Have you ever listened to a speech or a lesson–and then completely glazed over because it wasn’t relevant to you?

I was sitting in Sunday morning Bible class today as we walked through some passages praising God. The discussion questions were well thought-out; open-ended and thought-provoking. The responses, however, were timid. We were discussing how high up God is. Pretty, whimsical phrases, such as “All your robes are fragrant with myrrh and aloes and cassia; from palaces adorned with ivory the music of the strings makes you glad.” Whatever that means. Because this is the part where we glazed over. I know I wasn’t the only one.

God’s ways are higher than our ways. His thoughts are higher than our thoughts. Imagining such a thing and being able to smile and call it amazing takes a damn bit of work if you ask me. You’re asking me to envision something better than anything I’ve ever seen. I am no theologian, but operating off of what I’ve been taught, Jesus had been to heaven and knew what it was like. And knowing full well our small-minded, short-sighted natures, he still tried to describe it to us by linking it to things we already know. “The kingdom of heaven is like…” he says, over and over. And it’s followed by a glimpse, for things that seem so weirdly unrelated to me. It’s like seeing pictures of a house for rent, but still not having any concept of how it gets strung together without actually walking through it. I’m trying, Lord, but I don’t yet understand this alien place.

But then the topic of Bible class shifted to suffering. And the room lit up.

Pain is a topic that needs no introduction. We are intimately familiar with it. This room and its somewhat random sample of human beings was no exception. This woman has lost a child. This person overcame a drug addiction. This one aged out of foster care. That guy just came out of a messy divorce.

As a child, I used to trace the texturing of the bedroom wall immediately behind my pillow while trying to fall asleep, not allowed to leave my bed. I can still close my eyes and see the blob that looked like an elephant; could draw its shape if asked to. Is this not how we experience suffering? Lying awake at night, unable to leave? Tracing it’s edges with our very fingers; hour, after hour, after hour? I know each step of my suffering because I have walked them all. And while I have never been to heaven, I have an almost electric awareness of the fact that my feet are planted here on Earth.

I don’t understand why suffering exists. I can’t tell you why I’ve lost the people I’ve loved. But what I can tell you, with all certainty, is that I feel a hole where they used to be. I see lots of holes. Things that are wrong. Not how they are “supposed to be.”

I see friends and spouses entirely self-focused, consuming all time and energy in the relationship, cannibalizing the other person as a matter of omission. We just forget about each other. That’s wrong. I don’t just see abuse, because more common is neglect. There are spaces unfilled in between us.

And the size of that space.

I sat across from a woman weeping at a Buffalo Wild Wings once and asked her what was going on. She had fallen for a boyfriend who was an internet scam. She was heartbroken, a bit ashamed I think. It’s a surprisingly common thing. They prey on lonely people. And she was lonely; disappointed by relationships and the people in her life, specifically her children. So I asked her what she wanted. What would it look like to have the relationship with her kids that she desired. She described what this scam boyfriend had done for her. That someone checked in on her and cared if she was having trouble sleeping. I listened for a while, and essentially came up with this list of things she wanted her grown children to do:
– Read a daily email newsletter that focused on medical conditions affecting her so they could understand her and what her life was like
– Understand her medications and watch out for when they conflicted with each other or speak up when the side-effects were too strong
– Financially support her as she felt unable to support herself
– Physically support her (cooking, cleaning, errand-running, driving her around, etc) when she felt overwhelmed or too in pain to do things herself. This was unpredictable, so it would be an on-call event
– Track her eating, sleeping, and medicine taking to make sure she was on track to be healthy
– Listen to her as she taught them things from her life experience

I don’t know if she realized when she told me that this list was unreasonable. It was too much to ask of her children who had jobs, families, and lives of their own. I would not have done this all for her. I was sad because what she wanted was not obtainable. But I was even more saddened because I knew that, deep down, my list for my spouse or anyone close to me would be just as long. It was easy to judge this woman simply because she had the courage to say it out loud. The rest of us have the “decency” to stuff it down into the deep dark places and be mildly bitter about it during holidays and family vacations when it rears its ugly head. Isn’t that the way of it? Isn’t that true for most of us? The only reason our expectations are set at a reasonable level is because we’ve accepted the facts and become numb to the disappointment that our fellow humans are as self-promoting as ourselves. I have no right to judge this woman. She is an apt picture of the human condition. Nothing more.

As I said before, I see holes. Spaces that don’t look quite right. Gaping chasms. How great is the distance Oh Lord, between the love we desire, and the love that is available to us in this life?

There are many people whom I attend church with that see light and hope and glory. Good for them. That isn’t facetious. I truly mean it. I’m just not there yet. So I think I’m writing this today for others that may fall into that same category as I.

When I look around, I don’t usually see God. Not that He isn’t there. I just can’t see Him. I have to choose to act as though He’s there.

I see holes everywhere but the fact of the matter is: I see the holes. Something about them doesn’t seem right to me. And if I’ve never seen “how it’s supposed to be,” then what exactly is my point of comparison? How do I know that something is missing?

Have you guys seen these signs? My parents had one sitting on a bookshelf in our home when I was a kid. I thought it was Norse Runes or something for the longest time. The key is to look at the spaces, rather than the “writing”. Do you see it? It spells the name of Jesus.

Not too long ago, my life was one of those dumpster fires we talked about earlier. I didn’t see God in any of it. Want to know a secret? I still don’t. But I bought one of these cheesy little signs and it’s sitting next to my computer as I type. Because if all I can see is what’s missing, the truth is that even the spaces still spell his name. I know what it should look like, and that’s Jesus.

And if it’s any consolation to anyone out there: I think it’s ok to doubt. I think it’s ok to be hanging by the prayer “I believe, now help my unbelief.” Beloved, you can still believe in God, even if you can’t see Him yet.

A Catholic friend shared something about the Easter Tenebrae Service. Forgive my ignorance here, I am not Catholic and I’m sure I’m oversimplifying this. They hold what serves as a funeral service for Christ. There is a candle representing Jesus. On either side of it are more candles symbolizing Jesus’s followers. As the service progresses, the candles are blown out, representing the disciples falling away. At the end, all lights in the building are extinguished, until the last thing burning is the Christ candle. And this is what I’m into. This is why I have hope. If you ask me what’s up, I will tell you that all I see are holes and spaces. The world is a dark cruel place, and every light we may see eventually snuffs out. But the last thing burning in the dark is Jesus. He didn’t fail. He didn’t fall. He wasn’t selfish.

So look at the hungers, the holes; the unfixed problems and the unanswered prayers. You don’t need to gloss over them, fill them, cover them up. Let them be. Examine them closely. Draw the edges with your fingers. Because even the spaces spell his name.