The coming of the summer months always feels like a milestone. I think that’s part of being a parent. The kids have made it through another year of school hopefully a little bit wiser and knowledgeable, and definitely a lot taller. This time of year has its own obligations, but overall I find it a time to breathe, rest, and reflect. Some of the sweetest and most meaningful moments come in the evenings when I am prepping food and coffee for the next morning, and my kids gather with me in the kitchen. This is when they want to engage. We might talk about Minecraft, Star Wars, and music. We might contemplate theology and the meaning of life. Whether the conversation is silly or deep, this is where thoughts, opinions, and dreams are thrown out with a hope that they will be caught and cared for well. 

It isn’t lost on me that those moments are a gift—both for myself and for my children. As I reflect upon my own childhood, there was never a space where I would have been free and safe to express myself, to wonder, or to talk about life. The people in my life who were supposed to care for and nurture me brought destruction instead. Though they have all been given over to death, I still carry around their abuse and neglect in my body. Perhaps some of you can relate. This kind of legacy can continue for generations if not interrupted. Being the one to write a new narrative is not an easy job, but it is a worthy one.^[1]

A lot of this came rushing forward this past weekend while watching the documentary series, Shiny Happy People. Most of you have probably already seen it. If you haven’t, it is definitely worth a watch, but be warned that it can get pretty rough. I grew up a garden variety SBC evangelical in the Bible Belt. We were not really fundamentalist, but these ideas still filtered into my world. What I was struck by, however, is that abusers are not clever. Not really. The pig might have a different color of lipstick, but it is all the same at the core. The abuser becomes a god in their little kingdom, wielding power and control in order to stay on the throne. 

Bill Gothard’s kingdom was built on a culture of fear—fear of the world “out there.” His ideology allowed men to establish their own little kingdoms, making a way for them to use their authority in harmful ways. Gothard promised blessing for those who would comply to the rules he created, and he misused God’s name to give himself credibility. It makes sense that people would fall into this trap. Rules and structure can help us make sense of the world and give us a sense of safety, but they usually do not deliver on what they have promised. Somehow we can never get it right. There truly is nothing new. I am reminded of the words of Jesus against the religious leaders of his day, “’for they say things and do not do them. And they tie up heavy burdens and lay them on people’s shoulders, but they themselves are unwilling to move them with so much as their finger’” (Matthew 23:3b-4). Instead of partnership with Christ and control of self, Gothard opted for control of others. Maybe he will repent before he comes to the end of his days. Regardless, his ways are not God’s ways, and his legacy is one of rotten fruit. 

When we hear stories of harm and destruction, a righteous anger stirs within us. These stories remind us that the enemy is still hard at work—an enemy that wants nothing more than for us to forgo the rest and goodness of our Savior. Jesus does not put heavy burdens upon us, but instead invites us to rest in him. He promises us abundant life, which is not found in a million little rules. Jesus invites us to participate in our own lives right alongside him, leading us on a path towards wholeness and a better kingdom. Accepting that invitation is an act resistance to the enemy of our souls. I have written before on the longing for redemption and the tension of living in a broken world. I believe that we all carry this longing in us. In fact, I believe that our longing for something more—and that we might even dare to hope—is evidence of the image of God that we all bear within ourselves. 

I see this so clearly when my kids take joy in the small and silly things, when they talk about what they hope for in the future, and when they express anger and sadness over injustice. I hope that in these kitchen moments, I am sowing seeds of goodness into their lives. I also hope that I never seek to establish a kingdom for myself, but instead seek after Christ and his kingdom. We cannot control the world around us. Jesus tells us, “’He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and unrighteous’” (Matt. 5:45). There is no formula that will make life worry and stress free. There is no structure that will take away suffering. But there is also nothing we can do that can make us more (or less) loved by our Creator. He already loves us fully. As the late Tim Keller said, “If the resurrection is true, everything is going to be alright.” I believe everything is going to be alright. 

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^[1] If this is part of your story, please find trusted and safe people to walk with you as you pursue healing and wholeness.

Holding on to the Hope of the Resurrection

It’s the day after Easter. The previous week has been spent anticipating the celebration of the resurrection. Holy Week bids us to reflect on a range of experiences and emotions—betrayal, anguish, mockery, and derision, all of which culminates in death. This isn’t just the death of a person, but also the death of hope and of life itself. The darkness that covered the land signaled that Jesus, the light of the world, had been snuffed out. I can only imagine what his followers must have felt as they watched Jesus suffer and die. Fear? Confusion? Anger? Did they remember that Jesus told them this would happen? Did they remember that he promised that death wasn’t the end? As the disciples sat with their grief and disbelief on that Saturday, I can also imagine that despair, anger, and cynicism began to creep in and take hold. Who can blame them? The one who promised and modeled a better way, the one who healed the sick, raised the dead, and forgave sins was gone. Dead. But!! Sunday comes. Mary sees the risen Lord and goes to proclaim the good news that Jesus is no longer dead. He is alive! It happened just as Jesus said it would. Nothing will be the same again. 

Many have written about the importance of the resurrection. There is an abundance of words on how Jesus is the new and better Adam who brings life where there was once death. Because Jesus rose from the grave, defeating sin, shame, and death, we can now have hope. We can be forgiven of our sins and be reconciled to God—all nations, tribes, and tongues. We have a promise that sorrow, sin, and death will one day be no more, and all things will be made new. This is good news, but that is not the point of this post. 

Though our righteous standing is secure, we do not yet live in that reality. While we live in the already/not yet, the “not yet” part can extremely difficult. Pain and suffering have always been a reality. The darkness lives on, and seems to follow us wherever we go. Early Christians must have been overflowing with joy in the early days after the resurrection. Although, as Jesus ascended and time went on, I can imagine that joy began to wane. The world is still broken. As I write this, we are just two weeks out from the Covenant School shooting where six people lost their lives. Today, in my own city, a gunman killed several people. Violence seems to win the day. With mass shootings, gang violence, war, and many other atrocities, it can really feel like death gets the final say. The grief and trauma that result from these events are death in and of themselves, just a slower one. I am not convinced that the world is any worse than it has ever been. After all, Scripture reminds us that there is nothing new (Ecc. 1:9). I am also not convinced that we are meant to sit idly by while evil and sin run rampant just because we have the promise of the “not yet.” Jesus taught us to pray: “Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven” (Matt. 6:10) That has to mean something. It has to mean something tangible. I cannot tell you what to do, reader, because I am at a loss. The answer isn’t a political establishment. The answer isn’t a religious establishment, either.

Here is what I do know: we are often eager to look away. We are quick to speculate, intellectualize, and rationalize. I wonder if the disciples looked away from the naked and bloody body of Jesus hanging on that cross. In the space between Friday and Sunday, I wonder if they analyzed his words and speculated that he might have really been crazy and deserved to die. I wonder if they remembered the Good News in the midst of the darkness and held on to a spark of hope. We may never know. What I do know is that the light of the world was not snuffed out by death. I know that Jesus dwells within and among his people. I do know that when light shines in the darkness, the darkness cannot win. I don’t have answers. I don’t really know how to be a light in the dark world, or to work towards God’s kingdom. It can be easy to give in to despair or apathy. Yet, I believe that the resurrection changes everything. Death ultimately will not be victorious.

I will leave you with these words from poet Malcom Guite as he reflects on Psalm 62:

Draw back the veil until my spirit sings

And teach me how to wait upon your Word,

Content beneath the shadow of your wings.

Gathering strength in you, until I’ve heard

The Word that sends me back into the world

With all its tottering walls, with all its scarred

And ruined landscapes, ragged flags unfurled,  

Its broken promises, and compromises,

The world you love and suffer for, the world             

You lift to God, the world that still devises

Its own destruction, in its vanity

Selling its living soul for passing prizes.

I am to love this world as tenderly

As you do, to risk everything for love,

For love lifts time into eternity.^[1]

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^[1] Guite, M. (2021) David’s Crown: Sounding the Psalms, p. 62

One of my favorite lines from any song comes from the hymn It is Well. Whenever I sing, “Lord, haste the day when my faith be made sight,” I feel it deep in my bones. I am weary of this world and long deeply for the day when I can see Jesus face to face. We are a broken people living in a broken world. We know the story. God created all things and called his creation good. Mankind, created in his very image, was called very good. Our first parents were tasked with caring for God’s good creation and they had the privilege of unfettered fellowship with their Creator. Eventually, the tempter showed up, planting seeds of doubt. Adam and Eve did the one thing that God had told them not to do. Their sin ushered in severe and lasting consequences: the earth was now cursed, and all generations carry the weight and burden of sin in our minds, hearts, souls, and bodies. Humanity was no longer whole, but broken. Since then, we keep trying to find different ways to put together the broken pieces of ourselves, but everything eventually falls apart again. 

While we are burdened by sin, we still hold in us a shadow of what was meant to be and what once was. We instinctively live our lives in pursuit of wholeness and fulfillment. We know that things are not as they should be. We know that we are missing something. The good news of the Gospel is that Jesus came to reverse the curse of sin. His work on the cross provided a way of reconciliation and an avenue to wholeness. His resurrection from the grave not only signals a defeat of death and sin, but also shows us that there is nothing—not even death itself—that can keep us from his love and his goodness. When we recognize our sin and embrace the work that Jesus did on our behalf, we are given the Holy Spirit to dwell within us. We are not left to ourselves. And while this points us to a future hope with an eternal joy, we still must live in the tension of a broken world. We are left with the remnants of our old self that resist being left behind in light of our new reality. We are a broken people who are waiting for the ultimate fulfillment of our redemption. A life with Christ only amplifies our longing for wholeness because we have gotten a tiny taste of what is to come. 

I have always been acutely aware of my own brokenness. Grief is always at my fingertips. I have a hard time looking at the world with any kind of optimism because this world is broken right along with me. In a psalm of repentance, King David acknowledge that he was conceived in sin (Ps. 51:5). While this is true of all of us, I regularly feel this weight. I was conceived in sin and born into darkness, and that darkness has followed me my whole life. My birth right is not goodness, but destruction. I share this in common with many of the biblical characters. A lot of us do. This is why we need Jesus, they say. They are right, and I wholeheartedly believe this. Jesus has saved me, but it isn’t easy living this tension. I am already saved and justified, but the fullness and consummation of my redemption is yet to come. The troubles of this life often leave me to wonder if it I will really come at all. I do believe it, but doubt is never too far away. Maybe my faith is fragile. Yet: Jesus continues to hold me fast. He continues to shine his light in the darkness, and I continue to cry out “help my unbelief.” 

Too often we talk about Jesus as if he is a magic stuffing that fills the emptiness. Walk the aisle, pray the prayer, be baptized, and all will be well. We are tempted to use faith as a band aid for gaping wounds. But when life gets hard, and it will, where does this leave us? Many want to give up. Others try to “out good” the hard, the struggle, and the emptiness. Legalism won’t save us or make us whole. Neither will this broken world. Both will disappoint. Jesus isn’t a magic pill, and our salvation will not make our troubles go away. Jesus told us so: “In this world you have tribulation” (John 16:33). Pain, sorrow, trauma, and death are ever-present realities. But what if we weren’t made for brokenness, but wholeness? What if wholeness is not just a future spiritual reality, but a journey that starts now in this life? These are scary questions. Brokenness has been etched into my very being. Can it ever be any different? 

There’s no avoiding trouble; we all encounter it. For some it will be especially chronic and profound. It can be easy to make the suffering and brokenness our defining characteristic. It can be so easy to forget that in Christ there is a new reality and a new identity: forgiven, loved, and whole. After telling us that we are guaranteed tribulation, Jesus reminds us to have courage even in the trouble. Why? Because he has overcome the world. Jesus suffered, died, and rose again so that we can be declared whole and righteous before the Father. It is through his suffering that we have hope of anything different. He understands the pain, the darkness, and the despair because he lived it. Our Savior meets us where we are, binds up our wounds, and wipes our tears. 

Scripture uses a lot of language about taking off and putting on. We take off the old self (sin) and we put on the new self (Christ’s righteousness) (Eph. 4:22-24). In a similar way, we cast off our brokenness and put on the wholeness that Jesus gives us. We don’t just declare it to be true. We don’t just ignore the dirtiness, the sorrow, or the suffering. We don’t shed the broken identity by pretending that everything is magically fixed. We pursue wholeness by actively engaging in our brokenness. Just as we are to name our sin, turn from it and trust that it is no longer held against us, we must also name our brokenness, our suffering, our grief, and our wounds. It is then we can start to heal. Neither turning from our sin nor healing from brokenness is to be done in isolation. It is God’s good gift that he has equipped people on this earth to help us in those processes. We are not on our own.  

Suffering does not get the final word. Right now our mirror is cloudy, dirty, and smudged. Day by day it becomes a little clearer. But there will be a day when our faith really will be made sight and “He will wipe every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain” (Revelation 21:4). 

On Sunday, May 22, 2022, a report was released from an investigation into the Executive Committee of the Southern Baptist Convention. The report (found here) revealed how leaders in the SBC mishandled instances of sexual abuse, covered up for abusers, and displayed a callous disregard for victims and survivors. I am thankful that truth is being revealed and I pray that the truth will spur change. We can rest assured that what is hidden will one day be brought to light. That being said, we have an opportunity to mourn. God’s word tells us that we have a duty to mourn (Rom. 12:15). We mourn for those who have been manipulated, used, and devoured. We mourn that voices have been silenced. We mourn that powerful men have distorted God’s character, and that their actions have caused precious people to doubt God’s love and care for them. We should lament, yes. And our lament should fuel action. Bodies and souls have been destroyed when they should have been cared for. So much of this has been done in the name of Christ. It ought not be among God’s people. Jesus said “’A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit.’” (Matt. 7:18). We have planted our trees in toxic soil and the fruit is rotten. 

In the days before the report was released, I had the opportunity to attend a conference called Restore. The tagline was “restoring faith in God and the church.” Attendees were either people helpers (counselors/pastors) or victims/survivors of abuse and trauma. Many were both. The conference addressed many of the issues that have led to the crisis within the SBC. The speakers at Restore were gracious to offer us their invaluable wisdom. This wisdom has been gained through education and research, but mainly through being on the ground working with and caring well for those who have been hurt. The goal of the conference was to talk about the reasons churches have gone astray and what we should do instead. We discussed how to distinguish between a wolf and a shepherd, and how to care well for those who are hurting, wounded, and vulnerable. We learned the importance of naming the problem, telling the truth, and pursuing accountability. There were conversations on how to restore faith in those who have been traumatized. We got to hear the heart of our Creator and our Savior towards his children. Mary DeMuth’s opening words were, “Welcome to the community of the broken—where Jesus likes to hang out.” I know that those words were a balm to dry and weary souls. We are all broken, but for some that brokenness has been compounded and ignored by the very people and in the very places where healing should happen. Trauma is a thief. Unfortunately, at times churches are agents of this thievery. This ought not be among God’s people. The reflections of the conference are too many for this post, but I do want to highlight two points in light of the revelations from the SBC. In order to enact meaningful change, we must rightly identify the problem. Too many people seem to be offering solutions, says Lori Anne Thompson, when they should be asking questions. 

Let me say that I know that there are faithful pastors and faithful churches. I know that there are loving and safe communities. However, it can be difficult to know which ones can be trusted. This is especially true for those who have been wounded. Many churches and religious organizations have become institutions rather than the body of Christ. As a result, we seek to protect the institution while thinking that we are protecting the name of Christ. The SBC report revealed that there were pastors and leaders within the SBC who rejected accountability for sexual abusers and care for survivors because they saw at as blight on the name of Christ. They saw it as a distraction against what they deemed to be the more important things: missions and baptisms. Protecting institutions is not protecting the name of Christ. Protecting people is, however, because Jesus is not an institution. When we protect institutions, we trample on the vulnerable. There are many brave and precious souls that have been trampled on and further traumatized because leaders have their priorities misaligned. If we want to protect the name of Christ, if we want to bring glory to the name of Christ, then we seek to bring healing and protection to those who are vulnerable. We do not have to neglect missions and baptisms in order to do so. We do not have to choose. Some leaders refused to act because they believed it would distract from winning souls for Jesus. At the same, the souls of people in the pews are being destroyed, all in the name of Christ. We are told that “Love must be free of hypocrisy. Detest what is evil; cling to what is good” (Romans 12:9). This has been turned on its head. It ought not be among God’s people. 

Not only have we protected institutions over people, but instead of feeding sheep we have put them in a position to be devoured. Unfortunately, we often install wolves rather than shepherds. This happens when we value charisma, giftedness, and even “right doctrine” over character. We have failed to look for Christlikeness and fruitfulness. We have failed to look for faithfulness and humility. If someone “gets the gospel right,” but their lives and their character are incongruent with their message, we are missing something, and we have put the sheep at risk. The wolves often use calls to show grace and offer forgiveness as a way to avoid accountability and justice. People continue to be devoured. We have worshipped at the altar of personality instead of the altar of Christ. It’s no wonder, then, that people have been destroyed. It is no wonder, then, that we blame the sheep for being devoured by the wolf. As Christ-followers and as image-bearers, we are tasked with reflecting God’s image and character on this earth. This means we weep with those who weep, rejoice with those who rejoice, and help bear burdens that are too heavy. We are to be the hands and feet of Christ to those who are hurting and suffering. When we fail to do this, we have distorted the character of God. The head of the church is Christ. As Dr. Langberg said, “a body that does not follow its head is a very sick body.” We have put men on the throne instead of Jesus. Now we are sick, and we are at a reckoning. Jesus, the Great Physician wants to make us well. Will we let him? 

The birth of Jesus points us forward to the cross where his death and resurrection bring us forgiveness of sin. The cross reconciles us to God and to each other. We sing about Immanuel, God with us, remembering that without the incarnation, there is no cross. Jesus did not come in splendor and majesty, but in lowliness and humility. There was shame in his birth, in his life and in his death. This is not without intention or great significance. Diane Langberg writes on this idea, “And then a baby born to an unwed mother — shameful. A child of Nazareth — shameful. A man who walked the roads with women in his company — shameful. He touched lepers, demoniacs, and bothered with children — shameful. . . He was shamed by the world he had made. He became shame, embodied it” (2015, pg. 138). This was a willful choice to show his great love for us. Jesus embodying shame is a message that his love is greater than our sin, and that we are not too far gone. Jesus entered our reality with us so that he can bring restoration. God uses the foolish things of the world to shame the wise. The birth and life of Jesus did just that. Jesus turned everything upside down, reversing the cursed reality that we have lived under for many generations. He came “to destroy the works of the devil” (NASB, I John 3:8) so that we are no longer defined by our sin, but rather as beloved children. 

Advent is a time of tension. We have the relief of a finally fulfilled promise and a prophecy come true. At the same time, we still await another promise. Our hearts long for the day when our redemption will be made full and the groans of creation and ourselves can be quieted. We lament because this world is not what it should be, and we are not what we should be. The enemy of our souls convinced our first parents to doubt God’s word and his voice. We have not been the same since. Our fundamental identity — image-bearer— has been dimmed, diminished, and distorted by sin and fallenness. Our purpose — co-creator and co-worker with the God of the universe has been lost. Adam and Eve had the pleasure of the presence of God dwelling with and walking with them, but now there is a chasm so deep and wide that we cannot even begin to close. We went from communion to distance. Glory to shame.

But then, the birth of a child, Immanuel, changes all of that. God is with us because the Word put on flesh. The same God who walked in the garden with his beloved creation is the one who came to dwell with us again. Let us not miss the significance of how deep and beautiful this is. God became small; Jesus traded bigness to be implanted in a womb. He traded heaven for a broken and dirty world. He was surrounded by glory and splendor and left all of that to be born in a dirty manger. The One who had all the power and the angels and principalities at his beck and call had to be swaddled, nursed, and changed. The One who spoke all things into being had to learn to talk. He who dwelt in the throne room of God Almighty was born into a poor family who had to flee a jealous and murderous man. 

Why didn’t Jesus arrive in splendor and power? He could have abolished the curse, the law, and Satan with just a word. In becoming lowly, he revealed a greater thing — his love for us. This is the beauty and power in God becoming man. This is where his love is revealed. Jesus walking the path of a human, closed the gap between God and man, bringing reconciliation. His humanity was not one of privilege, glory, or riches, but one of shame. He had no place to lay his head. He was not adored but was despised and rejected. Sin brought shame that separated. Not content with that separation, Jesus entered that shame with us. His companions were those who were sinners, outcasts, broken and hurting, showing us that he is not afraid, offended, or contaminated by our brokenness and dirtiness. He angered those in power and authority, and he gave dignity to those who were thought to have none. He honored the image of God —the image of himself—in those who were not treated like human. He willingly went to the cross — naked and bloody where shame heaped upon him and he gave up his glory. 

We do not serve a God who does not understand. We do not worship a Savior who has not suffered. He was traumatized, mocked, rejected, abandoned. He did not run and hide. His suffering does not make our own pain and suffering meaningless, but instead we have a companion in it. We do not have to put our sorrows aside. Jesus weeps with us and offers comfort. We have a friend, and we can trust his friendship because he became like us. Jesus traded glory for shame like Adam and Eve did in their sin and rebellion. And like Adam and Eve, it changes the world forever. While our sin took us from glory to shame, Jesus put on shame so that we have the freedom to take ours off and once again enter glory. Now we can reclaim our identity as image-bearer and reimagine our purpose. We will no longer be the same. 

As we heed the call to take up our cross and follow our Savior, we do not walk a path that he has not already been on. The journey is not impossible, as Jesus paved the way. Jesus himself invites back into glory and leads us there. The gap has been closed; there is no longer separation, but unity. There is no longer distance but dwelling with. He became like us and suffered like us so that we can become like him. It is because of this that we can look forward in hope the consummation of our redemption when “’He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer by any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away’” (NASB, Revelation 21:4). Shame into glory. May we rejoice, not only in the cross of Christ, but also in the life he lived, and the glory to come. May we wait in hopeful expectation.

References:

Langberg, D. (2015). Suffering and the Heart of God. New Hope Press.

The Holy Bible, New American Standard Bible. (2020). Bible Gateway

https://www.biblegateway.com/versions/New-American-Standard-Bible-NASB/ (Original work published 1960)