Unbroken: Finding Gratitude When All Hope Is Lost

I recently finished Unbroken, a fabulous biography recounting the life of Louie Zamperini. My alternative title for this blog is "I Hope They Don't Break Unbroken", because it's coming out in the theaters in a few months.

I hope they don't transform an awesome book into a mediocre movie.

What am I concerned that the movie get right? Principally, the fact that it was God, a personal God, the Christian God, who intervened at key moments in Louie's life. The book is a biography about Louie, but it also unabashedly touches on the theme that there is a bigger story afoot. That God is sovereign over Louie's life.

But to stick to one small vignette from the book that moved me, let me paint the scene...

Louie got sucked into World War II along with a few dozen million other young men, and had the misfortune of a crash at sea. Misfortune might be misstatement, however, because while many others died in countless ways, Louie lived. Out of a dozen men on the plane that crashed, he and two others survived. Three men dragged themselves out of the sea and onto a raft.

And began to float.

The story from there is long, and one man died eventually. But some weeks into their long journey on a short raft, Louie and his remaining companion Phil found themselves at the end of the end.

The book (excerpted here) describes it thus...

"One morning, they woke to a strange stillness... There was no wind... The ocean stretched out in all directions in glossy smoothness... It was an experience of transcendence. Phil watched the sky, whispering that it looked like a pearl. The water looked so solid that it seemed they could walk across it.

For a while they spoke, sharing their wonder. Then they fell into reverent silence. Their suffering was suspended. They weren't hungry or thirsty. They were unaware of the approach of death.

As he watched this beautiful still world, Louie played with a thought... Such beauty, he thought, was too perfect to have come about by mere chance. That day in the center of the Pacific was, to him, a gift crafted deliberately, compassionately, for him and Phil.

Joyful and grateful in the midst of slow dying, the two men bathed in that day until sunset brought it... to an end.

I find this passage particularly moving because I am so often filled with ingratitude. But here, lying under an unrelenting sun, two depleted skeletal men facing imminent death find ecstatic gratitude for a placid ocean scene.

As I reflect upon their experience, I'm challenged to the core. Do I see God's beauty around me?

I should.

I could stop there but the next scene begs mention.

A bit of backdrop must be noted here. You see, Louie wasn't even religious at this point. More to the point, I'm not even sure the author of this biography is either. She is certainly fair to his story, and recounts it well. But I wonder if she (or Louie) caught an interesting detail in what is recounted next.

The two men had just got through rejoicing in the midst of a great quietness. Now came the show.

"On the fortieth day, Louie was lying beside Phil... when he abruptly sat up. He could hear singing. He kept listening; it sounded like a choir. He nudged Phil and asked him if he heard anything. Phil said no. Louie looked up.

Above him, floating in a bright cloud, he saw human figures, silhouetted against the sky. He counted twenty-one of them. They were singing the sweetest song he had ever heard.

Phil was the one with the deep faith, and yet Louie is the one who saw the angels. Oh, the inscrutable decisions of God. To leave Phil without a ticket to an angelic visitation granted, seemingly, only to Louie.

This is the story as Louie and his biographer recounts it. What I can't help but wonder, however, is whether either of them appreciate the ironic timing of the angelic visit to the fortieth day at sea?

Give God a bit of credit for a sense of humor.

After all, isn't there a story in the Bible about a boat lost at sea for 40 days and 40 nights? With no land in sight? I'm wondering if God has some contractual obligation (beyond the rainbow promise) to send encouragement to those who find themselves at sea alone for that long.

Islamic State Gives Us A Fresh Taste Of Holocaust

I think the title of this post sums it up. But as I read an email on these evil people, I found myself struck by a feeling that gave me pause.

Denial.

Everyone knows these wicked people have beheaded several journalists. But there is a persistent rumor that they are also beheading Christians in large numbers, including and especially Christian children.

I found myself not wanting to believe that this part is true.

There are always a few hokey videos saying that this or that Islamic group is marrying grown men to very young girls. Regardless of the prevalence of this practice, the videos themselves are often hoax footage or totally misused footage having nothing to do with child marriage.

My desire today was to treat the rumors of child beheadings the same way. Exaggerations? Might they be? Surely?

And then it struck me how it must have been for Americans hearing rumors of Nazi atrocities. Surely they were trumped up? Yes?

Well, sometimes... No. I looked around a bit online and was not encouraged. Snopes took the rumors seriously and surprised me with an unsolicited photo: the body of a beheaded child.

To behead a child is to find the lowest rung of depravity. At least the Nazis didn't drape the name of God over their hellish deeds.

So here I sit. But what I need to be doing is praying. Is there more I can do? Not a lot. The problem is on the other side of the globe.

So as I write this, I feel rather helpless. My options are few.

Except to pray.

May I be faithful in this much.

And may God answer the prayers of his saints around this troubled globe.

Don't Die Defending Hills You Haven't Named

I got angry with someone yesterday. Someone I love very much. In the process of working through that situation, I came to a painful realization.

I was defending the wrong hill.

It was my own words that caught me out. My own bitter words. Things I myself said helped me to name the hill I was defending.

And once the hill had been named? I knew it was the wrong hill.

It was not a hill worth dying on.

My hill's name is not a secret I need to keep. It's this: I Am Smart.

That's an ugly name for a hill. Which is fitting, because the hill is ugly too.

So why do I defend this hill? Why is it a hill I'm willing to die on?

Because I have buried some of my dignity at the top of it.

Yes, my own words last night caught me out. Gave my hill a name. The name was always there. I just hadn't taken the time to find out what it was.

Bad hills are a dime a dozen. There's no shortage of bad hills to die on. I Am Smart is just one of many. I chose that hill because I'm pretty bright.

But there are many others to choose from, and most of us have buried our dignity at the top of the ones we find easiest to climb. There are patches of fresh dirt dotting the summits of other local peaks named I Am beautiful, I Am Powerful, I Am Athletic and I Am Rich, to name but a few.

(I Am Spiritual has a lot of freshly turned soil too. I know this to be true because I've been to the top of that hill myself. Several times.)

But hills that are easily ascended are also easily descended. Hills named after our talents and earthly attributes cannot be held indefinitely.

I need to stop and name the hills I'm defending. The ones I cannot keep.

And move on to a better hill with a better name. One worth dying on.

Golgotha means Skull. That doesn't sound real hot, but that, my friends, is the hill Jesus chose to die on. He bids us to follow him up the same hill.

No, death to self doesn't sounds very rosy or safe. But paradoxically, this is the road to life. And what's more, the dignity Jesus gives to us no one can ever take away. It's a dignity we don't have to hide, protect, or defend.

Golgotha is a hill worth dying on.

I Bet You Can't Catch Me

I know what it means when my little son says that.

"I bet you can't catch me!"

I know what that means. But first let's review what it doesn't mean.

It doesn't mean he thinks he's faster than me. He's not, and he knows it.

It also doesn't mean he thinks he's stronger than me... smarter than me... It doesn't mean any of that. He's not planning on winning this competition. Not by speed. Not by strength. Not by agility or cunning.

No. He expects to lose. In fact, he hopes to lose. That's his goal.

"I bet you can't catch me!"

Yes, I know what that means.

It means he yearns for intimacy with his father. And he wants it now. I know all this. And it makes me glad when he says those words.

Yes, these words are a playful invitation. But there is an underlying current of danger, too. You see, my son hopes very much to lose....

But he's also worried that he will win.

Winning means he is alone. Unloved. Unwanted.

Winning means he is not worth chasing.

So when my son throws up this challenge, a lot is at stake, and timing matters. I must respond like a surfer who just got word that the waves are perfect. I must drop everything and take up the chase. Now. Even a five minute delay will come with costs.

These opportunities don't happen every day. In fact, as I was writing this reflection, I took a break to see this same son off to the school bus. He was most definitely in no mood to be chased. Yesterday? Yes. Today? No.

But this reflection is not actually about my son. It's about my Father.

Our story begins on a sofa where I was reading a few pages each from two separate books earlier this morning.

I read first about the Azusa Street Revival from Richard Foster's Streams of Living Water. Wow, that would be awesome. To be touched by God's Holy Spirit as those people were. Reading about it just makes you hungry!

I read next from Philip Yancey's Reaching for the Invisible God:

"In the interest of full disclosure, I also must confess that I have little personal experience of the more dramatic manifestations of God’s presence. I have sat in prayer meetings in which everyone around me saw this as a grievous flaw and beseeched the Holy Spirit to come down and fill me."

I yearn for that Azusa Street experience. I want a powerful intimacy with God. Sadly, I've never seen Azusa Street. I live on Yancey Drive.

As I sat by myself on a sofa quietly reflecting once again on this reality, I got more than a little frustrated. I wanted to taunt God like an atheist.

"I dare you to douse me in the Spirit!"

As soon as this urge entered my mind, I hurriedly began to usher it out. That's usually what I do. After all, God is not someone you want to mock.

But this morning as I was ushering these frustrated challenges out the back door of my mind, I suddenly remembered my son's sassy taunt.

And realized that I have been wrong by at least half.

If I know what my child means when he taunts me this way... If I love to hear his mocking words... If I respond by initiating a joyful chase?

How much more will my God in heaven be able to see past the taunt and cherish the hidden meaning? And also the hidden fears.

Yes, God wants me to taunt him. He wants me to do so with the expectation that I will lose.

Well, along with Yancey I'm still very much afraid that I will win. I have a long winning streak behind me. That's my reality.

But I'm suddenly feeling a lot safer in offering up the wager, and that's good.

Therefore let the cosmos ring with my bold challenge to God...

"I bet you can't catch me!"