that grieves me is the lack of children in the Worship Center. They call the service “big church.” As if it’s only for big people. As if they don’t belong there. They worship in their own groups with others their own age.

What will happen down the road when they graduate out of those groups and their only choice of where and when to worship at church is in the main sanctuary, with people who are all older than they are? Will they be mature enough to appreciate worship that doesn’t focus on the needs and preferences of a narrow range of ages? Or will they simply walk away?

So my church isn’t perfect. But I love it anyway. I pray that we would continue to follow God faithfully and to grow in Him. And that He would protect us from the attacks of Satan as we do that.