Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.
—MATTHEW 11:28–30
The prospect that I am a mocking, God-murdering fraud hangs heavy over me some days. Is the heroin-thin me I found in the cave real? Is it me? Is it my doppelganger? If so, how did we get here? How did the child who once knew—knew—the ever-abiding presence of God become so malnourished?
I do not recall a time before I knew the word theology. When I was a child, the adults tossed theologies around like frisbees in the back yard of our Texas ranch house. “What do you think about the theology of grace?” they’d say. Or, “How does that theology account for the spiritual gifts?” It was their best adult effort to sum up an infinite God, to harness the mystic wind. Sometimes, I’d take a break from riding my Big Wheel tricycle down the long drive and I’d listen to their banter. I did not understand them—not really—but I remember wanting to tell them that I could hear God whispering.
I can hear him in my memory still.
The mesquite grove was nestled just beyond that dried up cattle pond where I’d ruined my Sunday best, and on those Texas afternoons that had all the ambiance of a convection oven, the cluster of trees provided an arbor in the midday heat. I’d take my Star Wars action figures to their spacious shade, pretend that Han Solo had found himself stranded on some remote outpost in an unknown system of the galaxy. I’d play until I grew tired of making blaster sounds, and then I’d sit in the quiet.
I’d listen to the wind swishing through the grass in the field, to the rustle in the undergrass where a field mouse was scurrying for cover, spotted by a copperhead or hawk. I’d watch the cows in their slow motion stampede, the great herd of cud-chewers dumb to the world around them. In those moments when the wind cut across the stalks of dying field grass and thistle, when it whistled through the mesquite grove, I remember the acute presence of God.
I am with you. It was less of a hearing and more of a knowing.
I always wanted to share these experiences with the adults, wanted to tell them that I had my own theology. I never did, though. I supposed it might sound silly to the adults who used the big words.
Over the years, I’ve heard others wield their own big words; I’ve heard them explain away the notion of a God who whispers to children in the trees. I’ve heard them call these things syncretistic amalgams of Christianity and pantheism. “God is more systematized, more summed up and proper, and he speaks ever and only through his written word,” they say. I’m not sure what to say about that, layman that I am. I suppose I could say, “Go read Paul’s letter to the Romans” (Rom. 1:20). Instead, I’ll just tell you that I know what I heard when I was five, and we can leave it at that.
My mother was young in her faith when I was a child. She’d gone cold turkey off cold beer and marijuana at some point, and traded in her Aretha Franklin and Janice Joplin for Amy Grant and Sandi Patty. She carried a red guitar around with her to house-church meetings and vacation Bible school, and kept my ear inclined toward songs about the church and Jesus.
There’s a church on top of the hill; there’s a church on top of the hill;
There’s a church, there’s a church, there’s a church on top of the hill.
There’s a pew in the church on top of the hill;
There’s a pew in the church on top of the hill.
There’s a church, there’s a church, there’s a church
On top of the hill.
And so on and so forth, ad nauseum.
Mother never second-guessed my claim of hearing God in the mesquite trees, never scoffed at the idea that I sensed the presence of God from time to time in the night. I’m thankful for that. She fostered the notion that God was, and would be, a very real presence in my life.
I don’t reckon myself special. We were all born into this life hearing the Spirit, weren’t we? But most of us, if we’re honest, consider offing those mystic notions of God when it suits us. We second-guess the first whispers of God as we grow out of childhood, as we take notice of those ten-dollar theological words that others toss about. Some of us become enamored by the high-mindedness of it all, forget that talking about God is never quite as rich as talking with him. Some of us rationalize this whole God business as a psychological trick, embrace doubt, even if in secret. Some of us do both.
I consider this. Perhaps the child self is the better self, the more attuned self. Wasn’t it Jesus who noted that children have special insight (Luke 18:17)? Perhaps it’d do me good to climb a few trees and listen more for the wind these days.
Since Titus has fallen ill, it has been tough to turn to Scripture. The promises of resurrection, of life abundant—these have all seemed hollow. So when I’ve read Scripture at all, I’ve gone straight to the psalms of lament. There I’ve found comfort in the notion that David—man after God’s own heart—was often tortured and confused.
I know, though, that the tides are changing. If I read only the poetic lamentations of David, I’ll drive myself straight back to the bottle. So in the last few days, I’ve begun my morning by reading the Gospels. They bring me back to the simple days of faith, the easy season of Jesus stories I was taught as a child. I’m finding these stories to be a good place to anchor.
Unable to sleep, I woke this morning at 4:30 and made my way to my living-room chair. The house was silent before its usual rumbling into wakefulness, boys tumbling, breakfast sizzling. I read passages in small chunks, stopped and listened until my mind wandered, till I started thinking about the new case at work or holiday plans or about the time Jude got a pencil eraser stuck up his nose. This morning, I heard the distracting voice of the gin calling, calling. In this prone-to-wander place, I stopped. I recentered, and then I prayed.
“I am sorry, Lord. Help my unbelief.” I looked back down to the Bible in my lap, and I took another small helping of words to heart. Today, I read the bit about coming to Jesus, the easy-yoked Messiah.
“Come to me,” he said, “and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).
I’ve read these words countless times over the course of my life, but this morning, they came to life in a new way. These words were meant as a promise, I sense, the hope of a present and abiding glory. This assurance comes fast and without warning. Perhaps this is the still small voice speaking?
I consider this promised rest. Is it the rest in the knowledge that God will abide again like he did when I was a child? I have a sense, a knowing that yes, this is it. God will meet me somewhere in this process of drying out.
The evening is winding down, and Amber comes into the room, tea mug in hand. “Are you ready for bed?” she asks. “Yes,” I say.
I’ll go into the cave again, soon. Tonight, though, I’ll lie in bed with Amber. We’ll hold each other, and I’ll take intentional breaths—deep inhalations, slow exhalations. I’ll stare at the ceiling and remember the simple mesquite faith. Then, I’ll pray the prayer of the penitent once taught to me by a monastic brother: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Visit me, the weary underdog.