Human

Originally posted in my old newsletter, “It’s Hard Being Human,” on November 6th, 2021

“It is finished,” Jesus said, hanging on a cross as His body gave out, dripping with blood and exhaustion, His spirit committed to the Father.

It is finished.

Tetelestai — a Greek accounting term for “paid in full.”

“It is paid in full.”

Our debt to sin, fulfilled. This work of Christ, finished. 

Death has lost its sting, but death still happens here. And grief. We are still born with a natural bent. 

It is finished. No more condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

Why can’t this mean more? 

Forgive me, God. Am I speaking blasphemy?

Do we only get to Sunday by dying? Our bodies slowly rotting, failing, inappropriate and unclean containers for our wailing souls.

My bones cry and groan for the way it’s supposed to be. There is a deep well of longing in my chest where I am constantly aware of a hand reaching out, trying endlessly to grab onto heaven — but heaven is not here yet. Heaven comes on Sunday.

Saturday is for waiting — gruesome, grievous waiting, a near endless middle. 

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” You said. 
Blessings on those who are faced with their depravity — the kingdom is for you.

What is this mystery, O Lord, that you would do it this way? We live in one, big middle, made up of smaller beginnings, and middles, and endings — with a groaning hope in our beings for the day when You will finish what You started and do so with Your promised victory. 

Forgive us, O God, for preaching a Gospel that differed from what You gave us — a Gospel that taught us that pain and suffering are not for the ones who belong to You, that we just need to have more faith. My, how we deceived ourselves.

Forgive us, O God, for burying what You gave us to steward — repressing and exiling the parts of ourselves that You long to touch, redeem, make new and Yours; suppressing Your life in us that moves vitality, passion, grief, and love through our bodies to touch the ends of the earth. 

Forgive us, O God, for expecting more when You said that manna from heaven is enough, that Your grace is sufficient, that You are our portion, forever. 

Remember, we are still bent. And You left us this way. I say this with much reverence and a conflicted tension in my soul — why we’re still sinners, our bodies decaying and dying after You died and rose and defeated the power of sin and death, I do not know. 

Maybe it’s Your mercy, reminding us that we still need You, reminding us that we are still needy. 

And maybe without our bent, we’d be tempted to become our own gods again, and we’d forget that no, we are still very much human. 

Lead me in hope and humility, Lord, and “bind my wandering heart to Thee,” for You know I am prone to forget.