A MID-WEEK MESSAGE FROM PASTOR DARREN...



Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves have been comforted by God.

– 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Dear APUMC Family,

The hearts of many in our community are heavy once again this week following a vast array of trials, tragedies, and losses. The rippling effects of grief are felt far and wide. Admittedly, it is hard to write or speak about traumatic events while still living in the rawness of their aftermath. For many, the feeling of helplessness is as agonizing as it is authentic.    

As a means of grace, the scriptures draw us in to identify with the brokenness of the human family. Whenever we read these stories, I am regularly surprised by how honest and forthcoming the writers are about the situations of those involved. When people are wounded, they say so. When they are confused, afraid, or angry with God, they name it.  

Whether it’s David struggling with the questions of consequence, Job asking “why me, God?” or the women dragging themselves and their spices through the dark toward the tomb of Jesus, there are plenty of examples of those who are earnestly trying to figure out what to make of their own pain.  

In our worship services, we have been exploring the example of Jacob. Hopefully, by now we know enough of Jacob’s backstory for it to mean something. Even if you aren’t familiar with the book of Genesis, we still know his story, because most of us have lived some version of it ourselves. 

Jacob was known by many names. Trickster. Schemer. Heel grabber. Conniving little brother. Mama’s favorite. Escape artist.  Coward. Merited or not, that reputation was no doubt a burden for him to bear in his early years.

When you read the whole of Jacob’s story in Genesis, you notice that something happened to Jacob as he fled from Laban and heard that his brother Esau, whom he had defrauded, was coming to meet him with 400 armed men. Somehow the escapist grew up, and Jacob stopped running. He accepted that many times the only way out is the way through… that the good news comes from facing up to the bad news, not running from it. Jacob was coming to terms with reality, which led him to a new strategy for life altogether.

He was still the same person with the same tendencies. He still sent his family ahead of him bearing gifts to help soften up his brother. But he knew that his time for a reckoning had come. And that night, there alone by the River, he found that before he could deal with the problems in his family, he was going to first learn to deal with the truth about himself. And the only way that was going to happen was by learning to deal with God.

As one of my favorite preachers, John Claypool, once wrote about God in this story, “Here was the One who never forgets anything and from whom there is no escape. And for all the mystery of his midnight struggle, at least it became evident that Jacob was no longer an escapist; he moved from being an ‘evader’ to being a ‘facer upper,’ and the end result of this was that he was blessed.”

Something about that line feels like a punch in the gut. It sounds to me like a daunting proposition in the midst of such pain. When sorrows increase, it gets harder and harder to know what to do next. So what does it mean to be a ‘facer upper’ in the midst of unspeakable grief?

I would not presume to have the exact answer to that question. But I can point to those who have tried.

There is a book on the bottom shelf in the office that I generally try to evade, but which I will turn to now and again out of necessity.

It is called Lament For A Son. The author, Nicholas Wolterstorff, was the Professor of Philosophical Theology at Yale University. Wolterstorff wrote these reflections in 1975 after his son, Eric, died in a mountain climbing accident at the age of 25. As he described it, “though it is intensely personal, I decided to publish it in the hope that some of those who sit beside us on the mourning bench for children would find my words giving voice to their own honoring and grieving.”  

As the Apostle Paul said, there are times when we, in our weakness, do not know how to pray as we ought. But the Spirit, who intercedes for us, will do so, he says, with “groanings too deep for words” (Rom. 8:26). That’s what I find in this little book. I commend it to you. There is a sacred sigh on every page.

For example,

I am at an impasse, and you, O God, have brought me here. From my earliest days, I heard of you. From my earliest days, I believed in you.

I shared in the life of your people: in their prayers, in their work, in their songs, in their listening for your speech and in their watching for your presence. For me your yoke was easy.

On me your presence smiled.

Noon has darkened. As fast as she could say, "He's dead," the light dimmed. And where are you in this darkness? I learned to spy you in the light. Here in this darkness I cannot find you. If I had never looked for you, or looked but never found, I would not feel this pain of your absence. Or is it not your absence in which I dwell but your elusive troubling presence?

Will my eyes adjust to this darkness? Will I find you in the dark—not in the streaks of light which remain, but in the darkness? Has anyone ever found you there? Did they love what they saw? Did they see love? And are there songs for singing when the light has gone dim? The songs I learned were all of praise and thanksgiving and repentance. Or in the dark, is it best to wait in silence?

When handled with care, this kind of embodied testimony can be a rich resource for healing. This is faith seeking understanding. As the church, I believe our role is to stand with the wounded, practice solidarity, and cultivate communal spaces where truth-telling, confession, and mutual care can occur.

Last week, we heard Jacob declare God is in this place, and I never knew it! 

This week, we will witness Jacob wrestling, grappling, and limping with God in ways that ought to sound familiar to us all.

Mercy, Jesus.

Grace to You,

Darren