To Describe God

Below is an edited version of a prayer I wrote in February 2005. I’m posting it because I think to at least some of it you’ll relate.

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If I should try to describe You, God, I might say You’re like a mist; You form various shapes, but appear everywhere and different. I trust You to know my heart and know how I would not accuse You of changeableness, but accuse my understanding of not grasping You.

You are like a firefly on a dark summer night. I may believe You are there, but until you turn on Your light, I’m not certain where.

Sometimes You appear as a possible predator to my happiness; like a rattlesnake somewhere on a ranch, and I’m praying none of mine will step in Your path and take death’s poisonous exit.

Sometimes I long for You, ache for You, despair of being had by You. You stand nearby as my Invisible Observer, but You don’t make a sound. I end up on the floor with my paper gods with faces cut from magazines, little creatures no bigger than myself whom You have made.

Sometimes I listen for You and feel proud that I actually want to hear You. I hear buzzes, I hear cars, I hear the whistle of a train, but not one small whisper from Your lips.

I panic sometimes. If You should ever leave it to me to find my way Home, I’d be lost forever.

But I believe in You, God. You have been my Father, my Guide, my Strength, my Sustainer. In You is the only hope in which I can dream.

Funny. It is good to say that—the only Hope in which I can dream. Getting here has not been so easy. I’ve come kicking and screaming, but You didn’t put me down.

Oh, if only this was the end and all the refinement I need could be made with these “small” losses; if only I didn’t know greater sacrifices might await me. Oh, how lonely and scary and heart-wrenching one short life can be. You do not ask for more than You gave. You ask for everything.

What will Home be like with You? How is it that our tasks will look so small from the light of Home? What do I need to know or realise in order to let go and let You hurt me and still trust You completely?

Open my eyes wider. Not inwardly. Upwardly. Father, I see a shrivelled worm as I look inward. I see a sad excuse for a human—talentless, friendless, pointless, but still holding on to my pride to not get hurt and to my mini-gods.

What does it mean to be a Christian? What is it like to be free of myself? Where is the dividing line, the gulf that I can cross or be flung over and become the outward clothes of the Living Son of God? Where do You begin and I end? Draw it up. Point me there. It’s time that life began—No turning back.

Here are my fears. You’ll need to check all my pockets and hiding places. There are always some fresh ones lying around.

Here is my fear of losing those I love—of dying while they live or living after they die.  Here’s my fear of getting older and my desire to die early. Here are my fears—of rejection, of being unchanged and entering eternal shame, of success, of failure. Here’s my fear of never getting any closer to You or of getting too close to You.

Father, these are scary things to give up. All these fears, these quirks…You aren’t going to find anything left of me when they are gone.

It’s a starting place. I already feel myself reaching for my comfort “blankets.” I’ll take them all back, if you let me. PLEASE don’t let me. Let’s go forward, Father. It’s time. It’s past time.

If God Says No

I've been contemplating lately about longings. Bear with me.

Longings are not only universal, but relatively constant. Even in a state of contentment, we get hungry...

My questions have come from analysis of the past and present, and questions of the future.

Recently, I acquired a copy of two letters from a member of The White Rose (an anti-Nazi, German university resistance group) and her fiance. The letters have never been published in English. Many of The White Rose members were killed with personal and national dreams unfulfilled and never knew that their movement was later used by the Allies.

I've mentioned before, Dietrich Bonhoeffer died two days before the Allies freed Germany. Corrie ten Boom, lost her family in a concentration camp and, after all she'd been through, would daydream of taking a walk with a man she'd dated before the Holocaust.

Two of my friends have lost spouses this year: one in an accident, the other from an aneurysm. Both have confidence they will see their loved one in heaven, but never again on earth.

These examples are mainly relational, but Hebrews 11, the Hall of Faith chapter, lists many heroes, who died with a variety of hopes unfulfilled. Yet, they had confidence in God, who keeps His promises.

So, as I bring my request before God, I'm reminded that He may say "no." If He does, I am left with the question of how I will respond. Will I accept His answer or will I pout (and when the longing is great, it's hard to accept that it may be satisfied another way than how I hope)? Will I seek Him only for what I want or will I seek Him for Himself?

It's not as easy as it sounds, is it? Like in every area of life, I've found it is a process of surrender, which may have to be learned again.

What about you? How are you learning the difference between seeking God versus seeking His benefits?

Hiraeth

I have a new favourite word.

I became acquainted with a singer, who, unbeknown to me, is also one of my brother's favourite tenors--Bryn Terfel. The title song is We'll Keep a Welcome. In this sentimental piece, he sings of welcoming home someone, who has been away, and kissing "away each hour of hiraeth."

Hiraeth is a Welsh word for longing. The way it is described in books and definitions make it clear it is not a simple wish or an inconsistent desire, but a deep, insatiable longing. A longing only fulfilled by coming home.

We all have hiraeth. C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, in their conversations together, concluded these longings are a result of our being "exiled from Eden." Our roots were planted in a perfect garden. We have been exiled from that paradise, but we can have hope for another.

Sadly, for those who get through life as best they can--this is it. The hiraeth will be eternal and worse.

We accrued a debt in Eden. This debt was too large for us to pay. The debt of sin. Jesus paid this debt, but it is only received by those who will accept the payment written in His blood. If we snub His gift, we will pay our own debt. And, what we were created for, what the longing inside of you is reaching for, will never be touched.

If, however, you accept the payment, you have a promise of something greater than earth's small pleasures. No matter how many small longings are fulfilled today or tomorrow, there will always be that one deep-rooted hiraeth. That longing for a Home, where all traces of sorrow, pain, parting, and craving will be satisfied. When we look on the face of the One who we have longed for all our life, then, and only then, will every hiraeth of our heart be kissed away.

Whatever your hiraeth is today, you may find temporary fulfillment in what you think you want, but the longing will not die away completely while in exile.

As the chorus of the song "Finally Home" describes it:

Just think of stepping on shore,

and finding it heaven

Of touching a hand,

and finding it God's

Of breathing new air,

and finding it celestial

Of waking up in Glory,

and finding it Home.