My Flickering Mind

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

Gallery statistics report that the average time a person spends looking at a particular work of art is three seconds. To those who spend their lives caring for the great art museums of the world, I imagine this is a disheartening sight to behold day after day. It would have been interesting to hear the thoughts of the St. Petersburg curators who watched as Henri Nouwen sat before Rembrandt's Return of the Prodigal Son for more than four hours.

I wonder how often I am more like the three-second viewer than a captivated Nouwen, moving through my days with my eyes barely open. How often am I surrounded by the presence of God, but unaware and unseeing--missing, in my absence, the bigger picture? One of my favorite poems begins with the lines, "Lord, not you, it is I who am absent."(1)

The parable of the prodigal son is typically understood as a story that speaks to us when we have wandered away from God in belief or obedience. It is a story we often apply to a specific time in our lives--a momentous return to faith, a homecoming back to the church, a particular event that caused us to remember God's grace personally and powerfully. It is a parable that at one time or another describes many of us. Perhaps it is also a parable that describes us daily. In the daily struggle to see, the constant battle to be present and conscious of the presence of God in this place, we come and go like prodigals.

The parable tells us that the wayward child had a plan for returning to his father's house: he would confess his sin against heaven and against his father, and then he would ask to be treated as one of the hired servants. He would work his way back into his father's life. But the father doesn't even give him a chance to fully present the offer. Upon seeing his son, he says to his slaves, "'Quickly bring out the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand and sandals on his feet; and bring the fattened calf, kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found.' And they began to celebrate" (Luke 15:22-25). With every symbol of restoration, the father who was waiting embraces the son who was lost.

Gripped by the intensity of the massive painting before him, Henri Nouwen found himself becoming "more and more part of the story that Jesus once told and Rembrandt once painted." Yet in Rembrandt's painting we do not find the father eagerly rushing out to greet his wayward son as it is described in the Gospel of Luke. Rather, we find stillness; we find the parable's characters at rest. Rembrandt slows our flickering minds to the scene that captures a thousand words for our daily walk in faith: "Lord, not you, it is I who am absent." In this scene, the son has returned, and he is kneeling before his father in his ragged shoes and torn clothes exactly as he is: the one who insisted upon defining himself apart from his father, the one who was absent. In pursuit of life beyond his father, the child lost sight of life itself.

In the parable of the prodigal son, Jesus bids us to slow down and be present, to taste and see, to be still and know: the Father is near. He is here, though we are absent. He waits, though we put off Him off. He grieves over our wandering hearts and minds, moving in grace to embrace those who long to see. He is the God who runs to greet his wavering child, and it is a sight to behold.

Jill Carattini is senior associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Denise Levertov, "Flickering Mind," The Stream and the Sapphire (New York: New Directions, 1997), 15.

Taken Up by Wonder

Tue, 22 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

I took up gardening a few years ago. (Well, actually gardening took me up!) It all started very innocently when a friend gave me a cutting from her jade plant. I knew nothing about plants. I had watched for years as my mother worked in her garden and I appreciated the interplay of color and texture created by the various flowers, trees, and shrubs. But, I didn't know the first thing about the process of cultivating or caring for a garden, and as far as I was concerned, the details involved in that process were best left up to my mother.

But all of that changed when I received my Jade cutting from my friend. She knew just how to initiate me into the wonders of gardening, without overwhelming me with the details. Jade plants are succulents--for those of you who do not know what a succulent plant is, it's simply a plant that doesn't need a great deal of water or attention. In other words, it's the perfect kind of plant for a novice gardener! I was amazed by how quickly this one plant put down roots in my heart. Watching this little cutting grow tiny, threadlike roots, planting it in a pot filled with simulated desert soil, and experiencing the wonder as it grew into the small Jade tree that it is today--over 15 years later--amazed me at how something so small, so ordinary could become extraordinary.

I can tell you that it didn't take long before I began to try my hand at plants that required more attention and care: African violets, cyclamen, gerbera daisies, iris, lilies, tulips, and a whole assortment of garden flora and fauna. I grew enchanted by the variety of color, texture, and arrangement each new species added to my garden. I learned about specific care regimens, their particular pests, the difference between a partial-sun and partial-shade plant, and how soil acidity impacts the color of certain types of plants.

More than all of this, gardening took me up because gardening quickly grew in me a sense of wonder. I suspect my friend knew this when she introduced me to my first, little jade plant. She knew that gardening would introduce me to the extraordinary in the ordinary. You cannot help but begin to pay attention to the tiniest details as you garden, and in turn, begin to notice all kinds of other awe-producing details all around you. The varieties of the color green in the trees, grasses, plants and shrubs, the nuances of blue and aqua hues that shimmer on lakes and oceans, and the little creatures that share the world with us--birds, rabbits, coyotes, skunk, deer, dogs, and cats.

The Scriptures indicate that the natural response to wonder is worship. Indeed, the psalmist suggests that the very detailed elements of creation proclaim the glory and worship of God: "The heavens are telling of the glory of God; and their expanse is declaring the work of his hands!" (Psalm 19:1). We are drawn into the very presence of God when we wonder in God's creation. We affirm the beauty and the goodness of God as we wonder at creation. As we wonder, we agree with God "that all he had made...it was very good" (Genesis 1:31).

Have you lost your sense of wonder? Has your life gotten too busy, too laden with care that you cannot see God's extraordinary presence in the ordinary details of your life? If so, take time to garden your soul... you'll be taken up by wonder too!

Margaret Manning is associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

Explaining Away Light

Mon, 21 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

Ballet lost some of its wonder when it was explained. It was a class that was supposed to lift my mind, lighten my spirit, and boost my grade point average. Instead it became a one-credit nightmare: a class dedicated to dissecting moves I could not duplicate, within a semester that seemed to slowly dismember my fascination with dance.

Explanations sometimes have a way of leaving us with a sense of loss. Students note this phenomenon regularly. Expounded principles of light refraction and water particles seem to explain away the rainbow, or at least some of its mystique. Air pressure, gravity, and the laws of physics deconstruct the optical mystery of the curve ball. Knowledge and experience can leave us with a sense of disappointment or disenchantment.

I recently read an article that scientifically explained the glow of a firefly. The author noted the nerves and chemical compounds that make the "fire" possible, pointing out that it is merely a signal used for mating and far from the many romantic myths that have long surrounded it. I put the article down with a sigh. And then a thought occurred to me in a manner not unlike the promise of Christ: The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.(1) Where nerves and photocytes seem to explain away the glow of the firefly, have we any more erased the miracle of light?

However accurate or inaccurate our explanations might be, they sometimes have a way of leading us to short-sighted conclusions. They have also led us to outright incongruity. We have now tried with great effort to define humanity as an impersonal product of chance, an adult germ in a vast cosmic machine. We have brusquely described life as a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing, only to claim this should not lead us to despair. We have declared our appetites the gods of a better religion, while insisting both God and religion to be an invention of the human psyche. We scoff at the notion of a savior who frees the captive or restores the fallen, while maintaining we live with every qualification for human dignity, distinction, and freedom. But are these even realistic applications of our own philosophies? Do the explanations warrant the conclusions?

On the contrary, we are undermining our own mines. In the words of R.C. Sproul, we are living on borrowed capital. Why should a product of chance have intrinsic value? Why would an impersonal, cosmic accident see herself as a personal, relational being worthy of dignity? What we are attempting to explain away in one sentence, we are arguing for in the next.

Explanations need not always lead us to the conclusion that all is lost. But neither should our explanations lead us to conclusions that contradict our own accounts! Thankfully, in both cases, there are times in life where we find, like Job, that we have spoken out of turn and discover there may be more to the story. After sitting through the whirlwind of God's 63 questions, Job exclaims: "I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know" (Job 42:3).

The invitation is before us. "Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and hidden things that you have not known" (Jeremiah 33:3). God’s presence can be overlooked, but it cannot be explained away; the effort is as futile as the attempt to explain away the miracle of light.

Jill Carattini is senior associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) See John 1:5.

"The Magnificent Defeat"

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

The disciples of Jesus had been through more in two weeks than most can say of a lifetime. They were undoubtedly exhausted and confused, still processing all that had taken place. Recounting words, reliving experiences--everything they knew was touched and altered in the three years they spent with Jesus of Nazareth. They were fishermen, tax collectors, and physicians who became students, friends, and followers of a rabbi that set something terrible and wonderful in motion; even if they did not yet have their minds around it, there was an awareness that they were standing on holy ground. They saw him perform miracles. They saw him worshipped and despised. They saw him beaten and killed and buried. They saw the body. And then they saw him alive--twice.

Early in the morning, possibly out of habit, possibly out of a need to be in waters familiar to their time with the one they just lost, the disciples went fishing (see John 21). As they were fishing, Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples did not realize who it was. From the shore he called out, "Friends, haven't you any fish?"

"No," they answered.

"Throw your net on the right side of the boat," he said, "and you will find some."

Perhaps since they had hopelessly exhausted all other options, perhaps because the advice seemed hopefully familiar (see Luke 5), they listened to the one on the shore. And when they did, they were unable to haul the net in because of the large number of fish.

Immediately one of them cried out in recognition: "It is the Lord!" As soon as Peter heard it, he jumped into the water and swam to the shore. The other disciples hurriedly followed in the boat, towing the net full of fish. When they came ashore, they saw a fire of burning coals there with fish on it and some bread. And Jesus said to them, "Come and have breakfast."

Whether it is the first or the fiftieth time hearing John's retelling of the appearance of the resurrected Jesus, it is a story that saturates its readers with anticipation. It is a story to rightfully get caught up in. Once again in the midst of the one who called them to follow, the disciples approach the fire, their hearts burning within them as they stand beside the Lord. And in this third appearance of the one they saw dead and buried, Jesus invites them to eat with him.

Humbled by the tremors of God's glory, the hope that something was at work beyond them, the disciples were silenced before the life before them; they were surrendered to the truth of God in the presence of Christ. John recounts the common sentiment among them. His words seem almost to bow before Jesus's invitation to nearness: Writes John, "None of the disciples dared ask him, 'Who are you?' For they knew it was the Lord" (John 21:12).

There was a time when I found myself yearning to add my voice to that fireside quietness. Struggling with the God whose persistence I found exhausting, whose very will required me to repeatedly relinquish my own, unlike the disciples, I did dare to ask. "Who are you?" I wanted to shout. "And what do you want from me?"

Yet as French philosopher Michel de Montaigne once wrote, "There are triumphant defeats that rival victories." Along the human road of surrendering to God, the battle seems an unavoidable illustration. And there is truth to the thought that surrendering to God is a struggle that begins again every day as if nothing had yet been done. But it is in this great surrendering where we find, as Fredrick Buechner observes, "the magnificent defeat of the human soul at the hands of God."

In the presence of the one that moved mountains of sin and unawareness and brought them to the feet of God, the disciples found reason to surrender. Might we also be humbled by the God who refuses to leave despite the words we shout in protest, despite our refusal to surrender. Might we be awed by the one who says, "Follow me!" and expects us to trust that he will not leave or forsake us. And might we marvel at the God who, carrying in his body the scars of defeat, invites us to the nearness that is our victory.

Jill Carattini is senior associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

Why Can't I Just Be a Good Person?

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

"People are basically good," writes one poet. "It is only their behavior that lets them down."

It is remarkable to think there are many today who believe they are good enough to get into heaven. Perhaps there is so much bad news about others that they conclude by comparison they are superior, and thus, deserving of a place in eternity. But then it is even more remarkable that when Christians claim they know they are going to heaven, they are regarded as being conceited, boastful, and arrogant. People immediately ask: How can they think that they are better than everyone else?

The fact that the same person can think of himself as superior to others, while at the same time criticizing Christians for arrogance, underlines one of the effects of living in a postmodern world. Though the contradiction is frustrating, Christians need to be able to respond coherently to the questions at hand: Why can't I just be a good person? Isn't it unfair of God to say that you can't get into heaven unless you believe in Him, even though you have been a good person? Who does He think He is?

Jesus was once asked a similar question by a group of inquirers: "What must we do to do the works God requires?" (John 6:28). Interestingly, the question was posed in plural form; it seems they were looking for a list of good things to do. But Jesus replied in the singular, "The work of God is this: to believe in the one He has sent" (6:29).

Of course, in the minds of those who feel they have lived a good life, Christ's answer will not go unchallenged. What makes belief so special? Surely what we do is far more important than what we believe. How can a good person, who is not a Christian, be denied access on the basis of belief?

The difficulty here lies in the assumption that is being made in each of these questions--namely, that there is such a thing as a good person. Jesus again offers further clarification in the form of question and answer. He was once asked, "Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" (Luke 18:18). The theory of the questioner was clear: Jesus is a good person; good people go to heaven, so what must I do to be in the same group? But Jesus's reply was surprising. "Why do you call me good?" he asked (18:19). He then answered his own question: "No one is good--except God alone."

The simple truth is that the issue is not about good people not getting into heaven. Alas, the problem is much worse! Jesus seems to define goodness in terms of being like God, and on that basis there are no good people anywhere. Thus, the real question is not about who is good enough to get in to heaven. The real question is how God makes it possible for anyone to get in at all. The answer is that we need to be forgiven, and that forgiveness is won for us through the Cross.(1)

In fact, this is precisely why the Gospel is called Good News, and why we do well to declare it. The good news is that getting into heaven is first and foremost about forgiveness. The Christian testimony is, in fact, far from arrogant! Christians can be sure that they are going to heaven, not because they are good, but because they have received forgiveness by believing in Christ.

In other words, if we will trust in and rely on Jesus--his promises, his person, his life, death, and resurrection--we can be sure that we are saved. Christians are not good people because they live morally superior lives to everyone else. They have been made "good" in God's eyes because Christ has made forgiveness possible--because Christ has extended his own righteousness to those who will believe.

Good people will certainly go to heaven. However, the path to goodness lies not in religious observances or respectable acts, but in the forgiveness of a good God, given to us through the Cross of Christ.

Michael Ramsden is European director of Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in the United Kingdom.

(1) For further reading on this subject, I recommend The Cross of Christ by John Stott.

The Cross of the Moment

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

The Bret Easton Ellis novel Less Than Zero offers an unsettling depiction of the moral and spiritual poverty behind the contemporary façade of wealth, success, and fame. The author describes the vacuous life of sex, drugs, and violence among the teen-age children of wealthy entertainers. Though fictitious, the book captures a scene that for some feels tragically all too accurate. Ellis depicts the bankruptcy and the cries of the human soul, which are by no means unique to any one particular lifestyle. The cries are clear and can be heard throughout the story, and maybe ours as well: Is there anybody who really loves me? Is there anyone anywhere who can help me?

The apostle John tells a story with similar undertones. There was in the city of Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate a pool called in Hebrew Bethesda, which had five porticoes. In these lay many invalids--the blind, lame, and paralyzed. For it was commonly thought that when the waters of the pool stirred, the Spirit of the Lord was near and the sick who touched the waters would be healed. At this pool was a paralytic man who had been ill for 38 years. It is unclear whether the man dragged himself to the pool everyday or remained there year after year at the water he believed had the power to heal him. John only reports that Jesus saw the man there as he approached the pool and “knew that he had been there a long time” (John 5:6). Yet even knowing this, Jesus asked the seemingly needless question: “Do you want to get well?”

At first sound, the question seems redundant, unjustified--maybe even cruel. Was there any doubt that the deepest longing of this man’s heart was to get well? And yet, he fails to really answer the question. “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me” (5:7). The cries of the human heart can be heard throughout history, generation after generation. Does anyone care? Is there anyone who really loves me? Is there anyone anywhere who can help? Sometimes it is the bitter cry of loneliness, many times it is the wearisome cry of emptiness, but it is always a call for help. Yet, how often we find that our actions and attitudes contradict the cries closest to our hearts. How often is our deepest hope overlooked while we focus on the technicalities, justifying the question that calls us back: “Do you want to get well?” In the powerful words of poet W. H. Auden,

We would rather be ruined than changed;
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.(1)

Where Christ asks “Do you want to be well?” it is possible he may also be asking, Do you prefer your pain to the possibility of change? Do you want more to see the miracle accomplished your way then to see it accomplished at all? Indeed, do you really want the thing you say you long for? His questions gently pierce the heart of the human condition we all share, bidding us to receive the very thing we ask from the only one capable of giving it.

Where we seek meaning, are we willing to be changed by that meaning? Where we seek help, are we willing to receive instruction? Where we seek healing, are we willing to be transformed? Where we seek true community, are we willing to relinquish autonomy? Where we seek understanding, are we wiling to climb the cross of the moment and let our illusions die?

To every cry of every heart, Christ calls out, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). The question he asks as we walk forward is “Do you really want to be well?”

Jill Carattini is senior associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) As quoted in Risvolti (Mars Hill Review, Issue 19), 158.

Being Set in a Broad Place

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

The national news has not been very uplifting lately. I am not sure if it has ever been uplifting, come to think of it, but certainly recent events in the housing industry, the credit industry, the rising prices of gasoline and food, the continuing conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan, and escalating fears over Iran saturate the current news coverage.

These are not simply news stories affecting someone else. They are real stories of the everyday realities of people all around me--and including me. Close friends have lost sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives in Iraq and Afghanistan. Colleagues wonder how they can continue to keep up with the rising costs associated with gas and food. Others wonder how they will pay their mortgage next month as prices rise and incomes stay the same. Necessities become negotiables, and disappear altogether. We work harder and harder only to go deeper and deeper in debt. For many, these are extraordinarily dark times.

While the particular circumstances are specific to our modern context, extraordinarily dark times are nothing new. David, the greatest king of Israel, experienced great difficulties throughout his life. Most scholars believe that many of Israel’s psalms were penned by him during times of unique and profound trial. Psalm 18, in particular, appears to have been taken from the words he spoke after being delivered from both the Philistines and Saul in 2 Samuel 22:2-51. Both passages speak of unimaginable darkness; yet, both affirm the hope for deliverance by Israel’s God.

While David wrote these songs out of the threat to his physical life, we can all relate to the powerful images used to describe the overwhelming fear and despair he felt: “The waves of death encompassed me; the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me; the cords of Sheol surrounded me; the snares of death confronted me. In my distress I called upon the Lord” (2 Samuel 22:5-7a). His distress is palpable.

But God’s deliverance is a mighty deliverance! God doesn’t come quietly to rescue. God doesn’t slip quietly through the back door. David writes, “Then, the earth shook and quaked, the foundations of heavens were trembling and were shaken...God bowed the heavens and came down with thick darkness under his feet....The Lord thundered from heaven, and the Most High uttered his voice...the foundations of the world were laid bare” (2 Samuel 22:8, 10, 14, 16). God’s deliverance creates a cosmic earthquake on behalf of “the man after his own heart.” Sent from on high, God draws David out of the many waters of despair and destruction. Even though confronted by powerful forces at work against him, David affirms that “The Lord was my stay. He brought me forth also into a broad place; He rescued me, because He delighted in me” (Psalm 18:19).

If only God would shake the heavens like this in our day and return our fortunes! If only God would save in a way that shores up our financial collapses, and transforms our economic hardships! If only God would deliver us in the same way God delivered David!

If this is the way we see God’s rescue, only as a return to the “way things were” or to a renewed sense of comfort and ease, then we have missed the point of the song altogether. God’s rescue shakes our foundations; it creates cosmic earthquakes overturning and upending all the things in which we place our hope apart from God. David tells us that The Lord was his stay. And David would come to need God’s earth-shaking deliverance again and again, as he lost focus and put his trust in security, and comfort, and the things of this world.

Ultimately, salvation does not come from the things God does for David, or for us. Salvation comes in the Lord as our stay and our total support. While worry and anxiety choke us and narrow our focus, reliance upon God brings us to that broad and spacious place David describes as God’s deliverance and rescue. This is not to say that God brings us right back to that specific place that once was--the place of comfort, of ease, or safety. But God opens up new worlds in which we can trust no matter what we are experiencing. As one commentator notes, the psalmists’ chief concern to give thanks to God are not chiefly found in regaining “physical health, or adding more years to life, or by enhancing the life they now enjoy with greater comfort or security. That is a modern conception of life, whose emptiness is eventually disclosed. According to Israel’s way of thinking, life is missed when people do not choose it: ‘See, I have set before you life and death....Therefore, choose life.’ Moreover, the life of ‘the righteous’ is eroded in vitality when death works its power.”(1)

God’s deliverance of us in times of trial and difficulty has everything to do with seeing God as the source and goal of our life. As Christoph Barth observes, “[W]hat the psalmists pray for in laments, or thank God for in thanksgiving is the restoration of life that they have lost, or its radical renewal through true life--that is the life that is given through relationship to God.”(2) In our days of very bad news, we are in need of rescue and deliverance, to be sure. We need earth-shattering simplicity, and we need tsunamis of generosity to sustain us and infuse our living during lean times, and in times of abundance. As God’s people living at times in want and in times of bad news, our lives can be renewed and restored in remarkable ways, set in a broad place when we find our stay is God.

Margaret Manning is associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Bernard W. Anderson, ed., Out of the Depths: The Psalms Speak for Us Today, (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1983), 127.
(2) As quoted by Anderson, Ibid.,, 127.

Like Trees Walking

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

"Give us a sign," demanded the Pharisees. "Give us a miraculous sign from heaven to prove yourself."

Jesus sighed deeply in his spirit. "Why does this generation ask for a sign? Truly I tell you, no sign will be given to this generation" (Mark 8:12). And Jesus turned away and got into the boat with his disciples. But the disciples soon discovered they had forgotten to bring any food; there was only one loaf of bread with them in the boat. Knowing what his disciples were thinking, Jesus questioned them. "Why are you talking about having no bread? Do you still not perceive or understand?" It was a day of sighing.

"Are your hearts hardened? Do you have eyes, and fail to see? Do you have ears, and fail to hear? And do you not remember?” he asked. "When I broke the five loaves of bread for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you collect?”

"Twelve," they replied.

"And the seven for the four thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you collect?"

"Seven," they said.

Unlike Matthew and Luke, who each provide detailed information about the historical scene or genealogical lineage of Christ, Mark seems to hit the ground running in his storytelling. The shortest of the Gospel accounts, Mark proceeds with intensity--skipping introductions, delving into events, speaking with immediacy. In fact, he uses the word “immediately” 42 times in 16 chapters. With a breathless pace, Mark’s utmost concern appears to be getting the story out and message across so that hearers hear and understand the person before them. And yet ironically, in this Gospel of action and miracles and astonished crowds, we repeatedly find a world of people that just don't get it, a people forever demanding signs, forever missing the message. Sighing deeply, Jesus seems to ask repetitively: “Do you still not see or understand?”

I fear how many times Jesus has asked of me this same question.

Yet with the words of Jesus still ringing in our ears, Mark wastes no time in getting to the next scene. Moving from the boat, Jesus is confronted by some people who ask him to touch their blind friend. Leading the man away from the crowd, Jesus put saliva on his eyes and placed his hands upon him. "Can you see anything?" rings the familiar question. The man looked up and said, "I can see people, but they look like trees, walking" Putting his hands on the man's eyes once more, Jesus restored the blind man's sight. And he walked away seeing clearly.

Apparently, seeing takes time. Undoubtedly, we are slow learners, all too often satisfied with walking trees. "Do you have eyes but fail to see, and ears but fail to hear?" It is the question Jesus placed before disciples and blind men, the very wise and the very wicked. What do you see? What do you hear? Do you understand? The blind man knew enough to know that what he saw was not as clear and coherent as eyes intended. Though partial sight was itself yet a miracle, the one who touched him intended more.

That we might see, that we might see Christ, is life's great undertaking and the desire of God for every eye. What we see now is like trees walking; God intends more. May we always have the mind to increase our vision, remaining well-focused on the promise before us: “No eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the human heart conceived, what God has prepared for those who love him.”

Jill Carattini is senior associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

When Theology Becomes Doxology

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

More than six hundred years ago, a young Italian laywoman sent into a dark world a quiet but reverberating voice. Catherine of Siena lived within a century marked by insecurity and fear, war and economic distress, terrorizing disease, and corruption within the Church. Yet, her short life was one marked by a passion for the truth, intense care for humanity, and a fervent life of prayer. Whether administering care at the bedsides of plague victims or writing letters to feuding church leaders, she emphatically declared in word and deed: "The way has been made. It is the doctrine of Christ crucified. Whoever walks along this way...reaches the most perfect light."(1) Catherine prayed with a similar intensity: "O eternal God, I have nothing to give except what you have given me, so take my heart and squeeze it out over the face of the Bride."(2) In the frailty of her own life, which was racked with great illness and sorrow, Catherine's severe desire was that God would take her life as an offering, using her in whatever way to mend the brokenness all around her.

Reading through a book of her collected prayers and letters recently, I was struck by a phrase the editor used to describe her. In Catherine's prayers, the editor notes, "her theology becomes doxology."(3) The statement is certainly one rich with thought. What Catherine professed to be true about God became in her prayers--and arguably in her life--an expression of praise to God. But shouldn't all of our theology naturally lead us to doxology?

Throughout Scripture we find lives touched by God's goodness, moved by his mercy, transformed by his mighty presence. In these men and women, we find a profound correlation between profession and praise. This was certainly true of the young peasant girl who was used by God to bring into the world a Child who would be named Jesus. In the Gospel of Luke we witness the thoughts of Mary erupt into song. She praises God for the things she knew to be true, for the promises that have touched her life, and the very character of the one to whom she sings:

My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has been mindful
of the humble state of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed,
for the Almighty One has done great things for me--
holy is his name.
His mercy extends to those who fear him,
from generation to generation.
He has performed mighty deeds with his arm…
He has helped his servant Israel,
remembering to be merciful
to Abraham and his descendants forever,
even as he said to our fathers (Luke 1:46-55).

Mary's theology is intertwined in her doxology: God is a God who has acted in history and is present today. The Father is one who keeps his promises and He has indeed promised great things. Holy is his name.

When we come to know the God of heaven, when we see the Father’s character, when we glimpse the goodness of the Son or his merciful hand in our lives, there becomes within us a need to share it, a need to profess it in word and deed. There becomes within us a need to praise God for all that we see and all that we know.

What do you know about God? What have you seen of the Father’s character and known of his goodness? May this become your song. In your knowledge of God and in your knowing of Christ, may you find in word and deed, in prayer and song, your life a doxology to the truth of his holy name.

Jill Carattini is senior associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Mary O’Driscoll, Ed., Catherine of Siena (New City Press: Hype Park, NY, 1993), 13.
(2) Ibid., 11.
(3) Ibid., ii.

Our Disappointments Matter to God

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 00:00:00 GMT

I struggled as a teenager growing up in Delhi. For those of you who have read my story in Walking from East to West, you’ll know failure was writ large on my life. My dad basically looked at me and said, “You know, you’re going to be a huge embarrassment to the family--one failure after another.” And he was right given the way I was headed. I wanted to get out of everything I was setting my hand to, and I lacked discipline.

During this time, India was at war and the defense academy was looking for general duties pilots to be trained. So I applied and I went to be interviewed, which involved an overnight train journey from the city of Delhi. It was wintertime and we were outside freezing for about five days as we went through physical endurance and other tests. There were three hundred applicants; they were going to select ten. On the last day they put their selection of names out on the board, and I was positioned number three.

I phoned my family and said, “You aren’t going to believe this. I’m going to make it. I’m number three. The only thing that’s left is the interview. The psychological testing is tomorrow, and I’ll be home.”

The next morning I began my interview with the chief commanding officer, who looked to me like Churchill sitting across the table. He asked me question after question. Then he said, “Son, I’m going to break your heart today.” He continued, “I’m going to reject you. I’m not going to pass you in this test.” “May I ask you why, sir?” I replied. “Yes. Psychologically, you’re not wired to kill. And this job is about killing.”

I felt that I was on the verge of wanting to prove him wrong--but I knew better, both for moral reasons and for his size! I went back to my room and didn’t talk to anybody. I packed my bags, got into the train, and arrived in Delhi. My parents and friends were waiting at the platform with garlands and sweets in their hands to congratulate me. No one knew. I thought to myself, “How do I even handle this? Where do I even begin?” They were celebrating, and yet for me, it was all over.

Or so I thought.

I was to discover later that God is the Grand Weaver of our lives. Every thread matters and is there for a purpose. Had I been selected, I would have had to commit twenty years to the Indian armed forces. It was the very next year that my father had the opportunity to move to Canada. My brother and I moved there as the first installment, and the rest of them followed. It was there I was in business school and God redirected my path to theological training. It was there that I met my wife, Margie; there my whole life changed. The rest is history. Had I been in the Indian Air Force, who knows what thread I’d have pulled to try to wreck the fabric.

Thankfully, our disappointments matter to God, and He has a way of taking even some of the bitterest moments we go through and making them into something of great significance in our lives. It’s hard to understand at the time. Not one of us says, “I can hardly wait to see where this thread is going to fit.” Rather, we say, “This is not the pattern I want.” Yet one day the Shepherd of our souls will put it all together--and give us an eternity to revel in the marvel of what God has done. Our Father holds the threads of the design, and I’m so immensely grateful that He is the Grand Weaver.

Excerpted and adapted from Ravi Zacharias’s The Grand Weaver: How God Shapes Us Through the Events of Our Lives (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2007).

Ravi Zacharias is founder and president of Ravi Zacharias International Ministries.