cruel and beautiful

Is everything broken?

It’s a question that pounds in my head. It’s not a cry born of exegesis in Romans class this afternoon. No, it’s people—flesh and blood. It’s the burn and the pain of things beyond my control. The breaking once again. It feels like I’ve been here before, and I have; I was eight, twelve, fourteen, sixteen. It’s the cutting of ties, the dying of something inside.

There is a solution, there is an answer.  I’m not here to whine, though I won’t deny I am crying. I’m here to confess I’m a beggar, but to claim that no matter how weak I myself am, no matter how often I stumble, or how many times I sin, I know there is One who sits at the right hand of the King over all this—pleading with His Father on my behalf, and that of my brothers and sisters in this pilgrimage.

A former friend described their blog site in this way, “__________ is certainly no purported solution for the way the world works, or even for the way we feel about it. Artistic expression is not about solving problems anyway, but about bringing them to the attention of others and forcing us all to look, to wrestle, and to consider. In a word, it’s more concerned with description than prescription. My desire, then, is simply to think out loud, to vent, to muse, and to use whatever gifts of artistic expression I have to describe the identity we all share as misfits and malcontents in this cruel and beautiful world.”

Yes, Jason, this is indeed a cruel world, but we’ve done all the breaking. I did learn that in Romans class this afternoon. I wasn’t cut to the heart then like I am now, but now that I am, I’m remembering. I’m going back to what I know, to the moorings that hold true, and it’s not hope like I want to go to the moon. It’s certain like the sun rising.

This world, with mist and lightning and forests and mountains is indeed cruel and beautiful. But it’s the people that are most cruel and most beautiful. Were it not for them—for us—this would still be an Eden.

But it’s not, and we can’t act all innocent like we don’t know what happened. The poison is in our hearts, and it seeps out no matter how hard we try to hide it. We’re proud creatures bent on self. Forged in the fires of human passion, choking on the fumes of selfish rage, as Rich Mullins put it.

I see the hurt and strain in the eyes of those I love, and I feel it to my core in times like these. It’s not a surprise anymore. I’m as bad as the next person, and there’s a depth of depravity in each of us we scarcely dream. Every now and then I catch glimpses, and it scares me to death. And one thing I’ve learned—one has got to have a place to put these things. You can’t send the questions, the haunting wondering, all those whys—you can’t send them home. They just won’t go.

One could, of course, re-categorize them. In that case, now would be a time to “think out loud, to vent, to muse and to. . . describe the identity we all share as misfits and malcontents in this cruel and beautiful world.” If, by “misfits and malcontents,” he means exiles going home, that certainly comes home to roost. But thinking, venting, musing—if it stops there I’m sunk. I ought to stop writing, stop sorting anything out. This exercise of honesty with myself on paper isn’t about that. It has never been, and I pray it never ends as that. If it’s anything, it’s about straining after light.

Because no matter what I wish, who I miss, the good I’d exchange for the given good I’ve got, no matter how homeless I ever feel on this earth, I’ve found a center that holds. There are shadows that wander across this path of mine, but they’re not the specters of doubt. There’s nothing heroic about not having the answers to life. Of course, neither is there anything heroic in claiming my sin caused the death of the Son of God. But if this is a deadly wilderness, I know that is the only oasis within any distance to save my life. You could call that an answer.

Not only does He offer water, but He offers Himself, and it’s a free love, a joyful love, a faithful love—it’s hesed, and every day of my life I feel as if I’m just beginning to learn what that really means. I’ll wake up tomorrow and start anew. One day, though, I’ll awake—forever in His likeness. I shall see Him whom my soul loves as He is. It is not primarily my circumstances which will be transformed, for I will be the one changed.

There are questions, oh yes. As the tears well, I find myself close up against a familiar wondering; how this job of building can hurt and steal and wound so much. When He left He gave us a promise, and He gave us each other, but what about those times when it seems like all we have is the promise and “each other” leaves, grows out of relationship, fails just like us? What about those times when community falls apart? What about those times when the beauty of unity seems an elusive, taunting idealism? What about those times when the time and the giving and the love seem to count for nothing and we’re left staring into the face of loss? What about those times when hesed takes more than it gives, and we feel like the losers by far, with the gain nowhere in sight? Those times when living by the Book seems all wrong and we find ourselves on the wrong side of hope?

There’s a curious thing about hope, a comment Paul made that seems odd at first glance. He speaks of sufferings, and compares them with that glory we await—they’re so real, so unbelievable to our minds on this side that they’re weighty. This world is breathless: us, creation, for that time when everything will be remade as it was meant to be. Then he writes, “For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God (Rom. 8:19-21).”

He’s releasing our hold on this world, showing us the emptiness of all that we perpetually love. He spoke truth—we have forsaken the spring of living water and dug out our own cisterns that cannot hold a drop (Jer. 2:13). Yet He pursues. God has a way of stripping us of what we want to show us that He is enough, that He alone is our portion. It is enough to know Him, as one of my teachers said.

The limits we brush up against, the emptiness, all the things that are wrong in this world—they work toward our good as the children of God. That sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, that groping for words to meet all the feelings, that struggle to match reality with truth—it’s all designed to point home. And that alone which makes it home is the presence of my Father. I was made for fellowship with my God, and nothing less can satisfy this thirsting soul.

“And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.”

Revelation 21 will come true. So will Psalm 72. The King is coming, and His rule arises like the morning star—burgeoning, bright, sure. Our God is faithful; the Lamb has been slain, the veil torn, the firstfruits arisen. The Messiah has delivered, and consummation awaits. All the needy and the poor will find their needs met. Men will fear their Maker. The righteous will flourish, abundance will return, and peace will not be violated. The cosmos will be flooded with knowledge of the covenant Lord, and that knowledge will be that of a lover: undying, fulfilling, intimate.

There is no question—He causes grief. But hesed. If He sent His Son, what would He be unwilling to do? Right here, this is the meaning of compassion; it is the abundance of steadfast love which constituted a turning point in the grand lament of scripture, “for he does not afflict from his heart or grieve the children of men (Lam. 3:33).”

I beg to differ with Jason. I don’t boast half his eloquence, literary brilliance, or European restlessness, but sometimes one can have too much of a questioning thing. One can miss the lesson of Habakkuk and end up with a wandering soul.