The Limits of My Submission

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So I started reading this little book by Erwin McManus called the Barbarian Way. I'm not sure what I think of it yet, but it did get me thinking about something. He tells the story of John the Baptist questioning whether Jesus was the Christ while in prison. He says that John's problem here is he expects that the man who could make the blind see, the lame walk and the dead return to life could also get him out of prison. John was Jesus' earliest believer, his cousin, and apparently the greatest human being in history. If there was one person on earth that Jesus might go out of his way to help, you'd think it would be John. If there was one person that Jesus would have benefited from helping (considering everything he'd done for him so far), you'd think it would be John. John lived in the scorching desert for Jesus. He ate bugs and wore gross clothes for Jesus. He fearlessly stood up to the religious and political elite, and was in prison at that moment as a direct result of his uncompromising zeal for truth and morality. And yet at that moment it seemed that Jesus couldn't be bothered to help John out. Jesus didn't even contact him - John had to send his disciples to ask Jesus what was going on. John had reason to be miffed. McManus points out that it wasn't the absence of miracles that caused John to doubt, it was the fact that the one who performed so many other miracles seemed unwilling to provide a miracle for John. Jesus doesn't make it easy for John either, in fact he almost seems to be rubbing it in:

"Jesus replied, 'Go back and report to John what you hear and see: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is preached to the poor. Blessed is the man who does not fall away on account of me.'"

Jesus is effectively saying "Ya John, I'm doing a lot of miracles out here, and yet none are coming your way. But don't abandon me just because I've abandoned you." That's got to be tough to hear.

I've said before that I'm not comfortable making promises about what will happen to people who become Christians. I can tell you nothing about how God operates, except that he is unpredictable. I can tell you nothing about what your life as a Christian might be like, except that it won't be like anyone else's. I'm not convinced that any of the promises in the Bible translate into real, bankable guarantees for today. I'm not convinced that God wants to save you from a crappy life, monotony, or depression, or that he will to give you hope, strength or joy. But I've always clung to the belief that whatever God does to me, even if it seems unfair, unreasonable or counterproductive, is ultimately for my good. My good. Suddenly I'm wondering if I've been wrong.

I've always known it's not about me, but what if I'm not even important? What if God's got a plan, and I'm a part of that, but it has nothing whatsoever to do with me being blessed in any way? What if I'm collateral damage? What if God's plan involves dragging me through a whole lot of shit - not for my ultimate betterment, but as a means to a greater end? Paul went through shit for Jesus and found contentment. John went through shit for Jesus and died alone and confused.

I'm not saying that my life will suck, or even that my life sucks right now. But what if it's God's plan for my life to suck? I guess what I'm asking is what am I willing to let God do to me? I've told God countless times to do what he must to make me what he wants me to be. (Not that I'm always ok with what happens to me after I pray that.) But there's a big difference between praying "God, do to me what you need to to make me awesome" and praying "God, do to me what you need to to accomplish your will". I've always assumed (or hoped) that at the end of my life I'll be able to look back and say, "That was rough, but I'm glad God put me through what he did because it made me a better person." Now I'm just imagining saying, "That was rough. God's taken everything from me, and even now it's all I can do to not fall away."

One of my all-time favorite songs is Refiner's Fire. I love that imagery: Purify my heart. Refiner's fire, my heart's one desire is to be holy. Every time I sing that song I think about how I'm asking God to burn away my sin in a furnace, and how painful that would be, but how it would be so worth it to be holy. I imagine myself as one of those old men in the church who everyone's a little bit in awe of because of what they've done for God. I imagine myself being set apart for God, doing his will, maybe even feeling close to him. (Dreams die hard.) It's never occurred to me that doing God's will might mean unrelenting, undulled anguish, and that the ultimate result might not be me becoming an amazing man of God, but me dying a friendless failure - broken, bewildered and alone. Am I willing to give my life to God not for my own betterment or purification, but merely to play a brutal bit-part in plan I'll never know? Am I willing to have everything taken from me by a God I'll never see or hear, at his discretion, without understanding, without joy or hope, only pressing on, following my convictions and steadfastly refusing to fall away?

No. I'm not willing. God is my lord, my purpose, and my obsession, but there are limits to what I am willing to do for him. I can't pray that God take total and unqualified control over my life because I'd be praying a lie. But maybe I can pray that he take me to a place where I can pray that prayer.