I found myself peeling back the pages of an old journal this weekend to a darker period in time. The excerpt below entitled “Of ORU” was an entry I felt the need to include here. Ecclesiastes 3 offers a perfect example of such a valley and I am thankful I have not forgotten it, nor failed to learn from its depth. Finding Him in the mundane, anticlimactic places is crucial to developing an authentic understanding of who He is and what He desires in us. Reading Mark this past week I was struck by chapter 6 in its order of events leading up to Jesus’ infamous trek on the water's surface:
“Immediately Jesus made His disciples get into the boat and go ahead of Him to the other side to Bethsaida, while He Himself was sending the crowd away. After bidding them farewell, He left for the mountain to pray. When it was evening, the boat was in the middle of the sea, and He was alone on the land. Seeing them straining at the oars (for the wind was against them), at about the fourth watch of the night, He came to them, walking on the sea; and He intended to pass by them…”
Frustration was my initial reaction. For those of you unfamiliar with “watches of the night”, this refers to the Jewish cultural norm of dividing the night-hours in three parts. The fourth watch of the night therefore, was between the hours of 3am and 6am. Why on Earth would Jesus watch them struggle for 9 complete hours, only to waltz out to them on the water’s surface “intending to PASS them by…”?! Reading a little further and digging a little deeper into the story and surrounding text, I began to gain a little clarity.
There was a severe lack of understanding in the disciples consistently evident in their reactions to the plan of heaven. I look again through the passage and see how much Jesus desired them to know Him as solely sufficient, all-satisfying, all-powerful and all consuming. He was watching over them – praying on their behalf – desiring their hearts to understand His purpose, and strengthening their understanding of His vision. We cannot practice true discipleship unless we have a right understanding of Who it is we follow.
“…They were terrified when they saw
Him, but Jesus spoke to them at once. ‘Its alright,’ he said. ‘I am here, do
not be afraid.’ Then he climbed into the boat and the wind stopped. They were
astonished at what they saw. They still didn’t understand the miracle of the
multiplied loaves, for their hearts were hard and they did not believe.”
There was a severe lack of understanding in the disciples consistently evident in their reactions to the plan of heaven. I look again through the passage and see how much Jesus desired them to know Him as solely sufficient, all-satisfying, all-powerful and all consuming. He was watching over them – praying on their behalf – desiring their hearts to understand His purpose, and strengthening their understanding of His vision. We cannot practice true discipleship unless we have a right understanding of Who it is we follow.
In the tarried nights in which I find myself straining at the oars, wondering why He is waiting until the fourth watch of the night to walk by, I can think of Peter, James, and John. And I look to the mountains where I know He is, interceding on my behalf and wholly provisional. The darkness will not remain.
Of ORU...
I pry my eyes away from the sectioned and wooden floor, and am greeted with the all too familiar plethora of colored flags and gleaming metal pipes that hold in a continuous stretching mode towards the ceiling. The music moves my feet but not my spirit; my emotions but not my heart. A tiny chisel taps in rhythm coloring the background of my words in song, hardly cracking the top layer of my icy soul and creating tiny bits of snowy dust. A humbling occupation for an almighty king, don't you think?
Sometimes I wish we were all blind. And sometimes I think we are. The girl beside me displays clenched eye lids, so tight aging wrinkles form across their surface and lashes disappear inside the fold. Her teeth grind as an unknown tongue seeps through them, variating in tone and volume. I study her face so struck with sorrow, anger, fear, regret perhaps, and I wonder if when opened, they will reveal anything at all. And although she of different color holds my hand and sings out strong, although the instruments play sweetly serenading my senses, and although the words of man in suit ring out in passionate song, my heart is hard and tired. My hands feel heavy and refuse to rise as I am called to do so. My eyes are dry though I try to cry, and conveniently the echoing noise of the crowd drowns my attempt. The wooden pews saw-dusty smell along with the musty aroma of age old Bible pages forces me to wonder, do I mind that typical scent of Sunday? Or have I simply submitted myself into acceptance, as it seems to not bother those around me? They open their arms as if welcoming it into the core of their being. Prayers are pealed aloud, crescendowing in volume and depth. It’s true. They did not move me. Their perfect fire annoyed me. And I could not find him anywhere. I want to trust him, but I’m losing steam. They take their lives and lay them down - sinners ransomed from the fall. I thank him like I do a gentleman holding open a door, but not like a daughter thanks a father for a precious and coveted necklace of pearls. And I cry alone, not from joy. But really, don’t we all? I see him hang there above - his face torn with grief, eyebrows dipped inward - still looking better than I. But no one is looking at him, they all see the unseen. I still have never seen him, and some days, I don’t love him at all. Forgive me this sin.
I pry my eyes away from the sectioned and wooden floor, and am greeted with the all too familiar plethora of colored flags and gleaming metal pipes that hold in a continuous stretching mode towards the ceiling. The music moves my feet but not my spirit; my emotions but not my heart. A tiny chisel taps in rhythm coloring the background of my words in song, hardly cracking the top layer of my icy soul and creating tiny bits of snowy dust. A humbling occupation for an almighty king, don't you think?
Sometimes I wish we were all blind. And sometimes I think we are. The girl beside me displays clenched eye lids, so tight aging wrinkles form across their surface and lashes disappear inside the fold. Her teeth grind as an unknown tongue seeps through them, variating in tone and volume. I study her face so struck with sorrow, anger, fear, regret perhaps, and I wonder if when opened, they will reveal anything at all. And although she of different color holds my hand and sings out strong, although the instruments play sweetly serenading my senses, and although the words of man in suit ring out in passionate song, my heart is hard and tired. My hands feel heavy and refuse to rise as I am called to do so. My eyes are dry though I try to cry, and conveniently the echoing noise of the crowd drowns my attempt. The wooden pews saw-dusty smell along with the musty aroma of age old Bible pages forces me to wonder, do I mind that typical scent of Sunday? Or have I simply submitted myself into acceptance, as it seems to not bother those around me? They open their arms as if welcoming it into the core of their being. Prayers are pealed aloud, crescendowing in volume and depth. It’s true. They did not move me. Their perfect fire annoyed me. And I could not find him anywhere. I want to trust him, but I’m losing steam. They take their lives and lay them down - sinners ransomed from the fall. I thank him like I do a gentleman holding open a door, but not like a daughter thanks a father for a precious and coveted necklace of pearls. And I cry alone, not from joy. But really, don’t we all? I see him hang there above - his face torn with grief, eyebrows dipped inward - still looking better than I. But no one is looking at him, they all see the unseen. I still have never seen him, and some days, I don’t love him at all. Forgive me this sin.
10/09/2003
