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.