I am with you always, to the very end of the age. -MATTHEW 28:20

I remember a college professor asking our class about the singular, unifying trait that all great stories share. After we ventured guesses, offering a lot of answers that frustrated him, he gave us his answer: “the plight of the individual.”

Note that word:
plight.
It’s about struggle and danger and misfortune. A story really isn’t a story without something that has to be overcome. The greater the task in overcoming, the more compelling the story is. So, crossing a small pond in a rowboat is a far less interesting tale than surviving in the open ocean after a being tossed overboard by massive waves.

This is why, when we tell our “small pond stories” we have to create greater drama than the truth. We have a need to make the stories that occupy our lives seem a bit more adventurous and daring, because we want to be adventurous and daring people. And at the same time, there are so many moments in our lives, where the degree of danger we’ve faced in our past or are presently facing is not merely an exaggeration for a story’s sake. We don’t make it up to impress anyone. The pain is real. The obstacles are real. The suffering has gone on too long. For a lot of us, we’d trade our capsized-in-the-stormy-seas-story for a boring afternoon in rented kayak on a man-made lake any day.

Beneath all of the suffering and the trial, is a longing. We want to know that whatever the journey may be — through all the darkness and fear — that it has some kind of redemptive value. The only inexcusable outcome of our story isn’t that the struggle lingers beyond its due, it’s that the struggle might wind up meaning nothing at all. This is where Jesus steps in powerfully. This is also where the church (the people who follow Him) joins Him in His work. We are met by Jesus in the midst of the struggle (though we often fail to recognize His presence among us) and we come face to face with the reality that God never wastes a hurt, a pain, or a trial. In some way often unknown to us and unseen until many years later, God uses the things that threaten to undo us, to reveal something beautiful and joyful that could not have been there otherwise.

This week, as we continue in our series: OH, THE PLACES WE’LL GO!, we’ll look at the places where we get stuck, some of the things that keep us there, and some of the ways God releases us from them. If you know people who are stuck, or you’re stuck yourself, this will be a great Sunday to invite them to join you.

See you Sunday,
Jeff

“In order to have a sympathetic God, we must have a suffering Savior, for true sympathy comes from understanding another person’s hurt by suffering the same affliction.”  – Streams in the Desert

We’re a few days into our family campout. This trip has been bit different than trips we’ve taken in the past. Typically, we camp in a group. Within that group, there’s almost always an experienced former eagle scout dying to show off a bit of badge-knowledge. This trip, we’re on our own — into the wilds of the California coast… at an RV park. We’re using a borrowed RV for this adventure. Which, to be perfectly honest, does remove almost all of the adventure of camping. So far, that hasn’t been a monumental loss (to say the least). Every morning we wake up warm and dry. The coffee is hot. The refrigerator is cold. So, we have to work a bit harder to find the adventure we’re seeking.

Yesterday, we hiked to a llama pasture (that is something that actually exists). We rode bikes. We played frisbee. We braved the murky waters of the community pool at the RV park (probably our greatest adventure). Today, we’ll take the long walk down to the beach. In all of it, the greatest adventure-moment came in the first few minutes after our arrival…

Because we clearly have a lot to learn about how to RV “on our own.” After setting up the power supply (which I did incorrectly, draining the RV battery within a 48 hour span) and fearing the process of having to establish a proper connection with the bathroom hoses, our greatest struggle came in attempting to lower an exterior awning. We were briefed on how to do it. My short introduction to the world of RV awnings proved insufficient. It wasn’t long before a small audience of RV’ers had gathered around to watch us figure it out. Inching ever closer, an elderly mustachioed man from Merced (a small city in the central valley whose city tagline is “The gateway to Yosemite” — which means, in other words, that the defining property of Merced is that is a place to be passed through en route to another, more significant place.) asked politely and respectfully, “Would you like some help?”

“Is it that obvious?”

He smiled.

Then, another man approached, giving us the finer points on awning wrangling. I wondered if this struggle was something these men had once experienced, or if they were instructed in the ways by someone before they ever had to publicly embarrass themselves. In any event, two things became abundantly clear in that moment: 1) I needed the help of these others 2) They knew it.

I was wounded. I didn’t want their sympathetic help. Evidently, I’m OK with the kindness of others who have “been there before” so long as it’s not directed at me. I want to be sympathetic. But, I don’t want anyone to publicly sympathize with me. Care about me. Think about my needs. But, don’t make it obvious. Perhaps, this is my greatest struggle in my own faith journey. Jesus, the sympathetic suffering savior, is wonderful insofar as I don’t have to need him. Yet, it is the humble dependence of people which marks a faith steeped in maturity.

“Ok Jesus,” I’ll learn to say,  “I guess I need you. We both know it.”

He’ll smile.

In a day or so, we’ll have to collapse the awning and head home. If the “Mustache from Merced” is long gone, I’ll have to rely on some other folks who know more than I do and who have been there before. I can’t wait to embrace their help.

Bummer.

See you Sunday,

Jeff