Four Things

Someone asked me yesterday to list four things I learned this semester. I, of course, could barely think of one at the moment. So later I cracked open my journal and read the 70 pages that make up these past four months.

1. January 26, 2012
     Our first Singers trip went well! Much better than I expected. The drive home, however, was perhaps my favorite part. Karisa drove me back, and we left earlier than the rest. We stopped at Backyard Burger to get my dinner before leaving town. I was so upset they didn't make my burger plain. We were in a hurry to head back because the weather was supposed to get bad. And it did. Extremely bad.
     We drove through lightning first, the sky flashing every few seconds to reveal dark clouds with sinister tails threatening to drop from their roiling blackness. In minutes we were swallowed into the belly of the storm. The rain pounded so hard all we could make out were the reflectors on the road. The lightening electrified the sky, so bright it hurt my eyes. It was strange: such brightness that didn't illuminate, but merely filled the air with light.
     I felt a bit nervous, but it was peculiar. I was not scared. I looked at the rain and the flashes and saw the magnificent power of God. The radio played the most perfect songs, one being "Light Up the Sky." I was not afraid, not because I was at peace with dying (which was a real possibility), but because God was in control. I knew He would take care of us.
Just minutes earlier I had been worried about pickles on my sandwich.

2. February 18, 2012
     This weekend is our first overnight Singers trip. I've decided this year to learn something from each home I stay in... I learned two things:
     The first is a small something. We talked a bit about crazy coincidences, things we laugh about and say "It's such a small world!" Mrs. Ellen made the comment, "Well I guess we know Who has a hand in that!" I'd never considered that. I'd never considered God planning those delightful, unpredictable encounters.
     The second is a bit larger and deeper. Natalie made a comment about the closeness of our youth group in high school that I suppose stuck with Mrs. Ellen. She later told us that she had heard an alarming statistic on the rate of youth group members that maintain church attendance after graduating. She told us that her sons had all grown up in the same youth group. Now, one attends church, one is nominally a member, and one does not attend at all. And all from the same youth group. I suppose I always knew, but at that moment it hit me how vital the personal relationship is. I think perhaps the statistic has always been alarming. But there are and always will be exceptions to the statistics. They are rare, yes. But there are, scattered among us, the truly dedicated disciples. Like jewels hidden in the depths of the mine, lying between ordinary chunks of rock and earth, they exist. Oh how I long to be such a gem!

3. March 25, 2012
     We had two "wow" moments on the retreat. The first was Thursday night.
It had been a gloomy, rainy day. In our final session, the last song we sang was "You're Beautiful" by Phil Wickham. As soon as we started singing, the sun burst through the cloudy sky into a beautiful sunset. The light illuminated the room in a shower of gold and orange. As we sang about how beautiful He is, He showed us. All I could do was turn and sing, looking out the window at the light that does not even compare to the light of Christ.
     The second came Friday night.
We watched the Louie Giglio video "Indescribable." In it, he shows the vastness of the universe and the tininess of our earth. God displays His power in space. The day had been cloudy and rainy (again!). In fact, we had just played outside in the dark with not a star in sight. The whole video, I asked God to sweep away the clouds and reveal His stars, reveal His power, reveal Himself. When I walked outside to the bonfire, I looked to the sky in amazement. The sky glittered with a million diamonds, with balls of fire miles upon miles away. He showed Himself.
     The universe is huge. God is bigger. He measures it with the width of His hand. If our planet is a speck of dust in a ray of light, how small are we?
And He died for us.
He wanted me so badly, He gave up His kingdom, His title, His safety, His life for me. He became sin Who knew no sin that we, we minuscule beings living on a tiny speck of dust, might become His righteousness.
That is my God.

4. April 1, 2012
     Last night, I went to see "The Hunger Games" with some friends. It was late; we went to the 10:05 showing. On our way, our friends called to tell us that there was an accident, that we should take a detour, but we misunderstood the exit to take. We stopped in traffic, waiting to move on. We could see the number of emergency vehicles, more arriving as we waited, and we knew it was bad. But we had no idea.
     When we drove by, all I could say was, "Oh, God... Jesus, please." I was not using His name in vain. I really was crying out to Him.
Debris littered the highway, like a tornado had torn through a house. The vehicle itself lay on its roof, barely resembling a Jeep. It looked as if a giant had heartlessly crushed it with his fist. A young man, a teenager, sat on the side with his head in his hands, a woman next to him offering what comfort she could.  And on the asphalt lay two black bags. Two black bags holding two soul-less bodies. I have never seen anything like it.
     I felt so selfish to carry on my way to the movies. It felt so meaningless. I felt shallow to cry at the loss of a character when, that night, parents in real life would be told they lost their child. So instead, I turned to the wall and cried for those families. I had so anticipated that movie, but I didn't truly enjoy it. I kept thinking of those black bags and those suddenly smaller families.
     On our way home, we drove through the place where the accident had been. All that remained was a bit of scattered debris, broken glass, and the wetness on the road where they had attempted to wash it all away. I think one of us commented, "Oh good, it's cleaned up." But it wasn't really. You can't clean a mess like that. You can pick up pieces and take away debris. You can kick the glass into the ditch and blast away oil and blood with water. But you can't clean it up. From now on, families are smaller. From now on, friends are always missing one. From now on, two souls are spending eternity somewhere.
You can't clean that up.

Best Friday

Today isn't just Good Friday. It's the very best Friday.

Today's the day they say that you died for me,
Gave up your breath to give me life.
But I think what you've done reaches far beyond words.
It's bigger than a catchy phrase or a familiar verse.
This thing you've done is far too big to grasp.
I cannot wrap it in a box and place a bow atop.
I cannot speak words that explain your actions.

"Suffering" doesn't cut it.
"Agony" doesn't begin.
"Sacrifice" is so unworthy.
"Gift" is far too kind.

You took off your king robes
Not in exchange for something greater,
But for the humiliation of nakedness.

You gave up authority to speak into existance
Not for a slightly lower position,
But for the silence of a lamb.

You gave up heaven for Nazarath
And galaxies for earth.

I cannot describe your actions.
I cannot express your deeds.
I will never comprehend the extent of such love.

But I taste it.

It flavors my life.
It seasons my heart.
My soul leaps at a drop of it.
My body surges with the warmth of just one morsel.

I cannot explain it.
And for that,
I praise you.

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.