If God is for us, who can be against us?”  Romans 8:31

I was born into a war I cannot escape. It will rage until my final breath, until faith becomes sight, until the enemy falls silent. And without Him spread over my life like a holy covering, I will forget where victory comes from. I will mistake fatigue for defeat. I will believe the enemy’s lies more than God’s promises.

My enemies are the world, the flesh, and the devil. I know that God is greater than all three. I know this in the marrow of my theology. But there are days when it feels like I am losing ground, when my heart returns from battle in shreds.

The world is against me because I have pledged my life to the One it crucified. I belong to Christ, and therefore I offend others even when I speak His name with tears in my eyes. Most bristle at Him before they ever understand Him. And no matter how gently I may come, Christ still stands between us. When He is despised, I cannot expect to be warmly embraced.

The flesh is against me. There is still an old ache inside me that remembers Egypt fondly, appetites that reach back to old defaults. God’s presence is a reminder to me that I am alive to Him and dead to my old passions.  Though I have the freedom to sin, my desires for things of the flesh are being transformed under the shadow of His presence.

The devil is against me.The devil is against me. He is the ancient strategist, the accuser who studies my wounds and goes for the jugular. He knows the old griefs, the old shame, the old fears, and he returns to familiar doors hoping I will open them again. 

God is not watching me fight from some distant throne. He is not a general removed from the field, issuing orders from safety. He is there in the struggle, in the storm, in the surprise assaults, even in the places where courage leaves me completely and I have nothing left but a cry for help.

The battle is fierce, but it is not final. You are on my side and You’ve already declared victory. Amen

“For I will pour water upon him that is thirsty, and floods upon the dry ground:  Isaiah 44:3

I’ve said goodbye to many loved ones who are now in heaven.  My mother died when I was 30.  I never knew my grandfathers.  My grandmothers graduated to heaven when I was 10, and again at 25.  My Dad died of cancer in 2003 and 7 years ago today, our son, Ryan, took his life. There was no warning. There was no note. There was no easy closure.  In 2019, June 16th also happened to be Father’s Day. A gift of homemade beef jerky had been delivered the night before. Ryan was upbeat, engaging, and gave no hint of something amiss. He was near us, and then, he was gone. The absence was both excruciating and disorienting and it continued to be – long before anything comforting could be felt.

Valuable things have been learned since then. God unwrapped the concept of ‘severe mercy.’ Pain began to unearth some skewed theology. I also came to realize that redemption and healing are incremental. But lessons aside, when grief sets in and wordlessness takes over, I learned that I need Jesus first before I need others.

The words from the scrolls of Isaiah wash over my mother’s heart, yet again, as the sadness hits and our family’s wilderness begs to be bathed by the incoming flood of Living Water. God doesn’t send a drop of water to the desert. He sends a flood. He offers more than enough. He is more than enough.

Oh Spirit of God, be poured out to comfort others, like us, whose hearts are broken. Encourage those who are still plagued with questions and fight disillusionment with you.  Be poured out upon the dry bones of our lives, the places where the smell of death is still in the air.  Be poured out upon the Word which we know, the Word which has been preached to us, prayed over us, and is still in the process of changing us.  Touch our barren landscapes with the promise of green.  We are the dry ground and You are the river.  Amen

Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness.  For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.  Romans 8:26

It is not a sin to be weak.  Weakness is a human condition.  Frailty plagues the most righteous man or woman, especially when in the midst of suffering.  Quickly, every one of us loses our spiritual perspective.  Our prayers reflect this vacuum.

Job was righteous.  God said so.  Yet he couldn’t understand why he was suffering and his prayers proved his confusion.  His friends thought they knew the mind of God and probably prayed for him, but wrongly.

The disciples, as much as they loved Jesus, proved to be weak prayer partners.  In the garden, when Jesus needed them most, they feel asleep during Jesus’ hours of anguish.

Elijah, a prophet of courageous proportions, succumbed to a weakened state after a great spiritual victory.  Exhausted and emotionally drained, he prayed that the Lord would take his life.  The flesh and the spirit are so integrally connected.  When the body fails, the spirit is confused.

If I don’t know how to pray for myself, how can I be sure anyone else will be able to pray for me correctly?  The answer is ‘who it is’ that is my ‘best friend’ in intercession.  The Holy Spirit.  He is aware and fully engaged with my story.  He knows my limited ability to understand God’s sovereign plan for my life.  When I cry out to God and I am wordless, much like a baby in distress, He hears my weeping and interprets it to the Father.  He perceives my faltering words, my frustrating silences and interprets those too.  He tells my story better than I can and He tells it with omniscience.  He prays about everything with perfect perspective.

So many days, I pray…. “Oh holy Spirit, rise up in me and teach me how to pray.  Form my words.  Pray when my language fails.”  Could the friendship of God be more perfectly proven than in this?

I rest in Your groanings, and even Your tears, for the places in my life which have left me speechless and wanting. Thank you for being such a friend. Amen

For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now.  Romans 8:22

One of the most poignant conversations happened recently, it was with my daughter, Jaime, and it centered around the implications of the Fall and how creation groans.

Typically, when we think of the effects of the Fall, we think of big things.  Pain of childbirth, plagues, destructive weather, disease, rape, murder, etc.  What struck us in our sharing was that there is a more subtle list.  I’ll start it below:

• As an infant, you were lying in your bassinette.  It was 2:00 a.m. and you woke up hungry.  You started to cry.  Your tired mother was exasperated. “No, you can’t need to eat again!”   What is that?   The Fall.
• In Kindergarten, there is whispering among a group of girls about the outfit you’re wearing.  There is shame and uncertainty.  What is that?   The Fall.
• You’re doing your homework.  Your parents are in the middle of something, but you need their help for one of your math problems.  They are irked at the interruption.  “Good grief!  Can’t you figure it out yourself?”  What is that?   The Fall. 
• Your arms, legs, and face sting from bad sunburn.  What is that?   The Fall.
• You feel uneasy and spend time driving around the block to find a parking space that is better lit with streetlamps.  What is that?   The Fall.
• You wake up and wish you felt like you did yesterday.  The energy is gone and you know you’ll have to push to get through your day.  What is that?   The Fall.

Why make a list like this?  I can tell you that it’s been very meaningful.  We know that God will wipe away all tears, that He will eradicate all disease, and that we will dwell in safety.  But how about the redemption of little things!  There will be no more exasperated loved ones who tire of our needs.  There will be no more inflicted shame by friends and acquaintances.  There will be no more days of feeling the pressure of physical limits.

And how about the biggest pain we feel?  The longing to be with God.  That ache will be satisfied when our separation comes to an end.  We will be permanently home.  Safe.  Loved.  Glorified.  Full of joy.  Looking into the face of the One we have loved, but not yet seen.

I’ve underestimated what you will restore and make new.  Let me imagine with the wonder of a child.  Amen

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.  Romans 8:18

I was so moved this morning by a C.S. Lewis quote from his book, Weight of Glory.  He defines glory as ‘a longing for something that can hardly be expressed.’ 

Suffering has the power to render a person speechless.  Glory has the same power.  We want something deep in our souls but we know it’s not available to us yet. We are to shine as the sun, we are to be given the Morning Star. I think I begin to see what it means. In one way, of course, God has given us the Morning Star already; you can go and enjoy the gift on many fine mornings, if you get up early enough. What more, you may ask, do we want? Ah, but we want so much more—something the books on aesthetics take little notice of. But the poets and mythologies know all about it. We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words—to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.

That is why the poets tell us such lovely falsehoods. They talk as if ‘the west wind could really sweep into a human soul’; but we know it can’t. They tell us that ‘beauty born of murmuring sound will pass into a human face’; but we know it probably won’t. At least, not yet. God will one day give us the Morning Star and cause us to put on the splendor of the sun.

At present we are on the outside of the world we belong to; we’re on the dark side of the door. The leaves of the Old and New Testaments are rustling with the rumors that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.”

C.S. Lewis WEIGHT OF GLORY

For any of you who are crushed beneath the weight of pain and words are not adequate to paint the anguish you experience, the same wordlessness will visit you again one day – but it will be an inadequacy to speak of glory, not suffering.  That is our hope and sustaining grace. I am grateful to be able to testify that, in the past year, God has taken me to stunningly beautiful places in the Spirit. At first, there was frustration that words failed me. Now, I know, accept, and celebrate it.

I am often like a fussy child not knowing what I want but hating how I feel.  You know what I want, You and Your kingdom and the restoration of paradise. Fill my heart with the hope of glory.  Amen