The Problem Of Pain

In my collection of what I call "keeper books" I have a C.S. Lewis section, and one of the books in that section is entitled "The Problem of Pain."

Here's the problem with pain.  Pain is powerful.  Nothing in the world captures my attention like my pain does.  If I hit my thumb with a hammer it is virtually impossible to care about the cute thing my grandson said or the beauty of a bird's song.  When my thumb is throbbing, I want both of them to be quiet!

Pain demands my full devotion.  Pain commands my complete allegiance.  When I'm hurting, I can't think about anything else. 

Right now, I'm feeling some pretty powerful pain.  Right now, the pain is acute.  If I were in the doctor's office and had to rate my pain on the chart with the little faces on it, I would point to the face with the tears.  Maybe you can relate. 

Some people live with chronic pain.  If you’re one of those people I can’t begin to say I know how you feel.  My pain is not physical.  My pain comes from a different place.

In his little book on pain Lewis said, "Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more hard to bear.”  (My friends who live with intense physical pain may not agree with that last phrase.)  “The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say 'My tooth is aching' than to say 'My heart is broken.'" 

Heart pain is the worst!  It's virtually impossible to medicate. 

My mother lives with chronic pain for which she consumes a lot of pills, but eventually the pills lose their potency and the pain is still there.

There is no pill strong enough to take the edge off of heart pain.  Lots of people have tried. 

I think the only thing you can do with heart pain is share it.  Talk about it.  Try to convert it into words and breathe them into somebody's ear. 

I guess that's what I'm doing with this blog… regurgitating my pain.  I don't have to tell you why I'm hurting.  Right now, it's enough just to tell you that I am. 

I guess that's part of what we do when we pray.  Prayer is, in part, converting our pain into words and breathing them into the ears of God. 

I can't promise that the pain will go away, at least not immediately.  I can only tell you what I tell myself… over and over again.  The one who the prophet Isaiah claims "bore our pain and took up our sufferings," is anxious to listen. 

Am I Pro-Life or Just Anti-Abortion

I'm definitely anti-abortion. The thought of a baby losing its life in utero saddens me deeply. But does the fact that I am against the termination of an unborn life automatically make me pro-life?

I'm beginning to understand how my pro-choice friends can be put off by my hypocrisy, just  as I am by theirs. 

If I say I'm pro-life yet protest the entrance of refugees and immigrants into my country; men, women and children just looking for a safe place to live, can I honestly say I'm pro-life? Am I pro (for) the lives of these people?

If I say I'm pro-life and translate my "pro-life" stance into legislation that forces a mother to bring her baby into this world but then protest policies and legislation that would provide that child with better food, better education... a better shot at a better life, can I honestly say I'm pro-life? Perhaps I'm no more pro-life than Cain, the biblical character who famously asked, "Am I my brother's keeper?"

If I say I'm pro-life yet fail to protest the execution of a living breathing human being on death row, a human being who bears the image of God just like me, can I honestly say I'm pro-life?  I may wear the "pro-life" moniker proudly, but am I pro (for) the life of that person waiting for his life to be extinguished?

If I say I'm pro-life yet consume and abuse the earth's resources like there's no tomorrow until my great grandchildren are literally cheated of all their tomorrows, can I really, honestly say that I'm pro-life?  Will a future generation believe my pro-life claim?  

I could list more "If I say I'm pro-life" examples, but you (and I) get the idea.  If I'm really honest with myself I must at least admit that being pro-life is complex.  Being pro-life includes more than just one spiritual, political and social issue. If I'm really honest with myself I may have to admit that maybe, just maybe I'm not as pro-life as I like to think I am. 

Maybe, just because I'm anti-abortion doesn't necessarily mean that I'm pro-life. 

Silence

“Silence is golden.”  A well known saying used by everybody from college librarians to overwrought parents.  I’m thinking a mother made it up while traveling with her kids in a car or covered wagon. 

Whatever its origins, I think the saying shares truth.  Silence is valuable.  But why? 

I went camping a while back.  For two weeks my dog Meg and I lived in the Pisgah National Forest.  I needed to get close to heaven so I went to the mountains. 

While I was there I was silent (for the most part) and I practiced silence as a spiritual discipline every morning.  Every morning I rose long before the sun, made my coffee, prayed my prayers and sat in silence.  Every morning I was sitting in silence as the darkness slowly, reluctantly surrendered to the light.

I think there is no time and place more void of sound than the pre-dawn hour in the middle of the woods.  The temperature drops a degree or two, the nighttime creatures are going to sleep, the daytime creatures are still dreaming…and silence fills the void.   

It’s the kind of noiselessness that can be felt, like a heavy mountain fog.  It grows into your psyche like kudzu grows into a tree until the tree can no longer be seen.  It gradually fills every part of your being like the slow rains fill the river till it overflows its banks.

Then, in that silence, you sense that God has invaded every single space in your soul.  And in that space you know him.  To your surprise you commune with him.  

I believe in meeting God in the voluminous worship of the gathered church, but my intuition tells me that God inhabits the silence as much as he inhabits the praise and the prayers and the preaching of his children…sometimes maybe even more.  That’s why silence is golden.  Because you will likely meet God there.       

If you’ve never practiced silence as a spiritual discipline, perhaps you would consider it.  Maybe turn off the noise makers, put down the devises and be silent…listen…wait.  Who knows, in silence you may encounter God.    

Mountain ridges and manmade towers

 

Today Meg and I hiked to the top of a mountain ridge somewhere in the Pisgah National Forest.  (Meg is my dog.)  The climb was steep, at times forcing me to mimic Meg… all fours.  In the end we made our way up and up until finally, we were at the top. 

The view from the top is incredible.  I’ve always been fascinated by trees and from here I can see an ocean of them; red oaks, white pines, silver maples.  Trees are the kings and queens of the mountains.  With laurel at their feet (attendants in waiting) the trees line the ridges and stretch upward, proud rulers of the highlands. 

As I looked out across the valleys to opposing peaks my eyes were drawn higher to the clouds just above those peaks, patting them on the head like little children as they passed by.  They were the remnants of a front that passed through last night dumping a couple inches of rain, swelling creaks and washing out roads.  They were traveling fast, as if trying to catch up with their brother and sister clouds out ahead of them.

At the top of this particular ridge stood an electrical tower, a great pyramid of angle iron, bolts and brackets.  Leaning against a bottom brace I wondered out loud how in the world those linemen managed to get the necessary tools and materials to this remote location.  Meg offered no plausible explanation. 

Yet, in the shadow of a great human achievement of cold steel and bare wires, I couldn’t help but notice how insignificant and ugly it was.  Standing on that ridge, that tower and others like it, formed a great electrical highway through the Blue Ridge Mountains.  But alongside those blue mountains the towers were overwhelmingly unimpressive. 

In college I took Geology 101.  So I know a little bit about tectonic plates shifting, butting into one another like bulls trying to lay claim to territory.  Over millions of years this heated debate resulted in the great upheaval of rock and earth we call mountain ranges.  I’ve been told that this one, the one my ancestors called home, has actually been eroding for quite some time. 

So I know just a little bit about the science behind the mountains.  And I know just a little bit about the engineering behind the towers.  (To borrow a saying from one of my mountaineer friends, you can take all I know about either of those subjects, put it in a thimble and it will roll around like a BB in a boxcar.)  Still, when I’m standing on one of those mountains I feel something that college geology can’t explain.  One word for it is “awe.”  I’m impressed by the tower and the engineers who put it there.  But I’m in awe of the mountains and the creator who put them here.

Standing on the top of a mountain ridge somewhere in the Pisgah National Forest I lean against a manmade tower and worship the one who made man and mountains.  I worship the one who created the brains that can create towers and skyscrapers and I worship the one who created beauty that eclipses the best those brains can imagine.

Standing on top of a mountain ridge somewhere in the Pisgah National Forest I worship the same one that an ancient Jewish poet worshiped when he wrote, “O Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.  Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.”  (Psalm 90:1-3)

Stillness: A Worship Exercise

The earth is blanketed with snow; at least the earth in my back yard.  When it snows in the south everything screeches to a halt, even Sunday worship.  So today most churches in my very southern city of Shelby, NC are not gathering for worship.

I’m not saying this is a bad thing.  In fact, it could be very good.  The past three days of snow paralysis has given me the opportunity to do something I don’t do enough of… be still.  I’ve been spending long periods of time meditating, listening, being quiet, being still (at least more than I normally do) and I think it’s been a good thing.

Here’s a phrase from one of the ancient song writers of Israel.  “Be still and know that I am God.”  Psalm 46:10

Somehow when I get still, when I become silent, when I let my activity filled world come to a dead stop, God shows up.  God invades stillness.  Personal, intimate, transcendent knowledge of God happens in the stillness of my soul.

Perhaps it is fair to say it this way.  God… the deepest and most profound personhood of God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit… is simply not knowable apart from stillness. 

Kyle Murphy, the worship leader at my church, and I have had several conversations about what it would be like if we put this instruction into practice one Sunday morning by having a “Be Still Sunday.”  When our church gathered for worship we would announce that the worship hour would consist of no songs and no sermon.  For one hour we would be silent and still so that we can know that Yahweh is God. 

I wonder how our people would respond.  Would our people step into the stillness?  Embrace the silence?  Would they bolt for the door?     

So here’s my challenge, especially for the Zoar Church family.  Be still as a worship exercise.  Since we’re not gathering for worship this morning what if you took an hour (the worship hour) to be still.  For an hour just be still, be silent.  Listen.  Don’t talk.  Don’t ask God for anything.  Just be still and know God.

Start the hour with this prayer.  “Speak Lord for your servant is listening.”  Then be still and silent for an hour.  When the hour is over end with this prayer.  “Thank you…Thank you…Thank you.  Amen”