Category Archives: life

Hands

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In the grip of Christ, we have no need.

My dad drew up my hand and placed it next to my grandfather’s, who was in the casket.  He then placed his next to mine, so that all three were in a row, saying, “You see, Sammy, where you get your hands?”  My young eyes noticed the similarities between my grandpa’s hands, my dad’s, and my own.  Each had the same wrinkly skin and stubby strength, passed on from generation to generation.  In that moment, as a little boy, I learned more than just genetics; I learned that everyone you love, will leave you, no matter how strong his hands.

Our safety in life is not found in all the trivial and temporary things that can be stripped away in a second.  Our comfort in life is not found in plans, pleasures, power, or people, for all will vanish.  If we place ourselves into their greasy hands, we will slip right out.  These things will always let you down.  People will always let you down, your possessions will always let you down, pleasures will always let you down.  None of these have hands that are fit to hold the human soul.

So what should you give yourself to and where is your solace found?  Recently, some have said that religion is not the answer.  They are quick to point out that Religion will let us down, too—that religion hurts, drops, kills.  It is graspless.

When your friends fail, when your money disappears, when your reputation is tattered, where is your comfort to be found?  Even more, when your life itself refuses to breathe again, what is your comfort in death?  What will hold you then?

It seems that we need hands that have been both to heaven and earth.  We need hands that hold the power of the cosmos and that hold the palm of the child.  We need hands that have thrust the stars into their orbits and that have thrust the heart into the human.  We need hands that have both the power to heal and the tenderness to hold.

The hands of Jesus Christ are the hands for us.  Not only did they spin the world into motion, but also they touched the oozing sores of a leper and dried the tears of a prostitute.  They wakened the universe with power and they writhed in pain from mortal nails.  His hands were both divine and dead, miraculous and mortal.

The holes in his hands are a portal through which heaven and earth touch.  And that is where he holds us.  That is our solace and comfort.  That is where we will never be shaken, the spot from which we will never be let go.  In the grip of Christ, we have no need.  In the grip of Christ, we can let go of our troubles, our idols, and our self-definitions.

What is truly, deeply, our only comfort?  Even the most non-religious person can see that our comfort is not in what we can hold onto, for our grasp is so weak and the natural course of this life rips everything out of our grip.  My solace and comfort come not from what I can hold onto, but from Whom is holding onto me.

So reads the Heidelberg Catechism, “What is your only comfort in life and in death?”  The answer: “That I am not my own, but belong—body and soul, in life and in death—to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.”

You belong to Jesus Christ and he will never let go of you.

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.  For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him.  And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.[1]

© Samuel Kee, 2012

[1] Colossians 1:15-17, ESV.

How To Help a Suffering Friend

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Resurrectionless words just make the gaps wider.

As WWII began, some of the students of Dietrich Bonhoeffer were called up to fight for the Germans.  Over half of these future pastors and students would be killed in battle, including Theodor Maass.  In a letter to Maass’ family, Bonhoeffer wrote:

“He was a good brother, a quiet, faithful pastor of the Confessing Church, a man who lived from word and sacrament, whom God has also thought worthy to suffer for the Gospel.  I am sure that he was prepared to go.  Where God tears great gaps we should not try to fill them with human words.  They should remain open.  Our only comfort is the God of the resurrection, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ…”

Great gaps were being torn into the fabric of families.  Great gaps were being torn in the human heart, as the brutal war ensued.

As one who depends on words, I find Bonhoeffer’s prescription for suffering both staggering and exact.  Bonhoeffer himself was a lover of words, as an academic, professor, pastor, and writer.  Yet not even he would dare presume his words on this hour of anguish.  His words would never due; never would he minimize the size of the gap by throwing mere human words at it.

When those we love are suffering, let them suffer, in other words.  Let the wound bleed itself to where it needs to bleed.  Mere human words are offensive at the point of great affliction.  Wounds should remain open in order that the pure ointment of God might be applied.

The prescription is the resurrection.  That is our only comfort and solution.  Words that fail to point to the God of the resurrection fail to point to any sufficient help at all.  Resurrectionless words just make the gaps wider and longer.

Because of the resurrection, death just makes us better.  In the shadow of the resurrection, death is forced to bow and worship.  Like a seed thrown down to death in the soil, so will the burial of God’s child lead to better life.  Death gives us life.

We learn two things from this.  First, don’t rush upon a wounded soul with your words.  Let the wound remain open.  Acknowledge the pain of the suffering one, hear their story and allow their wound to open a gap in your heart, as well.  Second, with a few cautious and confident words, tell them about the life that stands at the end of every trial.

I know what you may be thinking: I’m being way too reductionistic, for humans and suffering are incredibly complex.  Nonetheless, I also don’t want to reduce healing down to mere mortal solutions.  Humans are so complex, that nothing short of divine power will ultimately be effective.

© Samuel Kee, 2012

Smudge the Sheep

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God's fences were designed to keep us close.

There once was a sheep named Smudge.  He was just a little guy, whose brother was named Smartie.  Smudge was a very curious sheep and insisted on exploring the world outside of the fence.  So, he diligently searched the fence for an opening.  One day, he finally found one at the bottom and managed to squeeze through it.  His newfound freedom was exhilarating.  He peeked back at his brother, Smartie, who stood inside of the fence, and he felt sorry for him.  Smudge was now free to do whatever he wanted.

In all of his frolicking, Smudge soon began to get hungry.  Looking through the wire fence, he saw his brother suckling at their mother, enjoying her warm milk.  Smudge headed toward the fence, but was unable to find a gap.  The gap that he had crawled through before would not let him through from the opposite direction.  Smudge grew hungrier and hungrier as he searched for a way to get through.  Just then, however, a stray dog came growling down the dirt road where Smudge stood.  The dog lunged toward the tiny sheep, obviously seeking to tear it apart.  Smudge ran as fast as he could down the road, until he found a split rail fence whose gaps were just big enough for him to fit through.  Smudge dove through the rails, just as the dog snapped at his hind legs.

Smudge was safe, or so he thought.  Turning around, he was face to face with a large bull, who was not too pleased at the sight of this little intruder.  Once again, Smudge ran; the mighty bull followed him across the pasture.  Smudge managed to escape on the other side, but almost got hit by school bus when he crossed the road outside of the fence.

In all of the excitement and with night falling fast, Smudge got lost.  Making matters worse, a snowstorm whipped through the air, sending a sudden burst of wind and ice upon the lost sheep.  Soon, Smudge was covered with snow, as his body was unable to out-warm the freezing flakes.  It wasn’t long until Smudge collapsed on the ground and the snow piled upon him.

Later that evening, a girl named Penny happened to stumble upon the mound of snow, discovering the half-froze sheep.  With the help of her mother, she brought Smudge inside the warm house, warmed him with a blow-dryer, and helped him to revive.  She fed him warm milk and nursed him back to health.

This is my summary of a children’s story I read last night.  And I can’t help but thinking about how we like to get to the other side of God’s fence.  We look at God’s laws and think, “Life would really be much better on the other side of this fence.”  We believe that God’s rules are way too restrictive and keep us from having fun.

But life—for Smudge or for us—is not better on the other side of the fence.  The fence is not meant to keep us from having fun, but to keep us from being killed.  On the other side of God’s fence, there are forces that are capable of destroying us.

Here’s another way of looking at it: the “fence” of God’s law is not meant to keep us from fun, but it is meant to keep us close to God.  So that the more fences we crawl under, the farther from God we get.  God’s fences were designed by him to keep us close to the source of life.

His laws are less about what we do not get to do and more about whom we get to be with.  Did you get that?

If you’re trying to find a way through the fence right now, turn around and look at God.  He is your source of life and nourishment and protection and joy.  Yes, joy.  Beyond the fence is danger, not in the sense of risk, but in the sense of stupidity.  Why stray to look for outside of the fence what you can only find inside of the fence?

© Samuel Kee, 2011

Phil

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It's a miracle that you are alive today.

Recently, one of my friends was shot and killed in a drive by shooting.  His name was Phil.  I worked alongside of Phil in a local grocery store, stocking shelves at 3 or 4 in the morning.  We loved telling jokes—the kind that are only funny that early in the morning—discussing the problems with health insurance, sharing stories about our families, and complaining about the gloves we used in the frozen food section.  Phil loved showing me a picture of his little boy.  Phil loved working out, energy drinks, and Mardi gras.  He was one of the easiest going guys I know; he was 23 years old.

He was in a car when it happened, on his way to the barber shop.

Naturally, the family of this former high school honor student is outraged, and no doubt plenty of people are seeking revenge.  I, too am upset.  I would love to have another chance to talk with Phil.  But regardless of what I would say to Phil, given the chance to see him again, I think a better scenario would be to hear what Phil would have to say to me, given just one more chance.

The Hebrew Scriptures say “Teach us to number our days, so that we can gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12).  The truly wise person is the one who lives with the end in view, filtering all of life’s decisions, whether big or small, through his or her own finitude.  The unwise person lives only for today, for passions and pleasures that will fade.

If God is real, then everything is tinted with eternity.  God is not just another category of life, to go alongside of “work” or “family” or “hobbies;” rather, God’s shadow eclipses everything, casting eternity on it all.

It’s a miracle that I’m alive today; it’s a miracle that you are alive today.  We’re fooling ourselves if we deny this, if we pretend that our car couldn’t be next.  Take a moment to meditate on how you want to spend your day, knowing that tomorrow is not promised.

© Samuel Kee, 2011

Tragedy at Masada

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At some point in our lives, we long to be delivered from Masada.

This past week I left this update on my Facebook page: There is no life apart from God.  Today I have a story to illustrate what I was thinking.  Have you heard of the ancient story of Masada?  Masada was a fortress in ancient Israel, during the time of the Romans.  I believe that it was built by Herod the Great, to serve as a safe place for him to flea.  Later, around 70 a.d., about 1,000 Jews fled to Masada to hide from the Romans.  Even though some of the Jews tried to revolt against the Romans, those that fled realized that they did not stand a chance.

So they managed to procure the palace of Masada, which was an ideal place for them to hide out, for years, if needed.  There was plenty of water and food storage, plenty of things to do at the palace, and, most important, it was virtually impenetrable.  It was built on a cliff and there were just two paths leading up to it; these paths were very steep and precarious, however, and crawling with snakes.

After a while, the Romans learned of the new colony of Jews living in Masada.  The Jews at Masada loved their new freedom from Roman rule; though the Romans were not so fond of the idea.  So 20,000 soldiers were sent to take back the 1,000 Jews living at Masada.

It was just as hard as they thought it would be.  After some unsuccessful attempts, the Romans had to re-group and re-plan.  Even with 20,000 soldiers, they still could not manage to scale the cliffs and break into the mighty fortress.  After some thinking, they went to work on building a long dirt road up the cliff to the palace.  It was a grueling process to build such a massive dirt highway; but, it was the only way to reach the rebels.

The dirt road to Masada took the Romans seven months to complete.  Seven months.  Can you imagine what it must have been like for those living in the fortress, having to look out your window every day for seven months and see the enemy slowly and relentlessly approaching?

Nonetheless, when the Romans finally made it up to the fortress, instead of being attacked by the Jews, who had seven months to plan, they were met by nothing but silence.  Nobody stirred in Masada—there was no war cry, no weapons, no counter attack, and no army.  The Romans entered the palace only to find 1,000 bodies.  All but a few of the Jews killed themselves, according to the Jewish historian Josephus.  Men, women, and children.  All were dead.

Their “leader,” Eleazar Ben Yair, had riled them up with a stirring and no doubt cultic speech, telling them that they’d be better off dead than have to be ruled byRome.  So they chose death rather than submission.

Ironically, because they loved their freedom so much, they chose the pathway of the least amount of freedom, death.  And I can’t even begin to describe the horrible ways in which they died on that plateau in Masada.

“There’s no life apart from God.”  Many of us equate God with the Romans and our freedom with Masada.  We don’t want to submit to God, to follow his rule in our lives.  We prefer the liberty we have in the palace on the rock.  We hate the thought of having to submit to God’s ways.

Ironically, not to choose God means to embrace Masada.  There is no life apart from God.  If he doesn’t rule us, then we have no hope of life, because God is life.  Here’s where my analogy breaks down, of course, for God is not like the Romans.  God does not have a cruel or unfair reign, like the Romans did.

His kingdom brings life to all of its citizens.  To run from his rule means to exit the kingdom of life.  God’s rule keeps you on the narrow pathway to life, the road to true freedom, and the portal into happiness.  By submitting to God, you are training your soul in the ways of life.  All of the other things we submit to actually lead to death; intuitively and/or experientially, we get that.

Some of us are in bondage to so many so-called freedom givers.  The more material possessions we have, for example, the more they “have” us.  The more sexual freedom we have, the more it keeps us in its chains.  The more power we have, the more it corrupts us.  There’s just no way out of the fortress.

Scripture contains the heart cry of someone like us who is dying for a Liberator.  “So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand.  For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members.  Wretched man that I am!  Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (Romans 7:21-24).

At some point in our lives, we long to be delivered fromMasada.

Our Liberator comes not to destroy us, but to give us life.  His dirt road was a crude Roman cross, where he himself was the bridge between heaven and hell.  He laid himself down so that we could walk free.

© Samuel Kee, 2011

David’s Story

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It believes in life more than death.

The LRA soldiers stormed into David’s home after terrorizing his village.  Before David’s eyes, they massacred his father.  Then young David was taken hostage by the Lord’s Resistance Army in Northern Uganda, which was under the leadership of Joseph Kony.  David was forced to become a child soldier.  His two brothers were also taken away, along with his mother and sister, but David had no idea what happened to them.  Over a decade later, he still does not know.

David was born in 1986, the year that Africa’s longest civil war began.  He was captured at the war’s height, along with thousands of other boys (an estimated 66,000 boys have been abducted by Kony’s guerilla army).  David was warned by the LRA that if he tried to escape, more of his family and friends would be killed.  To escalate the climate of fear, a boy was selected at random each day and killed by the LRA, to serve as an “example” to the other boys: obey or else.

Last night I had the privilege of meeting David at an Invisible Children rally.  I also met the other outstanding IC staff: Alex, Susie, and Rachel.  They told us the story of this brutal civil war and how they were fighting against it to bring peace.  So far the efforts of Invisible Children have been remarkable, as they have managed to bring relative peace to Northern Uganda.  Nonetheless, Kony and the LRA are still on the prowl, having been forced north and west of Uganda, into the Congo, Sudan, and other regions.  What they did to David, they are still doing to innocent boys and families in Africa.

David told me how one night he and two of his friends decided to escape.  Mustering incredible courage, they fled from the camp and headed out into the jungle.  It wasn’t long until the LRA began to chase after the three of them.  David’s two friends were gunned down, but David managed to escape the bullets.  He walked an astonishing 125 miles through the jungle and found his way home. 

“I learned that I must never give up,” David told us.  There are so many points along his journey that he could have given up, from the moment he saw his own father killed to those lonely nights in the jungle, struggling against all odds to survive.

At what point is it okay to give up? 

Never give up.  There is so much more about David’s story that needs to be written.  There is so much more about him that the world needs to know.  How can a person who has lived through what he did, come to the conclusion that there are no hopeless circumstances? 

As David stood on the platform at North Suburban Church, where I serve, he spoke with tremendous reserve.  He paused often between sentences and words, measuring each moment with deliberation.  You could see that the stories were still alive in him, replaying behind his words in haunting layers.  As he spoke to us, the stories spoke to him, lived in him, and breathed through him.  They were still there: every bullet, every scream, and every loss.  He filtered through everything before he presented it to us.

David’s story teaches us that the monsters in our lives do not have to go away before we can have hope.  It was obvious that they still lived and breathed inside of him, yet David lived and breathed anyway, despite them. 

Hope does not come when suffering disappears; hope enters in its presence.  Hope stands boldly in the face of evil and announces, “No more!” 

Hope is not possible apart from suffering.  In that brutal landscape, David gives us the true definition of hope: hope is not a flicker of light or an irruption of a bit of decent emotion.  Hope is simply not giving up, because it believes in life more than death. 

Again, hope says, “No more.”    

© 2011 by Samuel Kee