What Christ Prayed for Us

Perhaps it was appropriate on this Friday, the unofficial start to a patriotic United States holiday, that my morning devotional took me to John 17, which has been called Christ's "high priestly prayer."  You'll recall that this chapter includes Christ's supplication not only for Himself, as He was facing imminent arrest, torture, and crucifixion, but also for His ragtag band of disciples.  And for you and me, as well.

Not long after this prayer, Christ is arrested and brought before Caiaphas who, ironically, was the Jews' official high priest that year.

In John 17, Christ asks God to glorify Him, because He had testified to God's reality, holiness, and truth before "the men you gave Me out of the world."  Christ vouches for the 11 disciples who had maintained faith in Him and God's Gospel, and testifies of their faithfulness, even though they are not perfect.  Then Christ expands His supplication to include everyone who at that time, and forever more, believes that He is the holy Son of God.

And do you remember what He asks God for us?  That we believers would be protected from Satan, sanctified in God's truth, and that we would be united.  In fact, Jesus repeatedly emphasizes unity in His prayer:

"As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world.  For them I sanctify myself, that they too may be truly sanctified.  My prayer is not for them alone.  I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you.  May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me.  I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one:  I in them and you in me.  May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me."  - John 17:18-23

Here He is, knowing what is about to unfold for Himself, and indeed, for the entire human race.  And what is His central theme in His high priestly prayer?  He prays for our unity.  Yours and mine.

Jesus doesn't mention His wishing that we would be able to argue forcefully for our viewpoint in the public square.  Nor that we would be able to vanquish all of the immorality that consumes our culture.  Nor that we would be economically prosperous, or politically free, or that our taxes would be low, or our government small, or that gay marriage would never be the law of any land, or that abortion wouldn't be tolerated by any civilization.

Instead, He asks for unity among the people who would follow His ways, and model their lives after what He taught about His Father, our Creator God.

On the one hand, doesn't it strike you as a bit bizarre?  When was the last time you or I asked God for unity among His chosen people?   But there it is.  Of all the things Christ could have prayed for us, He prayed for our unity, and He says our unified representation of the Gospel will be a testimony to the world that God sent Christ to us for our salvation.

In other words, our unity would, could, and will glorify God the Father and God the Son.

I don't know about you, but I'm somewhat ashamed for myself, that Christ prayed this prayer for me.  He knew full well when He prayed that for me - for me! And you! - that unity is not what I think about when I think about Christ's love for us.  Is it for you?  I think about myself, how my sanctification is working out - or isn't, as the case may seem.  I worry about whether I'm following Christ's teachings well, whether I'm modeling the Gospel appropriately, whether the Fruit of the Spirit is abundant in my life.  Then I worry about other self-professing Christ-followers, and how authentic and appropriate their testimonies are.

Don't you?  After all, it's human nature to be self-centered, isn't it?  To peg ourselves against what other people have and do, and who they are?  Our focus is lateral, instead of horizontal.  We don't bury hatchets, we keep them strapped to our waist, ready for use at a moment's notice.

Unity?  That's something for which new-age freaks and left-wing liberals advocate, so that everybody can do what is right in their own eyes.

That's not to say that Christ's followers should strive for unity at the expense of truth.  People who claim to believe that Christ is the Lord of their life damage the cause of Christ by pursuing teachings, viewpoints, and lifestyles that are not supported by God's Word.  Many people can find loopholes and gray areas in Scripture that either don't explicitly prohibit what they want to do or believe, or are open to some level of interpretation.  When we do so, however, are we honoring Christ, or are we satisfying personal desires for some form of self-aggrandizement?

Anything we do that doesn't put others before ourselves can jeopardize unity.

The history of the Church - not to mention the world in general - is littered with examples of Christian unity being marginalized in the interest of changing mores and morals, reinterpretations and misinterpretations of the Gospel, pride, arrogance, stubbornness, politics, and religiosity.  There have been times when things have gone so far off-course, that people like Martin Luther and William Wilberforce have had to step up to the plate and call the status-quo into account.  Indeed, it could be said that Luther was one of the most disruptive figures in the history of Christianity.  But was he at fault, or the people who had dragged the Gospel so far away from God's intended purposes?

When you and I look at our evangelical ghetto in modern-day America, we're encouraged to believe that advocating for people, policies, and perspectives that contribute to disunity within the Body of Christ is the price we pay for being standard-bearers of truth and righteousness.  Yet, according to John 17, how much might we be misleading ourselves, and shooting ourselves in our feet by so grossly misrepresenting Christ's desire for us and our testimony?

In terms of how American evangelicals wrap the Cross of Christ with the stars and stripes, it should be obvious that we're doing our testimony more harm than good when we bicker over politics that have no Biblical bearing on the lifestyle we should expect.  We incessantly confuse spiritual freedom with political freedom, which contributes to our love of money and individuality, and inevitably sows disunity when it comes to how we think our country should be run.  In such cases, the words of Christ in John 17 ring pretty clear, don't they?  Unity in Christ trumps our political and economic opinions.

So, when Christ prays for our unity, around what should we be unified?  Our ability to affect change, or preserve the things we want to preserve, as an influential voting block?  Our culture?  Our preferences, or the people we like, or what we're used to and comfortable with?

Um, no.

We're to be unified around God the Father, through Jesus Christ our Lord, as Christ has made God known to us.

Of course, this itself can be a fairly open-ended objective, especially if you're as cynical as I am.  St. Augustine of Hippo is known for saying, "in essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, charity."  But it's easy for us to argue about what is essential and non-essential, isn't it?

I propose that one way to clarify St. Augustine's perspective involves determining the person or entity who immediately benefits from deciding to do something one way or another.  If Christ is the Person who receives immediate benefit (and glory), then that is an "essential."  If you, I, a denomination, a political party, or a nationality receive immediate benefit, then we probably need to be careful about whether it's an essential or non-essential.

Interestingly, you'll notice that Christ didn't pray that we wouldn't have disagreements.  Might that be because disagreements don't necessarily create disunity?  Even in the Garden of Gethsemane, Christ implored God that if it was possible, would His Father please - please! - remove the impending cup of wrath from Him.  That indicates at least a measure of difference between God the Father and God the Son, yet we know that the Trinity is in perfect union.  Besides, if God intended for all of His people to be autotrons, why would He create each of us individually unique?  Isn't it ironic that we're each created by God with our specific talents and identities, yet Christ wants us to be unified?

But think about it:  How could He be glorified if we walked in lockstep with each other?  Doesn't any ruler receive greater honor when their constituents, as varied as they are, work in unison despite their differences, overcoming personal opinions for a common goal?  So how does this happen?  It happens through our reliance upon - and faith in - Christ.  Not in, on, or through ourselves.

After all, what causes the hindrances, deceptions, and unloving motives that incite disunity amongst us?  What keeps us from reasoning amongst ourselves to determine specific actions that will please God, and within which we can be unified?  Why can this be a tricky subject to explore?  What's the reason a lot of us Christians conveniently ignore this part of Christ's Passion?  And how can we ignore the significance of Christ being so concerned about our unity on the very night He'd be turned over to be crucified?

Our own lack of humility, perhaps?

Meanwhile, Christ had suffered the ultimate humiliation a deity could possibly suffer - becoming like the people He was going to save.  He is the One for all.

And He wants us to be all for One.

When, in Memory, a Little Rain Falls

Nostalgia can be a curious thing.

Reminiscing about times past usually doesn't take place when one is enjoying life in the present.  So when we get nostalgic, it can be an indication that our current circumstances merit particular enthusiasm.  We look back, and however accurately we may remember things, and however happy or sad those olden times may have been, we rarely cheer ourselves up with nostalgia.

Some people engage in it far more than others do, and I suspect that, the more successful people are in the present, the less they look back on their past.  The less, maybe, they feel they need to look back on their past.  Maybe we don't appreciate what we have in the present, or we haven't bothered to evaluate whatever progress we might have achieved between then and now, but the less successful, content, and confident we are, the more we ten to let memories be recycled as contemporary amusement.

I'm not sure how Biblical nostalgia is.  When the Israelites did it in the desert, God became frustrated with them.  Here He'd saved them from enslavement in Egypt, and His people were nevertheless grumbling about how good life seemed to be in captivity, compared with their temporary reality of homelessness and wandering.  They were not just nostalgic, but ungrateful as well.

The dynamic Apostle Paul encourages the church at Philippi to forget what is behind them, and to press on ahead for the cause of Christ.  Indeed, Paul was all about progress and focusing forward.

Yet the Psalmist almost constantly rhapsodizes over the faithfulness of God, proven time and time again, and remembered as proofs for why continuing to trust in our Lord is not a fruitless endeavor.

Undoubtedly, what we hope to get out of nostalgia likely determines whether it can be beneficial to us or not.  Wallowing in a nostalgia for days we can no way recreate in our present reality likely dishonors God, Who desires that we mature in our faith.  However, fond memories in and of themselves can be healthy, can't they?  They can serve as a form of encouragement, and even help to put our present reality in context.

Maybe it's my chronic clinical depression, or maybe it's my age as a late-forties guy about to embark on his midlife crisis, but I find that I'm exploring my past with a greater interest than I think I probably lived it.

When I was a child growing up in upstate New York, for example, I didn't think those days were all that special.  I realize that many kids don't appreciate their growing-up years, no matter how good or privileged they may have been.  My brother is a year younger than me, and he's never been a nostalgic person.  And a few years ago, I wouldn't have described myself as one, either.  But lately, I'm surprised at how often I'm on nostalgic trips down memory lane.

Well, actually, nostalgic trips down Beach Road, the rural country lane bisecting our old farm.  And that century-old farmhouse in which we lived for the first twelve years of my life.

Sometimes, I worry that reliving memories from the past is unhelpful for a person in my condition, and an unhealthy waste of time, recollection, and emotions.  However, I also wonder if the stories I relive, and the experiences I unearth from my mind's dusty archives - particularly memories of benign or positive events - aren't still on deposit in my memory for some beneficial purpose.  I've had psychotherapists over the years warn me not to blame my depression on my past, or my parents, or try to derive profound meanings out of them.  Our past can help explain how we've gotten to where we are today, but even if somebody is on trial in a court of law, blame based on memory is tricky to prove.

I've wondered if traveling back and spending mental time on the north shore of Oneida Lake, where I grew up, might help me make sense of why I am where I am today.  I can't afford to travel back there physically, even for a visit, and hardly anybody's left up there that would remember me, or my family; we've no relatives there.  Besides, that area's economy has pretty much evaporated over the decades we've been away.  Whereas here in Arlington, Texas, where I currently live, when we'd go away for a month or so to Maine, returning was always an adventure in discovery, as some new restaurant would have opened while we were away, or some new housing development begun.  But when my parents and I drove through central New York and visited our old house back in the early 2000's, it was like we'd stepped into a time warp, when the towns and villages of my childhood appeared to have seen no progressive economic activity of any kind since we left.

In fact, the narrow main street in our old little village, Cleveland, perched right on the lake, had been razed of virtually every commercial building.  They were ancient, rickety structures even when we left.  It was never a wildly prosperous town; what fortunes it had enjoyed came early, as a glass-making center after the Civil War.  By the time my parents moved there, transferred by my father's company from New York City, it was mostly a bedroom community for Syracuse, with a few hundred hardy souls, and some light industry, including lumber companies and a family-owned wire making firm.

Today, even the lumber companies are gone, despite all of the forests surrounding the village.  The glass works were long gone before we ever arrived.  What was once merely a dumpy community when we lived there has become a downright impoverished one.  So many people have moved away because of the area's miserable economy, the little elementary school I attended, from Kindergarten through the Sixth Grade, is closing permanently after this current school year ends.

It was the village's last major employer.

I have never liked school, and I hated my time at Cleveland Elementary.  When I talk about nostalgia, I have absolutely none regarding that brick prison on the hill with views of the lake.  I liked recess, when we got to run around the playground that had been situated under a couple of huge old trees - something most modern school administrations would probably prohibit for the liability factor.  I thought gym class was organized torture, and the one big shower room that all of us boys shared communally haunted me like some sort of twisted, perverted punishment.  I'm scrupulously adamant about my personal cleanliness, but I only showered after gym class once or twice - I could tolerate my sticky clothes and smelly skin better than the misery of that shower.

Can you remember all of your elementary teachers?  I can, from Mrs. Arnold in Kindergarten, to Miss Wells in First Grade, Mrs. Parker in second, Miss Marzinski in third, Mrs. Marsh in fourth, Mr. Archambeau in fifth, and Mrs. Wolfe in sixth.

Summers in Cleveland, New York, were frustratingly short, yet blissfully carefree.  Our vintage, overgrown farm featured a wonderfully broad yard, plus forests with old lumber trails offering plenty of ways for my brother and me to run around and use our imaginations.

Some friends gave us a pure-bred collie named Felice, and I don't think she ever wore a collar during her life with us.  She certainly never was on a leash.  She ran around with my brother and me, even out into the sparsely-trafficked road when we learned how to ride bicycles.  She'd spring alongside of us, playfully barking at us, or huffing and panting, with her long tongue flapping from her open mouth.

Dad built her a modern doghouse, complete with a little entry room, a wall, and then another back room for her to escape the howling winds of winter.  It was on our back porch, so it was protected from the rain and snow, and she never seemed to get too cold out there.

Summers, though, were a bit different, since upstate New York can get suffocatingly steamy and humid.  One summer, when Dad's sister and mother were visiting from Brooklyn, we were having a good old summer thunderstorm, replete with blinding lightening and crashing thunder, and buckets and buckets of rain.  Like many dogs, Felice was petrified by thunder, and she refused to stay in her doggie house while it sounded like the entire planet was crashing down around her.  Despite the pouring rain, she'd run in circles around our big old farmhouse, faster and faster at each clap of thunder.  It was sad and funny at the same time to see her so spooked, yet so swift and agile around the turns.

My aunt, Helena, took pity on poor Felice during that particular storm, and convinced Mom to let her inside to calm down.  My brother and I were already upstairs in bed, and I can't remember if Dad was away on business or not, but he wasn't home at that hour of the evening.  My grandmother, whom we called "Mummo," which is "grandmother" in Finnish, had gone to bed as well, in a guest bedroom on the first floor, that had a big bed.

As the storm raged louder and louder, although we rarely let Felice into the house, Mom caved and let her inside at Helena's insistence, into our laundry room.  It had tile floors where she could dry the dog, and doors to the rest of the house to keep her confined after everybody went to bed.

If the storm lasted that long.

But Felice wasn't going to wait and find out.

After she'd been closed up in the laundry room, at the next huge clap of thunder, Felice burst open a door to the rest of the house - she charged through the living room, and into the bedroom where Mummo had just settled in for the night!  Panicked, wet, smelly, and whimpering, Felice dove under the bed, initially frightening Mummo, who had no idea what had just happened, or what was now very much under her bed.

So Mummo began hollering for Helena, and Mom was trying to figure out where Felice had gone - it was pandemonium!  It woke up my brother and me, and we raced downstairs to find Mummo sitting up in her bed - having figured out herself by then what had happened - and she was laughing so hard, she was crying!  Here she was, a hardened city dweller from Brooklyn, having come to the country for some peace and quiet, and her son's wet, stinking, freaked-out dog was cowering under her bed!

Helena and Mom were on their hands and knees, on either side of the bed, trying to coax Felice out from underneath it.  I looked under the bed myself, and Felice was definitely NOT about to leave her little cave!

Poor dog.  I can still remember that evening like it was yesterday.  But it didn't happen yesterday.  It happened decades ago.

Why is it that some of our memories can remain so vivid, especially memories that don't seem to have a moral, or a life lesson, or even any particularly searing emotion attached to them?

In the oddest times, however, I find myself nostalgic for those days when an ordinary summer thunderstorm could invigorate an otherwise soggy, ordinary evening.  Those summer evenings in upstate New York when the sweet smells of pine trees, grass, flowers, tree bark, and rain coalesced.  And only during three precious months out of otherwise chilly and crisp northern years.

I don't want to go back and re-live my childhood.  But at least I think I'm appreciating its good times more.

And what is that worth?