A few nights ago I sat on the corner of our couch, faced my friend, and wept. Hot, sad, gross tears. The sort that feel shameful even as they fall from your face because you know they're selfish—but you can't change the hurt, the wounding you feel. The injustice of pain. Whenever I hear even whispers of any sort of prosperity gospel—that if we do righteous acts, God will respond with righteous acts—my skin crawls with the falsity of it. But I cannot help the sneaking presence of it in my heart, even on my best day, especially on my best day.
I did this and this is how you repay me, Lord? I was faithful. I was righteous. I was long-suffering. I was. I am. And you are what? Where? Where are you?
Tonight I'm thinking of Paul's letter to the Philippians and of entering into Christ's sufferings. I'm thinking of the agony of the garden, those last moments when Jesus asked His brothers: can't you even for one minute stay with me? Stay with me. Be with me here. In my last moments? In my sufferings? There's a part of me that just longs to be there, in that place, with Christ. I am like the child in the back of the classroom waiting to be picked, the woman with the issue of blood pressing through the crowds, Peter stepping out of the boat onto the water—begging to be let into what He's doing—even in His sufferings.
But when I taste those sufferings, oh, how I blanche. How I balk. How I complain. How I fear. How I demand.
Many people can't handle a God who would slay, but tonight I know that even in the midst of the slaying, He is a staying God. Even when I leave, He follows through. When I fear, He stands on. When I barter and cajole and beg and plead, He offers without cost, without money. He slays so He can heal.