Oh, that you would burst from the heavens
and come down! How the mountains would quake in your presence! As fire causes
wood to burn and water to boil, your coming would make the nations tremble.
Then your enemies would learn the reason for your fame! When you came down long
ago, you did awesome deeds beyond our highest expectations. And oh, how the
mountains quaked! For since the world began, no ear has heard and no eye has
seen a God like you, who works for those who wait for him! You welcome those
who gladly do good, who follow godly ways. (Isaiah 64:1-5)
Some time ago, I
came across a story about a honeymoon disaster. Apparently, the newlyweds
arrived at the hotel in the wee hours with high hopes. They’d reserved a large
room with all of the romantic amenities. Unfortunately, that’s not what they
found. The room was pretty skimpy, actually. The tiny room had no view, no
flowers, a cramped bathroom and worst of all — no bed; just a foldout sofa with
a lumpy mattress and sagging springs. Obviously, it wasn’t what they’d hoped
for. Neither was the night. The next morning the sore-necked groom stormed down
to the manager’s desk and vented his anger. After patiently listening for a few
minutes, the clerk politely responded, “Did you open the door in your room?” The
groom admitted he hadn’t. So, he returned to the suite and opened the door that
he’d thought was a closet. And there, complete with fruit baskets and
chocolates, was a spacious bedroom.
Can’t you just
see them standing in the doorway of the room they’d overlooked? It would have
been so nice; a comfortable bed instead of a lumpy sofa; a curtain-framed
window rather than a blank wall; a fresh breeze in place of stuffy air; an
elaborate restroom, not a tight toilet. But they missed it. They were cramped,
cranky and uncomfortable while comfort was just a door away. They missed it
because they thought the door was a closet. “Why didn’t you try the door?”
I was asking myself as I read the article. You know, get curious!
Why did you just assume the door led nowhere? Good question. But not just for the
newlyweds. That question applies to everyone. Not just for the pair who thought
the room was all there was, but for all of us who feel cramped and packed in this
anteroom we call earth. It’s not what we’d hoped. It may have its moments, mind
you, but it’s simply not what we think it should be. Something inside of us
groans for more. We understand what Paul meant when he wrote: “We … groan
inwardly as we wait eagerly our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.”
(Romans 8:23)
“Groan.” That’s it,
isn’t it? An inward angst. The echo from the deep, dark cavern of the heart.
The sigh of the soul that says the world is out of joint. Something’s wrong. The
room is too cramped to breathe, the bed too stiff for rest and the walls too
bare for pleasure. And so we groan. It’s not that we don’t try, mind you. We do
our best with the room we have. We shuffle the furniture, we paint the walls, and
we turn down the lights. But there’s only so much we can do with the place. And
so we groan. And well we should, Paul argues, because we were not made for these
puny quarters. “For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened.” (2
Corinthians 5:6)
A “tent.” That’s
a pretty good metaphor, because I’ve spent some nights in tents. Nice for a vacation,
but not intended for daily use – flaps fly open; winter wind creeps in from underneath;
summer showers seep in from above; canvas gets raw, and tent stakes come loose.
We need something better, Paul argues. Something permanent. Something painless.
Something more than flesh and bone. And until we get it, we groan. And I know
that I’m not telling you anything new. You know the groan of the soul. But
maybe you need to know that it’s alright to groan. It’s permissible to yearn.
Longing is part of life. It’s only natural to long for home when on a journey. And
we aren’t home yet. We’re orphans at the gate of the orphanage, awaiting our
new parents. They aren’t here yet, but we know they’re coming – they wrote us a
letter. We haven’t seen them yet, but we know what they look like – they sent
us a picture. And we’re not acquainted with our new house yet, but we have a
hunch. It’s unbelievable – they sent a description.
And so what do
we do? Here, at the gate where the now-already meets the path of the not-yet,
what do we do? We groan. We long for the call to come home. But until he calls,
we wait. We stand on the porch of the orphanage and wait. And how do we wait?
With patient eagerness. “We are hoping for something we do not have yet, and we
are waiting for it patiently.” (Romans
8:25) “We wait eagerly for our adoption as sons.”
(Romans 8:23) Patient eagerness. Not so eager so as to lose our patience, and
not so patient so as to lose our eagerness. Unfortunately, we often tend to one
or the other.
On the one hand,
we grow so patient that we sleep. Our eyelids grow heavy. Our hearts get drowsy.
Our hope lapses. We snore at our posts. On the other hand, we are so eager that
we demand. We demand of this world what only the next world can give – no sickness;
no suffering; no struggle. We stomp our feet and shake our fists, forgetting that
it’s only in heaven that such peace is found. We must be patient, but not so
much that we don’t yearn. We must be eager, but not so much that we won’t wait.
In other words, we’d be wise to do what the newlyweds never did – open the
door. Stand in the entryway. Gaze in the chambers. Gasp at the beauty. And
wait. Wait for the groom to come and carry us, his bride, over the threshold.
The wise man,
Solomon, said “God has planted eternity in the hearts of men.” (Ecclesiastes
3:11) But it doesn’t take a wise person to know that
people long for more than this earth. When we see pain, we yearn. When we see
hunger, we question why. Senseless deaths. Endless tears. Needless loss. Where
do they come from? Where will they lead? Isn’t there more to life than death? We
try to quiet that tiny voice inside us. Like a parent hushing a child, we place
a finger over our puckered lips and ask for silence. “I’m too busy to talk now.” “I’m too busy to
think.” “I’m too busy to question.” And so we busy ourselves with
the task of staying busy.
But occasionally
we hear a song. And occasionally we let the song whisper to us that there’s something
more. There must be something more. And as long as we hear the song, we’re comforted.
As long as we are discontent, we will search. As long as we know there’s a
far-off country, we will have hope. The only ultimate disaster
that can befall us is to feel ourselves at home on earth. Because as long as we’re
aliens, we can’t forget our true homeland. It’s as if unhappiness
on earth cultivates a hunger for heaven. By gracing us with a deep
dissatisfaction, God holds our attention. The only tragedy, then, is to be
satisfied prematurely. To settle for earth. To be content in a strange land. To
intermarry with the Babylonians and forget Jerusalem, as the Israelites did.
We’re not happy
here because we’re not at home here. We’re not happy here because we’re not
supposed to be content here. We’re “like foreigners and strangers in this world.”
(1 Peter 2:11) For instance, take a fish and put him on the beach. Watch his
gills gasp and scales dry. Is he happy? No. So, how do you make him happy? Do
you cover him with a mountain of cash? Do you get him a beach chair and
sunglasses? Do you bring him a copy of Playfish magazine
and a martini? Do you outfit him in double-breasted fins and people-skinned
shoes? Of course not. Alright, then how do you make him happy? You put him back
in his element. You put him back in the water. He’ll never be happy on the
beach simply because he wasn’t made for the beach.
And we will
never be completely happy on earth simply because we weren’t made for earth. Granted,
we have our moments of joy. We catch glimpses of light. We may know moments, or
even days of peace. But they simply don’t compare with the happiness that lies
ahead. Rest on this earth is a false rest, so beware of those who urge you to
find happiness here because you won’t. Guard against the false teachers who
promise that joy is only a diet away, a marriage away, a job away, or a
transfer away. The prophet Jeremiah denounced people like this: “They tried to
heal my people’s serious injuries as if they were small wounds. They said,
‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ But really, it is not all right.” (Jer. 6:14)
And it won’t be alright until we get home.
Admittedly, we
have our moments like I said earlier. The newborn on our breast, the bride on
our arm, the sunshine on our back. But even those moments are simply slivers of
light breaking through heaven’s window. God flirts with us. He tantalizes us.
He romances us. Those moments are appetizers for the dish that’s to come. “No
one has ever imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.” (1 Cor.
2:9) Did you see that? Heaven is beyond our
imagination. We simply can’t envision it. At our most creative
moment, at our deepest thought, at our highest level, we still can’t fathom
eternity. Try this. Imagine a perfect world. Whatever that means to you,
imagine it. Does that mean peace? Then envision absolute tranquility. Does a
perfect world imply joy? Then create your highest happiness. Will a perfect
world have love? If so, ponder a place where love has no bounds. Whatever
heaven means to you, imagine it. Get it firmly fixed in your mind. Delight in
it. Dream about it. Long for it. And then smile as the Father reminds you, “No one has ever imagined what God has prepared
for those who love him.”
In other words,
anything you can imagine is inadequate. Anything anyone imagines is inadequate.
No one has come close. No one. Think of all the songs about heaven. All the
artists’ portrayals. All the lessons preached, poems written and chapters composed.
When it comes to describing heaven, we’re all happy failures. It’s beyond us. But
it’s also within us. So, until then, be realistic. Lower your expectations of
earth. This is not heaven, so don’t expect it to be. There’ll never be a
newscast without bad news, or a church without its wounded. There’ll never be a
new car, new wife, or new baby who can give you the joy your heart craves. Only
God can. And God will.
He owns the
orphanage.
Grace,
Randy
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