Monday, June 21, 2010

A Path to the Past

He feels empty. The dark void is painful. The pain lives in the pit of his stomach. He can not describe the pain, he is just aware that it hurts. How did he get here? When did the pain and anguish grow to such an all consuming size? Who caused this indescribable pain?

He knows he must go back to find the source. Without this knowledge he believes the pain will never cease. He must walk back down the path that led him to this moment. Surely the answer is there. He knows his search will lead him to the culprit.

He turns to see a path overgrown with thickets as tall as a man. The great plants are filled with thorns. The vines so entwined that he can see no more than a few feet at a time. He wonders how this path to the past has become so overgrown. How will he ever get back to the place where there is no pain?

He begins his journey and almost immediately the thorns contact his skin; opening old scars. It hurts so badly. He struggles to work through the tangled memories, searching for the genesis. It is so hot. The sweat from his forehead pours into the newly reopened scars. The salt causes them to burn.  The thorny vines take on a life of their own, becoming entangled around his legs, cutting deeply into previously unblemished skin. This journey will leave new scars. He stumbles to his knees, the pain unrelenting. “Turn back”, he cries. The journey he thought would bring relief only exasperates. He crawls with is head down, not wanting to see where he is going any longer. The heat and humidity have become unbearable. Insects swarm around his down-turned face, their buzz becomes deafening. It seems to cry out, “You will not find the answers, the pain is forever, die with it.”

Suddenly there is a small opening in the snarl of vines and he hurriedly crawls through, standing to his feet. For just a moment the pain eases, the void begins to fill. But as quickly as the relief came it leaves.
Along the path to the past there is water. Refreshment? No, this is not living water, it is dead, stagnate water. His nostrils fill with the stench of the past. And although no clarity has come from this journey, he believes the stench has brought him closer to the truth. He is determined to find the perpetrator of his pain.

Hours pass, or maybe it is days. He cannot tell for sure. Time past is as tangled as the vines, murky as the swamp. Everything looks the same. The pain returns in full force. His body is soaked in sweat, the fresh punctures remind him of where he his. With each step the hope of discovery grows fainter. He succumbs to the anguish and lies down. Sleep is the only hope of relief. He knows it will be temporary, but that doesn’t matter. Any relief, even that which comes with the darkness of exhaustion is welcome.

The cool breeze awakens him. He stands and looks around to see that the jagged path and overgrown plants are gone. He stands on the boundary of a beautiful clearing. The dark green grass softly sways in the cool breeze. He detects the faint aroma of honeysuckle; an aroma that has always pleased. In the center of the clearing he sees a man. He knows that the man is Jesus. He begins to approach Christ and can feel the strangling vines tugging at him, keeping him from Christ. He pulls away and stands before Jesus.

“Why do I feel like this, why does it hurt so much?”

Christ only looks at him.

“Why did you let this happen to me, you know I love you?”

Christ answered, “Because I love you.”

“But why would you let someone hurt me so?” he cried.

“No one hurt you. You made choices. You held on.”

I looked down at my hands and saw that they still clung to all the bad and wrong choices I had made. When did this happen? How had I made so many wrong decisions? I tried to open my hands and let them fall, but I couldn’t.

“Christ, please take them away. I am sorry. I don’t want them anymore. I tried to do what was right. I tried to forgive others when they hurt me. I looked to you for guidance, I prayed for your help, but I didn’t see you. Where were you! I needed you and you forsook me!”

“I have been here all along, waiting.”

Lord, help me to forgive, help me to forget. Help me to see that is was I who moved away.

Amen.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Jesus Juice

So I stopped at the gas station on the way into church for a quick cup of hot coffee. Gas station coffee is never very good but caffeine was on this mornings must list of things to do.
The young I-Generation clerk at the counter asked, "Is that all this morning?". I mumbled yes and laid two dollars on the counter.
She then asked "You on the way to church?"
"Yes I am", I replied, surprised a little by her inquiry.
"Gotta get your tank filled with the Jesus Juice!", she proclaimed as she handed me my change.
Jesus Juice? I don't believe I had ever heard this unusual phrase, much less ever considered that I was filling my tank with it.
This oh-so brief conversation stayed with me on the long drive into San Antonio. In fact, it would be with me all morning; all through an inspired Bible study on moral issues, the clerks words rang in my ears. As church service began with a guest chorale from Atlanta, Georgia beautifully singing praises I continued to consider "Jesus Juice".
When the preaching began I thought surely this moment in time, spent in a small Texas gas station on I35 would begin to fade. But it didn't.
When the Mercer University youth closed us in song, sung so perfectly that I believe the angels in heaven stopped to listen, the mental picture of a tank filled with Jesus Juice, which had taken all morning to  form, was finally clear in my mind's eye.
What was also suddenly clear was the memory from the previous Sunday. That Sunday school class had been just as inspirational. The music just as uplifting and the preaching-  God's word. So why did my tank need to be re-filled? Where had the Jesus Juice gone in just seven days. Why did I feel empty going in and full coming out?
What happens to our tanks between Sundays?
It is easy to blame some evaporation on the world. Sadly our world doesn't always see God Monday through Saturday, neither do we. Maybe some of the juice is burnt up by an emotional train that speeds through our week, requiring us to expend more of it than normal. Perhaps like a thief in the night, people we know and even love siphon off our tanks for their own use.
Pretty easy to place blame.
Pretty easy to justify the need for a refill each Sunday morning by proclaiming a "Bad week."
I always try to be honest to the person in the mirror and those who show me care by reading my words. So honestly...I lose most of that Jesus Juice by poking holes in my own tank. Each time I make the wrong decision, self centered instead of Christ centered, I drive a nail through the lining of the tank, letting the juice seep out. As the tank level lessens it becomes easier to jab and jab again, making more holes, releasing more of Christ. Sometimes by Saturday night only fumes remain. Just enough to get me back to church, where I sputter in, anticipating, needing, praying for the Jesus Juice.
You see, God will let me go on in the wasteful pattern as long as I am stupid enough to do so. He loves me that much. He also loves me enough to remind me that although I may think that my tank is empty, it never really is.
"Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you."
Unconditional.
"No one can snatch them out of my hand."             
Unending.
"It is finished"                                                    
Love.

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