Steve Holmes wrestles with God

God

by Steve Holmes

I think about God.

I think about life.

I think about love.

I think about goodness so good it is terrifying.

I think about truth so pure it hurts.

I think about God.

I think about the light in which I see all reality - about the light in which I see my own life.

I think about the one sure foundation, on which the reality of every other truth, every other existence, depends utterly.

I think about the irrepressible, instinctive joy of a baby co-existing with the deep, measured wisdom of the ages.

I think about God.

I don't think much about power. 'Power' is too small a word. 'Omnipotence' is too cold a word. 'Love as strong as death’ might start to get close.

I don't think much about theology (although I've written a bit on that subject) Theology teaches us to chasten our speech, that we do not speak wrongly. This is important - speaking wrongly of God is bad - but theology is very limited.

I think about God.

I think about Jesus - a lot.

I think about justice so clear that when faced with someone caught in the very act, it pauses, writes in the sand, and refuses to condemn.

I think about truth so honest it refuses almost every question, answering not the question that was asked, but the question behind the question behind that one.

I think about majesty so exalted it can only truly be known when it kneels to wash our feet.

I think about culture subverted. And about honesty commended. And about humility rewarded. And about failure forgiven. And about vocation granted.

I think about God.

I think about love.

And about a garden.

And about a trial.

And about a silence.

And about a cross.

I think about the death of death, about the judging of judgement, about the cursing of the curse, about life made more lively, about joy learning to rejoice, ...

I think about God.

I think about a tomb whose gaping emptiness drives a joyful, ecstatic hole through every imagined human worldview (including, of course, my own).

I think about God.

I think about an exaltation. And about a pouring-out of the Spirit. And about a promise of presence. And about a return one day. And about a future coming Kingdom, when the Will done in heaven will be done on earth.

I think about God.

I think about prayer. And about worship. And about reading the Bible. And about preaching.

(I don't think much about the sacraments, and I question myself whether I should think more.)

I do think about those times when a word from the Scripture, or a line in a sermon, cut through my life like a laser through butter.

(Or at least like I imagine a laser would cut through butter – I’d love to do the experiment to check...)

I think about the preacher who did not know me, but who, as he prayed for me and prophesied over me, spoke words that performed high-precision keyhole surgery on my soul, exactly naming and addressing my deepest desires and unadmitted fears.

I think about being lifted in worshipping with thousands of others in charismatic celebration. And about finding peace in prayer meetings of two or three – or ten or fifteen. And about the strength and joy and honesty I am enabled to discover in both places.

More than these, though, I think about the sense of rightness and peace that comes always - sometimes strong, sometimes an echo of an echo, but always there somewhere - when I open my life to God in worship, prayer, or study.

I think about God.

I think about those times when preaching, remembered and longed for, when the words seem effortless, their power evident, when you can hear the silence of the congregation you preach to and know that, in that moment, your words have become God's instruments in healing the lives of others.

I think about offering the invitation, and that buzz of electricity I sometimes feel in my skin when the Spirit is at work through me, and about the astonishment and joy of seeing one, or ten, or two hundred, come forward in response.

I think about that paradoxical, but right, deep sense of humility you feel when you truly know that God has been at work through your ministry.

And I think about those moments, much more common, when I sit down deflated after preaching, knowing I have failed through my own fault, when someone then hesitantly asks for a word and I discover that my broken, halting, failure can and has become God's instrument, and as powerful as when the words soar.

I think about God.

I think about people whose names and hearts and stories I know. I think that here I step onto holy ground.

I think about the woman who has suffered such horrendous abuse that I cannot bear to describe it, who now bubbles with joy as she stands with steely righteousness against all who would abuse. I think about the healing and calling in her life, and I think about God.

I think about the man who has poured out his life with seemingly no result, and who after years, decades, still cheerfully and seriously gives each next day to the same cause, trusting in the goodness of God that his service is never wasted. I think about the faithfulness and commitment in his life, and I think about God.

I think about the woman who God called, who the church refused, who found a way to serve and to forgive the hurt, who now gives her life unstintingly to a community that once mocked her calling. I think about the grace and nobility in her life, and I think about God.

(And, yes, I think about the woman who God has called, whose church still refuses, whose vocation burns like a fire within her bones, but finds no release.)

I think about gay people and others who have heard that somehow their desires or choices have put them forever beyond the reach of God’s love. And I think about those who have taught such blasphemies. And I think about an infinite love that encompasses both. And I think about God.

I think about those who have rejoiced in violence, or pursued economic success, who may have heard from my preaching that they have put themselves forever beyond the reach of God’s love. I think about the blasphemies I have taught. And I think about an infinite love that encompasses both.

I think about God.

I think about eager people, and broken people, and hurting people, and driven people. I think about needs never spoken and desires long-repressed. I think about transformations I have seen, and transformations I long to see. And I think about God.

I think about silent screams. I think about broken dreams. And I think about God.

I think about Syria. And I think about Iraq. And I think about nameless countries whose tragedies have not yet reached my TV screen.

I think about the injustice of government policy, and the powerlessness of people like me to change it. I think about those today using the foodbank, or despairing of paying the bedroom tax, or facing deportation.

And I think about God.

I think about love that cannot be conquered.

I think about justice that will not be denied.

I think about joy that can never be repressed.

I think about an incomprehensible future when justice and joy will reign.

I think about the passionate kiss of righteousness and peace.

I think about God.

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Steve Holmes is a Baptist minister and Senior Lecturer in Systematic Theology at St Andrew's University