God is Joy?

"The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law." Gal. 5:22

"We should, to begin with, think that God leads a very interesting life, and that he is full of joy. Undoubtedly he is the most joyous being in the universe. The abundance of his love and generosity is inseparable from his infinite joy. All of the good and beautiful things from which we occasionally drink tiny droplets of soul exhilarating joy, God continuously experiences in all their breadth and depth and richness.” ~ Dallas Willard

My sense of what God is like has not been static. I can think back through my life to several different versions of God in my imagination. For lots and lots of years, He was primarily angry. In word and theology, I believed He was love, but in reality, He was too holy to even look upon our sorry, wormy selves and it was only through the sacrifice of Jesus that He could bare to cast His gaze on us. Angry. I shed that vision quite a long while ago. I spent a lot of years after that stage in the practical belief that He tolerated us - again, because Jesus. I have gradually come to believe that He loves me - in word, in theology and in reality.

As I read the above quotes in my Advent readings a couple of weeks ago, I was stopped in my tracks by the thought of God as full of Joy. This is a thought I seldom consider. God "full of joy?" I believe He loves me - I don't remember ever doubting that - but I rarely think of God and Joy simultaneously. I readily believe He is the source of my Joy, yes - but thinking of Him as exuding Joy? No.

As I've spent the days since trying to spend some time in intentional meditation, scribbling down random thoughts on this, I've asked myself, "What do you, in practical, lived reality, believe is God's disposition toward you? toward us?" -- And here's what comes to mind, if I'm being honest (and there's really no point in anything else) -- I feel like most of the time my most readily accessed thoughts about God's disposition is that He's ticked off with us because we are just so. stupid. so much of the time. Or that He's very serious, stone-faced, even. He's the stern but faithful Father - you do not doubt His love, but you also are not wrapped in warmth in His presence -- perhaps more standoffish than likely to run in for a hug. Still, my thoughts go to - "if not for Jesus"...  And I know some of you are probably getting really "but what about substitutionary atonement" right about now and getting worried that I'm diminishing the work of Jesus on the cross. This is not that, so not to worry. (Though I will go down a brief rabbit trail and throw in a little freebie here: I have in the last few years come across "Christus Victor" atonement theory. It is not new, it's as old as our faith, it's just new to me - and guys -- to the point that I've come to understand it, it has given me a much fuller view of what Christ accomplished at the cross.  This post is not about that - but, if you haven't, you should so do some reading on it. N.T. Wright is a fabulous place to begin. Now, back to the point.)

I feel like this might be an important thing for me to continue to consider. What did my Christian tradition teach me about God's disposition? What has life taught me about what love looks like and how has that formed my view of God? Do I need to shed some of that as an inaccurate, or at a minimum, imbalanced view of who God is? How does not thinking of God as full of Joy effect my view of God? my place within Him? my own general disposition as I live and move throughout life? the ways I interact with others?

I pretty easily think of Jesus laughing, teasing his friends, loving on kids - but I do not think of God in this way. Our scriptures tell us clearly that Jesus is the exact representation of the invisible God (Col. 1:15), yet as a practical life theology, I rarely think this way. Jesus is the fun parent. God is the not fun parent. And this is an easy one for me to grasp as I've spent most of my adult life being the "not fun" parent. My kids have never expected me to be the one that was spontaneous, that came up with ridiculous adventures, that encouraged risk for the sheer Joy of it. That ain't me. Brian would, more often than I care to admit, have to tell me, "Maybe just go inside and don't watch," when the kids were taking risks and reveling in the Joy of it all. I probably missed some outrageous laughter and Joy because I am always so tied to the "shoulds" and the "whatifs." I am trying to break away from that person as Mom to adult kids and as Lolly to a new generation.

As I've meditated on God as Joy the last few days, I've begun to make connections between my view of God as ticked off and stern to the ways I interact with those I disagree with. I have too often connected their performance to how I will choose to relate to them. If someone is not doing "it" the way I believe is best for them (even if I can chapter and verse "prove" that my way is obviously also God's way - please read in the much needed sarcasm font), I feel myself distancing myself from them, living with an underlying anger or sternness that I know bubbles to the surface in how I treat them and speak to them. Not ugly, but certainly not Love. Not Joy. I too often have a sense that my primary job is to make sure they know how harmful, dangerous, self-destructive, others-destructive they are living/speaking/acting - and certainly if I interact with them with Joy, they will never learn! Will they? But also, what I'm seeing is that what they more likely see and learn is that they are not accepted, not fully loved. And how likely is someone to change that feels unloved? that feels like a perpetual disappointment?

How does God teach us? By beating us with sticks? By squashing us like bugs? By killing us with His scathing rhetoric? By reminding us that we are a perpetual disappointment? I know some like this picture of God and it's become increasingly popular in our polarized society - a warrior ready to squash out dissent - but I do not. It is the cruciform Christ that we are told is God wrapped in flesh. (John 1 & Philippians 2) It is the Kindness of God that leads us to repentance (Rom. 2:4). We see this in Jesus. Going back up to the very top of this page - it is in the displays of His Spirit within us and around us, in the actions of others toward us when they allow these fruits to flow out of them, that we are pulled to the Kindness of God. He is so good to us. I want to believe that just as He is Love, He is also Joy. He rejoices over me with singing (Zeph. 3:17). He is saddened with my sometimes rebellious ways, yes. He is angered by the ways we treat others unjustly, and tolerate the unjust treatment of others, clearly. We see Jesus speak hard words in the gospels, but even then, He is, at the same time, dining with "sinners." He is always moving in closer, while still giving space for repentance. I want to live and move in ways that reflect that - even and especially, toward those I disagree with. Just as God allows us to bear consequences, just as Jesus spoke truth to power, there will be times that boundaries need to be drawn, truth must be spoken, consequences allowed to unfold. But that never negates Love. 

God, for reasons that are not hard to grasp, chose to describe Himself in ways that are wrapped up in father and mother metaphors. For many of us, this is a concept we get. We get what it means to love a kid with your whole entire being. We get what it feels like to have all the ranges of emotion as we watch them live and move throughout their journeys. But we're also so fallible, so fragile. Our vision of a full and complete love is diminished by the pain and trauma we experience here. Our imaginations are stunted by broken versions of Love that have been presented to us in family dysfunction, in toxic churches, in institutions meant to care for us. I do not want to lose sight of the fact that my picture of what someone "should" be may be marred by my own brokenness. And also, it is not my job to fix anyone. It is my privilege to love them - to make sure they know I delight in them. If they're willing to hear my terrible voice, I may even sing over them.

Today, I'm learning more of what His Joy looks like and it's giving me a fuller picture of His love for me - a more vast understanding of who God is. I want to allow that to change my relationship with Him. I want to fully grasp that He's not mad at me, not irritated with me, all the time. He's not looking down His nose at my failures. Even in my failures and frailty, He is patiently guiding me to wholeness, while at the very same time, smiling and cheering the places of growth in me.  He will allow me to face the consequences of selfish choices because this is how we learn and be right there by me when I'm ready to embrace His Kingdom way rather than my own. He laughs, He sings. He enjoys me. I want the God who is Joy to change the way I live with others. Do people believe that I really enjoy them? Not just love them, but enjoy them, right where they are, today? 

Learning what the perfect Love of God is like will be a life long journey for us. I don't ever want to think I've finally got it down. It will always be bigger than I can imagine. Better than I can envision. I want to live in the belief that just when I think God can't be any better, any bigger, any more wonderful than I've been able to comprehend, He will show up and shatter that paradigm as entirely too small.

Some Reflections on The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill

"When I hear people urge us to talk about all the good that came out of Mars Hill, asking why we can't just focus on the redemptive aspects of this story, I want to invite them to sit with Levi, Anderson, Lindsay or Michelle, and ask them the same question. I want to remind them that Jesus leaves the 99 for the one. Which means that these stories of loss, of disorientation and shattered faith matter just as much as the encouraging stories we can tell about the churches planted in the aftermath. And sometimes, if I'm being honest, when I'm in a particularly dark mood, I'll tell them that they sound like Job's friends and encourage them to talk less and join those who are sitting in the ashes and just weep." ~ Mike Crosper, from The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill

I finally finished The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill a couple of weeks ago and it's still circling around in my gray matter. If you've never heard of it, it's a podcast series put out by CT Magazine's podcast arm and can be found here.  Throughout the course of the series, I have experienced the full range of emotions. I've laughed out loud in utter disbelief at some of the things said and done under guise of "the gospel." I have raged, literally shouting to the heavens, with anger. During the final episode, I simply wept. I wept for those I know - those I love - that are sitting in the same kind of wreckage, in too much pain. too much betrayed trust, too much loss, to find their way out. I wept for those that continue to hear all the trite answers, prayers and memes that try to diminish or explain away their pain, yet only serve to drive it deeper.

If you listen to this podcast, and all you leave with is relief that Mark Driscoll is not your pastor or that you escaped Mars Hill Church, I believe you've missed the point. If we do not hear and search our hearts for the ways we have been Mark Driscoll (whether we pastor or not) and repent of and seek repair of, anything revealed; if we do not reflect on ways our own church environments currently are, or could easily become, the type of place that allows damage to hearts, lives, families; if we do not evaluate seriously the types of theologies we may be following unquestioningly without realizing the blind spots and damage they create; if we do not take seriously the level of pain so many coming out of these toxic environments are facing - then we've definitely. in my opinion, missed the entire point and wasted a lot of hours listening.

I do not personally know anyone that attended Mars Hill Church or one of it's satellites. I do not know anyone personally that was directly hurt by Mark Driscoll. I do, however, know a lot of people that have been hurt by the ways our church cultures have created pastor celebrities that are entirely, or almost entirely, out of reach of criticism, that value a toxic form of masculinity and/or authority structures (going so far as to name it as "biblical") that leaves untold numbers in their wake, that worship the certitude of their theologies while sacrificing real human lives that dare to voice doubts or speak out. I know people that have left the Christian faith entirely because of places like this. I know still more that have held on to Jesus, but continue to struggle to find a place to belong after either being officially forced out of their church, or left with such a loneliness that they felt no other option but leaving. This pain is real. Brushing it aside as "that one bad space" or that "one bad pastor" brings more pain for those still reeling from it. The sheer numbers tell us this is not a one-off issue. The Church, by the nature of our calling, is interacting with people at their deepest hearts, their most vulnerable wounds, their core values, their greatest trust. How could we think that a space that should be the safest in the world, yet abuses at these levels of heart, soul and mind, could be so easily brushed off? That it's as simple as brushing the dust off their feet and just "go find another one" that won't do that to them? This level of pain, betrayal, abuse, toxicity goes to the core of who we are as human. Five line memes won't fix it. "Our church isn't like that," won't fix it. 

The Church has some soul-searching to do. We need to grapple with the responsibility and weight of what we carry when human souls entrust themselves to a space that claims to walk as Jesus walked. Even when we are doing this as best we know how, the responsibility should always weigh heavy. But when we see it failing so spectacularly all around us, when we find ourselves complicit in harming others as we choose worldly power or fame or structures or ideologies over the cruciform way of Jesus - even more so then, we need to grasp the havoc we are creating in lives and hearts. We need to be willing to sit with our mouths shut and listen. No excuses. No theology rants. No passing the buck. Listen to their pain. Sit down in the ashes and weep with them. Love them.

We can choose not to. We can circle our wagons, we can blame it on what must be their own waywardness, we can explain away the numbers in ways that bring no personal responsibility. We can. Just as Herod thought he could wash his hands and be innocent of his choices, we can try that route as well. We will be just as wrong and just as responsible.