One of our biggest jobs as parents is to help our children feel secure. I've always wondered how atheist or agnostic parents do this. I'm wondering it all the more as I watch the news every night.
I was a kid during the Cold War, but I was not part of the generation that was taught to "duck and cover" in case of a nuclear event. By the time I made it to school, that had wisely been rendered pointless. But I did understand that we had an enemy somewhere far away that could somehow obliterate me and everyone I knew. Still, it seemed unlikely and remote.
Today's threats are much less remote. Terrorists are blowing themselves up right and left, taking out civilians in the process. Bombs are commonplace, on airplanes, in sports stadiums, on public streets. American children have the added burden of psychopaths who are not necessarily politically or religiously motivated, but are simply antisocial and mad. Innocent people aren't just dying in war zones; they're dying at the Carmike 6 down the street. Or even worse, in their schools. I've read that this generation of children won't grow up thinking this is shocking or horrific. They'll think it's the norm.
That doesn't mean they won't be scared. Now more than ever, our kids long for security. Now more than ever, they need to know there is a God who created them, who loves them, and who is sovereign over everything that happens in their lives and on this planet. They need to know that there is a battle between good and evil, between truth and a lie, and that God--who is goodness and is truth--wins.
And yet we've resorted to this. A young Parisian boy, with his dad by his side, was interviewed by a journalist. As young as he was, three or four, maybe, the little boy understood that there were bad guys with guns wreaking havoc in his city. "They can shoot us, daddy, because they're really, really mean," he told his father. With the world watching, the dad looked around at the memorials to the victims and said to his son, "They might have guns, but we have flowers."
Flowers? The boy clearly found little solace in this. A clever little guy, he pointed out the obvious: "But flowers don't do anything."
The reason this became a national story, of course, is because the dad was able to convince his son that flowers can overcome guns. His point, that love is more powerful than hate, is true, but only because that love is attached to something much bigger and much more powerful than "flowers." Even a three-year-old knows that flowers can't keep him safe, and though he may have bought his dad's logic for the moment, it's a security that surely won't last long. Intellectual integrity will do its work as he gets older, and he'll realize that as beautiful as flowers are, and as well intentioned are those who place them in honor of the dead, they're powerless. In times of chaos, we want control. We want power. And we're never going to find that apart from the almighty, all-sovereign, all good Lord of heaven and earth. Security placed anywhere else will always disappoint.
I don't want to judge this parent; I just feel very sad for him and others like him. How do they even explain evil in a relativistic society? If one person's evil is another person's good, if one person's religious beliefs are just as valid as another's (even if those beliefs include setting up a worldwide caliphate at any cost), then how can any parent give any kind of a satisfying answer to their confused children? Without the biblical explanation of evil, what do you say? Without the promise of Revelation, how can you offer any kind of substantial hope that good truly does prevail? Unless Someone is in control, aren't we just spinning out of control, drugging, drinking, bombing, warring, fighting ourselves to death?
This is what I want my children, your children, and children everywhere to know: Someone is in control. He is our creator and sustainer. He is our strength and our shield. He is our fortress and our strong tower. He is our protector and provider. He is Lord over heaven and earth. And children, He knows your name! He sees you every second of every day, and if you belong to Him, no one can ever snatch you from His hand. If you believe and follow Him, He will always work for your good. If you suffer, He'll only draw nearer. He has a very long and well documented track record of caring for the weak and the hurting. Even death cannot separate you from His great love, and you have nothing to fear. His perfect love drives out fear.
Flowers are nice. They're a gift from God. But they've never calmed the seas or raised the dead back to life. In times of crisis, they're about as helpful as "duck and cover." What children want to know--what I want to know--is that our security is found in One much bigger than our guns and our government and our abstract concepts of love and peace. Our security is in Christ alone. And if He is for us, who can be against us?
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Thursday, November 5, 2015
What the Resurrection Tells Us about Missing Out
Just when I think I've pondered everything my mind can fathom about heaven, along comes a new idea that knocks me off my feet. This one particularly speaks to me, the girl who's always hated missing out.
I recently watched a Tim Keller message on the resurrection of Jesus. Yes, the resurrection is a fact. Yes, it changes everything. It's the basis of Christianity. That much I knew. Then Keller added this thought: The resurrection is the restoration of what we think we've irretrievably lost. Every life-giving opportunity we think we've lost is not really lost at all. It's yet to come. It's all ahead.
If that's true, then the application is pretty amazing.
The person who saw his dream job slip away hasn't missed out. For the person who dreams of a more fulfilling marriage--it's coming. To those who are single and have spent a lifetime longing to know the feeling of being in love, one day you'll know that and more. There's a wedding and a wedding feast coming, and it will surpass anything we've known on earth.Think of the mother who endured countless miscarriages, the orphan who was rejected by her parents, the paraplegic who spent life in a wheelchair, the businessman who watched his whole world collapse over one bad decision, all of them entering heaven and realizing, "I didn't miss a thing. Everything I ever wanted is here; every longing I ever had is fulfilled."
Keller's intention, and certainly mine in sharing it, is not to minimize the pain of this life. It's to breathe hope into our most hopeless places. And it's not some fingers-crossed, pie-in-the-sky hope. It's as real as the resurrected Jesus, standing on the beach using nail-scarred hands to cook fish for His friends. Jesus' resurrection is proof that there is life in the midst of death and hope in the midst of despair. Our greatest desires and could've-beens are fully satisfied in heaven. All the promises of God find their Yes in Jesus (1 Corinthians 1:20). We will not miss out on a thing.
I recently watched a Tim Keller message on the resurrection of Jesus. Yes, the resurrection is a fact. Yes, it changes everything. It's the basis of Christianity. That much I knew. Then Keller added this thought: The resurrection is the restoration of what we think we've irretrievably lost. Every life-giving opportunity we think we've lost is not really lost at all. It's yet to come. It's all ahead.
If that's true, then the application is pretty amazing.
The person who saw his dream job slip away hasn't missed out. For the person who dreams of a more fulfilling marriage--it's coming. To those who are single and have spent a lifetime longing to know the feeling of being in love, one day you'll know that and more. There's a wedding and a wedding feast coming, and it will surpass anything we've known on earth.Think of the mother who endured countless miscarriages, the orphan who was rejected by her parents, the paraplegic who spent life in a wheelchair, the businessman who watched his whole world collapse over one bad decision, all of them entering heaven and realizing, "I didn't miss a thing. Everything I ever wanted is here; every longing I ever had is fulfilled."
Keller's intention, and certainly mine in sharing it, is not to minimize the pain of this life. It's to breathe hope into our most hopeless places. And it's not some fingers-crossed, pie-in-the-sky hope. It's as real as the resurrected Jesus, standing on the beach using nail-scarred hands to cook fish for His friends. Jesus' resurrection is proof that there is life in the midst of death and hope in the midst of despair. Our greatest desires and could've-beens are fully satisfied in heaven. All the promises of God find their Yes in Jesus (1 Corinthians 1:20). We will not miss out on a thing.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
A Milestone
With my birthday earlier this month, I have officially surpassed my dad's age. He died in 1988, when I was 17, and it's an interesting mental exercise to consider all that he missed. He never used a seat belt in a car, and I doubt he was ever on a computer. When he used a telephone, it was the one with the long, curly cord in the kitchen. He was the football coach who sent the kid with the concussion back into the game after a ten-minute rest, because that's what everyone did back then.
He missed a lot of the world's changes, but he also missed a lot of regular life. He wasn't there when his mom died of cancer a few years later. (He was an only child, so that one fell to me.) He didn't see my high school or college graduations; in fact, he had no idea I would go to college in California. He missed both of his kids' weddings, never meeting the people we would marry. He missed out on six of the coolest grandkids ever. I'm not sure he would have known what to do with all my girls, but maybe he would have become a soccer enthusiast and enjoyed watching them as much as his grandsons. Would they have called him Grandad like we called his father, or maybe Pops, or just Coach like everyone else? It's hard for me to imagine.
When it comes up--and it rarely does--people sometimes say, "It must have been so hard to lose your dad at such a young age." While there's never a good time to lose a parent, for me, 17 might have been the best time. I was such a self-centered teenager that his 18-month cancer fight took a back seat to my own teenage angst. Yes, dad is dying, but what about the prom? He died the week after school got out, junior year. I got to skip all my finals and was pretty happy about that, even as my dad fought for his life in the hospital. If I'm honest, I sheepishly admit that the prevailing thought in my mind the day of his funeral was that some of the hunky football players would be there and might just be compelled to hug me in the receiving line.
I did do the hard work of death--put in my time at hospitals, learned from the hospice nurse how to check the catheter and hold the heat lamp up to the wet and oozing bed sores. I saw things I wish I hadn't and did things I didn't know I could do. I had a few breakdowns and a few mild epiphanies, but mostly I remained detached and insulated in my own teenage world. High school has a way of buffering kids from the grown-up world, or at least it used to.
In the past couple years, I've watched a few of my friends lose a parent. It's quite a different story when you're in your 40s. They had the benefit of more years with their parent, but I imagine that makes the loss feel greater and the pain more acute. Adults who lose parents have to be so adult. Arrangements have to be made and details attended to. Bills have to be paid and surviving parents looked after. They're also just so much more aware, so burdened by the suffering, and even perhaps apprehensive about their own mortality. They also have to walk through it with their own children, helping their kids work through their own emotions while modeling for them what healthy grief looks like. I managed to avoid all of that.
There's no good time for death, which is why it's such a good thing that God takes it totally out of our hands (except for suicide, but we're not going there). I would not have chosen to lose my dad as a teenager, and surely he would not have chosen to leave this world at 44, but I don't have to strain at all to see how God did indeed work it out for my good, just as Romans 8:28 promises. A man who once seemed fierce and terrifying to me became lovable, tender even, as he lay dying in that hospital bed in the back room of our trailer house. For a little while, I felt like he valued me--not because I had the highest GPA or the fastest time in the 100, but because he needed me and maybe even enjoyed me. Those things may not have happened if I'd been an adult living away from home. The money I received from his public education retirement account paid for two years at a ridiculously expensive Christian college that changed the course of my life and made me the person I am today. That definitely wouldn't have happened if he had lived.
And maybe, when I'm mindful of it, I treasure each day with my own kids a bit more because of what I know he missed out on. These days seem a little less burdensome and a little more like a gift.
He missed a lot of the world's changes, but he also missed a lot of regular life. He wasn't there when his mom died of cancer a few years later. (He was an only child, so that one fell to me.) He didn't see my high school or college graduations; in fact, he had no idea I would go to college in California. He missed both of his kids' weddings, never meeting the people we would marry. He missed out on six of the coolest grandkids ever. I'm not sure he would have known what to do with all my girls, but maybe he would have become a soccer enthusiast and enjoyed watching them as much as his grandsons. Would they have called him Grandad like we called his father, or maybe Pops, or just Coach like everyone else? It's hard for me to imagine.
When it comes up--and it rarely does--people sometimes say, "It must have been so hard to lose your dad at such a young age." While there's never a good time to lose a parent, for me, 17 might have been the best time. I was such a self-centered teenager that his 18-month cancer fight took a back seat to my own teenage angst. Yes, dad is dying, but what about the prom? He died the week after school got out, junior year. I got to skip all my finals and was pretty happy about that, even as my dad fought for his life in the hospital. If I'm honest, I sheepishly admit that the prevailing thought in my mind the day of his funeral was that some of the hunky football players would be there and might just be compelled to hug me in the receiving line.
I did do the hard work of death--put in my time at hospitals, learned from the hospice nurse how to check the catheter and hold the heat lamp up to the wet and oozing bed sores. I saw things I wish I hadn't and did things I didn't know I could do. I had a few breakdowns and a few mild epiphanies, but mostly I remained detached and insulated in my own teenage world. High school has a way of buffering kids from the grown-up world, or at least it used to.
In the past couple years, I've watched a few of my friends lose a parent. It's quite a different story when you're in your 40s. They had the benefit of more years with their parent, but I imagine that makes the loss feel greater and the pain more acute. Adults who lose parents have to be so adult. Arrangements have to be made and details attended to. Bills have to be paid and surviving parents looked after. They're also just so much more aware, so burdened by the suffering, and even perhaps apprehensive about their own mortality. They also have to walk through it with their own children, helping their kids work through their own emotions while modeling for them what healthy grief looks like. I managed to avoid all of that.
There's no good time for death, which is why it's such a good thing that God takes it totally out of our hands (except for suicide, but we're not going there). I would not have chosen to lose my dad as a teenager, and surely he would not have chosen to leave this world at 44, but I don't have to strain at all to see how God did indeed work it out for my good, just as Romans 8:28 promises. A man who once seemed fierce and terrifying to me became lovable, tender even, as he lay dying in that hospital bed in the back room of our trailer house. For a little while, I felt like he valued me--not because I had the highest GPA or the fastest time in the 100, but because he needed me and maybe even enjoyed me. Those things may not have happened if I'd been an adult living away from home. The money I received from his public education retirement account paid for two years at a ridiculously expensive Christian college that changed the course of my life and made me the person I am today. That definitely wouldn't have happened if he had lived.
And maybe, when I'm mindful of it, I treasure each day with my own kids a bit more because of what I know he missed out on. These days seem a little less burdensome and a little more like a gift.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Things That Keep Me Up At Night
My list is long and varied: ISIS beheadings, Syrian refugees, Vladimir Putin, persecuted Christians, school shootings, racial tensions, college searches, the parable of the sheep and the goats, my children's character flaws, my own character flaws, that scary noise my car makes, my disintegrating teeth, what to have for dinner next Tuesday night. These are just some of the things that try to steal my nighttime sleep. (Strangely enough, I find that nothing threatens my occasional daytime sleep, especially if I'm in the recliner on my deck with the sun on my back and a 19th century biblical commentary in my hands.)
But the video I saw recently of sorority girls taking selfies at a baseball game might just take the cake. Surely teenage girls watching baseball shouldn't concern me as much as ISIS and refugees, right? Except that the whole idea of incessant posing and picture-taking of oneself--and the self-absorption it points to--does concern me that much. It's not these girls specifically; it's the cultural shift they represent. What is our world coming to?
We were not morally excellent people in the '80s and '90s. We had Dynasty and Monica Lewinski and Michael Jackson having sleepovers with young boys. We had Ozzy Osbourne biting the heads off various animals and Milli Vanilli pretending to be something they weren't. I personally obsessed over my big hair and big shoulder pads far more than I like to admit. But at least we didn't have selfies. A selfie-addicted world (Me! Me! More of me!) can keep me up at night.
This is not just a gloom-and-doom post, however. A few days after seeing the selfie video, I heard a great story that restored my hope in the next generation. I learned of a dating college couple, living across the country from one another, who have decided to talk once a week by phone and otherwise develop their relationship only through letter-writing. Letters! Remember those? The kind that require a stamp and the service of a U.S. postal worker? It's what their great-grandparents did during WWII, and it's made a comeback, at least in this one couple. The girl is the one who moved away to a big, exciting new city. Her boyfriend stayed back home and is giving her the space and freedom and trust to be fully present in her new home. He's not texting her 200 times a day or tracking her every move with an app. And they're improving their writing skills along the way. May my own children be this wise some day.
Sleep tight, everyone. There is hope.
But the video I saw recently of sorority girls taking selfies at a baseball game might just take the cake. Surely teenage girls watching baseball shouldn't concern me as much as ISIS and refugees, right? Except that the whole idea of incessant posing and picture-taking of oneself--and the self-absorption it points to--does concern me that much. It's not these girls specifically; it's the cultural shift they represent. What is our world coming to?
We were not morally excellent people in the '80s and '90s. We had Dynasty and Monica Lewinski and Michael Jackson having sleepovers with young boys. We had Ozzy Osbourne biting the heads off various animals and Milli Vanilli pretending to be something they weren't. I personally obsessed over my big hair and big shoulder pads far more than I like to admit. But at least we didn't have selfies. A selfie-addicted world (Me! Me! More of me!) can keep me up at night.
This is not just a gloom-and-doom post, however. A few days after seeing the selfie video, I heard a great story that restored my hope in the next generation. I learned of a dating college couple, living across the country from one another, who have decided to talk once a week by phone and otherwise develop their relationship only through letter-writing. Letters! Remember those? The kind that require a stamp and the service of a U.S. postal worker? It's what their great-grandparents did during WWII, and it's made a comeback, at least in this one couple. The girl is the one who moved away to a big, exciting new city. Her boyfriend stayed back home and is giving her the space and freedom and trust to be fully present in her new home. He's not texting her 200 times a day or tracking her every move with an app. And they're improving their writing skills along the way. May my own children be this wise some day.
Sleep tight, everyone. There is hope.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Go Exhort Someone!
I was in my early 20s the first time I took a spiritual gifts test. It was in conjunction with a battery of other tests, so while I was trying to figure out if I was more of a "P" or a "J" (definitely a "J"), I was also trying to figure out what the gift of prophecy looked like on someone who didn't wear a robe and sandals and eat bugs in the wilderness. I was motivated to get to the bottom of that one quickly, and was happy to learn it meant pointing others toward biblical truth. I could also make pretty good sense of "teaching," and was pleased to learn that it often went along with studying, of which I am a fan. But as this particular test focused on your top three spiritual gifts, I still had one more to ponder: "exhortation." That was a big word, and I only had the vaguest notion what it meant. With two spiritual gifts and four personality traits to deal with, I decided my plate was full and forgot about it.
Cut to this weekend, when our pastor spoke on exhortation, specifically Hebrews 3:13. He gave the most helpful example, especially for a person (me) who has spent the past year studying the early Israelites. On several occasions, mass grumbling broke out among God's people, despite the fact that God had delivered them from slavery in Egypt, parting the Red Sea so they could escape, and then had sustained them with manna from heaven, water from rocks, and a pillar of cloud/fire so that they'd know where to go and that He was with them. What if, when the first grumbler started in, his buddy next to him said, "Hey, I know this is hard and your kids are thirsty and tired of walking, but that pillar of fire right there? That's God! He's with us. He's made promises to us that He's going to keep, and He's going to take care of us along the way. Let's keep our eyes on Him and trust Him to do what He said."
That's exhortation. It simply means motivating people to have faith. It's reminding our friends of God's faithfulness and goodness, even when times are hard. It's helping them remember all the ways He's cared for them in the past and faith-talking them into believing He's not going to leave them now. It reminds me of when my son was little. He is by no means a natural encourager. I used to push him and his baby sister up a steep, rutted-out hill on our daily power stroll, and at first, he'd tell me he didn't think I was going to make it. "It too steep, mommy. We can't do it!" But I could do it; I just had to try really hard. And I needed someone to believe in me and not tell me it was impossible. We had a little talk, and I told him I needed him to encourage me, that if we were ever going to get up that hill, I needed him to be on my team. He learned to cheer me on. I can still hear his little-boy voice saying, "You can do it, mommy. Keep going, mommy, almost there!" It never got easier, but with him cheering for me, we were never defeated, either.
Today, I have a handful of friends who keep me from grumbling and doubting and quitting. They let me be real. I don't have to put on a happy face and fake it. But they're not going to let me turn around and quit when I face a steep spiritual hill. They're going to remind me of what God has already done for me. They're going to faith-talk me and cheer for me. They'll even give me a good, swift kick if I need it. I'll do the same for them. That's the essence of Hebrews 3:13, played out in living rooms and coffee shops and hiking trails where we do life.
"As long as it's called today, exhort one another." Find someone you can exhort today. It may be your spiritual gift, or maybe it's not. Doesn't matter. Just tell someone to keep going, to keep their eyes on God, and to trust in His faithfulness. This life is crazy hard, and we need all the exhortation we can get.
Cut to this weekend, when our pastor spoke on exhortation, specifically Hebrews 3:13. He gave the most helpful example, especially for a person (me) who has spent the past year studying the early Israelites. On several occasions, mass grumbling broke out among God's people, despite the fact that God had delivered them from slavery in Egypt, parting the Red Sea so they could escape, and then had sustained them with manna from heaven, water from rocks, and a pillar of cloud/fire so that they'd know where to go and that He was with them. What if, when the first grumbler started in, his buddy next to him said, "Hey, I know this is hard and your kids are thirsty and tired of walking, but that pillar of fire right there? That's God! He's with us. He's made promises to us that He's going to keep, and He's going to take care of us along the way. Let's keep our eyes on Him and trust Him to do what He said."
That's exhortation. It simply means motivating people to have faith. It's reminding our friends of God's faithfulness and goodness, even when times are hard. It's helping them remember all the ways He's cared for them in the past and faith-talking them into believing He's not going to leave them now. It reminds me of when my son was little. He is by no means a natural encourager. I used to push him and his baby sister up a steep, rutted-out hill on our daily power stroll, and at first, he'd tell me he didn't think I was going to make it. "It too steep, mommy. We can't do it!" But I could do it; I just had to try really hard. And I needed someone to believe in me and not tell me it was impossible. We had a little talk, and I told him I needed him to encourage me, that if we were ever going to get up that hill, I needed him to be on my team. He learned to cheer me on. I can still hear his little-boy voice saying, "You can do it, mommy. Keep going, mommy, almost there!" It never got easier, but with him cheering for me, we were never defeated, either.
Today, I have a handful of friends who keep me from grumbling and doubting and quitting. They let me be real. I don't have to put on a happy face and fake it. But they're not going to let me turn around and quit when I face a steep spiritual hill. They're going to remind me of what God has already done for me. They're going to faith-talk me and cheer for me. They'll even give me a good, swift kick if I need it. I'll do the same for them. That's the essence of Hebrews 3:13, played out in living rooms and coffee shops and hiking trails where we do life.
"As long as it's called today, exhort one another." Find someone you can exhort today. It may be your spiritual gift, or maybe it's not. Doesn't matter. Just tell someone to keep going, to keep their eyes on God, and to trust in His faithfulness. This life is crazy hard, and we need all the exhortation we can get.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Sanctified Imagination
"Left to myself, my imagination is a lunatic ricocheting around the walls of my mind. The wild-eyed, slobbering imagination is destructive. An untamed imagination is the playground and rat wheel for worry, lust, bitterness, greed, and unholy fantasies. Will my imagination function as a gift from God or as a soul-decaying cotton candy from the Enemy?"
Jean Fleming, Pursue the Intentional Life
Until I read this passage, I wasn't thinking much about imagination. We see it in our kids and think it's cute, but do we recognize what a major role imagination plays in our own grown-up minds? Fear, dread, anticipation, and excitement are all functions of imagination. Our minds conjure up all sorts of pictures and expectations about what's coming up. We imagine how things are going to play out, and our emotions respond according to the picture the imagination has crafted.
Jean Fleming, in her wisdom, prescribes a sanctified imagination. She also calls it a disciplined imagination. The idea is the same: it's an imagination brought under the control of the Holy Spirit. God's the one who created us with imagination; surely it's one of the ways we are created in His image. He put it there to guide us to Him. Who can begin to fathom His greatness without a deeply engaged imagination? Who can ponder heaven except through imagination? When we read the Bible, we read through imagination. We picture Jesus scribbling in the sand before the condemned woman. We imagine her sense of dread and fear and shame and horror. We put ourselves in her place when Jesus tells her to go and sin no more. We can imagine her shock and relief, her overwhelming gratitude. Our imaginations take us there.
Without imagination, the parables mean nothing. Jesus very rarely came right out and explained them. He left it to the people in His hearing. He left it to us. Guided by Holy Spirit-infused imagination, we can begin putting the pieces together, making connections, seeing Kingdom values through earthly examples.
We can only begin to understand the Trinity relationship through imagination. Or the transfiguration, the crucifixion, and the resurrection. The Bible gives us good details and eyewitness accounts, but how can we begin to take them in if not through our imaginations?
Like every other good thing given to us by God, though, imaginations can so easily become corrupt. A mind ruled by uncontrolled imagination can become schizophrenic. A body ruled by untamed imagination can become enslaved to porn and twisted desire. A heart left to its own imagination places unrealistic expectations on its loves and is chronically disappointed.
Let's make this more practical. Sanctified imagination is a choice. When I picture my kids leaving the nest, I can imagine myself feeling sad, lonely, and purposeless, or I can imagine the wonderful new opportunities I'll have (not to mention the cute little car I'll get to drive). When I ponder my own old age, I can imagine sickness and hopelessness, or I can imagine the sweet wisdom and contentment that come with age. If I face a cancer diagnosis, will I imagine it destroying my life, or will I imagine how God will use it for my good? Do I anticipate the future with fear and worry or with peace and hope? It all boils down to my imagination. Will I bring it under the control of the Holy Spirit, or will I let it become the lunatic ricocheting around the walls of my mind?
Lord, sanctify every part of me, even the parts of me I don't think much about. I give You control of my imagination. Tame it. Sanctify it. Use it to give me a fuller understanding of who You are.
Jean Fleming, Pursue the Intentional Life
Until I read this passage, I wasn't thinking much about imagination. We see it in our kids and think it's cute, but do we recognize what a major role imagination plays in our own grown-up minds? Fear, dread, anticipation, and excitement are all functions of imagination. Our minds conjure up all sorts of pictures and expectations about what's coming up. We imagine how things are going to play out, and our emotions respond according to the picture the imagination has crafted.
Jean Fleming, in her wisdom, prescribes a sanctified imagination. She also calls it a disciplined imagination. The idea is the same: it's an imagination brought under the control of the Holy Spirit. God's the one who created us with imagination; surely it's one of the ways we are created in His image. He put it there to guide us to Him. Who can begin to fathom His greatness without a deeply engaged imagination? Who can ponder heaven except through imagination? When we read the Bible, we read through imagination. We picture Jesus scribbling in the sand before the condemned woman. We imagine her sense of dread and fear and shame and horror. We put ourselves in her place when Jesus tells her to go and sin no more. We can imagine her shock and relief, her overwhelming gratitude. Our imaginations take us there.
Without imagination, the parables mean nothing. Jesus very rarely came right out and explained them. He left it to the people in His hearing. He left it to us. Guided by Holy Spirit-infused imagination, we can begin putting the pieces together, making connections, seeing Kingdom values through earthly examples.
We can only begin to understand the Trinity relationship through imagination. Or the transfiguration, the crucifixion, and the resurrection. The Bible gives us good details and eyewitness accounts, but how can we begin to take them in if not through our imaginations?
Like every other good thing given to us by God, though, imaginations can so easily become corrupt. A mind ruled by uncontrolled imagination can become schizophrenic. A body ruled by untamed imagination can become enslaved to porn and twisted desire. A heart left to its own imagination places unrealistic expectations on its loves and is chronically disappointed.
Let's make this more practical. Sanctified imagination is a choice. When I picture my kids leaving the nest, I can imagine myself feeling sad, lonely, and purposeless, or I can imagine the wonderful new opportunities I'll have (not to mention the cute little car I'll get to drive). When I ponder my own old age, I can imagine sickness and hopelessness, or I can imagine the sweet wisdom and contentment that come with age. If I face a cancer diagnosis, will I imagine it destroying my life, or will I imagine how God will use it for my good? Do I anticipate the future with fear and worry or with peace and hope? It all boils down to my imagination. Will I bring it under the control of the Holy Spirit, or will I let it become the lunatic ricocheting around the walls of my mind?
Lord, sanctify every part of me, even the parts of me I don't think much about. I give You control of my imagination. Tame it. Sanctify it. Use it to give me a fuller understanding of who You are.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Twenty Years
This week, Kevin and I celebrate our twentieth anniversary. Anniversaries are truly something to be celebrated, much more so than birthdays, I think. Getting older just happens. It requires no act of your will, no compromise, no selflessness. I'm all for parties and cake, but really, when you pass another birthday, you've just managed to stay alive another year, and for most of us, that's not a huge accomplishment. But when you pass another year of living side by side with another person day in and day out--well, that's a feat worth celebrating. It deserves a steak and a margarita at the very least.
The amazing thing to me about marriage is that we sign up for it as mere babies. It's arguably the most important decision of our lives, and we make it as crazy, carefree kids. It's a miracle, God's grace, that any of us make it to ten years, let alone twenty or fifty. Who has any idea who they are at 20 or 25 years old, let alone what life is going to hurl at them?
As I stood up in front of that room full of people on August 26, 1995, all I can remember thinking about was that my dress was itchy and I hoped my stomach wouldn't growl. I might have imagined this man before me was the one with whom I would bring children into the world, but I didn't picture myself splayed out on a table, naked and big as a barn as that happened. The idea of playing house was fun, but did I think through what it would really look like to share a bed, a bathroom, a t-shirt, a bank account, a schedule, and on occasion a toothbrush with this person? Every day? Did I know that he would be seeing me, repeatedly, at my very worst, like crouched over the toilet with vomit in my hair, blubbering incoherently over the loss of a grandparent/baby/dog/job/sense of identity, or simply with greasy hair or an unsightly rash? That he was the person who would be confined with me in a vehicle when I maybe shouldn't have eaten that second burrito? Did I realize this was the person who would hear my ugliest thoughts, things you can only say in a dark room at a late hour?
Did anyone think of these things at 22 or 24? Did anyone think about all the enemies of marriage, everything from demanding careers and wailing babies to separate TVs and Ashley Madison? (Apparently I've been living under a nice, sweet rock, because I had never heard of Ashley Madison until a week ago. "Life is short. Have an affair." Really? Satan doesn't even attempt to be subtle with his lies anymore.) Did we know how innately selfish we are and how hard it would be to live in perpetual compromise with another person? How un-fun a lot of the days would be, and how giddy love eventually wears off, leaving you clinging to deep respect and stubborn commitment?
Nope. I didn't know any of this. And it's just as well. I just knew there was a good, intelligent, gorgeous guy with an easy last name who wanted to spend every day with me. I was in. I'm still in, now more than ever. There's no one else I'd want to spend my worst days with, or my best days. He's got my back, and I've got his. Neither of us is checking out, no matter what we say or do or look like. That's what marriage, beautiful marriage, looks like after twenty years.
"Being in love is a good thing, but it is not the best thing. There are many things below it, but there are also things above it. You cannot make it the basis of a whole life. It is a noble feeling, but it is still a feeling. ... Knowledge can last, principles can last, habits can last; but feelings come and go. ... But of course ceasing to be 'in love' need not mean ceasing to love. Love in this second sense--love as distinct from being 'in love'--is not merely a feeling. It is a deep unity, maintained by the will and deliberately strengthened by habit, reinforced (in Christian marriage) by the grace which both partners ask, and receive, from God. ...'Being in love' first moved them to promise fidelity; this quieter love enables them to keep the promise. It is on this love that the engine of marriage is run; being in love was the explosion that started it." --C.S. Lewis
The amazing thing to me about marriage is that we sign up for it as mere babies. It's arguably the most important decision of our lives, and we make it as crazy, carefree kids. It's a miracle, God's grace, that any of us make it to ten years, let alone twenty or fifty. Who has any idea who they are at 20 or 25 years old, let alone what life is going to hurl at them?
As I stood up in front of that room full of people on August 26, 1995, all I can remember thinking about was that my dress was itchy and I hoped my stomach wouldn't growl. I might have imagined this man before me was the one with whom I would bring children into the world, but I didn't picture myself splayed out on a table, naked and big as a barn as that happened. The idea of playing house was fun, but did I think through what it would really look like to share a bed, a bathroom, a t-shirt, a bank account, a schedule, and on occasion a toothbrush with this person? Every day? Did I know that he would be seeing me, repeatedly, at my very worst, like crouched over the toilet with vomit in my hair, blubbering incoherently over the loss of a grandparent/baby/dog/job/sense of identity, or simply with greasy hair or an unsightly rash? That he was the person who would be confined with me in a vehicle when I maybe shouldn't have eaten that second burrito? Did I realize this was the person who would hear my ugliest thoughts, things you can only say in a dark room at a late hour?
Did anyone think of these things at 22 or 24? Did anyone think about all the enemies of marriage, everything from demanding careers and wailing babies to separate TVs and Ashley Madison? (Apparently I've been living under a nice, sweet rock, because I had never heard of Ashley Madison until a week ago. "Life is short. Have an affair." Really? Satan doesn't even attempt to be subtle with his lies anymore.) Did we know how innately selfish we are and how hard it would be to live in perpetual compromise with another person? How un-fun a lot of the days would be, and how giddy love eventually wears off, leaving you clinging to deep respect and stubborn commitment?
Nope. I didn't know any of this. And it's just as well. I just knew there was a good, intelligent, gorgeous guy with an easy last name who wanted to spend every day with me. I was in. I'm still in, now more than ever. There's no one else I'd want to spend my worst days with, or my best days. He's got my back, and I've got his. Neither of us is checking out, no matter what we say or do or look like. That's what marriage, beautiful marriage, looks like after twenty years.
"Being in love is a good thing, but it is not the best thing. There are many things below it, but there are also things above it. You cannot make it the basis of a whole life. It is a noble feeling, but it is still a feeling. ... Knowledge can last, principles can last, habits can last; but feelings come and go. ... But of course ceasing to be 'in love' need not mean ceasing to love. Love in this second sense--love as distinct from being 'in love'--is not merely a feeling. It is a deep unity, maintained by the will and deliberately strengthened by habit, reinforced (in Christian marriage) by the grace which both partners ask, and receive, from God. ...'Being in love' first moved them to promise fidelity; this quieter love enables them to keep the promise. It is on this love that the engine of marriage is run; being in love was the explosion that started it." --C.S. Lewis
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