It's Okay

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It is from the depths of brokenness that you start to truly be able to see. How could the blind man worship the Lord for receiving his sight if he had not first been born blind and struggled through a world of darkness? I must ponder this a moment--or an eternity. The question is often posed--how could a good God allow bad things to happen? I toyed with answers when I was a little younger and a little more hot-headed--less tempered by life happening to me. I have shoved all of those answers aside however to focus on something else--something perhaps less "theological", but more keyed in on the actual point of the Gospel, which is the perspective-altering person of Christ Himself. I can argue myself hoarse and still not prove my point, yet Christ came and He did not argue--He was. His whole life was a demonstration of His character--of love, of holiness, of sacrifice, of lovingkindness, of mercy, of justice... And all of His life was aimed toward one thing--death. He stepped in time with brokenness, was one who knew darkness well, and became the Man of All Sorrows, weeping for the loss of Lazarus, weeping in the garden for the pain (yet setting His eyes on the joy) set before Him. 

Why does God allow it? A murdered Son? An innocent Lamb led to the slaughter? Perfection met with reproach? 

Can we, for once, be stunned to silence? Not to deny the pain that we experience--for we know it deeply, and scars etch our hearts and engrave our souls. But perhaps the brokenness causes us to finally see like the once-blind man--not men as trees, walking, but Christ Himself, broken beyond belief upon the cross--for what? Because He so loved. In the breaking of His body He gave thanks and gave it to His disciples. He did not begrudge them for taking of it because He freely gave it. So if we could only look beyond that shattered soul of ours--to see more than broken pieces; to see the way that they glitter in the light of the Son because He is making all things new. What if we took our bodies--because we are, after all, one Body, and that is Christ's--and broke them and gave thanks, and then gave. The human tendency is to respond to brokenness by pouring inward, by nursing our wounds, by waiting until we're "whole" again before we reach outward. Yet Christ, even upon the Cross, dying, looked out and said to John, "Behold your mother," and to Mary, "Behold your son." John, beloved disciple, take care of my mother. Mary, take care of my friend. 

So. What if God allows brokenness not because He's powerless to disallow it, not because He's cruel, not because He doesn't care--what if He allows it because it helps us to know better the depth of love--true love, sacrificial love, the greatest love which is to lay down your life? What if He is simply breaking our shell so that He may enter in and renew all of the decaying soul that we are afraid of? What if the rain makes the trees grow deep roots? And if that is the case, then every broken heart has more meaning than a seed, planted in the soil. 

I will wait and I will watch for the Spring.