An Invitation to Listen, to Speak, to Drink

The Spirit and the Bride say, “Come.”
And let the one who hears say, “Come.”
And let the one who is thirsty Come;

let the one who desires take the water of life without price.

(Rev 22:17)

I can hear the Spirit as He speaks this word into my soul. I have felt it many times since that first time many years ago. Some have come with great frequency; some with great rarity. But the droughts in between were always caused by my own deafness – or loudness – and even these droughts have taught me that the Spirit does, indeed, with great regularity, say, “Come.”

Have you heard Him? Can you hear Him now?

“Come.”

The Future-Bride – oh! what a lovely image she will be! Oh! what a privilege to see her, to hear her say “Come.” Oh! what a lovely sound that will be! I know she will mean it. I know her word will be wrapped in hard-won, blood-bought, pure white perfection.

Can you picture her? Can you almost hear her now?

“Come.”

Of the Today-Bride I am less confident. I have heard her whisper it. I have seen her try again and again to perfect this syllable. And I am currently watching her struggle and stammer and stutter.

I mourn as I watch her bicker about how it is pronounced. I ache, deep in my soul, as I hear her shouts of “Stay Away” or “Go Away” – shouts that drown out her feeble whisper.

Listen for it, though. Listen, and you will hear it – look hard, and you will see her lips moving. Learn to read her lips, as I have.

“Come.”

Now that you have heard it – now that we have heard it – let us repeat it, together. Let us start with a communal whisper and raise our voices gently, eventually, to a jubilant shout!

Whisper it with me.

Speak it with me.

Shout it with me – with her – with Him –

“Come.”

If you are thirsty, Come. The Bride really does have water for you. She really does want you to drink it, to have your fill, to be satisfied. She may lose sight of this fact, or invent stipulations for the drinking of the water, but she does, deep in her heart, want you to Come. She may place a price tag on this water of life, but I promise you, none will ever stick.

So forgive her errors. Listen to her heart. Listen, most especially, to the One who claimed her heart as His own. Their message is the same, one word, an invitation. Won't you accept it?

Come.

An Invitation to the Garden

But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb, and as she wept she stooped to look into the tomb. And she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and one at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” Having said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned and said to him in Aramaic,“Rabboni!” (which means Teacher). (John 20:11-16)

I'm here in the garden again, weeping, mourning. 

I can't remember all the different woes that have driven me here in the past. The last time I was here, it was loneliness that brought me; the time before that, it was brokenness or some other grief. The garden is where my grief takes me - where I go to seek what I feel I have lost. 

And every time, without fail, I meet the Gardener there. Every time, He asks me the same questions: "Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?" And I answer Him, I tell Him my woes, my losses, my griefs. I tell Him what it is I need.

And then He says my name: "Nora." And I am flooded with equal parts conviction, forgiveness, and relief. Because I discover anew each time I visit - no matter what lost item I was seeking that day - that it was the Gardener I truly needed, it was His voice I had to hear, it was His distance I grieved and mourned. 

All of this realization comes in that one word, my name. It is only then that I recognize Him and regret my tears, my unbelief, my forgetfulness. It is then that I see He is all I shall ever need. And in that word, I know His forgiveness. 

Today, I am driven here, grieving Friday's crucifixion. I mourn His death - and my sins, which made it necessary. I wander the rows of trees, searching for comfort, wounded by my disbelief. And that is where the unfailing Gardener finds me and asks me what He has asked me each time I have come looking for Him: "Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?"

This time, I say, I have lost my Jesus. This time, I mourn death's victory over Him.

And with one word, He dispels every cloud, shakes every speck of doubt from the crevices: "Nora." And with that one word, I realize, for the first time or the thousandth time, that He is risen - He is risen, indeed! 

This truth is the same truth that ought to comfort every grief, no matter what it is that drives me to the garden. This truth is the truth I am always seeking, whether I know it or not.

So whatever you think you are seeking, come to the garden; He will find you here.

An Invitation to the Middle

Imagine.

To your left: a proud man. To your right: his proud brother.

The one is arguing his case; the other is pointing, shaking his head. The first is asking for love; the second is insisting first on holiness.

To which side do you run to show your support? Do you wrap your arms around the one who begs for acceptance? Or do you rise dutifully to the cause of holiness, crossing your arms in resolution?

(Everyone says you must do something. You cannot stand by in neutrality. By endorsing the one, you refuse the other; by rejecting them both, you make enemies of all.)

Can these brothers love each other in the midst of disagreement? Can they look past error? For it is clear that at least one of them is wrong, and each is certain it is not himself.

And if they can choose love, what then? How does this elusive, ethereal sentiment draw them closer? How can they truly be brothers if neither is willing to budge? How can they possibly find middle ground? How do they seek it? And does it really exist?

They needn't look any further. They needn't plead their cases or point their fingers. Not today. Today, we stand at that long-sought-after middle ground.

It is found at the foot of the cross. This is where sin and holiness meet and do battle. This is where grace triumphs that holiness may abound – where sin stands out in the open, stands beside its antithesis, and is drowned in the blood of its conqueror.

It is because of Good Friday that these two can remain brothers. It is because of the cross that they can be and do "family” even when they don't agree. Because it is the cross that atoned for the sins of the wrong brother – whichever he ends up being in the end. And it is the cross that atoned for the sins of the other brother, too – sins no less gruesome or deadly.

In fact, it is because of Good Friday that we can be and do “family” with redeemed sinners of all types – for such were all of us. But we were washed, we were sanctified, we were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God. (1 Cor 6:11)

It is, indeed, a Good Friday.

A Plea To the Fractured

There is a fracture – a deep, widening chasm. 

And there are wedges being driven into its most fragile places.

This is not a chasm between the Church and the world, not a sorting of the sheep and the goats. This is a fracture straight through the center of the Church.

There are some near the fault line who are trying to straddle the gap – trying to keep one foot in both camps. And they are about to fall into the chasm between the cliffs, if they haven't already.

We are playing tug-of-war across this fracture – over relief, over labels, over Scripture, over politics, over souls – and these are about to fall into the chasm.

If they haven't already.

Last week, 10,000 children fell into the chasm, victims of our divisive tug-of-war.

It's time to draw the chasm closed, time to heal and mend this fracture.

First, we must recover those we've lost in the battle. We must reach down into the darkness where we let them fall – into the pit of our judgment and our neglect – and draw them out. We must wrap our arms around them and promise them we will not let them go again.

And then we must come together. We must each, in our own land, dig in our heels, reach across the fracture, lock fingers with those we have alienated, and pull: as if our lives depended on it, with all our might, until our Church is whole again, even if that's not until we reach heaven.

We must work with all our might, fighting not against one another, but against our own foolish divisiveness in our own foolish pasts.

To those in the chasm: we are sorry. We are coming. Please forgive us and help us recover. Love us, and show us how we should have loved you.

To those standing in the gap, trying to keep peace and unity for all of us: thank you. It is only because of your painstaking efforts that this chasm is not far wider. Hold on. And pray it won't be for much longer.

To those across the way: we can see you. Some of us are trying to hear you, trying to listen. Please take my hand. Please pull with all your might – for reconciliation, for peace.

And to those on my side: stand with me, I beg you. Dig in your heels. Refuse to drift further away. Reach out, dig in, and pull.

I am not asking anyone to switch places, to cross over this fault line. You may keep your position and have harmony, too. Neither am I insisting we must do away with the fault line altogether in order to be truly united. It will always remain. We will always be on one side or the other.

But it does not have to divide or define us. There are faults enough within each one of us – there is no sense in deepening the one running between us.

To those widening the chasm, driving wedges deeper and deeper until the plates shift further and further apart: I understand. I know what it is you fight for, and I love you for your zeal. I will endeavor to listen to you, for it is your dedication to the truth that has inspired much of mine. I beg you to continue speaking this truth, continue holding it before my eyes. I am not asking you to set it aside even for a moment as we endeavor to close this gap. I am asking that you carry it with you to the fracture, burdensome as it may feel at times, and use its power, its hope, its true story of blessed reconciliation to draw together these two lands that seem forever divided.

You see, that is the greatest truth you uphold: this impossible truth that two beings which seem to be too distant for reconciliation could be joined – flawlessly, inseparably, eternally.

This truth that the Holy God could be joined with this filthy mess of humanity, this Church-Bride riddled with faults – this is the truth you bring to the reconciliation efforts.

So do not think I am asking you to lay aside the truth. Indeed, it is the truth that must draw us together. Let us stop using it to widen the chasm between us: let us allow it, instead, to work its sanctifying power on us, in us, between us, and through us. 

May we all, holding firmly to truth, forgetting what is behind, and straining toward what is ahead, find the strength to reach out, dig in, and pull.

A Plea to the Disillusioned

To those of you with your hands on the evangelical doorknob, on your way out the door for the last time: please wait a moment longer; please listen to one more plea before you leave.

To those of you already outside, those who have turned your backs for what you decided was forever: please return for a moment; please come back and listen to one more plea before it is too late.

And to those of you already far away, already shaking our dust from your feet: please, pause a moment and incline your ear; please listen to one more plea before you continue on your way.

I know you are hurting. I feel your pain – and even if I feel one small fraction of what you feel, I am devastated, ravaged by it, and cannot imagine feeling anything close to the pain you feel. It would wither me completely. But please, wait and listen, just for a moment.

We need you to stay. I need you to stay. Those of us who are working hard to change our direction, to change our priorities, to make ourselves look more like Christ need you to stay. You, who see the problems and care enough to come up with solutions – we need you.

Because if you all leave – if we all leave, we who see the flaws in the system – she will never become what she can be. She will never change, never grow, never blossom. And the Universal Church will suffer for it. Because we are one unit. There is only one Church – one new wineskin, containing one outpouring of wine. There will be no casting it off and seeking another. That's been done, once for all, and it is this one Church that will suffer from your departure.

It's not that the evangelical church and the Church are one and the same, but that the evangelical church is a part of the Church. Any damage done to evangelicalism, and any misguided patterns she upholds, hinder the Church as a whole.

Your departure, then, does no service to the Church, does not benefit her King. It only strengthens the resolve of the evangelical church to remain as it always has been.

And perhaps you have been calling out for change for years, seeing no results, and cannot endure another moment of failure. I beg you, stay and wait.

Perhaps she has burned you too many times and you have no flesh that remains un-singed. I plead with you, remain.

Do not stay for my sake. Do not stay – or leave – merely for your own. Do not let guilt keep you here, or fear, or comfort. Remain for the Church and for her King.

If you have to leave, we will come to understand. If your King is calling you elsewhere, to use your passion and your desire to change other corners of His Church, so be it. We will endeavor to carry on without your gifts.

But if you're willing to reconsider, if you're willing to forgive us and join me in hoping for improvement, let the words of C.S. Lewis encourage you as they encourage me:

"A live body is not one that never gets hurt, but one that can to some extent repair itself. In the same way a Christian is not a man who never goes wrong, but a man who is enabled to repent and pick himself up and begin over again after each stumble – because the Christ-life is inside him." (Mere Christianity)

Oh how much truer that is for the Body of believers – a conglomeration of souls filled with the Christ-life, greater than the sum of the parts. We can repair ourselves, not because we are reparable, or because we are great fixers, but because – no matter how broken and lost we have become – we will not be abandoned by our King. 

 Indeed, it is this King – He who pulled me from the mire and removed from me all guilt for my sin – who is daily sanctifying His Church. I strive to believe He will repair us – for that is what He does with broken things.

A Letter to the Beloved

Beloved,

Allow me a moment to firmly affix the lens of His love for you to my eyes. I should never endeavor to address you without it, and if ever I do, I beg your forgiveness, and His. I must begin with a brief glimpse into the perplexing reality that your Savior loves you, that He finds you worthwhile, that He makes you ever more wonderful, and that He has made you ultimately perfect. I pray that His love for you will make mine stronger, that I would someday see you through His eyes.

With that unwavering truth firmly in place, I will say very briefly and very vaguely what must be said before I carry on. It is something I was recently too hasty to state, but something I now dread divulging. The second truth is this: that we, as a collective Church, in our public arenas where all eyes can behold us, are not living up to our potential.

Our wars and our words do not reflect the love that so shockingly redeemed us all – the love with which our Savior has sought us out, each and every one.

But there is always enough grace for repentance. There is a tomorrow – I hope – for us to rectify our mistakes.

So get up, Beloved! Stand with me as we right our wrongs, embrace the souls we will spend all of eternity with, and apologize to them for making them adversaries.

And then let us move forward into a future paved with love.

When we speak truth, let us speak it so that those who need to hear it continue listening.

When we are the majority voice, let us speak softly so the minority may be heard.

And when we are the minority, the oppressed, the wronged, we must keep a hand firmly on our tongue, that it might not steer us into hateful waters.

For there is no middle ground where love is concerned: speech is either loving or it is of the devil (1 Jn 3:10). A thing cannot be both light and dark, both truth and error, both life and death; so a word cannot be both hateful and of God. If it is not loving, it is not from Him.

And there is no exception clause for brothers whom we deem wrong; wrong or right, they are brothers, and to hate them is not a thing of the Father (1 Jn 3:10).

There is no way to undo all disagreements. There will never be an earthly day when we all see eye to eye and are happy under one roof.

But it is time to stop the internal war. We must bury our hatchets, lower our weapons, call off the dogs. This war we fight is not against brother, but against the devil who would claim our brother as his own. Let us not allow him to do so. Let us weed him out from our ranks and solidify ourselves against him. In solidarity. In love.

Beloved, your name is ever in my prayers. I plead for mercy on your behalf – and on mine, for my complicity. I yearn for large-scale revolution, for redemption to right the sinking ship. I beg for shepherds who have the Father's heart. And I pray that despite the enemy's greatest efforts to disunite the flock, God would instead add daily to our number.

As I hope in the sanctifying power of the blood, a picture emerges: a picture of who we could still become. This is a picture, not of division or uniformity, but of unity and diversity. It is a picture of a flock of souls who speak life into every dead corner and cast off every chain. It is a picture of love – true, breathtaking love. A soul, washed with blood, emerging holy.

You see, Beloved, you are already holy. You have no blemish untouched by the blood. Your brother has no blemish untouched by the blood. Your sister has no blemish untouched by the blood. Blemishes there may be – but do not forget that they are temporary, and that their removal was purchased at great cost. Do not belittle His sacrifice by imagining it was insufficient; do not suggest that more is required.

Instead, embrace your new-found holiness! Embody every facet of your redemption! Hold truth with one hand and love with the other – acknowledging that your hands must be empty of earthly treasures for this to be accomplished. Affirm your brother's redemption while encouraging him on to deeper sanctification. Establish the infallibility of Scripture while acknowledging your own human potential for error – and plead with the Spirit day in and day out to show you where you have gone wrong. Wrestle with perceived falsehoods, join your brother as he wrestles with his, but never turn on him in the battle, for he is not your enemy.

You can rediscover unity. You can rediscover holiness. You can rediscover truth that walks hand-in-hand with love. Today's the day to rise up, go out, and seek it fervently.