I once had a difficult meeting with a student whose life had gone sour.
Although I was powerless to change even a single detail about his
circumstances, I could help him to see a little differently. I could
help by asking where God was in their pain, and by guiding them to
answer that question in a way that made them more aware of the One who
promised to never go away.
Helping people see differently is what gives them wings. Height brings
perspective. What they see is the same, but how they see changes
amazingly.
The Psalmist asked, “What can man do to me?”, so I asked the student,
What is the worst thing that could happen if your situation does not change?
They listed a few things.
I ask for more. I ask them to parade the horribles.
They tell me more.
If all of that happens, what will happen to you?
They give me a few ideas.
If that happens to you, will you survive?
Yes, but I won’t feel good.
How long will you feel ‘not good’?
I don’t know.
Will you feel ‘not good’ forever?
No.
Have you ever felt ‘not good’ before?
Yes.
Did you survive?
Yes.
If you end up not feeling not good for a very long time – but not forever – will you be OK?
Yes.
The conversation went on. We dug a little deeper into what it means to
feel not good, what it means to own those feelings honestly, and to
gain a measure of authority over them by naming them, like Adam named
the animals. In time, we talked about God. We talked about God’s
promises, God’s goodness, and God’s unflinching faithfulness. After a
couple of hours, nothing had changed, but everything has changed.
Henri Nouwen wrote about how the way we see can change when he
described in his journal one of the most difficult periods of his life,
a time when he lost self-esteem, the energy to live and work, his sense
of being loved, even his hope in God. The deep, black night was
triggered by a sudden separation from what had been to him a deeply
satisfying friendship.
He wrote: “When you love someone or miss someone, you experience an
inner pain. It is also possible . . . . that the pain of absence will
show you that you are out of touch with your own deeper self. You
[think] you need the other [person] to experience inner wholeness, to
have a sense of well-being. You have become emotionally dependent on
the other [person] and sink into depression because of his or her
absence. It feels as if the other [person] has taken away a part of you
that you cannot live without. Then the pain of absence reveals a
certain lack of trust in God’s love. But God is enough for you. . . . .
Death or absence does not end or even diminish the love of God that
brought you to the other person. It calls you to take a new step into
the mystery of God’s inexhaustible love. This process is painful, very
painful, . . . . but the more you are stripped of the God-given support
of people, the more you are called to love God for God’s sake.”
Giving wings to the sour (I forget the origin of that expression) has
to do with helping people see how God is using their present situation
to transfigure them. Our human nature wants to renovate the
circumstances. God wants to renovate us.
I’m re-reading the Narnia tales. C.S. Lewis captured the importance of
giving wings to the sour by changing the way people “see” in The Horse
and His Boy. Shasta is the boy on a difficult journey to warn King Lune
of the impending attack of the armies of Tash. In one scary scene,
Shasta is the lone rider on a mountain pass in the darkness; he rides
an untidy horse that will not obey his commands. Shasta is then made
suddenly aware of a large presence in the dark. He speaks out in fear,
“Who are you? The great lion, still a mysterious presence, says to the
boy, “Tell me your sorrows”. Shasta complains to the large voice of his
dangerous journey, his frightening experiences, his unsatisfying
childhood, and now the fact that he is hungry, thirsty, and cold.
Aslan’s answer is a big surprise to Shasta: “I do not call you
unfortunate . . .” In other words, Shasta is blessed. In spite of all
his complaints, he is blessed. Why? Because he is on the right road.
Then, in successive waves of surprise, Shasta learns many things about
his own life and journey, and the path where even now he has a task to
do. The danger is still real, Shasta is still tired and hungry, but he
has been blessed, and he now knows that where he is, dangerous as it
really is, is still where he should be, and even where he wants to be,
because Aslan is on the road with him.
People whose lives have gone sour need to know that Jesus is walking
alongside of them, and is saying, “Tell me your sorrows”. They need
guidance in talking to the mysterious Lion. After they have done that
nothing will have changed but the way they see, which in time will make
everything change.
I used to try to give wings to the sour by always assuming the problem
was broken wings, and it was my job to fix them. That might be the
calling of some people, but I was terrible at it. Counseling sessions
were anxiety episodes. I now try very hard to not try to fix people.
Instead, among a few other things, I now try to help them see
differently.
Rick Watts, who teaches at Regent College in Vancouver, helped me with
this issue through his teaching on the Gospel of Mark. Watts proposed
that Mark might have structured his gospel around a section in Isaiah
where the prophet used exodus imagery to describe Israel’s return from
Babylonian exile. Isaiah’s new exodus included three parts: (1)
DELIVERANCE from enemies (Is 49:24), followed by (2) a JOURNEY in which
Yahweh would lead the blind “by ways they have not known” (Is 42:16),
toward (3) a restored and purified JERUSALEM (Is 60). Since Mark opened
his gospel by quoting Is 40:3, a text that smacks of exodus language,
Watts showed how Mark’s gospel could be organized around the three
parts of Isaiah’s new exodus. First, Mark looked at Jesus’ mighty acts
of DELIVERANCE (1:1 – 8:21), where ten of the twelve miracles of the
gospel are recounted. The deliverance section is followed by a JOURNEY
(8:22 – 10:52) in which Jesus leads the blind disciples along a path
they do not understand. Finally, Jesus and the disciples arrive in
JERUSALEM (11 – 16).
It is the second part of the new exodus that grabbed me. In the first
part of the gospel (the deliverance section) Jesus taught the crowds
and performed miracles. Now he will focus on teaching the disciples in
a way that changes them forever. But the teaching and the changing
doesn’t happen instantly, it happens slowly. This part of Mark is all
about a journey. However, the journey is bracketed before and after by
two miracle stories, both of which are sight miracles. In 8:22-26 Mark
told the story of the blind man who was healed in two stages. His
imperfect sight after the initial healing corresponded to the spiritual
sight of the disciples, who unlike the religious leaders were not
totally blind, could still see, although imperfectly. Just as the blind
man required two touches from Jesus, the disciples would require a
second contact with Jesus, after the resurrection, to have their eyes
fully opened. The second sight miracle concerned Bartimaeus (10:46-52).
In between these two sight miracles is the account of the blind
disciples travelling along the “way” to Jerusalem. They are reminiscent
of Isaiah’s prophecy: Yahweh will lead the blind “by ways they have not
known” (Is 42:16).
As I listened in the car, it began to dawn on me that a caring follower
of Jesus was supposed to do what Jesus was doing. A follower of Jesus
is at their best when they patiently walk the journey with the blind,
helping them to see where God is and how God is present and working,
and forming their core; helping them discern clues as to God’s intent,
and assisting them to re-align their perspective and to cleanse their
lens.
Ken Deeks is Dean of Christ for the Nations Bible School in Langley, BC