Lesson On Removing Straw

Upon waking and discovering my comfortable position  three weeks ago I did something that I seldom do.  I continued lying there.  The longer I did, I found myself pulled out of the fragmented consciousness of a mind captive to the day’s concerns about freeing all our flower gardens from the covering of straw, laid last fall, over them.  I thought then that a covering would give them a wonderful winter rest from the deep freeze.  This day’s worries would be how I would find each plant’s condition.  Would I be able to uncover their delicate shoots without damage?  Should I use a tool or my bare hands? What amount of nourishment will they need at this new birth. Then from somewhere came the jarring lyrics of a song. Up until that point, the song had been itself much like the familiar patterns of scenery, an external factor impervious to the siege of my own fears; I was seeing but not seeing, hearing but not really hearing. But this morning I suddenly took in the David Matthew Band’s abrupt words in What You Are: “Hoping to God on high is like clinging to straws while drowning.” 

The stark image of clinging to straw cleared everything else from my mind. It also set me thinking about the descriptive words of a friend the evening before when telling me of a mutual friend fighting cancer.  How was I going to proceed in encouraging our friend in the midst of a difficult place? And , which reminded me; so many of us, at this chapter of our book, are in the same place. I will continue on intentionally assuring our friend of my friendship and support, but I also will intentionally  assure him of the presence of God. “The Lord is near to all who call on him,” declares the psalmist; and I think most of us  need to hear it on a consistent basis. 

Thank The Almighty I am among those who take comfort in the thought that He is among us, comforting our fears, quieting our cries of distress, standing near those who call, moving in lives and history that we might discover the God who is there. As a follower of Christ, knowing that he is with me in struggle and darkness is one of the only reasons I don’t completely surrender to my fears and stop moving forward. Knowing that there is a kingdom of grace, beauty, and mystery is the hope I remember when I fear death, my console when I fear uncertainty, the picture that somehow makes sense of a strand of DNA and quiets my fear of being uncared for and alone. I can relate to the resolution of the psalmist in a world of many and distant gods: “But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign LORD my refuge”. 

But, I also ask myself, what good is it if there is a throne but it is empty, a kingdom without a king, a god who is close but like straw?  Who is it who is near me? If god is an impersonal force, or a tyrant, or a distant, semi-interested being, the kingdom is no refuge. If the hope I cling to is like straw that cannot save me from drowning, I have good reason to live in fear, “huddled,” as the musician later described, “afraid if we dance we might die.” 

As I arose from under the cover to begin these written thoughts, the image that brought my distraction to a grinding halt forced me to think graphically about the hope to which I  really cling; that promise that is so often on the mouth of God in Scripture: Do not be afraid, for I am with you. If God on high is merely straw and fairytale, then emptiness is inevitable, fear is certain, and hope is futile, for I am ultimately alone. How often, I often find my clinging futilely to fantasy and drown in delusion. Could there really be one both graceful and near enough to answer the cry of a lonely heart, the fears most of my friends and I are having of our entire nation, the uncertainties of the world around? 

Throughout Scripture that very divine vow “I am with you” is made with sovereign confidence, but also in stirring circumstance. Speaking into the fears of exile, God said to the prophet Isaiah, “Do not be afraid, for I am with you; I will bring your children from the east and gather you from the west.” To the apostle Paul who was struggling with uncertainty and weakness, the divine voice encouraged him in a vision: “Do not be afraid; keep on speaking, do not be silent. For I am with you, and no one is going to attack and harm you, because I have many people in this city.” And Jesus even as he anticipated the nearing cross gave his closest followers a promise that remains comforting today:  “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” 

The promise of God’s nearness is one that I, as a Christian, rightfully utter as encouragement and cling to in joy, in fear, and in sorrow, knowing the face and character of the one who is near. When God assures of with a self-revealing presence, it is more than just a promise of proximity and intimacy. There is a purpose for God’s nearness, the pledge of relationship, the promise of community. It is not an empty or superficial presence, having taken on the things humanity itself to draw intimately near.

Father, God, as You reminded the prophet Jeremiah so and attests, the promise of proximity may well be far more profound than I can even fathom: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you…Do not be afraid…for I am with you to deliver you”  Amen