students of jesus

One of the un-looked for pleasures of this Saturday Song series is the quiet space and time it takes to become re-acquainted with an old friend. W.H. Auden is that friend today. Auden's is a distinctly 20th century voice; he was born in 1907 and died in 1973.

Christians are not entirely at ease with Auden. Some of us may be surprised to see him in heaven's mansion, seated comfortably, cigarette in hand, greeting us with a wry smile. But should we be surprised? That Great Hall is filled with examples of God's daring and creative grace. Auden credits Søren Kierkegaard, Charles Williams, and C.S. Lewis for guiding him back to belief. That's pedigree enough for me.

Today's selection is an excerpt from a larger work. As such I've chosen to give it a name: Mary at the Manger. It imagines the young mother of Jesus holding her baby, pondering the great mystery and plan of incarnation.

Mary At The Manger

Oh shut your bright eyes that mine must endanger

With their watchfulness: protected by its shade

Escape from my care: what can you discover

From my tender look but how to be afraid?

Love can but confirm the more it would deny.

Close your bright eye.

Sleep. What have you learned from the womb that bore you

But an anxiety your Father cannot feel?

Sleep. What will the flesh that I gave do for you,

Or my mother love, but tempt you from His will?

Why was I chosen to teach His son to weep?

Little one, sleep.

Dream. In human dreams earth ascends to Heaven

Where no one need pray nor ever feel alone.

In your first hours of life here, O have you

Chosen already what death must be your own?

How soon will you start on the Sorrowful Way?

Dream while you may.

What a powerful urge it is to figure things out, to master a concept, to place an idea firmly within our grasp.

If only Jesus would cooperate. 

Today I sing a cautious song against systematic theology: that holy grail of the academy, driven by the conviction that we can stuff the God of the universe into 1,264 pages.

I know: I’m already being unfair. I’ve already built the strong man. I’ve already insulted half my friends. So in advance I offer an apology to my educated brothers and sisters, half-hearted though it is. I’m sorry for such judgment; I haven’t done the work you have done: years of study and hard thinking. Any team with Dallas Willard in the starting line-up deserves respect. And yet . . .

I once listened to a seminarian speak for an hour on the subject of penal substitutionary atonement. He reviewed the meaning of Greek words and blazed a trail through what felt like the entire New Testament. He was passionate, and beneath his words anyone could see his love for Jesus. At the end of his presentation he asked for questions. There were none. How could there be—who knew as much as this guy? But then I jumped into the pool: “Dr. FireHeart,” I started. “If you can forgive me bringing up the so-what factor, I’d like to ask you why—why do we need to know this?”

Dr. FireHeart shuffled his papers a moment and gathered his thoughts. He looked back at me and stammered, “I, uh . . . Well, I just think it’s good to know.” The room was awkwardly quiet until the moderator thanked Dr. FireHeart for his excellent presentation and dismissed the room. Other academicians filed past me with cold stares.

Today’s post is not an argument in favor of ignorance. Everything I’ve learned I’ve received from generous and wise men and women, people much more learned than I. They have run the race and done the work. In most cases their passion for Jesus sustained them in that work. But if I’m honest, I would rather be left stammering and befuddled by the tension in Jesus' words than reduce him to a comprehensible theology. The root meaning of “comprehend” comes from ancient verb “to grasp.” I smile at the thought of Jacob trying to grasp the angel of the Lord and wrestle him to the ground. I smile at the thought of the human mind trying to grasp the lightning that flashes from the east to the west, or trying to grasp the wind, which blows where it wills. If any part of me is able to grasp the fullness of God, it’s my heart, not my mind.

Instead, I’m asking what is necessary to become a student of Jesus. I’m asking what it means—in practical terms—to take his yoke and learn from him. I’m asking why “discipleship” is so often characterized as study, and so rarely characterized as apprenticeship. I’m asking if the smartest people in the room always make the best disciples. I’m asking why, after writing his 13-volume Church Dogmatics (nearly 8,000 pages in the English Translation), Karl Barth chose to summarize his work by reciting the children’s song, Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

I’m asking for the grace of God to be rooted and established in in me, and that I may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that we all may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

Did you ever notice how sounds seem to carry further in the night? Or how, as you lie awake in bed, you hear the house settle and creak? Our hearing improves in the dark. In the stillness of night we notice the whispers around us. What if God is whispering in the dark? There’s reason to think so. In the darkness of difficulties and fear, God is speaking.

Jesus instructs us to listen in the dark—not only listen, but to repeat: “So do not be afraid of them, for there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs.” (Matthew 10: 26-27)

Matthew chapter 10 is all about the Lord’s instructions to his disciples. They are instructions to us as well. It’s a rich chapter. We are given authority and power. We are given mission and strategy. And the Lord also tells us to expect opposition and difficulty. Part of the good news is we can expect God to speak to us in the dark, and what we hear can be spoken in the light.

Consider the words of comfort spoken to Paul during the dark times of his affliction and pain.

Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

What Paul heard in the dark, he spoke in the light. The comfort he received speaks to us today with the same power and hope. Perhaps that’s why Paul referred to the Father as “the God of all comfort,” and reminded us that the comfort we receive is a source of strength for others.

Our hearing improves in the dark because we are not distracted by motion, sight, or activity. In times of difficulty and conflict we have the opportunity to focus on the important and forget the trivial. God is not the author of pain or affliction; instead, he turns such times to his advantage by coming close to us, suffering with us, and whispering words capable of changing our lives—and the lives of others.

Dark and difficult times become the currency we use to purchase God’s wisdom and strength. Like all his blessings he wants us to share what we have received . . . what has God whispered to you in the dark? I’d love to know.