November 30, 2010

• I'm Thinking Of An Animal That's Really, Really, Really, Really....

  BIG!

  ...with spots.  

  This past week, I had the opportunity--privilege, really--to spend time with some friends up in what's called "God's Country."  I'm not sure why it's called God's country; when I think of Heaven, I don't think of 3 feet of snow, or too many icicles, or Canada.  Or in this case, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in November.  Maybe it's because His name is called upon often.  ("Dear God, please get me out of this snow bank."  "Dear God, please help the moosen to stay out of my rootabagas.") 

  The week was exactly how I'd like a break to be: full of a lot of rest, talks, and laughter.  Towards the end however, there was a lot of bad news.  People getting sick.  Car accidents.  Broken bodies.  Broken spirits.  Death. 

  Whenever an elderly person passes away, I am reminded of my grandmother. Ever since I was a child, during what seemed to me like random events, my grandmother would tell me that she wanted to die. The Korean equivalent of, "I can't wait until Jesus comes and swings down that sweet chariot and lets me rest in peace," is something I remember hearing as early as when I was six years old.

  If life had a big reset button or a switch that could be flipped, I'm sure my grandmother would've been leaning on it. I suppose God didn't make life like that. I'm a little glad He didn't, because I probably would have never made it past my pubescent years. Those days were not gentle on me.

  Today, when speaking of my grandmother's death, I can't help but to (silently) insert the word "finally" in the sentence. Even while I grieved the loss of the only grandparent I’d ever known, I was happy for her. By the time she passed away, nearly a decade had passed since the first time I remembered hearing her say those words. During those years, she had deteriorated so much that when she came to live with us for some time, I barely recognized her. My final memories of her are fraught with guilt at not treating her as well as I should've and resenting her growing dementia.

  Still more than her death, it is her frustration at life that lingers in my memory. My clearest memory of her is one where she is pounding her fists on her chests in sorrow and frustration, lamenting an issue she was helpless to change.

  My mind turns to Lazarus, who unlike the elderly, was at his prime. He was probably vibrant and strong, energetic, and full of life and promise. When Jesus delays His visit to the point where Lazarus lays dead for three days, Mary tells Him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."

  This is true. Death cowers in the face of the Prince of Life. Jesus reminds her of this. "Your brother will rise again."

  Mary's faith is true. She responds, and I imagine this to be one of those "right answer" responses versus the response of the heart: "I know He will rise again in the resurrection at the last day."

  And here's the crazy part. Because up until now, the scene is normal. The grief is familiar. The homily is the same. At every Christian funeral, the theme has not changed. We look forward to seeing each other again. Later. But not now. But Jesus' response pierces through sameness.  

  "I am the resurrection and the life." Did you get that? He is. The author of Life was present to save, not later, not soon, but now. Mary stood in the presence of God and said, later. The fullness of power was accessible to her, and she thought, soon. And I mean, really, do I do that a lot in my life. My lack of ability to see the future is actually a huge blessing, but at the same time, I am still crippled because I think I know what it is. And I start thinking: I can't do this for the rest of my life. Dramatic, I know.

  Hope, by necessity, is something that is available immediately.  Hope does not postpone. When God is near, His promises are now. And by faith, we can grasp them. Death, sorrow, pain, and doubt are but a moment in the experience of eternity. Life does not have a reset button, but grace gives us much more hope. It’s the hope that today, God has given strength sufficient for any trial, and further, the peace and joy that experiences Him in it.

  • 8:41 pm
  • 4 Comments