Snotty-nosed Babies

O Lord, you have taught us that without love whatever we do is worth nothing: Send your Holy Spirit and pour into my heart your greatest gift, which is love, the true bond of peace and of all virtue, without which whoever lives is accounted dead before you. Grant this for the sake of your only Son Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. 

Things that I believe:

Not one of us earns love.  Each and every one of us is a mess of twisted, inconsistent, selfish, whitewashed, complicated, shortsighted mundanity.

Yet.  For God so loved the world He sent His only beloved Son to die for us while we were yet sinners.  

And yet each and every one of us is so very lovable.  Why is it the uncomplicated and most vulnerable that touch the profound part of our heart?  That does not fit at all with evolutionary survival.  The wife linking arms with the trembling victim of Alzheimer’s.  Curious round eyes of Indian orphans who look for tomorrow.  Poopy, snotty, screaming babies.  Facebook is filled with posted shots of big eyes and parted lips with just a hint of drool. 

 Maybe all the pretense has been stripped away.  Love me because of who you are, and not because of who I am or what I have done.  Love me because of who I am becoming, through the tireless and endless work of the Good Shepherd.  Maybe because that is when we get the clearest glimpse of Abba Father.  Of glory.

For the joy set before Him, Christ endured the cross.  He understood the work in progress and the end of the story.  And that was enough.  

Sure there were teeth-grinding moments of frustration as His disciples bickered about where they were going to sit or who was allowed to touch Him, but still He set His face toward Jerusalem.  Not because He was a nice guy, not because He was a stoic, not because He was enabling, but for the joy set before Him.  

Because He knew what’s what, what makes for peace and joy, He could walk free in the Truth.  He could answer the systems of the world that explicate with big fancy research words what we are owed and how things might appear, taking into account statistical probability.  He lifts a hand to the whisperings of the Liar whose bottom line is our utter unhappy alienation as he twists our thoughts like silk strands in his adept Surely-He-doesn’t-really-mean-that?  And He is not bound, bound by lusts and insecurities and selfishness.  He is not a slave; He is the Son.  And we are His brothers and sisters.  See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!  And how do we know we are truly His children?  By His love that lives through us.

Perhaps I am wrong-headed in this.  To me, the act of love is even more awe-inspiring than that of lifting of my hands in worship.  Even the trees of the field and the rocks by the road worship Him.  But the act of love is Him united with me, pulsing through my flesh and soul.  The tangible, not-of-this-world insistence that there is something outside of the neurons that link our sensations into thought.  Something from outside the box who claims I AM.

And the ying and yang of this Love is the freedom of forgiveness.  Gently He reminds me, “I died for that sin.  And for that one.  And even that one.”  Let go.  Done and gone.  Little by little I am understanding the swelling delight and celebration of release. The judge not lest you be judged.  Forgive and you shall be forgiven.  The be merciful even as you receive mercy. The seventy times seven.  Unforgiveness only chokes me.  Locks me behind the bars of hopelessness and things will never change.   The ironic horror of the servant who could not release his fellow servant.  Really?  None of us deserve nothing.  

And I will make this choice. Over and over.  The context of the mustard seed-sized faith was this: how can I possibly forgive my brother?  Help my unbelief, oh LORD.  Cast the mulberry tree into sea.  The mulberry tree of unforgiveness.  

And really, if none of this is true, (Strum, strum, the Witch’s fingers plucked the strings) I like Puddleglum would prefer to live in this world of hope and dreams and bright skies.  “One word, Ma'am," he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. "One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one more thing to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things-trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that's a small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say.”

That is what I believe.