http://salemhouseofprayer.wordpress.com/2008/09/09/the-real-controversy-about-the-shack-by-kim-gentes/

but what really got my attention was a brilliant comment to the blog by an ‘unbeliever’, followed by an equally insightful response to that comment, both of which are posted below.  Enjoy!

My name is Aram and I just finished reading The Shack. I then went online and happened across a bunch of people arguing about it, for what looks like a few years now. People are calling this a heresy, a dangerous book, and warning people not to read it.
Why?
I normally never comment on these things, but being an unbeliever – yes that’s right, I am not a Christian – I thought it might be useful for some of these theology spouting authorities to take a moment and look at what I, not a churchgoer in any way, have gleaned from this little book. And then ask yourself – because I really don’t know much about the Bible – is anything I learned leading me in the wrong direction? Perhaps all the way to this burning lake of fire so many Christians love trying and scare non-Christians into believing by? If this is the case, then I guess you’re right, and based on what you believe people shouldn’t read this book.
For me, I don’t believe fear and rules to be the answer, I never have. This has been the main reason for my avoidance of the church. However, when you preach love and forgiveness, through whatever means conveys it the best, whether fiction or otherwise, well now, my heart begins to open a tad. It makes me actually want to pick up a Bible perhaps and maybe read a little further.
Teach love my Christian friends, because people like me, we don’t respond well to fear tactics. And we definitely don’t get turned on by arrogant church leaders who think they have it all figured out.
Below are 57 new ideas I took away from this little book. Many are direct quotes from the book itself.

1. The different appearances of God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit were used to help Mack break his religious conditioning.

2. You don’t get brownie points for doing something through obligation; only if you want to.

3. Life takes a lot of time and a lot of relationship.

4. How free are we really? – family genetics, social influences, personal habits, advertising, propaganda & paradigms etc. Freedom is an incremental process that happens inside a relationship with Jesus Christ.

5. When all you can see is your pain, perhaps then you lose sight of God.

6. Pain has a way of clipping our wings, so we can’t fly. After awhile we forget we were ever created to fly.

7. When Jesus became a man he gave up his own ability to heal people and do miracles. His miracles were accomplished by Jesus’ (a man, a dependent limited human being) trust in the Father God. We are all designed to live like that, out of God’s life and power.

8. God exists in three persons so we, his creation, can also live in love and relationship, just like God does. If God didn’t, we couldn’t. “God cannot act apart from love.”

9. Relationships are never about power, and one way to avoid wanting power is to limit oneself – to serve.

10. Sin is its own punishment, devouring from the inside. It’s not God’s purpose to punish it; it’s God’s joy to cure it.

11. When people choose independence over relationship, we become a danger to each other.

12. If people learned to regard each other’s concerns as significant as their own, there would be no need for hierarchy. God does not relate inside a hierarchy; God wants us to trust him because he will never use or hurt us.

13. When Christians don’t trust God it’s because they don’t know they are loved by him. They think God is not good.

14. Mack says: “I just can’t imagine any final outcome that would justify all this (pain, suffering etc).” Papa replies: “We’re not justifying it. We are redeeming it.”

15. The choice of God to hide so many wonders from man is an act of love that is a gift inside the process of life.

16. For any created being, autonomy is lunacy.

17. When something happens to us, how do we determine whether it is good or bad? By whether we like it or if it causes us pain. This is self-serving and self-centred.

18. We become the judge of good and evil; so when each person’s good and evil clashes with someone else’s, fights, even wars, break out.

19. Eating of the tree tore the universe apart, divorcing the spiritual from the physical. All of us died, expelling the very breath of God.

20. We play God in our independence. The only remedy is to give up the right to decide good and evil and choose to live in God and trust and rest in his goodness.

21. God is light and God is good. Removing ourselves from God will plunge us into darkness. Declaring independence will result in evil because apart from God, you can only draw on yourself. That is death, because you have separated yourself from God, from Life.

22. This concept is difficult for us because the good may be the presence of cancer or the loss of income, or even a life. Sarayu answers: “Don’t you think we care about these people who suffer too? Each of them is the centre of another story that is untold.”

23. About having ‘rights’: “‘Rights’ are where survivors go so they won’t have to work out relationships.”

24. Jesus gave up his rights so his dependent life would open a door that would allow us to live free enough to give up our rights.

25. Each of us is wild, beautiful, and perfectly in process when God is working with a purpose in our hearts. We are an emerging, growing, and alive pattern – a living fractal.

26. We tend to live either in the past or the future; dwelling on the pain and the regret of the past, instead of a quick visit to learn something from it. Or fearing the future, letting our imagination run wild with worry, and forgetting to see the future with Jesus. This happens when: a. we don’t really know we’re loved and b. we don’t believe that God is good.

27. Apart from Jesus’ life, we cannot submit one to another. Jesus’ life is not an example to be copied. Jesus came to live his life in us; so we will see with God’s eyes, hear with his ears, love with his heart, and touch with his hands.

28. Some say love grows, but it is the knowing that grows and love simply expands to contain it. Love is the skin of knowing.

29. We human beings are constantly judging others because we are self-centred.

30. We say: “Predators deserve judgment, their parents, too, for twisting them, and their parents, and on and on, until finally we go right back to Adam, and then, why not judge God? He started it all…isn’t God to blame for our losses? He could have not created, or he could have stopped the killer, but he didn’t.” If we can judge God so easily then, of course, we can judge the world. We must then (e.g.) choose two of our five children to go to heaven and three to go to hell, because that’s what we believe God does. Mack could not choose any one of his children because he loved them no matter what they did. So instead, he begged that he could go to hell for his children. This response is exactly what Jesus did. Mack judged well. He judged his children worthy of love, even if it cost him everything. This is how Jesus loves. ‘And now we know Papa’s heart.”

31. God’s love is so much larger than our sin could ever be.

32. Evil was never a plan of God’s. We must return from our independence, give up being his judge, and know God for who he is.

33. When we receive God’s love and stop judging him we let go of the guilt and despair that had sucked the colours of life out of everything.

34. God never abandons his children. We are never alone. God could no more abandon us than he could abandon himself.

35. “Live loved.”

36. When we leave the light of God and retreat to the darkness all alone, the darkness makes our fears, lies, and regrets bigger in the dark. Sometimes, as a kid, doing this is part of survival, but now we must come to the light.

37. Jesus will travel any road to find his children. But only one road leads back to heaven.

38. Stories about a person willing to exchange their life for another reveal our need and God’s heart.

39. Even though God can work incredible good out of unspeakable tragedies, it does not mean God caused it. Where there is suffering, you will find grace in many facets and colours.

40. ‘Love’ bothers to keep trying to touch people and never gives up.

41. Sometimes we hide inside lies that justify who we are and what we do.

42. Ask for forgiveness and let the forgiveness heal you. Take the risk of honesty. Faith does not grow in the house of uncertainty.

43. Our transformation is a miracle greater than raising the dead.

44. All evil flows from independence.

45. God’s purposes are always and only an expression of love. God works life out of death, freedom out of brokenness, and light out of darkness.

46. Emotions are neither good nor bad. They are the colours of the soul. They are spectacular and incredible.

47. The more you live in the truth, the more our emotions will help you see clearly.

48. Trying to keep the law is actually a declaration of independence, a way of keeping control. Keeping the law grants us the power to judge others and feel superior.

49. Responsibility and expectation are dead nouns, full of judgment, guilt, and shame. Our identity becomes wrapped up in performance. The opposite is when God gives us an ability to respond that is free to love and serve in every situation, with God in us; and expectancy is alive and dynamic with no concrete expectation – only the gift of being together.

50. To the degree we live with expectations and responsibilities is the degree we fear and the degree we don’t trust or know God.

51. If God is the centre of everything, then together we can live through everything that happens to us.

52. Forgiveness is big.

53. When bad things happen, what God had to offer us in response is his love, goodness, and relationship with us.

54. God doesn’t do humiliation, guilt, or condemnation. They don’t produce one speck of wholeness or righteousness.

55. Forgiving isn’t about forgetting; it’s about letting go of another person’s throat.

56. Forgiveness does not create a relationship; it simply removes them from your judgment.

57. Because you are important to God, everything you do is important.

Hey aramac77,

Only an unbeliever could have your clarity and insight! Believer’s minds tend to be clouded and controled by their beliefs. Believers can’t think clearly. Every bit of information is evaluated, not for its truth, wisdom, or usefulness, but whether or not it’s consistent with what is already believed. You appear to have derived so much more from The Shack than a lot of believers will be able to. They’ll reject the insight simply because it differs from their paradigm, and they’ll miss the benefits you’ve gained from the book.
Well done! Don’t ever let believers interfere with whatever your walk with God turns out to be.

-rosch99

I have recently been in a little conversation and I thought you might enjoy being a part. My friend Drew Marshall, a professing Jesus follower for many years, has seriously put his belief in God on hold, his central question revolving around the lack of communication from God and the absence of any ‘feeling’ about the reality of relationship with God. This sort of question can take us in many directions and the following is only one, but I believe an important one. It is a written conversation between me and a blogger, Mags. She posted on Twitter and I followed the link to her blog (

Why Drew’s Search for God Scares Me
Posted on October 26, 2010 by Mags

Drew Marshall’s (www.drewmarshall.com)  search for God scares me. Terrifies me actually. As it should him too.

Because what if God doesn’t come looking for him?

If the host of the self-titled Drew Marshall radio show doesn’t get a personal message from God, by his self imposed deadline of December 18, the faithful and true will probably conclude Drew was never really looking anyway.

But is that fair?

I’ve mentioned before that I grew up in the world of the spiritually mighty – as for that matter did Drew.  Like him, I sat through Sunday schools, youth groups and churches. I raised my hands. I fell to my knees. I honestly told God I wanted to know him, and wanted to be his child. And I meant it.

Yet I also know what Drew means when he says that his Heavenly Father feels like an absentee one. Sending him second-hand missives through others who seem to know him better.

When I interviewed Drew for ChristianWeek, he told me that you’d have to be “pretty thick” to somehow miss it if God was speaking directly to you. And judging by some of the responses I’ve been reading on his Twitter #droggle feed, plenty of people seem to think all blame lies with Drew. Maybe Drew is insincere. Maybe he’s insufficiently educated, or spiritually darkened. Maybe his faith has failed to reach even that minimal mustard seed level.

I’ll admit – that’s pretty much the response I would have had when I was younger. But that was before I really began admit what it’s like to fall on your knees and beg God for an answer. Or run into a church and get spiritually slapped in the face.

What it’s like to hear the echoing, infinite, silence of God. The silence barren Hannah heard for so many years when she went to the temple and sobbed. The silence Israel faced for years in exile. The silence Jesus heard when he asked his Father why he had forsaken him.

Maybe Drew’s faith isn’t “good enough” for God. But is mine? And is anyone’s really?

At the American Christian Fiction Writer’s Conference (ACFW) in September, Bug Man author Tim Downs pointed out the Bilble compared us to spouses who had left our first love.

“How would you win a lover back?” he asked.

Would you say, “Obviously they have forgotten how worthy I am to be praised” and send them a list of your finer attributes?

Would you say, “Obviously they have forgotten the way home” and send them a map?

Or would you woo them gently, in story and poem, unfolding who you are to them?

To me, it was a radical concept. Because I think in the church where I grew up, the presumption would be that if you somehow managed to get yourselves lost, you had to come to heel pretty darn fast before Got smote you down in your sin.

But I’d like to believe that God is more like Tim Down’s jilted lover. That God and Drew will work out something out, that only they need understand.

And that if I ever get too lost to even reach for the phone – God will take the time to find me too.

October 25, 2010

Here is the conversation that followed:

Hey Mag,
Love your thoughtful response. I also think there are things broken in our ‘receptors’ that Papa can’t forcefully heal without violating our side of the relationship; that God can’t cross without being a transgressor or becoming an abuser.

-appreciating you,

Paul

mags says:

October 27, 2010 at 4:53 pm

Dear Paul,

Thanks so much for dropping by! The Shack touched me quite deeply, and really appreciate the way you created such a powerful image of God’s love and person.

I find your comments about how God can not forcefully heal without violating our boundaries really challenging! Because on the one hand I do completely agree with them. I love that God shows us respect and models healthy boundaries. I love that God knocks, God waits, God whispers… It is because of that respect for our boundaries that those of us who have been abused can feel comfortable being loved by such a gentle God.

And yet, I still struggle with knowing many have a hard time hearing God because our receptors were forcibly broken by others.

We do not always chose broken receptors – and yet because of them we can not hear God or get healed?? That is not fair. It is bad enough to be hurt – how much worse when the actions of others keep us from being able to hear God.

Where is God’s mercy there? How does God reach out to those too broken to know how to even see God’s hand?

I know these are questions you have wrestled with too. And I’m thankful you have.

Wm Paul Young writes:

October 27, 2010 at 7:04 pm

Thank you for the honesty and the glimpse of some of your heart hurt. My father, for example, participated in destroying my receptors, not just to God, but to love and affirmation in the eyes of others, to any sense of self value, to honor and beauty. In part this is such a revelation of ‘respect’, that God did not ‘stop’ my father, or his father who did it to him, or his…. God submits to what we bring to the table, and then begins to weave possibilities out of the shreds of what should have been so natural, so easy, so normal. But I come a heap of hopelessness, hardly able to raise my gaze, deaf and dumb. Fair? In no way. Fair that I then turn and blame God for my inability to hear, that I have no words to heal myself or that the sensors that should be open to his Presence have been shattered into little bits of darkness. In no way fair. But thankfully, God is not petulant but understanding. So in my life God began to find small sounds that I somehow still had the capacity to hear, and for me it was often inside music, combinations of lyric, melody and harmony that put bits of me back together, let me feel and hear some wonder that lay just beyond my sight, sounds that echoed deep in the precious little that mysteriously was still alive. Then there were the surprises, like the blistering rainstorms that always pushed me into the surprise of joy and a sense of hearing something grand that some encompassed my own skin, drenching my deaf ears in hints of beyond and above. And then we demand that God talk to us in the same ways and manners that damaged us in the first place. Perhaps we hope in the certainty of the pain and its prison that we have known for so long, rather than take the risks in the new and incremental. Perhaps we would rather have God as our advertisement than our friend, our trophy rather than our lover and escape the obvious direction toward the bended knee and the torn asunder but healed heart with its ears that are beginning to pick up the simplest syllables of affection.

I have a friend. Her name is Jennie and a couple years ago, this is the email that I received from her.

“First, let me apologize for the long email below. I wanted to tell you my story and share with you how Papa has worked in my life since reading The Shack.

Sixteen months ago, my life was turned upside down when I was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. The doctors informed me that I would require aggressive dosages of chemotherapy to shrink the tumor and suppress the growth of the cancer. I also underwent surgery to remove the primary tumor. After 7 months of going every two weeks for my treatment, my body had nearly giving up. I reacted very poorly to the chemo and suffered many miserable days and nights from the effects. After taking a break from treatment for 5 months to undergo two surgeries, I was once again facing four more rounds of chemo. After my second round I could hardly go on — all of the side effects I had suffered over the previous year came rushing back in just two treatments. I felt as though my body was going to shut down.

About this time my dear friends, Jim and D’ Sunda called and asked if they could come over to the house and read me a book they thought I would enjoy. That Saturday, the Sundas arrived around 9 o’clock with a small paperback book titled The Shack. I must admit that I was feeling better that day and really didn’t want to sit on the couch and have my husband John and the Sundas take turns reading this book aloud to me. As D’ began reading the first chapter, I still was wondering why she thought she needed me to hear this book. Jim read the next chapter and John the next. Dozens of books about dealing with and living through cancer had been given to me by well thinking friends — The Shack I thought is just another book that I can throw on the bookshelf in the upstairs guest room. I was angry that I was going through this and I didn’t want to sit and listen to chapters being read aloud.

When Mack opened his mailbox and found the letter, everything changed. I began to listen intently. They read on to the point where Mack approaches the shack and meets Papa. Jim and D’ then closed the book, handed it to me, prayed for me and quickly left as they were late for lunch.

The rest of the afternoon, John and I spent reading The Shack, pausing often to laugh or cry or discuss a revelation that Papa brought to our hearts.

Nearly forty-three years ago, I was born in New York City to Puerto Rican parents who pastored a small independent church in the Bronx. Legalism ruled my life as I attempted to abide by all the rules that I was taught in the church. I quickly rebelled, as I knew I could never do enough to please the god of these rules, so at 13 I turned my back on the church and my parents stopped making me attend. Ten years later, I recommitted my life to God and began attending my parents’ church. About this time my friend John and I began dating and were married in 1987.

John did not know what he was getting himself into. I never talked about the physical and sexual abuse I had suffered as a child by family members and by people in the church. All four of my siblings had suffered like abuse. My parents before us were both abused as children. My family lived one life for others to see and another that no one ever saw. I always hated people telling me that they wished they could be part of our family — if they only knew. John had grown up as a missionary kid in Africa to parents that served the Lord for nearly 50 years with our denomination. I used to joke and call his family “the Walton’s.” We began attending churches in the many cities we lived in over the first several years. I began to see a different God than the one that I had been introduced to all of my life. But I still only believed in spurts. When times were going well, everything was well. When trouble came or times got tough, I quickly reverted back to thinking that I was being punished because of disbelief or disobedience.

You can imagine how I felt when I was diagnosed with advanced stage cancer. Thoughts from my childhood filled my mind — what had I done to deserve this? I remembered thinking as a child about how God and Satan were not much different. At least with Satan, I knew where I stood. I believed that God was watching at all times to strike me down when I messed up. For years I thought that God told my mother when I was sinning. It wasn’t until I was married that my one sister told me that my mother would ask me questions in my sleep and I would answer her. Now that I had cancer and didn’t know how much time I had left to live, I began to revert back to these early thoughts. I knew that I had disappointed God by not being obedient over the years. I didn’t pray enough, I didn’t spend enough time reading the Bible, I didn’t use my voice to sing on the worship team at church. These were just some of the thoughts that raced through my mind. I wasn’t afraid of dying, I was terrified of the disgusted look on God’s face when I would meet him face to face.

As I read about Papa, Jesus and Sarayu, a sense of relief flooded my heart. I understood that Papa really loved me; mess and all. When he looked at me it was not with disgust, but delight. I was not being punished; He was taking this terrible situation and bringing hope to me. God wasn’t out to punish me; he redeemed me and wanted to have a relationship with me. When Papa tells Mack that he did not disappoint them because they don’t have any expectation of him, a light came on. I realized that I was not a disappointment to Papa, he didn’t have a list of rules that prevented me from pleasing him. The fresh love of Papa flooded over me as I sat on my patio reading.

I could go on endlessly about specific parts of the story and what they meant to me, but let me simply say that since reading The Shack (twice now — I broke out the highlighter on the second read), my relationship with Papa, Jesus and Sarayu has become real. I feel a sense of ease in their presence.”

It was my great honor to have visited with Jennie and John three times, the last just a couple weeks before Jennie walked through the thin veil into a fully experienced embrace of Three. I have a number of precious friends who are walking through the valley of the shadow of death and I thought that what I wrote for Jennie’s memorial service might be an encouragement. It follows next:

Only a few weeks ago, now seeming like distant years already, I sat next to Jenny’s bed, holding her hand and softly talking and laughing about things that didn’t really matter but mattered even more than usual. All I could think was that this beautiful woman’s spirit is outgrowing her body; the weight of her presence tangible and holy straining at the edges of her fragile and weakening tent. It was one of the first days of autumn crisp and beautiful, a stab of fall colors visible through the bedroom window, premonitions of activity slowing down, leaves of life slowly falling into a sleep that must one day wrap each of us in its embrace. But that day the sun still pierced the veil that separated this world from that other. The gathering was not complete, not ready. This would be a receiving unlike any other and preparations had been long in the making. Occasionally as we smiled our way through conversations about pain and timing and grace, she would hesitate, her head turned slightly as if straining to hear something that was slipping through the thin place, a whispered name…hers. And a promise, that soon all would be ready. She hated that she might be another’s burden, not perceiving the blessing she was. I watch her watch John as he talks to friends in the other room, her eyes caressing him across the space between. A smile toys at the corner of her mouth. “He is such a good man. This all has changed him. I like the changes.” I know she is right. There is no edge to John’s compassion as he moves gently in and out of the room, taking care of details that make the difference. If there is any struggle inside, he has resolved it enough that it will not show. Our conversation ends and we kiss goodbye. I know that I will probably not see her on this side of the veil. Bittersweet. I want to imprint on my memory the squeeze of her hand as she lets go but I know that too will slip away as silently as she will.
“Papa? Why?” I know I don’t have to voice anything more. Loss often makes many words unnecessary and a waste of breath.
“Paul, I don’t see death the way that you do.”
“How so?”
“Well, you tend to see it as the greatest loss, the final enemy, separation from something that you believe precious.”
“Isn’t it?” I query back.
“Again, from your point of view you perceive all those things as being true.”
“Well, aren’t they?”
“No.” He says it gently and then lets the word hang in the air for some seconds before continuing. “The truth is that Jenny, like all human beings, already knew the reality of separation. She had lived it her entire experience upon the earth. Falling asleep was the door she walked through leaving separation behind her. In that moment she was finally and completely whole.”
“I feel the separation. I miss her.”
“Of course you will. In your world, separation has a tangible sense, almost able to convince you of its reality and dominion. But it is not the final word. You get glimpses of this often. The reality hidden inside experience.”
“For example?”
“Every time you have found a sense of home, or finding yourself inside a hug that is safe, or you feel it in the hand that touches you past the surface, or in the baby that falls asleep in your arms, or the laughter that makes you so thankful for friends and then in the wonder and joy that catches you by surprise.”
I let this sit with me a bit, allowing it to gently untie some of the knots in my aching heart. “So, is it okay to grieve then?” I ask.
“Of course it is! Though the separation is not the final word it is still part of the sentence. Grieving is partly a celebration of the significance of the one who has fallen asleep. Jenny is finally and fully home but you are not. So you celebrate and you grieve, but not as those who have no hope.”
“Papa?”
He slipped close and put an arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “I know son. When Jenny fell asleep, she was no longer terrified that she would see a look of disappointment on my face. How sweet is that?!”
“The sweetest,” I snuggle into the embrace and for a moment feel no separation…a taste of what I know is to come.

Lawrence – to Papa

Lord, The Shack, struck a chord deep within my heart.  I heard you speak in such “human” terms I was wildly blessed.  I beliece the portrayal of you, although totally inadequate to your Ultimate Being, was a vividlyu clear expression of your merciful interface with us common folk.  I loved you deeply, emotionally, radically in this book.  Thank You for encouraging Paul to write it.

Papa – to Lawrence

You are right when you speak of the inadequacy of this, or any other book to display ‘all’ of My person, chracter and glory.  I AM…and there is noe beside me.

I am not a kind, black woman, a wraith, or an elderly, rather tall and slim white man.  But Paul touched My being by faith and what flowed out of his collaboration with his friends is definitely a work of the Spirit.  As We watched and heard and saw the oozing out on paper of Our love and joy and laughter; Our power and delight, Our mercy and grace and Our overall creativity, We were delighted with the substance of the text.  So narrow a volume – so wide an expanse of thought and devotion.

It won’t be liked.  It won’t be tolerated.  It will be loved or despised.  As each reader first steps across the threshold of the Shack, they will have an opportunity, granted by Me, to be deeply offended.  As their hearts reel at the possiblity of God stepping down as far as a big black hug, they will either be un-stumbled and touch the Son at Calvry, knowing the wounds also engraved in My wrists, or they will sentence themselves to a bounded vertical relationship; a ‘thus far and no farther’ tension that never squeals with glee as I tickle them unmercifully or never groans deep within as I press my fingers into the open wounds of their own broken souls.

Knowing Me is the goal.  Paul knows Me.  Better still, I know Paul, and I have trusted him enough to reveal a little of Myself to him.  How do you like Me now?

I take a sip. It’s very hot, just the way I like it, and the flavor is perfect for the dreary day and for my mood. I swallow the warmth and can feel it fall inside and reach fingers of comfort into even the hidden places.

“Want to talk about it?” she coaxes, sitting down with her own cup of something that I can smell is at least part coffee.

“Nope…and yes.” I don’t really know where to start and she’s patient. I love just being with Papa, knowing that he knows, even before I say anything and yet respectful as she waits. I still don’t know where to start and finally she helps me with a little verbal push.

“The book seems to be doing well?” I look up and she is grinning. Papa is talking about The Shack, the little fiction story that I wrote for my children.

“Nothing or no one does anything on its own, not even me.” The statement makes me smile and I am comforted in the knowledge that Jesus and Sarayu are also present though unseen. Her observation is one of those invitations to go deeper, but I decline and go another direction.

“Of course you know that people are writing and saying all kinds of things about me…and some of it is simply not true. They make assumptions about my beliefs and motives and character as if they know me, and some of them are my friends.”

“I take it,” she continues, “that you aren’t so much bothered by the good stuff they’re writing and saying. Very complimentary, some of that.”

This time I laugh. “I get your point. Lots of that isn’t true either. I’m not that brilliant for sure. But even though compliments are a little hard to receive, they are definitely easier than the negative stuff.”

“Such as…?” she is leading me, but I am more than ready to follow.

“You know, there a few that are saying that I have a subversive agenda to destroy orthodoxy…”

“Maybe, but have you read some of those articles and blogs…of course you have, and the emails where people think that I should burn in hell.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort, it’s often true that the way people positively or negatively respond to a story tells you something of where they are at, more than about you.”

I pause and take another sip of tea. “Yeah, that helps some. I know that the overwhelming majority are wonderfully positive; folks whose lives you are touching, people taking significant steps in their healing process.”

“As wonderful as that is, it doesn’t mean that the vocal minority are not valuable and important…they matter to me.”

Whatever reserve I thought I had, she had just punched a hole it. “See, there you go…being all loving n stuff. Sometimes I would like you to just be on my side. People are saying that I believe all kinds of things that I don’t and sometimes they are just mean. Why don’t you do something about it? Why can’t you protect me better?” My emotional flurry ends and I am not even looking at her but at the floor. Some old patterns take time to break.

I have come to know Papa well enough to know that my little tantrums are never anything that divides us. It’s like ‘open up the window, let the bad air out’. Anyway, thoughts harbored inside always seem more justifiable and brilliant than when exposed; then they often look like the silly little rascals that they are. But she never shames me, even in this.

“Child, I am always on your side.” She shifts toward me and I look up into her teasing smile. “Would you like me to smite them, would that make you feel better?”

I laugh and begin to cry at the same time. “Yeah, a little smiting would be good…with a touch of wrath…yeah I think that might help. Isn’t that always what we self righteous people want?”

“Way too often,” she states, and hands me a tissue to blow my nose.  “It’s always a good thing to know that you’re still in a process of healing, isn’t it? Like I said, I know exactly how you feel. But emotions don’t always tell you the truth. They tend to point you in the direction of what you perceive and believe.” She pauses and then continues, “So, tell me what in particular is being said that’s bothering you.”

“Let’s see,” I begin, running through my mental list, “Uh… that I am a universalist that I am an adherent of various religions, that I hate the Church…” I continue until I have exhausted everything I can think of. When I am done, Papa adds a few items that I’d forgotten or hadn’t even heard yet.

“Thanks, that makes me feel better,” I respond a little sarcastically.

“No problem. I just figured if you are going to make a list, you might as well put everything on it. Do you want me to tell you some of the stuff they’ll come up with in the future?

“You know that I’m not. I know that faith in Jesus is the only way into your embrace; that only what you did on that cross saves us.”

“So let me ask you this. I take it that it wouldn’t bother you if I decided to save every human being that ever lived?”

“Nope. I actually hope that you’ve figured a way to do just that.”

“Yeah, because I used to think that I was better than other people and that I needed to be rewarded for my efforts. I used to think that if I had to resist the ‘pleasures of sin’ then it wouldn’t be fair if you saved those people who got to do what I wasn’t allowed to. That was before I realized how hurtful and enslaving those ‘pleasures’ really are and how all my ‘religious’ efforts were ineffective at actually changing me.”

“Okay, then let me ask you this. Would it bother you if it’s my purpose to allow the majority of the human race to experience a place in which they will be tormented for infinite duration?”

I think carefully before speaking. “Emotionally, yes. Sorry, but the very idea troubles me a great deal. You’re talking about people that are precious to me, and people I know ‘you are especially fond of’…so yes it would bother me a lot… if I had my way no one would end up in hell for eternity.”

“But, what if that’s exactly what I am purposing to do, to allow people because of their ongoing choice of independence to experience and be lost in that independence forever with no possibility of escape? Would you trust me in that?”

I am silent for a while as I wrestle with the question. “Yeah, as much as I wouldn’t understand it, I do know that I can trust you and I am convinced about your character. Our only and final hope is that you are Good and that you are involved and loving. So if that is your intention and purpose, as hard as it is for me to understand or emotionally comprehend, I know that it’s motivated by both your goodness and love. I still don’t like it, but I do trust you.”

We both pause to take a sip of our drinks, steam lazily rising from the rims. I am thinking about what I have just said and it has sparked a new question.

“I guess here is my real question in all this…why couldn’t you have made things clear? People go to the Bible and find all these ways to disagree with each other, even or especially theologians. Everybody seems to want to acquire their little piece of doctrinal territory and put fences around it so only those with the secret handshake can get in. Some find support for Universal Reconciliation; some find proofs for eternal torment in hell, and some find it just easier to annihilate everyone who doesn’t make it.” Now I am ranting, but can’t seem to help myself. “The Calvinists find all their verses to debate the Armenians, who find their list. Then there are the ones who believe in eternal security fighting with the ones that don’t.  Every silly idea of eschatology finds its own proof texts and in the middle of all these debates it seems that love is all that gets left behind. We even find ways to fight about grace and love. Couldn’t you have just made it simple and clear; unambiguous?”

I look up and Papa has a big grin on her face, but I don’t return the smile. Without really understanding why, this question is suddenly important to me and I can sense that it has threads connecting many of my internal conflicts.

Papa simply let me tread water in my rant for a while, until some of the emotional residue subsides. “Do you think that all this has surprised me?” she asks gently? “Do you think that I thought, ‘There, they now have the scriptures; they will totally get this’?   Human beings are very creative. They have an incredible facility to take some of the simplest and most obvious truths and make them ambiguous. If I didn’t know better, it would surprise even me.”

“But,” I am struggling to keep my question from becoming an accusation, “Why couldn’t you have made it clearer? How hard would it have been to just have one of the writers put truth down in such a way that there would be no confusion?”

I look up and she is still grinning, obviously enjoying the conversation more than I am. “Like a FAQ (Frequently Asked Questions) at the back of the Bible?” I roll my eyes, even though part of me thinks that might have been a good idea. Papa pauses to take another sip of her steaming whatever. “Have you ever thought that ambiguity, that mystery, might have purpose?” she posed.

The question actually surprises me and I begin to feel the uneasiness that usually precedes my paradigms being challenged. “Nope. I’ve never thought about that at all. I’ve spent most of my life so focused on certainty, that ambiguity and mystery have always been, sort of…the enemy. Are you telling me that ambiguity is a good thing?”

“Just think about it.  I have embedded ambiguity in everything, even physics? Do you really think that was a mistake? Do you really think that you humans have caught me off guard; that I am wringing my hands in heaven because some of your theologians have managed to misunderstand so much of what I have revealed? Do you think that your propensity to find ways to fight with each other is shocking to me? Could I have written scripture outside of a story, in bullet point outline, or had the prophets produce a massive FAQ? When Paul was killed by stoning and ascended into the spiritual dimension and I showed him things that for him would no longer be ambiguous, when I returned him to his body to finish the purposes we were working out together, why did I require that he not speak of what he saw? When John heard the thunders speak in Revelation, why was he forbidden to write what he heard?”

Papa opened her arms wide, “Because I delight in ambiguity. I relish what mystery brings to the table. It’s not that I don’t delight in clarity; after all, the Scriptures themselves are about revealing me so that you can know me.  But part of that revelation is that I am completely different than you and you will never completely comprehend me or my ways.”

I am still at a loss and struggling for some ground that is firm. “I’m sorry but I don’t get it. What exactly is the value and purpose of ambiguity?”

“For one, it reveals the heart of the individual.  In fact, mystery is at the center of both relationship and faith.”

“Are you saying,” I am stunned and struggle for the words, “you introduced all this ambiguity… on purpose?”

“Of course! I didn’t want you to become ‘people of the book’, in the sense that everything is reduced to some form of performance as mandated by written words, where you would end up in the seats of the judges to mete out retribution on all those who failed to live up to those words. I didn’t want you to replace tablets of stone for tablets of paper.”

“Of course he does. But you cannot separate him from love. For anyone to stand up on my behalf to protect me or defend me, and not express love inside the embrace of Truth, it is better they remain silent.”

I sit back a little stunned. I want to argue but can’t find anything that counters the simplicity and elegance of Papa’s words.  “Okay, I think I get what you’re telling me; that we aren’t very good at loving, but a lot better at defending our turf.”

“See, another great reason for mystery. The ambiguity of belief, of doctrine, reveals the motives and the dark places of the heart…the places that need to be healed. Religious self righteousness and intellectual snobbery are kissing cousins. Intelligence was never created as a justification for the absence of kindness and respect and love. Do you remember the community of faith at Ephesus. I wrote a letter to them in which I commended their ‘orthodoxy’, that they wouldn’t put up with the Nicolaitans…”

“Not important right now, “ she cuts me off and continues. “The point is that they were all about theology and doctrine, but I removed their light, their influence, their very life; not because of doctrine but because they no longer knew how to express the love who is Truth that indwelt them. Ambiguity and mystery constantly raise real questions. In the face of uncertainty and differences of idea and belief, will we stop loving? Will I descend to the acquisition and defense of territory and turf? Will I even stop loving my enemy, let alone my brother or my sister?”

“Like you stated yourself, it is because love doesn’t come naturally to you. The closest you have is how you love your own children but even that is only a reflection of what love truly is. Turf and territory have always been about independence, while love is only present in dependence.”

We are silent for a few minutes while I try to organize the jumble of thoughts crashing around inside my paradigm. Papa, aware of my struggle, speaks first.

“Not everything is ambiguous or a mystery. There is much that is clear and evident. I even wrote it down for you. Very clear, very unambiguous. It is all over the scriptures. Start with I Corinthians 13…clear as the nose on your face. The question is why have you turned the clarity of love into something ambiguous?”

Again I am silent for minutes, allowing the words to penetrate in some deep and special places. “I still don’t like being lied about,” is all I can finally say.

“Ah…” Papa leans back, “The ambiguity of human existence. Not knowing everything or having all the answers. Now you might begin to understand that mystery is not only the center of relationship but also of faith. Faith grows in its embrace of the certainty of my character in the face of the uncertainty of existence.”

“Okay, I am beginning to understand why you love mystery and ambiguity. But I still find it unsettling.”

“That is such a wonderful place to be.” She pauses long enough for me to understand and then adds, “If it helps a bit, you do realize that no one can do anything to you unless I allow it?”

“And if I allow it, I already have purposes that will work these matters out in the best and most loving way, for all involved. Are you alright with that?”

I again finally nod as I submit to Papa’s love and hug. I hadn’t even heard her approach. “Anyway,” she whispers, wrapping me up in her tender but firm embrace, “the presence of pain doesn’t indicate the absence of love. Often pain is present because of love.  I also don’t remember promising anyone that there would be no crosses to bear. But don’t let that concern you either. I’m good with crosses.   Together we can do this.”

Me, I tend to stay in the background.  Not very fond of the attention we’re getting, so I hang around the fringes; suits me just fine.  I’m not one to put myself out there, like some of the others.  To be honest, I’m not very brave and not above being disappointed.  But here is the strange thing.  I don’t know what it is about me, maybe because of my baby face (I’ve never been able to grow a full beard), whatever it is I seem to attract the strange ones.  You know the ones, that hang around the fringes of everything that is going on, people who don’t really have the want or nerve to approach Jesus directly.  So they seek me out. 

I actually try and blend in with the crowd, but it usually only works for awhile.  I must have this sign on my back that says, "He’s one of them" because sooner or later some guy will sidle up next to me and start asking me questions as if I were some sort of expert on Jesus.

So today, I am sitting down, minding my own business, trying again to figure out where I fit into all this, and sure enough this guy plops himself right down next to me.  I close my eyes; pretending to be praying.  Perhaps I actually am.  Does "Go Away!" qualify as a prayer?  Even with my eyes shut I can feel him waiting, silent…ready to pounce.  I finally barely open one eye for a sneak peak and he is about a foot away staring right at me.  He sees that I am conscious and it’s all the permission he needs.  He’s dressed like a Galilean, but you can’t really tell these days.  Rumor is the Jesus is a Galilean, and now everybody wants to look like one.  This guy is probably a fake Galilean, maybe even from uptown Jerusalem.  I am not in a very graceful mood.

"May I ask you a question?" he begins.

I grunt, "Besides that one?"  He’s either not impressed by my wit or too dumb to get it, his face remaining impassive.  He then glances around a little furtively, as if to make sure that no one is close enough to eavesdrop on our conversation.  He scoots even closer and leans my direction.  I want to scoot away, but out of rebellion I hold my position.

"So," his voice is hushed and secretive, "Who is he then?"

 "Oh, here we go," I think, "another person who wants to ask me questions about Jesus that I can’t answer."  I try and be evasive, but I find myself whispering too.

"Who is who? I ask.

He scoots a bit closer.  "You know."  His face now shows ready anticipation; eyebrows raised and waiting my response. 

I return his inquiry with the best ‘I have really no idea what you are talking about’ look and a little shake shrug of my shoulder.

He is perturbed, but only for a moment.  He then grins and scoots even closer until I fear he will crawl onto my lap.  His breath radiates goat and garlic. 

"I get it," he smiles, "you are just playing with me.  C’mon, you can tell me."  He nods as if to encourage my response.

"Who are you talking about?"  I mutter, wishing this man would leave me alone to tend to my sore and dirty feet. 

"The good Samaritan, you know, that guy that Jesus just told us about.  I want to know who he is.  I would like to meet him."

Now I am wide awake.  I grin at this man thinking that he is joking, but the intensity of his face communicates that he is dead serious.  "You want me to tell you who the good Samaritan is, like…his name?"

"Exactly!  I want to go and talk to him. I would like to understand what I can about his journey, anything really that might give me insight into how he got to the place where he could exhibit the kindness and compassion of God like he did."

We sat there for a frozen moment, he looking expectantly at me and me trying to find the right words to let the boy down gently.  What I really want to do is laugh and not too quietly either. 

"Uh…that story Jesus told you?  You know…that…it’s a parable right?

"Of course.  That is what everyone is calling it."  He pauses, glancing around and then back. "Tell me, what exactly is a parable?"

"It’s a story."

"Oh, like the story of Moses or Abraham or David?"

"Well, no…"  I am still searching for the right words.  "It isn’t a story like history, but a story, well…that he made up."

It takes only a moment for what I said to register, but I can see the inner realization paint a a furrowed look on his face.  "He…made it up?  Are you telling me that the story isn’t even true?"

"Yes," I answer, "he made it up.  But…" I quickly add, "It is true!"  As soon as the words escape my lips I know they will not help.

"So, if it’s true, then who is he… the Samaritan guy in the story?"

"There is no specific Samaritan guy.  Jesus made him up.  But the story really is true."

He sits back, a look of disappointment clearly visible.  "OK, I am confused.  You are telling me that the story is true, but Jesus made up the Samaritan guy, the main character…just ‘poof’ made him up?"

"Exactly!"

"And the Priest…made up too I suppose?"  I nod.  "And the lawyer."  I am nodding still as he continues the litany.  "…the bandits, the innkeeper, the kindness…all made up?"

I shrug and he sits back, looking skyward, gesturing with hands upturned.  He finally looks back at me.  "And the story is true."  He states it like an accusation.  I nod again.

"Oi, how can it be true?  Everything is made up.  The Samaritan, the Priest, the robbery…the only thing that is real is the road, cuz I’ve been on it."  He is allowing the emotion to build inside.  "I must tell you, I am very upset about this.  Your Jesus…you are with him right?"

He pauses, and I nod, "Yes, I am one of his students and he is my rabbi."

"Well, your rabbi really had me going.  I truly felt what he was saying.  I could embrace this man’s pain and I was thrilled at this Samaritan’s actions.  You must understand…" he glanced around and leaned closer, "…this ‘story’ meant a lot to me personally…you see…" he whispers, "I am a Samaritan."  A tear slowly slides down his cheek, his jaw slightly quivering, "And now…" he was fighting the emotions, "…now you are telling me that it isn’t even true."

I was stunned.  I had not seen this coming.  My sore and dirty feet were no longer a concern for me.  Pain and anger and disappointment masked his face and he was looking to me for something, some kind of healing, some explanation that would return some hope.

"But don’t you see?  It is true.  That’s what a parable does.  It uses a story to tell the truth in a way that gets by your training and your defenses.  I think you might be confusing facts with truth, thinking that what seems to be ‘real’ should be the same as what is true!"

"Please," he is almost begging.  "Help me understand."

 ’Me?’ I am thinking.  I look up, trying to appear to be in deep thought, but I am really looking around to see if Jesus is anywhere nearby.  He is not.  "Ok, let me see.  Well, everything in the story is real, that is, the road between Jericho and Jerusalem is real, there are real bandits on that road, real people including priests, lawyers and lots of us normal people travel that road when we have to, and there are such ‘real’ people as Samaritans."  I gesture toward him, but not in any way that would draw attention.

"But this didn’t really happen?"

"Maybe it did.  Frankly, I have never thought to ask.  But that is not the point of the parable.  All the elements are real and this could actually happen.  Parables are not as concerned with facts and reality as they are about communicating the truth."  He still wasn’t getting it.  "Uh…it’s like a joke," I offer.

"This is a joke?"  He looks incredulous.

"No, it’s like a joke, you know, there was this rabbi and this priest and a donkey…"

"I’ve heard it…not too funny."

"You’ve heard it?  The one where the mother-in-law…"

"Yup, heard it.  I didn’t think it was that funny."

"I thought it was hilarious…oh, well, the point is that it doesn’t really matter if the events actually happened or not.  We laugh because the joke points to something that we know is true.  So, Jesus is telling the parable to open our eyes to something that is much more important than the individual pieces that make up the story.  The truth of a story like this parable is much more significant than just the sum of its parts, in fact, Truth belongs to a different realm of existence and significance than facts and reality."

The man had dropped his gaze to the ground between his feet, listening, and suddenly sat straight upright, his eyes dancing.

"I understand!  It’s not about the actual elements of the story.  It is really about the Truth…that is what truly matters.  It is not about me meeting the Good Samaritan, it is about me meeting the Truth."

"Exactly!"  And now I am dancing inside and I too understand in a way I had not before.  "The kindness of God has no boundaries; not social, not religious, not political.  The choices made by the Samaritan are contrary to all the hate and prejudice so much a part of the world we live in."

"In fact," now he jumps in, "the Samaritan was the only truly free man in the story.  No one else is free.  And Jesus calls him the ‘Good’ Smaritan because he is exhibiting the very life of the only Good One, who we know is only God."

Now the tears are flowing and I am wiping my own off my face.

"You know what this means?"  His face is full of light.  "It can be me.  I can be the Good Samaritan.  I can be the one who is free.  I don’t have to do what my hurt and pain tell me.  It can be me that acts with the goodness of God…me!"

And we embrace, a Jew and a Samaritan.  And I am thrilled, but at the same time grieved at my own darkness of heart.  For even as we embrace, even as we thrill to the glory of the Truth of what we are sharing, I was still glad that he looked like a Galilean and not a…"

Perhaps each had hoped to have come alone, or at least not in the presence of these particular others.  The oldest deferred to the youngest, opening a way to the box where the recorder stood waiting, unaware that he was tapping his stylus on the edge of the scroll.  After a weak attempt at inviting the third, who simply shook his head, to go first, the junior stepped forward with his small casket of offering.  Just as none of these had noticed the woman slip out, none noticed Jesus and his disciples watching silently from their seats in the shadows.

Each in turn brought their offerings, counting out the coins.  Silver pieces dropping like rain, mixed with the occasional flash of gold, each recorded accurately next to the name of the faithful.  For most of the disciples, except Matthew and a couple others, this was more money then they had seen in one place in their lifetime.  They glanced occasionally at Jesus, to see if any look crossed his face that might give them permission to express inner delight.  But he watched passive and that was enough to dampen their enthusiasm or at least any expression of it.

Three groups bringing their offerings, ending with the eldest.  The second had trumped the third in his giving, but now the patriarch matched both and then reaching into an inner fold of his robe brought out a small but ornately woven bag from which he ceremoniously withdrew a strand of beautiful black pearls.  Judas gasped.  Jesus gaze and expression did not waver.  Matthew wondered how long that man had kept that pouch hidden just for such an occasion.  With a flourish he handed the string to the recorder and leaned forward whispering something, at which both laughed.  An inside joke for inside people.  And then turning, smiling at the others, they all left the area, the eldest first, followed by the second and then the youngest with his smaller crowd of attendants.  The recorder, not seeing anyone else, wheeled the box into the shadows and through a door where its treasures would be removed and secured.

The disciples were looking at Jesus…waiting.  He stood as if listening to something they couldn’t hear.  He didn’t make them wait long, but turned and smiled.  “Do you think they brought everything they have?”  It was the teacher asking the students but no one was eager to attempt an answer.  the obvious answer was ‘no’ but they had travelled with this unusual man long enough to know that he didn’t see things the same way they did.  In fact almost nothing ever turned out to be the way it seemed, and this sounded like another trick question.

“No?”  It was the timid voice of Andrew somewhere in the darkest shadows, more a question than any sort of answer.  Answering a question with a question is often a bit safer; one doesn’t feel so exposed.  It made Jesus grin and almost laugh out loud.

“Thank you, Andrew, that was very brave of you.”  And again they were reminded how this teacher never seemed intent upon shaming any of them, even when they were wrong so often.  “Any one else?”

“I agree with Andrew.”  It was the firm strong voice of Peter.  “Unless he’s wrong, of course.”  Chuckles all around.  “I mean,” he continued, “that old lady gave everything she had, but these ‘gentlemen’ have lots more where that came from.”

“That is true, Peter,” responded Jesus.  “If we are making a simple comparison, the woman gave out of her lack and the men gave out of their abundance.  But I would like you to think about this a little deeper.  I would like you to consider that these men indeed brought everything they have.  In this moment of time, they brought what they had.  Their own bondages set the limits and truly defined for each of them what they have to bring.  So, ‘yes’, they brought everything they have.

“But…” started James, “what about…”

“The older woman?” finished Jesus.  “She is freer than these men, so she had more to bring.”  And with that he turned and headed out of the collection area and toward the Temple courtyard.

For a moment no one moved.  “Clear as mud,” muttered someone.  “True that,” said someone else.  “Do you think we will ever get used to not understanding anything?”  Their voices trail off as they follow Jesus out to wherever he was going, leaving me standing in the back of the room, listening to a conversation between a speaker and group of friends and strangers.  The agitation is gone.  Somehow everything has changed.  Where did this grace come from that now fills the room.  I look from man to man, not hearing the words spoken.  Sure what is being said matters, but we will find our way through all those words and the attendant emotions, paradigms and motivations.  Do I think they each brought everything they have?  Absolutely!  And suddenly I am proud and honored to be here with them.

One of my best friends is sitting next to me and without looking, I can feel him glance occasionally at me.  He knows that this particular subject is one that is near and dear to my heart, and he has heard a few of my rants and raves about it from time to time.  Thankfully, I am sitting at the back and doing a fairly good job, I think, of controlling my body language.  Inside I am a mix of emotions.  Part of me wants to stand up and define in no uncertain terms that the conversation is filled with bovine waste material.  Part of me knows better, that such a declaration rarely produces anything that changes the aroma of said waste material, in fact, to do so usually simply adds to the pile.   But finally, I lean over and whisper to my friend my perspective on the agrarial nature of the discussion.  His response shoves me back into the river of grace where he knows I would rather swim.

My friend leans back, and whispers a question, "Do you think they brought everything they have?"

The walls disappeared, the conversation evaporated and I was standing at the back of a crowd of men.  Conversations were muted and everyone was turning to look in the direction that Jesus was pointing.  With his other hand to his lips, he motioned silence, and a few final but hushed words trailed out into nothing.  At first, I had no idea what I was looking for and in fact heard her before I even saw her.  The sense of anticipation was palpable, elevated even higher by the fixed gaze of Jesus in the direction of the approaching sound.  I found that I was holding my breath as her approach neared and when she emerged I was stunned.  One feeble, little old lady shuffling toward the place where offerings were given.  Along with a number of the others, I glanced at Jesus, a little put off, a little surprised, a little disappointed.  But he only had eyes for her and his gaze forced ours back to watch her finish the final part of her journey.  She was ordinary, she was old, she dragged one leg a bit…not completely well, mostly blind it appeared.  It seemed that as far as she was concerned she was alone, neither acknowleging nor considering our presence.  She stopped at the box and reached up to draw a wisp of gray hair that had tumbled out from under her tunic.  Her face seems is etched by the unkindness of life, but her eyes flash with life and youthfulness, even if mostly blinded by the pain of sorrows.  She then reached into her dress and pulled out an old leather pouch, painfully slow in untying the draw strings and tipping it upside down onto her other hand.  Two small coins drop.  Hiding the pouch again inside the folds of clothing, she picked up the mites from her other hand, holding them between her thumb and forefinger.  Slowly she lifted it up, her face breaking across laugh lines into a radiant smile.  Then her cloudy eyes opened wide, her eyebrows raised as if she had heard something remarkable.  She snapped her gaze right to Jesus, and I glanced at him just in time to see him smile and bow a little to her.  Somehow she knew in whose presence she was…and it was enough.  The sound of approaching voices and she quickly wiped some tears that had begun to fall, dropped the coin and shuffled out of the way of busier people, leaving untraced and unnoticed, except by one who mattered.  And me, I was looking at my own feet, wishing that I was brave enough to take off my shoes.  And his voice of love gently pieced me like a blade, "Brothers, do you think she brought everything she has?"

First, let me explain the term ‘future tripping’.  I love good science fiction writing.  A book like Perelandra, by CS Lewis, or Ender’s Game, by Orson Scott Card…they just take me someplace where the imagination is allowed to roam more freely than in most other literary genres.  Some folks think such writing is silly and adolescent…oh well…sorry.  I will tell you that Orson Scott Card’s book, Speaker for the Dead, taught me more about conducting a funeral than anything else I have ever read (but that’s another story).

I’ve been thinking I could make a good case that every human being is a science fiction writer; that we each develop an incredibly powerful ability to create imaginations of the future, usually our own. Unfortunately, we are almost as good at horror or tragedy; our imaginations of the future are rife with catastrophes and difficulties.

A little more than two years ago, ‘Joy’ became my constant companion rather than an occasional acquaintance.  This was totally unexpected and more than a little remarkable.  Many times in my life I had experienced Joy dropping in, ‘surprising me’, and then leaving…sometimes within a couple days, but usually within hours or minutes.  I loved the visits but instinctively knew that Joy must have other (probably better) things to do but had stopped by long enough to bless me with a touch of encouragement in a difficult time, or a taste of something wonderful when the world seemed particularly grey and flavorless.  Usually the sudden presence of Joy had no rhyme or reason, at least, not that I could tell…a surprise visitor who was always welcome, slept in the guest bedroom and was normally gone before the first light of day, bed made up, a note that said ‘thank you’ and ‘see you again soon’.

But to ‘move in’ and stay…that was unexpected.  For the first six months I was a little on edge about the whole ‘new’ relationship.  It seemed that it would be rather rude to simply ask, "Okay, why exactly are you still here?"  Perhaps, I was a little apprehensive that such a question would remind Joy that there were more important things to do than hang around me, and off Joy would go.  But I liked it…the presence of Joy…a lot!

So what happened?  Why had Joy decided to stick around and permeate my every day, even the really tough gut wrenching ones?  Even as I write this, Joy is standing just over my shoulder, leaning on me just enough so that I know… and watching (with a grin) what I am writing.

Okay…I am nuts, that must be it!  But I am not…so back to my question.  What happened?

As I mulled this incongruity over and talked with friends and family I began to understand part of the reason for Joy’s permanence in my life.  A couple of years ago, I decided to stop ‘future tripping’.  ‘Future Tripping’ is ‘taking thought for tomorrow’, it is creating imaginations of what is going to happen and then actually take a mental and emotional trip to live there for a bit.  It is ‘what am I going to do if _________ (fill in the blank), what am I going to say if __________, what would our family go through if _____________.  I confess to you that I have experienced many un-realities and their attendant emotions this way.  I have repeatedly suffered huge financial losses, ended up living under one of the city bridges, been abandoned by my family, suffered the loss of each of my children, had my closest friends turn out to be villains, embarrassed myself in public, was put on the spot and said something stupid, been to my own funeral (more than once), unsuccessfully tried to stop something horrible from happening, failed repeatedly to live up to somebody’s expectations, been horribly maimed in every kind of imaginable accident known to man, lost all my teeth, lost every job I ever had, came down with every disease possible, regularly looked like an idiot, got my lights punched out for no reason, explained my driving to a police officer, lost my friends, went to school and found out I wasn’t wearing anything, got mugged, imagined the situation that I currently was in was permanent…that nothing could ever or would ever change…

…you get the idea.  I have written volumes of imaginations in my own head, things that have no substance, no reality, and are empty, vain imaginations.  But I treat them as if they are real.  I feel all kinds of terrifying and horrible emotions, and scramble to control my life so that these imaginations won’t actually come to pass.  THESE IMAGINATIONS ARE NOT REAL!!!!  But I had spent most of my life in or around them.  GOD DOES NOT DWELL IN ANYTHING THAT IS NOT REAL!!!  In these imaginations, Papa is conspicuously absent.  Why?  Because Papa has no interest in living inside something that isn’t even real to begin with.  So in my ‘vain’ empty imaginations, I am the only ‘god’ there is.  I have to fix things, make sure things turn out right, try to get a handle on people and events…and frankly, I do a very poor job of it…this playing god thing.  So, my life tended to be gripped by fear and I worked hard to get some ‘control’ to prevent these imaginations that I feared.  I had a habit of treating something that had no reality or substance as if it were truly real.

A couple years ago I stopped this insanity.  And here is what I discovered.  JOY has a name.  Joy is not only a fruit of the Spirit of God, but a manifestation of the presence of the very ‘real’ Jesus who dwells inside of us.  In fact, JOY had ‘never’ left me at all; it was me that continually left Joy, to run into some imagined future and resultant fear.  It had never been Joy that was the occasional acquaintance…it was me that had been the visitor.

For two years now I have stayed inside the confines of the grace that is for ‘today’.  Today is where Papa dwells with me; today is where ‘eternity’ intersects my life, and even when I get to tomorrow, it is still ‘today’ when I get there.  If grace, in part, is what energizes me to sense Papa’s presence, to hear his voice…I was obviously wasting what grace was given me for the ‘real’ day on imaginations that weren’t even real, had no substance and were empty (every vain imagination that raises itself up against the knowing of God).

Do I make plans for tomorrow?  Sure, but they are held loosely and with an open hand…and I don’t live there.  I live in his present(ce), which is TODAY.  How many times are Grace and Peace, or Grace and Joy linked together in the New Testament?  If you try and hoard up grace for more than the Day, you will end up with something that is rotting and can’t be lived on.  If you run away to empty imaginations you will neither sense his present(ce) or hear his voice. 

I read Joy’s blog the other day, and it began…"A couple years ago Paul became my constant companion rather than an occasional acquaintance…"  Sweeeeeet!

-paul