Silence Screams

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Sometimes silence screams...

We were newly neighbors, Susan having moved into the area from Boston. With the fluttering heart of an introvert, I overcame my shyness and, with a prayer, approached her one day soon after she moved into the townhouse two doors down from mine. In my imitation Birkenstock's, I walked over to her Volvo and introduced myself. A dear friendship was born. And so were three children to each of us at pretty much the same times. (We even overlapped at the hospital with our middle kids.)

Before she became a Christian during a study of the Gospel of John we did together, she told me that she was not going to shove any religion down her children's throats. Her children would know the freedom of choosing their own beliefs. Not only choosing them, but with no input from Mommy or Daddy one way or the other apparently. It seemed the right thing to do. It certainly was (and is) the fashionable thing to do. What educated and sophisticated people do. And the easiest thing to do.

As we walked together through motherhood, our children had weekly play dates. And during one of them, I was given a simple and amazing insight, which I shared with my friend in response to her casual comments about not dictating religion to her offspring. I described to her what happened one day at my front door.

Her son, Adam, was a very, very sweet boy who was about two or three years old at the time. He, my daughter, who was the same age as he, and I were standing at my open front door watching a beautiful sunset. The clouds were alight with glowing pinks, oranges and reds. It was truly striking. As was my custom, whenever my daughter and I took note of something beautiful in nature, I asked, "Who made the sunset?" My daughter immediately said with an enthusiastic smile, "God did!"

Before I could spiritually build on this beautiful moment, Adam said matter-of-factly in his little northeastern accent, "What does God have to do with it?" His tone suggested a questioning of what God has to do with anything.

Fascinating.

Adam had never been told that God didn't exist. His parents weren't atheists after all. He was never told that God had nothing to do with nature. His parents and his parent-cooperative preschool did not teach him about evolution. It's not like he was indoctrinated in any way. His parents were merely...

Silent.

And that silence screamed.

Unwittingly, they had taught him much in their choice to teach him nothing about God and spiritual things. Even a little toddler learned the lesson loud and clear. Beauty, nature, wonder, glory, science, reality... all understood without a thought or inclination of the Creator of it all, of anything (or Anyone) beyond what one can see, taste and touch.

No, she did not force him to choose what to believe.

She was unknowingly choosing to take away his choice to believe.

Because believing (anything transcendent) was automatically deemed irrelevant from the start. Not even considered. Therefore, it didn't appear to even exist in his mind. And its non-existence went unnoticed by him.

After Susan began her spiritual journey with Christ years later, and attended our church with her children, she delighted in telling me how much she enjoyed going on walks with Adam and asking him what a flower, for example, told him about God. She listened with rapt attention, not only because she knew she was sowing seeds of faith, but because what he said in his childlike way often taught her things. Our children have so much to teach us, if we will take the time to listen.

And if we will take the time to speak. Of the God who made them and longs to have a relationship with them for eternity.

If we refuse to let silence scream.

Names have been changed to protect others' anonymity.

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Friend

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Jesus had told them it would happen.

"You know that after two days the Passover is coming..."

The Passover... the celebration of the ancient past when the Angel of Death smote Egypt, but passed over and did not harm those who, in faith, were covered by blood applied to the doorpost of their home... covered by the blood...

"... and the Son of Man is to be handed over..."

"... for crucifixion."

The chief priests and elders were gathered together in the court of the high priest, Caiaphas, plotting to seize Jesus by stealth.

And kill Him.

Just as He said.

The true fulfillment of Passover was about to take place.

But that is not all He told them.

In the evening, while relaxing around the table with his closest friends, His words pierce through the holiday celebration, like an arrow slicing the air into shreds.

"Truly, I say to you that

one of you

will betray me."

Denials fill the room. Nervous denials. Except for Peter. Brash as usual in his boast that he would never betray his Lord.

Who would it be? Who could it be?

Jesus answers that it is one who breaks bread with him daily. One who has walked at His side these three years. Who left everything to follow Him. One, who among the multitude that traveled with Him from one dusty town to another, was among his dozen closest comrades. One before whom Jesus knelt, just moments before, to wash his dirty and aching feet as the humblest and lowliest of slaves would do.

"Surely, ...

it is not I...

"Rabbi?"

Judas asks. But he and Jesus know the answer all too well.

Later that night in the Garden of Gethsemane, in the torch light as enemies eagerly wait in the shadows, a voice cuts through the air again. This time, it is from Judas.

"Chairo, Rabbi!"

Chairo: a greeting, one that infers "Rejoice and be glad! Greetings! I wish you well!"

Rabbi: a term of honor, acknowledging the greatness of its recipient, reserved for special people, like one's mentor or teacher.

Then Judas seals his greeting with a kiss, that of a comrade, of a beloved pupil, of an intimate friend... so his cruel executioners can identify Jesus and take him away.

In the split second before the swords and clubs are brandished and the screams begin, Jesus greets his betrayer in return.

It is a greeting that Judas does not expect.

It is one we cannot imagine.

Jesus says,

"Friend, ..."

Friend.

Translated from Hetairos.

Comrade. Mate, Partner.

A kindly address to a good friend.

This is Hetairos.

And of all the things that Jesus could say to Judas,

He calls him friend.

~ From Matthew 26

The Kiss

In evening dusks and early dawns

I had walked by Your side

Adding my fervent footprints

To the steps of Love Divine

You painted this picture for us to see

In words tainted with grief:

A shepherd's staff, crushed in two

As the lambs scatter in disbelief

Chorus:

You called me friend

In a breath You tore my world apart

You shed a piercing light on a life I could not defend

Sharp as a knife, it cut straight to my heart

You called me friend.

You gave me the place of honor

At the table of your feast

What raging tears choked my voice

As you bent to wash my feet

As you had fed me Your words of life

So now You offered Your bread and wine...

[pause]

Yet an empty seat did You find

Chorus:

You called me friend
In a breath You tore my world apart
You shed a piercing light on a life I could not defend
Sharp as a knife, it cut straight to my heart
You called me friend.

A warning escaped Your lips of trust

Of a traitor ~ an intimate stranger

For this wounded world is caught in shadow

Blind to the Light that still remains

I denied the betrayal

Yet I betrayed my darkest denial

A wound too deep for words,

Yet You framed it all in a whisper

Chorus:

You called me friend
In a breath You tore my world apart
You shed a piercing light on a life I could not defend
Sharp as a knife, it cut straight to my heart
You called me friend.

Bridge:

Will I run?

Can I flee?

Will I know why You still love me?

Why those nails and thorns

Were embraced so lovingly?

To the end

You called me friend.

~ A song I wrote my freshman year in college, many years ago.

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Living Water, A Story

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For My people have committed two evils:

They have forsaken Me,

The fountain of living waters,

To hew for themselves cisterns,

Broken cisterns

That can hold no water.

~ Jeremiah 2:13

Some lives are so parched. Even the streams of tears they cry cannot relieve them of their weary dryness. They are thirsty... and they know they are. Some of them even know the Fountain of Living Waters. They know the One who can drench their soul to overflowing.

But... that is not where they go.

With cracked knuckles and gasps for relief, they dig in the dirt seeking their own source of water. Perhaps their pride prevents their bending of the knee to receive from Another. Perhaps their vision has become so clouded that they actually think they have found paradise, unaware that it is mere illusion, as they stumble through the sand towards empty promises, always just at the horizon. Perhaps they are simply too weary, and no longer wish to persevere, no longer want to wait upon the One whose timing is perfect, though rarely so in our eyes. Perhaps it is the worldy habits of coping with life, repeated over time, that automatically place them in familiar ruts of self-reliance or self-pity.

For whatever reason, they look everywhere, anywhere... except to the Living Water.

If anyone is thirsty

Let him come

to Me

and drink.

Like the Scripture says,

"Streams of living Water

will flow

out of the heart

of the one who believes in Me."

~ Jesus

Do we hear these words today? Are they too familiar and fall flat on our ears? Hear them again by imagining how they might have been heard for the first time...

At last it is here! The feast of Tabernacles (Sukkoth)*. I so look forward to this annual holiday, for it is such a festival of joy before our God who blesses our crops, and our lives, with abundance. It is our family's favorite time of year! Parties, feasts, seeing old friends again who have traveled here to Jerusalem. It is a wonderful time of the year, especially today, the last great day of Sukkoth.

Impatient, we have been waiting, having tried to get here early because of the crowds, always looking for him to come. Shielding our eyes from the bright sun, we look. We wait.

"Where is he, Papa?" asks my son with large, expectant eyes. "I'm thirsty!"

"Soon, little one," I say, "He will not fail to come."

It was then the sound of tinkling first reaches my ears. That familiar tiny ringing as each small bell on every tassel of the high priest's robe accompanies his every step. It is like simple, holy music to us as we watch our mediator, our symbol of hope, make his way to the front porch of the temple. We strain to find a view of him above the heads of the people assembled... so very many people gathered in the heat of the day.

There he is. Alone. In his hand he holds the golden pitcher. It shines in the bright sunlight. Today, the pitcher will be our symbol of hope, even more so than the one holding it. As he holds it high, glistening, the crowd begins to sing the great hallelujah psalms. We join the throng, singing "Oh, Lord God Almighty, Who is like You? You are mighty, Oh Lord, and Your faithfulness surrounds You..." Our voices dance with the waving palm branches of the crowd. We feel the communion of community as we sing together and as the priest steps down into the throng.

He passes through all of us, like a boat parting the waters, as folks step aside to let him pass and then fall in behind as he leads us towards the pool of Siloam. We process, following the priest, the pitcher, down the street and the excitement is palpable. Still singing, some dancing, we follow the one who leads us.

"Faster, Papa!" my daughter yells, trying to be heard above the resounding voices.

At length, we arrive, a bit breathless from all the singing and dancing and walking on our journey, yet exhilarated. There it is. The pool at the end of the great tunnel Hezekiah had "sent" straight through the rock. We have made our way to this way, the way through the rock. Once again the hight priest lifts the pitcher aloft, but this time it descends to the refreshing pool, to be filled to the brim with water. Clear, cool water. With solemnity and humility, the empty pitcher is made full.

Back up the hill we climb as priest and people return to the temple. The dancing continues as the throng hurries breathlessly to its destination.

"Be careful not to lose sight of Caleb and Mirriam," my wife reminds me. My thoughts, however, are full of the moment. A small tear falls, unseen to the revelers, as I am full to the brim of thankfulness for all God has done and for what He shall do, according to His promise. I look with longing forward to the day when perhaps my children may behold His Messiah.

Thankful for all He has done. For all He will do. And what of this very day? For now, the symbols of the water, the pitcher, the priest... they suffice. Yet I am thirsty for more. For more today.

My thoughts are jerked to the present as I am buffeted by the crowd jostling around the temple court. A bit dizzy from the heat and exhilaration, I find that I and my family have managed to drift through the crowd to the front. In fact, we are so close that I could touch the priest--but of course, this is not allowed. So close. So far. Yet still yearning...

"Lift up thy hand!" The call of the assembly thunders and we throw down our celebratory palm branches. As the branches descend, the pitcher rises, glinting in the sunlight for all to see. The priest faces the west, sun burning upon his face, and pours out the water so that we might remember how our God gave our fathers water from the rock. Refreshment from the hard stone. Relief in weary wilderness. Remembering Jehovah's faithfulness of the past fuels our faith in Jehovah for the future.

Then the priest shouts the words of the prophet, "With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation!" A wave of excitement passes through the throng. Our hope for the future is renewed. Many echo the priest's words, some sing messianic Psalms. Others lift their hands and faces towards Heaven in prayer.

As for me, my thoughts surprise me, as they return to a yearning, not for the future, but for the present. Water, salvation, drink... for now. My wife sees my thoughtful look and discerns my inner thirst. I smile back at her and take her hand, reassuring her that all is well. I shall wait, as our many generations have waited. Had not my grandmother taught me from the prophet Isaiah? I remember the words...

"The afflicted and needy are seeking water, but there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst; I, the LORD, will answer them Myself, as the God of Israel I will not forsake them...

They will not hunger or thirst, nor will the scorching heat or sun strike them down; for He who has compassion on them will lead them and will guide them to springs of water."

My thoughts are again interrupted by a voice behind me. It is loud, heard above the noise of the crowd. I strain, but can not see who is speaking, but I notice his northern accent. No, that voice is not one of someone I know. But the yearning behind the words catches my attention.

"If anyone is thirsty," He cries out, "let them come to Me now and drink. Whoever believes in Me, as the Scriptures have said, 'streams of living water will flow from the innermost part of their heart.' "

An awkward hushing of the crowd ensues, followed by annoyed murmuring. Grumbles grow and I discern snatches of phrases bubbling up from the gurgling group of onlookers.

"He is the Prophet."

"No, He is the Christ."

"He's not from Bethlehem. He's from Galilee--hear his accent? Can't be the Promised One!"

"Is that Jesus, the one I've been hearing about?"

"What is he doing?! Somebody should stop him. He's ruining everything."

The crowd around me seems more like a mob as many accuse the man of blasphemy. The outrage has replaced the revelry. My eyes pass by the priest as I search the crowd for the one who had spoken of the living water. The priest seems indignant and hurries aside to do I know not what.

I just stand still, taking it all in. It is as if the surging crowd around me fades away and I am alone with my thoughts racing...

"Where is his water? And where is the rock that must be struck for the water to come, as it did with Moses? If he is a prophet, why doesn't the high priest acknowledge him? Wouldn't he know if the man were from God?"

I had hardly noticed that I had voiced all my questions out loud, and each word was weighed carefully by my listening wife.

"Yes, the high priest should know. All the Pharisees should know. But this Jesus seems to know at least one thing none of them do."

Intrigued, I asked, "What, dear one?"

"He seems to know how thirsty we truly are."

May we hear His words anew and drink of His Water continually.

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* The Feast of Tabernacles (see Deut. 16:15) was later Americanized into Thanksgiving.

I am deeply indebted to Michael Card and his book, The Parable of Joy. The above is a re-telling, humbly edited and embellished, of a story he wrote in that book. His book is about the Gospel of John. This book is an amazing read as he fills the pages with Scripture, historical context, and wonderful stories that bring the events to life. It is one of my top ten favorite books and Michael's ministry in writing and music have had a huge influence on my life as I have sought to be Jesus' disciple.

Originally posted on 10.February.2009

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