from the Calvin Institute of Christian Worship and Congregational and Ministry Studies at Calvin College

Posts Tagged ‘pain’

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So Marred, So Beautiful

Friday, January 14th, 2011

2 Cor. 5:14-21

About Jesus Christ, whose bleeding wounds and torturous dying has saved them from sin’s despair and eternal doom, Christians join mouths and hearts to confess:

He suffered under Pontius Pilate.

A sixteenth-century Reformed Christian statement of faith, the Heidelberg Catechism, expands upon this early Christian confession:

During his whole life on earth,
but especially at the end,
Christ sustained
in body and soul
the anger of God against the sin of the whole human race.
This he did in order that,
by his suffering as the only atoning sacrifice,
He might set us free, body and soul,
from eternal condemnation,
and gain for us
God’s grace,
righteousness,
and eternal life.

(Heidelberg Catechism #37)

Christians know and affirm, beyond the shadow of doubt or the slightest trace of maybe, that, in St.Paul’s words, “I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” (Gal. 2:20)

Their suffering Savior’s immense love for them, far beyond their mind’s feeble ability to grasp or comprehend, now prompts Christians to worship him. A stronger verb is more apt: It impels them toward worship—“squeezes” them, as Paul puts it literally in 2 Corinthians 5:14. In view of his supreme and costly gift to them, how could they not bend their knees and bow their heads, and offer him their entire lives in willing service?

So, whatever other laudable reasons Christians may give for why they congregate on Sunday morning to worship, this reason surely ranks very high among them: Jesus willingly endured deep anguish for them and gave his life’s full measure to save them. Now they, in turn, must—simply must!—swell the thronging multitude of those who gather to sing him their thanks. Now they must rouse one another to exclaim in rapturous wonder, awe and delight:

And can it be that I should gain an interest in the Savior’s blood?
Died he for me, for me who caused his bitter death.
Amazing love, how can it be, that you my Lord should die for me?

No matter how beleaguering the challenges which life may have hurled at them during the preceding week; no matter how much its circumstances may have wet-blanketed their joy, drained their hope, and dulled their vision and courage—when Christians enter the sanctuary and hear again of their Savior’s suffering love for them, then their hearts become alive again. Then their spirits take on fresh glow and energy. Then they know—for sure—why they’re alive and where they’re going in life.

Then they realize, too, that one too few times in life—always one too few, by their grateful measure—have they exclaimed in gratitude to their Savior:

Amazing love! How can it be
that you, my Lord, should die for me?

Worshipful intimacy with Jesus marks the life of every faithful Christian disciple. Nor ought this intimacy ever to become routine or dull, lockstep or flat. How can it, if one keeps meditating carefully and well what the Savior so willingly endured for her or him? And where better to cultivate such intimacy and to nurture it toward fuller maturity than by congregating with others to worship the One who suffered and died for them?

Dr Earl Stanley Jones (1884-1973), acclaimed Methodist theologian and missionary to India, told of seeing, for the first time, the famous sculpture of Jesus Christ by Bertil Thorwaldsen in Copenhagen Cathedral. Jones stood at some distance from the sculpture, taking in that full figure of Christ who towered above him in stateliness, dignity, and regality.

But what happened next transformed everything for Jones. A young Dane came up to him and whispered in his ear: “Sir, you will not be able to see the Savior’s eyes until you come near and kneel at his feet.” Jones stepped closer to sculpture, got on his knees directly in front of it, and then looked up into the Savior’s face. Jones’ words: “When I knelt at his feet, I discovered my Lord’s eyes looking directly at mine. They spoke to me.”

If Jesus’ eyes could speak, they would declare, compassionately and urgently: “Fix your own eyes upon ours. Look deeply and directly into us. See in us what your Savior has endured for you. Behold his affection for you, and his willingness to endure anguish and death for you. Come closer to us. For by his loving, longing gaze, the Suffering Savior is now beckoning you home.”

The look in Jesus’ eyes carries his message of suffering for us, and of his mercy toward us. It is a look both so marred and so beautiful.

Prayer

My Jesus, I love thee, I know thou art mine, For thee, all the follies of sin I resign My gracious Redeemer, my Savior art thou, If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, ‘tis now. I love thee because thou hast first loved me, And purchased my pardon on Calvary’s tree; I love thee for wearing the thorns on thy brow, If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, ‘tis now.William Featherstone

Belonging

Tuesday, October 19th, 2010

Psalm 84

Lonesomeness, that bleak and desperate feeling of abandonment and forsakenness, is the worst—the absolute worst—that can overtake any human being. As the feeling gradually descends upon one’s spirit—when he starts to think that heaven is silent and earth doesn’t care—then desolation and despair follow on behind to smother out life and hope. But soon even these become crushed and disappear. A frozenly inhuman silence—an utter and absolute sense of nothingness—holds them in its choking grip. Lonesome people dwell—alone—in a dark and shriveling hell, an awful place where they lose whatever once made them feel human.

For lonesomeness is hell. And hell is everlasting lonesomeness.

Lonesomeness is the most hostile invader ever to have stolen into God’s hearty and vigorous creation. Lonesomeness has no role to play in the intricacies of how God intended it to work. Creation’s Maker declared: “It is not good for human beings to be alone.” Thus God longed for his human creatures to be with one another—to feed one another’s spirits by mutual “worthwhiling.” God also wanted people to know that they belong to him—that they matter deeply to him. A bright and invigorating fellowship, both among fellow human beings and also with God—that’s the ticket to going at life in fully human, fully alive sort of way. It’s living as God intends.

For belongingness is heavenly. And heaven is everlasting belongingness.

In each of these weekly reflections, I have been aiming to explore why followers of Jesus make it a regular practice on Sundays to congregate , and why they do what they do when they get together. At the beginning of the series, I suggested three reasons why Christians gather:

  • To recall their identity—to remind themselves who they are and to whom they belong
  • To reaffirm what they believe
  • To reset their direction—to reorient themselves, and to re-pledge to their aims for living

High on the list of what God’s children long to hear when they gather is that they are not alone in this world. They never tire of hearing that He cherishes them and strongly holds them in his caring embrace. That awareness of belonging to their Maker and Savior holds them fast when life’s circumstances rush at them and threaten to swamp the fragile little boats of their souls. So they keep cupping their ears to hear God telling them: “I am with you. You need not face your circumstances alone. ”

One fact has become clear to me: When people trust that Divine word, it changes how they go at life. During my many years as pastor—but even from the days when I was a little boy— I’ve had a special vantage point, a front-row seat, to see the difference it makes.

Permit me to tell you about one person I knew well for whom knowing she belonged to God made all the difference.. She is Marjorie Cooper, my mother. I must ask your pardon, please, for commenting about one so close to me. But I’d be derelict not to report what I saw over many years and at such close distance.

On August 29, 1985—almost exactly 25 years ago to the very day that I write these words—my mother walked the final few steps of a long path marked by heavy suffering which led her from this life, through death, to life eternal with Jesus. The verb “walked” is 100% metaphorical—she hadn’t been able to use her legs for 40 years. At age 26 she became paralyzed from her neck down to her toes. She spent her life’s remainder—39 years and 10 months, to be exact—lying on her back in an iron lung machine, which did her breathing for her.

But to the very end of her life, she endured—no, more than that, she was victorious over—her circumstances. Despite her difficulties, not once during her years of sickness did I hear my Mom complain. On the contrary, she was radiantly life-affirming, and had such quiet contentment about her that her paralyzed lungs seemed to be full of the fresh breath of God. The secret to her life of patient tranquility? In her own words: “I know that Jesus is with me. I belong to him.” Thus, with a twinkle in her eye, she called her iron lung “my green Cadillac,” and with rock-solid confidence she never grew weary of affirming:

“Though God’s wise and loving purpose

Clearly now I may not see,

Yet I believe, by grace through faith,

All shall work for good to me.”

Few were the Sundays during those 40 years when Mom felt well enough to make it to church. But she was overjoyed when she could. Because it was there, among the assembly of God’s people, that her heart received fresh assurance about what her head already knew. It was there—through singing and reading, through preaching and receiving the sacraments, each and all of them God’s gifts to her—that she became reminded that she belonged to God. It was there that she could declare: “O LORD of hosts, happy is everyone who puts their trust in you.” (Ps. 84.12)

Church-going—worshipping together with God’s people—serves to counteract spiritual lonesomeness, feeling bereft of God.

Affirmation of Trust

If the LORD our leader be,
We may follow without fear;
East or West, by land or sea,
Home, with him, is everywhere;
When from Esau Jacob fled,
Though his pillow was a stone,
And the ground his humble bed,
Yet he was not left alone.

“Fear not, Jacob, thou art mine,
And my presence with thee goes;
On thy heart my love shall shine,
And my arm subdue thy foes:
From my promise comfort take;
For my help in trouble call;
Never will I thee forsake,

‘Till I have accomplished all.”

- John Newton, 1725-1807

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