Tag: Jesus

Posted on

This Episode is a Rerun

It’s been nearly a month since my last post, and it’s going to be at least antoher week or two before my next one. In my childhood, summertime was time for reruns. Most of the time that meant playing outside, but once in a while an episode was totally worth viewing again. I hope that is the case with “The Lost Coin.”

“The Lost Coin” (Originally aired Oct 25, 2018)

You are a beloved child of God. He made you good and beautiful, in his own image and likeness. You are cherished by him, chosen by him, and precious to him. He desires your heart and longs for you to be intimately close to him. He doesn’t want your achievements and accomplishments; he wants you – all of you. His greatest joy, shared by the angels and saints in heaven, is when you turn to him with all your heart and receive his total and unconditional Fatherly love for you.

If you are like me, you know those truths on an intellectual and theological level, but struggle to believe them and receive them with all your heart. In our more reflective moments, we realize the magnitude of our sinful choices. We have damaged our relationships with God and others and self. We have become lost. There is, in the end, no denying that painful truth.

In the menacing shadow of our sinfulness, we fear that we are no longer lovable. Like Adam and Eve in the garden, we hide from love and protect ourselves. We minimize our struggle and our pain in the presence of others and of God. In resisting vulnerability, we “safely” block out the love that is being freely offered to us. Then we end up feeling even more alone and unloved, and the cycle of sin begins anew. In the depths of our heart we yearn to be loved for who we are, but in our fear of rejection we dare not dream that dream.

In the 300’s, Gregory of Nyssa offered a profound reflection on the parable of the Lost Coin in Luke 15. Gregory has to be one of the most overlooked and underappreciated Christian authors of all time. He was an intellectual giant in the fields of philosophy and theology. In an age that was much confused about the Trinity, he offered keen insight into how it is possible for God to be an eternal communion of love, three persons yet truly one God. Others were thinking in terms of separate substances; he was thinking in terms of relationship and an eternal communion of love. He “got it” about God.

He also really “got” the full truth of what it means to be human beings made in God’s image. He takes sin quite seriously, yet views our sinfulness as our condition. It is not who we are. It is not our identity. In our brokenness and distress, we tend to identify ourselves with our sins – but that is not how God sees us. We remain his precious children. The divine likeness that we bear is smeared and soiled, buried and hidden – yet remains what it always was. We are always God’s precious children.

That is where the image of the Lost Coin comes in. We are made in the likeness of God. Just as a coin is stamped with the image of the emperor or king, so are we stamped with God’s own likeness. Just as a coin is made from precious metal, so are we made “very good” in God’s design.

He entrusts us with a universe that is resplendent with truth and goodness and beauty. And we soil and tarnish it. By our own free choices, we choose lesser goods rather than real relationships, and we sully ourselves.

Yes, the shiny coin held proudly in God’s hands chooses to slip out and dive deeply into the muck. In its outward filth and stench, the coin becomes lost and barely recognizable for what it is. Yet inside it remains what it always was. In the words of Jesus, “The Kingdom of God is within you” (Luke 17:21).

Without the grace of Jesus, we cannot recover that lost coin, that inner goodness and truth and beauty that is yet within us. Like the woman in the parable, we can find other coins. We can do good and grow in virtues. We can achieve and accomplish and serve. But, unaided by grace and faith, that one coin will always elude us. Only when we light the lamp of faith and call on the aid of Jesus can we find that lost coin.

Even though sin is secondary, its effects are very real. We will need the purifying grace to Jesus to cleanse the mire and filth that has covered over the coin. It can be quite painful to be vulnerable and surrender ourselves to that purification and cleansing. But then the inner beauty of the coin – always there and never really lost – shines forth once again. At its core it remains the precious metal that it always was. It has lost none of its true worth. It still bears the mark of the King of Kings.

As Luke tells us, the angels and saints are eagerly cheering us on. There is more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over all the others who (think they) have no need of repentance. The citizens of heaven yearn for those moments when the light of Christ breaks through, when we “come to our senses” like the prodigal son and surrender ourselves to our Father’s love. They erupt into joyful cheers when we once again believe the full truth about ourselves – that we are precious and beloved children of God, who belong in the house of our Father. Then the healing grace of Christ restores us, and his glory shines forth for all to see.

Posted on

The Cloak of Bartimaeus

The cloak of Bartimaeus is a curious detail in the Gospel of Mark (see Mark 10:46-52).  The blind man throws it aside as he springs up and rushes to Jesus. He never goes back to retrieve his cloak. Healed of his blindness, he joins with Jesus and his disciples as they leave town.

What ever became of that cloak? How did he come by it in the first place? How long had he had it? Why did he leave it behind as he followed Jesus? And why does Mark even bother to mention it? Little details like these matter – especially when reading the shortest of the four Gospels. Mark mentions the cloak as a detail because he is trying to teach us something.

“Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!”

It is intriguing that Bartimaeus cries out “have mercy on me!” – in Greek, eleison me – echoing ancient liturgical words quite familiar to Catholics and Orthodox, who chant Kyrie Eleison at the beginning of our Sunday liturgy, as we call to mind our sins and ask Jesus to have mercy on us. It is interesting that many translations prefer to say “have pity on me” – which isn’t entirely wrong, but tends to reduce this story to a simple physical healing of a blind man. Rather, Bartimaeus’ healing is far more comprehensive than regaining physical sight. Whatever the cause of Bartimaeus’ physical blindness may have been, Mark wants us to know that this man was deeply wounded by sin and its effects.

He is a beggar in Jericho, a city readily associated with sin. It was the city in the Old Testament that Joshua had conquered and annihilated because of its depravity. It was the city chosen by Zacchaeus as his base of operations when he was a shameless and shiftless tax collector exploiting the poor.  It gains mention in the Good Samaritan parable, which many in the early Church saw as telling the story of the Fall and Redemption. The “man” in the story represents all of humanity – choosing to distance himself from God’s city of Jerusalem and descending the slope towards Jericho. Already on a bad path, he is then beaten by robbers, who leave him for dead. In that interpretation (almost universal among the early Church Fathers) Jesus is the Good Samaritan who is moved with compassion and hoists up our hurting humanity, anoints our wounds, and entrusts us to the care of the inn (i.e., the Church!) until he comes again to make all debts right.

The cloak of Bartimaeus is so much more than a cloak. It represents a way of life for him – how he had learned to cope and survive in an existence devoid of intimacy, connection, kindness, or care. He was a beggar, yes, but (one can easily imagine) a highly manipulative and cunning beggar who knew how to take advantage of people and get what he wanted without making any actual connections or commitments.

Instead of real relationships, Bartimaeus had his cloak. It kept him warm – warm enough anyway. It wasn’t the warmth of hearth and home, but it was enough to survive and endure. More importantly, he could hide himself in his cloak, staying isolated physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I imagine that, most of the time, he did not want to be seen. Whatever scraps of pleasure he could manage to carve out for himself, he could then indulge in secretly. His cloak was perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend. His life was not one that knew much by way of nurture of soothing. In his cloak, he managed to find fleeting moments of comfort and safety.  I can only imagine, over time, how dilapidated and disgusting his cloak became. But up to that day, it had been his most loyal companion. How many times had other people betrayed him or harmed him, rejected him or abandoned him? His cloak would not do that! It was predictable, even if it was only a surrogate – even if it was providing less and less authentic comfort or warmth.

How astounding it is that Bartimaeus cries out – repeatedly – “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!!” He makes himself so vulnerable. He risks more mocking and rejection.  Apparently he had decided that he had nothing more to lose. He was ready to risk it all.

It is even more remarkable to me that he leaves his cloak behind – even before Jesus heals him. He recognizes that the cloak – his loyal and faithful companion – is actually an obstacle to real connection. It has hindered him from receiving and will continue hindering if he doesn’t change his ways. More importantly, a desire so intense and deep is welling up in his heart – so strong that it overflows and overpowers his “settling” for survival. He wants to be well!  He intuits that Jesus can give him more – so much more. No doubt, he also hears the whispers of his cloak – warning him that he is making a fool of himself, gently enticing him to hide himself away once again and return to the safety of self-protection. But desire wins the day. Bartimaeus not only cries out all the louder; he actually casts aside his cloak and runs up to Jesus. He wants to see. Jesus heals him. He begins following Jesus.

As is so often the case in the Gospels, we don’t hear “the rest of the story.” I am enough of a student of human nature (including my own) to know that Bartimaeus’ following of Jesus in “The Way” was very likely NOT a linear journey, nor a “one and done” moment of salvation. Rather, it was likely a long and arduous transformational journey of conversion, including shining moments of freedom and triumph as well as plenty of other moments of stumbling and shame. We need only look at Peter and the other disciples to appreciate how long and complex the journey of conversion is.

If you are like me, I imagine that you can relate to the cloak of Bartimaeus! Like Adam and Eve with their fig leaves, it sometimes feels safer to isolate and self-protect rather than to surrender ourselves totally into the hands of the living God.

The invitation to Adam and Eve, the invitation to Bartimaeus, and the invitation to you and me is the same invitation captured beautifully in the erotic love poetry found in Song of Songs Chapter 5. The bride has cast off her cloak and pursues intimacy with her beloved. She will not put her cloak back on when he is inviting her to be one flesh with him! These images of vulnerability and intimacy are mere foretastes of the ultimate invitation God offers to each of us in Jesus. He desires to heal every rupture and restore true intimacy and eternal communion with him and with each other, in a way that will satisfy every ache and longing of our hearts.

What does your cloak look like and feel like? Where in your life do you find yourself hiding or isolating, pulling away from relationships, or preferring the predictable comfort and safety of self-soothing or self-protection? How do you feel about casting aside your cloak and running vulnerably to Jesus to be healed? Do you want to be well?  Do you trust that the healing, love, and communion offered by Jesus will be enough?

Perhaps we need time to grapple with these questions. The Lord honors our freedom, and does not arouse our desire until we are ready (cf. Song of Songs 8:4). When we are ready, we can cast aside our cloak and run to the bridegroom!

Posted on

Another Spiritual Communion Prayer

This summer, I shared a Spiritual Communion Prayer with you. Today I share another one, much shorter. It allows the opportunity to state a specific need to Jesus. Even though our Good Father knows what we need much more profoundly than we do, there is no question that he invites us to ask for graces in a very particular way, opening our hearts to him like little children. This prayer hopefully assists some of us in doing so, opening up space to receive from a God who is so eager to bless his children:

Jesus, my Lord and my God, I consecrate myself freely and wholeheartedly to you. I depend completely upon you to heal me and save me. I invite you into my heart today. You teach us that all things are possible for God, and invite us to ask our Father for good gifts. Jesus, today, there is one thing, in particular, that I especially ask your help with. I take a few moments now in silence to name that need to you: ____________________.  In union with your offering on the Cross, I now open my heart and surrender myself totally into the Father’s hands.  Amen.

Posted on

Singing a New Song

Sing a new song to the Lord!

Many of us have been praising God with these words of Psalm 149 every single morning this past Easter week in the Liturgy of the Hours.

But what does it mean to “sing a new song” to the Lord?

Often, it means that we need to move on from our “old songs” – or to allow Jesus to transform them radically with the newness that he brings in his Passover victory. Our old songs, if played out to their completion, only bring slavery and misery. Jesus desires to teach us a new song in the new and eternal covenant, sealed with his blood in his Passover victory.

As in the original Passover, singing a new song means leaving Egypt and the ways of Egypt behind as we pursue God’s promises with fellowship, praise, and a deep desire to enter into the Lord’s rest.

Most of us know how well that worked out for most of the Israelites. It didn’t take them long in the desert to start pining for the fleshpots of Egypt, wishing they were back among familiar places and faces, forgetting in their fantasizing just how awful it had been to be enslaved. They reached an ultimate low point at the very moment when God was ready to form a special covenant with them on Mount Sinai. Moses comes down from his forty-day fast, bearing tablets inscribed by the very finger of God, only to find the Israelites carousing and revling around the golden calf they have fashioned for themselves.

Such sins do not come out of nowhere. They are the culmination of singing “old songs,” the melodies of which sweep us along toward old solutions to old problems. Once we get started with a catchy song, we feel the urge to finish it. Fans of The Office may remember the hilarious elevator scene in which Andy and Pam are trying to make a cold call to a potential client. Andy annoyingly sings the names and suite numbers of all the businesses he sees listed. Pam interrupts him with the right answer and urges him to stop singing. Andy complains, “Except it was going to resolve the melody, so now my head hurts. Feels like I held in a sneeze. Mmm! I hate this feeling!” Truthfully, we all do. The farther along we are in our old song, the harder it is to stop.

It is so helpful to reflect upon our experiences – including our darkest moments of sin – with kindness and curiosity. In our shame, we tend to avoid telling the full truth of our behaviors. Sadly, in that hiding and avoidance, we also miss out on the chance to learn valuable lessons and grow.

The truth is that our unholy moments of acting out are almost always preceded by unholy rituals that function much like the melodies of an old song – often a song that we learned decades ago. If we are paying attention in those moments, we will notice that we feel a certain way; that we have certain images running through our head; and that our bodies experience certain sensations. Typically, some level of fantasizing is involved. Our deep desires get hijacked by the fantasy, and some promised pleasure begins arousing us. There is sexual arousal for some, but the arousal can be ordered towards any number of fantasies: food, alcohol, drugs, gambling, shopping, envy, achivement, anger, rage, or revenge. In each case, as the anticipatory arousal grows, so does our urge to finish the song.

As a classic example, consider the devout dating couple who keep telling themselves they don’t want to get physical with each other when they hang out – but somehow always do, only to feel ashamed. They don’t always recognize early enough that they are entering into a ritual with each other – surrounding themselves with the same environment, the same sensations, and the same behaviors. They tell themselves that the outcome will be different this time, but of course it’s only natural that they begin feeling a heightened sense of anticipation for the completion of the ritual. Even if their minds are oblivious, their bodies and emotions and imagination understand what is happening. The more measures of the song that are sung, the harder it is to decide to stop. Again, this is true of sexual arousal but also of any number of other fantasies.

For some fantasies, the ritual song and dance may take days to play itself out to its finish; for others (e.g., an outburst of anger) the whole song can play itself out within milliseconds. Even then, as Victor Frankl once said, between stimulus and response there is always a space. In that space there can be power to choose, to be free, and to grow. In other words, there is the opportunity to learn a new song.

Singing a new song means calling on the newness of Jesus as we reclaim the things the Lord has made: desire, arousal, connection, intimacy, union, and joy. Every one of us is created by God to have these experiences – yes, even those of us who have freely renounced marriage and sexuality for the sake of the Kingdom. One need only see a smattering of celibate Saints to get a glimpse at the intensity of their desire, their longing, their anticipation, their delight, or their joy.  Consider Francis of Assisi, a man known for his poverty and chastity, and how intensely he enjoyed in the beauty of God’s creation. Pseudo-desires like lust and greed actually undermine authentic desire, intimacy, union, joy, and delight. It was precisely Francis’ open hands and open heart, his renunciation of lust and greed, that opened his heart up to the deep joy and peace that come as the fruit of praising of the God who delights in giving good gifts to his beloved children.

Psalm 149 speaks to all of these experiences. Singing a new song means joining in communion with the rest of God’s assembly – no longer isolating or hiding, no longer secretly stealing pleasures when we think no one is looking. It means rejoicing in God as our King and allowing ourselves to feel deeply the delight he takes in us. It means true rest with the Lord, learning just to be, basking in his loving gaze, and praising him amidst the delight we experience his presence.

It also means binding up God’s enemies in chains and fetters of iron (Psalm 149:8). Many of us have been bound up by chains for much of our lives. The evil one attacks early and often, seducing us into unholy agreements, enticing us to believe lies about ourselves or about God. These lies become cords that bind us, not to mention “chords” that keep us trapped in the same miserable old song that brings the same miserable old outcome. I know some of my own “chords” in that regard: I must hide my true self. I must not be weak or fail. I must never ask for help. I must never depend on others. If I keep playing these chords, the song won’t end well. I need Jesus to enter in with his newness and transform the song.

Some of our chords need to be eliminated from the song entirely. If we play them, they will only lead us to an evil end. Think of the alcoholic who needs to give up going to bars and part ways with some of his buddies.

Perhaps some of the old chords served us well for a time, but the song needs a change of key. Each of us have our own self-created solutions in our attempt try to make our pain go away, or try to fill the empty places of our heart, or attempt to resolve our inner conflict. Unaided and unprotected by others, sometimes it was the only viable way to survive. Indeed, some of us have survived truly hellish situations, and the measures people resort to in survival don’t always make for glamorous stories. The saddest part about survival stories is often after the rescue comes. One of the hardest thing for survivors to do is to internalize the truth that they are now free to live a full life – they don’t have to live in their joyless survival methods anymore.

If we find ourselves clinging to old ways of surviving (even when they have long outworn their purpose), we can allow Jesus to teach us new chords in a new song – even though we may, at first, find this learning process to be unfamiliar, frustrating, overwhelming, or intimidating.

Again, Psalm 149 offers the basics of the new chords needed: Connect with others in God’s assembly in joyful communion. Receive and give love together with them as we open our hearts in praise of the living God. Receive joyfully the truth that he delights in us (no matter what we have done), he rescues us, and he desires us to rest in him and delight in him. Bind up any and all evil spirits who would dare attempt to interrupt this amazing new song that Jesus brings.

God has ordained it so. This honor is for all his faithful.

Posted on

The Descent of Jesus

We enter another Holy Week. Jesus’ hour has come. Although he begs his Father to allow the cup of suffering to pass, in the end Jesus freely and willingly plunges into his Passion for our sake. He drinks the cup to the dregs, descending fully into the depths of human misery, indeed into the very hell that our misused human freedom has “created.”

I love this quotation from Charles de Foucauld (taken from André Daigneault’s The Way of Imperfection):

“All his life, Jesus only descended: descending in his incarnation; descending in becoming a small child; descending in obedience; descending in becoming poor, abandoned, persecuted, tortured; descending in reaching the last place.”

All this descent of Jesus is “for our sake” – as we profess in the Creed.  He desires to redeem us and save us. The redemption he brings is so much more than standing in our place and paying the price on the Cross. Some Christians have a rather narrow or distorted view of atonement that almost paints God as a vengeful and petty deity whose wrath can be appeased only by blood. Jesus reveals our Father to be eternally kind. To be sure, there is a great sense of justice in Jesus paying the price, but that standing in our place says much more about God fully respecting the gift and dignity of human freedom (and its real consequences) than it says about him being in any way demanding.

Jesus tells us why he has come from heaven “for our sake” – to seek out and save what is lost (Luke 19:10). I wrote last time about the great dignity of our human nature, even after the fall. We all have deep and dark places in our hearts in which we feel broken and shattered, marred and disfigured, unlovely and unlovable. Jesus reveals to us that there is no place too deep or too dark for him to enter. His desire to descend is unlimited – or rather, limited only by our resistance to receiving him.

There is so much that is comforting in this message. Jesus is not deterred by how seriously and how often each of us has turned our backs on him. He prays for his persecutors. He does not flinch when his closest companions misunderstand him, abandon him, deny him, or betray him. At Peter’s third denial, Jesus turns toward him with a gaze of kindness that incites Peter to rush outside and shed bitter tears.

The deeper truth of Holy Week is that Jesus desires to descend fully and deeply into the worst of our human experiences in order to rescue us, heal us, transform us, and exalt us. Hebrews 5 tells us that Jesus not only offered prayers and supplications for us, but did so with louds sobs and tears. It was not simply a matter of paying a price. Rather, he freely and willingly united himself with every human experience of misery and suffering – every loss, every betrayal, every rejection, every abandonment, every single moment of darkness. Jesus descended.

Philippians 2 describes the dynamics. Jesus, though truly divine, freely chooses to descend, to empty himself completely and totally for our sake. He is therefore exalted and raised above every other creature. He does this, not for his own glory and exaltation (he had no need of it!), but “for our sake” – in order that where he is, we also may be (John 14:3).

Nor does Jesus descend in order to rescue and exalt the “good” people or the “good enough” people. We are all the lost sheep, the lost coin, his lost sons and daughters. Remember whom he chose to hang around with the most – the poor, the lame, the crippled, and the outcasts – including those considered to be the worst of sinners.

I know in my own life I have often vacillated back and forth between a puffed-up confidence (as though I “have it all together”) and a deep discouragement. In both cases, I am somehow trying to be my own savior. Meanwhile, I need only allow Christ to complete his descent into the places of my heart in which I feel the most desperate and discouraged, and his love begins to transform all.

True Christian humility always brings with it a twofold conviction: (1) My own radical poverty; and (2) unshakable confidence in God’s eternal mercy. This is the humility we see in the Virgin Mary and her Magnificat – her song of praise to God in the presence of Elizabeth (Luke 1:46-55). She deeply understands that all is gift, proclaiming God as her savior – AND she eagerly praises the amazing things he is doing in her and through her, so great that all generations henceforth will call her blessed.

At the Cross, Mary freely shares in the sufferings of her Son, having compassion not only on him, but on every lost child of God who stands in need of mercy. Her Son loves us, and therefore so does she. The fact that many of us keep messing things up does not for a moment cause him to falter in his descent, nor her to falter in her deep motherly compassion on those who suffer with her Son.

How many of us attempt (in our prayers or piety) to try to “go up” to God? How willing are we to be truly vulnerable, to let him see us fully, and to love us where we most need his love? Do we not sometimes take the lead of Adam and Eve in the fall, hiding ourselves from God and covering our nakedness?  Toxic shame is one of the devil’s favorite tools to convince us that no one would ever love us as we are.

The descent of Jesus says otherwise. He desires every piece and fragment of our broken hearts. There is no limit to his desire to descend.

Posted on

The Lost Sheep

I love Luke 15. I cannot think of another chapter of the Bible that so encapsulates the Good News of God’s eternal kindness, his unchanging mercy, his covenantal love.

Jesus is questioned when he seems to prefer spending time with sinners rather than with the rule followers. In answer, he offers three different parables, each of which paints a picture of our shared and fallen human condition and God’s response: the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost sons.  We tend to call the last one “the prodigal son,” but it is really a story about a merciful father and his deep desire for relationship with both of his sinful sons – the younger one who goes far away and squanders everything and the other one who “loyally” stays home, but with such a self-righteous and hardened heart.

I have already written about the lost coin. Today I would like to consider the story of the lost sheep. Several details invite deeper curiosity.

First of all, there is the shocking description of leaving ninety-nine sheep behind for the sake of finding one who is lost. It makes sense at first. Every Wisconsin farmer I’ve ever known shows amazing concern if one of their livestock are lost or in danger – both from a perspective of caring for God’s creatures as well as the serious financial consequences even with the loss of one animal. But how seriously and for how long? Doesn’t there come a point at which it no longer makes sense to leave the ninety-nine behind?

I found a much deeper answer to that question when I was reading Jean Daniélou’s hidden gem The Angels and Their Mission: According to the Fathers of the Church. He traces the thought of one early Church Father after another, and shows great consistency on the theme of “the ninety-nine” representing the heavenly angels. The eternal Son of God leaves heaven and comes down to earth to seek out and save these strange spiritual beings, the humans, who (so unlike the angels) are also bodily beings who have the capacity to change their minds and repent and be saved.

That is a massive paradigm shift for many of us, who tend to hear about the ninety-nine versus the one and proceeed to imagine ourselves on one side or the other. Rather, Jesus is telling the Pharisees and scribes that they, the tax collectors, and the rest of the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve are all on the side of the lost sheep. He makes the same point ten chapters earlier when he proclaims, “I have not come to call the righteous to conversion, but sinners.” If we are not ready to identify ourselves as sinners in need of mercy, we will not be able to receive salvation.

Another question we might be curious about is why the sheep got lost in the first place? The normal instinct of a sheep is to stick with the other sheep and stick with the shepherd. Pulling away from the herd feels scary and threatening and goes against normal survival instincts – unless there is an even scarier threat that somehow causes the sheep to seek its own security, only to find itself very far away from the shepherd and the flock, far away from any real salvation.

The biblical stories are clear – we as human beings are under attack by a cunning and fierce enemy who wills maliciously against us and plots for our ruin. John 10 describes how the enemy lies, seduces, steals, and destroys. He loves to torment human nature – especially by getting us to agree with some of his lies in a way that ruptures relationships. The more he can isolate us from God, from each other, and from our truest and deepest self, the freer reign he has to torment us.

This is not to say “the devil made me do it” – nor is that how God sees it. When he seeks out Adam in the garden, he helps Adam to get over his denial and blame-shifting and to confess the truth of what he has done. Together with Adam, you and I can say truthfully that evil chose us and that, at some point, we started choosing it back. Without dismissing culpability, we can have the deepest compassion both on ourselves and on other sinners, knowing that it all started with a malicious attack of a very evil spirit. What a contrast from the self-righteous shaming of the scribes and Pharisees, who were eager to look down on “sinners.”  And let’s face it, during these tense times, most of us don’t have to try very hard to find ourselves judging or shaming or belittling “those people” who think differently than we do or who live differently than we do. Nor is that a “conservative” or “liberal” trend; it’s a human trend that runs through all ideologies.

Another point of curiosity and wonderment is the shepherd’s quest. I was moved to tears the other day reading the description of Asterius of Amasea as I prayed the Office of Readings: “When one of them was separated from the flock and lost its way, that shepherd did not remain with the sheep who kept together at pasture. No, he went off to look for the stray. He crossed many valleys and thickets, he climbed great and towering mountains, he spent much time and labor in wandering through solitary places until at last he found his sheep.” In those moments in which I deeply identify with the lost sheep, passages like this help me feel truly blessed and chosen by God. I matter to him, not because of anything I have done, but because he desires me and wills my salvation.

Then there is the return journey home. In many ways, that is where the truly arduous work begins. The rescue itself is swift. Carrying a sheep back through all that rugged terrain is a different story – especially when the scared and shocked sheep begins doing what scared and shocked sheep are apt to do. I speak of bodily functions. Those of you who are farmers and have carried a lost or wounded animal know what I am talking about! Speaking for myself as a lost sheep that has been rescued and is being brought back to the house of the Father, I must admit that my restless spirit does not make the journey a smooth one. I am not unlike those Israelites who took forty years and much wandering to travel that 500 miles back to the promised land. If it had been a literal and linear journey, that would have meant advancing a whopping 180 feet per day (or 210 feet per day assuming they rested each Sabbath from such a grueling pace). It turns out that, like those Israelites, our journey back to the Father’s house is anything but linear. But it sure is an amazing and wonderful adventure, and it will make for a great story when we get there.

There is one final point of curiosity, namely, the amazing joy with which we are rescued and received back into the Father’s house. In all three stories, Luke 15 explodes with this theme of festive rejoicing. What God wants more than anything else is to embrace us warmly, delight in us deeply, and throw a party for us. There is so much joy in heaven – both in our rescue and in our return.

Nor is it a matter of gutting it out for decades until we finally get out of this misery. Even now, in this life, he desires us to have a taste of that heavenly partying, rest, and delight. He builds Sabbath rest into his covenant with us. Observing the Lord’s Day can become an occasion for deep delight in knowing that we are already at home in our Father’s house.

God has zero interest in judging or condemning. His deep ache is to celebrate in festive delight with his each of his beloved children. To be sure, he always honors our freedom and will never force our rescue, but he certainly will not rest in seeking us out, and in bringing us into his rest, where we will find joy beyond all imagining.