Minding the Gap

                Bear with me as I try to process a thought. It had been a long weekend of too many activities, trying to attend to some of my aging parents’ needs with some resistance from the intended benefactors, trying to influence my older children to make wise choices, trying to be patient as my younger teens were finding it quite fun to be rude and snarky, at times. Notice I said trying?  Throughout all this, I was painfully aware that I was not being kind, or patient, or understanding, or really much of anything that was Christlike and gentle. I had things to do, places to go. Couldn’t people see that I was offering the benefit of my wisdom and intellect and they had better take advantage of it…and be grateful? 

                That Monday morning, I read Ezekiel 22:30. “I looked for a man among them who would build up the wall and stand before me in the gap on behalf of the land so I would not have to destroy it, but I found none.”  That verse spoke to me, but I didn’t really understand why. It was jostling around in my mind thirty minutes later when I was on the treadmill at the gym. I turned on my ipod and listened as Ravi Zacharias started a four part series called “Mind the Gap.” (It is a short series on the gap between God’s character and our finite ability to understand that character.)

What struck me as I listened was this, twice in an hour long period, I had heard the same phrase: the gap, someone to stand in the gap and mind the gap. Typically, when I hear the same thing, I try to really listen. Psalm 62:11 says: One thing God has spoken, two things I have heard…” I wanted to hear what God was saying. In my experience, when God says something twice, He wants my attention.

Ravi quickly faded to the background and all I kept thinking of was how important it was to mind the gap. In Britain, “mind the gap” is the sign posted in the underground as a warning to people to “be careful, there’s a space big enough for one to fall through.”  I realized I was not minding the gap in my relationships. With my aging parents I was not being careful of the gaps they were facing as they grew older, frailer, needing more  help. With my teens I was not minding the gap as they faced big decisions, as they navigated relationships, as they tried to figure out right, wrong, good, bad, moral, immoral. With people around me I was not minding the gap they faced as they tried to understand who God is and why does it matter who He is, and if it matters, what should they do. 

There are gaps people face every day. Some of those gaps are cavernous. Some of the gaps are not that wide. For some people, God is on the other side of the gap. God says in Ezekiel that there is a gap between Him and those who dwell on the earth. He says that the land is cursed but if He will find one to stand in the gap, He will not destroy the land. 

I know that Jesus is ultimately the one who bridged that gap between us and God the Father. I am not the one who stands in the gap and removes the curse; that is Jesus alone. But, sometimes I think maybe God wants us to be a temporary bridge over which people can cross and get closer to the Lord, until they realize, it was Jesus all along.  I don’t know how it works exactly. 

Richard Wurmbrand tells the story of a fellow prisoner in the Nazi camps who was mean, rude and insulting to all the other prisoners.* No one liked him. One day this very ugly spirited man got very ill and in fact, was so ill, he could not even get into line to get his stale bread and watery soup. But Wurmbrand decided that he would share his bread and soup with the man. Every day he would lovingly and humbly give to the sickly and sick spirited man the very sustenance he himself needed so desperately.  The sick man received the bread and soup begrudgingly at first but realized without Wurmbrand’S help, he would die. One day, the sick prisoner had enough strength to ask Wurmbrand why he so self sacrificially gave to him when he was so unkind and ungracious. Wurmbrand said “because I love Jesus.“ The ill man asked, ”Who is he and what does he look like?” Wurmbrand: He is the Son of God and He looks like me. Ill man: If He looks like you, then I love Him because I love you. 

Wurmbrand minded the gap. He minded the gap between the ill spirited prisoner and God. In doing so, he allowed him to walk over him to find relationship with God through Jesus.  I want to be like that: one who will stand in the gap as others try to figure out who God is and how to reach Him. May God help me to mind the gap and be Jesus with skin on for people.  As Jesus instructed: In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven. (MT 5:16)  My beloved, mind the gap.

                 

*[I am very sorry that I cannot tell you the exact source. Richard Wurmbrand, a Lutheran pastor who spent years in the Nazi camps,  wrote Tortured for Christ and founded Voice of the Martyrs.]

A Dog's Tale

For years, our children begged us to add a dog to the mix of our already busy family. Finally, when our twin sons were 11 years old, we relented and welcomed Gabby to our family.

When we picked her out at the animal shelter, Gabby was still a puppy—active, untrained, mischievous, and always hungry. It had only been about three weeks since we brought her home, when that puppy energy and our busy family life collided.

Before we left to spend the evening at the local zoo, I planned ahead and put a 12-quart pot of beef vegetable soup on the stove—out of harm’s reach, of course—on the back burner where Gabby couldn’t reach it. Everything was going according to plan, as we came home, ate dinner, and the boys headed upstairs to get ready for bed.

The situation went south, however, when I was interrupted from cleanup detail by two boys needing tucked into bed. Without thinking to put the soup back to its proper location on the back of the stove, I answered the summons. But no sooner had I entered their room, than the three of us heard a loud crash and an unmistakable yelp!

We arrived on the scene to see Gabby, standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, lapping up beef vegetable soup as quickly as she could. There was soup everywhere—on the cabinets, under the refrigerator—some had already spread to the living room carpet. It was a nightmare.
To make matters worse, I instinctively scolded the dog, which caused her to lie down—right into the soup. My follow-up rebuke led to the next mishap, as she stood back up and shook her entire body, flinging soup into every conceivable nook and cranny that hadn’t already been tainted by the initial spill.

Since the entire mess was really their fault (they had asked for the dog, right?), I yelled at my sons, “Go straight upstairs to bed!” Paul pitifully asked, “Mama, you aren’t going to send Gabby back, are you? I’ll help clean up the mess, Mama. Don’t send her back.” One withering look from his frustrated mother was all Paul needed to dutifully trot off to bed.

Instantly, I felt terrible.

And so, in the wake of this disaster, I found myself gingerly navigating my way through a soggy bog of soup and upstairs to my boys’ room to apologize to them, reassuring them of my love and care for them. At the same time, I had to ease their concerns about Gabby, who they now assumed was on her way back to the shelter.

I said, “Boys, you need to know that Gabby is part of our family now, and just because she does naughty things, it doesn’t mean we are going to send her back. Things don’t work that way when you’re a family.”

As I soon found out, I was totally unprepared for my sons’ reactions. Sam reminded me that I’d signed a contract with the animal shelter, so of course I wouldn’t take Gabby back. True enough, I supposed. But Paul nearly broke my heart when he piggy-backed on Sam’s appeal:
“Yeah, just like you signed a contract with the adoption agency in Thailand that promised you would take care of us and keep us even when we do naughty things.”

In that moment, I was struck with just how sad and pathetic it would be if all that held us together was some kind of paper-and-ink contract, signed many years before.

Still trying to take all this in, I answered, “Boys, a contract is not what makes us a family. Love makes us a family—God’s love, and the fact that God has chosen us for one another.”
In that moment, I wanted to convey a sense of security, a sense of belonging, a sense of family—even a sense of uniqueness in having been chosen and adopted that far out-weighs any sin, imperfection or mistake. My family is not my family because of paperwork, contractual agreement or any other impersonal force. My family is my family because we love each other.

And isn't that what our Heavenly Father has been trying to teach us all along? His acceptance of us, His children by faith in Christ, is based on His love, and His love alone. Just like my love for my children, God’s choice of us is no mere contract, or impersonal set of paperwork. It’s deep, personal, and real—even to the point where “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

By taking on flesh and dwelling with us—and by dying in our place and defeating death for us—Jesus identifies with us in such a deep, personal way that Hebrews 2:11 says, “He is not ashamed to call us brothers.” In other words, we’re family, and since we are, we have no need to appeal to contracts, paperwork, or performance.

Our status as God’s family, His sons and daughters, is infinitely secure because it’s based on the love of the God who always makes good on His promises. This faithful God is the God who is eternal, infinite, all-powerful, and extravagantly near.

Each one of our children—three adopted and one birth child—was placed into our family by God Himself, and we are constantly affirming each one with the words, “You are ours. God has chosen you for us and us for you.”

In the same way, I hear my Heavenly Father say, “You are mine. Nothing changes that. I have chosen you. You have been adopted as my daughter, and I love you.

“Even when you spill the soup.”



This post was originally published in Take Heart (November 2012), a publication of Heartbeat International.