Is this love?

I wrote a song yesterday. This is strange because a) I don't do that and b) I didn't know I could do that.

Wednesday in chapel, a girl who spent a semester in Bangladesh spoke about her experience. I felt saddened by the living conditions of the people and their lives. But what really affected me was the pictures and stories about their sacrifices.

She showed pictures of blood flowing down the streets, blood that they hoped would cover their sins. She said they wanted a deliverer, but they just couldn't believe it was Jesus.

That's when my heart broke.

Yesterday when I sat to play the piano, I played a sad song. Suddenly it had words. I questioned God. I don't understand why He doesn't just swoop in and save the day. He could, right? When I finished my song, I wasn't satisfied. The song was complete, but it didn't really express what I was feeling. I didn't feel angry or disillusioned by God. I felt something else. A sense of responsibility. I kept playing and singing, working out the kinks. Halfway through a sentence, I froze. This is not my song to God; this is His song to me.

How can you let them suffer,
Can you see them try so hard to see your face?
How can you hear them crying
Out for you to pick them up?

How can you be all you say you are
If you don't help your people?
How can you do all you say you've done
If you don't do something?

Is this love? That you turn away?
That you hide your face from their searching hearts?
Is this love? That you'd walk away
When all they need is your embrace?
Is this love?

How can you see them striving,
Can you see them pouring out their sacrifice?
Why won't you let them know
That the blood's in vain,
Let them know that the price is paid?

How can you be all you say you are
If you don't help your people.
How can you do all you say you've done
If you don't do something?

Is this love? That you turn away?
That you hide your face from their searching hearts?
Is this love? That you'd walk away
When all they need is your embrace?
Is this love?

Radical?

What is a radical Christian?

We hear about the habits of certain believers. We read about Daniel refusing to eat the rich food of the Babylonians and taking time to pray three times a day. We hear about a person memorizing whole books of the Bible. We hear these stories and think, "Wow. They are radical Christians." But are they really?

Is it really radical to refuse to eat what God forbade? Is it radical to spend three hours in prayer when Christ says to pray without ceasing? Is it radical to memorize several verses when we are taught to hide His word in our hearts? Is it radical, or is it expected?

Perhaps our idea of radical Christianity is distorted. Perhaps distorted by the world's expectations. Perhaps we do the bare minimum. Perhaps we do just enough to be seen as Christians, but not enough to really appear different.

When the Israelites left Egypt, they numbered around two million. Out of these original two million, only two entered the Promised Land. Why? Because they were the only two who completely trusted, who completely held God to His word by obeying Him. One in a million.

Complete surrender, complete obedience is not popular. Nor is it common. But is it truly radical?

What if we were radical by the world's standards? What if we refused to eat the richness of the world, refused to watch what they watch or hear what they hear? What if we refused to find entertainment or humor in the things God hates? What if we devoted time to be still and listen or to memorize His word? What if we were actually different on the outside, and not just within? Would we be radical? Or would we just be obedient?

Flying with Geese

Do you ever have a million thoughts flying around in your head? Colliding into each other? Each rambling down a separate path, but, somehow, you know they are all connected? I do.

The geese last week were migrating. They came in droves to land in the farmers' fields or soar above my head as I trudged to class. I watched them fly in their v's, seamlessly changing leaders, all surging toward what their eyes cannot see and their tiny brains cannot grasp. Surging toward something they simply know is.

I heard a question recently, a question that didn't really want an answer. If God knows our future, why would He create people who He knows will not choose a relationship with Him?

I don't have the answer. I don't think there is one. But I'm reminded of the geese...

I think of the geese that fly without doubt, the geese who do what they're supposed to do without question or suggestion.
How dull it would be to be a goose.
I don't envy geese. I don't want to spend time with them. I would not choose a goose as my best friend or give everything to have a relationship with one. I want to spend time with thinkers. I want to hear other thoughts or opinions, to share life.

When I was young, and only on a few occasions, I played with my grandmother's doll house. I made them talk and walk. I gave them names and personalities. And I suppose I enjoyed it. But the real fun, the real thrill came when I imagined them alive, when I imagined them as little people living, moving, breathing, speaking on their own. I enjoyed the dolls most when the dolls came to life.

God did not want an earth filled with generation after generation of dolls. He wanted life.

I wonder, if  I were Creator, if I could do it. Could I make creatures who would not choose me? Would I make a little boy who would grow into a little man who would declare I didn't even exist? Would I not? Would I refuse to create him simply because he would not choose me? I don't know. It would break my heart.

I am glad we are not ignorant fowl. I am thankful we form opinions and ideas and questions. But I think, eventually, we must choose to fly like the geese. There are seasons for questions; yes, many seasons in my life. However, not every question will have an answer. Not every puzzle piece will fall neatly into its place of logic. It is then that we must fly like the geese: not knowing how or why, but simply soaring, surging toward what we know is truth.

The End

It's late. And I'm breaking my "no late night blogging" rule. (I try not to blog late at night, lest my mind be overpowered by emotions... something I've found happens to my poor brain with lack of sleep.) But... IT'S NEW YEAR'S EVE! And I just so happened to find an old journal entry that applies to such an occasion.

 

I wrote this entry on May 21, 2011; the day the rapture was projected to occur according to one Harold Camping. It didn't. Even though this isn't exactly a New Year's entry, I think it fits.

Today is the day the world is supposed to end. At least that's what some people say. Yesterday my [internet] homepage posed a question: "Why are we so obsessed with the end times?" I think the answer can be summed up in one word: control.
We humans like to think we're in control. It's why we tame lions and drive fast. It's why we fight to hold the remote. We want an easy and predictable God, so we can fool ourselves into thinking we're in control. That's why we scour the environment to find an excuse for unexpected rain showers. We wouldn't want to give credit to a wild God.
He is, you know. Wild. In The Chronicles of Narnia, they speak of Aslan. They say "After all, he's not a tame lion." Neither is God.

I think we want to know when the world will end so that we can pretend we're the ones controlling it. Maybe we can find a man-made excuse for it. Perhaps an "inconvenient truth."

I know I'm a Christian, but there is still that feeling I get when I think about the end. It's the same feeling I get when I'm caught in a storm. It's deep in the pit of my stomach. No control. My stomach rebels with my heart. They grasp desperately for a hold, a hold that says, "I choose." But I breathe deep and remember, and there is peace. I remember He is there. This Lion of a God holds my fate, not me. He is wild, yes, but He is gracious. Oh, is He gracious.
I don't think the world will end today. Or in 2012. Or any other time a human predicts. I think God will use the end to remind us, to remind us Who is in control.

We little men

Oh, the frailty of men, with our bones that bend and break! I saw an x-ray of a broken bone this week. The rod of strength was in pieces. How is this? That bone seemed so strong, so big. How is it that it could so crumble beneath weight or by force?

Maybe we are not so big after all.

Maybe we are just tiny.

I remember years ago seeing a photograph entitled "The Pale Blue Dot". The picture was taken billions of miles from our planet. Do you see us?

We are there, you know.

There. That tiny speck of dust. That pale blue dot. That is earth. That pale blue dot holds the Great Wall of China, the Burj Khalifa, and the Sistine Chapel. That pale blue dot is where Columbus discovered new lands, and the World Wars were fought. That pale blue dot is where we live and laugh and cry and love. Where we fight for more power or more land or just more. All of this, on a speck of dust. How tiny we are.

It's strange to think of my world as nothing more than a speck. I imagine God watching us on our little chunk of rock and metal. I think of a grade schooler watching an ant farm, laughing at their frantic running, all for nothing. I feel so insignificant to be an ant on a pale blue dot.

But that's not how it is. Not at all.

He knows my name.

He's not some god who threw the stars and planets into the sky. He spoke them into being. He created. He used his time, his thought, his care. He didn't drop Adam and Eve onto this rock and leave them to frantically scramble for food and life. He walked with them, spoke with them.

I am not another random ant running about on the pale blue dot I call home.

I am Moriah Beth Hendrix. My God knit me together.

He knows my actions, my words, my thoughts, my soul. He talks with me and laughs with me and holds me when I weep. He gave up His precious son, His only son, Himself, for me and the rest of mankind. For our tiny lives on our pale blue dot. He created the vast universe, but chose one pale blue dot to hold life, life that He knits and loves.

How very humbling to know that this God, infinitely bigger than our pale blue dot, infinitely bigger than the universe, knows my name.

How very wonderful that we men with our brittle bones have a relationship with this unfathomably enormous God.

Maybe we are not so big after all.

Maybe we are tiny.

But our giant God gives us worth.

Can you hear it?

My Mamma told me that creation sings praises to God. Now I know the song. It's not a song that touches my ears, but my eyes.

I can see their music.

I see it in the flowers that turn their faces to heaven, to their Maker.

 

I see it in the flocks of birds that fly in unison, in a pattern unforeseen by men.

I see it in the tiny ants that creep through forests of grass. Tiny bodies, filled with tiny organs, moving to the heartbeat of life.

I see it in the wild rush of waters, flowing from the ground across great chunks of land.

 

Most of all, I see it in the trees.

I see their song in their majestic trunks and outstretched branches, in the roughness of their bark and the green of their leaves.

 In the winter, when the ice and snow blanket their limbs, I see the mighty trees bow to Him.

But now I watch them dance, dance to the rhythm of His breath.

Hush! Listen! Can you hear it? The sound has reached my ears. But the sound is not the song. The sound is applause. As the wind strokes the branches, I hear the praise of the trees. They are honoring Him. He is their Creator. He is worthy of their praise.

God in Us

God has grown me this summer; grown me, not as a fast shooting weed, but gently, as a Master Gardener cultivates a prize rose. He has used this summer as a time of refreshment. He has used this summer to let me worship Him. He has used this summer to show me, once again, that a relationship with Him is real. He has revealed to me the realness of the Holy Spirit.

I first started thinking about the Holy Spirit on our mission trip. I read, in my quiet time one day, the story of Stephen's stoning. When it said in Acts 7 that Stephen saw the glory of God, I wondered, what does God's glory look like? For some reason, the story reminded me of Saul, who tragically had the Lord's spirit removed from his life. I cannot imagine the jet black emptiness. Saul, who had tasted the glory of God, began to gorge himself on his own glory. There's not room in the belly of man's soul for both dishes. I am so very thankful that God will not take away His Spirit from His followers today. As I thought about the appearance of God's glory, I realized something. I have seen it. It is inside of me. We believers have a piece of God's glory within us. We Christians have the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of God, in our hearts. God in us.

The mission trip is when I finally saw the awesomeness of the Holy Spirit. Back home, I've seen the authenticity of it at my job... the day care, of all places!

There is a boy, a soon-to-be fourth grader, who attends both my home church and the day care. Last year, he became a Christian at our VBS (he was in my group). I wondered then, did he really mean it? Did he even understand what he was doing? The answer to both, I now know, is a resounding yes. I can see the Holy Spirit working on his little heart. If he does something wrong, I can see the Holy Spirit convicting him as he ceases play and mulls over his actions. He will come and confess to me or ask me if what he has done is really wrong. At the end of the day he usually asks me, "Did I do anything wrong today?" At first, I found his questions and confessions slightly amusing. Now I find deep comfort in them. The Holy Spirit is real. It's not some mystical being floating across our most moving worship services. It's not some power you gain after a sizable donation to a big-haired man on television. It's not an angel perching on one shoulder or Jiminy Cricket whispering in your ear. The Holy Spirit is God. Three in one. Father, Spirit, and Son. And we have this treasure in jars of clay. We are not the value. We are just clay pots. But we have become valuable because of what we hold. We clay pots contain diamonds. God in us.