The Heroism of the Ordinary

Tue, 09 Feb 2010 00:00:00 GMT

The question was asked and the room fell silent: "Does anyone ever feel they've lived up to their potential?" It was a loaded question, not only because it was asked in a group of persons struggling with vocation, but also because the word "potential" is elusive in its definition. What does "potential" mean in a world that views achievement as athletic prowess, celebrity status, or economic success? If the exceptional is the guide for the achievement of one's potential, how will those of us who live somewhere between the average and the ordinary ever feel we've arrived?

The inherent routine and mundane tasks that fill our days contribute to the struggle to understand our "potential.” How can one possibly feel substantial when one's day-in, day-out existence is filled with the tedium of housework, paying bills, pulling weeds, and running endless errands? These tasks are not celebrated, or noticed. They are the daily details that make up our routine. Indeed for artists and bus drivers, homemakers and neurosurgeons, astronauts and cashiers our days are filled with repetitive motion, even if we do have moments of great challenge or extraordinary success. It is no wonder then, with our societal standards and our routine-filled lives, that we wonder about our potential. Indeed, does much of what we do even matter when it feels so ordinary? Does the "ordinary" contribute to our sense of meeting our potential, or does it's predominance in our lives simply serve as a perpetual reminder of a failure to thrive?

The "simple lifestyle" movement attempts to locate potential in exactly the opposite ways of our society. In this movement, simplicity unlocks the key to potential, and not acquisition, or achievement, or recognition. Clearing out what clutters and complicates makes room for finding potential in what is most basic and routine. In the Christian tradition, as well, there are many who believe that one's potential and one's purpose would only be found in the radical call of simplicity. Some of the earliest Christians, who fled the luxury and security of Rome once Constantine made Christianity the official religion of the Empire, believed that one's "holiness" potential could only be achieved within the radical austerity of a monastic cell. There in the cloistered walls where each and every day presented simple routine, repetitive tasks, and the regular rhythm of prayer and worship, perseverance with the ordinary became the path to one's potential.

Brother Lawrence is one of the most well known of this type of monastic. In The Practice of Prayer, Margaret Guenther writes that "Brother Lawrence, our patron of housekeeping, was a hero of the ordinary."(1) As one who found his potential in cultivating a profound awareness of God in the ordinary tasks of his day, Brother Lawrence was the "hero of the ordinary." While he attended chapel with the other monks, his true sanctuary was there amongst the pots and pans of his Carmelite kitchen. What we may not realize in the popularized retelling of his story is that he hated his work. His abbot wrote about him:

The same thing was true of his work in the kitchen, for which he had a naturally strong aversion; having accustomed himself to doing everything there for the love of God, and asking His grace to do his work, he found he had become quite proficient in the fifteen years he had worked in the kitchen."(2)

Quite proficient in the kitchen. Could it be that Brother Lawrence was able to fulfill his potential by washing dishes? Despite his strong aversion, he found purpose in the very midst of the most mundane and ordinary tasks of life. He fulfilled his potential by focusing on faithfulness. This is not faithfulness that triumphs over the desire to fulfill one's potential. Indeed, as Guenther describes it "faithfulness rarely feels heroic; it feels much more like showing up and hanging in. It is a matter of going to our cell, whatever form that might take, and letting it teach us what it will."(3) Availing himself to consistent faithfulness yielded the blessing of both proficiency and presence—the presence of God—right there in midst of the monotony of dirty pots and pans.

Fulfilling one's potential has little to do with greatness. And yet, the heroism of the ordinary does not preempt "greatness" that our world confers to those who have reached their potential with staggering and dramatic achievement; for even those who achieve greatness have faced the drama of routine and the tidal wave of tedium. But to assign the fulfillment of one's potential solely to great acts and recognition is to miss the blessing that comes from faithful acts of devotion, often done routinely and heroically in the ordinary of our everyday. Perhaps it might be said of us, as it was of Brother Lawrence: "He was more united with God in his ordinary activities."

Margaret Manning is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

(1) Margaret Guenther, The Practice of Prayer (Boston: Cowley Press, 1998), 113.
(2) Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection, The Practice of the Presence of God, ed. John J. Delaney (New York: Image, 1977), 41.
(3) Margaret Guenther, The Practice of Prayer (Boston: Cowley Press, 1998), 112.
(4) Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection, The Practice of the Presence of God, ed. John J. Delaney (New York: Image, 1977), 47.

Independence Day

Mon, 08 Feb 2010 00:00:00 GMT

Ask an American about the most historically significant event of 1776 and you will most certainly hear about the signing of the declaration, independence from Great Britain,and the birthday of our nation. But 1776 also significantly marks the publication of Adam Smith's influential Wealth of Nations, widely considered the first modern work in the field of economics and a work that remains widely influential today. Both Wealth of Nations and The Declaration of Independence are publications that have inarguably shaped the world in ways beyond even what the original authors imagined.

All the same, Christian historian Mark Noll suggests there is a third publication of 1776 that may have been even more historically influential than both of these momentous options. In a lecture at Harvard Divinity School, he argued: "I say with calculated awareness of what else was going on in Philadelphia[the signing of the Declaration of Independence], and in Scotland, where Adam Smith published his Wealth of Nations, that of all world-historical occurrences in that year, the publication of August Montagu Toplady's hymn [Rock of Ages] may have been the most consequential."(1)

This may seem a surprising choice—particularly for those of us who associate 1776 with fireworks and parades and its critical role in forming our national identity. But Noll's suggestion asks that we look beyond national citizenship, perhaps even beyond our identities as citizens of the world. Toplady's hymn is one of the two most reprinted hymns in Christian history, but its words remind us of a history far beyond even this:

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee;
Let the water and the blood, From Thy riven side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure, Cleanse me from its guilt and power.
Not the labours of my hands, Can fulfill Thy law's demands;
Could my zeal no respite know, Could my tears for ever flow,
All for sin could not atone: Thou must save, and Thou alone.
Nothing in my hand I bring, Simply to Thy Cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress; Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly; Wash me, Saviour, or I die.

Beyond denomination, beyond nation,we are creatures in need of God's redemptive plan, in need of freedom from sin, in need of the liberating sacrifice of Christ on the Cross.Like many confessions throughout the history of the church, Toplady's hymn calls its hearers to identify with a greater citizenship, the cloud of witnesses described by the writer of Hebrews, the one holy catholic and apostolic church we confess in our creeds.

History is filled with the ebb and flow of influences and events, but of God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, there is no greater, unswerving influence. As James writes, "[God] does not change like the shifting shadows" (1:17). As David praised, and Hannah prayed,and saints will continue to discover, God is the Rock of Ages. Hidden in the Trinity, clinging to the Cross, cleansed by the Son whose blood removes both the guilt and power of sin, we are free indeed.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Mark Noll and Ronald F. Thieman, Where Shall My Wond'ring Soul Begin? (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans,2000), 12.

The Final Word

Fri, 05 Feb 2010 00:00:00 GMT

Psychologists use the term "cognitive dissonance" to describe the bothered, sometimes pained, state of mind that occurs when new evidence conflicts with a current belief or outlook. When such dissonance occurs, resolution is arrived at by discarding the new evidence, discarding the belief itself, or ideally, evaluating what is known to be true and integrating the new information.

If we closely examine the lives of certain biblical characters such dissonance is often and clearly evident. Abraham was devastated by the God he loved who asked him to trust, even as he led his young son to be sacrificed. Saul spent three days in blindness and without food trying to comprehend the presence of the Christ he once persecuted. Mary wept at the empty tomb, pleading with the gardener to show her the body. The instances where God's plans conflicted with the understanding of God's people are scattered throughout Scripture.

Even so, it is perhaps safe to say that Job suffered from the most significant case of cognitive dissonance known among men. Job's understanding of a gracious and just God who rewards the righteous and punishes the unrighteous was shattered by new evidence. Grieving the loss of the God he loved, yet unable to discard the relationship, the question of divine justice tortured his mind. "As water wears away stones and torrents wash away the soil," he cried, "so you destroy man's hope" (14:19). And yet, against the counsel of his wife, Job was unwilling to discard his belief and allow his hope to be washed away.

Job is the hopeful symbol of a steadfast mind amidst the ashes of our own questions. Why am I so troubled and afflicted? Why would a good God permit suffering? Why does God stand far off in times of trouble? Why is God so absent? The dung heap of life's most plaguing questions is resistant to decomposition.

I remember the evening my mother had to call my grandparents and break the tragic news to them that their house was burning down. Fortunately, they were away for the weekend, and yet their home, literally built by their own hands, was at that very moment being consumed by fire and nothing would be salvaged. My grandmother's response was calmly uttered: "The Lord works in mysterious ways."

To my teenage mind, her response was both inspiring and maddening. Perhaps I wanted her to cling with me to the sorrow of that moment, to cry out at the unfairness of the situation, to ask as I was asking, "Why is this happening?" Perhaps I suspected she wasn’t feeling the loss as intensely as I was. We all loved that house—so many memories were inside, heirlooms, events, pictures that could never be retaken. Her sense of loss was undoubtedly far more intense than mine. And still, she stood upon the words of Scripture and chose to cling to God: "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways" (Isaiah 55:8). God’s stories challenge us to remember that just as there is intelligence behind his creation and design, so there is intelligence behind the one who helps us cope with suffering. That which we don't understand can still hold within its core the wisdom and mystery of God. This was the knowledge my grandmother held near.

In the words of Henry David Thoreau, truth often strikes us from behind, and in the dark. Does the theology of the Cross not bring such a wisdom to light? At Calvary, we were abandoned. Christ was forsaken. God was beaten. God was absent. Death was given the chilling, final word. But on the third day, all of these observations, all of these sensations, however intensely felt, were radically challenged. The Christian does not view the story of the Cross as an eradicator of all of life’s dark and incomprehensible moments; their suggestion is far more aware of the storyteller. Perhaps the reliability of God's promises and the truth of his Word merit our allowing God the final word.

Though ashes will not rise again to be houses, we hold the promise that broken lives will rise again to see God. Somehow through his suffering and in the dark, Job discovered this assurance. Like Abraham at the place of Isaac's sacrifice and Mary at the tomb of Christ, Job declared the faithfulness of God in the midst of his situation: "For I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God; I myself will see him with my own eyes—I, and not another." Such is God's final word to his sorrowing children.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

But as for Me

Wed, 03 Feb 2010 00:00:00 GMT

There are some thoughts about God a Christian carries as truths deeply cemented into the mind. That God is good, for instance, that Christ forgives, that God is a God of grace and mercy and strength. Recitation of these qualities could be offered on cue, or given as gentle correction from a friend when vision has become skewed: God loves you. God is in the midst of your situation. You are forgiven. These phrases are known by heart, even if there are times we do not apply them to our own:

“Surely God is good to Israel,
to those who are pure in heart.
But as for me, my feet had almost slipped;
I had nearly lost my foothold” (Psalm 73:1-2).

Here in these ancient words, a familiar lament is exposed in the expression of an unknown soul. There are times when what is true for all of Israel doesn't seem so true for me.

There are perhaps many reasons we might single ourselves out from time to time as being separated from a particular promise or attribute of God. It may be that we are feeling cast aside from God's presence or forgiveness because something is blocking our view of God’s mercy. Other times a false sense of humility or remnants of shame from previous mistakes may cause us to keep a picture of blame ever before us, while skewing our personal vision of the Cross. Of course, in our very admission of feeling overlooked, the Spirit may be attempting to draw us toward the face of God and away from the things that distance us. Still other times, we find ourselves feeling alienated because it seems God has truly overlooked us. Surely God is good to Israel. But as for me...

No matter the spirit in which it is spoken, the addendum is a heartfelt cry for all. Yet, in a way, the words themselves cast us away from God as we draw ourselves in sharp distinction from what we know to be true. The truth is not moved by our addendums; we are.

Even so, it is mercifully in our attempts to air our grievances before God that we often discover this paradox, and the God who is in the midst of it. As C.S. Lewis's Orual observes in Til We have Faces, to have heard herself making the complaint was to be answered.

True to form, as the writer of Psalm 73 vividly articulates the frustration that caused him to feel overlooked and cast aside, he begins to see his own offenses in the midst of it. The psalmist seems to discover how these offenses, including his own perceptions—and not God Himself—have kept him from the hope of Israel. "For I envied the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked," says the psalmist. "I was so foolish and ignorant, I must have seemed like a senseless animal to you" (vv. 3, 22). But then in the midst of feeling singled out by his own misperception, the writer responds to his own shame with a certainty of which he may or may not feel ownership, but knows is true all the same: "Yet I still belong to you; you are holding my right hand" (73:22-23).

In times when we find ourselves mentally articulating a disparity between God's character and our experience of it, an inconsistency between things we know and things we feel, there is no more important defense: Yet I still belong to you; you are holding my right hand. There is good reason God asks us to bind his words upon our hearts, to talk about them on the road and impress them on our children, to write them on the door frames of our houses and on our gates. There will be moments when we will need what is true to override what is felt.

In such a vein, the psalmist, who began his song with an admission of being overlooked by the God of Israel, concludes his song with a declaration of reconciliation and the certainty of inclusion.

“But as for me, it is good to be near God.
I have made the Sovereign LORD my refuge;
I will tell of all your deeds” (Psalm 73:28).

This, may we know by heart.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

On Humanity

Thu, 04 Feb 2010 00:00:00 GMT

Although John Stuart Mill's essay "On Liberty" was published in 1859, it continues to influence our thinking today. This is particularly true of the idea that human beings are essentially good. "Don't tell me how to live!" essentially sums up Mill's view of liberty. Yet in his essay, Mill not only tells us how we should live, but who we are! Human beings are essentially good, he declares, and his view of liberty hinges upon this idealistic perspective of human nature. Mill writes, "To say that one person's desires and feelings are stronger and more various than those of another is merely to say that he has more of the raw material of human nature, and is therefore capable, perhaps of more evil, but certainly of more good."

Many theologians and philosophers of Mill's era were skeptical of the individual's passions and one's willingness to choose what is right over what is pleasurable. Furthermore, as historian Gertrude Himmelfarb observed, "[Mill] took for granted that those virtues that had already been acquired by means of religion, tradition, law, and all the other resources of civilization would continue to be valued and exercised."

Today these structures of tradition and authority no longer hold sway in our culture, whereas the idea of the essential goodness of humanity has taken on a life of its own and is now imbedded in our modern psyche. Moreover, the assumption held in Mill's day—that truth is knowable and should order our lives—is no longer believed by many, who instead would agree with the words of Nietzsche: "Truths are illusions of which one has forgotten that they are illusions; worn-out metaphors which have become powerless to affect the senses."

On the contrary, the Scriptures witness specifically to the reality of sin and our need for God, and the experience of our world undeniably witnesses to the reality of darkness in our hearts. If this experience has not inspired a change in philosophy, perhaps it is because the illusion of human goodness brings us greater comfort. Yet, does it really? Do we not find it incomprehensible how one could abuse or torture a child? And do we really believe that given time and progress we will learn to love our neighbor as ourselves? Surely the horrors of the twentieth century alone have proven the idea of the essential goodness of human beings to be false.

Jesus himself said in Mark 10, "No one is good except God alone." But just before declaring this, Jesus showed us how we may know the power to love and to do good—by coming to him in humility, as children aware of their need for a Savior. "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them," he said, "for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth: anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them.

Stuart McAllister is vice president of training and special projects at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

God in Loving Pursuit

Tue, 02 Feb 2010 00:00:00 GMT

"You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England. I did not then see what is now the most shining and obvious thing; the Divine humility which will accept a convert even on such terms. The Prodigal Son at least walked home on his own feet. But who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape?"(1)

C.S. Lewis, the most reluctant and dejected convert in all England, penned this now famous and oft-quoted account of his conversion. Unlike some who decided to follow Jesus with urgency and willingness of heart, Lewis came into the Kingdom of God kicking and screaming! While some of us resonate with Lewis’s dread of conversion, most of us, like the Prodigal Son, gladly pursued the path home.

Lewis’s reluctant conversion fascinates me, but I am even more moved by the glimpse into God's character his story affords. For Lewis reminds us of the love of God that relentlessly pursues even the reluctant prodigal who would turn and run in the opposite direction in order to avoid God’s gracious embrace. The God revealed in Lewis’s account is a God who pursues sinners. Indeed, even the reluctant convert is wooed, courted, and embraced by God’s love.

The apostle Paul often talked about the love of God for sinners. In what is perhaps the apex of his letter to the Romans, Paul writes: "For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will hardly die for a righteous person; though perhaps for the good someone would dare even to die. But God demonstrates God’s own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, having now been justified by his blood, we shall be saved from the wrath of God through him. For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of the Son, much more, having been reconciled, we shall be saved by his life" (Romans 5:1-11).

Paul’s progressive description of our condition before God reveals the depths of God’s love. First, Paul notes that God’s love pursued us "while we were still helpless." Then, Paul states that God loved us “while we were yet sinners,” and finally, God loved us and reconciled us even "while we were enemies." Indeed, Paul insists on God's great love towards even the vilest offender through the life and death of Jesus. He doesn’t make this claim as one who stands removed from the vilest offender. Indeed, he identifies himself as one who found mercy as the foremost sinner of all: "It is a trustworthy statement, deserving full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, among whom I am foremost of all."(2)

But Paul's recognition of God's grace didn't end with himself. As Paul grasped the depths of God’s reconciling love in his own life, it led him to proclaim that same reconciliation for others. To the Corinthian church he wrote, "Now all these things are from God, who reconciled us through Christ, and gave us the ministry of reconciliation, namely, that God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and He has committed to us the word of reconciliation" (2 Corinthians 5:18-19).

In reflecting on the reconciling work of God in Christ, scholar Miroslav Volf draws a pointed application: "God does not abandon the godless to their evil but gives the divine self for them in order to receive them into divine communion through atonement, so also should we-whoever our enemies and whoever we may be."(3) As we reflect on our own standing before God, our own inclusion into God's gracious love, may we not be reluctant converts blind to the depths of our own reconciliation. Rather, may our common heritage as sinners move us to pursue others as God has pursued us.

Margaret Manning is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

(1) C.S. Lewis in Surprised by Joy as cited in James Loder, The Logic of the Spirit (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1998), 311, emphasis mine.
(2) See 1 Timothy 1:12-17.
(3) Miroslav Volf, Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1996), 23.

Seeing Them

Mon, 01 Feb 2010 00:00:00 GMT

They stood on stage, a colorful array of men and women representing countries from all over the world and needs largely unvoiced. Each one signified a life that said yes to a call of service and no to things of which most will never know the extent. Seeing them, I could not overlook the hard realities of humanitarian work, nor could I fail to see the expectant reality of God at work in communities I fail daily to see. At this conference filled with international aide workers, local humanitarian groups, and missionaries, I was reminded how serious is the connection between seeing and compassion.

The gospel writers are quick to confirm the correlation. Matthew and Mark repeatedly draw attention to the relationship between the sight and empathy. Frequently, it is recorded that upon seeing the multitudes, Jesus had compassion on them. I don't believe for a moment that either disciple is suggesting that Jesus needed to see the crowds in order to know their deepest misconceptions or expressions of pain. Unlike my own vision, for Jesus, there is no "out of sight" or "out of mind." And yet, these two distinct functions—sight and compassion—are spelled out for us again and again as simultaneously coinciding in the heart of Christ. "When Jesus saw the crowds, he had compassion on them because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd" (Matthew 9:36). "When Jesus went ashore, he saw a large crowd, and he felt compassion for them and healed their sick" (Matthew 14:14). It is a correlation that calls an unseeing world out of its apathy and into the divine work ethic. The sight of an omniscient God is indivisible from the work of his sovereign hands.

As it is described throughout Scripture, the major anguish and challenge of God exists not in one isolated moral issue, the scheme of the enemy, or the dealings of wicked nations, but in the aligning his people with his own heart. I am startled at how easy it is to forget the faces and desperation of those who are not out of God’s sight and out of mind. I am ashamed that so many of the Oscar Romeros, Corrie Tenbooms, and Paul Brands have fought injustices largely unknown and served missions grossly unaided by those who follow the same Christ. For such men and women there was no alternative: the invitation to follow the heart of God came with the liability of sight. Likewise, the apostle Paul urged the church in Rome, "The hour has come for you to wake up from your slumber" (Romans 13:11).

But is waking to the world around us as simple as learning to see? If the atrocities were plainly in front of us and we could see the great needs of a lost crowd would we then respond in compassion without delay? Even today, scenes of the crumbled, confounded nation of Haiti are inescapable. Has it led us all to action?

In the parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus makes it a point to note that all three men saw with their own eyes the need of the one wounded alongside the road. "A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him" (Luke 10:31-33). Sight only led one to compassion.

Like my reaction among the sights and scenes of international aide workers, there may be times when we simply need to be reoriented as to our place within the journey. The harvest is plentiful, the workers are few, and whether I see it or not God is surely on the move. Perhaps other times, it is a recognition of our lack of sight that must wake us. When it is my schedule that I am consumed with, my heart I am looking to protect, my time alone that I am guarding, is there room even in my peripheral vision for a neighbor? Like the two who saw but were not moved, it is all too easy to employ the gift of sight as our own, all too reasonable to warrant apathy. Yet the one who saw the crowds and had compassion requires us to wake to the world around us. Seeing humanity in all its brokenness, a world groaning for redemption, devastation we cannot rectify, somehow we move our hearts closer to God’s own. And in this we wake to Christ, who in seeing us as sheep without a shepherd, the sick without a doctor, or as mockers at the foot of the Cross has compassion.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

Leave of Absence

Fri, 29 Jan 2010 00:00:00 GMT

The deep-seated impression of a parent in the life of a child has long been familiar to me. The giant place our parents occupy from birth to death is as plain as the life they initiated. It was far less familiar, however, to consider that the massive giant which occupies this place might be the absence of that person, inasmuch as the person himself. "It doesn't matter who my father was," Anne Sexton once wrote, "it matters who I remember he was." The looming memory of an absent father is every bit as big as a present one, maybe bigger. Absence itself can become something of a presence.

It is little wonder that the deepest struggle many of us have with faith is in the absence of God. We learn early that absence is a characteristic connected to despair, wrought from disconnectedness, or born of devastation. As a result, we don't know how to reconcile the God who appears in burning bushes and dirty stables, who descends ladders and rends the heavens, but whose crushing silence feels every bit as profound. We don't know what to do with the ruinous sensation of neglect when God comes so close to some but remains far off from others. We hold in mind the one who came near the rejected Samaritan woman, but we uncomfortably suspect that we might have been given something else, or worse, that he has for some reason withdrawn. The sting of abandonment is overwhelming; with Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Our prayer seems lost in desert ways/ Our hymn in the vast silence dies."

Though it does not always come as a consolation, the Bible recounts similar difficulties and suspicions from some of God’s closest followers. "There is no one who calls on your name, or attempts to take hold of you," says Isaiah, "for you have hidden your face from us" (Isaiah 64:7). "Why should you be like a stranger in the land," demands Jeremiah, "like a traveler turning aside for the night?" (Jeremiah 14:8). There is something consoling in knowing that any relationship—even that of a prophet of God—goes through the ebbs and flows of intimacy with the divine. Even the Son of the God cried out at the sensation of God’s withdrawal: "My God, my God why have you forsaken me?" Nonetheless, knowing that we are not alone in our pain is not the consolation we seek. Misery's company does not, any more than reason or rationale itself, have much to say to the child who wants to know why her father left; this is not what she is looking for.

A far better consolation would be the assurance that he never left in the first place. Of course, anyone who has known the sting of abandonment will understandably find such a claim near impossible to fathom. A distant God is every bit as real and hurtful as a missing parent. And we have surely known his absence. We have lived with the injurious silence of a one-way relationship. We have known the cold echo of an empty room, unanswered cries, the ache of loss.

But what if the absence of God was not at all like that of an absent parent? What if the moments when God’s distance was most palpable were in fact moments most full of God’s hope and love? As Alister McGrath suggests in Mystery of the Cross, "God is active and present in his world, quite independently of whether we experience him as being so. Experience declared that God was absent from Calvary, only to have its verdict humiliatingly overturned on the third day."(1) What if the darkened experiences of God’s distance were filled with the promise that he has gone only momentarily to prepare you a room?

Such a leave of absence is no more permanent than the absence of a father who has gone off to work in the morning with the promise to return before bedtime. Such a distance is marked not with isolation and disconnection, but with love and communion. It is the kind of absence that takes on the characteristics of a presence. It is the kind of distance somehow brimming with the promise: I will never leave you or forsake you.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Alister McGrath, The Mystery of the Cross (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1988), 159.

Holy Groans

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 00:00:00 GMT

As I write this, I am waiting for a bus on a busy corner in an extremely poor community in Central America, in which I lived for a year and have been visiting now for nine years. Most of the time, the tragedy of this place fades into the background of my thoughts, pushed there by familiarity, busyness, and the cheerfulness and resilience of the people who have welcomed me here. Nonetheless, it is evident that the joy many people here display is in clear defiance of the facts of their daily existence.

Sometimes, moments like this one come when I can no longer ignore these facts, and the sense of tragedy becomes overwhelming. I can see garbage strewn around me—plastic bags, empty bottles, crumpled wrappers, cigarettes—things discarded. Since it is located on the site of an old dump, garbage literally serves as the foundation of this mini-city, which is full of people discarded. I see a young girl walking towards school and I wonder if she shares the experience of so many other girls and young women here whose bodies are used, owned, or defaced. I see a boy whose swagger makes him look older and more confident than he probably is. As he joins the group of laughing older boys, I am aware of how likely his future is to be stolen by gangs and drugs. They are more lucrative ventures than most other job options that will be available to him—lucrative as long as he is alive, that is. Beside me is a woman selling tortillas and green mangoes. Like the innumerable other single moms in this community, she must choose between being with her children and feeding them. Even the dogs, whose ugly skeletal bodies manage to reproduce at obscene rates, join this dance of joy and threat, death and life that is ordinary living here.

From behind me, I hear an old man groan; he is struggling to stand up from where he is sitting against a wall. And it seems to me right now that I can hear in his groan the groaning of this whole place, and for that matter, the groaning of all creation that Paul spoke of in Romans as it waits for its redemption. The groaning of these hills, soaked with the blood of those murdered for a cell phone or a pair of shoes. The groaning of this river, polluted with chemicals and sewage. Holy groans. Like the groans of the people in Egyptian slavery that touched the ears and heart of God. Like the groans of the psalmist while his very bones wasted away. Like groans of the crucified One, bearing the weight of the whole world's pain. I want to groan too, because I don't have any words to speak. So I am thankful for the beautiful Spirit who joins the groaning, who takes my conflicted feelings of guilt and anger and love and intercedes for me with "groans that words could not express." Holy groans.

But now, I am struck by something else. I hear the voice of a little girl coming from around the corner, singing loudly and clearly a song I know well: "Oh love of God, how rich and pure, how measureless and strong, it will forevermore endure, the saints' and angels' song!"

Love of God, rich and pure, measureless and strong. In the middle of so much suffering, this can easily sound like the mockery of an indifferent universe. I am certain of one thing: it must either be a cruel joke or the deepest possible truth. It is easy for philosophers and theologians to debate the question of suffering when they are removed from its stark reality. However, it is a costly thing for those who suffer to speak of the love of God in the midst of their pain. That is why their voice carries the ring and force of truth. When it comes to questions of love and suffering, the voice of the smallest, the poorest, and the most vulnerable carries an authority far beyond that of philosophical treatises or the debates of the 'experts.' I have read many good books on this topic, and I have even tried to write about it myself. But I have never read anything that speaks so profoundly to life's deepest groans than the song of this child in this place. This song does not dismiss or deny our groaning, but assures us that we do not groan in an empty void, but in the midst of a universe whose truest reality is Love.

Rachel Tulloch is a member of the speaking team with Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Toronto, Canada.

In Office

Wed, 27 Jan 2010 00:00:00 GMT

The word "pardon" finds its roots in the Latin "perdonare," which means to give wholeheartedly. In countries all over the world each year, such pardons are given by sovereign powers to accused persons, conveying the forgiveness of crimes and their associated penalties. In the United States, the authority for granting pardons for federal crimes lies with the president. It was on his final day in office that George Washington granted the first high-profile federal pardon. Today, U.S. presidents receive upwards of six hundred petitions for forgiveness a year. The percentage granted varies from president to president.

But regardless of the president or the crime, the granting of any pardon is only valid so long as that president is in office at the time of the pardoning. This may seem to most a simple enough point, but to the one being forgiven it is the most crucial detail. Like George Washington, many presidents wait until their final moments in office to grant exoneration. Had any of them chosen to wait one more day or in some cases a few more hours, when the responsibility of office had been handed to the next administration, their pardoning would be completely invalid. For the one who is being forgiven, that the pardoner is the current holder of the right office is of utmost importance.

The book of Hebrews carefully describes what it means that Jesus is present and permanently serving in the office of high priest. The writer outlines the history of sacrifice, the role of the priest in the life of Israel, and the office Christ now fills: "Now there have been many of those priests, since death prevented them from continuing in office; but because Jesus lives forever, he has a permanent priesthood. Therefore he is able to save completely those who come to God through him, because he always lives to intercede for them" (Hebrews 7:23-25).

Christ is the current holder of the exact office needed for the crimes of a fallen humanity. Thus, for the one who is in need of pardoning, she can rest assured that there is someone in office to hear her plea, someone who is able to save her completely. And for the one who has been pardoned, he can rest assured that it is a lasting pardon. For our high priest is permanently in office, living to intercede between the guilty and the judge.

For the writer of Hebrews, the office of priest is one with a storied depth. In his role as high priest, like the priests of ancient Israel, Christ has become the one who administers the sacrifice on our behalf. But more than this, Christ has also become the sacrifice himself. Thus, we have in office, not only the priest who is our mediator before God, but the very blood that makes us clean and able to stand in God's presence. Our pardon is complete, our crimes fully erased because it is Christ who pardons.

Religions ancient and modern alike amply demonstrate that human beings are aware of their guilt and a need for its removal. Humanity on some level seems to understand that there is a need for something drastic, for sacrifice or for blood. And what humans have known instinctively—namely, that there is an approach of some sort that is necessary in the removal of guilt—God has fulfilled on our behalf. Rather than waiting for us to approach, God has approached us. Understanding this initiative of God, this substitution of Christ's blood for years of sacrifice, invites our participation in the story of salvation and moves us to worship. Well beyond the pardon of a president, our crimes have been erased. The last verse of the hymn Arise My Soul captures this drastic exoneration and its implications for worship.

My God is reconciled;
His pard'ning voice I hear;
He owns me for his child,
I can no longer fear.
With confidence I now draw nigh,
And Father, Abba, Father, cry

Christ has died on our behalf, in our stead. In this radical reversal of centuries of sacrifice, and blood that never seemed to cover, the blood of Christ covers all who seek to be pardoned. For Christ is now in office. And in the pardoning that takes place before the Cross is an invitation to sonship and daughtership, a call to holiness, a call to confession, a call to the world.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.