John Mark Hicks

When you feel forsaken or rejected, 

when you feel like a failure or a piece of dirt,

when you feel inadequate or deficient,

when you feel unloved or unchosen,

hear the word of the Lord through Isaiah the prophet

Isaiah 62:2b,4,5b

…you will be called by a new name
       that the mouth of the LORD will bestow…

No longer will they call you Deserted,
       or name your land Desolate.
       But you will be called Hephzibah [“my delight is in her”], 
       and your land Beulah [“married”];
       for the LORD will take delight in you,
       and your land will be married.

…as a bridegroom rejoices over his bride,
       so will your God rejoice over you.

Isaiah’s message is for post-exilic Israel (Isaiah 56-66). The people had returned from Babylonian exile only to find themselves still oppressed, poor, and seemingly abandoned to their fate.  They lived under heavy Persian taxation and were harassed by regional provinces. Jerusalem’s walls were in ruins. Famine and poverty were rampant. The return did not meet expectations; it was not all that it was cracked up to be. Where was the glory of the restoration, the return to the land of promise? The promises of God had seemed to fail. Israel had been deserted and the land was desolate; Israel was rejected and ruined.  The people of God were losing hope.

Isaiah 56-59 outlined Judah’s sins, but Isaiah 60-62 proclaims a message of grace and salvation.  Isaiah 62:1-5 is the climax of that message.  God will not give up on Israel.  He has chosen Jerusalem; it is his city.  He will not relent. His love endures for ever.  He will change Jerusalem’s name, just as he did with Abram, Sarai and Jacob long ago.

Names Matter

God reveals his own character through his names.  Yahweh-Yireh is the Lord who Provides (Gen 22:14).  Yahweh-Shalom is the Lord of Wholeness (Judges 6:24). Yahweh-Mekedesh is the Lord who Sanctifies (Ezk 37:28). The name “Yahweh” means “the one who is” or “I am that I am.” The name of God matters as it defines him and our names matter too because they define us in many ways.

What others call us matter.  They matter because in our woundedness we assimiliate those names within oursleves. “Sticks and stones…but names will never hurt me” is a lie. When, as pre-adolescents, we were labeled “different” or “weird” some of us internalized a life-long stigma in our own minds. Such language and experiences shaped our core beliefs. When we were constantly picked last on the playground, we were named “unchosen.”  When we were abandoned by a parent, we were named “unworthy.” When we were abused, we were named “worthless.”

What we call ourselves matters. If, at our cores, we call ourselves “worthless” or “pathetic,” it will shape how we relate to people. It will shape the nature of our marriages, our parenting, and our relationships. It will shape our churches. Indeed, self-righteousness within our congregations is often more a matter of maintaining our own self-image and ignoring the truth about ourselves than it is about the welcoming, forgiving holiness of God.

What God calls us truly matters.  And it matters more than our own inadequate and inaccurate views of ourselves. How we hear God–the seive through which we filter God’s word to us–often twists God’s naming.  Though intellectually we may hear God say “beloved,” if our core is filled with shame, hurt, pain and abandonment and if our image of God has been shaped by pictures of Zeus holding lightning bolts ready (even eagar!) to inflict retribution, what we hear is not “beloved” but “loathed.” Since we believe–at our core or gut–that we are not worth loving, we cannot believe that God could actually love us in the midst of our shame, abandonment, and sin.

My Names

Only recently have I recognized with any depth the significance of other’s names for us and our names for ourselves.  In recent months I have discovered that at my core–in my own self-image–I had lived with some names that have negatively impacted me. Whether self-generated, or imposed by others, or impressed upon me by circumstances, these names nearly destroyed me earlier this year.  Here are a few of my “old” names for myself.

Forsaken.   I felt this intensely when Sheila died in 1980 after only two years and eleven months of marriage. I felt it again when Joshua was diagnosed with a terminal genetic defect and then died at the age of sixteen in 2001.  Why, God, have you forsaken me? Will you forsake me forever? Why are you picking on me? Is there something wrong with me that you rip my joy from me and every day fill my heart with sorrow?

Failure.  I have felt this most deeply since  my divorce. I failed at the most important relationship in my life. During that trauma I was disillusioned, confused, and deeply hurt. I now own much more of the causes of that divorce than I did in 2001, but  this only increases my sense of failure. The name, seemingly, only gets more apporpriate with time.

Deficient.  One of my early core beliefs is “I am not enough.” Consequently, emotionally I have sought approval and the most effective mode which I found was through work.  Approval-seeking became an addiction. I am a workaholic.  I stuffed myself with addictive behavior in order to feel good about myself, to gain approval, and connect with others.  But ultimately it was an empty feeling. Whatever approval I received was never enough; I always needed more and was envious when others received acclaim.  And I needed more because at my core–somehow, someway–I had been named “Deficient.”

What is your name? How have you been named? What have you felt in your gut and believed at your core that has shaped how you see youself, others and God?

I am only beginning to understand the names I have worn.  But I know there is something better.  God himself has named me. Those are the names I want to internalize; I want to see myself and others through the lens of God’s naming.

God Changed My Name

Israel and I have chewed some of the same dirt.  Forsaken…Rejected…Desolate. Indeed, we have all worn these names in one form or another.  But there is good news–there is gospel.  God changes names and only he can truly do so. To try to change my own name is an illusion, futile and another attempt to fill what is lacking by my own efforts. God must name me and, when he names me, he makes it true.

Isaiah provides a startling image for us which enables us to enter this story emotionally as well as intellectually.  Yahweh’s new name for Israel is “My delight is in her”–the one in whom he delights.  He loves her, enjoys being with her, and yearns for her presence. Yahweh’s name for Israel is “Married”–he unites himself with his people for the sake of intimacy; he wants to know his bride.  Yahweh rejoices over his people like a bridegroom rejoices over his bride–his joy surpasses a wedding celebration.

This is how God feels. This is the truth about his people.  “I will rejoice over you,” declares Yahweh. The king of the cosmos does not sit on his throne without emotional engagement with his creation.  Quite the contrary, God choses his bride, delights in her, dresses her in a bridal gown, and celebrates her with dancing and festivity.

This is how God feels about us.  Our past self-styled names are false names–they are no longer true if they ever were.  We have new names–names bestowed by God.  No longer are we “Forsaken” but we are “Chosen.”  No longer are we “Failure” but we are “Married.”  No longer are we “Deficient” but we are “Blessed”!  Though he knows the depths of our hearts (which are not always pretty), he loves us just as he loves his own Son (John 17:23).

God’s word to each of us is “You are beloved; you are the one in whom I delight.”  He welcomes us, dresses us in festive robes, spreads a table of the best food and the finest wines, and spends the evening dancing with his bride. God wants us and he stands in applause as we wear the names he has given us….Chosen…Beloved…Married…Blessed.

The lyrics of D. J. Butler’s “I Will Change Your Name” speak the essence of this text; hear them, believe them. It is the word of God through Isaiah to each of us.

I will change your name
You shall no longer be called
Wounded, outcast, lonely or afraid

I will change your name
Your new name shall be
Confidence, joyfulness, overcoming one
Faithfulness, friend of God
One who seeks My face.

**Sermon (audio here) delivered at Woodmont Hills Church of Christ on December 28, 2008**

Last Saturday evening Jennifer and I attended a 5th-8th talent show at the Lipscomb Campus School.  It was almost three hours long, but had several excellent performances.  However, it was long.

About thirty minutes into the program, I began to feel uncomfortable.  Something was gnawing at me. My insides were pushing me to run, to get out of the building, to find a way to excuse myself.  Something was telling me that if I could just go home I could regain my serenity.  And, a year ago, that is probably what I would have done, but the serenity would have been an illusion, an escape.

This night, however, I turned inward.  The problem was not the program but something going on inside of me. As the program proceeded, I began to meditate, calm myself and pray.  I wanted to know what was really going on with me.  The kids were doing their best, and they weren’t so bad that I needed to escape.  There was something else from which I wanted to escape.  I needed to sit in my feelings, discern what was happening, and feel my way through the mess that is my soul.

As I meditated, I became aware that I was envious.  I did not envy the children, but the parents. I noticed that I was agitated by the joy of the parents and the wonder of their eyes. I was particularly annoyed by how much the parents and family members behind me were enjoying their star’s performance.

Envy.  Not envious of talent, money, power, job, but envious that these parents were blessed by God to watch their children perform. I was never able to do that with Joshua. When he was the age of these children, he was in a wheelchair, could barely walk, and spent most of his time unaware of his surroundings. From eight to sixteen my family watched Joshua slowly die. I never saw Joshua play a team sport, never saw him perform on a stage, never saw him read a poem–or read at all!  I envied the parents and begrudged their joy, and–in my harsh and unkind judgment–wondered whether they truly appreciated their blessing.

But that was not the root. Resentment was the root of my feeling that night; that was my discomfort–my rationale for escape. I wanted to run away so I would not have to think about my pain, Joshua’s illness and death. I did not want to acknowledge my resentment. I would rather not think about it or feel it. It is easier to simply escape.

I did not resent the parents. I resented God. He blessed these children, but not Joshua. He gave these gifts to these parents, but I was never able to enjoy that gift with Joshua. I had missed out and there was no one to blame except God. Is he not reponsible for his world? Did we not pray that we would have a healthy son? Why did he say, “No, he won’t be healthy”? I resent that answer and sometimes I’m not sure that I can put up with a God like that.

Even as I write these words I know that I received many gifts from Joshua and they were divine blessings.  Even as I think again about his broken body, I still remember his smile, his laugh and the joy of just sitting with him in my big chair watching one of his favorite movies (The Wizard of Oz).  I realize I was blessed, but Saturday evening I resented that God had not blessed me more richly–that he had not blessed me like those parents in that auditorium that night.

As I meditated on that resentment, I noted my feelings.  Irritation. Frustration. Anger. Envy. Jealousy. Resentment.  And I took them to God. I told him how I felt. I let it out so I could let it go, so I could release it into God’s hands. I needed to be heard…by God!  And in being heard, I could let go…at least for that night. In that moment I could forgive God.

In letting go, I could remember the blessings I did receive through Joshua. I could treasure those and hold them in my heart, and thank God for them. I could value the experiences–the learning and growth experienced in the process. I could even see God in many of those painful moments–God present to comfort  in my laments, God present through people who served my family, God present in laughter as well as tears.

That night–at least for that night–I forgave God. In releasing my resentment, I was given some peace and joy. Bit by bit, day by day, little by little, the comfort is renewed and joy returns. 

Thanks be to God for his patience with me. Even when I bitterly resent him, he loves me, he graciously receives my forgiveness (when he, of course, does not need it!), and he is not frustrated with me when the resentment returns on a cold Saturday night in December seven and a half years after Joshua’s death. 

Thank you, Yahweh.  Truly your lovingkindness endures for ever.

 Postscript:  Here is the contemplative, meditative process I used Saturday evening to journey toward forgiving  God. I find myself returning to it daily.

1. Find a quiet, private place where you can sit in uninterrupted silence.  I center myself through a breath prayer.  I concentrate on my breath–inhaling and exhaling.  I offer a breath prayer to still myself, soothe myself and given space for the Spirit of God to calm my soul.  I follow the breath through my body and permit the whole of my being to focus. I usually use a breath prayer like “Jesus Christ, Son of God” as I breath in and “have mercy on me, a sinner” as I breath out. (This is the traditional “Jesus Prayer”).
2. I recall the moment of pain, sit in the hurt, and feel the pain. What do I feel? What emotions emerge as primary. I name them and describe them.
3. I contemplate God in relation to this pain. When I think about God in this context, do I feel anger, frustration, fear, love, gratitutde? What negative emotions do I feel? Do I feel any irritation, anger or bitterness as I think about this pain and unanswered prayers? Do I feel rejection, hurt or anger when I remember the pain and ponder why God permitted that?
4. I then bring those feelings into the presence of God and tell God how I am feeling. We all have the need to be heard, and we need for God to hear how we feel. I speak it audibly when I can (and sometimes I wonder if anybody is listening).
5. I then tell God that I want to release the negative emotions associated with this memory and that I need his help to release them. I am powerless over my feelings. I cannot help but feel what I feel. At the same time I process those feelings in the presence of God and by the power of his Spirit.
6. I then reflect on where God was in that past moment of pain. Can I point to people, events, feelings, or circumstances that signal a God-presence? Where did God show up in that pain? I may not have recognized it at the time, but as I reflect, sit in the presence of God with this pain, and broaden my vision of the event perhaps I can see God where I had not previously seen him.
7. I then reflect on the meaning of that pain. What did I learn through the experience? What lessons surface in the reflection? What endures as meaningful and significant for me? How has it shaped me and changed me? How has it affected my vision of God?
8. I then remember who God is, how he has loved me in the past, how he loves me even now in the present. Remember his sovereignty, his creative intent, his redemptive work. I seek God’s face through the eyes of Jesus and embrace his love. I recall the story and meditate on God’s works. I see the face of Jesus, remember his loving kindness toward people. I remember the story of the widow’s son–he raised him from the dead. I permit the compassion and love of God to flow into my mind, heart and gut.
9. God, I forgive you because I am not God.  There is only one God and I am not him. I don’t know what you know; you are greater than I. You must have your reasons. I trust you because I see you in Jesus.  I humble myself before you and release my anger, bitterness and resentment toward you.  You are my God, and I forgive you, and, I pray, you will forgive me because even in forgiving you I don’t know what I am doing.

To forgive God is, for many–if not most, a necessary bridge to praising him.  But it is a difficult idea to grab hold of–how does one forgive God? What does that mean? And, indeed, it sounds blasphemous….as if God has done something wrong that needs forgiveness.  And who are we to forgive God anyway? We are the creatures, he is the creator; we are the clay, he is the potter.

Bear with me for a few posts on this topic…it is one with which I struggle, and I struggle to forgive my God.  Walk with me for a few days, meditate with me and pray with me.

I will begin with Job whom, I believe, learned to “forgive” God.

From Praise

Yahweh gave and Yahweh took away; blessed be the name of Yahweh. 

Shall we accept good from God and not trouble?

Job 1:21; 2:10

Job’s initial response to his tragic suffering is noble, laudable, and….practically unbelieveable!  How can he bless Yahweh in the face of such loss–prosperity, servants, health, and–most of all–his children!? 

This has led many to think that these are mere cliches on his lips; superficial expressions of piety that arise more out of his ritualistic (even legalistic, according to some) way of being religious.  It is all he knows to do in the face of the tragedy…repeat the phrases…repeat the prayers….hang on to the ritual as a way of believing.

I can appreciate that take on these words.  Indeed, there is some value to hanging on to the ritual in difficult times.  The ritual provides stability, a connection with past believers. But I don’t think this is true for Job in the prologue. Job–from beginning of the prologue to the end of the epilogue–is righteous, a person who fears God and shuns evil. His faith is not shallow. In fact, he is the one whom God offers as a cosmic test that there is such thing as faith in the universe God created and has permitted to fall into trouble. He is a true believer.

I have known people who have responded to tragedy with just such faith, particularly in the initial moments–me included for some of my circumstances.  I suppose we could say that they, too, are leaning on proverbial straws, but not necessarily.

It may be that a life of faith prepares one–to a certain extent–for tragic experiences. Perhaps living with God day-to-day enables a faith response to tragedy in those initial moments. I have seen mature believers face tragic news, dangerous surgeries and life-threatening situations with great faith, piety and–yes, even–hope.

But…

To Bitterness

I will speak out in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.

I will give free reign to my complaint and speak out in the bitterness of my soul.

God has denied me justice and made me taste the bitterness of soul.

God has wronged me…though I cry “I have been wronged,” I get no response….his anger burns against me; he counts me among his enemies

Job 7:11; 10:1; 27:2; 19:6, 7, 11.

But sometimes when believers sit in their grief and begin to feel the fullness of their loss other emotions emerge and begin to dominate.

Job sat in silence with his friends and then let our a heart-wrenching lament where he wished he had never been born and recognizes that what he had feared most had actually happened to him! He confessed that he felt hopeless.

The friends were stunned. Where was that “blessed be the name of the Lord” Job they knew? They told him shut up until he was willing to repent.

Job, however, could not remain silent. He had to speak.  He had to speak out his anguish, his bitterness.  He complained about the unfairness, the injustice, the meaninglessness of it all.  He assaulted God with words and felt God’s hostility in his very bones.

Job was embittered. God had wronged him. He had treated him unfairly. He thought God was his friend, but he turned out to be an enemy. He felt betrayed.

Job resented God. He resented his fate.  He resented how the children of the wicked dance about their tents while his are gone.  He resented how the wicked prosper and go to the grave in ease while he lives in a garbage dump.  He resented that his relatives and friends, who once sucked up to him, now avoid him.

He resented everything, and Yahweh was responsible!

But….then something happened….

To Comfort

I melt before you and am consoled over my dust and ashes.

They comforted and consoled him over all the trouble that Yahweh had brought upon him.

Job 42:6, 11b

Or, I should say, someone happened.  God showed up. He came near. He spoke.  God did not abandon Job; he did not beat him up or slay him. He spoke with him; he reminded him. He cared for him.

And Job let go….he let go of the resentment. He forgave God; Job released God from Job’s own human, fallible and self-consumed judgment.

Job 42:6 is probably the worst translated text in all the Bible. Most translations make it look like that Job recanted his earlier complaints, or that he repented of his sinful words, or that he now did penance for his sins.  But that makes the friends right, and clearly the friends are wrong! God sides with Job, not the friends.

I prefer my translation.  (I know you are probably surprised by that!) 

Job melts before God; he humbles himself.  He lets go.  He does not regret the laments or the words. He lets go of the bitterness, resentment and anger.

“Repent”–not at all!  Rather, the Hebrew word is the same word translated five verses later (v.11b) as “consoled,” and was used earlier in Job 2:11 describing what how the friends intended to help Job, and how they failed as “miserable comforters” in Job 16:1.  Just as Job is consoled by his family and friends over the trouble the Lord had brought on him in 42:11, he was first consoled over the dust and ashes of his life by his encounter with Yahweh (42:6). Having let go, he experiences a comfort in the midst of his mourning and grief, his dust and ashes.

The divine-human encounter, when God whisphered grace in his ear,  enabled Job to let go. Divine presence comforts like nothing else can.

Comfort came to Job when he let go of the bitterness, the resentment; when he let go of his presumed right to judge God. Job was comforted when he forgave God by accepting Yahweh’s sovereignty and trusting his purposes.

More to come…..

Psalm 143

O Lord, hear my prayer, listen to my cry for mercy….

Do not bring your servant into judgment, for no one living is righteous before you…

So my spirit grows faint within me, my heart within me is dismayed…

I meditate on all your works and consider what your hands have done…

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love…

Teach me to do you will, for you are my God….

In your unfailing love, silence my enemies…

One of the classic penitential psalms, Psalm 143 expresses a deep need to experience God’s unfailing love and mercy on the part of one whose depressed spirit is overwhelmed with the presence of enemies and self-condemnation. The Psalmist seeks a renewal of God’s grace and call in life after a season of sin and oppression from enemies.  I don’t think it is too much of a stretch to say that this Psalm has something to share with those of us who yearn or have yearned for self-forgiveness. Self-forgiveness is my topic in this third installment on forgiveness.

There have been times when I wondered–not out loud, of course–whether verse 2 of Psalm 143 was simply an excuse.  Do not bring your servant into judgment, for no one living is righteous before you. It can sound like “don’t judge me since everybody sins” or “everybody does it, what’s the big deal?”  Today, however, I hear it more as a confession that I am human, a sinful human…just like everybody else.  The cry for God’s mercy is also a cry for self-compassion…to give myself a break just as God gives me grace.

Self-forgiveness is a controversial topic. Many believe it is too tied to self-help and self-esteem pop psychology and that it is actually a reflection of pride and lack of faith.  There is no text in Scripture which explicitly commands self-forgiveness, so it is said, and only God can forgive. Others, however, genuinely punish themselves by denying themselves self-compassion. They feel a need for self-forgiveness and their life is stuck in cycles of guilt, depression and self-hatred. I have been stuck in that cycle myself in the past–and it still raises its ugly head on occasion.

At one level self-forgiveness, in the strictest terms, is not what we need. What we need is divine forgiveness.  What some call self-forgiveness is, I believe, actually the process of accepting God’s forgiveness and removing the barriers to that acceptance that burden our hearts. In this sense, I think, self-forgiveness is an expression of a biblical notion of self-love that is grounded in God’s gracious forgiveness and unfailing love.  But we cannot receive and feel that grace if we erect walls between God and our true selves.

What hinders self-forgiveness?  Here is a partial list and I’m sure others could add more out of their own experience.  All of these we might list under the broad rubric of pride.  

• unchanged behavior–we continue the sinful behaviors even when we don’t want to
• given our past failures we fear that we will do them again
• burying our unresolved guilt that becomes a festering wound
• “fixing it” by doing good stuff to restore the balance
• perfectionism–our expectation that we are better than that; we should have know better!
• lack of trust in God’s love, feeling unworthy of love
• no experience in grace–we have been judged by others and we habitually judge others
• self-anger and self-hatred over past behaviors which leads to self-punishment

If self-forgiveness is actually the acceptance of God’s gracious movement toward our real selves, then it is fundamentally about relationship with God, about being with God and accepting his love. Here is a partial list of what that might entail as we move from intellectual acceptance of grace to the authentic experience of grace in our hearts that yields self-forgiveness through a healthy self-love because of what God has done and who he is.

• confession of sin to God and trusting the promise of forgiveness (e.g, 1 John 1:9)
• seeking transformation through spiritual disciplines instilling a hope for recovery
• recognizing our unrealistic perfectionistic expectations (let go of self-anger)
• mutual confession of sin in a supportive, safe community of believers
• making amends to those we have hurt
• accept responsibility for sin and its consequences (let go of “making up” for sin)
• contemplative prayer on the nature of God who is full of mercy, compassion and love
• meditation and visualization of God’s word to us:  “you are beloved”

Should we forgive ourselves?  Yes, but not because this arises out of our own self-will, self-esteem or self-worth.  Rather, we forgive ourselves because God has already forgiven us and we have accepted that forgiveness which gives us worth, joy and authentic love. We forgive ourselves because God is greater than our hearts and he has received us as one of his children whom he loves.

Our need for self-forgiveness is generated by our prideful rejection of God’s forgiveness–our pride that somehow we think we know ourselves better than God does!  Such pride is expressed in words like–whichI have said to myself though I intellectually knew better–“How can God forgive me of that when I knew better?!” After all–my mind thinks–if you really knew me, you would not forgive me either, and thus it is hard for me to believe that God forgives me or that anyone else could forgive me.  Yet, he does. And others have as well. This is the wonder of grace, the joy of being loved even when I feel unloveable. Paradoxically, it is pride that refuses to accept, internalize and authentically feel that love. Grace–the active, dynamic, experiential love of God–can heal woundness if we will but open our hearts to it and let go of the pride.  The movement from pride to acceptance is a process, a journey of faith, through which God heals us and transforms us into his own likeness.

So, strictly, I suppose we do not forgive ourselves but rather God forgives us, and when we accept that forgiveness deep within our guts, then we can let go of the self-punishment, self-hatred, and fear of failure. We are then equipped, by God’s grace, to give to others what God has given to us.

Spiritual formation the hard way?

Spiritual formation–being formed into the image of Christ by the Father through the power of the Spirit so that Christ is formed in us from the inside out–comes in at least two ways. Neither are easy; both are difficult. Neither are instantaneous; both are processes.

There is a disciplined, habitual approach to spiritual formation. These are the historic practices of solitude, prayer, Scripture reading, and simplicity of life–those four are common to all traditions of spirituality (and the last one is the probably the most absent among American Christians). There is a growing renewal of these spiritual disciplines in the life of the church and among many Christ-followers.  Disciples are trained in the spiritual life through concentrated attention to practicing the presence of God. Any disciple who ignores them places their spiritual life in danger.

In this post, it is a second mode of spiritual formation that captures my attention.  I recently finished Gary Thomas’ Authentic Faith: The Power of a Fire-Tested Life.  Thomas, whose book Sacred Marriage was quite enriching to my wife and I, is a prolific writer about Christian spirituality. He is the founder of the Center for Evangelical Spirituality and, I might add, a favorite writer of our good friend Jim Martin. Authentic Faith is an exploration (he calls himself a “tour guide”) of spiritual formation through fiery trials.

Solitude, prayer, Scripture reading, and simplicity shape our inner life as intentional, daily habits. We set aside time and orient our lives through these practices.  But the fires of life erupt without warning; they come out of nowhere. We don’t see them coming.  They happen to us.  Our daily habits may prepare us for them–that is the value of the training, but we have no control over them.

These fires burn through our lives in many different ways.  Physical suffering–whether cancer, chronic illness, genetic disabilities–is one fire.  It is, as Thomas calls is, the “discipline of suffering.”  But there are other fires as well such as “the discipline of waiting,” “the discipline of mourning,” “the discipline of sacrifice,” “the discipline of contentment,” and “the discipline of social mercy.” 

One of the more helpful chapters for me was the “discipline of forgiveness.”  When we are betrayed, insulted, gossipped about–when we are sinned against, this is something that happens to us. We did not ask for it. In fact, we perhaps never imagined it.  It is a trial, a test. It is a burning fire that will either destroy us or refine us. It is a moment when we will reject God’s heart of forgiveness for others or we will embrace his mercy for ourselves as well as for others. It is an occasion for spiritual transformation.

Our circumstances are beyond our control.  “Stuff” happens!  It can be very ugly, horrid, evil stuff, or it can be seemingly minor frustrations and unmet expectations. Both, however, are opportunities for spiritual growth.

When “stuff” happens, God is present in ways that transcend our ability to grasp but is also present to lovingly refine and/or purge us. It becomes part of the process of transformation just as Jesus himself was formed spirituality through his suffering (he was made perfect by the things he suffered, Hebrews 5:9).

“Stuff” hurts.  But the hurt, by God’s grace and power, is a way forward into the Father’s heart, participation in the Son’s suffering, and communion with the groaning Spirit.  Living through and processing the “stuff” is part of becoming an image or icon of Christ in this world. 

I recommend Thomas’ book.  Though I think the chapters are rather uneven–as are the chapters in my own books (especially the chapters written by Bobby Valentine!)–the book will help you process how the “stuff” in your life, your “shack,” may actually become an occasion for spiritual transformation.

When Sheila died in 1980, I discovered that I was one who neither enjoyed nor desired to visit graves.

For me visiting the grave was not very comforting. In fact, it was the opposite. The graveyard seemed too permanent. It contained too many granite stones which testified to both the pervasiveness and intransience of death. I didn’t like it and never found consolation there.

The same has been true with both my father’s (1994) and my son’s (2001) graves.  Graves reminded me of death, not life. They brought neither comfort nor closure.

What I have discovered this year, however, is that there was something deeper going on inside of me that prevented their “resting places” from providing the kind of solace that it seems to provide others. My avoidance of their graves was a symptom of my avoidance of grief itself.

I was in full flight from my grief. Rather than embracing it, living through it, and accepting it, I evaded it. My avoidance of the grave–for me–was a way to escape the pain, to push it into the background, stuff it down, and pretend it did not exist. Avoiding my deepest pain, I numbed it through workaholism and in other ways.

I can remember the moment when I decided I would not feel “that” again. At twenty-two years of age, I was basically carried out the front doors of the church building after viewing Sheila’s body for the last time. Standing outside those doors was, among others, the Potter High School chorus from Bowling Green, KY. I was deeply embarrased that those kids–many of whom were my students–saw me like that. I never wanted to feel that way again.

That day I created a facade of sorts. I would protect that part of me that did not want to feel embarrasment. I would not show that emotion again; I would not allow that kind of transparency again. Instead, I would play the strong, stoic hero.  But it was not really a matter of heroism.  Rather, it was self-protection, a coping mechanism.

This year I discovered that I have never really grieved.  This has been my year to surface that grief, experience it, live through it, and let my outsides match my insides. This has been a year of grief recovery for me. And it has been a good year filled with healing through the loving support of friends, therapy, and my wife’s comforting presence.

This year I intentionally went to their graves to remember, speak with, and sit with those whom death has captured.

My blog has been silent this past week because this past weekend I visited Sheila’s grave with Jennifer and spent the evening with Sheila’s family in Ellijay, GA.  Last week I anxiously anticipated the journey and this week I have been talking with friends about it.  It was healing.

For the first time, I shed tears at Sheila’s grave, talked with her, and accepted that what could have been is not what is. I felt like my insides and my outsides were beginning to coalesce at last. Oh, I know it is not a done deal, but it feels right, healthy, and peaceful.

Sheila’s family welcomed me, embraced me, blessed me, and loved me along with Jennifer. I rediscovered that I still belong to them and they to me. I felt at home like at the end of a long journey into the far country.

I still don’t like graves.  🙂  Perhaps I never will.  But I recognize that visiting the graves was a necessary part of my healing this year. What I once resisted has become spirtually therapeutic for me.

Where I had found some measure of comfort through the years–and still do–is in assembling with God’s people.  Assembly has been an event, a moment that transcended time and space. It is the gathering of God’s people in the divine throne room–an assembly of past, present and future where all God’s saints, including those who rest in the grave, are gathered to God with Jesus by the power of the Spirit. I have been comforted by the experience of gathering with Sheila, Dad, and Joshua around God’s throne.  I love to sit in the assembly meditating, singing, listening and praying as a means of joining hands with those who have fallen asleep in Jesus. This is the theology of assembly that is at the heart of my recent book A Gathered People, written with Bobby Valentine and Johnny Melton. The book is dedicated “to those whom we love but cannot see except as we meet them around God’s throne every Lord’s Day.”

Now, however, I also have a new appreciation for visiting graves. There death stares me in the face–I cannot escape it and must process it. It brings acceptance (over time), opportunities to remember, and a terminus where we don’t forget the past but we don’t live in it either. I have not arrived, but I am learning…and growing.

This has been part of my “shack” experience this year. Thanks for listening.

Pray Romans 15:13 for me, my friends.

John Mark

[My book on the Shack is now available on Kindle.]

I now come to the third theme in The Shack that I find both emotionally and theologically compelling. The first theme is God’s total delight in and fondness for his children no matter what their shacks look like.  The second theme is that trusting in God’s goodness and loving purposes is the key to living through our Great Sadnesses. The third theme is forgiveness.

Forgiveness is just beneath the surface in the first half of Young’s parable.  By the end it becomes central to Mack’s healing.  Our shacks only become mansions through the grace of forgiveness. Without forgiveness–both receiving and giving–our shacks will remain broken. Without forgiveness–both receiving and giving–we are “stuck” in the Great Sadness.

Forgiving Others

Mack thought he had come to the end of his spiritual journey at the moment he finally learned to trust Papa (p. 222) which is how we experience the circle of God’s Triune loving relationship–through dependance and trust. Mack had arrived, or so he thought.

Papa took Mack on a “healing trail,” but it was not just about Missy’s body. It was about something much deeper, much more difficult.  If Mack is going to fully experience the circle of divine love, then he must also enter into the circle of forgiveness.  Papa says, “I want to take away one more thing that darkens your heart” (p. 223). Mack must forgive the “son of bitch who killed” his Missy (p. 224), about whom Mack had earlier said “damn him to hell” (p. 161).

I believe this is one of the more stirring sections of The Shack and, I think, filled with profound wisdom as well as striking statements.  How do we forgive someone who killed our inner child?  Young remembers his father’s abuse and the sexual abuse he received from tribal children in New Guinea. How can he forgive those who wounded his soul so deeply?

Forgiveness is an obligation of tremendous significance.  The Lord’s Prayer reminds us that we ask God to forgive us as we have forgiven others (Matthew 6:12) and if we do not forgive others then God does not forgive us (Matthew 6:14-15).

But forgiveness is more than a duty; it is an entrance into the circle of divine life. It is an expression of divine life itself. We experience the heart of God when we forgive. We know the nature of God as an insider through forgiving others.

And yet there is also this deep yearning for justice, even revenge.  As Mack says, “if I can’t get justice, I still want revenge.” Papa’s response is brilliantly on point, “Mack, for you to forgive this man is for you to release him to me and allow me to redeem him” (p. 224). Mack, and the reader, is reminded of an earlier scene where Sophia gloried in how “mercy triumphs over justice because of love” at the cross, and then asks Mack, “Would you instead prefer he’d chosen justice for everyone?” (pp. 164-5).

God wants to redeem even those who have wounded us and he prefers mercy for them just as he preferred it for us. Our act of forgiveness releases them to God and takes the burden off us. We can let go of resentment, bitterness, and vengeance as we leave it in the hands of God.

Are we still angry about the wounds?  Yes.  Anger is certainly a healthy response toward abuse, for example. Papa says, “anger is the right response to something that is so wrong.”  “But,” he continues, “don’t let the anger and pain and loss you feel prevent you from forgiving him and removing your hands from around his neck” (p. 227). Forgiving someone does not excuse their actions, but it does release them from our judgment into the hands of God who will handle justice in his world. Forgiveness means that we are no longer vindictive, seeking to do the other harm.  We no longer take them by the throat but hand them over to God.

Forgiveness doesn’t seem fair, does it? That is the joy of receiving it….and the difficulty of giving it.  None of us wants fairness when we are receiving forgiveness but we tend to want our “pound of flesh” before giving it. In forgiving we not only release the offender to the judgment of God, we also release ourselves from the weight of resentment which is too heavy to bear and will only sour the sweetness in our lives.

How do we let go of resentment?  Here is a practice that I have recently discovered though it has been around for centuries. It is so simple that I feel like an idiot for not having practiced it earlier in my life. 🙂  To forgive and let go, I simply pray for that person every day for a month.  Every day I say to God, “I forgive ‘Joe,’ and I want you to give him every blessing that I seek in my own life.” I have found that habit–which is also suggested in the “Big Book” of the 12-Step program (p. 552)–liberating and enriching.  Whenever I feel resentment, I pray for those I resent, and I pray daily for them until I feel the release…and it may take weeks!  🙂

Forgiveness is not reconciliation. It only takes one to forgive, but it takes two to reconcile. Forgiveness is something that happens in our souls without respect to who the offender is, what they have done, or how they feel about what they have done. Forgiveness is a gift to ourselves by the power of the Spirit who enables us to exercise the love of God in our own hearts. To forgive is to be free. To forgive is to be like God and share his love.

The “miracle” of reconciliation begins with the “miracle” of forgiveness. There can be no reconciliation except where the offended forgives the offender.  I think the word “miracle” is appropriate because such acts are divinely enabled and are themselves participation in the supernatural divine life itself. When we extend forgiveness, and it finds a tender response in the forgiven, then we will, according to Papa to Mack, “discover a miracle” in our own hearts that allows us to build “a bridge of reconciliation” between the parties involved (p. 226). The miracle begins with God working in our own hearts and not waiting for the “other person” to make the first move.  The first move is forgiveness; it was God’s own first move, right?

Forgiving Self

Mack has a problem, however, with himself as well as with the murderer.  He lives under the burden of self-blame and self-punishment.  He deserves, so he thinks, to live in the “Great Sadness” because he did not protect his daughter.

The “Great Sadness,” when we feel responsible in some way (no matter how small!), creates a self-perpetuating cycle of blame and punishment. It becomes a form of self-flagellation. We deserve the pain, so we think. It is our just deserts. How can Mack enjoy life when Missy is dead? He has no right to joy and peace. He did not protect his Missy. He even feels like God is punishing him because of how he treated his father as a teenager (p. 71, 164). That is the insanity into which the “Great Sadness” throws us.

How do people forgive themselves?  I wish I knew.  Ok, I have some ideas, but I don’t know how to let it sink into my soul.  I still have days where I want to beat myself up over my divorce. I still feel a deep sense of failure over it and sometimes I still feel the guilt associated with that failure.

I do recognize problems in my occasional foray into self-affliction.  For example, my self-worth is not found in my perfection, my ability to keep the law. My self-worth is found in the delight my God has for me; he welcomes me and is “especially fond” of me.

On one occasion when I was shaming myself for my sins, a friend asked an empowering question. “Do you believe God has forgiven you?”  Yes, of course, I answered.  “So, do you know something God doesn’t know?” I recognized the point immediately, at least intellectually. When I fail to forgive myself, I make myself god.  I become the judge.  Whereas God has declared me “free,” I continue to bind myself to my sins. What I forgive in others and what God forgives in me, I find difficult to forgive in myself.  That is nothing but arrogance and ingratitude. But it is easier said than done.

The Shack, however, has helped me process self-forgiveness. It is rooted in trusting God’s fondness for me, his forgiveness, and that God finds me worth his sacrifice for the sake of enjoying my presence (p. 103). The parable provides a narrrative in which to experience God’s love which enables me to forgive myself.

God takes my “shack” and transforms me into a mansion.  When I experience God’s forgiveness at the gut level and when God’s beaming joy envelops me, then I can see self-affliction as rebellion and self-forgiveness as trust.  I can even see Papa smile and wink as I look myself in the mirror and say “I forgive you.”

Forgiving God

Mack blames God (p. 161).  He becomes the accuser, taking on the role of the Accuser (Satan). He assaults the goodness and honesty of God. His anger boils against the one who did not protect Missy. Mack must learn to “forgive” God. The Shack does not use this language and I am extending the parable’s point here. I am taking it a step beyond what is present in the book.

“To forgive God” is a difficult expression and it must be carefully nuanced.  When Rabbi Kushner adopted J.B.’s position from Archibald MacLeish’s modern retelling of the Job drama, he suggested that humans need to forgive God in order to move on with their lives.  Humans need “to forgive God for not making a better world.” After all, in Kushner’s worldview, God is ontologically limited–he can’t do anything about evil in the world or heal diseases. To forgive God, then, is to recognize his limitations and not expect more from him than he can deliver.

This is not, however, what I mean by “forgiving God.” It is not to forgive God’s limitations or his unrighteous acts. The transcendent God does not have limitations and he is holy without any darkness.  Forgiveness, in the sense of showing mercy toward an imperfection, is not applicable to God. So, what does it mean to “forgive God”?

Fundamentally, it means letting go of the need to judge God. It means letting go of “getting back” at God, of brooding over the seeming unfairness of it all. That kind of resentment and bitterness not only stalls spiritual growth, it can kill it. Instead of holding a grudge against God, we let it go.

This is has been my experience; my anger with God has led to self-pity and resentment. I have, at times, felt “picked on” by God. I have railed against God with the angry but despairing cry, “This is just too much.” I understand that anger and I cannot simply pretend like it is not there (though I have tried that as well, stuffing it down into my soul). But anger is not the problem–anger should be vented, expressed, prayed. At the same time, it is the deep mistrust that sometimes accompanies anger which turns it into resentment.

When Mack blamed God, resented him, and was willing to simply give up on God (Mack: “I’m done, God” [p. 80]), it was because of his basic distrust of God’s goodness and purposes. When trust re-enters his soul, he lets go of the blame-game; he lets go of the resentment. This is a form of “forgiving” God.  Trust conquers fear; faith triumphs over resentment; and love does not blame.

Perhaps Mack could have prayed, and we might pray:

“God, I don’t understand why this great sadness is part of my life.  I don’t know why you allowed it.  It seems so meaningless and hurtful to me. Every fiber of my being wants to protest and even rebel.  But I know you are good.  I know you love me.  I trust you.  I forgive you and let go of my resentment. Open your heart to me that I might enjoy the circle of your love and feel your fondness for me. Increase my trust and root out my resentment. Though I do not understand or know the way, I will walk by faith and trust that you will lead me in your way.”

“Who is a God like you, who pardons sin and forgives transgression…” Micah 7:18

“forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you…” Ephesians 4:32b

[My book on the Shack is now available on Kindle.]

The first time I encountered the phrase “The Great Sadness” in The Shack it immediately resonated with me.  I knew exactly what my own “Great Sadness” was though I did not as yet know what Mack’s was or what Young’s own personal sadness was.

Grief Renders the Creation Colorless

My “Great Sadness,” like Mack’s, colored everything in my life. It touched every aspect of my being–the way I looked at the world, the way I experienced life.  It sapped the color out of life and turned everything to a dingy grey and, at times, an “inky darkness,” as The Shack describes so well. The “Great Sadness” tints our vision with shades of grey and black rather than with bright, vibrant, and life-affirming colors (p. 196). It sees the world through tinted windows. It is worse than blinding; it distorts the goodness of God.

Mack’s “Great Sadness” is his missing, and presumed dead, daughter Missy. For Paul Young, the author, Missy is a metaphor for his murdered innocence as a child; it is his wounded child.  Young was wounded by a physically abusive and angry father as well as by sexual abuse from others.  His “Great Sadness” is lost innocence and unhealed childhood wounds. Missy’s murder is Young’s own childhood loss.

My own “Great Sadness” is the cumulative experience of the deaths of my wife, son, and second marriage.  To many I have given the appearance of strength and joy.  But I now realize that was mostly a facade.  It was an unintentional deception.  I had built a Hollywood front around my “Great Sadness.”  It is easier to put up a facade than to deal with the real hurt and pain that goes so deep that you can’t imagine ever being rid of it.

The “Great Sadness” shapes how life is lived. It becomes our “closest friend;” it is darkness (Psalm 88:18).  I hid that darkness deep within me, giving no one–not even my wife–access to the hurt.  It hurt too much to speak. To acknowledge the pain would shatter my heroic self-image, my identity. The “Great Sadness” had become, like for Mack (p. 170), my identity as I lost joy in my inner soul and propped up the image of a superman, the Great Comforter. While I have no doubt God worked through me in ways beyond my imagination, I now know that I did not deal with my own grief in healthy ways.

It is easier to ignore, numb, or escape the feelings of grief than to live through them. Mack’s journey in The Shack is the story of dealing with his grief and anger that had become a barrier to his relationship with God and others.

My “Great Sadness” stalled my spiritual growth; honestly, it more than stalled it, it diminished it. And, in February of this year, I crashed.  I, like Mack, was “stuck” (p. 161) in emotionless silent grief and anger (p. 64).  It was an anger toward God as well as myself, perhaps mostly at myself. I was not living up to my own self-image; I was not honest with my own pain.  Instead of seeking spiritual nourishment, I performed. I thought that would do it. I thought excelling would heal the grief, soothe the anger, and get God and I on the same page. But my performance was an escape; it was a religious addiction, a workaholism. I was running from my grief rather than living through it.

I was, in fact, holding back the tears. The Shack has renewed my appreciation for tears. The waterfall present on the shack’s property is a symbol for tears (cf., p. 167).  Tears can “drain away” the pain and replace it with relief (173); they are God’s gift to cry “out all the darkness” (p. 236). And the Holy Spirit collects tears and they become part of the heart of God himself (p. 84). Indeed, God himself weeps with us and sheds his own tears (pp. 92, 95). God, as Young rightly pictures it, is “fully available to take [our] pain into [himself]” (p. 107). That is the empathetic, redemptive, atoning love of God.

Stuck in Grief and Anger

One of the more significant points The Shack raises is what fuels the “Great Sadness” when we are “stuck” in it.  Why does it continue? Why does it sink in deeper? Why does it become an identity rather than an experience endured? This is pursued in one of the more outstanding chapters in the book, “Here Come Da Judge.”

Sophia, the Wise One, invites Mack to sit in the judge’s chair.  Mack will decide how the world is run. The encounter is analogous to Job’s encounter with God in Job 38-42, and presumably Young wants us to draw the link.  As God questioned Job, so Sophia questions Mack. Though Mack sits as judge–because this is what he has presumed himself to be in his anger–Sophia questions him about love, blame, and punishment.

The dialogue reveals the underlying problem. Sadness is never intended to be an “identity.” When the “Great Sadness” becomes our identity rather than our just part of our experience, we get stuck in the Sadness instead of living through it. It becomes our “identity” because it consumes our experience, becomes the sum total of our experience, and colors everything we are, believe, know, and hope.

Then the point comes. Sophia, the personification of divine wisdom (like Proverbs 8), asks what “fuels” the Sadness. She answers her own question with a rhetorical one, “That God cannot be trusted?” (p. 161). Rather than trusted God is blamed. This is the critical juncture; this is the orienting choice humans make. This is how we get “stuck.”

We do not trust–at a deeply emotional level–that God is really good.  We do not trust–with our heart as much as our head–that God loves all his children.  We do not trust–with our gut–that God has a goal or purpose for his world, for my own children, for me. We doubt that every story participates in God’s Story and that his interest in everyone’s story (even Missy’s or Joshua’s) is good, loving, and meaningful.

As many, including the fictional Mack (p. 141) and the real Paul Young, I have lived much of my life in the past or the future. I am only now truly learning to live in the present, to live one day at a time. Living in the past or future is largely driven by fear–fear of past secrets, hurts and pains or future ones. It is the kind of living that Job confessed: “What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me” (Job 3:25). And, as Jesus tells Mack, “your imagination of the future, which is almost always dictated by fear of some kind, rarely, if ever, pictures me there with you” (142). The future without God is indeed bleak.

Jesus then said to Mack, “You try and play God, imagining the evil you fear becoming reality, and then you try and make plans and contingencies to avoid what you fear.”  Mack asked, “So why do I have so much fear in my life?”  “Because you don’t believe,” Jesus responded.  “To the degree that those fears have a place in your life,” Jesus continued, “you neither believe I am good nor know deep in your heart that I love you” (p. 142).

Exactly! I have said it before, written it (Yet Will I Trust Him), and knew it in my head, but it had not sunken deep into my heart, into my emotional being. The baggage of my life, for the most part, prevented God’s love from fully saturating my soul.

This, for me, has been the value of The Shack.  It has given me powerful emotional imagery to explore my grief, recognize my own “shack,” embrace the theological and emotional truth of God’s love at a new level, and see beyond the Sadness.  Emotional, of course, does not mean irrational or atheological, but it does mean that God has used this story to connect me more fully, more deeply with his Story.

The Garden

The Garden that sits beside the shack in Mack’s vision is important.  The garden is Mack’s own heart, his soul. It is a chaotic mess but beautiful, and more importantly, tended by the Holy Spirit. Indeed, speaking for the Triune community, the Spirit assures Mack that it is also “our garden” (p. 232). There is hope for the mess because God works in this garden; it is his garden too! To God it is not a mess but a fractal. It has meaning, significance, beauty, and purpose.

Amidst the “chaos in color” (p. 128), there is a “wound in the garden” (131). It is Mack’s pain, his “Great Sadness.” Young offers a wonderful picture of somatic and psychodramatic endurance of grief. Papa leads Mack to the body of his daughter, Mack weeps for her, and carrys her back to the garden for burial. Mack buries her in his heart–in ground prepared by the Spirit, with a casket made by Jesus, and in the loving embrace of the Father. It is a pure act of love. With their presence, the garden blossoms with the beauty of Missy’s life and God’s heart.

Mack’s encounter with the Triune God has given him perspective. He sees his life as a garden tended by God.  Through his story-telling and his own recovery, Young is able to “become the child he never was allowed to be” and abide “in simple trust and wonder” (pp. 246-47).  The more his woundedness heals, the more intimtate he becomes with God and with others. And he can even see the wounds as part of the process. The journey, in the judgment of The Shack, is worth it just as Jesus’ own journey through his Great Sadness was worth it (pp. 103, 125).

Mack–Paul Young, and I would add myself–now progressively though imperfectly embrace “even the darker shades of life as a part of some incredibly rich and profound tapestry; crafted masterfully by invisible hands of love” (p. 248).

“I believe, Lord; help my unbelief.”

[My book on the Shack is now available on Kindle.]

“Triune Shine”….what is that?  Ok, I admit it is my own invention.  But hear me out, ok?

Many who have attended a 12-Step group for any length of time have heard about the “shine.”  It might be an “AA shine,” or an SA, NA, OA, WA, etc.  The “shine” is the glow of recovery, and it stands in stark contrast with the first time that someone attended a meeting. In their first meeting, addicts enter despondent, shamed, and hopeless. They attend a meeting as a last gasp of sanity.  Through recovery–working the steps which includes confession and spiritual transformation–they begin to “shine” with hope, joy and contentment.

I have turned the phrase on its head.  When I say “triune shine,” I do not mean that the Trinity has gone through recovery.  I hope that is obvious.  🙂  I mean the opposite.  An encounter with the Triune God leaves a shine on our faces. It is the afterglow of meeting God at our shacks.

Shine, of course, is what shacks need. Our shacks are broken, empty, dark, and hidden. They need healing, filling, light and openness. When our true selves–our shacks–encounter the healing life and light of God in authentic relationship, we are transformed into the beautiful images of God–beautiful homes. Shacks become mansions when we meet God in the circle of love. Our shacks get a triune shine and become mansions.

This is Mack’s vision of God, of course.  Mack, contemplating suicide, cries himself to sleep on the floor of the shack filled with anger, grief, and pain. This darkness was Mack’s closest friend (much like Psalm 88:18); the Great Sadness was all too familiar to him (p. 79).

Upon waking, Mack left the shack only to turn around to see it transformed into a beautiful log cabin with a garden and manicured lake. Hearing laughter from the cabin, Mack cautiously approached its front door (p. 81).

This is a critical moment in the book; and it is a critical moment in our lives.  Can we really believe that our shacks can become mansions?  Can we really believe that our pain, hurt, and shame can be transformed into joy, beauty, and honor?  I think it is almost impossible to believe that; it certainly seems impossible.

My own experience tells me it is well nigh impossible to believe that in the midst of the pain itself. The pain is a fog that blinds us. As Papa says to Mack, “When all you can see is your pain, perhaps then you lose sight of me” (p. 96). Shame accuses us, and we feel the guilt and burden of our sin and addictions. I understand how impossible it is to believe; I’ve been there.  The shack is hopeless; the fog is real; the soul is broken.

Addicts–and all who know themselves as sinners, and sin is itself an addiction–feel they deserve the shack. It is where they belong. They are unworthy of God’s love; they are a pile of “s**t.” As Mack thought to himself, while “God might really love” Nan, that is understandable because “she wasn’t a screw-up like him” (p. 66). Addicts, shamed by their compulsions and powerless before them, do not believe they are “good” people. Surely, they think, God could not love people like them.

So, Mack, standing on the front porch of the log cabin, is ready to knock on the door.  He is angry (“energized by his ire”), but he also feels like a screw-up. He does not know what to expect.  What will he find behind the door? He knows God invited him to the shack, but now the shack looks like a summer house, there is laughter inside, and he wonders how there can be laughter in a world where Missy is absent.

I think the story, at this point, invites us to contemplate our own vision and understanding of God.  When we knock on the door, who is this God that opens it?  When God opens the door to a shamed, guilt-ridden, hopeless but complusively driven addict, how does he greet him? Will God berate us for our addiction? Will he continue the shame by shaking his finger at him and rebuking him?  Will God’s face confirm our belief that God is disappointed with us?  Will God show his disgust?

This is why I think this is a critical point in the parable.  It says something about us and about whom we believe God to be.  Will we knock? Will we seek his face?  And what will God do? How will he receive us?

Before Mack can even knock, God–in the theopany of a gregarious African American woman–engulfs him in his/her love with a bear hug that lifts him off the ground and spins him “around like a little child.” God greets Mack as “a long-lost and deeply-loved relative” (p. 82).

No disappointment. No shaming.  No hesitation.  No rebuffing. No reminders of the past.  No anger.  Instead…an exhilarting, loving, enthusiastic “my, my, my how do I love you!” (p. 83).

When we encounter God, how will he receive us?  Will he check his list of rights and wrongs? Will he evaluate us on a point system of some kind? Will he look over our record and shake his head with frustration and disappointment? I think not. Young’s parable has it right.

Intellectually and theologically I get it. I really do think God’s reception of Mack in the story is the way it is. But, along with Mack, it is emotionally difficult to receive it and believe it.

I grew up with an angry God for the most part, at least I heard it that way.  He was the God of the Old Testament who zapped Uzzah for touching the ark, killed Nadab and Abihu over something as small as where they got the fire for the altar, and threw his original creation out of the garden over a piece of fruit.  My simplistic hearing of those stories fired my fear of a God who was always looking for my mistakes and ready to give me what I deserve. He was, in my young imagination, Zeus ready to fling thunderbolts at those who displeased him.

I also grew up with a God whose approval I sought, at least I heard it that way. The little boy in me saw God as one to please in order to gain his approval. I performed to please this God; I sought his applause and his delight. If I could do enough, then he would be pleased with me.  If I did it right, he would delight in me.  It was a kind of religious perfectionism. Add that with workaholism, and you have one tired dude running all over the world looking for Papa’s approval. That was (is?) me.

This is the joy of the emotional picture that Young’s parable offers. I already knew it intellectually, but emotionally I need to feel it in my gut. I needed to know–to know in ways that are not mere cognition but reach deep within my soul, my shack–that God delights in me and yearns to give me a big ole’ bear hug. I needed to know that God was “especially fond” of even me even when my performance is not “good enough.”  I need to feel deep down within me that God already delights in me and that I don’t need to seek his approval. Young’s thrilling picture of Mack’s encounter with God provides an image–a relational picture–that I can hang my hat on emotionally.

Even more….God is already present in my shack waiting for me to show up, waiting for me to be my true self. When I come to my shack, and when you go to yours, God is already there. He is waiting to renew, sustain, enjoy and pursue relationship with us. We find ourselves, even in the shack, right where we were designed to be–in the center of God’s circle of relational, triune love (p. 111).

Ultimately, Mack leaves the shack with a “Triune shine.” He comes to know that all his “best treasures are now hidden in” the Triune God rather than in his little tin box with Missy’s picture (p. 236).  His encounter with the Triune God has filled his emptiness and his nightmares have now become colorful, vibrant dreams.

The “Triune Shine” is what I call that deep recognition that I am loved by the Father, filled with his Spirit, and live in the life of the Son. The “Triune Shine” is the joy of living in a circle of relationship with Papa, Jesus, and Sarayu.

When the shack is filled with God and we choose to embrace that relationship, our shacks become log cabins (maybe even mansions 🙂 ).

Yet, we know that is a long journey. It is not a quick fix. But it is a divine promise.

P.S. As far as the controversial metaphors and ideas about the Trinity in The Shack, I will leave those for another day and another post. I think the point above is much more important than precision in our Trinitarian theology…and who can be truly precise about that anyway?!  🙂

[My book on the Shack is now available on Kindle.]

“Mackenzie,

It’s been a while. I’ve missed you.

I’ll be at the shack next weekend if you want to get together there.

–Papa”

God invited Mack to the shack (p. 16). His first gut feeling was nausea but it quickly turned to anger. He had always tried to avoid thinking about the shack; he never went to the shack. He insulated himself from the shack in every way.

The shack created turmoil in the pit of Mack’s stomach. The shack was a dead and empty place; it had a twisted, evil face. It was a metaphor for emptiness, unanswered questions, and far-flung accusations against God (p. 77).

Yet, God wants to meet Mack at the shack.

“Why the shack–the icon of his deepest pain?,” Mack rages in his inner thoughts. “Certainly God would have better places to meet him?” (p. 65).

The shack is Mack’s deepest pain. The shack, metaphorically, is his own woundedness, his hurt.

We each have our own shack.

The shack is Young’s metaphor for his hidden, wounded self.  It is his real self; the one he hides behind a facade as if his life were a beautiful, well-kept house. But the shack is actually Young’s soul. It is something which he and others built, just as we build our own shacks through our own experiences and choices, joys and tragedies. William P. Young, the author, is Mackenzie Allen Phillips, the main character in the story.

Young’s soul is pictured in The Shack as a shack. The story is fictional, but true.  It is a modern parable.  It is the story of a soul–wounded, filled with hidden secrets, addictions, and lies. In this story Young’s true soul meets God.

Young has told his story in several settings, but the most powerful telling I have found on the internet is to a small group in the home of a friend. His personal story is worth 75 minutes of your time.

He was a preacher/missionary kid in New Guinea in early childhood.  Without cultural identity, afraid of his angry father, sexually abused by other children, he himself became a predator of sorts. He became a religion addict–a perfectionistic performer, and ultimately sexual sin was revealed while a minister of the gospel.

The years of guilt and shame took its toll on Paul. He built his own shack where the shame could reside, where the woundedness could hide. He attempted to win God’s approval just like he attempted to earn his own father’s approval. He went to Bible College, then to seminary, and then into the ministry.

But he lived filled with shame. On the outside, it looked like his house was in order, neatly kept as God’s good minister. His perfectionistic attempts at performance hid the shame as he attempted to achieve some kind of self-worth. Maybe God would forgive him, love him, and accept him if he worked hard to compensate for the sin and shame which he found unable to control. To do this, he had to stuff and numb his feelings. He did not know how to feel. He was empty on the inside except for anger and shame, and he was mostly angry at himself.

He had built a shack surrounded by a Hollywood front. The front was a lie; the shack was the truth. But he could not speak the truth because it was too shameful.

The Shack is Young’s parable about how God met him at his shack and rocked his world. God invited him to the shack. God met him in his pain and shame–not to judge it, but to heal it. God does not invite us to the shack to shame us or express his disappointment; he invites us to experience his mercy and love. He invites us to let us know that he is “especially fond” of us.

The Shack invites us to enter into this metaphorical journey to the soul. Perhaps, and it is Paul’s prayer, that through this story we will hear God’s invitation to meet him at our own shacks and discover him anew.

The last paragraph of the book–the last paragraph of the Acknowledgements in the back (p. 252 if it were numbered)–expresses this hope and reveals the purpose of the parable itself for readers beyond his own children for whom he originally wrote the piece.

Most of us have our own grief, broken dreams and damaged hearts, each of us with our unique losses, our own ‘shack’. I pray that you will find the same grace there that I did, and the abiding presence of Papa, Jesus and Sarayu will fill up your inside emptiness with joy unspeakable and fully of glory.

William P. Young