Years ago, so many years that it seems like another lifetime, I read Ragamuffin Gospel. My young, often confused, but very ambitious soul sighed at the simultaneous complexity and simplicity of it. "Yes! This is it!" it sang, comforted and content.
Truth tastes different than anything else. It has a flavor, doesn't it? A specific flavor that is instantly, all at once, cool to the touch and soothing to the mind.
Or maybe Truth is a pitch. A tone, so low, that nothing except the deepest recesses of your heart can hear it. It's a tone that, upon contact, instantly releases the dams of emotion and boundaries you've been carefully crafting, to protect your heart and guard your fragile soul. Instead of a high pitched whistle only animals can hear, it's a low pitched melody, instantly recognized as absolute in your most genuine parts.
any of Brennan's words are like that. Powerful, illustrative words that reach deep. Deep behind the barriers I've constructed to protect myself. They reach far. Far, into the chasm of who I am, of who I was created to be and murmur "PEACE" in a voice I cannot ignore.
Words like this:
“In a futile attempt to erase our past, we deprive the community of our healing gift. If we conceal our wounds out of fear and shame, our inner darkness can neither be illuminated nor become a light for others.”
Or this:
“Because salvation is by grace through faith, I believe that among the countless number of people standing in front of the throne and in front of the Lamb, dressed in white robes and holding palms in their hands (see Revelation 7:9), I shall see the prostitute from the Kit-Kat Ranch in Carson City, Nevada, who tearfully told me that she could find no other employment to support her two-year-old son. I shall see the woman who had an abortion and is haunted by guilt and remorse but did the best she could faced with grueling alternatives; the businessman besieged with debt who sold his integrity in a series of desperate transactions; the insecure clergyman addicted to being liked, who never challenged his people from the pulpit and longed for unconditional love; the sexually abused teen molested by his father and now selling his body on the street, who, as he falls asleep each night after his last 'trick', whispers the name of the unknown God he learned about in Sunday school.
'But how?' we ask.
Then the voice says, 'They have washed their robes and have made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'
There they are. There *we* are - the multitude who so wanted to be faithful, who at times got defeated, soiled by life, and bested by trials, wearing the bloodied garments of life's tribulations, but through it all clung to faith.
My friends, if this is not good news to you, you have never understood the gospel of grace.”
'But how?' we ask.
Then the voice says, 'They have washed their robes and have made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'
There they are. There *we* are - the multitude who so wanted to be faithful, who at times got defeated, soiled by life, and bested by trials, wearing the bloodied garments of life's tribulations, but through it all clung to faith.
My friends, if this is not good news to you, you have never understood the gospel of grace.”
________________________________________________________________________
Do you remember when you were young and you thought there was a clear answer for everything? Yes and No. Black and White. Right and Wrong.
Years ago, when my soul heard the whistle of Truth, I made the assumption there was also False. And that life had a formula which, when followed, would produce Perfection and Happiness in equal degree. Truth plus Obedience equals Goodness. How could it equal anything else? Why would God provide such things without a reason? And what reason other than Perfection would be worthy of Obedience?
I no longer believe that Perfection is the goal of this lifetime. At least, that is what I tell myself. Because it's impossible, isn't it? And yet, I often find myself acting oppositely. I punish myself most severely for failures, scorning myself at every small mishap. I often detest myself for mistakes, big or small, and rarely extend grace that goes more than skin deep.
How is it possible to hear, that tone, the clear, crisp whistle of pure truth, and instead of breathing the words as life-changing, I only allow the words to be moment-changing? To pierce the walls around my soul, but never actually break through. To throw a pail of water into the chasm of my heart, but never break the dam. And then I revert to my previous patterns of self-loathing and looking for an easy answer in A plus B equals C.
________________________________________________________________________
My heart always gives pause when grief is involved. Brennan Manning left earth this week, and I stopped, halted in my tracks, to listen and think.
I guess this is because I was acquainted with so much grief at a young age. Before the age of 8, I lost two members of my immediate family and had no idea how to cope. My mom hated funerals back then, so we attended neither my dad's nor my sister's. It's been over two decades. But somehow that wall around my heart that covers the grief-- I can not build it high enough. When I'm faced with death, or loss, part of that wall always crumbles, leaving me exposed and vulnerable.
I think our hearts have layers. When we are young and we face tragedy, those intense experience pierce our heart, like an arrow, right through the center. We sometimes break off the end of the arrow, and convince ourselves we are healed because we can't see it anymore. But then something happens, another tragedy perhaps, or a very happy moment, and a layer of our heart is peeled off, exposing raw flesh and wood splinters left over from the arrow.
We wrestle in those moments and struggle to face our tragedies, our demons. Soothing the raw flesh and pulling out the wood splinters, until no parts of the arrow can be seen. We find peace and healing and get ready to move on with our lives. Some of our walls come down. Some of our dams are broken. And then, months later, or years later, the cycle repeats. Another layer of our heart comes off, exposing our flesh and our splinters. And we repeat the process.
Today, as I reflect on Brennan Manning, some of my splinters are exposed. Just a couple, because the loss is far removed, but there they are, never the less.
And with those exposed splinters the truth of his words reach more quickly into the center of my soul. And I'm reminded. I'm reminded that it's ok to fail. I'm reminded that life is a process, a journey, and contentment is realized along the way, at various stages, regardless of the formulas you follow. Contentment is found in ultimate trust. Trust that God made us well. Trust that God loves us well. Trust that He will give us the strength to make it through everything.
Maybe most importantly, I'm reminded that when I hear that deep whistle of the Holy Spirit; when I taste that flavor of Truth that calms and soothes the deepest parts, to rest there. To rest for a minute, to enjoy that moment, and to do the work of breaking down a few layers of my walls, so that the moment can last longer than just a moment.
Rest in Peace Mr. Manning, and Welcome Home.
