Protection

For days now, since before Thanksgiving, I've been on the cusp of a good thick sulk. I can't (or don't want to) pinpoint why--it's just a feeling. But busy-ness forces me to keep moving. And when I'm finally home, with the lights off and mellow music playing and a few hours carved out when I plan to sit on my couch and just wallow in depression...right when I'm ready to give in the phone rings, or I end up in a surprisingly random Instant Message conversation.

The question underlying all that is why do I feel this way? I ask myself this constantly as I try to talk myself out of it. My conclusion is that I'm brokenhearted. I am always asked--and I always ask myself--what am I brokenhearted over?

Hmmm.

I've been pondering this for a few days.

It seems to me that we sometimes try to make too much out of causality.

Must there be reason? Must there be a catalyst?

Do I need some event, some person, some catastrophic new development to cause me to feel this way? Does it even make sense to say that a person "broke my heart?" As if any of us ever had whole hearts. The audacity...

(Believe me...I've wailed and moaned about someone breaking my heart. I'm not immune, just reevaluating my own rhetoric and perspective.)

I'm reminded of one of my favorite passages in Isaiah:

The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me,
because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the LORD's favor and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion-
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendor.

They will rebuild the ancient ruins and restore the places long devastated;
they will renew the ruined cities that have been devastated for generations.
Aliens will shepherd your flocks;
foreigners will work your fields and vineyards.
And you will be called priests of the LORD, you will be named ministers of our God.
You will feed on the wealth of nations, and in their riches you will boast.

Isaiah 61.1-6 (NIV)

(to really get the rhythm, read it out loud. Seriously.)

These are the words that Jesus reads in temple after returning from his trials in the wilderness. I think we can safely conclude that we are all poor, heartbroken, captive, and imprisoned. We all feel the presence of our enemies, feel out of favor with God; we all grieve for this world that should have been (please, God, Your kingdom come).

This man Jesus comes offering to fulfill the promise: to bestow crowns instead of ashes, exchanging mourning for gladness, garments of praise in stead of despair.

And yet sometimes I feel like sulking.

This, then, is the frontier of my spiritual life. My emotions versus my faith. Both are real, both have their place. But in which do I trust? Which do I feed and encourage? In which do I truly believe?

Do I believe that God will rebuild the ancient ruins in my soul?

Do I really believe it?

Am I willing to stake my life on it? Am I willing to stake my attitude on it? My perspective?

"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see." Or, as Eugene Peterson puts it:

The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It's our handle on what we can't see.

(Hebrews 11.1, NIV and MSG, respectively)

Indeed. On this I hope.