Tag Archives: pictures of the church

it is a good day to die

6 Mar

Greetings, y’all! Hey, this blog still exists. It’s been on an almost 4-month hiatus because end-of-year holidays happened, and then I got pregnant. I’m now 11 weeks along and finally starting to come out of the brain-fog and nausea that have plagued me for the last 8 weeks. The brain is starting to get jampacked again. Therefore, onward!

During the brain-fog and nausea, I read many books. (In fact, I’ve read 25 books so far this year.) One of those was Jesus Manifesto by Leonard K. Sweet and Frank Viola. The authors themselves quote 1 John 4:16 as the “shorthand creed” of their tome: “‘We believe in the love God has for us.’ It is a love that came not in the form of abstract principle but of an actual person, the Son of God” (p. xxiii). And that’s what this book is about.

I could write an entire series of blog posts on all the passages that struck me, but I want to focus on this one in particular:

“The cross sits at the very center of a body of believers that authentically gathers as a church. They will experience death–dry spells; sufferings with one another; death to their agendas, aspirations, opinions, and preferences; and crisis. But this is how God builds His house. Out of the dying, the Lord’s life is expressed, and we are built together into a home for Jesus Christ. From the mulch of decay, disease, and death, God births His resurrection life.

“Note that Jesus waited four days after Lazarus’ death before He raised him up. Death is hopeless. But four days after death is beyond hopeless.

“But never forget: every crisis you face is a God-given opportunity to rediscover Christ in a bold new way. For that reason, every painful encounter we meet bears the fingerprints of God.

“…But remember this…He is resurrection and He is life. And if you endure, outwaiting your impatience for His timing, Christ will roll the stone away and raise you from the dead.”

–Sweet & Viola,
Jesus Manifesto, p. 151.

I’ve been meeting with a small group of believers for almost two years. Most of us had met each other only one time when we started meeting together. At rough count, we came from 6 different religious backgrounds. Not having a clue what we were doing, we embarked together on a quest to discover each other, to discover Christ, and to discover what it really means to live by the life of an indwelling Christ.

It’s been scary, frustrating, hair-pulling, teeth-clenching, irritating, maddening, shocking, tear-filled, hopes-killing, opinions-blasting, disillusioning, infuriating. I’m not just speaking for myself when I say there’s been a fog of doubt, a haze of confusion, and, yea verily, a cloud of seeming doom.

And you know what?

It’s been glorious.

In this group of weird, frustrating, infuriating, shocking people, I have seen Christ. In this group of maddening, odd-opinioned believers, I see Christ. And in peculiar, broken, irritating me, they have told me they see Christ, too.

How is this possible? It’s because we’re dying. And, in an odd paradox, we’re also already dead.

In Galatians 2:19-20, Paul writes, “I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who lives, but Christ lives in me. And the life which I live in the flesh is in trusting the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Freed-Hardeman Version). We are already dead, because we were nailed to the cross along with Christ. (A lot of stuff died that day.) We died with him.

Now, on this new journey with Christ, we’re dying all over again. We’re suffering the deaths of our expectations, our opinions, and our traditions. We’re experiencing the death of what we want. To make it more personal: Over the past two years, I’ve seen the death of pretty much every preconceived idea I had about this “new venture.” I had expectations, and God hasn’t chosen to meet a danged one of them. The expectations I’ve got left, the ones that haven’t died yet? Well, they’re lookin’ a mite sickly, lemme tell ya.

So…why do I call this “glorious”?

This past Sunday, we discussed the Mosaic tabernacle as a picture of Christ. This, too, would require a whole novel of blog posts to investigate fully. But the one specific thing we talked about was the bronze altar just inside the entrance to the tabernacle. It was the first thing the Israelites encountered when they set foot in the place.

A lot of blood was spilled on that altar. Sacrifice took place on that altar. Sacrifice was the first thing the believers encountered.

Our fledgling group is standing at that altar. The New Testament version of it is the cross, but the message is the same: Enter in, and make your sacrifice. Sacrifice what’s valuable to you. Sacrifice those traditions you’ve clung to all your life. Sacrifice those sacred opinions. Sacrifice those sacrosanct expectations. Forget about what you want: Leave it here to be slaughtered.

Only after death will you be ready to come nearer to God.

As one of my favorite Klingons has often said: It is a good day to die.

Back in November, I talked about my frustration that we weren’t “on fire for Christ” — and my discovery that we smoldering coals are a storehouse of an awful lot of energy. We’re still not, I think, what anyone would call “on fire.” But coals are the powerful remnant after cleansing fire has burned away all the excess.

The last two years have burned me. The months and years to come are going to burn me some more. Together with my sisters and brothers, I hope to see the death of everything that blinds me to Christ. I don’t want to live by my perceptions, my opinions, my hopes, and my expectations anymore. I want Christ to live out his life in me.

And so, to my sisters and brothers, I say this: We’ve been crucified with Christ, and we are dead. Let’s allow Christ to live in us instead.

baby, are we ever on fire

20 Nov

So, today, our group celebrated our second Thanksgiving together. Eats-wise, I particularly enjoyed the turkey that Ed smoked (if you can roll it, you can smoke it), the sweet potatoes made by someone wonderful but I don’t know who, and the sopapilla cheesecake that Tracy stole from heaven and delivered unto us. BANGERANG.

Food-wise, I got a cramazing peek at how it seems Christ views our group.

You see, we heard from Milt today about a group of Christians who are “on fire for Christ.” The second I heard that, a pang of jealousy flashed through my heart. “On fire.” Are we on fire? Are we passionate enough that someone might look at us and say, “Those people are on fire for Christ?”

I honestly don’t think so.

It’s not a competition. And yet, I felt jealous. And then I felt sad, because the weight of comparison suddenly sat heavy on my shoulders.

Later, Tim repeated what Milt had said. “On fire for Christ.” And I admitted openly to everyone: “I feel jealous of that.”

And the moment the words were out of my mouth, a little voice spoke up inside my heart and whispered, You don’t have to.

And I smiled. Because I understood.

I don’t have to be jealous of “on fire for Christ.” For one thing, passion for Christ is not, never has been, and never will be a competition. The weight of comparison is not a burden I am subject to. Christ never looks at his bride and says, “This part is lovelier than this other part.”

To put it bluntly, Christ never says, “Baby, I love your face, but your butt looks a little flabby. How ’bout I buy you a gym membership?”

But before I get too far into the beautiful bride picture, here’s the main thought about the fire metaphor:

In our group, I see a passion for Christ that is a firepit of smouldering coals. You might see an occasional tongue of flame, but there is no raging fire here. Sometimes, the coals glow — especially if you poke them.

Ah, yes, do you see what this collection of hot coals might become? Do you see the potential here, the quiet undercurrent of energy?

If you get close, it will be hot to the touch.

A house fire might rage all day — but once the firefighters put it out, everyone still has to wait before they can go sift through the rubble. The coals are too hot. Any breath of air might set them aflame again. The heat of coals is not something to take lightly.

Even campfire coals harbor a vast store of amazing energy. The great thing about smouldering coals is that you can bury them — and once they’re in the ground, you can stretch out your sleeping bag over them. They’ll keep you warm all night long: all that stored-up, buried heat, warming you from underneath. In the morning, you dig the coals up and blow on them, and pretty soon you’ll have a fire that can cook you breakfast. In the evening, you bury your coals again, because you need their underground heat to ward off the cold of night.

We are seasonal. We wax, we wane. We grow in the warmth of the sun. We sleep in the cold of the night.

And while we sleep — or even while we lie awake and marvel at the starry glitter our Father has spread across the universe — our passion for Christ smoulders like coals. Joyous. And waiting.