Practice Stillness

Commit your way to the LORD; trust in God, and God will act. God will make your vindication shine like the light, and the justice of your cause like the noonday. Be still before the LORD, and wait patiently. (Psalm 37.5-7)

Questions

Every Lent, our church reads and discusses a book together. By design, the titles aren’t directly tied to the Lenten process. Instead, they hand us great big theological concepts to contemplate during our time of consecration. This year we’re reading Rob Bell’s Love Wins—a controversial book that invites us to question nearly every traditional view Christians hold about overarching concepts like grace, inclusion, Heaven, Hell, eternity, judgment, and so on. In other words, many of the hot buttons that have sparked firestorms within the Church for centuries will come under scrutiny as we study together.

Since we’re comfortable wrestling with questions at our church, last evening’s first study group focused on questions that challenge faith. Several perennial stumpers made the list, including why an all-powerful, loving God allows human suffering. It’s a question we’ll never answer as long as we remain addicted to self-inflicted sorrow. We’ve never asked God’s permission to make war, incite violence, ignore poverty, or squander life-sustaining resources on weaponry and wealth production. We've done this on our own. Therefore, before asking why God permits suffering, we should ask why we create it.

Still, the question gains traction in times like these, when economic inequities, social unrest, and overall uncertainty feel like too much to handle. We’ve done such a fine job of endangering ourselves we don’t know how to undo what we’ve done, let alone how to make any progress toward improving our condition. Naturally, we want God to do something. Psalm 37 is written to people like us, with questions like ours, living in times very much like our own. Yet the poem, attributed to David, emphasizes what we should do—not on a grandiose scale, but on an intimate level that opens our understanding. David doesn’t put the “where’s God in all this” question to rest; he suggests we figure out ways to discover God in the midst of our messed-up, stagnating, and doggedly unrepentant world.

The Whole Burden of Life

The psalm portrays a society at war with itself. Listen to verses 12-14: “The wicked plot against the righteous, and gnash their teeth at them; but the LORD laughs at the wicked, for God sees that their day is coming. The wicked draw the sword and bend their bows to bring down the poor and needy, to kill those who walk uprightly.” Throughout, David stocks the poem with reassurances that God will deal with perpetrators of injustice. But he also counsels those who suffer at their hands to be patient. God’s retribution will be certain, though not necessarily swift. Their day is coming. And that begs a question: until that day comes, what are we to do?

“Commit your way to the LORD,” verse 5 urges. I so love how the 19^th-century Baptist preacher, Charles Spurgeon, paraphrases David’s advice. “Roll the whole burden of life upon the Lord,” he wrote. “Leave with [God] not thy present fretfulness merely, but all thy cares.” The commitment David calls for is one of total surrender. It’s the conscious decision to rest when chaos reigns, to trust despite trepidation—to depend on God in the absence of concrete direction. “God will act,” David insists, speaking from experience and by faith.

“God will make your vindication shine like the light, and the justice of your cause like the noonday,” verse 6 promises. Vindication is a big word that often gets confused with vengeance—and they are not the same thing. To vindicate someone is to validate his/her choices and actions. It confirms the moral fiber and character of the person whose inner light won’t bow to darkness. Yet David surprises us in the next verse by describing how we should respond in circumstances that press us to abandon our knowledge of what is right. Rather than push our agenda or defend our stance, verse 7 says, “Be still before the LORD, and wait patiently for God; do not fret over those who prosper in their way, over those who carry out evil devices.” Confidence in our choices invites us to step out of moral chaos and into the stillness, to forsake rushing to judgment and wait for justice, to quit worrying about powers that be and start trusting God’s supremacy. “Don’t get swept up in the mess,” David says. “Roll the whole burden of life upon the Lord. Be still.”

Hiding Place

Lent provides a ready-made reason to practice stillness. We enter its desert to escape chaos. We find quiet and distance we seek from the constant assault of unprincipled, wicked behaviors. It's very easy to enter Lent’s stillness and solitude hoping for some type of epiphany. And we must never overrule the possibility God will transform our pursuit of quietness into a revelatory, transfixing experience. Yet if that’s all we seek in the stillness, we may be disappointed. The timing may not be right—we may not be ready for it. And a mystical moment may not equip us to deal with the world once we reenter its madness. On the other hand, having learned (or relearned) how to practice stillness will prove extremely useful wherever life takes us.

Proverbs 18.10 tells us, “The name of the LORD is a strong tower; the righteous run into it and are safe.” In contrast, verse 11 says, “The wealth of the rich is their strong city; in their imagination it is like a high wall.” Faith in a just, all-powerful God ushers us into the stillness. When chaos erupts and confusion descends, we run for safety that can only be found in stillness. And notice how Proverbs’ writer flips the equation. Assurance and peace of mind we discover in the stillness are real; insanity that drives us into God’s strong tower is illusory. Wealth, the power it brings, and the will to oppress fashion a false, fleeting sense of security. It offers no hiding place from a God Who will act justly to vindicate those who follow God’s ways. During Lent we practice stillness so that we can take shelter when moral confusion threatens to overpower us. Practicing stillness is how we keep it real.

We not only find safety when practicing stillness. We enter the true reality of God’s justice and power.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/03/01/practice-stillness/.

Postscript: Question 7

How do you practice stillness?

Pondering in Silence

Know that the LORD has set apart the faithful for Himself: the LORD hears when I call to Him. When you are disturbed, do not sin; ponder it on your beds, and be silent. (Psalm 4.3-4)

Cleansing Power

Childhood fascinations with faith and film collided when, at seven or eight, I first watched The Nun’s Story (1959). Although Roman Catholicism and cloistered life were foreign to me, the picture’s piety touched me on a level unlike any movie I’d seen before—and very few since. I’d noticed nuns on the street and heard about them from playmates. Yet the depiction of their devotion floored me. Upon entering the order, the heroine (Audrey Hepburn) and other postulates are briefed on convent life, including the “Rule of Silence—interior and exterior silence” ridding one’s mind of idle distractions and thoughts. Having never heard such a thing, along with other customs I picked up from the film, it seemed worth a try. To my parents’ dismay (on many levels), I pinned a towel to my head like a veil, made the Sign of the Cross at every turn, and spoke only when spoken to. The role-play ended when my father sat me down and told me, “Son, it’s time to end this. You’re not Catholic. You’re not a nun. Nuns are girls, and”— his greatest concern—“you’re not a girl.” While I didn’t like it, he had a point.

Following that brush with sacred quietness, interest in contemplative silence eluded me, largely due to lack of exposure. As you may know, Pentecostalism (my faith background) is a noisy tradition. Instead of emptying our minds to listen, we were constantly raising our voices in prayer. And there are benefits to vocal prayer. Articulating one’s faith indubitably strengthens it. What’s more, audibly expressing needs and desires to God alerts one to false motives, pride, and vanity tucked into the requests. What goes missing, however, is silence’s cleansing power—a thing I only recently discovered by attending my present church’s monthly Taizé prayer service.

Modeled on the ecumenical monastic community in Taizé, France, the service builds to a 15-minute silence, as everyone sits together, alone in prayer and meditation. The quarter-hour feels like an eternity and an instant. I usually lose a few minutes to thinking about not thinking. Gratefully, such thoughts quickly grow tiresome. My mind rests as silence washes over it. Anxieties and ideas I seldom ponder surface, yet stillness puts them at ease. It becomes a presence that speaks assurance and peace to my innermost being. In the cleansing, I’m reminded troubling concerns belong to the world. Though they affect me, they’re not part of me. The same realization sits at the heart of Psalm 4.

Save It for Later

Signed by David, who notes it should be accompanied by strings, the song finds him holding three conversations at once: one with his God, another with his people, and a third with himself. A rift between the monarch and his subjects apparently inspires the anxious tone at the psalm’s outset. (Resurging idolatry in defiance of his rule is implied.) David begins with a prayer we all pray when dispiriting problems disturb our peace. It’s me again, Lord. “Answer me when I call, O God of my right! You gave me room when I was in distress. Be gracious to me, and hear my prayer,” he writes. (v1) He all but says, “You’ve helped me with this kind of stuff before and I’m sure You’ll show me how to handle it. Still, I need to know You’re there and listening.” With that, David turns to his nation, asking, “How long, you people, shall my honor suffer shame? How long will you love vain words, and seek after lies? But know that the LORD has set apart the faithful for Himself; the LORD hears when I call to Him.” (v2-3) The dejection (“Why are you doing this?”) and assertiveness (“You know God listens to me”) tell us how distraught David is. His mind won’t rest. He’s unable to sleep.

David’s experience in similar dilemmas proves its worth in wisdom he offers his people—and himself. “When you are disturbed, do not sin; ponder it on your beds, and be silent. Offer right sacrifices, and put your trust in the LORD.” (v4-5) This is advice we frequently hear and rarely heed. When troubles plague our waking thoughts and cloud our perception of what’s best to do, it’s best we do nothing. If we’re uncertain what we should say, talking about it certainly won’t help. From the sound of it, something has shaken Israel’s faith. In a panic to rationalize and remedy the situation, it’s talked its way into disobedience. David grants thinking about the problem can’t be avoided. But it can be corralled. “Save worrying for later,” he counsels, “when you’re alone and quiet—when silence can cleanse your mind from trouble that comes from the crazy, confused world outside, and guide your thoughts to peace and assurance residing within.”

Not Obsessing—Accessing

Pondering in silence sounds like the worst possible means of easing anxiety, particularly in an overly anxious age hounding us about suppressed emotions and denial. We spend hours talking about our problems and talking to others about theirs. If it helps—and sometimes it does, though not as reliably as we’re told—negativity we breathe into the air nonetheless poisons our perceptions and dims the brightness of future expectations. By and large, thinking we can talk our way out of troubles talks us into paralyzing pessimism. David observes this phenomenon in verse 6: “There are many who say, ‘O that we might see some good! Let the light of your face shine on us, O LORD!’” (Again with the talking!) While they fret over what they don’t have, David’s silent pondering clears his mind to reconnect with abiding joy, peace, and assurance obtained by trusting his Maker. He verges on gloating as he closes in verses 7 and 8: “You have put gladness in my heart more than when their grain and wine abound. I will both lie down and sleep in peace; for you alone, O LORD, make me lie down in safety.”

How nutty is it that the very thing David suggests our talkaholic culture resists most? What he calls “pondering in silence,” we disparage as “obsessing"! All that reflects, however, is how grossly we underestimate force silence accrues when prayerfully approached. Entering silence to listen rather than talk transforms obsessing about troubles we can’t prevent or control into accessing strength we possess by faith. We say to God, “It’s me again. I know this is an easy matter for You, because we've gone through similar situations before. I just need to know You’re there and listening. Now I’m going to quiet myself to hear what You want to say.” If we start there, silence clears thoughts and anxieties muffling the hushed Voice that imparts calm and confidence and anchors our souls. Chaos surrounding us loses its influence over us once we renew access to sacred joy, peace, and assurance abiding within.

We welcome silence to cleanse our minds of anxiety about troubles we can’t prevent or control so we can access peace and assurance we possess within.

To Start the Day

Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Simon and his companions went to look for him, and when they found him, they exclaimed: “Everyone is looking for you!” (Mark 1.35-37)

Awakening to Holiness

For a number of years I attended the Edwin Hawkins Music & Arts Seminar, a weeklong convention of the nation’s finest gospel singers, songwriters, and musicians. Although my meager musical abilities could never compare to their genius, they welcomed me with open arms, and I was grateful for the chance to soak up everything the experience offered. Now there are a couple of things you should know about gospel artists before I get to the nub of my story. They are, by nature, an extremely friendly, high-spirited bunch that honors the sacredness of their calling by not taking themselves too seriously. If you weren’t clued into who they are, you’d never guess the people laughing and joking together wrote and recorded countless songs that changed millions of lives. The second thing to know is gospel musicians are late-night folks. Next to making music, they love nothing more than hanging out into the wee hours, swapping stories. Having been to similar events, I expected long nights of table-hopping in jammed coffee shops, oversleeping the next day, and dragging into afternoon workshops and rehearsals. But the usual M.O. didn’t fly at the Seminar. On my first night, I was surprised that everyone made hasty business of the post-concert “afterglow” and scooted off to bed. When I asked what the rush was, they said, “You don’t want to miss Walter. If you’re late, you won’t get a seat.”

“Walter” was Edwin’s brother and pastor, Rev. Walter Hawkins, the most prolific songwriter—and by far the most progressive Bible teacher—in the gospel sphere. At the top of each morning, he hosted “To Start the Day,” a brief session during which he gave seminar attendees a portion of Scripture, a few comments on the text, and led them into a time of prayer. It was simple, pure, and inspiring. It set the tone for everything that followed—and set the Seminar apart from others like it by awakening us to the holiness of what we would accomplish as the day progressed. “To Start the Day” subsumed the musical aspect of the event with a higher purpose. Classes, rehearsals, and performances became the day’s tasks. Its mission, however, was seeing them as windows for holiness, open and alert to God’s voice and Spirit—invitations to obey rather than do, to create rather than complete. Beginning each day with a few moments to settle our minds with a guiding thought and prayer made all the difference, such a difference “To Start the Day” was not to be missed.

Habits and Disciplines

It’s remarkable how so many will rally for Church-prescribed undertakings like Lent or training for sacramental milestones, while paying little heed to habits and disciplines that Jesus practiced in daily life. In Mark’s opening chapter, which reads like a breathless dispatch filed under deadline pressure, our first glimpse of Jesus’s personal faith regimen occurs in verse 35: “Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.” With all that transpires in the preceding 34 verses—Jesus’s baptism, wilderness temptation, declaration that the Good News is near, calling the disciples, and numerous healings and exorcisms—Mark gives the impression that everything happens so swiftly Jesus hardly has a moment to breathe, let alone ponder what He should do next or take time to pray about it. And what follows seems to back this up.

After waking to discover Jesus is gone, Simon Peter and his buddies scout Him out. “Everyone’s looking for You!” they say. Jesus knows who “everyone” is. The night before, after an exhausting day of preaching and healing Peter’s mother-in-law, Jesus is met by townspeople—“the whole town,” Mark says—crowding his door with sick and disturbed people they want Him to cure. Apparently those He wasn’t able to reach have returned. Had He not got up early to pray, He’d have been obliged to help them. Yet starting His day with prayer not only releases Him from being inundated with demands, it gives Jesus directional clarity. He replies, “Let’s go somewhere else—to the nearby villages—so I can preach there also. That is why I have come.” (v38) And this is the first time Mark shows us Jesus taking charge of His ministry. Before this, He avails Himself to opportunities to preach and work miracles. Is it a coincidence that we see Jesus begin His day with prayer and then turn from doing what’s expected so He can obey God's higher purpose? While Mark doesn’t call out the connection, it’s there. Otherwise, why even mention Jesus’s morning prayer? If it didn’t influence His decision and reorient His thoughts on His mission rather than His tasks, why not skip the episode entirely and simply report Jesus and the disciples moved on? “That is why I have come,” Jesus says.

At This Hour, In This Place, With These Gifts

To start the day with prayer is to reorient our thoughts from what’s expected of us to consider why we’ve come to this day. The same sense of consecration, gravity, and duty that brings us to Lent’s desert, sacramental moments, and high holy days should greet us with every sunrise. Just as we’re able to set aside the previous day’s chaos and sequester our thoughts from mundane tasks on these “special” occasions, can we not also discipline ourselves to begin each day spending a few moments alone with God? It’s then we can focus on the purpose God has for us today—to contemplate why we are present at this hour, in this place, with the unique gifts God places in us. Rising to pray before we’re inundated with demands awakens us to holiness. It sets the tone for all that follows, enabling us to obey rather than do, create rather than complete. It provides clarity that guides us to people and places that need us. It reminds us why we’ve come to this day. If Jesus found disciplined, habitual morning prayer necessary, can we possibly question its importance and value?

Morning prayer turns our thoughts to why we’re present at this hour, in this place, with the unique gifts God places in us.

Postscript: “What Shall I Do?”

And when we rise to pray, what do we say? The late Walter Hawkins gave the world a masterpiece that, if spoken, would constitute the perfect prayer to start the day. Here is his wife, Tramaine, singing “What Shall I Do?”

Pride and Pretense

Judge nothing before the appointed time; wait till the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of men’s hearts. (1 Corinthians 4.5)

With gratitude to Bishop Yvette Flunder, for her sermon of 8/29/10.

What Happens in the Wait

Last Sunday I worshiped with congregations I admire beyond measure: Love Center Ministries in Oakland and San Francisco’s City of Refuge. Love Center’s founder, Walter Hawkins, was one of my most influential role models, and I was eager to see how the church was faring since his passing a month ago. Last Sunday was the final service in its time of mourning, and hence, a pivotal moment. I’m thrilled to report its fervor and commitment have not diminished in the least. The message, “Go Forward,” urged the people to rise up in courage and cross into a new era of service, confident of God’s guidance and provision. A profound spirit of submission—no, make that, desire—overtook the people as they joined together in a Taizé-style chorus that prayed, “Lord, whatever you’re doing in this season, don’t do it without me.” It entered the marrow of this great people and witnessed their longing to participate in God’s future. The song won’t let me go.

It was also apt, as I scurried over to City of Refuge, a radically inclusive flock shepherded by Yvette Flunder (formerly an associate pastor at Love Center). As its name implies, City of Refuge is a stubbornly safe place where race, gender, and orientation are irrelevant. Everyone belongs and I’ve yet to worship at COR without the service erupting into a no-holds-barred love-fest as worshipers embrace one another, pray together, and rejoice in the beauty of their Maker. COR is also a place of deep-seated cognizance that self-honesty and humility are the mainstays of a community consecrated to the worth of every individual. This theme rang out of Bishop Flunder’s sermon, as she focused on the disciples’ 10-day wait for the manifestation of the Holy Spirit in Acts 1-2. “A lot happens in 10 days,” she said. “You run out of what you want to say and end up disclosing what you don’t want to reveal. Over time, you look less like how you want to be seen and more like how you really are. The make-up wears off. ‘Cute’ doesn’t last very long. And when you don’t know what else to say, there you sit—waiting for something, with no idea what that is.” The “something” I witnessed struck me as what God is “doing in this season” and City of Refuge tenaciously refuses to be excluded. With the Love Center song hovering in my heart, I can’t stop reflecting on Bishop Flunder’s teaching about “what happens in the wait.”

Waiting is Doing

The revelation in the sermon came when she remarked how so many of us ask, “What am I supposed to do while I wait?” Waiting is doing, she reminded us. It’s during this period that our pride and pretense fall away, enabling us to be 100% real with our God, others, and ourselves. “The patina—the façade—the mask comes off during the wait,” she said. Waiting makes us uncomfortable to the point we’re willing to change so we can receive what God desires to give us. The gift isn’t what takes time. Readiness to receive it is what requires us to wait.

Bishop Flunder pointed out the miserable group of people gathered in the Upper Room had no choice but to work through their issues—within themselves and among each other—while they waited. There were Peter, who denied Jesus, Thomas, who questioned Christ’s resurrection, and James and John, who jockeyed for favor. There were Nicodemus, the Pharisee who went to Jesus in secret, and Joseph of Arimathea, who was rich and a latecomer to this group. There were Mary, whose story of the Virgin Birth some probably viewed with skepticism, and Jesus’s blood relatives, who no doubt expected preferential treatment among His followers. All of them had to come to grips with unpleasant questions about each other and themselves. Until they shed their pride and pretenses, they couldn’t be free to appreciate the mighty thing that was about to take place when the Holy Spirit came. Once they had done the waiting, Acts 2.1 tells us “they were all with one accord in one place.” (KJV) That’s what happens in the wait.

The Appointed Time

“Judge nothing before the appointed time,” Paul counsels in 1 Corinthians 4.5. “Wait till the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of men’s hearts.” Strictly speaking, he’s admonishing us to withhold judgment entirely, leaving the job to God, Who alone is qualified to assess what people do since He alone knows why they do it. Yet I think we can also apply this principle to our own lives in terms of waiting. Time we spend doing the waiting brings us to moments of realization. Our make-up wears off. Our prayers progress from reverent requests to candid confessions. We bare our souls. When we reach that place, the Lord comes.

Attitudes and behaviors we’ve hidden in dark recesses move front and center. Our proud façade crumbles. There’s no use pretending these issues don’t exist, because they’re right in front of us. This is the appointed time to admit we’re struggling with habits and thoughts we can ignore no longer. And the beauty of the wait is found in how it defeats our will. It saps the obstinacy causing us to justify our weaknesses. It confronts us with the realization until we acknowledge the harm we do to others and ourselves we won’t be ready to receive all that God has for us. The wait exposes the true motives behind our pride and pretense. We suddenly face the fact that inability to forgive is actually unwillingness. Frustration is really impatience. Reasons are only excuses. And since we’ve waited this long, it’s time we deal with what surfaces in the wait. The assurance, healing, peace, joy, and strength we ask for are there, waiting for us. They will be ours when we’re ready to receive them. God is doing great things in us, in this season of our lives. Waiting brings us to a place of complete surrender, when we’re willing to do whatever it takes to be a part of whatever He’s doing in us.

Waiting is doing—dealing with pride and pretenses we’ve ignored. What we pray for is already there, waiting for us to reach the point where we’re ready to receive them.

Say No More

He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear, he burns the shields with fire. “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” (Psalm 46.9-10)

Strange Tendencies

I have strange tendencies I imagine many of us share. When crises exhaust everything I know to say, I keep talking. I repeat the same statements over and over, as though my complaints and reasoning were magical incantations that, when recited in proper combination, will unlock the mystery of my dilemma. It’s a crazy take on tip-of-the-tongue syndrome—or better yet, something very close to the delirious scene in Being John Malkovich, in which John Cusack tries to discern Catherine Keener's name by sounding out random syllables. On an intellectual level I know if there’s nothing more to say, it’s time to say no more. But having nothing to say somehow fires my emotional synapses. Inability to explain what’s going on feels like the problem’s got the upper hand. And it does—for the moment. So, since I’m obviously on hold, I kill time talking.

The same goes when I’m out of options and don't know what to do. I get real busy. I run myself ragged trying to find a proper solution or, if the problem seems unsolvable, an exit strategy. If nothing feasible arises, I may even try kicking down a door or two. Eventually, of course, I wear myself out. I’m sick of hearing myself. I’m too tired to push. I shut up. I sit down. I become still. Without fail, once I’m still, I discover the real problem and its only real and reliable answer. I’m the problem; God is the answer. I knew that all along. But what stops me from knowing it while “all along” is underway?

The Trouble with Trouble

“Be still and know that I am God,” Psalm 46.10 tells us. It’s such obviously sound, concise advice most of us can quote it from memory. Yet when trouble comes and we most urgently need to remember this truth, it’s far from mind. Why is that? The trouble with trouble is it masquerades as our trouble. It challenges us. If it overtly challenged God’s wisdom and power, we’d immediately dismiss it as a situation He could easily handle. We’d take a seat to watch Him work. The more impossible the problem got, the more we’d smile, knowing nothing’s too hard for God. We’d relax, exchanging unbearable stress for pleasurable suspense, sitting on the edge of our seats like theatergoers spellbound by an incomparably masterful playwright. We’d savor every fresh impossibility as an exciting chance to be dazzled by the breathtaking dénouement.

But trouble never appears as what it finally turns out to be—an unexpected plot twist God deftly resolves. It thunders onto the stage as a full-blown drama that turns us into unwitting actors. We’re woefully unprepared for the role it forces on us. We don’t know our lines; so we keep talking. We don’t know how to act; so we keep doing things. We haven’t seen the script, because there isn’t one. Each new complication catches us by surprise and wrings us deeper into a drama that writes itself as it goes. Regardless how we heroically try to rise to the occasion, we’re flummoxed and humiliated. No matter how many times trouble thrusts us into this position, we can’t resist believing this time we’ll figure things out—when the whole while God waits in the wings, ready to take control of the role we’ve bungled so horribly. For some reason, trouble’s false threats to our pride disable our propensity to see—to know—God is there. It sometimes takes getting perilously close to the final curtain to realize this isn’t our challenge. We’re not meant to star in this drama. We’re not clever enough to pull the pieces together. But we know Who is. At last, we see Him poised to enter the scene, and we notice the front-row seat He’s reserved for us to be still and know.

Author and Star

Psalm 46 reads like the rave review of an epic masterpiece. It leads with plaudits for the unfailingly triumphant Author and Star: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging.” (v1-3) In the midst of fearsome chaos, God is there, ever-present. Verse 8 serves as the review’s “Not to be missed!” quote: “Come and see the works of the LORD, the desolations he has brought on the earth.” And then verse 7 gives us a taste of the stunning reversals He stages: “He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear, he burns the shields with fire.” Where are we in this turmoil and tumult? We’re watching it unfold. It’s what we came to see! What should we say? What does God expect us to do? Nothing. “Be still and know that I am God,” He says, gently reminding us this is His show. He’s the Master. Imposing our ideas, opinions, and actions adds nothing to His performance.

There’s a great old gospel song that says, “He’s God all by Himself. He don’t need nobody else.” That checks out with what He tells us after showing us to our seats: “I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” (v9) God is the Author and Star here. Our drama may be overrun with trouble. It may surge with wave after wave of potential destruction. But He is ever-present. He has total command of the situation. That’s what we must remember as His epic masterpiece unfolds. Though the ground beneath us vanishes, mountains crumble, and tsunamis rear up with such force that entire ranges tremble, we will not fear. It is He Who defuses our conflicts. He disarms our adversaries. He destroys their defenses. Inviting God into our drama is how we escape it. When there’s nothing we can do, we do nothing. When there’s nothing more to say, we say no more.

Trouble creates drama and calls us to the stage. But our challenges are actually God’s opportunities. He takes center-stage, while we're in the front row, still and knowing He's in command.

Call and Response

Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know. (Jeremiah 33.3)

Freezes

Numerous times we’ve been watching a pay-per-view movie when our cable box freezes. We scramble to find an old bill with the service number, run the gantlet of menu options, and brace ourselves for a half-dozen contortions to get the thing going. Either the help desk personnel are woefully under-trained or instructed to take the caller through every step on their diagram, because halfway through the call, we stop them. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” we say, “we’ve done all that. What’s the real answer?” Once in a pique of frustration, Walt asked, “Is there something extra we should know, something we're not doing right? Because this keeps happening.” He turned on the speaker function. Silence. Finally, the operator said, “I don’t know what that could be.”

The parallels with looking to God for answers are striking, though this doesn’t insinuate any inadequacies on His part. We’ll be moving along in our daily walk and suddenly freeze up. We do everything we know to do to jumpstart our lives. We may even see a flicker or two that indicates we’re close to resolving the issue. Yet we can’t quite get going. So we call on God. After we run down the list of possible solutions, we still don’t have any answers. Like Walt, we ask, “Is there something extra I should know?” Silence. But unlike the cable agent, when God eventually responds, He knows what the problem is. There is something more we need to know. He opens our understanding so we’ll be able to identify the problem if it rears back up and reboot our faith.

Unsearchable

“Call to me,” we hear God say in Jeremiah 33.3, “and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.” In essence, this is an open invitation to learn more about God’s operating system. We’ll never fully grasp its mechanics, no more than we’ll ever comprehend the inner workings of the cable system. “How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out!” Romans 11.33 exclaims. Yet when everything we try fails and we turn to the Provider, He directs us to wisdom and options we weren’t aware of before. They’re “unsearchable” because we never knew they existed or weren't ready to explore them until now.

The silence prefacing the answer is a superb time to consider that last point. “Freezes” aren’t uncommon when growing in faith. They signal expansion—availing ourselves to more of God’s Word and way—which often requires mastering new skills and broadening our concept of how faith works in our lives. Much of our exasperation arises from sensing there’s functionality we’ve not yet tapped, and while we intuitively know it’s there, the same intuitions don’t offer any insights into how we access it. We try every imaginable combination of faith, prayer, Scripture, and meditation. We scour our behavior and attitude for a clue. We may even turn to friends for answers. Strangely, we take more comfort from those who say, “It’s beyond me,” than those who’ve already struggled with similar issues. Their answers always sound too pat: “That’s easy. Here’s what you do,” they tell us. “It’s a little tricky, but you’ll get the hang of it.” When we hear that, we hear an inner voice wonder, “What if I don’t get the hang of it? Will I be stuck indefinitely?”

Why God Answers

These thoughts crowd our minds while we wait out the silence. And since thinking is all we can do until God answers, we might ponder this: why does God answer at all? That’s where the customer service analogy breaks down. God responds to our call because it pleases Him. “Come near to God and he will come near to you,” James 4.8 advises us. Turning to God for answers brings us closer to Him, allowing Him to come closer to us. If the entire plan and approach were laid out in simple terms from the first, we could do this on our own. When something didn’t go our way, we’d reach for the handy-dandy troubleshooter’s guide and fix it by ourselves. But we must remember the underlying purpose in following Christ is reconciliation with God. This journey never was intended to be easy and smooth. The stalls and panics are designed to prompt our calls to God so He can draw nearer to us. We cry, “Help!” and He answers, “Let Me show you.” As we step closer to Him, He comes closer to us. Reconciliation begins.

“I will tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know,” He promises. Every crisis that causes us to freeze puts us on the brink of revelation. Our minds must be clear to absorb what He says, though, which is why there are frequent silences between the call and response. It takes time for us to let go of our instincts and plans, to be ready to hear and do what He tells us. When we call on God, it’s unnecessary to explain what we’ve already done to fix our problems or what’s always worked in the past. He’s watched us all along. It’s not a matter of what we’re doing wrong as much as what we’re not learning by doing it the way we always have. And particularly during this desert season, when we purposefully seek greater, deeper understanding—when we wander into the wilderness with our hearts set on growing closer to God—we’re apt to freeze up. Let’s never forget two things. The freeze is a positive sign we’re maturing in our faith, and God is coming to us, bringing us knowledge and information unlike any we’ve known before.

When we can’t go on until help arrives, it’s because we’ve grown past our current skills. Calling on God brings Him near to us to teach us what we don’t yet know.

Postscript: ‘Tis So Sweet

This was my grandmother’s favorite hymn and it perfectly reflected her faith philosophy. “When there’s nothing else to do but call on the Lord,” she taught me, “that’s when we feel closest to Him.” In a beautiful a cappella arrangement, The Altar of Praise Men’s Chorale sings “’Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus.”

Speak to Me

The LORD came and stood there, calling as at the other times, “Samuel! Samuel!” Then Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.” (1 Samuel 3.10)

Wavelength

The United Church of Christ has a terrific motto: “God is still speaking.” My heart skips a beat every time I see it displayed on a UCC edifice, publication, or Website. Yes! I say. Our deafness can’t break God’s will to speak. Though we muffle His voice with every kind of noise, He won’t be silent. At the same time, what He says is too sacred to be subjected to shouting matches. Only hearts and minds trained to tune out human racket will discern His voice. Unfortunately, the communication frenzy overtaking our lives further compounds the interference. It’s tough to quiet facts, gossip, and opinions dancing in our heads long enough to fall asleep. After being constantly assaulted by voices competing for our attention in all sorts of tones—from violently shrill to seductively dulcet—when we find we are able tune into God’s wavelength it’s easy to attribute His voice to another source. What we learn from Samuel’s story makes our chatty culture all the more lamentable. God’s voice has always been difficult to identify, even in primitive days of silence.

Samuel is a miracle baby, an answer to his mother, Hannah’s, prayers. After failing to conceive, she vows if God brings her a son, she’ll give him to Eli, the high priest, to train for ministry. So Samuel grows up studying by day and spending his nights at rest before the ark, the temple site reserved exclusively for God’s living presence. One night, with the elder priest bedded down elsewhere, a voice calls the lad’s name. “Here I am,” he answers, thinking Eli wants him. When Eli doesn’t respond, Samuel goes to ask what he needs. “It wasn’t I,” Eli says. “Lie back down.” The incident repeats itself twice. By the third time, Eli figures it out. (He’s always been a tad slow on the uptake. He mistook Hannah’s demonstrative prayers for a son as drunkenness, and has stupidly ignored God’s warning that his sons slated are criminally unfit for priesthood.) After Eli realizes Samuel is hearing God’s voice, he instructs the boy, “Go and lie down, and if he calls you, say, ‘Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.’” (1 Samuel 3.9) Samuel does as he’s told. Once he confirms he’s on God’s wavelength, God speaks.

Open Ears

The story opens with this observation: “In those days the word of the LORD was rare; there were not many visions.” We’re challenged to wonder why that is. From Genesis to Joshua, barely a chapter ends without God talking to His people or sending word via visions, dreams, or angelic visitations. Why is God so noticeably silent in Samuel’s time? If we flip back to chapter 2, we discover God never stopped speaking. His word doesn’t reach His people because Eli and his sons are deaf to His voice. Verse 13 says, “Eli’s sons were wicked men; they had no regard for the LORD.” In a nutshell, they treated the sacraments with contempt and exploited their priestly office for sexual favors. When Eli confronts them with this, they blow the old man off. But worse than that, he continues to allow it. God sends a prophet to indict his apathy, asking, “Why do you honor your sons more than me?” The priest has no excuse, yet not even this moves him to get the situation under control. And so it is God calls to Samuel in the night, speaking to an innocent whose open ears are impervious to the taunts of corruption, greed, desire, and fear. Samuel’s purity places him in prime position to hear God clearly and accurately.

Lessons in Listening

This little story houses the pivotal moment in one of the Bible’s most influential figures. What Samuel experiences that night conditions him to stay attuned to God’s voice for the remainder of his life. And what a life it is! His listening skills supersede the duties of priest, lifting him to the highest station in Israel’s theocratic structure. He becomes God’s mouthpiece—the nation’s prophet extraordinaire who conveys what God says and wants to Israel’s kings. From this moment on, Samuel places himself at his Maker’s disposal and even when the country and its leaders stray from God’s will, he remains true. In return, God stays true to Samuel. Verse 19 of the third chapter tells us, “The LORD remained with Samuel as he grew up, and he let none of his words fall to the ground.”

The story also provides us invaluable lessons in listening, offering explicit examples of what to emulate and what to avoid. Where Samuel first hears God speak cannot be overlooked. He’s as close as he can possibly get to God’s presence. Then, once he’s convinced the voice belongs to no one else, he answers, “Speak, for your servant is listening.” (v10) This inexperienced child is in position to listen because he’s where he needs to be physically and spiritually. His thoughts, aspirations, and concerns aren’t impeded by what he wants to hear. His ears are wide open to everything God says.

God is still speaking—if not always audibly, most certainly by imparting His thoughts and direction via open channels in our hearts and minds. Our receptivity depends on how close we stay to His presence, how well we guard against interference from selfish and corrupting noise, and how willing we are to trust what He says. Once we reach the place where we’re confident and ready to hear Him, when He calls us by name, we can answer, “Speak to me. I’m listening.”

Proximity to God’s presence, clarity of thought, and willingness to trust are the keys to hearing Him speak to us.

(Tomorrow: Fresh Regard)

Still-Ness: Always

And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age. (Matthew 28.20)

Still Here

A deadly heat wave hit Chicago in 1995, turning it into a crazy quilt of dark and light patches. From our high-rise apartment, Walt and I literally watched sectors of the city flicker out. We were getting through it just fine, until dusk on the third day of the five-day ordeal, when everything went quiet. We waited for the building’s generator to kick in. As darkness thickened, it seemed unlikely. So we started our 40-flight descent. The stairwell’s emergency lights weren’t working, making it an impenetrable vertical maze. (Typical of us, our flashlight’s batteries were dead.) To keep from tripping, we counted off steps between landings, causing us to lose track of where we were. Voices echoing off the walls further disoriented us. What I remember most from that night, though, was periodically reaching for Walt. Though I couldn’t see him in the darkness, he always reassured me: “I’m still here.”

For all we’ll ever fully comprehend about our walk with Christ, one of its most baffling aspects—to me, anyway—is the fact that He’s still here. I know this by faith and also by witness: any time I’ve reached for Him, I’ve sensed His presence. Though I can’t see Him, I feel Him, much like we intuitively know when those we’re close to—partners, parents, or children, for instance—enter a room before we actually see them. In hours of darkness and disorientation, I hear His inaudible yet clearly perceptible voice speaking peace and assurance to my spirit: “I’m still here.” Yet knowing and sensing His presence don’t adequately capture the real reason for His constant, unfailing companionship. It’s comforting and reassuring to know He’s always here. But why?

Priceless Legacy

The still-ness of Christ’s presence is the priceless legacy of His promise to the disciples. When He appears to them in Matthew 28, they’ve just spent three traumatic days without Him. Having their Rabbi pulled from them, watching Him die in torment, and laying His broken body in a cold tomb crushed them. Though Jesus carefully prepped them for these events, the stark sensation of suddenly being alone overwhelmed them with grief and fear. And now, He returns only to inform them He’ll soon leave again. He’s also discussed this departure with them, but exactly where He’s going and for how long are much more vague than the details about His first absence. In John 14.2 and 3, for instance, Jesus says, “I am going… to prepare a place for you. And I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” Statements like that usually provoke a lot of questions and provide few answers.

How hollow the disciples must feel, as Christ commissions them to carry on while He’s away: “Go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you.” (Matthew 28.19-20) How can they do this? Who’d possibly listen to a motley band without a leader? How can they make it if Jesus isn’t with them? As it was, verse 17 says some of the disciples weren’t sure this person was Jesus. (“When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted.”) One sees anxious confusion fluttering over their faces as they fidget in distress. Jesus quells their fear with a promise: “Surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” It’s a vow only The Christ can keep; He alone can leave the disciples yet remain with them. Then, to offset any chance they’ll ever doubt He’s with them, He guarantees His pledge will never expire. “I’ll be here from now to the end of time.” Thus, here we are and here Christ is—still present, still honoring His promise nearly 2,000 years later. But why?

His Purpose in Being Here

Having Christ with us always is a benefit of discipleship. We’re essentially grandfathered into His contract with the first disciples. As ephemeral and elusive as following Jesus sometimes seems, the constancy of His presence remains sure. Whether we ever “feel” or “hear” Him neither limits nor enhances our ability to know He’s there. His promise is all the proof we need to be convinced He’s with us. The reality of His presence isn’t contingent on our sense, recognition, or understanding. Once we answer His call, He’s here. From that point on, short of us abandoning Him, He never parts company with us. But oh how hard it can be to anchor knowledge of Christ’s presence with faith in His promise, particularly when life floods us with emotions (good and bad) that challenge what we need to know with what we want to feel.

A clearer comprehension of why He’s here will bolster our confidence in His presence. Benefits we receive from having Him with us are really secondary to His purpose in being here. Consider what leads up to His promise—His call to service: “Go.” We are His instruments. He’s here because He needs to be here, always keeping us steady through life’s dramas, not merely to help us but, more importantly, to strengthen and steer us to help others. When we grasp this is His main reason for remaining with us, trusting the still-ness of His presence becomes vital, despite how vividly we may or may not feel Him at any moment. Christ is still with us simply because we’ve still got a lot of work to do.

As He promised, Christ is always with us. The main reason He’s still here is because there’s still work that needs to be done.

(Tomorrow: Still-Ness: Without Prejudice)

Stillness: Standing Back

Moses answered the people, “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the LORD will bring you today.” (Exodus 14.13)

The Obvious Option

Anyone who’s seen The Ten Commandments and then reads this verse can’t help but flash on Charlton Heston’s clenched jaw and fierce glare while delivering the line. He throws his arms into the air with the pomposity of a conductor—which is all too perfect, as an orchestra surges and the Red Sea parts behind him. The instruction and gesture appear premeditated, as though Moses had waited for the perfect moment to use them. But, God bless Cecil B. de Mille’s efforts to mold Moses into an epic hero, nothing could be further from the truth. If we could talk to Moses, he’d tell us he had no idea what he was saying or what to anticipate.

Moses has uncannily managed to sneak tens of thousands of slaves out of Egypt while their owners grieve the sudden loss of their eldest sons. By the time the Jews reach the Red Sea, news of their flight reaches Pharaoh’s attention. He heads into the desert to stop them and when they see his army barreling toward them, the Israelites lose it. There’s nowhere to go. If they turn back, they’ll be massacred. The sea’s too wide to swim. “Did you bring us out here because there weren’t enough plots in Egypt to bury all of us? We were better off where we were!” they shout at Moses. Their panic is piffle next to his, though. He’s lost control of his people. He doesn’t know what to say. Then his mind fixes on the obvious option. Moses orders the people to get a grip. “Stand firm and see the deliverance of the LORD!” What that is he can’t say. But his faith prompts him to add, “The Egyptians you see today you will never see again. The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still.” (Exodus 14.13-14)

Now Isn’t the Time

The King James Version translates Moses’s command as “Stand still,” which gets closer to what he means. If he were speaking to a modern crowd, he’d probably say, “Stand back”—or in military parlance, “Stand down.” The message is emphatically clear: not knowing what they can do at this point means now isn’t the time to do anything. The Israelites need to stop worrying and arguing and moving and thinking. They need to stand back and watch God work everything out as He sees fit. What other choice do they have, anyway? There are no Plans B, C, and D. He’s the only hope they have, and they need to calm down, stand back, and trust Him to work wonders on their behalf. He hasn’t brought them all this way to abandon them to Pharaoh’s army. He’ll fight for them; that’s His job. Their job is only to be still.

One of the hardest skills for us to master is standing back—practicing complete stillness when trouble bears down on us. Our human instincts offer two choices, flight or fight. With neither a viable option, knowing there’s nowhere to run and our adversaries can overpower us, we lose it. We start asking crazy questions and wishing we’d never ventured from the life we knew, forgetting it cost our freedom and self-respect. The moment we realize there’s nothing we can do is the moment we ascertain now isn’t the time to do anything. It’s time to stand back, get out of God’s way, and watch Him take our situation in hand. He’ll fight for us. We need only be still.

But But But But But

“But but but but but,” we say, considering how impossible the situation seems and how simple this sounds. Yet if we pause to think it through, we see how utterly sensible it is. Since there’s nothing we can do, we really have no alternative except placing our entire trust in God and what He can do. At best, all Moses knows is the Israelites have to get across the Red Sea. And frankly, that was going to pose an impossible problem even if Pharaoh’s army hadn’t pursued them. Left on their own, they very well could have died of starvation trying to find enough materials in the desert to construct seaworthy vessels. What’s more, since not one of them has any boatbuilding expertise or sailing experience, it’s probable they’d drown in spite of themselves.

Generally, when standing still becomes our sole option, it’s because strategies we’d devise in less dire circumstances would end in certain disaster. So often we don’t learn how little we know and how incapable we are until we go too far. And even then, that lesson doesn’t prevent us from trying a similar maneuver the next time we’re in trouble. If what we’re challenged with seems too hard to handle on our own, odds are it is too hard for us. By saving the Israelites from Pharaoh, God also saved them from themselves. He made a way where there was no way. Reaching a place where we have to stand still can be terrifying—until we see what’s actually taking place. God brings us to stillness to draw our attention away from our self-reliance so we can stand back and watch Him do what only He can.

Please comment: Has God proven His power in your life in a situation(s) where your only option was standing still and allowing Him to work?

When we feel trapped with no way of escape, we need only be still.

(Tomorrow: Stillness: Always)

Stillness: Peace

He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm. (Mark 4.39)

Leaving the Crowd Behind

It’s an unusually arduous day for Jesus. His sits for hours beside the Sea of Galilee explaining profound concepts to common folk. As always, He brings elusive ideas within reach by telling stories. Over the course of several hours, he talks about farmers, growing crops, lamplight, mustard seeds, and many similar parables (Mark 4.33) Day fades into twilight and two matters press Him. First, He needs time alone with the disciples to explain His teaching fully, without the metaphorical layers. Second, He needs to rest. But the crowd isn’t budging, and if He tries to end the discussion by walking away, they’ll no doubt follow Him. Jesus suggests He and the disciples sail across the lake. Verse 36 reads, “Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat.” Yet apparently that’s not enough to shake the crowd, because Mark adds, “There were also other boats with him.”

We like the image of an indefatigable, celebrity Jesus, surrounded by admirers, always poised, always generous with His time and attention, always sensitive to the needs of those around Him. When we look closely at the Gospels, however, we discover these pictures are less than accurate. (Basically, they’re well-intentioned Sunday-school p.r.) The Gospels present Jesus as an astutely self-possessed teacher Who balances public demands with personal responsibility. He never indulges the crowd at the expense of time for Himself and His disciples. He knows His physical limits. In this case, teaching into the night would likely produce diminished returns. Jesus is tired. He’s got a few hours of private instruction ahead of Him while what He’s just taught remains fresh in the disciples’ minds. It’s time to move on. Mark’s inclusion of the phrase “just as He was” smacks of urgency. The disciples don’t pause to hold sidebar conversations or pick up supplies for the trip. They don’t wait for Jesus to change clothes. They hustle Him onto the boat and push off, leaving the crowd behind.

When the Crowd Won’t Leave

Jesus boards the vessel, finds a pillow, curls up, and goes to sleep. On a physical level, He’s probably unaware the crowd ignores His need for privacy and forms a flotilla. On the other hand, His divine nature seems alert to this. A furious squall erupts and—as Mark makes no further mention of them—it evidently causes the other boats to head back to shore. But, ever so subtly, Mark hints when the disciples, many of them seasoned sailors, get caught unawares by the storm, they suspect Jesus has something to do with it. In verse 38, they wake Jesus up and ask Him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”—not, “Wake up and save us, Jesus!” but, “Don’t You care?” They don't realize the storm proves He does care.

That’s the fascinating wrinkle in this story. When the crowd won’t leave Jesus and the disciples in peace, divine providence raises a storm. Most people presume the tempest is a meteorological anomaly, a freak of nature. Yet it’s more apt, I think, to assume it’s a legitimate act of God, a definitive move on His part to stir up untimely chaos in order to create time for stillness. While the storm rocks the boat and fills it with water, Jesus sleeps. After the disciples awaken Him, He stands up, rebukes the wind, and tells the waves, “Be still!” It is not far-fetched to believe the power He exhibits to quiet the storm also reveals His power to cause it. The sudden peace Jesus brings to the situation stuns the disciples. In verse 41, Mark says this is a side of Him they’ve never seen: “They were terrified and asked each other, ‘Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!’”

Master of the Sea

There’s something else wound into their terror, though. Once Jesus rebukes the storm, He issues them a stinging rebuke also. “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” He asks. (v40) First, they should know not to fear anything since Jesus is with them. In John 16.33, He says, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” The disciples should have no doubt their peace and safety is assured. Second, their alarm belies lack of confidence in Christ’s authority over all circumstances. They’ve no reason to fear the storm. They’ve certainly no reason to fear His power. As all of what’s transpired congeals in their minds, surely their mindless fear frightens them most of all.

Putting all of this together, what do we get? Times come to leave the crowd behind and attend to more urgent matters. We are human. We grow weary. We need rest. We need privacy to listen to what more Christ has to teach us. We need stillness—peace. Yet the more closely we follow Jesus, the more like Him we become, and the more others want to be near us. Leaving the crowd to find stillness becomes a problem when the crowd won’t leave. So it is when our need for peace reaches critical levels, unexpected storms often enter our lives to free us of people asking more than we can give. But we’re far from alone. The Master of the Sea rests nearby. Our safety is secure. Whether we cry for help or He arises on His own, He will speak peace to our storm. The rest and time we seek with Him will come. Stillness will happen.

Please comment: How do we know our need for peace has reached a critical point?

Unexpected storms often enter our lives to create stillness we need.

(Tomorrow: Still-Ness: Persistence)

Still-Ness: And Yet

Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him; I will surely defend my ways to his face. Indeed, this will turn out for my deliverance, for no godless man would dare come before him! (Job 13.15-16)

Here We Are

On occasion, I check Straight-Friendly’s traffic and note a one-time visitor who reaches us by Googling a familiar Scriptural phrase—“Good Shepherd” or “loaves and fishes,” say. He/she spends quite a while here, viewing several pages and examining the posts’ comments. I pray he/she is an earnest seeker who finds our discussions helpful. But sometimes the gleeful side of my imagination takes over. I envision a diehard legalist or cynic mousing through the content, utterly befuddled by what he/she finds: alienated gay and straight believers embracing Christ’s law of love for their neighbors; straight ones encouraging their gay sisters and brothers in the faith; incest survivors attesting the power of forgiveness; feminists patiently serving in communions that deny women equal opportunity; parents fervently raising children, straight and gay, to live in integrity—in short, people of all sorts (including “none of the above”) sharing their joyful confidence in God’s unconditional love and acceptance.

In my little fantasy, the dogmatic Christian or crusty skeptic scans page after page, looking for the “real agenda.” Where are the anger and resentment? Where’s the victim mentality? Where’s the “gay angle?” Why is much of this no different than other “traditional” Christian blogs? And, particularly for the cynic, how can such obviously intelligent people—many wounded and cast aside by religion—invest hope in their faith? When unenlightened visitors here, as well as many of our family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, and even fellow believers, observe our witness, we make not one bit of sense to them. And yet here we are. We’ve been told we have no right or reason to believe God loves everyone equally. Still, we do. We’ve been told we can’t follow Jesus. Still, we do. We’ve been told we’re insane to think returning love for hate, tolerance for intolerance, and kindness for cruelty will change anything. Still, we do. Still. And yet.

Unconditional Faith

Any time religiously oriented people observe individuals who don’t fit their image of what Christians “look like” or how they “behave,” their first inclination is to discredit those who break the mold. While this is lamentable—and has often resulted in grave harm to others—it’s nonetheless understandable, because unconventional believers inherently challenge constructs of conformity and tradition. They threaten other believers, many of whom feel rightly compelled to defend their faith. It’s essential all Christians grasp this, as disputing the credibility of one another’s faith is the primary cause of disunity in the Body of Christ. These tensions are most keenly felt when those we differ with encounter serious trials. Instead of rallying in support, we rally to show them the error of their ways. They need our love. We pronounce judgment. This is the central conflict in Job’s story.

Job’s losses and suffering occur because he’s a righteous man—not because he’s gone wrong. But his friends don’t understand this. They plead with him to identify how he angered God, and beg His mercy. Although he insists he’s done nothing wrong, they won’t accept it. They go around and around until Job tells them to let him speak. He’s convinced what God’s doing involves him, but it’s bigger than him. And rather than take things in his own hands, Job’s prepared to trust God. “Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him,” he says. “I will surely defend my ways to his face. Indeed, this will turn out for my deliverance, for no godless man would dare come before him!” (Job 13.15-16) Yet will I hope in Him. This is one of Scripture’s most stirring depictions of still-ness—unconditional faith in the face of intimidating logic, beliefs, and evidence that seemingly contradict it. Job knows who he is. He knows Who God is. And that’s all he needs to know, regardless how much his friends think they know or what they think he doesn’t know.

Not Ashamed

Paul makes a similar statement in 2 Timothy. The letter appears to be written from the Roman prison cell where Paul awaits execution. He advises Timothy not to be ashamed (intimidated) of his faith or ashamed (embarrassed) of Paul’s status as a condemned prisoner. Having been called as an apostle, he writes in chapter 1, being called to die for Christ doesn’t surprise him. “That is why I am suffering as I am,” he says in verse 12. “Yet I am not ashamed, because I know whom I have believed, and am convinced that he is able to guard what I have entrusted to him for that day.” Yet I am not ashamed. Still-ness.

Faced with condemnation and questions of his faith, Job practices still-ness. “It looks like there’s no hope, and yet I hope.” Staring down death’s corridor, Paul rejects shame and fear. “It looks like my suffering is deserved and my life is over, and yet I know.” Every believer who encounters hostility for his/her faith—whether from non-believers or misguided fellow Christians—must store up a ready reserve of still-ness. People will scoff at our commitment to Christ. They’ll contest its validity with every imaginable reason why confidence in God’s love and following Christ are futile. On many levels, what they say will make sense. And yet we must persist in believing what we can’t prove, trusting what we can’t see. As Scripture instructs us repeatedly, we live by faith and not by sight. What God’s doing involves us, but it’s bigger than us. Despite every reason to doubt this, still we have hope. Despite what others think of us, where we presently are, or where God ultimately leads, we’re not ashamed. Still we know. “Yes,” we say to others, “and yet.” Still-ness.

Please comment: What challenges do you face that require still-ness?

Others will question our faith—sometimes convincingly. Still-ness enables us to deflect their questions with confidence.

(Tomorrow: Still-Ness: Peace)