Sharing in Suffering?

"Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory." (Romans 8:17)

I read an article today written by Leo Thorsness, recounting an episode from his captivity in North Viet Nam. (You can find the entire article here.) After the Son Tay raid, the North Vietnamese moved all the prisoners of war into a central location. For the first time ever, men who had become friends through the "tap code" could actually see each others' faces.

On the first Sunday they were together, they agreed to hold a church service. As they gathered in one end of the room they shared, the guards burst in to break them up. Ned Shuman, the ranking officer, explained that there would be no trouble; they were just holding a church service. The guards would not allow them to gather in groups of more than three, and under no circumstances were they to have a church service.

During the next week, they felt bad about backing down and renewed their commitment to hold a service, with each man committing individually to it. Ned Shuman knew that when it happened, he would be hauled off for torture.

The next Sunday, as before, they began to gather and the guards, who had been watching for this, burst in. Ned Shuman was dragged out for torture.

"Our plan unfolded. The second ranking man, the new SRO, stood, walked to the center of the cell and in a clear firm voice said, “Gentlemen,” our signal to stand, “the Lord’s Prayer.” We got perhaps halfway through the prayer, when the guards grabbed the SRO and hauled him out the door toward Heartbreak.

As planned, the number three SRO stood, walked to the center of the cell, and said, “Gentlemen, the Lord’s Prayer.” We had gotten about to “Thy Kingdom come” before the guards grabbed him. Immediately, the number four SRO stood: “Gentlemen, the Lord’s Prayer.”

I have never heard five or six words of the Lord’s Prayer — as far as we got before they seized him — recited so loudly, or so reverently. The interrogator was shouting, “Stop, stop,” but we drowned him out. The guards were now hitting POWs with gun butts and the cell was in chaos.

"The number five ranking officer was way back in the corner and took his time moving toward the center of the cell. (I was number seven, and not particularly anxious for him to hurry.) But just before he got to the center of the area, the cell became pin-drop quiet.

In Vietnamese, the interrogator spat out something to the guards, they grabbed number five SRO and they all left, locking the cell door behind them. The number six SRO began: “Gentlemen, the Lord’s Prayer.” This time we finished it."

Reading this left me in tears. Tears for the men who had such courage in their convictions that they would stand up and pray, knowing they would be tortured. Tears also of shame, because I have never shown that kind of courage.

We live in a post-Christian culture. In some ways, we live in an anti-Christian culture. In my lifetime I have been looked down upon for my faith. I've been marginalized, laughed at, and ridiculed. I've even had my career affected. But I have never suffered imprisonment, torture, or deprivation for my faith. I have never had to face that.

So, is that what it means "to share in his sufferings?" Because if that is so, then I cannot "share in his glory."

This question has long troubled me. Most of the apostles were martyrs. All of the early Christians had to fear persecution from the Romans and from their own people. That is beyond question. But does that mean that we who do not suffer persecution are lesser Christians?

After long reflection and much study, plus a lot of help from people who are wiser and brighter than I am, I have to say the answer is "No." Jesus said persecution would come, but he did not say all would suffer in that way. It also seems to me that much of the talk of suffering in the Bible relates to the effect of sin upon the world. We all experience sickness, heartache, grief, loss, disappointment. All lives have pain. We all know this. Some have more than others. It takes different forms for all of us. Who am I to say that the man whose arms are forced out of joint suffers more than the man whose only child dies at the hands of a drunk driver? Or that the woman who is imprisoned behind iron bars suffers more than the woman who is imprisoned by her own fears and depression?

So, when I hear stories of martyrs, I thank God that such stories come to my ears. I wonder if I would have equal conviction, and through my tears, I pray that I would. And I resolve to love, forgive, and proclaim truth no matter what comes to me, be it bitter or sweet.

Keep Dreaming

Here's a video clip I saw today that really got to me. When we were little, we all learned that we're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, and that we really should hold onto our dreams. This brings both lessons home in a powerful way. I pray you enjoy this as much as I did.

Susan Boyle

This Is Not Your Room

Do you remember Turner and Hooch? Okay, we already know that I'm a sucker for movies about dogs, and this one was no exception. But there is one scene from that movie that really hit me last night. Or maybe it was that God hit me with that scene.

In the movie, Tom Hanks plays Turner, a neat-freak police chief in a small coastal town. His life is very well ordered, his suits always immaculate, his house free of dust. Then he brings Hooch home. Hooch is a mastiff, a big, thundering hulk of a dog who drools some kind of thick slime, and who messes up pretty much everything. But he has witnessed his master's murder. Hanks has to bring this drool machine home with him for safe-keeping.

The scene I remember has Turner taking Hooch through his house, and in each room he says, "This is not your room," or "This is also not your room." Then he locks Hooch in a little foyer or mud room and goes off to bed. Hooch, of course, proceeds to destroy the mud room and break free into the rest of the house where he wreaks havoc.

It hit me last night that we treat the Holy Spirit this way. The first Celtic Christians liked to call the Holy Spirit the "Wild Goose" because he came and went as he pleased and did as he pleased. There was no telling when the Wild Goose would show up or what he would do. They delighted in that name for the Spirit, in his unpredictability.

We, on the other hand, are a bunch of little Turners. We want the Spirit with us. Or at least, we feel we ought to have him with us (much like Turner in the movie). I mean, he's part of the package deal, isn't he? But once we bring him into our lives, we tend to drag him around our hearts and tell him, "This is not your room." We're unsure what he'll do. We don't really know what to make of him. In the end, we are so consumed with understanding the Spirit that we don't allow him into most of our lives. He's left in that back room, the little one where he can't do much damage.

We tell people we've invited the Spirit into our lives, but when we go to the office we tell him, "This is not your room." When we sit down at the computer and surf we say, "This is not your room." When we go into the kitchen for that snack we really don't need we say "This is also not your room." We don't want the mess. We don't want the unpredictability. We don't want our little world disturbed from its routine.

The sad, yet funny thing is that the Spirit is so powerful. He's a little like Hooch in that respect. The dog had the muscle to break through doors and chew furniture into matchsticks. And the Spirit has the muscle to break down our barriers and turn our strongest fears into faith, our most pervasive sins into obedience. But, unlike Hooch, he wants the invitation. He bides his time, waiting until we ask him to come in. When we do, it's usually because we've already made a mess of the place. We have nowhere else to turn.

Ask yourself: what would be the difference in your life if you gave the Spirit permission to enter all your rooms? To say, "Wild Goose, go where you want. Do what you will."

Frodo

All right, I’ll admit it: I’m a Frodo wannabe.

I know. Some of you are thinking, “The seventies were too good to you, weren’t they?” Others are thinking, “Frodo? Why Frodo? Why don’t you want to be Superman, or the president, or Jesus?” Still others of you who have been under a rock your whole lives are thinking, “Who’s Frodo?”

For you rock-dwellers, Frodo is the hobbit who, in J. R. R. Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings, inherits the One Ring from his uncle Bilbo and agrees to take it to the Cracks of Doom to destroy it, thus saving Middle Earth from the evil dominion of Sauron. Got it?

Okay, now maybe I can explain. Frodo is my hero. He’s not strong. He’s not tall (probably 3-foot-nothing). He’s not powerful, influential, or famous. He’s not dashing. He doesn’t get the girl.

So, what’s to like about him?

Just this: in spite of all the things he isn’t, he still takes upon himself the most important, most deadly, most adventurous, most outrageous task ever known in fiction. Knowing that he is not likely to survive or even to succeed, he still stands up in the Council of Elrond, and says, “I will take the ring to Mordor, though I do not know the way.”

In giving Frodo the task of bringing down Sauron, Tolkein turns the world on its head. The small and insignificant becomes the hero. The meek and mild go where the mighty fear to tread. But, of course, Tolkein didn’t originate this kind of thinking. He got it from the source. He got it from the Word of God.

Look at your Bible and see how God turns the world upside down. How many times does he champion the underdog? How many times does he use the small and insignificant to overthrow the mighty?

Here’s a start:

• Abram was a childless wanderer, and God made of him a great nation.
  Jacob was a cheat and a momma’s boy, yet God made him father of the 12 tribes of Israel.
  
• Joseph was a slave and a prisoner, from a family of shepherds. God made him second in command of Egypt, the greatest nation on earth.
  
• Moses was a murderer and a refugee with a speech impediment. God used him to free his people.
  
• The nation of Israel was a clan of 70 people. They became a nation of slaves. God freed them and made them the chosen people who would make his name known throughout the world, and through whom the Messiah would come.
  
• David was the youngest son of an obscure shepherd. God gave him victory over Goliath and made him a great conqueror.
  

And then there is Jesus, the creator of the universe, he of the triune god, who becomes an infant, grows to manhood, and dies a horrible death on a cross. Defeating Satan for all time, achieving victory through surrender, making sinners into children of God—how's that for standing the world on its head.

That's why Frodo is my hero. He's a small (pun intended) reflection of Jesus.

As we are all intended to be.