Quiet Space…

A couple of weeks ago I had the pleasure of sleeping under one of the darkest, clearest skies that I have seen since leaving Africa. The Milky Way was plainly visible and the sheer abundance of stars made the moon-less night seem bright. As the time ticked on and the last of the katydids gave up its song, we were enveloped in a deep, secure silence beneath a star-filled sky.

Lying there in that quiet night I could not help but feel small, overwhelmed by the majesty of the heavens and awed by the distance and time reflected in each twinkling star. And it came to me—from where, I do not know—that I was lying beneath Jesus’ sky. What a thought! Other than allowing for geographic differences, the heavens I was observing were the same as those beheld by Jesus when He was on the earth. In an instant the historical distance between my Lord and me disappeared, and time, the great adversary to my peace and experience, shrunk to insignificant proportion.

It is hard to find dark skies these days, almost as hard—if not harder—than it is to find genuine quiet. Humanity seems devoted to pushing both out of existence. Why are we so fearful of the dark and the quiet? Because in the dark and the quiet we are confronted by truths we’d rather not face. The heavens reveal our tremendous insignificance. Whatever journey we walk over the course of our life, its measure pales in comparison to the distance between us and the nearest star. And however long we might live on the earth, our life is less than a blink of an eye in space time. And silence allows our deepest, darkest questions to resound—why am I here? What does it mean? What is the sense of it all?

No wonder we fear darkness and silence! Both confront us with our powerlessness and dependence. All the monuments we build to ourselves—our lusts for fame and fortune, power and might—are just an attempt to create a meaning and importance that might outlive us. Yet before the light that leaves the nearest of the stars today even approaches a place of being seen on this earth, all of our monuments, memories and posterity will be gone. And in spite of our best efforts we can provide no answer to the questions that worry us deep down. So we create noise to avoid the questions, and generate light to become blind to our insignificance. It is as though an immersion in the sights and sounds of our own making will persuade us that we are important and that our lives do have meaning.

In the cacophonous light, we might find each other. But in the silent darkness, we are led to God. And it is only in God that we can find genuine purpose and meaning. Apart from God, life is meaningless; it is nothing more than ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In the darkness we will turn to Him, shrunk to our proper size, and lift up a hand in hope and faith. ‘Please God,’ we cry, ‘Take me, and make it all mean something.’

God is fully present at all times and places, but perhaps no where more vitally than in silence and darkness. Quiet darkness helps us see ourselves as we truly are and turn to Him as He truly is. He is Light; He is Everlasting; He is the Creator of heaven and earth. And He is the Father, the One who knows us, and who calls us by name, giving us ultimate meaning and significance.

It may be hard to find dark skies and genuine quiet. But search for them; unplug from the false illumination of man and turn to the canopy created by God. Enter silence. Embrace the dark. And experience His presence in a new and vital way.

Failing to relate…

The other night my wife and I enjoyed a pleasant escape from our ordinary routine and had dinner at a local sushi restaurant. Seated across from us was a father, his twenty-something daughter and her eight- to ten-year-old child. While the adults talked, the child watched cartoons on her personal DVD player, headphones shielding her from the “boredom” of real-life discourse. I could only wonder how and if that child would ever learn to behave in public at a restaurant.

We parents frequently bemoan the options available to our kids today. Like parents of every generation, we marvel at the difference between our own childhoods and those of our children. But might we actually have something to worry about these days? Kids spend time talking to their friends on-line instead of across the back fence; they play long simulated games on the internet instead of playing catch, capture the flag, or nearly anything at all outside. It does make one wonder if they are learning how to relate to other human beings face to face.

I just finished reading a little book that tangentially addresses this issue: Martin Buber’s I and Thou. It is one of those books that is a slow, demanding read, and would profit from the opportunity for discussion, something for which I am particularly starved of here. Nonetheless, it is a profitable book that yields up some interesting and provocative ideas.

Consider this. Buber suggests that our fascination with and reliance upon technology may indeed inhibit our ability to relate as human beings:

“The basic relation of man to the It-world includes experience, which constitutes the world ever again, and use, which leads it toward its multifarious purpose—the preservation, alleviation, and equipment of human life. With the extent of the It-world the capacity for experiencing and using it must also increase. To be sure, the individual can replace direct experience more and more with indirect experience, the ‘acquisition of information’; and he can abbreviate use more and more until it become specialized ‘utilization’: a continual improvement of capacity from generation to generation is nevertheless indispensable. This is what is usually meant when people speak of a progressive development of the life of the spirit. This certainly involves the real linguistic sin against the spirit; for this ‘life of the spirit’ is usually the obstacle that keeps man from living in the spirit, and at best it is only the matter that has to be mastered and formed before it can be incorporated. The obstacle: for the improvement of the capacity for experience and use generally involves a decrease in man’s power to relate—that power which alone can enable man to live in the spirit.”¹

For all of our progress and wealth, for all the accoutrements we have added to life to make it a thing of ease, we seem to be losing a sense of civility, courtesy and respect for others. That in and of itself is troubling; yet what is even more disconcerting, is what that means for the spirituality of our age. What kind of relationship with God can we have when we have no capacity for human relationship? What kind of relationship to God will that little girl have, when she experiences His mysterious reality as hidden, unmovable and inactive? God is no more of a ‘dog and pony’ show than most people are; the profit is found in the relationship, not in an entertainment. The Spirit—God Himself—exists in relationship, as must we, if we are to ever satisfy our own purpose.

¹ Martin Buber, I and Thou (trans. Walter Kaufmann; New York: Simon & Schuster, 1970), 88–89.

The temptation to despair…

As some of you know, I am at a cross-roads in life. After returning from overseas missionary work, I embarked on further study to enhance my understanding of scripture. Now back in the United States after 15 years away, I have begun a search for ministry work in American churches and schools. But from the stream of rejections I receive, (or worse, the cacophony of silence from places who don’t have the courtesy to respond at all), I am left to wonder if I am qualified to do anything. There seems to be no place in the American church for me. I may make a good Sunday school teacher, an appreciated contributor to the operating fund, or even a valuable servant on a committee or two. But I apparently do not fit the profile of an associate teaching pastor or senior pastor of a church.

It can be profoundly dispiriting to read ministry job postings on-line. They seem to want everything that I am not. I do not view church in psychological or business terms, and am uncomfortable with the language of enterprise that permeates the contemporary pastorate. I am deeply suspicious of the ultimate effects of purpose-driven, seeker-sensitive, and emerging church ecclesiologies. And although I remain conservative in theology, I have long ago abandoned an empty-headed anti-intellectualism that avoids genuine scholarship.

The situation is almost enough to lead to a temptation to despair. But that always brings to mind something Marilla Cuthbert said to the young Anne at Green Gables: “to despair is to turn your back on God.”¹ In spite of the over-whelming sense of the impossibility of my circumstances, I do believe in God. The fact of God means that no matter what, there is always hope. Therefore, no matter how it looks at this moment, with God I remain hopeful and expecting.

When I think of the circumstances many people face in this world, my challenges pale in comparison. Yet regardless of what anyone faces, the one thing we need to remember is that there is a God. And this God is our Father, whose love for us is so vast that He gave His only Son Jesus to suffer and die for us. And this God, who is our Father, is the Sovereign Creator of Heaven and Earth! He is love, and His eyes are over us, and His ears are open to our prayers.

Rather than despair, we need only turn and face God, on our knees, in prayer. There we come to a place of expressing and experiencing our complete and utter dependence upon Him. He will make a way. And nothing is impossible for Him. Therefore stand against every temptation to despair. Resist the devil and remember God.

¹Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables (NY: Grosset & Dunlap, 1970, c1935).