As we watched the Philadelphian's celebration of Independence Day, beautiful fireworks, alone with national symbols, relics and statues, representing liberty, were captured on the television screen, which created a lump in my throat. One statue, especially. Maybe because I've been so close and privileged to touch it, a couple of times. That massive statue of Abraham Lincoln in Washington D.C., on which the inscription reads: "In this Temple, as in the hearts of the people, for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever." As I remember when beholding the seated figure of 19 feet, which has been carved from 28 blocks of white marble, that I was catching a glimpse of the nation's respect for the man and his important place in American history. I wish I could say, standing in the midst of today's culture, that every American would consider, if just in small reverence, bestow honor upon each and every engraved in stone. It thrilled my soul when my friend Teense asked me the other day if he could decorate my parents engraved head stones, two thousand miles from me. I also think that a painted portrait in someone's likeness is, indeed, intended to be a distinguishing tribute to the life captured in color. Numerous times I have stood longingly, wondering, what it might be like to, personally, be in the presence of the person. On the other hand, not my Amish friends. Nor in ancient near eastern writ. In fact, there is the repeated warning 'never to do the same' with God. In the ancient words of the Hebrew Bible, the One who would hold our highest esteem, has cautioned us against even attempting to make such images. "I am the LORD; that is my name; my glory I give to no other, nor my praise to carved idols" is written in Isaiah's book. Whether in finest metal or costly stone, to create a graven image of God would only reduce this God.
I think the prayer of C.S. Lewis' captures a similar idea in more modern terms, reminding that not all graven images are of stone and gold. I highlighted it in his poem entitled "The Apologist's Evening Prayer" as it is for me a potent glimpse at my own thoughtful idols. Writes Lewis:
Thoughts are but coins. Let me not trust, instead
Of Thee, their thin-worn image of Thy head.
From all my thoughts, even from my thoughts of Thee,
O thou fair Silence, fall, and set me free.
Lord of the narrow gate and the needle's eye,
Take from me all my trumpery lest I die.
I realize, it's not uncommon for me to speak of things I am perpetually finding myself surprised by again and again with God. I am not oblivious to folk's raised eyebrows, furrowed forehead, and rolling eyes. Even as thoughts of God can easily become idols, as notes to myself on my iPad, aligned neatly on theological shelves, He mercifully and repeatedly wakes me to new understandings. It is forever surprising for me, for instance, to be reminded, earlier this morning, while reading "Knowing Christ," by Mark Jones, that Jesus' famous words, "I am the way, the truth, and the life," were not uttered at angry religious leaders, nor directed at the lost and downtrodden. To me it seems a statement that draws a line in the sand with quickened stroke, separating the faithful from the uninterested, providing infinite comfort to the lost, and infinitely disturbing those who thought themselves found. And certainly, Christ's words have a way of doing just that. But His potent words that day were spoken not to those who did not know Him, but to those who knew Him best. And they did not understand.
I wonder if these men and women understood any further, when only days later Jesus' very life was poured out before them. "I am the way the truth and the life." Did they remember these words on his lips? Could their minds have gotten around the thought that his life made the way, that the life of God's Son poured out for the world is somehow the way to truth and life and meaning? Could they understand all that was packed in those words? Do I?
I know I've been given a mind and imaginations that can freely tread into heavenly matters. The desire to see God seems to be set upon my heart no matter this culture and creed I was raised with. "Show me your glory," Moses implored of God. "Show us the Father," the disciples pled with Jesus. But I cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end anymore than I can fathom God, and for this God seems to keep reminding me of my limitations. It hasn't always been like that for me, has it? I suppose more so as I grow toward the end of life. Lately I've been shown more of the Father; I've been shown more of God's glory; it seems I've been graced with continued glimpses of a Self-revealing God. And yet, this morning I'm being warned not to make any of it into an idol lest I miss God in the midst of it. Another fella, poet and professor Stanley Wiersma has been a good adviser over the last couple of years, thru his work and advised: Bill, "When you are too sure about God and faith, you are sure of something other than God: of dogma, of the church, of a particular interpretation of the Bible. But God cannot be pigeonholed. We must press toward certainty, but be suspicious when it comes too glibly."
As sure as I take another step toward seventy-five, I believe that God is moving me to those places where I can discover again that God is fearfully alive, that the mere hem of God's robe fills even my holiest moments. I must repeatedly remind myself, or be sensitive of being reminded as God reminded Job: "Can you fathom the mysteries of God? Can you probe the limits of the Almighty? They are higher than the heavens—what can you do? They are deeper than the depths of the grave—what can you know?"
Father, God, showing me yourself is a hope of my heart even as I hopefully learn to shudder at the request. I recognize it is also a longing You have promised will be answered—from ages past to me today and until I step on the other side. I claim the words of Isaiah. And the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. Amen
