an evening for fields

There exist evenings for inhabiting fields and savoring sunsets. Dinner and homework may come along if they like, but the indoor cave of my bedroom simply won’t do on a day like today. Bringing my hammock outside tonight may be going too far, and may also give the neighbors an extra glance or two. . . so somewhere I’ll draw the line, but for now I’ve got the smell of grass all around, the greens and browns all crowding together and upward, looking positively unruly in grand sort of way. The sky isn’t anything stunning tonight, only a sweeping collage of light blue and various greys and pinks—stars lie beyond it all.

And here am I, made of this same dust on which I sit and to which I am returning one day; coming, going, like the flourishing and withering of the grass which so captivates my eyes.

Yet there stands this truth, that He has set His love on me, chosen, called, and awakened me. It puts me to shame when I realize how small I make this reality in my mind. That which ought to captivate and awe me is frequently overshadowed by the mundane, trivial things of this passing world.

Not that I’m a gnostic, of course. Which has something to do with the fact that I’m out here listening to the crickets and doing my best to ignore the creeping chill and the creepy mosquitoes.

God, I know, has called me to serve Him—not in some out-of-this-world sort of way, but very much in amidst the dirt and people of this earth. As Dietrich Bonheoffer wrote from Germany several generations ago, “The difference between the Christian hope of resurrection and the mythological hope is that the former sends a man back to his life on earth in a wholly new way. . . The Christian, unlike the devotees of the redemption myths, has no line of escape available from earthly tasks and difficulties. . . But, like Christ himself. . . he must drink the earthly cup to the dregs, and only in his doing so is the crucified and risen Lord with him, and he crucified and risen with Christ. This world must not be prematurely written off.”

It is just here where the catch so often comes, for I routinely do a masterful job of rushing, hurrying, and running right on by that into which I ought to lean hardest, to meditate on most deeply, to savor longest, to enjoy most fully.

When my view becomes myopic I make myself a pauper. The alternative takes a focus I seem to perpetually lose, and I live like Jekyll and Hyde—persevering in good one minute and pursuing the twisted interests of self the next.

Yet my faithful God holds out a hope that does not put to shame—that on the last day I will not turn out the loser, despite all my sin and flawed actions and impure desires. Sanctification often seems a circular process, a labor not unlike that of the Greek hero Sisyphus who was consigned to perpetually roll a massive boulder up a hill only to see it roll back down. Yet that is not the whole story.

Here I am again back where I began

And try as I may I can’t get away from You

And all of these dusty roads that lead me to roam

Bring me back home.

-Jars of Clay

Though I’m frustrated by my flesh and its downward, dulling pull, though there is an Enemy lurking, watching, hoping for a kill, the will of my Father is never frustrated, and because I am found in Christ I cannot be condemned. He who called will also glorify.  

One day, I will awake in His likeness.

I return yet again to that grace which upholds amid the fray, awakens from fatal slumber, and will never, never let me go.

Bless the LORD, O my soul;

And all that is within me, bless his holy name!

Bless the LORD, O my soul,

And forget not all His benefits:

Who forgives all your iniquities,

Who heals all your disease,

Who redeems your life from destruction,

Who crowns you with lovingkindness and tender mercies

Who satisfies your mouth with good things,

So that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.

-Psalm 103:1-5