Clipboard

There’s a man who follows me ’round with a clipboard
.    Takes off points when I mess up
All day long, they come off wrong, I come on strong
.   And at night, I have to ‘fess up

What I wouldn’t give for 24 hours in a row
Without the need to apologise
What I wouldn’t take to be sure I’m not alone
To look the clipboard man in the eyes

There’s a sign hanging over my head like a verdict
.    Too uneven, not parallel
No relent, constant repent, can’t pay this rent
.    Bar keeps moving closer to hell

What I wouldn’t give for 24 hours in a row
Without the need to apologise
What I wouldn’t take to be sure I’m not alone
To look the clipboard man in the eyes

And blink
And breathe
And think
At ease

Admissions

 

“Dear Abby” Van Buren once said, “The church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints.” As I begin my therapy journey today, I feel very much like the proverbial patient. I’m asking myself ridiculous questions, such as, “Should I put on makeup so I have at least one thing to feel good about? Or will I just cry it all off anyway? Should I wear a naked face to help me undress my heart?”

I’ve never had a problem appearing “naked” before God. I was raised on the twin ideas of inherent sin and an omniscient God; there’s never been any point hiding the Real Me ™ from Him. He sees me to my spiritual bones. I’ve never had too much of a problem baring my soul to my friends, either. I’m not gifted with a mask, so I gave up trying to create one, except for times when it’s plain my honesty will be inappropriate or weigh someone down. I’ve tried hard all my life to avoid the label of “Christian hypocrite” by opting for transparency instead, even to the point of answering “How are you?” truthfully. In the immortal words of Indigo Girls, “Maybe there’s no haven in this world for tender age/ My heart beat like the wings of wild birds in a cage/ My greatest hope my greatest cause to grieve/ And my heart flew from its cage, and it bled upon my sleeve.”

But today I am about to show the ugliest parts of my inner self to a psychologist (and I’ve picked one I know, one who understands my theological point of view). I’m a little nervous about the social implications of that.

Imagine – suspending the obvious issue of modesty – if we all went to church in hospital gowns. Maybe the Salvos have it right: uniform is a great leveler and reminder of who we are. Picture this: you arrive at the church door and are ushered to a changing booth, where you doff your street clothes and put on your hospital gown. You spend the entirety of the church service with your back exposed, as does everyone else. The songleader wears a hospital gown. The preacher wears a hospital gown. Everyone in the room is a patient.

Someone walking in is not going to be met by a cadre of well-dressed, successful, “be-like-us” professional-looking Christians. Instead, they are going to know themselves (a) in the company of people who all acknowledge that they need help, and (b) in a place where help is offered, no matter how long it takes you to get well. Anyone can ask for help. Nobody can hide their status. Everyone is in an attitude of awkward humility, but also sharing in the camaraderie of all being in this unusual boat together.

Of course we can’t wear hospital gowns to church, and most of us will recoil in horror at the very idea. But the point stands: we will reach a whole different set of people with less gloss and more grit.

The idea, then, is to find a way to be fully dressed as well as fully drossed. Here’s what I want to honestly say as a member of my church.

I may not have the best testimony because I am not an unqualified success, or my miracle hasn’t happened, or hasn’t happened yet, or I never had a watershed moment. My life has been two steps forward and one back, lather rinse repeat; and I’m still living with xyz and I have no answer for why. Hearing people give their shiny testimonies about how, unlike me, God delivered them from their deal in an instant, makes me want to punch them. I mean, I’m happy for them, and glad their words help some; but I can’t accept the idea that if you just had enough faith you’d get your healing too … ergo, your sickness is your fault. Make no mistake, there’s healing here. But if, like me, your miracle hasn’t come overnight, well, there’s love here too. Love looks to the long haul. And the failure to break through is not because you don’t have enough faith: Jesus said you only needed a tiny bit. So don’t tell yourself you’re disqualified. Yes, look into other factors, but know that there are people here who will journey with you whether you get your miracle or not. Because we don’t just celebrate success. We celebrate a God who loves us no matter how unsuccessful we are. He died for us in the midst of our terrible failure, because we needed Him to. It would have been pointless if He’d done it as a reward for what we could achieve with our own positive thinking & action.

What brings God glory? He is no doubt glorified when people tell of the wondrous things He’s done for them. He’s done a few for me, too! But here’s the most wondrous thing I’ve seen Him do for me and my family: He has stuck with us. And that is my testimony. I’m still on my journey toward breakthrough – let me not at all diminish your hope that yours is coming too! – and  I don’t have to go it alone. My brothers and sisters are walking beside me, because we’re all just walking each other home anyway. And He’s with us to the end.

I Also Ran

Lately I’ve been sitting with my daughter while she does her Year 12 assignment on Tiananmen Square. We talked about quality of life issues and human rights, and I described the paranoia we had in the ’80s over Communism, and the terrible things done to Christians behind the Iron Curtain. She asked me if I would die for my faith, or recant under torture, trusting in God’s power to forgive.

I wanted to say, “Yes, absolutely” – but I had to admit that I didn’t know. I would like to think I could stick it out to the bitter end, but I know perfectly well that I’m not a very courageous person. I’m far more reed than rock. Put me in a room where there’s even a verbal confrontation, and my mojo evaporates! A quick flick through Foxe’s Book Of Martyrs is a very confronting thing. I’m totally intimidated by saints, both ancient and modern, who have suffered for their faith. For me, it would take a special, 11th-hour, God-given sort of backbone to endure under torture. No amount of working up to it seems to have benefitted me. I remember trying to toughen myself up, from as far back as the age of 12, but all it seems to have done is (a) give me a sharp and bitter tongue, and (b) feed a persecution complex. In short, trying to be someone I’m not, results in ugliness. So I’m going to have to once more place my reliance in the Holy Spirit, because I don’t think I have what it takes, and I’m going to have to be okay with that.

I’m kind of in good company here. Saint Peter didn’t start out brave; he started out bravado. Put a sword in his hand and he’ll wave it about; but put him in a courtyard next to the place where his notorious best friend is being ruthlessly shredded, and, well … who wants to be next? In that moment he can totally understand why Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea only ever came to see Jesus on the sly. They had so much more to lose; maybe, he thinks in that awful heartbeat, they were the smart ones.

I don’t know if they were smart or not. Nicodemus, a Jewish man with a humanist “people power” Greek name – I imagine him as urbane, educated, used to moving in the best circles, treading a tightrope between the Pharisees, the Sanhedrin, and the Romans – brought his questions to Jesus under cover of night. Joseph the tin merchant was a wealthy businessman who believed but was sensitive to public opinion, so he is described as a “secret believer”. These weren’t people who stood up for their faith in Jesus “and consequences be damned”. They were hedgers and, to some extent, cowards … like me.

So can a cowardly person do anything good for God? I have good news for you. Yes, they can. You might not be the magnificent Deborah, leading the armies of Israel against the oppressors of Canaan. But you might be tentwife Jael – married to a turncoat, but a girl who knows how to nail in a good tent peg. You might be Nicodemus – not very brave, but you’ve got influence in high places when you need to use it. You might be Joseph of Arimathea – precious about your reputation, but you’ve got money at your fingertips. You might be Peter, who’s either all talk or brash action, but who freezes if he lets himself overthink.

Let me tell you about what these frightened people did. They were the lever that moved the world. Their actions – done off-stage for the most part – were pivotal moments in God’s plan. Jael assassinated the Bin Laden of her day, because opportunity knocked and she simply used what she had in her hand. Nicodemus prompted one of Jesus’ best sermons, which includes the world’s most famous Bible verse; and as my pastor Nick pointed out today, was so moved from darkness to light that he provided twice the burial spices for Jesus that the average royal person received, underlining Jesus’ status as the King of Kings. Joseph took the gospel to Britain, and Britain took the gospel to all of Europe and beyond. Spotlight-hating Peter preached to several thousand people on the Day of Pentecost. He worked among the Jews to show them that their Messiah was suffering servant, Passover lamb AND coming King. He was martyred, but by then his courage and humility were such that he insisted on being crucified upside down, saying he wasn’t worthy to die the same way as Jesus. He was the fisherman who shook the world.

Scared? Intimidated? Self-conscious? Brand-protective? Don’t have a kick-ass testimony? Feel like you’re not a very good Christian? Think you’re not hero material, that you’re just an also-ran? It doesn’t matter. God has always used the foolish things to shame the wise, and the visionary things to shame the tangible. Don’t be paralysed by what you see as your disqualifications. Worry about being brave later. Today, just have a look and see what’s in your hand, and do what you can. See where it takes you.

Please Oh Please

There’s something in all of those who believe in God, that wants to please Him. I’ve written before about getting all our veges in a row, only to find that they’re the wrong currency. But there’s a big fat clue in Hebrews which says, “Without faith it is impossible to please God.” Why is it so impossible?

Well, for starters, “whoever comes to God must believe He exists.” This is the part I’ve always thought was emphasised: you can’t approach someone who’s not there. So, a lot of sermons and apologetics have focused on “yes, there is a God, we’ve got kind-of proofs here, and here, and here; and in any case there’s no better or less fanciful explanation for this, and this, and this.”

The second part of the verse comes in for a bit of neglect: “and that He rewards those who earnestly seek Him.” The only time I’ve really heard much on this part was when the unspoken question, “Why do I feel God disapproves of me?” has been self-answered with, “You obviously haven’t sought Him diligently enough … He said He would be found by you if you searched for Him with all your heart. ALL your heart. So, if you’re having trouble finding God, guess what? You’re at fault. Again. Big surprise.”

(Yes, I know. Very negative self-talk. We’ll get to that. Sometime this year, I believe.)

But back on the topic of faith. Whenever I’ve thought about praying for things with faith (miracles, healing, character transformation) I’ve thought that the faith He’s after is my faith in His abilities. If I ask myself the question, “Is God capable? Is God competent? Is God powerful?” then the answer always has to be “yes”. Of course the God who made the universe is sublime and brilliant and incredible. He has to be. But despite the seeming guarantees of Scripture, what we like to call the “precious promises,” large numbers of us remain unhealed, unfulfilled, and ratty – and I have no explanation for that.

But lately I’ve been thinking along different lines. Likely this is an “and” situation rather than an “or” one. But here’s my thought. Instead of focusing on CAN God, what if I asked myself WON’T God?

Last year I felt that God was challenging me to see Him as a generous Father. “You don’t ask big enough,” He said. “It’s like you don’t really believe I’m a good dad who’s, ahem, dying to bless His kids.” Now there are reasons for this: strong childhood inculcation against Greed, Idolatry, Mammon, Ambition, Selfishness. But I’m no longer a child. The schoolmaster of the Law has left the building (though his influence rightly remains). And either God is a good, good Father, or He isn’t; or, His ideas of good are radically different from any “good” as we define it. This last is what I believed most of my life: let God be true, and every man a liar; denial, denial, denial. But there is no use in a good that isn’t good. That itself is idolatry – to worship a “good God” whose goodness looks remarkably like badness or indifference. I don’t believe either that that’s who my God is or that this pleases Him (though a determination to stick to Him whether we get our own way or not, may). I do believe that it may be legitimate to look at my misfortune and shake my head and smile and say, “Come on now, Lord. You love me much more than this.” That’s not entitled. That’s faith.

But here’s the thing. My faith needs to be not in the abilities of God, but in His character. And He is a self-confessed lover. “God is love,” the Bible asserts. He Himself is Love, capital L, agape, the unconditional, benevolent, transcendent love. This is not something about Him: it is His structure, if I can put it that way without reducing the complexity of His personhood to one ephemeral virtue. God is Love in the sense that He is composed of it, it’s all through Him like a tissue in a glass of water and water in the fabric of the tissue. It is His modus operandi, and it is also the state in which He Himself exultantly lives in His internal community of the Trinity.

So why did God not say, “Without love it is impossible to please God”? He could have, you know. The statement is more or less true. The two greatest commandments are all about love: for God, for neighbour, for self. (Yes, you heard me: you’re expected to love yourself.) I do believe (and I’m on shaky ground, so hold the phone) that it makes God happy when we love well. He loves love (though I’m not talking about eros) and as John Piper has pointed out, He loves Himself, because He is not an idolater and cannot fail to value what is supremely valuable. The fact that He goes on to love US should make us feel very encouraged, therefore, about the value He places on us.

It’s been said that God is moved by faith, not need. I believe He is not unmoved by need – only that it’s faith that tends to get Him to act. The picture is like a kid with a skinned knee, running past his dad. The dad sucks in his breath over the skinned knee; he feels how painful it is. But until the kid remembers that Dad’s the one with the tender compassion and the Band Aids, and comes to Dad knowing that Dad will make it better – Dad sits tight. He’s probably holding his breath, though. A smart kid knows that Dad is more concerned about his knee than he himself is. A smart kid goes to Dad to put Dad’s mind at rest by giving him the earliest possible opportunity to help.

Here’s the thing. If my faith is not merely in God’s competence, but in an unshakable conviction that He is a good Father who delights in delighting His kids, setting them up to succeed and grow and flourish and remain lovingly connected to Him as their source – then everything shifts. If I believe that God is not passive or unmoved but actively rewards those who seek Him, because He loves us and loves us to come to Him – then through His competence all things become possible.

God cannot love you a little bit. He cannot love you a medium bit. Love is not like an array of coffee cup sizes at Zarraffa’s. Love, by definition, is all in. It’s more like a switch – it’s either on or it’s off. It’s either fully committed, or talk-to-the-hand. God loves you completely. He cannot love one person more than another. He can have elbow room to move in their life to different degree than in yours, but it doesn’t mean He loves us unequally. Love is not quantitative; it’s qualitative, and it goes all out in a tailored direction or loses its definition.

This means that if you have faith in God’s love, and that faith is as small as a mustard seed, that is all you need to tap into the full, rich, deep, high, broad ENTIRE SEA of love that is God. Because with God’s love, an inch is as good as a mile. It’s not a bigger faith you need: it’s a bigger God, and they don’t come any bigger. Of course, if you do happen to have bigger faith, you’ll find the immersion experience in that sea far more thrilling. But you don’t have to feel disqualified if your faith is small. His love is vast, and any amount of faith legitimises a claim on it. It’s not about the size of you. It’s about the size of Him.

The thing about faith is that it comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of God. We could quibble here a little about Jesus being the Logos, the actual personified Word, and the point would still hold. Your faith will never rise higher than your level of revelation. When we pray, we pray according to what we know. The more we know about God, the more informed our requests can be, and the deeper our praise. But the way to know more about God – and thereby increase our faith – lies in getting revelation. You get that through the Word (either by reading the Bible, which is the written Word of God, or by spending time with the Word – Jesus, the embodiment of the testament of God). You get it also through hearing new things mined out of the Word by experts, the best of whom lives in you in the person of the Holy Spirit. You get it through songs and sermons and articles and soundbites and memes. But you don’t get it by passive wishful thinking. Faith is the gift of God, perhaps a treasure hunt. No hunt, no treasure. Little gems of revelation are waiting for you all over the place if you have eyes to see and ears to hear, if you are hungry for more of God. He is certainly hungry for more of you.

All The Way

This year’s Christmas offering, with hat-tip to W. Paul Young.


Some will meet you halfway

And you must bridge the gap between

They want you to struggle, and to pay

For your share … pay your fare

I see empty pockets, and emptier eyes

How could I close Mine

When you are dear to Me?

I would travel any path you take

Oh, to meet you, to be with you

You don’t need to bring a thing but faith

And I’ll greet you, and be with you

You see distance, and I know you’ve questions

We’ll take them day by day

I just want you to see I’ve come all the way.

Some would tell Me to let go

And some would say, “Be angry!”

But I put on your skin, so you’d know

I’ve been there, “Love was here”

I see My children, and the greater plan

How could I leave you out

When you are dear to Me?

Heaven to Bethlehem: the journey began

On a road that led Me to Calvary …

I would travel any path you take

Oh, to meet you, to be with you

You don’t need to bring a thing but faith

And I’ll greet you, and be with you

You see distance, and I know you’ve questions

We’ll take them day by day

I just need you to know I’ve come all the way!

(Instrumental) 

Not halfway … all the way, to be with you!

You see distance, and I know you’ve questions

We’ll take them day by day
I just want you to see … I’ve come ALL the way.
(C) 2016 Rebekah Robinson

Catch A Phrase

I see a lot of memes on my Facebook feed – more memes than personal news, sadly. The proliferation has become something of a litany: believe the following things. The irony is that I know I’m adding to the torrent, because I, too, love a well-crafted meme! The issue I have, however, is that no matter how beautiful the photograph, or how empathetic (or pathetic!) the font used is, that doesn’t make the content true. I’m daily resisting the urge to make a nuisance of myself by correcting the bulk of these. From time to time I’ll interject an “angel’s advocate” comment, just to make people think beyond the surface. (No doubt there are also soundbites I’m swallowing whole, that others would love to rip up.) In the same way, if I imagine myself preaching this message, raising my voice to an inspiring crescendo so that you all stand and clap and cheer – that doesn’t make my content true, either.

At the moment I see a lot of things like this: “Your mess will become your message. Your test will become your testimony. Your trial will become your triumph. Your victimhood will become your victory.”

If this helps you, awesome. It would have been a word from God at some point for some person (Joyce?). And there will be people who will receive that as a Rhema word of God for their lives, because it is.

But what if you’re not in that category? What if you’re sitting on situations where your weakness has not become your weekender, your beaten-up-ness has not become beatific, and your sins have not become your symphony? I’ve heard better men and women than I say things like, “Why? I don’t know why. I’ve had to learn to just leave some things on the shelf.” And, “What was xyz all about? I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

Here’s the thing. In education we have this thing called an IEP: Individual Education Plan. God, it seems, has written an IEP for each of us. There’s a curriculum, oh yes. But there’s a tailored way to get through it. What works for and speaks to me, won’t always work for or speak to you, because you’ve got your own IEP. And yours is just as valid as mine. Your journey will be different. To borrow from Masterchef, your Mystery Box will have some same, and some totally different ingredients from mine.  My children’s walks of faith don’t look anything like mine, despite being raised on the same principles, because their life experiences and cultural surrounds aren’t anything like mine, and they’re not me. So don’t feel like you’re not making the grade, simply because you see a meme that doesn’t “sit” with your experience. You’re not obligated to fit in with anyone’s timeline for your life other than God’s. And He’s written you an IEP that’s nobody else’s business.

When Jesus lived here in a body like ours, there was an incident where the local bigwigs tried to entrap Him. They managed to catch a couple in the act of adultery. One can only speculate as to how they knew what the pair would be up to at a given hour on a given evening: perhaps there was more than one trap set that night. The man screwing her got away Scot-free, which gave a great big lie to the whole proceedings anyway, since both were legally stoneable. It is one of the most unjust red flags in the whole purported quest for “justice”. I’ve even wondered if it was a personal vendetta against the woman: had she spurned one of their number? slept with one of their sons? was it a sting? was one of the accusers her cuckolded husband or purported lover? or were they all unqualified to throw the first stone because they’d all had her at one point? Or …  was it possibly her very first and very unlucky deviation from the straight and narrow?

We can’t know. All we know is that they dragged her to the temple courts (possibly still half-clothed from the bed) and threw her down in her shame at the foot of the holiest man in the town, the man they couldn’t get a handle on, the man she probably hid from wistfully, the last man she wished her soul and body bared before.

What would Mr Upright do? Nobody had seen Him commit any sort of sin. Sure, He’d been unpredictable. Uncomfortable. Nonconformist. She was clearly guilty and the Law said she ought to be stoned. Would He lead the slut-shaming, stoning charge? Would He finally say something outrageous they could pin Him on, something like, “adultery isn’t really a sin”? Or would He take one look at those long, shapely legs and slip her His number? Suspense swelled. Stones trembled with anticipation.

Jesus bent over and started writing in the dirt.

Every eye left the woman and was transfixed by the moving finger of God, writing in the dust of the earth.

Somewhere, a mic dropped. Doesn’t the finger of God write in stone? Didn’t He give the Law immutably inscribed on tablets – first written by His own hand in the stone, the instructions; and then after that Law was immediately broken, literally broken, written again by the hand of Moses, adding in curses and consequences? Wasn’t the thing the finger of God tended to write in stone, inevitably judgment? You have been weighed and found literally Not Up To Scratch. Disaster follows.

But Jesus is not writing in the stones gripped by the vengeant. He is writing a new testament in the dust from which we are formed. He is writing the woman’s IEP. Perhaps His inner ears are ringing with the words of His Father through Ezekiel: “I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh; then they will follow My decrees and be careful to keep My laws.” Because you can’t love God and your neighbour from a heart of stone, and that was the core of the Law in the first place. There was absolutely no neighbourly concern going on in that court at that moment. And if there was devotion to God, it was buried under a mountain of red tape. The first commandment is incomplete without the second: faith without works is dead, and love for God must overflow into love for those He loves. Jesus is looking forward to a time when this woman and the man she was with and all of us like them, would be described thus by Paul: “You show that you are a letter from Christ … written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts.” The new testament was a return to Eden, to the first man and woman in their purity, dust made flesh with beating hearts and options, Deeper Magic from before time – and law – dawned. Relationship parameters have been reset. It is once again up to the human heart to decide to follow Christ: it can’t be mandated.

Does God not know that human hearts are fallible? Is He ignorant of what His makings are made of? Yet this is what He has purposed. He doesn’t want to present the world with only a photograph of Himself. He wants to present the world with art. He knows the brush strokes our lives draw Him with will be flawed. That is their beauty: that when the paint has dried out on the brush and the lines are sketchy and the perspective’s a bit wobbly, He will still be recognisable, despite the imperfections of what we are, as His DNA is slowly unpacked and extrapolated in us over a lifetime. And each portrait will be unique and it will be beautiful and He will be there in it. It will be layered over again and again as our revelation of Him grows and the details are filled in and corrected. It is as much our portrait as it is His.

Your mess won’t always become your message. Not every test will become your testimony. Some trials are just trials and or random happenstance and you won’t always get the victory. Because sometimes we screw up. Sometimes, we get screwed over. And sometimes we just have a screw loose! The thing you can cling to in those moments is not the well-meaning motivational poster on your wall, which may or may not apply to you, or the ten memes you saw in your newsfeed today, some of them patent nonsense or contradictory. The thing you can cling to is the character of God, whose loving, living finger is writing your Individual Education Plan as we speak, for all times are Now to Him. And let me tell you about God.

God is kind and He likes you.

God doesn’t blow hot and cold.

God understands what you’re made of, and He is  not frustrated but empathetic.

God will never leave you or forsake you.

God knows the end from the beginning and will write ’til the last stroke.

He is the Living Word and the last word.

Life will be partly engineered and partly random, but God will not drop the ball.

God will not give up on you, no matter how badly you stumble, because He has ordered your steps and is always ready to lift you to your feet again.

If you have an ounce of faith in you, then that’s His gift and it means you are chosen, you are marked for loving adoption. God will not let you go. He will pursue you. A good parent’s thoughts are never far from their child and their senses alert and prickled for danger. He will come for you when you wander, He will stalk you if necessary, He will sit with you when you crash and burn, and you will always have a room in His home and heart. Love that permits itself to be crucified might be patient, but it is not tame. This is not insipid, passive love. You are wanted, from your mother’s womb. This is forward planning, adaptable on the fly, at-all-costs, go get ’em, do and/or die love. It is the only love you will ever know in your life that sees right to the core of your being, appreciating every single one of the hundreds of small beauties and fascinating quirks, seeing clearly the template of His own image, yet knowing also all the smeared corners and rotten basements, still willing and eager to say, “That’s My kid, that one there, Mineminemine!”

So the safest place to fall down in moments of shame, is at the feet of the One who alone is qualified to stone us, but who refuses to. He is the only one entitled to be the Author, but rather than write us off, He chooses to also be our perfecter. He would far rather write a new story in the dust that we are, than sentence us in stone. He is hope, He is grace, and He is there. Look up.

Not So Good Friday

“Celebrating Easter” – it sounds very pious, doesn’t it? But Easter is tricky to “celebrate”. It’s not like Christmas. We celebrate Christmas because it is unequivocal good news: the Saviour has been born to us! Aslan is on the move! But Easter is a different story. It is tragedy, high drama, horror. And yet it is hope, light and incredulity. I can’t celebrate my Jesus being ripped to shreds for things He didn’t do. I can, though, celebrate His conquering of the monster Death. And I can celebrate, too, the extraordinary courage it took for Him to face the cross. Knowing God was His Father wasn’t a ticket to confidence for Jesus. He knew exactly what sort of father He had … beautifully, lovingly ultimate, but inscrutable and agenda’d. Jesus was committed to that agenda, but He was stressed. And He could have gotten out of it. But He threw all of His trust into the Father; and to the world looking on that day, He was proved a fool. But to the universe looking on that week, He was proved the champion.

I wonder if it’s like that for the modern-day martyrs, who place all their reliance in One who said He would save them and protect them, only to have their heads cut off on Syrian beaches. We will never know, on this side of Reality, whether or not Jesus appeared to them inside their hoods, and strutted up and down like Guido in Life Is Beautiful, mocking the killers who thought they were winning. Even if He didn’t, they weren’t. We will not know for a very long time how complete the martyrs’ victorious homecoming was – if Heaven staged a ticker-tape parade for these people the villains saw only as losers and infidels. I have to cling to this. I have to believe that what we saw was only a slice of the whole story. It’s one vignette in a trailer for an unspeakably epic movie, and like most trailers, what you see isn’t reflective of the overall story arc. We’re living in this trailer and it isn’t even a highlight reel. Much of the time, it’s trailer trash.

Can anything good be upcycled from trash?

The whole premise of the Gospel story is preposterous.

Looked at baldly, this is how it reads:

“I will give you every advantage, including My heart, and you will throw it all away betting on your own ingenuity. Everything will then be wrecked. I will spend millennia showing you the path back. I will send you the One dearest to My heart to reconnect that path. You will torture Him to death. I will get Him back, and we will then offer to adopt you.”

Jesus’s commandments for us to love our enemies and forgive all offences might be a tall order, but you can’t say He doesn’t practise what He preaches!

You could posit a god who thumbs his nose at a creation bent on rebellion, and just walks away, leaving us to massacre each other The One-style. You could posit a god who incinerates the planet in a fit of rage. If you really, really stretched your imagination, after several centuries you might come up with a god who was actually capable of forgiving such outrageous acts as the scourging and crucifying of his clone-son. But nobody is insane enough to envisage a God who would then turn around and say, “I did this for you, because I love you and can’t bear to lose you. See My family of three? We are holy. We are unparalleled in the universe because We are outside it and created it. We are untouchably pure and elevated unless We choose to descend. And this family of light, of unequalled wisdom, of pure intellectual and passionate love, this Three-in-One – We have decided to open Our home. We would like you to come live with us, and be centred in our love forever. Not with daily reproach, either – with full pardon, to be celebrated and cherished, and with full inheritance rights. Just wait ‘til you see your room!”

This is what makes me fall on my knees. That while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.