Showing posts with label Jonathan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jonathan. Show all posts
Sunday, February 26, 2012
The Descending Way
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During this season of Lent, I am reading "Show Me the Way," which includes selections from Henri Nouwen's books. He is one of my favorite authors, and the selections from Friday are examples of why I love his writing. I'll quote a bit, and then write some of my thoughts.
When I heard the news early Friday morning, it was obviously a surprise. And having recently confronted death in the experience of my brother-in-law, Jon, many similar emotions arose. More than anything, I kept thinking, "Why? Why so much death? So much death...." And then I remembered the people who live in war-torn parts of the world, countries in which death is an every day experience, places where dying a "natural death" is the exception rather than the norm.
So much death. How does a life that is filled with death involve a so-called "God of love"? It's hard to escape these questions, and like Nouwen says, "every fiber of our being rebels against it." Nouwen also writes:
The mystery is that, when we ask these questions, and look for God, "we discover his footprints," and we realize that he has been her before us. He is the descending God, the God who gave up all power and glory to take on humanity, and to walk the way of shame, condemnation and death. He has walked this path before us. The sense of his absence is a reminder that he has been here before - it is "a purifying absence." The descending way rids us of any false sense of strength, self-sufficiency, control, or immortality, which we so desperately cling to day after day.
I don't like this descending way, but I have come to trust that it is somehow better. I have come to believe that a God who is present in life and death is a God I can trust and love, no matter what. I have hope that this God has truly conquered death, in this life and the next.
And so the descending way hurts. Good God, it hurts. Every fiber of my being rebels against it. But it is the way of Jesus, the God-human, who showed us what abundant life looks like, the abundant life that includes an intimate knowledge of the pain of death.
During this season of Lent, I am reading "Show Me the Way," which includes selections from Henri Nouwen's books. He is one of my favorite authors, and the selections from Friday are examples of why I love his writing. I'll quote a bit, and then write some of my thoughts.
"The love of God [has] become visible in Jesus...It is made visible in the descending way. That is the great mystery of the Incarnation. God has descended to us human beings to become a human being with us; and once among us, descended to the total dereliction of one condemned to death. It isn't easy really to feel and understand from the inside this descending way of Jesus. Every fiber of our being rebels against it...For Jesus' way is God's way and God's way is not for Jesus only but for everyone who is truly seeking God. Here we come up against the hard truth that the descending way of Jesus is also the way for us to find God. Jesus doesn't hesitate for a moment to make that clear."This week I was confronted with death once again, in a personal way, within my family. My young cousin, Caleb, was found dead in his home. The causes are yet uncertain, but it appears to be an accident, perhaps involving drugs. He had struggled in his life, recently getting out of jail, trying to get back into a working lifestyle and perhaps continue his education. He was also an extremely talented person. Like others in his family, he was very athletic, good-looking, smart, and just a great guy to hang out with.
When I heard the news early Friday morning, it was obviously a surprise. And having recently confronted death in the experience of my brother-in-law, Jon, many similar emotions arose. More than anything, I kept thinking, "Why? Why so much death? So much death...." And then I remembered the people who live in war-torn parts of the world, countries in which death is an every day experience, places where dying a "natural death" is the exception rather than the norm.
So much death. How does a life that is filled with death involve a so-called "God of love"? It's hard to escape these questions, and like Nouwen says, "every fiber of our being rebels against it." Nouwen also writes:
"The mystery of God's presence, therefore, can be touched only by a deep awareness of his absence. it is in the center of our longing for the absent God that we discover his footprints, and realize that our desire to love God is born out of the love with which he has touched us...In our violent times, in which destruction of life is so rampant and the raw wounds of humanity so visible, it is very hard to tolerate the experience of God as a purifying absence, and to keep our hearts open so as to patiently and reverently prepare his way."Yes, God feels absent. Where is God in these difficult times? Where is God, when a mother finds her son, dead in her own home? Where is God, when we awake every morning to the sense that we are living a nightmare, our best friend and brother is no longer alive, but is dead? Where is God, in this life that contains so much death?
The mystery is that, when we ask these questions, and look for God, "we discover his footprints," and we realize that he has been her before us. He is the descending God, the God who gave up all power and glory to take on humanity, and to walk the way of shame, condemnation and death. He has walked this path before us. The sense of his absence is a reminder that he has been here before - it is "a purifying absence." The descending way rids us of any false sense of strength, self-sufficiency, control, or immortality, which we so desperately cling to day after day.
I don't like this descending way, but I have come to trust that it is somehow better. I have come to believe that a God who is present in life and death is a God I can trust and love, no matter what. I have hope that this God has truly conquered death, in this life and the next.
And so the descending way hurts. Good God, it hurts. Every fiber of my being rebels against it. But it is the way of Jesus, the God-human, who showed us what abundant life looks like, the abundant life that includes an intimate knowledge of the pain of death.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Mourning and The Loss of Love
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I am in mourning. I recently lost a family member and one of my best friends. But what does it look like, to be "in mourning" in America?
That's the question this article from The Atlantic explores. The authors points out that in the 1800s, the mourning period was years, not days. Family members would wear black, and even cover their faces for months before the mourning period was over. Now, the standard time period is less than a week. In fact, most employers give only 3 days for "in town family bereavement."
My graduate school offers no family bereavement policy. Meaning that I am left to plead my case to each professor one at a time. Really? This is how we deal with the death of those closest to us? 3 days and ask for an extension?
The author of the article writes, "Mourning is murkier now. It is less regulated, less public, less prescribed. The 20th century brought a reshaping of grieving as an institution, transforming it from a public ritual to a private burden and reframing it as something that could be kept, under complete control by strength of will and character, so that it need be given no public expression. Or, more specifically, no time for public expression."
I received the following selection from Thomas Merton from a daily email list, and I thought it described my feelings of grief that day:
"Love is the revelation of our deepest personal meaning, value and identity...I cannot find myself in myself, but only in another...Love is not only a special way of being alive, it is the perfection of life. He who loves is more alive and more real that he was when he did not love."
I loved my brother-in-law, and if Merton is right, then I was more alive when I was loving him - hanging out, going to movies, just talking and laughing - than when I was not sharing that love. And so now, as I try to find time to grieve, I realize that I feel less alive, because I have lost someone that I love. Someone who somehow held part of my "deepest personal meaning, value and identity."
And so in a sense, I am grieving not only the loss of Jon, but the loss of myself. Mourning involves discovering a new sense of self. And that's a long process, one that certainly takes more than a few days.
I am in mourning. I recently lost a family member and one of my best friends. But what does it look like, to be "in mourning" in America?
That's the question this article from The Atlantic explores. The authors points out that in the 1800s, the mourning period was years, not days. Family members would wear black, and even cover their faces for months before the mourning period was over. Now, the standard time period is less than a week. In fact, most employers give only 3 days for "in town family bereavement."
My graduate school offers no family bereavement policy. Meaning that I am left to plead my case to each professor one at a time. Really? This is how we deal with the death of those closest to us? 3 days and ask for an extension?
The author of the article writes, "Mourning is murkier now. It is less regulated, less public, less prescribed. The 20th century brought a reshaping of grieving as an institution, transforming it from a public ritual to a private burden and reframing it as something that could be kept, under complete control by strength of will and character, so that it need be given no public expression. Or, more specifically, no time for public expression."
I received the following selection from Thomas Merton from a daily email list, and I thought it described my feelings of grief that day:
"Love is the revelation of our deepest personal meaning, value and identity...I cannot find myself in myself, but only in another...Love is not only a special way of being alive, it is the perfection of life. He who loves is more alive and more real that he was when he did not love."
I loved my brother-in-law, and if Merton is right, then I was more alive when I was loving him - hanging out, going to movies, just talking and laughing - than when I was not sharing that love. And so now, as I try to find time to grieve, I realize that I feel less alive, because I have lost someone that I love. Someone who somehow held part of my "deepest personal meaning, value and identity."
And so in a sense, I am grieving not only the loss of Jon, but the loss of myself. Mourning involves discovering a new sense of self. And that's a long process, one that certainly takes more than a few days.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Sunflower Seeds
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The following is a selection from the words I shared at Jon's services, both in Ohio and Virginia. It was a privilege and a challenge to be able to speak about a man so great as Jonathan Eades, and I pray my words honored Jon and honored God.
The following is a selection from the words I shared at Jon's services, both in Ohio and Virginia. It was a privilege and a challenge to be able to speak about a man so great as Jonathan Eades, and I pray my words honored Jon and honored God.
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One time, as I sat down on his couch, he said, “Hey man,
have you heard of Ai Weiwei?” – Umm….no Jon, I have not heard of Ai Weiwei. “He’s
a Chinese artist.” “Oh right, of course, Ai Weiwei (I lied). What did he do
again?” “His latest exhibit is sunflower seeds. 100 million porcelain sunflower
flower seeds, hand painted by 1,600 Chinese workers, and spread across a room
the size of a football field. It’s meant to be a commentary on life.”
A sunflower seed. So simple, yet filled with so much
potential. Each sunflower seed in this exhibit was hand-painted, unique, and
different.
What significance could one seed have amongst millions?
What significance could one person have in his life?
Another time I was with Jon, he was volunteering at Saturday
night church at Grove City Nazarene. One of songs that evening contained the
lyrics, “We are on the winning side.” As we drove home that night, I asked Jon,
“What does that mean to you, Jon, to be on the winning side?” He thought for a
moment, and then told me something I will never forget.
He said, “Sure, I would love to be healed. I don’t want to
be in this wheelchair. But I know that God uses my disease to make me more like
Christ.”
Jon understood and embodied, at a very deep level, what Paul
wrote about in 2 Corinthians chapter 4 –
“We have this treasure
in jars of clay (our frail human bodies) to show that this all-surpassing power
is from God and not from us. 8 We are hard pressed
on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9 persecuted,
but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. 10 We
always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus
may also be revealed in our body. 11 For we who are
alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life
may also be revealed in our mortal body. 12 So
then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.”
What difference could one person make in his lifetime? One
person, who submits his life God, willingly, no matter what the cost.
Jesus used the imagery of a seed several times. He said, “If
you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can move mountains.” Jon had a
faith that was strong enough to move mountains. In fact, even though his
disease made him so weak, I don’t hesitate to say that he is the strongest man
I have ever known.
Jesus also said that unless the grain of wheat, the seed,
falls to the ground, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces
many seeds. Just as the seed dies, is buried, and then produces new life and
many new seeds, so we too, when we die in Christ, are resurrected to new life.
But Jesus challenges us in
this life to “Take up our cross and follow him,” and Paul writes, “Count
yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus.” Jon was faced with
the realities of his imminent physical death every day, but he lived, alive in
Christ every day. He was willing to die to himself, to take on the attitude of
Christ, to be humble, to be patient, to be kind, to be a man of hope, faith and
perseverance. Through the continual death and deterioration of his body day by
day by day, new life – the life of Christ – was born, day by day, and many
seeds were sown.
Paul says later in 2 Corinthians 4, “We do not lose heart.
Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by
day.17 For our light and momentary troubles are
achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.”
What impact can one seed, one person, have upon our lives?
Jon impacted me greatly. Many times I thought about the
words he said, “God uses my disease to make me more like Christ.” As Kellye and
I sat with him in the hospital room, sat beside his bed while he rested,
offered him a drink of water from a straw, adjusted his pillow or his blankets,
and read the cards that friends and family sent to him, I thought about those
words again. And I realized that God was using Jon’s disease not only to make
Jon more like Christ, but to change me as well. Because when I was with Jon, I
was more like Christ. I was more caring. I was more patient. I was more kind. I
was more loving. Like Paul said, “Death is at work in us, but life is at work
in you.”
What does it mean to be on the winning side? Jon understood
that it meant more than being fully able-bodied, that it means more than having
all of your physical and material wants met. True victory comes from knowing
Christ. “To live is Christ, to die is gain.” Or as Paul concludes the section
of 2 Corinthians 4 from which I been reading, “18 We fix
our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is
temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”
Of course we all know the beauty of the sunflower is its
single focus, from which the flower gets its name – a flower that is so focused
upon the sun, it follows it’s path throughout the course of the day, pointing
its petals in the direction of the rays of light. And if you remember nothing
else from this analogy of the sunflower, remember this – Jon’s life had a
single focus, Jesus Christ. The Psalmist writes, “Not to us Lord, but to your
name, be the glory.” And this was how Jon lived his life. Christ was his hope.
Christ was his strength. Christ was his reason for living, and Christ is the
reason he is alive today, praising God in heaven.
Jon “fixed his eyes not on the temporary, but on the eternal.”
What is temporary is this casket, is this death. But what is eternal, is life
with God, life that Jon is living right now. What is eternal are the seeds of
hope, perseverance and faith that Jon sowed into each and every one of our
lives.
We fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen.
It is a mystery, this little seed. This little seed, that when
it dies, produces new life, and in turn produces many new seeds, that lead to
more new life.
It is a mystery to me, the way God works sometimes. A man
like Jonathan Eades, so weak, yet so strong. A man like Jon, who understood
that his wheelchair was not a burden, but a pathway to becoming like Christ.
It is a mystery to me, that this life that we live, full of
great adventures and travels to far off lands, always ends in death. And it
always hurts.
It is a mystery to me, the way that God loves us.
And today, as I reflect on his life, perhaps the greatest
mystery to me, is that I could be so lucky as to know Jonathan Eades.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Why do we cry?
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Because it hurts so much. This pain in our chests, and in the back of my head, that just won't go away.
Because it hurts so much. This pain in our chests, and in the back of my head, that just won't go away.
Because the house is too quiet. I don't hear your sounds - that melody of conversation, clicks, spinning motors and television.
Because I wish there was more time. I wish I could have said good-bye. But you wouldn't let me. Because "good-bye" means giving up. And you never gave up.
Because words aren't enough. Even though we talk about it, write about it, and share how we feel. Words aren't enough. Some things can only be said through sobs and tears.
Because I can't hold it in any more. As long as I've know you, I've wanted to shake my fist and scream at the universe, "Why?!" And today is the culmination of all my fears.
Why do we cry? Because it hurts so much.
Why do we cry? Because it was good.
Because we were such good friends. We can never again play games, see movies, watch TV, go to concerts, or talk about current events. Because we had some great times, some amazing adventures, some wonderful laughs...some great times.
Because we spent hours together - at home, on the road, in other states, doing work, having fun. Because we shared life together.
Because you taught me so much. How to humbly serve and be patient. How to enjoy the simple things. And how to be strong. You showed me strength like I'll never see again.
Because we loved. We loved each other, and we loved life. Because your life, short as it was, contained more fullness than most will every know.
It hurts, because your life was so good. And we cry because it hurts, and because it was good.
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