The Glory Has Departed

There is this interesting story that comes near the beginning of First Samuel. The Israelites are battling the Philistines (I know, big surprise) and are losing. So the Israelites get the Ark of God and bring it out into battle with them. Yet something funny happens at the this point, the Israelites are completely defeated and lose the Ark. Not only are thousands of the sons of Israel slain, but the very presence of their God, Yahweh, has left them. The news is so shocking that Israel's chief priest Eli dies at the reception of it all. He more than anyone knows the weight of this terrible news. His daughter-in-law goes into labor at sound of the shocking news and dies in the process. As she is dying, she names her son Ichabod, which means 'no glory.' In her dying words she sums up the desperate condition of her people: "The glory has departed Israel."

Now we have to take some time understand the desperate situation Israel now finds themselves in. Yahweh is the defining attribute of this people, they are keenly aware that without Him they have nothing. They have no protection against their warring neighbors, they have no leader, The only reason they occupy the land that is so precious to them is because the glory, Yahweh, has been with them. And now all that they are has been stripped from them. They no longer have any real hope, any real future, without Yahweh they are no longer Israel but merely a group of sojourners, former slaves in a foreign land. Their very source of being is gone, the glory had departed.

I think that if we are honest with ourselves there are those times when God feels like a figment of our imaginations. These are times when we parade out our spirituality in hopes that it will have some effect against the various trials of this life and yet not only do we find ourselves defeated, but God Himself seems to have left us all alone. We may not be willing to admit it, but the glory has departed. These can be very trying times. Nothing appears as it once did; we become hopeless in way that deteriorates our very drive to wake up again. These are times when inevitably something must die.

This is a familiar story. In fact the succession of events in the history of Israel is rather cliche, with God tottering back and forth between blessings and cursings, between presence and absence. Yet when you isolate an episode like the one found in Samuel, it magnifies the despair behind the absence of God. Yet, we have the privilege of knowing the rest of the story. God returns and all of Israel unpops the cork and throws one heck of a party. And it is no ordinary party, not just another Friday evening, but an explosion of celebration, a once-in-a-lifetime extravaganza. I'm sure years later, they will sit around the campfire, reliving that night, perhaps growing a bit embarrassed about how undignified they acted. The joy is certainly not unfounded, for God left and they had no reason to expect His return, but here He comes and it is good news indeed.

However, we do not have the luxury knowing the end of our own stories. We have no way of knowing if the dark night will pass. In the moment of pain, it could seem that all is lost. But we should know better. These stories and even our own are testimonies that although God may seem distant now, He will not always remain so. There is a day coming, when we too will lose our dignity in joyous celebration. The glory may have departed but it is not lost forever and that is good news indeed.

I mentioned earlier the inevitably of death during these times of divine absence. In the moment, death seems to have the ultimate say, the final word. As we acquire scars, it can seem as if our state is deteriorating. But it is in the dying and in the scars that true life and true beauty emerge. Just as the soil cannot produce its yield until it is broken, nor can we truly thrive unless we are pruned. These times when God is absent remind us that He is all we truly need, that He is all we truly hunger for. And that realization kills the things that have seized our attention away from Him. That realization brings death and scars, but by God, it also brings life.

The story of Jesus testifies to the power of life emerging from death. On the darkest day in history, all was lost. God himself was laid in the grave. But soon after, life burst forth in marvelous light and death was defeated. The interesting thing about all of this is that although Jesus possessed a new and glorified body, he still possessed his scars. Because in them we find healing for our own scars. Jesus' scars had been transformed, where once once life drained out of him, now life flows in to each of us.

The good news is that today is not the end of our stories, even if today brings death, because death no longer has hold of the final chapter. The joy is that even in the face of the Absence of God, we can rejoice in His ultimate return. The beauty is that we can pull the cover off our wounds and see them for what they are, simply the breaking of our soil so that we may finally blossom.

Abba, thank you for leaving. It is here that I realize that you are indeed all I need. Grant me strength to face the difficult days that lie ahead, to remember that they are producing in me a greater reflection of You. Teach me to rejoice in the face of pain, because in Your Son, life has the final word. In all things show us mercy when we look elsewhere for healing. Be near, O God, be near. Amen.

Wondering

I have been thinking a lot lately about who I was as a child and why I fell such an affinity for that person but also a great distance.  I was certainly a dreamer with a wonder-filled view of the world.  My mom tells me that as a three-year old I stated that the universe was a picture that God painted.  I loved to slouch down in the back seat of the car and watch as the moon "chased" us home.  I, like so many other kids, would lie on the ground and observe the shapes of the clouds as they shape-shifted from dragons to motorcycles.  I was solely devoted to dinosaurs, determined to be an archaeologist when I grew up.  I would pretend to be a sub-mariner superhero who belonged to the super-group the "Wave Warriors" when I played in the ocean.  I could stare at the moss-draped live oaks the lined the tidewaters of South Carolina for hours.

These are things that I find nearly impossible to do anymore and that reality hurts.  It hurts in a way I can only imagine death hurts like.  Something crucial to who I am, crucial to me actually being alive is at best in a coma.  I look into these sources of wonder and I wonder why they no longer inspire.  Perhaps its just Peter Pan nostalgia, that the great crime of my life is that I actually grew-up, but growing up is not the problem, its the dying that is the crime.  There are times when I am still surprised but often the tears found there are in mourning of how foreign the sense of awe has become.

Jesus has something interesting to say about all this, that our faith should be like that of a child's; that our faith could see dragons in the clouds; that our faith could see God closing one eye, sticking out his tongue, holding out his thumb as He determines just the right shade of green for the Milky Way.  Yet I find myself feeling like I do in the face of so many of His sayings; I feel a sinking feeling that spits in my face and pronounces that I'm a loser.

 Yet that is just where God meets us.

 Because childlike faith also means that when we get, as my nephew Caedmon calls them, a 'big big ouchie' that a kiss from mom will make it all better.

My inner-child may be dead but my God has a flare for the dramatic and resurrection is His specialty.  Before I can have a faith that chases the moon, I need a faith that allows me to run screaming and crying into His arms, demanding cookies, GI Joe band aids, and kool-aid.

And the beauty is that our Father gives good gifts.

I think our sense of wonder as children is a byproduct of our security, we were free to dream because as far as we knew, everything was going to be OK.  Yet obviously life has choked this thought to death.  We no longer wonder, because it requires a large level of trust.  Because of the scars we bear, we are hesitant to acquire anymore, so we shore our selves up against any kind of surprise and in so doing we toss out the baby with the bath water. But my God has acquired scars so that I could healed of them.  We no longer have to fear, we are free to dream, to live.  He has died so we must live.

When I was five, I was walking around my yard after a hurricane had downed several trees.  As I turned a corner I  heard a distinct loud hiss and saw a cotton-mouth snaked coiled up, head raised literally inches from me ready to strike.  Pure instinct kicked in and I ran faster than I ever have before or since and screamed and cried.  Inside my house I found shelter in my dad. From the safe vantage point of my porch, I watched as my dad chopped the snake in half with a garden hoe.  I was sure then that my dad was the strongest and bravest person on earth.  I knew it was safe to venture out again because he would be there wielding his weapon to protect me.  May we we walk in the mighty shadow of God's healing, tossing fear to the wind because nothing is too big or too bad for our Dad.

Abba, you are my dad.  Protect me from death and all its manifestations including fear.  Teach me to wonder again, to trust again.  Help me to love the things you love, including myself.  Thank you for all the good gifts, especially the cookies.  I love you.
Amen.