worship.

We watched her fade. And it wasn’t for one second what we wanted. Somehow there were reconciled thoughts all around the room though. ‘Till the last is defiance—why must things be as they are? But with it can come some strange acceptance—well, they just are so.

It is a rainy Christmas and we figure, at least it’s still warm enough to rain. No matter cloudy skies and gloom. There are always a few different ways of looking at circumstances. I don’t want the bitter taste any more than you, but I do want to walk away uncrippled. If we lean on each other a little here a little there, we’ll put the crutches out of business and be ready to give a hand to others soon. Theoretically at least.

Asking why is okay. Perhaps even healthy. Our fists were made to shake to the rhythm of what is right. “Let justice roll down like water,”[1] declared the Lord through the ancient prophet. And may it roll down, down, down.

Then again, think how it would sweep us all away. Not one of us would be left standing with stone in hand. Throw first, ye sinless. The world trembles at the thud of all condemnations dropping to the ground.

Just look at the evil here. Evil in us. It’s not so much a wonder bad happens; it’s more a wonder good does.

The best we see to do is take longer to sip the coffee, love deeper each chance we get, praise the Lord for life every dark or well-lit day. Follow His footprints as clear as you can track them. Reconcile thoughts with this—

Hands lift wood to hilltop as stones and water roll down over innocence instead. So come and worship. Come.

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[1] Amos 5:24

bring lazarus back.

The preacher stood and told us stories about the ones that had fallen away. He told it broken, as he felt. But he did not leave us without an explanation.

“They just couldn’t,” he paused. It was hard. He looked right at our souls, “they couldn’t reconcile their pain with who Jesus is.”*

Neither can we.

The Father turns His face away, and how deep we don’t feel Him. Or His love for us.

We meander out the doors, leaving as soon as it is not obvious that we want to. And it is not that we don’t daily seek Him. It is that in knowing more, we aren’t necessarily awed. Driving through hills and city, there is beauty. We are not blind to it, for we rose when He called, “Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead.” (Eph. 5:14 AMPC)

Yet we are living as this—“O wretched man that I am!”(Rom. 7:24 NKJV)—a flock of chief sinners who get a lot farther along than a lot of others, but it doesn’t eradicate guilt. And we understand He sacrificed for that. For us. Thanks.

Mostly it is impossible to love Him the height and depth we want to. I won’t admit it if you don’t, but it is for a lot of the classic reasons. Primarily, He could have rescued in places that are now dead. We wail, like Mary, “Lord, if You had been there…” Does He groan for us? Would the Jews say, “See how He loved…” while looking upon His face looking upon our sorrow? Because He isn’t bringing Lazarus back (John 11:32-27 NKJV). And we know it is wrong, but we demand “rights.” Of which we have none. Thanks.

Who are You, Jesus?

The problem is memory—being so happy. If we hadn’t been so happy, we wouldn’t be so miserable now. We should say thanks and mean it, but the prince of the power of the air has some kind of a nasty hold on our thoughts. We want to sleep. Want to stop thinking how happy we were. We are okay and we get things done and then someone mentions something or we view memory, like pictures near unbelievable, and we ache and we cry and we hate once more. We read about gifts, all the things we do not see nor express gratitude for. Would we mean it if we did? We serve the Church again, again, and think, “God loves a cheerful giver” (2 Cor. 9:7 NKJV). But we do not muster cheer, and so we wonder if He does not love us.

Do You love us?

We are sure there is fullness of joy in this life with Him somehow. Or at least in the hope of the life to come. We drink tea and read more and long for purpose. A friend sends a verse: “Until now you have asked nothing in My name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full.” (John 16:24) We have been begging Him—give Lazarus back! But what does it mean to ask in His name? Is it to say, “in the name of Yourself, O mighty Jesus Christ, please… return, restore, rebuild”? He gave so generously and beautifully before—we are sorry not to have thanked more—that all other giving looks sad next to it now.

We want nothing else but what we want. We try to forget that because it sounds and feels and is pathetic. But we remember and we scream, “WHY?” a thousand times in our heads.

How do we ask in Your name? How? Do You hate us yet? We hate ourselves.

We try pretending we just want… in general, and that is why we are lonely. But we dress up for the party and smile and detest everyone there. This is not it. Must be sinful, or sacrilegious, because we feel ashamed to think so, but we question Him ending that which brought Him glory. Because it did, didn’t it? Please, awaken Lazarus.

If what we ask for is wrong [is it?], then what do we ask for in Your name?

He gave salvation. Though, wretches that we are, we don’t deserve it. What else shall we ask for? People say we should know Him more. His word speaks of increasing our knowledge of Him.

But we smell the absent spices, and You must be a God that hates us. We feel the heat of those days and hear the heartbeat we had, and You are a God that toys with our feelings. The lost beautiful speaks up, and You are a God that breaks our hearts.

What should we ask for? Have we not blasphemed Your name yet? Are we doomed to hell?

No. Because we love Him. Still. Most. Lazarus or not. We recognize that He can withhold the rain, He can use sorrow to speak. May we not hear Him say, “Yet they have not returned to Me” (Amos 4:7-8 NKJV). And You are a God that wants us. When we praise, when we do nothing, when we call out among the scoffers. Shame, hear your mocking voice. But grace, hear what saves. It is not, now, 

in the raising of the dead, it is in the making of all things new.

Make all things new? Please. It would reconcile the pain with who You are, wouldn’t it, Jesus?

Questions answer questions. Though comfort isn’t so much in asking, as in having someone to ask. And You are a God that is here.

So we go back to listen to the preacher, knowing the small distance between us and those that have fallen away. As we listen, it is good, because that is what He is, and that is what He will make us.

“It will not, it will never be enough
Just to know about You, Jesus, but never call You my own …

Draw to me, Jesus.
I’ve made my heart a home.”(Home - Bethel Music)

*Matt Rose

all things.

You got going before any of us could say a word. Not a terrible thing, by any means, but a little preparation is usually of some value. If at no other time than when we look back and miss it. Easier to say, “I did all that I could” when we know it is true. But since when is peace in the efforts? Heaven help us if it is.

There was once a woman who had five husbands. Impressive. In the sort of way that we don’t really want to be ourselves. She was thirsty. Sometimes in the getting, we believe we need more, I suppose. He asked her for water and she asked Him who on earth He was. She had heard One would come to tell them all things. He told her, “I who speak to you am He.” There is a knowing that cannot be returned from. And when she went running off without her empty waterpot, she cried, “Come, see a Man who told me all things…” There is a finding that saves us from lostness. What a gift, to be able to trade in empty pots for such saving. Never to thirst again. [1]

You didn’t figure you’d be here now. I know. But it is good. Say it, until you believe it.

The nice thing is that the dawn comes whether we are ready for it or not, and whether it feels nice or not, it just happens, and we can depend on it. Steadfastness, a quality so rarely found in any of us, is all around in the things we don’t control. And there is great gratitude to be had for that.

We cannot tell you, disheartened one, where you will end up. So sorry. But that absence of certainty is your very hope. He who tells all things would have you come. Bring the waterpot if you want—we all know it’s empty—but leave it there when you return. You won’t want it by the end.

If you wrap your arms around yourself it feels a little like someone is holding you. Almost. Not sure if that is nice, or lonely. But it is true. And maybe it is up to us how much comfort we get from it. There is, if we’ll admit it, an ongoing tug-of-war in our minds, and even in our hearts. Who will win? You or you? Losing is okay as well. Just so long as you know the fight is happening, strength needs to be exerted in it, and lessons learned from it. Don’t walk away ignorant.

Run. Knowing that you know someone who knows all things.

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[1] John 4:1-29

so this is christmas.

“So this is Christmas.”[1] So it is. And we can laugh about the rushing, slide comfortably into the busy. Because.

Lights slapped up all over the places we didn’t even know were dark before—‘tis the season. Season for warm drinks on the inside, warm scarves on the out, and every manner of thought on the in-between. To feel overwhelmed? Or thankful? To feel at all? Yes, please. Even if it has a sour taste in it, feel. How could we not, with magic strung onto trees and love wrapped into gifts and joy to the world? Feel.

“What have you done?”[2] Well, what have you? After another year (always faster than the last). Made friends? Enemies? Accomplished goals? Unavoidable tasks? Lived alive at all, perhaps? Some breathing, some interacting, and a lot of work. Good, good.

So this is Christmas? And little children dance in onesies to rip into tangible love. How we love them, loved being them. Not so very long ago. Rejoice, rejoice. Like angels to shepherds, filling skies with glory and peace.[3] Always a favorite, those watchers of the flock by night. Maybe because they were living, working. The night shift no less. And grace, in the best sort of explosion, just interrupted the mundane. Like that sensation during a fire drill—something out of the ordinary, praise God!—but loads better.

It is forever, you know. The peace. And ‘tis the season to feel all calm, all bright, in remembering it. This is Christmas. It is life too. So it is. May we be merry.

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[1] Happy Xmas (War is Over), 1971, Yoko Ono & John Lennon

[2] Ibid.

[3] Luke 2:8-15