Sacrifice, the Ultimate Offering of Grace

...not to be forgotten: husband/father at whom we all smile!
 

Family.

The zone of life where we learn much about joy and about sacrifice especially where these relate to our hearts' deepest loves. We understand intellectually ideas like the death and resurrection of Christ for the sake of restoring our union with Him, but sometimes a human story helps us identify more deeply with that pinnacle moment in the history of the Church, making it more accessible for us on a human-heart level.

This is just such a story. It comes from the "Author Q & A Section" of Chris Cleave's novel, Little Bee.

In doing research for the book, did you come across any facts or stories of particular importance to you that did not make it into the final draft?

Yes, here's the true story that inspired me to write Little Bee. In 2011, an Angolan man named Manuel Bravo fled to England and claimed asylum on the grounds that he and his family would be persecuted and killed if they were returned to Angola. He lived in a state of uncertainty  for four years pending a decision on his application. Then, without warning, in September 2005, Manuel Bravo and his thirteen-year-old son were seized in a dawn raid and interred at an Immigration Removal Centre in southern England. They were told that they would be forcibly deported to Angola the next morning. That night, Manuel Bravo took his own life by hanging himself in a stairwell. His son was awakened in his cell and told the news. What had happened was that Manuel Bravo, aware of a rule under which unaccompanied minors cannot be deported from the UK, had taken his own life in order to save the life of his son. His last words to his child were: "Be brave. Work hard. Do well at school."

As Holy Week approaches, we might find that considering a contemporary story of sacrifice helps refresh the age-old story of the ultimate sacrifice Christ made for us. When we revisit The Story not so much in the "blockbuster" big screen form, not in the children's church cartoon form, but in the "Whoa! Can I relate to this at all?" form, then we begin to touch the real mystery of transformation offered to us through this great act of sacrifice. Not only might we--through near first-hand identifiers--turn and attempt to understand our own cross-bearing as Christ-followers, but we might also reflect afresh on our place on the other side of the equation: as recipients of that poignant, ultimate sacrifice. We might ponder anew our receptiveness to such a gift: when everything that can be poured out is poured out until there is nothing left but faith, hope and love to explain the action.

Can I accept something so wildly wonderful? Can I really accept it? Does every righteous thing I do now spring from gratitude for this life that was given to me through that sacrifice? Or, are my efforts rather an attempt to diminish its magnitude, bringing it down to a level that is on the top edge of comprehendible for me? Am I trying to prove--after the fact--that I was worth it after all. Just look at me now, if you doubt!

No. In The Story, we, too, are merely refugees in grave danger; and we have only that to claim as our stature in "deserving" the ultimate sacrifice. We are the creation of the Father, and this alone explains His deep desire to not only plant but also preserve life in us. May we embrace the beauty of that grace more fully with every passing Easter.

(excerpt from Christ Cleave's Little Bee, Simon and Schuster publishers, New York, NY.)

I Fast Twice a Week

So says the Pharisee when he catalogs his list of noteworthy acts of dedication as he prays alongside the less respectable tax collector. The parable of him told in Luke 18:9-14 reminds me of a modern day joke:

A grandma and her grandson are at the beach.
He's playing in the water, she is standing on the shore not wanting to get her feet wet, when all of a sudden, a huge wave appears from nowhere and crashes directly onto the spot where her grandson was wading.
The water recedes and the boy is no longer there, he had been swept away.
The grandma holds her hands to the sky, screams and cries: Lord, my ...GOD, how could you? Haven't I been a wonderful grandmother? Haven't I been a wonderful mother? Haven't I kept a kosher home? Haven't I given to charity? Haven't I lit candles every Friday night? Haven't I tried my very best to live a life that you would be proud of?
A voice booms from the sky, "All right already!"
A moment later another huge wave appears out of nowhere and crashes on the beach.
As the water recedes, the boy is standing there. He is smiling and splashing around as if nothing had ever happened.
The voice booms again. "I have returned your grandson. Are you satisfied?"
She responds, "He had a hat."

(thanks, LeLane, for the story.)

 

If we make Lent about the fasting, we miss the point. Lent should be more like taking a pumice stone to the places in our souls where our gratitude has gone callous.  It should be like draining the fluid of self-exaltation off the joint of spiritual gifting when that joint gets too bloated to function properly.

 

For me, this year, Lent takes the form of giving up red meat. It's never taken that form before and may never again because the reason for the choice is full of God's timely intentionality, my own listening heart and the symbolism the very world carries about the mysterious and invisible nature of God. It would be easy to be offended if someone dismissed my choice as being just me deciding to forego hamburgers for 40 days. But I am not offended because I know they do not see what I see in each meal. What I'm actually doing is making room for something better to fill the empty space that gets called a fast--and by that I don't mean the chicken or the fish or the "vegetarian option" that replaces the red meat.

 

Isaiah advises "not to hide yourself from your own flesh..." when he speaks of fasting, and that is exactly what Lent does for me. I stop hiding from myself, and I ask the hard questions. Forty days at this task is strenuous but doable. The question this year runs something like this:

Do I exalt myself--mostly without realizing it--in the name of...

...prayer?

...warfare?

...justice?

...peace?

...prosperity?

...diligence?

...honor?

...faithfulness?

...efficiency?

...sacrifice?

 

 

Each day, God might bring one of these before me to consider, making this list a quarter of the season sitting right here in this post. Most of the time the answer isn't a simple yes or no. It is more likely answered on a scale of 1 to 10.

 

I have to give the Pharisee in the parable a little credit because I see now how easy it is to hide from your own flesh when you've structured a life that appears so God-pleasing, a life that gets "results." 

 

 I wonder if the real test of whether I'm doing this thing that seems appalling when it appears in parables and jokes but looks so "right" in my own life would be to ask myself: how much is faith the measure of what keeps me walking in all those good things questioned above?  If it is not by faith alone that all these are mine, then I need (in some form or another) the blessings Lent brings me.