Faz Chover (Let it Rain)

Watching the rain was something I needed to see today - there's something so clear about watching water pour mercilessly out of the sky - no one can stop it, it's so clear that something else - that you are in control - people can't avoid the drenching rains pouring down.  And it was pouring so hard.  

What is one person in a rain storm like that, where the once blue-white sky is an opaque dark gray, rivers forming along the ground, the sky speaking and slashing light to add to the flavor of the storm?  In one sense, nothing - an ant, a molecule in comparison to the God who controls skies that in an instant display such power, and even then, in only one place - one tiny example.  But at the same time, one person is everything.  I sit on this balcony - high up enough to see over roofs of university buildings, apartments, places of work.  With people, in each one.  How can you know them all, Lord?  Their names, their every experience, their hopes and dreams, those who think they have none... And how come you can't pour down knowledge of you like the rain, flooding into every crack and corner, flowing through streets and over feet and on heads that have never called you their savior?

We don't want to get wet.  We don't want the feeling of the cold rain on our skin, because we know it would soak us through.  Instead we run, dodging the drops, shielding our eyes, our hair, our heads.  Or we walk slowly and steadily, ignoring the minor dampness our feet get as the rest of our body is shielded by the fabric arms of an umbrella - we are comfortable, wading through the storm without having to fully deal with the reality that we are walking though a downpour.
And then, I've always envied those people who, without a care in the world about their clothes, their shoes, or their hair, lift up their head, close their eyes, and let the rain pour down all around them, arms open wide as they laugh and dance, water soaking them to the core.  

I can't do that, you say - I'm carrying valuable things, I don't have time, and I have to look presentable for wherever I'm going next...

The barefoot girl gives a sympathetic smile, but her eyes still glow with the joy of the storm.  Long ago she left the things she carried by the side of the road, gave away her shoes, and started believing in the sun to dry out her dress after the downpour of the cleansing rain.  She tries to remember what it was like to need the umbrella, to clutch tightly to the possessions, to walk without feeling the earth beneath her bare feet, the contrast of the soft grass with the harsh pebbles that make her step strong and firm.

Her brow furrows as she remembers she thought she was in control then, though one day the strong wind contorted the umbrella into a useless frame, and the choice came - to run or to stand.
She opens her eyes, and finds the umbrella dotting along, the person underneath it jumping over puddles, still clinging tightly, the drops rolling off the fabric arms into the thirsty ground below.

- May 17, 2012

I love the way the Bible talks about rain, and how throughout my life, he's given me pictures of himself through this phenomenon - sometimes light and subtle, sometimes powerful and strong.  A few days ago, I asked him to speak to me while I watched an incredible storm pass through, and he spoke in this picture... my heart is so conflicted by how many people don't know him - how many could never know him - it's overwhelming, it scares and saddens me.  And yet, even though I know his love and the truth of his salvation, sometimes I am the one holding the umbrella still, clutching on to things that don't matter in light of eternity, distracted by the puddles that threaten to drench my feet - how much am I missing?!  How much am I giving up in not giving it ALL up for the sure promise of freedom, beloved?  Today in our Saturday service, we had the pleasure of singing "Let It Rain", and I have to say it sounds much richer in Portuguese...

Eu vejo uma pequena nuvem

Do tamanho da mão de um homem,

Mas este é o sinal

Que a tua chuva vai descer

Faz chover, faz chover

Abre as comportas dos céus

E faz chover, faz chover

Abre as comportas dos céus

(Let it rain, let it rain,

Open the floodgates of heaven

let is rain, let it rain,

Open the floodgates of heaven...)

04.14.2012. Pasxa

the words made me angry
because they sunk in too late
because i hadnt pushed through the pc exterior for the desire beneath
because a hard shell like that so easily deflects my attempts to bring you in closer
a real Russian church, she said
to feel something on Easter
but, what is real?
it only sunk in later that her words dismissed my church as real
i know she meant the building
the cupolas, the candles, the icons, and the women in scarves
but she wants something different
she doesnt know where to find it
and she thinks going to a museum hall on a religious day will show her
but what about the life?
what about the breath and joy and laughter and family?
those are found in a room in a hotel conference room, where there aren't enough chairs
smiles and tears and loud crowd-joining prayers and singing and hands lifted high
its what she wants, what she doesnt know is missing
but she's looking for that in a building, a museum, a day on the Calendar
why? why didnt i hear that all in those words she spoke,
the ones that sunk in late and furrowed my brow
how? how do i recover from the way i accepted the dismissal of my church as real?
the words made me angry
not because of the ignorance that spoke them
but because of all that was lost in between them

Prayer and Persecution

Prayer. 
It's the lifeblood of Christians from its Jewish roots to its current persecutions.  And yet, it is elusive even as it is essential.  It is the method of preservation of the soul, it is the power of miracles and protection and provision and deliverance.  It is the means, the voice, the fiber of our very connection to the God of our salvation, and yet, it can be as invisible and absent in a life that claims that salvation as it is indispensable and omnipresent in another.  In fleshing this out, I don't point a finger at others, but at myself.  Knowing prayer as an old friend, I have neglected it.  But in neglecting the means, the conversation, I am also neglecting my Savior, my relationship.  And it results in confusion.  Awkwardness.  Like when you misinterpret a text message statement because it wasn't made face to face, or in this case, on my face.
I read an article yesterday that really sobered me - it was reporting on the active persecution of Christians going on in the world, and noted how these persecuted Christians certainly acknowledge the difficulty and dangers of their circumstances, but chillingly added that they weren't sure they could live in a place where "Christian" was just an arbitrary label that is mistaken for a life without sacrifice or risk.  And I read those words, thinking about my own life, where my own Christian life has only experienced "risk" in the form of peer disapproval, empty politically-correct debate, and selfishly based "fear of man" issues.  While people each day don't just risk their lives by making the decision to follow Christ, they give them up, or they risk the lives of their loved ones, sometimes watching as they are punished for the cause of Christ, the privilege to bear the label "Christ's".
I see this in the striking difference with which I, a privileged American under no threat of persecution, look on an acquaintance - a self-proclaimed convert from Christianity to Atheism - and has since begun a loud evangelism campaign against any kind of Theism, especially Christianity.  I see his Atheism as annoying, self-assuming, grating on my nerves, and obnoxious at times.  But how does the persecuted Christian in North Korea view his atheist "comrades" - those who brutally persecute, as well as those who secretly inform and publicly incriminate - or those who simply have never heard the gospel at all.  I bet the words "annoying" and "obnoxious" aren't the first words to come to their minds.  And while their risk is greater - so much greater than my sore spot at an offensive or rude facebook comment (I know, gag me) - I'd bet they have different words describing these people.  Broken.  Confused.  Blind.  Lost.  But Loved.  
These brothers and sisters of mine would never equate themselves with the sacrifice of our Savior who bore the sins of the world and the wrath of our Father God on the cross, but I bet they understand so much more those words, "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do."  And, I also bet, that they cling to prayer desperately just as I neglect it carelessly.
To find out more about these brothers and sisters, visit http://www.opendoorsusa.org/

Letter for a Funeral

I know that many of you must be thinking how sad it is that I am halfway around the world instead of there with you, and in many ways, that is true.  Though, thanks to the times we live in, I was able to be present with my family in Papa's room the other night, and I got to fall asleep to the sound of them singing at his bedside, I would  have of course likes to be there in person, to hold hands and give hugs, as I would like to do the same today.  But the fact that I am here, in Russia, at this time is only partly sad.  You see, I've never been more proud of my Oma and Papa than in this last year.  Not only were they brave in this battle against Leukemia, but I saw them come together and depend on the Lord for strength in a whole new way.  When we had the miraculous privilege of spending extra time with Papa in a time of remission, I was so happy to hear stories of him telling restaurant waitresses and other people around him about God's healing and love, pointing to him as the author of that miracle time.  And this is why I'm not sad to be here - because more than one person here in Russia has heard about the love, grace, and healing of our savior because of my Papa's life, and even in his death, as one of my Russian friends told me the other day "But I remember his story and how amazing it is."  My grandparent's faith, because it relied on Jesus' strength in a time of great weakness, has given me the opportunity to share the goodness of the gospel with some of the people in my life here, and that is not something that I can be sad about.

After hearing the final news from my family, I read the following passage from Hebrews:

"Therefore brothers and sisters, since we have confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, that is, through his flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed of pure water.  Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful.  And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near."  Hebrews 10:19-25

I've never read that passage quite in this perspective or context, thinking about what it really means to draw near in an actual sense beyond figurative.  I've never thought about how it might be to literally, actually 'enter the holy places' with a 'heart sprinkled clean' of sin and a 'body washed with pure water'.  I think reading this on a day when I saw my Papa breathing across the room through a computer screen across the ocean in the morning, and now know that his labored breathing has been replaced with the life and freedom that God has so faithfully promised to us, the reality of my place in His kingdom has become solidified in a way that I think can only happen when someone close has died.  Just like a birth or a wedding is a small picture of the way that God relates to us, death can be the culmination, and the entering in, and the taking part, of the gift we've been promised and held on to.  For some of us, we've held onto this promise for a long time, for some, a short time, and for some, we might not have really ever truly taken hold of it.  But if we have, death only means finally walking into the 'new and living way that <Jesus> opened for us'.  So, let us indeed 'hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering', as the author of Hebrews says.  Why?  Because it is comforting, yes.  But also because it is true, and when we have been forced to look at it so closely, we understand more than ever how important it is to live and walk with our eyes wide open, our feet ready, our mouth laced with gracious words, our hands ready for service, our heart willing to do, or go, or love, or listen, or say what is needed.  As someone close to me has gone to be with our eternal God, it is easier to think about the Day drawing near when I will join him, when hopefully all of you will join him.  But let us not forget the most important One whom we will be joining on that day - the one who made it possible in the first place, as part of the first plan, where grace is the story, and peace is the place.

To My One and Only Papa,

I wrote a postcard today that I won't ever send.  The idea of it arriving too late and being half of a whole made me keep it with me.  But today, I got to send it to you in a different way.  An almost instant - through the internet - bedside-read sentiment for you to know that you're in my thoughts and prayers.  Being so far away, I can only imagine what it looks like for the atoms and molecules inside of a body to destroy their own home - how the articles and the long scientific names and the different colored ribbons supporting your struggle actually gets so personal as to slowly take your breath away - the cells on the power point are now fully realized in a way the student can never be prepared for.  But it's a fascinating threshold, too - to think that you're so close - so incredibly close - to the freedom and uninhibited, completely sanctified and free-from-struggle LIFE that all of our great big multi-colored family is running toward... it's a difficult paradox to grasp.  In only a short time, you'll get to be with God in a glory that we've only seen in an infintismal amount.  The intimacy we experience in our interactions with God on earth will be so much sweeter for you... so soon.  And just before being there, you leave as we all do, as we all entered - helpless, cradled, known, and designed for grace.  You'll fully know what we only experience from a distance, because you ran the race and you're almost done, and there's only celebration on the other side.  It will be strange without you - to sing, to dance, to speak on your behalf... but oh, it's just a taste of where you'll be, and where I'll meet you soon.
With love,
Juliana

Really?!

I like you.  I like you a lot.  The first time I saw you, I knew I had to find you again.  I'm a serious person - for me, relationships are not a fling - I'm the 'be with you for a century' kind of guy.  I'll do whatever it takes, I want to be with you.

Maybe, someday, with a WHOLE lot more context, and an audience that feels the same, a very different person who still loves Jesus more, will say words like this to me, and I'll actually be glad.  Until then, #IWILLWAIT

For me, or you, or her.

I met you first from far away,
tiny figurine up high on a shelf
From there most couldn't see the word fragile, hidden
delicate porcelain painted in perfect symmetry,
no mark or line out of place.
You couldn't hear me if I spoke soft,
and so, sometimes, I yelled.
And the figurine peered off the ledge.

Anticipation of the jump -
it was the kind like a cannonball into clear fresh water,
but to you it looked like suicide -
and you stayed on the ledge for awhile.

And then, you knew, it was your time to fall,
and the figurine smashed on the ground.
Once perfect and seamless and painted just right,
the porcelain was nowhere and everywhere,
tiny slivers and huge pieces covering the floor all around.
You scrambled, the jagged pieces scraping your knees
and cutting into your palms as you tried to grab them,
scoop them, keep them in your hands and put them back together again.
Tears stung your eyes as the blood trickled down -
if the figurine was gone, what was left?

And he came.
Strong hands under yours, he brushed off your knees
and took your mangled hands in his, and washed them.
You winced as he took each piece out -
it was painful and some hurt more than others -
but you knew it was best, and you loved him for it.
You watched them fall away, the shards of glass you once held onto,
and your love for them faded as he worked.

The fingers that once curled around the glass now held tightly to his hands,
as he lifted you up to your feet.
You breathed in deep and tasted air, and coughed a time or two.
But it tasted good and you stretched out your arms,
and you finally started to dance.