I have another blog, a private one, called Serendipitous Intersections, which features one post every day of the year. The gist of the blog is, it's a melding of three other 365-day "devotionals", one the famous work of Oswald Chambers and two others containing the work of George MacDonald. What I do is, I juxtapose the daily readings, usually in excerpt form but sometimes in whole, from the three sources and then add a heading of my own intended to unite them in a single concept or angle. Here in Armenia
(Based on my May 24th post in Serendipitous Intersections: "Brave the terror, run into Love's fearsome power"-- which is itself based on the May 24th readings in "My Utmost for His Highest" [Chambers], "Diary of an Old Soul" [MacDonald], and reading #145 in "365 Daily Readings from George MacDonald", [MacDonald, edited by C.S. Lewis].)
One of the most touching sights I ever see is when a parent has disciplined a very young child, with a stern word or even a light slap on the bottom, and the child, heartbroken as only a very young child can be, in that end-of-the-world way that will be completely forgotten in ten minutes, in a flood of tears and sobs envelops itself and disappears into the arms of--the parent who just performed the distressing discipline! The logic of cause-and-effect suggests the child should run away from the source of its pain and frustration. But here an entirely different logic is at work: the logic of love. Mysteriously and wonderfully, the child knows, without ever needing to analyze it, that parents whose word can ruin all your plans and spoil all your fun, whose hand may bring a certain twinge to posterior places, are the same parents whose enfolding embrace, soothing words and loving eyes will heal your hurt, will assure you yet again that you are treasured and have a home in somebody's heart--and not just "somebody's", but in the heart of the ones who are the center of your whole world.
Christ says, "Unless you become as a little child, you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven." I think this implicit, wholehearted trust--the trust that runs into the arms of the parent who has just punished you--such childlike trust is exactly what Christ calls us to.
George MacDonald writes, "If then any child of the Father finds... that the thought of God is a discomfort to him, or even a terror, let him make haste--let him... rush at once... for shelter from his own evil and God's terror, into the salvation of the Father's arms." [Mc] There's the delightfully intriguing paradox: we rush into the Father's arms for salvation from our own fear of the Father.
In the Book of Revelation, the apostle John tells how he naturally, spontaneously reacted at the sudden vision of the Heavenly Christ: "When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead." Now just think: this is Jesus, the beloved Master with whom John walked and talked, lived and worked, laughed and wept, in the most intimate, implicit trust, for three years. In the simplest of human terms, this was John's "old friend", his cherished friend! But at this overwhelming 'materialization', before his eyes, of the Risen, Glorified Son of God, John can only fall in a dead faint....
Analogies are always limited, and that includes the one I began with this morning. We cannot always rush un-self-consciously into the arms of God, like a child wanting comfort. Sometimes we can only fall down in awe and, yes, dread. And you know who understands that best? God. God doesn't despise the pitiful helplessness of His utterly overcome child. What does Jesus, the "Old Friend", do when John falls prostrate? "Then he placed his right hand on me and said: “Do not be afraid."Oswald Chambers says, "In the midst of the awfulness, a touch comes, and you know it is the right hand of Jesus Christ. ...In the midst of all His ascended glory the Lord Jesus comes to speak to an insignificant disciple, and to say, 'Fear not.' ...I delight to know that there is that in me which must fall prostrate before God when He manifests Himself, and if I am ever to be raised up it must be by the hand of God." [OC]
Even if I am too overwhelmed to rush into the Father's arms, I hope, I trust it will be the hand of God that touches me and the voice of God that says, "Don't be afraid."
But when Jesus raises His beloved disciple back to his feet, it isn't only to calm his fear. It is to give John a task: "Write, therefore, what you have seen, what is now and what will take place later." A disciple always receives a task; otherwise he is no disciple. The child of God's true joy is when the heavenly Father says, "Come, let's do my work together." But the work of God is love, and that can be frightening. To run into the Father's arms for His love, even for rescue from fear of Him, that's one thing. But what about when He tells us to love Man? To love all the people around us, the people we don't know, the people who will never take a friendly step toward us if we don't step first... and maybe not even then? Do we run into that assignment? Do we embrace the task the same way we want the Father to embrace us? Do we demonstrate that same wholehearted, childlike trust to God in the work as we do in our our most private, solitary recourse to Him?
We can never--fortunately or unfortunately--divorce the authenticity of our most intimate meetings with the living God from the authenticity of our life for Him in the world. It is inevitable that to whatever extent the one is inauthentic, so will the other be.
George MacDonald writes, "O God of man,.../...Love of my kind alone can set me free;/Help me to welcome all that come to me,/Not close my doors and dream of solitude liberty!" [Mc]
The apostle John says it more prosaically and more piercingly (1 John 4:20): "Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen."
One of the most touching sights I ever see is when a parent has disciplined a very young child, with a stern word or even a light slap on the bottom, and the child, heartbroken as only a very young child can be, in that end-of-the-world way that will be completely forgotten in ten minutes, in a flood of tears and sobs envelops itself and disappears into the arms of--the parent who just performed the distressing discipline! The logic of cause-and-effect suggests the child should run away from the source of its pain and frustration. But here an entirely different logic is at work: the logic of love. Mysteriously and wonderfully, the child knows, without ever needing to analyze it, that parents whose word can ruin all your plans and spoil all your fun, whose hand may bring a certain twinge to posterior places, are the same parents whose enfolding embrace, soothing words and loving eyes will heal your hurt, will assure you yet again that you are treasured and have a home in somebody's heart--and not just "somebody's", but in the heart of the ones who are the center of your whole world.
Christ says, "Unless you become as a little child, you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven." I think this implicit, wholehearted trust--the trust that runs into the arms of the parent who has just punished you--such childlike trust is exactly what Christ calls us to.
George MacDonald writes, "If then any child of the Father finds... that the thought of God is a discomfort to him, or even a terror, let him make haste--let him... rush at once... for shelter from his own evil and God's terror, into the salvation of the Father's arms." [Mc] There's the delightfully intriguing paradox: we rush into the Father's arms for salvation from our own fear of the Father.
In the Book of Revelation, the apostle John tells how he naturally, spontaneously reacted at the sudden vision of the Heavenly Christ: "When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead." Now just think: this is Jesus, the beloved Master with whom John walked and talked, lived and worked, laughed and wept, in the most intimate, implicit trust, for three years. In the simplest of human terms, this was John's "old friend", his cherished friend! But at this overwhelming 'materialization', before his eyes, of the Risen, Glorified Son of God, John can only fall in a dead faint....
Analogies are always limited, and that includes the one I began with this morning. We cannot always rush un-self-consciously into the arms of God, like a child wanting comfort. Sometimes we can only fall down in awe and, yes, dread. And you know who understands that best? God. God doesn't despise the pitiful helplessness of His utterly overcome child. What does Jesus, the "Old Friend", do when John falls prostrate? "Then he placed his right hand on me and said: “Do not be afraid."Oswald Chambers says, "In the midst of the awfulness, a touch comes, and you know it is the right hand of Jesus Christ. ...In the midst of all His ascended glory the Lord Jesus comes to speak to an insignificant disciple, and to say, 'Fear not.' ...I delight to know that there is that in me which must fall prostrate before God when He manifests Himself, and if I am ever to be raised up it must be by the hand of God." [OC]
Even if I am too overwhelmed to rush into the Father's arms, I hope, I trust it will be the hand of God that touches me and the voice of God that says, "Don't be afraid."
But when Jesus raises His beloved disciple back to his feet, it isn't only to calm his fear. It is to give John a task: "Write, therefore, what you have seen, what is now and what will take place later." A disciple always receives a task; otherwise he is no disciple. The child of God's true joy is when the heavenly Father says, "Come, let's do my work together." But the work of God is love, and that can be frightening. To run into the Father's arms for His love, even for rescue from fear of Him, that's one thing. But what about when He tells us to love Man? To love all the people around us, the people we don't know, the people who will never take a friendly step toward us if we don't step first... and maybe not even then? Do we run into that assignment? Do we embrace the task the same way we want the Father to embrace us? Do we demonstrate that same wholehearted, childlike trust to God in the work as we do in our our most private, solitary recourse to Him?
We can never--fortunately or unfortunately--divorce the authenticity of our most intimate meetings with the living God from the authenticity of our life for Him in the world. It is inevitable that to whatever extent the one is inauthentic, so will the other be.
George MacDonald writes, "O God of man,.../...Love of my kind alone can set me free;/Help me to welcome all that come to me,/Not close my doors and dream of solitude liberty!" [Mc]
The apostle John says it more prosaically and more piercingly (1 John 4:20): "Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen."
