Click the following link for the MP3 of Eden Jersak's message,
"Finding Our Voice by Listening to the Father":
EDEN JERSAK sermon
"Finding our voice by
Listening to the Father"
- Feb 17 2019
In a world where science is outpacing philosophy and religion, how do we respond ethically to engineering babies, downloading our brains or creating meat in the lab? Will Christians take a self-disqualifying earth-is-flat approach? If we're to have a voice, what words come out? Artist and teacher Betty Spackman approaches the tensions of post-humanism and transgenics creatively and thoughtfully--literally 'artfully.' She's currently creating an art installation called "A Creature Chronicle" (with accompanying catalogue).
Brad Jersak caught up to her at her studio for a teaser tour and brief interview.
Review: John MacMurray, A Spiritual Evolution: Rediscovering the Greatest Story Ever Told (Open Table Press, 2018).
https://www.aspiritualevolution.com
John MacMurray's Spiritual Evolution is a uniquely accessible account of his own spiritual journey from anxious and arrogant dogmatism into a beautiful and living faith. Embedded within the narrative of his quest for the Christlike and trustworthy God, readers will be introduced to some of the best Trinitarian / Patristic theology available today.
Under the influence great teachers such as St. Athanasius of Alexandria, George MacDonald, T.F. Torrance and C. Baxter Kruger, John MacMurray guides us beyond the fearsome and retributive "monster god" of our nightmares into a glorious vision of Triune Love made incarnate in Jesus Christ.
MacMurray is vulnerable with his own struggle to embrace transforming grace but in his surrender, we se how Trinitarian love heals our hearts and empowers us to pick up Christ's Cross of radical forgiveness--for others and for ourselves.
As a patristic theologian, I was thrilled by John's orthodoxy in an era where so many deconstructionists find themselves moving on, not only from abusive theologies and church situations, but from Jesus Christ as well. My wish is that before such a tragic divorce, disillusioned Christians would pick up this book. Any truly spiritual evolution will take us forward and upward into the life of the God-man unveiled herein.
1. An accounting of our lives: We believe that like the prophets before them, Christ and his apostles foretell a “Day of the Lord.” On that day, we will all stand before Christ and give an account for the one life we had to live and have to offer God. Facing the meaning of our lives could be cause for rejoicing or mourning, not unlike the “fearless moral inventory” upon which the recovery community asks all addicts to reflect with rigorous honesty.
2. An assessment of our deeds: Standing before Christ involves an examination of our deeds. I.e. Your life matters! This judgment of deeds is quite apart from the issue of saving faith in Christ for eternal life. The New Testament apostles (Paul, Peter and John) explicitly speak of a judgment according to our motives and deeds, resulting in reward or loss. See Matt. 25; Rom. 2:6; 1 Cor. 3:8; 2 Cor. 5:10; Col. 3:25; 1 Pet. 1:17; Rev. 20:12.
3. The fire of cleansing: Forgiveness for sin was accomplished at the cross. Period. Our guilt has been removed. But the stain of sin and all its consequences will also be purged when we meet Christ. Malachi prophesies that the Refiner’s fire will purge us of dross and bring out the gold of our true nature. He imagines a Launderer's soap that will cleanse us of every stain. Similarly, Paul says in 1 Cor. 3 that the fire of judgment will consume all the wood, hay and stubble in our character (probably our worldly and fleshly attachments, including idolatry, resentments, regrets, etc.). Paul says some will pass through the fire with nothing to show for their lives, yet he adds, “they will be saved as through fire.” That sounds ominous, but here is the surprise:
Continue reading "10 Affirmations on Divine Judgment: An Inclusivist Perspective -- Brad Jersak" »
Macrina the Younger (or the Teacher), old sister and teacher of Basil the Great and Gregory of Nyssa speaks to Gregory on her deathbed about the afterlife in Gregory's book titled "On the Soul and the Resurrection":
St. Macrina on the soul's lingering attachments, the second death as cleansing and alleged ghost phenomena:
I think our Lord teaches us this: that those still living in the flesh must, as much as they can, separate and free themselves from the attachments of the flesh by virtuous conduct, in order that after death, they may not need a second death to cleanse them from the remnants owing to this cement of the flesh, and, when once the bonds are loosed from around the soul, her soaring up to the Good may be swift and unimpeded, with no anguish of the body to distract her.
For if anyone becomes wholly and thoroughly carnal in thought, such a one, with every motion and energy of the soul absorbed in fleshly desires, is not parted from such attachments, even in the disembodied state; just as those who have lingered long in noisome places do not part with the unpleasantness contracted by that lengthened stay, even when they pass into a sweet atmosphere. So it is that, when the change is made into the impalpable Unseen, not even then will it be possible for the lovers of the flesh to avoid dragging away with them under any circumstances some fleshly foulness, and thereby their torment will be intensified, their soul having been materialized by such surroundings.
I think too that this view of the matter harmonizes to a certain extent with the assertion made by some people that around their graves, shadowy phantoms of the departed are often seen. If this is truly so, it proves an inordinate attachment of that particular soul to the life in the flesh existed, causing it to be unwilling, even when expelled from the flesh, to fly clean away and to admit the complete change of its form into the impalpable. It remains near the frame even after the dissolution of the frame, and though now outside it, hovers regretfully over the place where its material is and continues to haunt it.
From Gregory of Nyssa, On the Soul and the Resurrection.
Commentary by Brad Jersak: to St. Macrina, the soul after death makes its journey from this world to God. What may impede that journey is our fleshly attachments to the material world. In our attachment to this world, we cannot help but try to drag our idols with us. These may include not only material possessions, but people to whom we are linked whether by obsessive love by unrelenting resentment, or to the past through regrets, remorse or any unfinished business. Their weight hinders us from letting go and torments us, necessitating “the second death” that cleanses us of them. The clinging that causes us to linger may explain alleged ghost phenomenon, which would prove the point. Rather than suffer the rigors of this cleansing post-mortem, Macrina believed that the fruit of “virtuous conduct” (unselfish love, radical forgiveness, abundant generosity, etc.) is that it releases us from our bondage to the demands of the ego (flesh) and the world [system].
This week I have been pondering afresh the scandal of the Cross as I read (for probably the fifth time) an article by Wm. Paul Young titled "The Killing House." He writes about his experiences in visiting men on "death row," scheduled for execution, most probably by lethal injection. I began to imagine Christ dying on a lethal injection table, eerily similar in shape to a cross. I began playing with such images on Photoshop, superimposing the crucified Christ onto a modern execution gurney. The result felt edgy to me. Jarring enough to show my wife, Eden. She confirmed, "Too edgy." What was it that was getting under our skin? What exactly makes the lethal injection image more uncomfortable than crucifixion art? Consider and compare:
Throughout Scripture, we see “sin” identified in a variety of ways, including moral failure, law-breaking, poor spiritual hygiene, character flaws, a fatal disease and a sinister slave-driver. And where sin (hamartia) is defined as “missing the mark,” Scripture implies the mark we’re aiming at may be morality, holiness, faith and faithfulness, love of God and each other, or the glory of God. [CLICK HERE for further background on hamartia]
In my blog post, Sin? Missing what mark? I suggested another mark: our love union with God—or RE-union (reconciliation) with God. In that case, to "sin" is to turn away from God’s love. Yes, some of those other biblically-defined marks may play into that, but let’s focus on three stories:
In the Garden of Eden (Paradise), Adam and Eve walked in perfect communion with God. Theirs was the intended love-union we were all to enjoy. And then we read of their “fall.” Although the story doesn’t use the term for ‘sin,’ we read about how they turned from that union, marked by love and trust, to autonomy, self-will and as a result, shame and alienation. Their sin does not separate God from them, for he continues to pursue them, all the way out of the garden and ultimately tracks them through the Cross to retrieve them from the depths of hades. But their sin does alienate them from God, for their new, fallen instinct is to see God as one from whom they must hide in shame. In failing to trust and obey God, and by turning from God’s face to go their own way, they missed the mark of that once-perfect love-union.
In Christ’s parable of the prodigal son(s), we find two sons in a similar peril. Like Adam and Eve, the younger son has left his father’s house to go his own way and do his own thing. He finds himself living in the poverty of alienation, slaving in the fields with a herd of swine. He has missed the mark of fellowship with his loving Father. But the father never stopped loving him and the son never ceased to be his father’s son. To be restored, he must return home and re-enter the joy of that parent-child union.
Likewise, the older son finds himself slaving in another field—the field of religious striving. While he seems to serve his father’s interests and seems to obey his father’s wishes, he has nevertheless missed the mark. How so? He has left the father’s house and made his own alleged obedience the occasion for alienation from that love-union. He regards his father as unfair, someone to resent and the elder is every bit as enslaved self-will as his younger brother.
But the Father despises neither son. He runs to the younger son while still a long way off. And without any condemnation, he assures the older brother of his place and pleads with him to return. Henri Nouwen, in his booklet, The Return of the Prodigal Son, says,
The harsh and bitter reproaches of the [elder] son are not met with words of judgment. There is no recrimination or accusation. The father does not defend himself or even comment on the elder son's behavior. The father moves directly beyond all evaluations to stress his intimate relationship with his son when he says: "You are with me always." The father's declaration of unqualified love eliminates any possibility that the younger son is more loved than the elder. The elder son has never left the house. The father has shared everything with him. He has made him part of his daily life, keeping nothing from him. "All I have is yours," he says. There could be no clearer statement of the father's unlimited love for his elder son. Thus the father's unreserved, unlimited love is offered wholly and equally to both sons.
John 8 – “Go and sin no more”?
This brings us to the climax of the story of the woman who was caught in the act of committing adultery. As often as I share this story, I continue to ask, “Where was the man?” Why is he not also dragged in? Is he not involved in the sin? Is he part of the set-up? We know from the text that the whole scenario was a trap for Jesus, so it certainly looks like a case of entrapment for the woman as well.
Let’s fast-forward through Jesus’ saving acts—how he stoops beside her, scribbles in the dust and one by one, all the accusers leave. We pick up on Jesus’ interaction with the woman, a conversation we only know because she would have shared it 1000 times thereafter. “The day Jesus saved me!”
“Where are your accusers?”
“They’re gone m’Lord.”
“Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.”
Religious legalism would and has inferred, “Go and sin no more… or I will condemn you.”
But aside from such silliness, how should we take Jesus’ statement? If he doesn’t mean, “Go be sinless,” what does he mean? He must mean something!
I have normally interpreted Jesus' words this way: “There, I’ve just completely wiped clean your record. You didn’t even repent and I forgave you. You can live as if today never happened. And you never need to go back there. I’ve given you a fresh start and a new life. What will you do with it?”
To which I imagine her reply, “I will follow you, of course! I’ll follow you forever!”
And he smiles and says, “Of course you will! Let me help you up.”
That got me to thinking: what if she did it—what if she went and sinned no more! As in never again. What? Could she or anyone live without sin? That depends what sin is! That depends what missing the mark is. That depends what the mark is.
If the mark is moral perfection, unwavering trust, perfect obedience, ritual hygiene and untainted holiness, of course she would continue to sin because we all fall short of those marks. And in that sense, she would go on sinning.
But if the mark is her love-union with Christ—his embrace of unwavering love, enduring mercy and saving grace—I suspect she never left his embrace again. I could imagine her stumbling again and again but never again hiding in shame as did Adam or slaving again as did the prodigal brothers. I could imagine Jesus’ words, “Go and sin no more,” being for her, not a legal demand but a creative command, similar to “Let there be light … and there was light!” The love of Christ was a light turned on in the Father’s house and he knew she would never leave the house again. Or if somehow she found herself tripping again on her own humanity, she would forever orient herself towards God’s welcome, rather than fleeing from it back into the night.
In other words, sure she could “screw up,” but from that day on, it is entirely possible she would not “fail.” She could commit particular sins, but would never return to alienation and slavery to sin.
I cannot claim this for myself. But what the story does for me is reminding me of the true mark—our union in Christ to God’s unfailing love.
Note from Brad Jersak: A friend of mine--someone I saw as a master in effectively using Facebook for 'gospeling,' moderating productive discussions and building bridges--walked away from that social media venue. When I asked why, he wrote the following and gave permission for me to share it. I find it disturbing, not only because it seems true, but because it is a worrisome analysis of the broader culture in which "we live, move and have our being" stands at this moment. It feels like more than an invitation to exit social media with the author, but stands as a call to repent of the social constructs that Facebook amplifies.
Why did I delete my Facebook account? There are lots of reasons. I’ve been contemplating this for a while. Hosting conversations is damn hard work, especially when people are joining in at so many different angles. In one respect, I’m just tired.
But there’s more …
I think we can all sense this. There are strong forces at work around us, political powers that are vying for control in the interests of immediate, all-encompassing change—a quasi-Marxist ultra-woke squaring off against a quasi-Fascist alt-right in an ever-widening culture war.
Facebook lends itself to a conflict like this. The medium itself trains us out of particularity, complexity and nuance and constantly guides us to think and live in terms of collective identities and affinities, often defined along moral-ethical lines. It also amplifies the dialectic of opposites, making it seem normative in a totalizing way.
And there's this pressure to behave accordingly …
I appreciate the encouragement I've received from people concerning my Facebook "presence". To be honest, I don’t care much about my "presence" on social media ... I'm interested in what can happen between people when they seek to be attentive and thoughtful while learning to care for one another. I’ve wanted to help humanize the medium a little, to explore the complexity of experience and invite nuance and empathy across lines that divide.
For many—increasingly it seems—this kind of approach is worse than taking the wrong side. It’s a self-protective strategy that relativizes the truth and neutralizes progress.
That makes me sad.
To be clear, I don’t think Facebook is *necessarily* more problematic than other ways of relating.
Relating is difficult no matter the channels ...
Face-to-face is certainly different in richness and complexity, but I have no illusions of it being easier to do well. It’s just ... different.
I think Facebook holds out lots of interesting possibilities for truthing-in-love ... I’m just not sure people are all that interested to explore those possibilities in earnest.
What makes Facebook problematic is not the digital technology per se, but the way people are inclined to engage it. We make moves that hinder relationship rather than help it. Worse, we revel in them.
Of course, we often do that face-to-face too ... It’s just that the effects aren’t ramified to the same extent. They’re less contagious.
Another way to say it: A platform like Facebook heightens social responsibility in some ways while alleviating it in others. The problem is that we’re shirking responsibility precisely where the medium requires it of us.
“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche
They say that what you mock
Will surely overtake you
And you become a monster
So the monster will not break you
—U2
“The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence, you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence, you may murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate. So it goes. Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: Only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: Only love can do that.”
—Martin Luther King, Jr.
What makes hatred so horrid is that it reshapes its victims, fashioning them into the mirror image of the object of their hate. The fists of hatred compress the finest people like putty, kneading into our righteous anger its own malignant toxins—fear and malice—deeply internalizing what we most despise.
No matter how cruel offenders can be, their most pernicious evil is the change they cause in their victims, with or without their consent.
The call to forgive—literally “let go”—whatever it means for the offender, is Christ’s plea that we would unchain ourselves from our offender’s ongoing negative influence. And Christ delivered us the key. “Father, forgive them” becomes Christ's mandate to us: loose yourselves from the bonds of infectious resentment that unite you to what you hate.
“But what they did…”
Yes. What they did.
Forgiveness isn’t justifying what they did.
It is unhooking ourselves from how what they did continues to torment, twist and diminish us.
“Loose yourself.”
“But I can’t.”
No. You can’t.
Christ can, but only when you’re finally willing.
When at last you see that the fists of hatred crushing you are your own and you open them up and stop choking yourself.
I don’t write this to chide others into guilt-driven pseudo-forgiveness. I am dealing with my own heart and hoping that others who overhear might also benefit.
You see, I’ve experienced a long year of chronic grief with a side of seething fury. I manage it as best I can with a bad blend of repression, insomnia and praying angry psalms. Eden tells me that being real is generally better for me than being good. But, then when she takes the brunt of my misery, I eventually opt for a walk.
On one of these recent walks, I figured I’d better just sputter “the Jesus Prayer” about 300 times: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.”
[Oh, you’re not a sinner? Good for you. And yes, I know my identity in Christ, thank you. And no, I’m in no mood. 1 John 1:8].
Once that was off my chest and I was finally quiet enough to contemplate in silence, Jesus’ invitation wafted in gently, like a down feather drifting through the aftermath of a flailing pillow fight. He said,
“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Matt. 11:28-29)
Christ seemed to skip past the need to perform invasive surgery on the my emotional tumors or apply incisions to my vengeful demands. This was an offer of simple reprieve—to just breathe and give it a rest. Who knew that taking a break from intense feelings isn’t always denial. Hmm.
The next morning, I went to the monastery where I often chant the Scriptures or give the 8-minute homily. I know most of my readers are not Eastern Orthodox. Don’t worry, I’m not recruiting, but do you want to hear my story? If not, just skip to the final quote and have a nice day.
Still here? Okay, so one thing I do is go to confession. Orthodox confession is not about guilt for sin or doing penance. I visit my kindly old confessor, Bishop Varlaam, because he understands that confession is about hearing my anxieties and speaking the good news of Jesus’ love and forgiveness to my accusing conscience. He always lightens the load, reminding me to return to the Father’s house asap, without fear or self-loathing.
“What’s troubling you?” he asked.
I say, “I’m furious.”
He replies thoughtfully, prophetically, “Well, of course, we all experience times of hurt and anger. That comes with the human condition. The problem is that grief and anger make us so weary. And you are exhausted. Perhaps today you could hear these words of Jesus: ‘Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.’”
Ah, that again.
As I rose to leave Bishop Varlaam, I noticed a new-to-me antique icon of Christ sitting on a stand beside him. I asked about it and he explained it was a recent gift and over 300 years old. On it, Jesus was holding an open Bible—the Gospels, actually. There was a verse written on the page, but I couldn’t read it because it was in Slavonic—old Russian.
“Which verse is that?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Varlaam said. He bent close to the picture and slowly began to translate: “Oh yes, it says… ‘Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.’”
That was some nice synchronicity, I thought, heading back to the “readers’ stand,” where we keep all our prayer books and where I chant prayers when it’s my turn. As I approached, Dmitri handed me one of the books, open already to a prayer by St. Basil.
“Read this,” he said, and I did.
The Prayer of Basil, composed in the late 300s, is a beautiful confession of our weakness and Christ’s unfailing mercy. It’s about a page and a half long. I start chanting the pray and about half-way through, find myself praying aloud: ‘Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.’”
By God’s grace, I had discovered one of Jesus’ many approaches to therapy (he's a "wonderful counselor"). The “rest” Christ gives is not merely a diversion from our weariness. It is medicine for it. As I rested from my drama in the arms of Christ, his gentle embrace applied balm to my wounds and soothed my raging heart. His meek touch is no mere "there, there" platitude, but a powerful and effective ministry of detox and rehab for the passions and impulses that would morph me into the monsters I hate.
I attended a mass this morning. Yes, Catholic mass.
On purpose. Not despite her current scandals but because of them.
I attended during a week when every news source decried the sexual abuse of children by priests and covered up by hierarchs—when the face of the Catholic church burned with shame.
The apostle Paul wrote that when one part of the body suffers, the whole body suffers. James encouraged us to grieve with those who grieve. As a member of the one body of Jesus Christ, the church universal, I’m not given the option of seeing the sin and wickedness, the suffering or the grief of the Roman Catholic church as if we are not co-members of one family. To willfully turn away from bleeding brothers and sisters is itself a grievous sin of abandonment. Their scandal is my scandal because at stake is the Word of God who we proclaim.
So I went to mass.
A certain Fr. Calhoun was serving—a kindly 79-year-old priest. I wondered briefly if or how he might address the clergy scandals, but immediately, our songs, prayers and Scripture readings drew my eyes and heart up to the One greater, more ancient and more beautiful than the mess of his church.
We stood for the Gospel reading—the words of Christ, the Word of God—whose poignant message challenged the priesthood and its traditions. Thus says the Lord,
Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you hypocrites; as it is written: “These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are merely human rules.” You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions… You have a fine way of setting aside the commands of God in order to observe your own traditions.
Every plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be pulled up by the roots. Leave them; they are blind guides. If the blind lead the blind, both will fall in the pit... Don’t you see that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body? But the things that come out of a person’s mouth come from the heart, and these defile them. For out of the heart come evil thoughts—murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander. These are what defile a person, but eating with unwashed hands does not defile them.
My mind was drawn back to earth, to the church, to our scandals and the anguish of the faithful—to the offense against the little ones and to the world that associates Christianity with hypocrisy and its clergy with the systemic sexual abuse of children and attending cover-ups.
Continue reading "Penance for the Church: Interview with a Catholic Priest - Brad Jersak" »
Twitter statement: “God saves us from God. The One who mercifully drags us out of the rebellious city is the same One who rains down fire upon it.”
Thus wrote a popular tweeter whose handle I’ll withhold out of respect and concern.
God saves us from God? How so?
Penal substitution continues to be the most popular Western answer to the question, “Why did Christ die?” and is the default interpretation for Scripture’s assertion that “Christ died for our sins.” Rather than treating it as one of many atonement theories, major denominations are now doubling down, dogmatizing it as a non-negotiable essential to the gospel and thus, to salvation. If it IS the gospel, then those who don’t affirm it are not even considered "saved."
But penal substitutionary atonement (PSA) as the uncritical masses understand and proclaim it is neither necessary nor glorious. I’m not referring to the rarefied versions of nuanced academics such as Fleming Rutledge or N.T. Wright. My ongoing critique is of the dominant expression we hear from 10,000 pulpits, public broadcasts and now social media across popular Christianity.
The prevalent expression of PSA can be distinguished by its insistence on “wrath appeasement,” decried even by Wright as “paganizing the gospel.” Yet beneath the question of wrath lurk deeper and frequently overlooked theological perils—the ancient heresies refuted in Nicaea and Chalcedon resurface as assumptions that need to be challenged.
Specifically, intrinsic to common PSA is a dangerous suggestion of divisibility in either the Trinity and/or the personhood of Christ. Either or both errors appear inescapable to PSA and I’ve yet to see a response that takes these problems seriously.
In night visions, the prophet saw a house on top of a mountain. A spring of water bubbles up from the floorboards and trickles across the floor. By the time it exits the door and crosses the deck, it is two feet deep. Running off the deck and toward the cliff, the stream becomes a powerful river. Then it plummets as a deafening waterfall, increasing in volume as it descends to the lush valley below.
I believe such dreams come from the same Spirit who enlivened John’s dreams, recounting spiritual truths in familiar ancient symbols, a foretaste of what is to come.
More than a foretaste—an inviting question: Are you thirsty? (cf. Isaiah 55:1–5) It’s the question that opens the door of the city and leads the way into it as far as the river’s source. It’s the invitation-question of the Spirit and the Bride to the nations outside. It’s the question that Rev 21–22 asks both then and now. Are you thirsty? As I’ve marinated in those chapters for the past two years, this vision has emerged for me…
Lost souls languish outside the gates of the great city, their thirst deepening as they fester in the smoking valley of Gehenna. Time has lost all meaning in this non-life of non-being. Lips and hearts are cracked with hopelessness like baked clay. Their time to choose has passed, their judgment just and certain, death eternal their lot. They cannot even make themselves care.
And then an intrusive question forms in their hearts. Are you thirsty?
Beyond ludicrous—the question reawakens the exiles to their torment and intensifies their thirst. Are you thirsty? They recall the pointless supplication, “Have pity on me and send someone to dip a fingertip in water to cool my tongue, because I am in agony in this fire.” Hopeless.
But the question has begun its work. Hearts gaze longingly at the city walls. The question has energized a plea. What if we trudged out a pilgrimage to Zion’s gates to seek an audience with the King? What if—hope against hope—someone opened the gates? Even without hope or courage, the thirst itself drives them. Are you thirsty? There is no choice now. They must try.
Even as the damned set their hearts upon the journey, while still a good distance away, the heart of God is already turned toward them, for the question originated from his throne, amplified beyond the city walls by the voice of the Bride and the Spirit. The question and its answer gush out with life-giving rivers of liquid love. Christ, the river of living water, pours out of the open gates and into the valley of death. Streams flow into Gehenna, where green shoots spring up on widening banks and moisture feeds the valley.
Parched for life and love, the outcasts rush to the river, falling on their faces to lap up the sparkling water. Tasting the goodness gives them a thirst for even more. They are drawn, freely yet irresistibly, to follow the river upstream. Its path welcomes them in through the gates, beckons them up the streets, a clear path to its mountain source—to God himself.
As the rapids of Christ’s love flow out of the city, so the nations stream into the city, joining the Bride, exalting the Bride, becoming the Bride, ready for the love of her King.
My vision. Isaiah’s vision. John’s vision. God’s vision.
To what degree does this vision represent pure possibility—a choice we can pursue or reject? To what degree is it the eternally planned choice of God? How do our choices and God’s plan intersect? And for how long will God pursue the dream?
Julian of Norwich, the great mystic and doctor of the church, saw that end in her Revelations of Divine Love, through which she received this hope of assurance from Christ:
There is a deed that the blessed Trinity shall do on the last day, and when that deed shall be done, and how it shall be done, is unknown to all creatures under Christ, and shall be until it has been done…. This is the great deed ordained by our Lord God from eternity, treasured and hidden in his blessed breast, known only to himself, and by this deed he shall make all things well; for just as the Holy Trinity made all things from nothing, so the Holy Trinity shall make all well that is not well.
Bradley Jersak, Her Gates Will Never Be Shut (Wipf & Stock, 2009), 178-9.
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