Category Archives: Musings

Pray for Heidi Day #1: Vision

Scripture passages from Luke 18, Isaiah 28, Isaiah 42

Months ago, Heidi’s blood pressure went crazy, causing an eye bleed which gave her a blind spot in one of her eyes. It has shown mild improvement but it’s still there. What does this mean for Heidi? Besides challenges to depth perception and driving, she can’t read very well. And if she tries, she gets terrible headaches. And Heidi loves to read! For anyone who, like me, calms down every night by reading, the idea of that simple pleasure being taken away, and for so long, is horrible. Reading, for me, can be a coping strategy. A place to escape, and stop thinking about myself, and lay my worries down. And I desperately want Heidi to have this one small pleasure back.

God, I’ve been praying for Heidi’s eye to be healed for a long time. You haven’t done it yet. But I know you can. I pray that you will.

You’ve let the bad news fall on Heidi, stroke after stroke. It’s beaten her down. Her eye, in the scope of all the other huge problems, may seem like a small thing. But I pray that you’ll give it back to her, fully functional, as a gift. Clear up the blind spot. Make it go away entirely.

God, when I first had this idea of five days of public, open prayer for Heidi, immediately my mind started playing games. Maybe with more people praying we can force God’s hand. But it’s not about controlling you. Maybe we can annoy you into doing what we want. No–you’re infinitely patient and nothing like the unjust judge in the parable about the insistent widow. Maybe if I give you a stage, you’ll perform. Wow, that’s a twisted view of you. But God, hear the desperation under these mind games. I just want you to act, and my mind is trying to find a way to twist and bend and get around the fact that . . . I can’t make you do anything. There’s no strategy or manipulation or formula that I can wield to control you. You’re God.

But. You love me. You’ve given me unfettered access to your ear. You’ve said you’re my father, and that I can come to you any time, no mind games necessary. I can just ask, simply, like a child. Like my baby Isaac does, when the thought strikes him, and he pipes up in his sweet little voice, “More cake?” He doesn’t plan or strategize or threaten or butter me up. He just looks at me with his big blue eyes and says, “More cake? More cake? More cake?”

So I’m laying aside all of my weird, controlling thoughts. I come to you like Isaac comes to me, not understanding your will or your ways very well. But asking anyway, again and again.

For the Lord will rise up […] to do his deed—strange is his deed!—and to work his work—alien is his work!

I come to you, knowing that I cannot understand you–except what you reveal of yourself. And I cannot fathom your plan–except when you tenderly open my eyes to it. But more often it feels like you’re leading me blind, and that only trust can propel me to take the next step, and even that trust sometimes fails and I come to a standstill, stuck and afraid and despairing. You must lead, because this is a path I never would have chosen.

I will lead the blind
by a road they do not know,
by paths they have not known
I will guide them.
I will turn the darkness before them into light,
the rough places into level ground.
These are the things I will do,
and I will not forsake them.

I come to you with my hands lifted, empty. Empty of power, empty of control, but lifting up to you my love for my sister, which cries out constantly in my heart make her better.

Fill our empty hands with good things. Let one of those good things be Heidi’s sight. Give it back to her as a comfort, as a gift, as a sign of your care, not because we can twist your arm by organized prayer, not because you listen to the voices of many more than the voice of one, but because we have no one else to turn to. No one else who loves like you do, listens like you do, heals like you do.

So often, when I feel the burden of my powerlessness, I get mad. I cry and I swear and I rage. But this morning, I bring my powerlessness to you. You’re supposed to be strength in our weakness. You’re supposed to be the kind of God who comes into a hopeless situation where no one else could possibly save, and wins the victory. So show us that part of yourself.

I’m asking for miracles. Today, and the rest of the week. But the very grandest and most impossible-seeming thing I could ask is nothing to you. A mere thought of yours could sweep the universe into the dustbin–or bring the whole host of the dead back to life. I forget about how vast your power is sometimes. But just because it’s vast doesn’t mean it’s impersonal. It’s deeply personal. You say you know how many hairs are on our heads. You certainly know each drop of blood and each burst vessel that’s clouding Heidi’s vision.

As he approached Jericho, a blind man was sitting by the roadside begging. When he heard a crowd going by, he asked what was happening. They told him, “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by.” Then he shouted, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on Heidi.

Those who were in front sternly ordered him to be quiet; but he shouted even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!”

Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on Heidi.

Jesus stood still and ordered the man to be brought to him; and when he came near, he asked him, “What do you want me to do for you?” He said, “Lord, let me see again.” Jesus said to him, “Receive your sight; your faith has saved you.”

God, my faith may be small, but I bring it to you, knowing that far from tossing aside the tiny seeds of faith, you nurture them, and grow them into big things.

My small faith says, Jenna, you’ve prayed for Heidi’s eye a ton of times and God hasn’t done anything. Just give up already. You can’t make him do it. And I can’t make you. So what am I supposed to say? I guess that I’m just asking. And waiting for your answer, hopeful and scared and excited and fearful all at once. Take this tiny faith. Don’t crush it. Here it is.

I am the Lord, that is my name; my glory I give to no other, nor my praise to idols.

God, you could heal her eye over time. And that would be fine–even great. But I pray that instead, you’ll do it all of a sudden. So that Heidi can take this story and share it with her doctors, that they may know that something unnatural is happening. Something that defies the rules of the world–because you wrote the rules of the world, and you can bend them and break them and do whatever you want. Bring yourself glory.

Immediately he regained his sight and followed him, glorifying God; and all the people, when they saw it, praised God.

Remove all effects of Heidi’s eye bleed, Jesus. For your sake, and for hers, and for mine, so that she can have more joy, and so that we can have joy too, in praising you as witnesses of your healing power.

Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on Heidi.

Are there hard truths about God?

A question

Yesterday I got a thoughtful response to this post about wrestling with truth from my Uncle Brian (an actual white, male, evangelical, conservative pastor, hee hee–and one whom I love and respect very much!):

Hey Jenna, great thoughts. God, i believe, always welcomes honest questions. So I agree. We should never be afraid to engage hard and uncomfortable questions. But equally we should never be afraid to affirm hard and uncomfortable truth. 
Sincerely,
A pastor in your head

After having a little giggle because Uncle Brian is most definitely not the argumentative pastor in my head, this got me thinking. His words rang over and over in my head.

We should never be afraid to affirm hard and uncomfortable truth.

Something about that phrase was bothering me. Why? I offered a short response on Facebook, but in my heart I kept mulling it over. And over. And over.

Deceitful heart

Off the bat, I’m sure the phrase was bothering me, in part, because I’m a rebel. I don’t want to accept things I don’t buy into just because someone–especially an authority figure–tells me to. I want that inner confirmation. I want my heart to be on board. And yet, I know my heart is deceitful. I’ve been wrong about more things that I can count before, even things to which my heart clamored its affirmation.

Lies disguised as truth

The second reason for my discomfort is that some of those “hard truths” that church leaders tout end up being lies. I’m sure slaves in America were told to accept their position because of the “hard truth” that God had approved the authority of their master over them. This is a horrible misuse of the Bible that sullies the very word “truth,” and only one example of countless showing how the church can swing a rock-hard baseball bat of lies while calling it a “hard truth.” The results are devastating.

The blood-stained historical record of church atrocities is always, always a good reason to question the biblical interpretation offered by those in power. The Bible is always good and true. Church leaders and their handling of the Bible, we can all agree, are a different story.

But of course, this isn’t what my wonderful Uncle Brian was talking about in his gentle challenge to me. So leaving aside lies disguised as truth, and the deceptions of my heart, the question of hard truth at face-value was well worth chewing on.

The question at face value

I thought as I lay in bed at night, and I thought this morning as I drank my coffee and drove to work. Are there “hard truths” about God? Which ones? If so, why are they hard? And does that mean something about God, or the truth? Or does it perhaps mean something about me instead? What have the “hard truths” in my personal walk with Christ been?

First, a distinguishing fact: hard experiences or realities don’t necessarily correlate with hard truths. For example, I have always believed and continue to believe that God’s plan for sex is within the bounds of a committed marriage. Thusly, Adam and I waited to have sex until after we were married. Was this hard? Um . . . YES. But did this hard experience of waiting represent a hard truth? For me, no. It was a good truth. I knew it was right to wait, and I trusted God knew best. There was no conflict in my heart over the truth–just the day-to-day practical difficulty in carrying it out.

Second, a practical, non-religious example.

As kids, there are lots of hard truths. One of them is responsibility. We have to clean up our messes. Another is humility. We have to apologize for our failures. Another is generosity. We have to share our toys. We don’t like this. At times, we even declare “it’s not fair.” I certainly did.

But guess what? As we grow up and mature, that perception of hard truth melts away. We start to realize that apologizing when we hurt someone is the right and healing thing. That sharing what we have is a joyful expression of love, and that generosity is not just painful sacrifice, but has a boomerang effect. Sure, all these things may still be hard to execute at times. But we wouldn’t call them hard truths. We’d call them beautiful truths that we struggle to live out.

In this quick scenario, the “hard” part of these truths is a direct cause of immaturity. As we mature, we see the loveliness.

So what are these hard truths in a spiritual context?

Let’s go to the Bible

The example that leaped to my mind is in John 6. To give a quick and dirty recap, Jesus has been preaching about himself, saying that he is the bread of life and that you have to eat of his flesh to have life. Here’s the specific set of verses (bold emphasis mine):

60 When many of his disciples heard it, they said, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” 61 But Jesus, being aware that his disciples were complaining about it, said to them, “Does this offend you? 62 Then what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before? 63 It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life. 64 But among you there are some who do not believe.”

Jesus recognized that the truth he was teaching them offended them. I think we can safely call this a “hard truth” for the disciples. But then Jesus says, “The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.” To me, Jesus seems to be saying something like, “Guys, I can see you’re having trouble with all of this. But seriously, this is a good truth. It’s about life. You’re feeling offended, but in reality this is good news. Your faith is just lacking right now.”

So is this truth about Jesus hard, in its essence? No. It’s beautiful. It’s spirit and life. It only appears hard (or offensive) to those whose faith is weak (or not present).

I’m sure an in-depth study could be done on all of this. But, for now, what I’ve got is this:

I believe God is holy. Perfect. His plan is perfect. Everything he does is glorious. Everything about him is good. There is no darkness in him. Therefore, I don’t see how any truth about God could be hard in its nature.

I’m starting to think that when we’re experiencing a “hard truth,” it has more to say about us than about God. It says, perhaps, that we don’t get the full picture. That our faith is imperfect.

Dad’s invisible friend

Let’s talk about my dad. He’s been a Christian, well . . . forever. He’s in his sixties now. And for the past couple years, he’s been working through what he might call a hard truth.

To put it simply, the fact that God is invisible was bothering my dad. Why? An invisible God can sound kind of silly. Like maybe we’re a kid with an invisible friend, making up his own reality while the adults look on in amusement. Why is God invisible? Is that really the best way to do it? What’s the purpose? Where is God’s invisibility addressed in Scripture?

And Dad went for it. And, to my knowledge, is still going for it.

This, to me, is a perfect example of how to handle hard truth. By digging in. Studying. Praying and reading. Turning it over and over. I think the closer my dad gets to God, the more the “hardness” of this truth will melt away to reveal the beauty and purpose underneath. And I’ve already heard the beginnings of this as Dad talks about what he’s learning.

A matter of perspective

Let me use another example. For non-Christians, I can safely say that Christians’ claim to exclusive truth is a hard truth. People don’t like this. Why can’t there be more than one way? What an arrogant claim! They think they know better. Christians are so close-minded. In fact, it’s a truth that seems so hard that some simply reject it.

However, for those of us who are walking with Christ (or at least many of us), this is not a hard truth. I rejoice that through the chaos and darkness and pain of the world, God has cut through one shining, glorious path. I love that truth is not a smorgasbord of options and theories and ideas, but a single man–Jesus: the way, the truth, and the life. This is not a hard truth for me. It may be hard to explain to those who don’t believe, but my heart clamors a joyful response to this truth.

Perhaps when a truth is hard, it highlights a part of our heart that is not like God, but that can become more like him as we draw near. Perhaps it represents us, in our humanity, not understanding, even rebelling. Perhaps the antidote to hard truth is not to beat ourselves with a stick and say “accept it because you have to,” but to take the next few steps towards God and let him shed light on it.

The slave or the child?

The pastor in my head? (yes, that one) He’s saying, You’re forgetting about submission, Jenna. Instead of seeing acceptance of hard truth as “beating yourself with a stick,” perhaps you could simply submit to God’s authority, and find beauty there.

And I say, yes. Submission to God’s authority is great. But I am also not like a slave, bent to the ground, eyes cast down. I am a daughter. Making eye contact with my father. Approaching the throne boldly, and with confidence. Always welcome, and unafraid.

So when we talk about “submitting to God’ authority,” which I of course agree is right and even beautiful, let us remember that this need not be a silent, crushed act of humiliation in which we bite our tongues against all the questions we want to ask. That it could, perhaps, be the wrestling match I so fondly think of when I envision my Christian walk. A wrestling match I engage in knowing that God will win. Knowing that if my heart is rebelling, God can conquer and soothe and teach it. That he is stronger. And that through engaging with him, and not letting the things that are bothering me simply lie, I will somehow walk more closely with him than I would by casting my eyes down, keeping my distance and holding my tongue, because I have confused him with a master when he’s my dad.

The beautiful mystery

Will there be things we can’t understand in this life? Truths that will always seem hard to us? Maybe yes. And sure, to Uncle Brian’s point, maybe God will call us to affirm things we don’t like at the moment. God is so much bigger, I will never be able to grasp everything about him. But the more we get to know his character and trust his goodness, perhaps the hard truths that we don’t get to fully understand in this life could simply become mysterious truths. Perhaps our faith can transform our experience of truth so that, even when we don’t understand, it is no longer hard, but a motivator to run towards Him, because we are convinced that everything about Him is beautiful, and if it doesn’t seem that way, we must not be close enough.

Are there truths about God that seem hard to you? Think of it as a trigger telling you: Draw closer, because you’re not yet like him. Draw closer, because his truth is not hard at all, but beautiful and perfect and glorious. You may not get it yet, and that’s okay, because the light is coming. Keep walking. It’s right there. Can you feel it, just up ahead?