Giftgivers That Go WHAM-BANG in the Night

*While I'm still finishing up some prose pieces, please enjoy this tidbit from my current summer adventure: house and pet sitting in a rural farm house*

‘Twas 3:30am…

When right in my ear there arose such a clatter!

I sprang from my pillow, all dream-sheep ascatter.

What a sight! My bleary eyes took in the scene:

A cat there suspended on my window screen.

Petite head and limbs first suggested this culprit a kitten

Until the hugely-swollen tummy belied my suspicion.

What on earth could she be after? A june bug? A mouse?

Nope.

Pregnant Mama (and all her unborn) want back in the house.

Though momentarily startled by the cat and her womb,

I later realized this episode could spell future doom:

Mama Cat learned which window screen hides my bedroom.

KMR 7/4/2013, 3:36am

Based on a true story

The True Diana

You drew me up from the foam

and the brine you wiped me clean

of Titan’s filth and you called

me your own sweet darling one

to be fed on ambrosia

and commune eternally

with you as your warrior

handmaid no longer ravaged

and ravaging in the deep

Just as the moon reflects the

sun so do I reflect you

my God-King in this silver

bright armor born of the blood

of your Vulcan and polished

with tears for his sister-bride

radiant beloved chaste in

armor you commissioned and

he willingly toiled through

This girdle of mail such strong

bright links to guard and display

as only your armor can

full hips and thighs dearly loved

as the full heart and breasts now

cradled and protected by

chest plates fire-tempered bearing

your seal etched and polished

claiming me for Olympus

A helmet-crown he wrought of

filigree ornate and strong

as the heart who fashioned it

for this the mind it must form

to direct feet and ankles

in these shoes swift as time

delicate and rugged as

the white hart my companion

and pursuit above all else

This shield so broad and shining

as a mirror polished to

reflect your bright face not mine

this sword he fashioned in your

image for guided arms to hew

and heal a protector pierced

to divide and mend serves me

better than the finest bow

my warrior heart could want

Refined metal becomes skin

of my skin over and in

soul of my soul exults at

your most lavish provision

of me the sister-bride in

Vulcan your truest lightning

equipping me for love and

the hunt in silver-gilt flesh

to be both chaste and chaser

The Dancemaster's Pupil

Broken feet cannot dance very well. I learned the steps by standing on a pair that really tried…but broken feet can only teach a broken dance. And the feet learning atop them become warped and broken in the process—perhaps to an even greater degree.

The teaching feet told me they had learned the steps from the DanceMaster and that everything I would ever need to know I could learn from them—I would be wasting the DanceMaster’s time if I sought Him directly. Eventually, the teaching feet grew too broken to bear my weight, and danced off alone. By then, my own feet were quite broken: each step was a stumble, every twirl became a fall. But I had come to love the only dance I knew. For a while I tried to dance on my own—pretending the stumbles and falls were intentional, celebrated elements of my own clever choreography. But my feet grew more broken…and the choreography fell apart. It became evident that if I was ever to dance as well as the teaching feet, I would have to seek out the DanceMaster.

Over the years, I had rather hoped that I might catch a fleeting glimpse of the DanceMaster or encounter Him in passing, but of course that doesn’t happen. As I had never sought Him, I had never found Him. But the minute I purposed to go looking for him, the DanceMaster found me.

He said that He would be delighted to teach me, but He would not instruct me in the dances of the teaching feet—He would not help me to augment those dances and mask my stumbles and falls. If I was determined to pursue those desires, He could not help me. “Are you willing to relearn the steps from me?”

After much thought, I told Him the only two things of which I was certain: I wanted to dance better, and I wanted to learn from Him…if starting over was the only way, I would try it.

The DanceMaster instructed me to stand on His feet. I found myself wondering if this was, in fact, a waste of time: He seemed to be using the same technique as the teaching feet who had left me. But slowly, softly realization dawned—something was different about His instruction. There was a rhythm underlying each step, a nuance pulsing through His hands, guiding and rejoicing in every move of the dance. He called it music. If He was attended by something so beautiful, perhaps the DanceMaster was different after all.

For fully three years I seemed to struggle without improvement. We never worked on more than the most basic steps, and He never let me dance on my own—I was always on His feet. Yet standing on the DanceMaster’s feet was excruciating! His feet were not broken and deformed: standing on them forced my own broken feet to take a different shape, and the pain was almost overwhelming. For those three years, I spent most of our lessons in tears. Repeatedly I begged Him to let me dance on the floor. He always said it wasn’t time yet; He said that I was not yet strong enough to hear the music on my own, and that the floor would hurt my feet more. All that sustained me were the DanceMaster’s frequent reminders of His promise to teach me many new dances when it was time, and the increasing beauty of the music to which we danced.

One day He said, “Look at your feet.”

They were so different! My feet were now shaped more like the DanceMaster’s, although they were still a little warped and…how scarred they were!

He said that my feet were no longer broken, but they would continue to cause me some degree of pain for the rest of my life. The DanceMaster gave me permission to dance on the floor now, but said that He would sometimes have me dance on His feet so that He could make my feet straighter. He also said the scars will fade over time, but that new ones will form any time I choose not to dance on His feet in moments when the pain threatens to overwhelm me.

“Are you ready to dance through the steps for me?” He asked.

He started teaching me dances. Each step, each dance, built upon the one before it. At times He taught me quickly; more often He was slow and deliberate. Perhaps the music sustained me: slow didn’t seem so slow as before, and fast was never too fast. He began showing me solo dances, partner dances, and group dances. Some bore a vague similarity to the dances I had learned from the teaching feet…but these were far more intricate and beautiful. The steps which the DanceMaster taught me were far more complex than anything I could have previously managed with my broken feet. I grew to love combining the steps He demonstrated into improvised dances I would perform for Him. I’m sure the DanceMaster has seen many dances more artistically and technically correct. But each time I display for Him my affection and gratitude by mirroring back to Him the steps He has taught me, delight suffuses His face and He sings to the music surrounding me.

I was so excited by all I was learning that I began using my practice hours to introduce others to the beautiful steps the DanceMaster was teaching me. Some have grown excited and begun to study under Him as well; group dances are more and more fun! Others have politely rebuffed me and continued with their own choreography, or lack thereof. Some have grown very angry at the suggestion that their lives could possibly be deficient in any way that would necessitate the undertaking of such nonsense. Still others have been deeply moved by the steps and the altered state of my feet…for a short while…but upon learning there is pain involved, they have always left in haste; the pain in my feet is sharpest after those encounters.

But still He asks, “Will you dance for me?”

Usually I remember to dance on my Master’s feet when the pain grows unbearable; sometimes He has to remind me. Occasionally I ignore His reminders. I sit staring at my feet as the pain builds and the throbbing envelopes my mind, intentionally tuning out the DanceMaster’s persistent and gentle admonitions to rise drifting to me on the music. Once in a while I do this even when my feet are not very painful at all; but hunching over them and thinking about them seems to make the pain grow larger somehow, until I forget that it had not been nearly so sharp to begin with. But without fail—be it minutes, hours, or days later—the music penetrates my self-induced silence and I begin to hear His voice:

“Will you dance for me?”

It is always in those moments when I raise my head to look at Him from across the floor that I am most clearly struck by how tall and straight and strong the Dancemaster is. Gazing at Him from a distance is far more imposing than when I am dancing around Him or held close in His arms. The awe of this realization always spurs my desire to be near Him, in the shadow of His gentleness, and gives me the strength to rise and dance toward Him once more. When I sit down I forget that, while dancing, the pain serves only to keep me light on my feet.

Heavy Lies

Job knew his ten children had just begun another round of banquets that day. He was undoubtedly thinking of his duties, as the family elder and priest, to once again offer sacrifices on behalf of his children when their feasting was finished. But Job’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, shouting that all of Job’s oxen and donkeys had been plundered; all the attendants killed except this one. Hard upon his heels came another frantic messenger, to inform Job that all his sheep had been consumed by holy fire; all the attendants incinerated except this one. Immediately another messenger arrived, panting out news of the theft of all Job's camels; all the attendants slaughtered except this one. And instantly a fourth messenger rushed in, crying that all Job's children had died in the collapse of the eldest son’s house; all the attendants crushed except this one. God is capricious. Aside from using you for his amusement, he sees no worth or merit in you. God does not love you.

God gave Satan permission to attack Job. Interesting, isn't it, that Satan chose to spare one attendant from each calamity. He could have simply allowed Job to find out over the period of a week or two...drawing out the suspense, gradually heightening the tension. But Satan chose to hit hard, hit fast. In the face of God's own opinion of Job—that he was an upright man who would never curse Adonai—it seems that Satan decided to give his lie as much reinforcement as he possibly could. He even used "fire from God" as one of the manners in which he chose to attack Job. (And he used that fire to consume Job’s sheep, specifically. There is added importance in this gesture, but it’s a subject for another time.)

Satan spoke to Job through the total destruction of his legacy. God does not love you. Your service and devotion cannot please him; your children cannot please him; you cannot please him.

Satan spoke to Job in the torment of his own body: This is the extent of God’s capricious regard for you. This agony is your true priesthood, your sole heritage. God does not love you.

Satan spoke to Job through the pointed absence of his relatives and community (42:11): You have been chosen for torment. God has made you a blight upon the earth.

Satan spoke to Job from the mouth of his wife (2:9): "Why do you still hold on to your integrity? Curse God and die!" God does not love you. End your misery; it's more than you can bear. Get the only satisfaction you can hope for.

Satan spoke to Job through the false vision given to his friend, Elifaz (4:12-21): "Can a human being be seen by God as righteous? Can a mortal be pure before his maker? [God] doesn't trust even his own servants, he finds fault even with his angels; much more those living in houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust." God finds no merit in you. Your upright conduct is a farce. He will never be pleased with you. Curse him. Then die. Lash out, and then seek respite in oblivion. God does not love you.

Job’s very foundations were assaulted from every side. A solid wave of malevolence engulfed him, and seemingly dissolved the very ground upon which he stood. On his arm, Job bore the shield of Adonai—the defense of all who seek the Lord. But he could not block all of the blows. The darkness pierced Job so intentionally, so persistently. He knew that he’d committed no sin: this punishment was not justified by any wrongdoing of his. But when the lies flood in—when feet seem to no longer find purchase on solid foundations and flailing arms can find nothing but twisted darkness to hang onto—what is there to grasp? What was Job to believe about God? What was he to believe about himself? The number of his wounds mounted. All he clutched dissolved to swirling ashes. How difficult must it have been to blindly trust in the Most High, and to believe he is Just and Good?

Job was not a perfect man. He struggled and doubted; his legs began to buckle. Repeated blows from all sides take such a toll. “Why do you hide your face and think of me as an enemy? Do you want to harass a wind-driven leaf? Do you want to pursue a dry straw? Is this why you draw up bitter charges against me and punish me for the faults of my youth?” (13:24-26) The enemy struck a little deeper than Job could bear; he gasped…and breathed in some of the ashes clouding the air around him.

“[Why give light] to a man who wanders blindly, whom God shuts in on every side?” (3:23)

~~~~~~~

Jesus spent thirty-three years on this earth. Prior to that, he spent all of eternity (not simply the finite time leading up to his birth, but all of eternity: all the time that ever can be, and all that exists outside of that time) in perfect union with God the Father, and God the Holy Spirit. And at the proper moment, he willingly relinquished it all.

Jesus faced oppression in all possible forms. The four gospels provide detailed accounts of three particularly intense struggles: Jesus’ forty days in the wilderness, his time of prayer just before his arrest, and his trial and torture prior to death. Yet even as a mortal man, our sinless Messiah still enjoyed unbroken communion with God. Unlike Job, the Son of God had an unwavering foundation. Jesus’ legs could not be swept from under him; his grasp of his Father’s Goodness never loosened. Even as he labored out of Jerusalem toward his death on the hill called The Skull, omnipotent Father and obedient Son remained unhindered in their unity.

But the cross was yet before him.

Darkness gathered in this, the hour of its rule. From the moment of Jesus’ arrest, it crashed down to engulf his world. All around him dissolved to swirling ashes. He did not reach out, hoping to clutch something solid in the decaying air. He did not shout or gasp. The foundation beneath his feet no longer visible, Jesus walked deliberately forward; the Holy Spirit guided him step by step along the narrow, unseen path across the battlefield.

Satan spoke to Jesus through Judas’ betraying kiss, and the desertion of his closest friends: You are truly alone. They do not love you. Your devotion and sacrifice cannot satisfy them. You cannot triumph.

Jesus replied, “This is the cup the Father has given me; am I not to drink it?” (Jn 18:11) and stood firm in his belief of the Father’s sovereignty: “I have not lost one of those you gave me” (Jn 18:9)

Satan spoke to Jesus in the torment of his own body and Pilate’s offer of release (Jn. 19:10): Is this agony your true kingship, your priesthood? You are capable of so much more. Defend your name, and take up the honor you’ve denied yourself for so long. Otherwise I will loose them upon you like the ravenous wolves they are. I hold your life in my hands. Declare yourself! Show your power. This is the only way for you to triumph.

Jesus declared, “You would have no power over me if it hadn’t been given to you from above.” (Jn. 19:11) He clung to his Father’s wisdom: “My kingship does not derive its authority from this world’s order of things.” (Jn 18:36)

Satan spoke to Jesus from the mouths of his nation: "Take him away! Take him away! Put him to death on the stake! We have no king but the Emperor." (Jn 19:15) “His blood is on us and on our children!” (Mt 27:25) They do not love you. End your misery; it's more than you can bear. Get the only satisfaction you can hope for. Declare yourself! Show your power. Make them love you.

Jesus replied only with his silence.

The enemy took his cue. Noon had come: the hour of greatest light succumbed to the dominion of darkness. The malevolent cloud surrounding the Messiah spread wide to consume all inhabitants of the living day. Swirling ash became a tangible shroud. And although his physical body stumbled on the long, blood-soaked trek out of the city, Jesus did not gasp or falter. His trust in the Goodness of his Father did not buckle under the blows. He continued moving forward, one step at a time, as carnage and chaos ruled all around.

But the cross was yet to come.

It was now early afternoon. The oppressive pall continued to gorge upon Jerusalem—striking indiscriminately, and drinking deeply of the fear and despair that poured from open wounds. The darkness grew stronger, the people weaker.

Satan spoke to Jesus from the throats of Jew and Gentile, usurping the voice of his Bride: “Aha! So you can destroy the Temple, can you, and rebuild it in three days? Save yourself and come down from the stake!” “He saved others, but he can’t save himself!” “So he is the Messiah, is he? The King of Israel? Let him come down from the stake! If we see that, then we’ll believe him!” (Mk 15: 29-32) “Hail to the King of the Jews!” (Mk 15:18) See how they love you. See what good your love does without power. Declare yourself! Reduce them to cinders with one blaze of your glory; we both know you can. Remove yourself from this pain and claim your honor!

Jesus again turned to his ever-present Father: “Father, forgive them; they don’t understand what they are doing.” (Lk 23:34)

Jesus never faltered. He remained: hanging by his arms from the execution stake, forcing his body upward to drag air into his searing throat and drop down again. In Jesus’ spirit lay the power to break free and heal himself in an instant…or even just to deaden his nerves, or supernaturally call air into his drowning lungs. But Jesus’ feet remained fixed to the solid foundation forged by his unbroken communion with Adonai, his Father. His trust did not waiver. No ash passed his lips.

But the cross was yet to be realized.

Three hours past noon. And then the final blow, the ultimate agony: not death, but Death. The ultimate purpose for voluntarily entering into time came upon Jesus in an instant: Sin. The sinless Messiah took up a weight heavier than the cloud of lies surrounding that hill. And in that moment he incurred the absolute price: Separation. The cross had come. Sin devoured the passionate bond of omnipotent Father and obedient Son. Unparalleled agony! Throwing back his head, Jesus abused his weakened lungs to cry out in his extremity of anguish: “My God! My God! Why have you deserted me?” (Mt 27:46) Who can imagine the torn and bleeding void left in the wake of such unity! God ripped from himself…willingly…in the ultimate act of love and communion. One blow had finally penetrated!

But had it really? Even in his unmitigated torment, the words of Jesus’ cry originate in the Psalms. “My God! My God! Why have you abandoned me? Why so far from helping me, so far from my anguished cries?...Nevertheless, you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel.” (Psalm 22:1, 3) The son of David repeated the prayer of his earthly forefather, declaring his undying trust in the power and faithflness of his heavenly Father. The Sacrificial Lamb announced the fulfillment of prophecy, laid out so clearly in earlier generations.

The darkness pushed in, tearing and hacking, seeking surrender. Feet firmly planted upon ash, Jesus maintained his grip upon the severed bond—the union of which he could not now partake. But still He refused defeat. And then, with his last vestiges of endurance, Jesus hoarsely shouted, “Father! Into your hands I commit my spirit.” Quoting David once more, the Son of God vocalized his trust in the unchanging Goodness of his Father, glorifying Adonai even in the perfection of his torment. “Free me from the net they have hidden to catch me, because you are my strength. Into your hands I commit my spirit; you will redeem me, Adonai, God of truth” (Ps 31:4-5). The Word Incarnate proclaimed to all those with ears to hear and eyes to see: “Before Abraham came into being, I AM!” (Jn 8:58) Before Job…and after Job…and beyond the end of this world.

And then: “It is accomplished!” (Jn 19:30) The sacrifice was complete. The Lamb accepted death. In so doing, Death was vanquished eternally. Graves unsealed themselves, and many God-fearing men and women returned to life. The blood price had now been met. Forever. And in the instant of his death, the severed bond was restored. The gaping wound of mutilated relationship was healed. But the nail scars remained.

By forfeiting his birthright in loving obedience, Jesus ensured the permanence of his unity with God the Father and God the Holy Spirit…throughout all the time that ever can be, and all that exists outside of that time. By standing in the indefensible void, he forged a path across the battlefield. And he gained the authority to share that path. The Temple veil shielding the Holy of Holies supernaturally ripped from top to bottom. We have access. The foundation can never be shaken or dissolved; our bond cannot be broken. Moreover, Jesus tempered a weapon in the fires of his torment: a two-edged sword. If we choose to walk his path through the carnage, we not only carry the shield of Adonai on our arm. We walk with the sword of Jesus at our side. We are not at the enemy’s mercy. We will only taste ashes if we choose to breathe them in.

~~~~~~~

Job did not fail entirely. He neither blamed nor cursed God. Even as his legs began to buckle, and the bitter taste of ash filled his mouth, Job still reached out for that which he could not feel: he sought Adonai Shamah (“The Lord is There”). Job cried out in question, and despair…until the darkness parted before God’s own sword: his blatant invitation to Job for a closer relationship. Satan lost. And Job learned of the grandeur, the majesty, and the mercy of Adonai Nissi (“The Lord is My Banner/Miracle”). He stood, weak-kneed, on solid ground once more. As the ash settled, Job surveyed the carnage of a now-visible battle field, with an increased depth to his trust in a God who is absolutely Good. And that growth had been the Lord’s plan all along. Although it was not yet forged in completion, the Lord gave Job a powerful sword for support in future combat.

God restored to Job all that had been taken. Job regained his wealth in double measure. Of course, this was not instantaneous: even with the Lord’s favor, herds can only multiply so quickly. What sort of conversations did Job have with the Most High as he painstakingly rebuilt from scratch, I wonder?

The Lord blessed Job with another ten children. Again, this would have taken some time. And the first ten would never be replaced or forgotten. I’m sure the devoted father often recalled a bright laugh, a cocky stance, or a sullen nature that he would never meet again on this earth. How heavily must Job have relied upon Adonai's absolute Goodness in those moments of grief?

Job’s body was restored instantly; at least, his skin was healed (since he offered sacrifices for his erring friends, he must have been ritualistically clean). But were Job’s mind and spirit healed as quickly? Undoubtedly no. Usually, internal scars remain. And what if the long days and nights of sitting brought on some other physical problem? (After all, wrestling with the Lord left another patriarch with an injured hip.) Job had many days left to live. He may have limped in mind, in spirit, and even in body, through all of them.

Was Job’s relationship with his wife healed? Were his relationships with his fair-weather neighbors and relatives ever made right again? What, if any, growth took place in the hearts of his wife and his friends? We do not know. It is clear that interaction resumed, but some of these relationships may have sustained lasting damage. At the very least, it probably took some time.

No further attacks on Job are recorded. That doesn't mean he did not face any. But Job had endured some very harsh growth; Adonai does not waste such a gift. In spite of residual scarring—or, rather, because of it—Job probably withstood the blows much better in future battles.

~~~~~~~

My growth is never painless. Satan is too clever--he doesn't make blunted weapons. Nor does he aim for my fortified areas. Sometimes when he pierces me, I bleed and crumple under the blow. But the Most High does not make blunted weapons either. Long after Job’s struggle toward God, Jesus Christ provided me with a double-edged sword. Satan may still pierce me; but as I bleed, I can dig my sword into the ground as a walking stick.

The Lord allows me to encounter trials in order to strengthen my trust and dependence upon him. But first, he makes me aware of the area(s) in which I am weak. This process often involves failure on my part (sometimes partial, or hidden, sometimes huge and blatantly obvious). Discovering my own pathetic state is unpleasant, even discouraging. Facing the truth can provide another opportunity for attack: You're distgusting. There's no way you deserve the love of another human being, much less the love of God. This is your identity. You cannot escape or overcome.

Everything becomes overwhelming--bleak and weighty. I carry a mighty weapon. But wounded and beleaguered, it is still easy to find myself pressed into a small corner of my own soul. All thought of taking the offensive disappears. Survival becomes my only hope...and even that is tenuous. I long for my Lord; I know he's somewhere nearby, but I cannot move to search for him. I am being pressed down too tightly. I can't raise my arms to attack, or defend. I can’t even muster the strength to push my sword into the ground to prop myself up.

But then, through the oppression and chaos, I hear the weapon I carry speaking to me: “Dear one, are you not the Child of the Most High? Are you not the Bride of Christ? You still have his sword in your hand. When the attacks become too heavy for action, take refuge in the weight of his sword in your hands. There is rest. There is protection. There is hope. You do not need to carry the fight forward, dear one; you need only not give ground—don’t retreat. He is fighting for you. No matter how great your distress, just remember the magnificent Goodness he has given you to hold. Trust him. Just grip tightly and wait—he’s coming for you.”

He does come for me. Every single time. The Most High, our Lord, is pleased to use us, particularly in our weakened state. He is faithful to save, and to heal. But regardless of whether we stand or fall, he may not choose to remove all traces of our battle scars. We'll limp for a while…perhaps until the end of time. But it serves only to make us lean upon our swords more instinctively, and cry out more quickly to Adonai Tzidkenu (“The Lord our Righteousness”). We become less likely to crumple under the blows.

“Be strong, and fill your hearts with courage, all of you who hope in Adonai.” (Psalm 31:24)

Let God show you the lies beleaguering you. Let him sustain you through all of these attacks, gradually fortifying you against them. Take up the sword he has given you: attack with it, lean upon it. And let the loving power of the Most High remove your last doubts of his Goodness.