Shoot the Wounded

In Francis Schaeffer’s “The Mark of a Christian,” he puts forth one of those novel ideas that at once seems so profound yet simple; something I’ve known but never put into words.  The thought is that Christians, more so than members of other religious groups, have a pattern of shooting their wounded. 

This is a difficult pill to swallow, and most feel their defenses rising against such a contention. I number myself among this group. How many brothers and sisters in the faith do I interact with on a regular basis, encouraging, lifting up, and praying for in their battles?  The members of my Bible Study and Church are people I’ve known for years, always ready with a smile and firm, assuring handshake as they ask sincere and caring questions about my life, its direction, and even the deepest longings of my soul.  Many have laid hands upon one another in times of crisis, bonding over the shared vulnerability that such a tumultuous season creates.  How is it, then, that loving members of the Body are said to kick one another when they’re down, so to speak?  It is possible, even likely, that the experiences of others have differed greatly from mine…but I think one would be hard-pressed to find a brother who doesn’t believe he has an attitude of loving-kindness toward fellow believers.

As with most sin, the twist is subtle; distorted monstrosities are not usually effective means of deception.  Pride, that leprous appendage of self, burrows its way in and leeches the truth from my mind.  On the most practical, daily home front of my existence—because that is where the real war is waged—when I see a fellow believer struggling, particularly in a capacity I know they have been warned against, there is a haughtiness that tends to arise.  Even as I see and commit to pray, the words that pour forth and the attitude conveyed are not often those of a heart broken for a fellow sufferer.  And here’s the thing:  Even when I recognize the ugliness within myself for what it is, I don’t always rush to crush it.  I cling to it.  I cleave.  Sometimes I even revel in it.  All the while one of God’s precious lambs is bleeding, and Heaven weeps. 

My carnal need to feel superior trumps any desire to reach out a hand, or at least a healing hand.  How perilous a path we tread when the first place we run to is our tinted glass perches.  Life is too short and much too precious for that.

“By this all people will know that you are my disciples, IF YOU HAVE LOVE FOR ONE ANOTHER.”  (John 12:35, emphasis mine).

Father forgive us.

Grazing the Infinite

Mundane. How does such a word sneak into the English dictionary? Does it have any true meaning? Every theory needs a hypothesis. I'm going to argue the negative on this one.

Maybe I'm stepping out on a limb, but I don't think I could lead my life in a way that allows and even calls for many of my words and actions to go forth void. What I mean is that every turn I take and every exchange I have has the potential for something eternal. I have to believe this. Not because I need some sort of emotional security blanket or because of some groundless idealistic belief in the altruistic spirit of humanity. No. From time to time I do deliberately look around, and sometimes I even glance up. Just a glimpse through the keyhole of the life of another makes it abundantly clear that what I do matters on a scale that I cannot begin to comprehend. Those connections and relationships are all important, but what is even more important is believing that the dots are somehow connected. Not just to the point that taking a genuine interest in my neighbor will bring light to unexpected places, possibly triggering some cosmic domino effect. It is rather a sincere trust that, whatever I do and whomever I do it to, the ramifications and cause-and-effect chains that are triggered go beyond the temporal and into realms that cannot be seen. That sounds pretty important.

So when I hear (more often than not in the timbre of my own voice) of the routine and monotony of the daily grind, I wrestle within myself. There are mountaintops and there are valleys; but roller coasters that go up eventually come back down, usually at an alarming rate. It is such a simple truth, though so slippery, that I am inherently valuable, loved, and worthy to hold the hands of another as dirty as mine.

I will not go for glamour. I do not think that I am supposed to. But that doesn't mean the screenplay of my life needs to be devoid of the dramatic, important, and amazing aspects of the simple human experience.

Even I am a fan of PBS.

Home

The iron gate slammed home as we made our way into the holding cells on death row at Angola State Penitentiary.  The echo through the hall was the only sound as we each wrestled within our own prison of thoughts and trepidations.  Thousands of miles from the comforts of suburbia and a week into the adventure I’d so earnestly sought, second thoughts quickly turned to thirds and fourths.  How different, how utterly contrasting were these base and stark surroundings from the bedazzled posters advertising a trip to Louisiana for spring break.  As with any new experience, anxieties over new relationships and transitioning to a different, though short-lived, way of life (e.g. waking up in a supposed prison safehouse to find a life-sentence inmate sweeping the floor next to your bunk) stretched and twisted each in uncomfortable new directions.  As with any.  But this, what was this?  No, no, I’m not going to just stretch and twist…I’m going yank and snap you in two.  Those sound like the words of an all-loving, personal, sovereign God, right?  But it wasn’t about me.

The ice-breakers I’d memorized and the briefing we’d just been given turned to soup in my mind as a buzzer ushered us into the passageway.  Reluctantly, my feet began to move forward as I gazed timidly through the bars and into the eyes of the outcasts of this world.  I moved slowly, not wanting to be alone but joining in here and there as those with more proficient tongues than I made their way into the lives of these prisoners.  A friendly smile, perhaps a word or two of encouragement as I grappled for some common ground were the best I could offer most of these men.  I continued on my own, finding a cell that had eluded the attention of the others.  As I peered into the darkness a strong, set black face looked fiercely back at mine.  I cannot remember his name.  I cannot remember what we said.  What I recall without hesitation was the way his weathered hands reached through the bars and found mine as he asked if he could pray for me.  The sincerity in the eyes of one condemned to death is not something that can be spoken or justified; it does not need to be.  And true faith in one of the darkest places imaginable has things written all over it that I cannot begin to touch. 

How beautiful the mystery, and how loudly does Heaven sing.