Truths & Consequences
For L and K
A friend of mine wondered recently whether trust, once broken, can ever fully be restored. But all trust is broken, except for that in God; all people fail to be that full version of themselves that when we love them we hope they’ll be. In that sense, the greater the love, the more inevitable the eventuality. What counts is not whether someone fails us, but whether the relationship is worth the costs incurred.
And sometimes, even that is simply a higher math than we can calculate. So we act on faith in part in one another, and in part in God’s ability to redeem—relationships, others, whatever little slights and injuries we suffer. Sometimes what’s rebuilt will be diminished; other times, more glorious. But we can’t know ahead of time.
My church history professor in seminary once spoke of the "illusion of permanence," and in the past year or so, I've been struck by how manifold are the ways we nurture that illusion, shielding our eyes from the truths it occludes. That even the most loving marriages end. That we have so little control over everything important to us. That He promises us nothing--but Himself.
What's difficult is that we'd rather live as if His presence were simply supererogatory, some extra shine in a sunny universe. Or compensatory, a comfort when we didn't get what we wanted (or when we destroyed it). I would prefer it that way; I'd have preferred to have what I wanted and not need Him--except that it would all be a lie, a lie impossible to believe since the day of my surrender to Him.
Sometimes I think He's ruined me for all but this luminous truth.
And then in the stillness of that knowledge, the echo of this refrain: And all these things shall be added unto you.
A friend of mine wondered recently whether trust, once broken, can ever fully be restored. But all trust is broken, except for that in God; all people fail to be that full version of themselves that when we love them we hope they’ll be. In that sense, the greater the love, the more inevitable the eventuality. What counts is not whether someone fails us, but whether the relationship is worth the costs incurred.
And sometimes, even that is simply a higher math than we can calculate. So we act on faith in part in one another, and in part in God’s ability to redeem—relationships, others, whatever little slights and injuries we suffer. Sometimes what’s rebuilt will be diminished; other times, more glorious. But we can’t know ahead of time.
My church history professor in seminary once spoke of the "illusion of permanence," and in the past year or so, I've been struck by how manifold are the ways we nurture that illusion, shielding our eyes from the truths it occludes. That even the most loving marriages end. That we have so little control over everything important to us. That He promises us nothing--but Himself.
What's difficult is that we'd rather live as if His presence were simply supererogatory, some extra shine in a sunny universe. Or compensatory, a comfort when we didn't get what we wanted (or when we destroyed it). I would prefer it that way; I'd have preferred to have what I wanted and not need Him--except that it would all be a lie, a lie impossible to believe since the day of my surrender to Him.
Sometimes I think He's ruined me for all but this luminous truth.
And then in the stillness of that knowledge, the echo of this refrain: And all these things shall be added unto you.
posted by Tara | 1:02 PM
1 Comments:
Beautiful. Thanks for the words of wisdom. ... I, too, have been struck in recent years by the impermanence of my existence. So little had happened to shake me out of it up until then.
And, recently, the knowledge -- almost fear -- that God needs us to depend on only Him. To love Him best. I'm almost afraid to love other things, because I might tempt Him to take them away. But that seems so faithless... It's hard to know, sometimes, how to hold things with an open hand.
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