Divine In The Twilight

While many things we believe are certain, there are mysteries we will never solve. And it’s in these spaces that faith is challenged to grow.

twilight path

A pastor really ought to believe in God; it usually works best that way.

You can imagine, then, the terror I felt when my darkest question surfaced. The sinister assault slithered out from the shadows and dug into my heart like a rattler sinking fangs into flesh. Is God real?

For the first decades of my life, faith came easy. My upbringing was comfortable and, in many ways, sheltered. Immersed in the church, I could pull out a pat answer for most every dilemma. I had encountered little pain or disappointment and enjoyed friendships with almost no one who viewed God and the world differently from me. Nothing yet had forced me to grapple with prayers that seemed unanswered or with a God who went silent and did not behave according to my pre-set requirements. The God I thought I knew was predictable and always arrived on cue. This God conformed to my sensibilities and whims, made sense within my comfortable framework. Essentially, I managed to concoct a God who did not require any faith.

However, a series of disappointments and an extended, excruciating season of spiritual disorientation prompted me to ask if God was real. It forced me to return to the Scriptures and to the witness of Christians across history. I discovered a God far wilder than I imagined, one who would not be contained within a simple, easily digestible formula. I found a God who drew near to His people with tenderness but who also thundered from the mountain. I encountered a Jesus who wept and grieved but who also exhibited righteous fury. I found a God who resisted human machinations, who controverted expectations, and who (in one way or another) confused  most everyone.

Further, I discovered how God at times holds paradoxical truths in tension. God chooses us, but we also choose God. The future is entirely in His hands, but our choices really do matter. God loves without measure or restraint, yet He at times grows angry. He is a good Father who promises gentle protection but also insists He will lead His people through (not around) the valley of the shadow of death. I wonder if these were the dilemmas that pushed the psalmist toward lament: “When I tried to understand all this, it troubled me deeply” (Ps. 73:16 NIV).

To complicate matters, it surprised me how little energy Jesus, the apostles, or early Christians gave to smoothing out these logical quandaries.  It is good to discover clarity whenever it is available (and Scripture does provide us with much solid ground), but I found, over and over, how Jesus never promised His followers they would always experience the sensation of iron-clad certainty. Rather, Jesus called all to obedient faith, to risk. He called us to enact courage, to take up our questions and our bewilderment and follow Him.

In Marilynne Robinson’s novel Home, her main character—a pastor named John Ames—makes peace with how many mysteries elude his grasp. “I’m not going to apologize for the fact that there are things I don’t understand,” Ames says. “I’d be a fool if I thought there weren’t. And I’m not going to make nonsense of a mystery, just because that’s what people always do when they try to talk about it. Always. And then they think the mystery itself is nonsense. Conversation of this kind is a good deal worse than useless. In my opinion.” If we are human and if we are honest, we will acknowledge the very real limitations to our knowledge.

Gathered around the breakfast table recently, our family read a gospel story recounting how difficult it was for the religious leaders to trust Jesus when His teachings were so odd and out of sync with how they’d always perceived the world. Our younger son gave voice to the question we all must face sooner or later: “But how do we know if what Jesus said is true?” This foundational concern places us in exactly the same position as the first disciples. It is remarkable how often we grow agitated or fearful when someone attempts to grapple with Jesus’ strange, confusing teachings. His own disciples were often befuddled or hesitant. Most of them eventually gained firm conviction, but they endured a tumultuous road to get there.

As our breakfast conversation continued, my son expanded on his quandary: “But Dad, how do I believe in God if I can’t see Him?” In our modern world, this seems to be one of our great dilemmas: How do I put faith in someone who is not testable, observable—someone I cannot secure with my hands or grasp fully with my mind? While science has given us innumerable benefits, it has also hampered our ability to understand realities that refuse to be contained by data and experimentation. Scholar Philip Sherrard observed how “modern thought, with its distrust of anything that escapes rational analysis, has practically eliminated the word ‘soul’ from its vocabulary.”

Some things you just know. You can’t prove them. You can’t explain them. They simply are.

In contrast, early Christians were familiar with another way of knowing truth—one centering on our communion with God. These Christians knew that there were certain truths we must discover through divine revelation and through our deep encounters with the Holy One.

Some things you just know. You can’t prove them. You can’t explain them. You can’t strip them bare and plop them on a cold, steel plate for probing under a high-powered microscope. There is no apparatus that allows you to break them down, finger through their components and catalog all your findings. Such things simply are. The churning in your stomach signals the strange elixir called love. Krispy Kreme donuts grabbed while the neon sign flashes “Hot Doughnuts Now” taste far superior to those pulled from the greasy glass bins at the convenience store. A mother has a gut-wrenching intuition her child is in trouble.

Some things you just know.

We are immersed in deep mysteries. If we truly are the Creator’s image bearers rather than merely materialist particles floating in a soupy universe, and if the Spirit’s life-giving breath really does sustain our very being, then we should expect inexplicable realities to be woven into the fabric of our existence. As essayist Wendell Berry says, “We are alive within mystery, by miracle. We have more than we can know. We know more than we can say.” The simple fact that we live and breathe and muse and create and love in God’s splendid and expansive world exudes a mysterious joy. We couldn’t possibly comprehend all these generous wonders, but we can receive them. We can trust them and be thankful for them.

I think of this mysterious sphere of human experience as something like twilight, the luminous dance between night and day. This twilight space is where poets, dreamers, prophets, and lovers find themselves most at home. They know truths, but what they know isn’t limited to what they see—at least not with the eyes most of us are accustomed to trusting. These spaces are pregnant with mystery.

Kathleen Norris tells us that “the discipline of poetry teaches poets, at least, that they often have to say things they can’t pretend to understand.” Of course, large portions of Scripture arrive as poetry, inviting us to hear God afresh, outside our linear confines. In these twilight places, we practice a way of knowing that our language can’t quite capture and that our limited vocabulary can’t entirely describe. The Bible has a word for this:faith. As finite beings, how could we ever expect to encounter the triune God and not lose our equilibrium? Reading God’s own self-description, why should we be surprised when we find ourselves perplexed?

“My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways,” declares the Lord. “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts” (Isa. 55:8-9).

We encounter realities too complex for our minds, too broad for our imaginations, because there is only One who holds all knowledge. We are not God and cannot fully comprehend Him. This is why Augustine of Hippo insisted that if we ever arrive at a place where we believe we fully understand God, we can rest assured that whatever we understand is, in fact, not God.

The simple fact that we live and breathe and muse and create and love in God’s splendid and expansive world exudes a mysterious joy.

The question is whether or not we will embrace this twilight place. Will we insist on mere precision and lose the nuance, the harmony, the deeper shades of grace? This is no demand to abandon solid ground or to haphazardly dismiss rationality and good common sense. God has given us our minds and charged us to “always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks … the reason for the hope that [we] have” (1 Peter 3:15 NIV). Rather, this invitation simply pushes us beyond our comfort so that God may offer us something more.

To embrace the twilight requires risk, as any act of faith does. When Jesus called His disciples to follow, He said they had to leave all they knew and embark on a daring undertaking with no security other than the assurance that it was God Himself who beckoned them forward. If God is daring and bold and free, if God skirts the wild edges, then following Him means we must make friends with hazard, uncertainty, and perplexing tensions. We must resist our demand for the emotional comfort of absolute certitude. We must surrender to the fact that even as we seek to understand God’s truth, the ways of His kingdom will never make total rational sense within our limited understanding. In other words, we will have to trust God.

Most things of deep value will require us, at some point, to venture a risk. They will require that we relinquish our addiction to control and step into the unknown. God calls us into places requiring courageous faith, places of profound mysteries, because the God who is above and beyond us calls us to Himself.


By Winn Collier 

Photography by Franck Bohbot

Jesus: Our Best Friend

John 15:9-17

As believers, we think of Jesus as our Lord and Savior, King, or Master, but rarely do we think of Him as our close friend. We may have difficulty with the concept, but Jesus does not. Once we can grasp what kind of companion He is, we’ll realize that a truly joyful life is possible only through a friendship with Him.

Jesus accepts us. Unconditional acceptance means we can always approach Him, even with our dirty sin baggage. He doesn’t intend to leave us in our present state, and we’re accepted no matter what’s happening in our lives.

Jesus walks through trials with us. God’s promise never to leave or forsake His people is repeated throughout the Scriptures. (See Deut. 31:6; Heb. 13:5.) That promise is individualized for each believer through Jesus’ companionship. He is our constant encourager and faithful friend during both the good and dark times in our lives.

Jesus is always available. He has no need to sleep, take a dinner break, or go on vacation. Unlike humans, Jesus is never too busy to meet our needs or respond to our prayers.

Jesus listens to us. We can share doubts, tears, and joys with the Lord because He wants to hear from us. Whatever we say—even angry shouts and tears—will be met with His consistent assurance that He loves us, has a plan for us, and will rescue us if necessary. And He goes beyond mere listening: He speaks through the Scriptures. In the Word, we’ll find His answer to every circumstance we face.

As the old hymn says, “What a friend we have in Jesus!”

A Help in Sorrow

“And the ransomed of the LORD shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.” (Isaiah 35:10)

Christians have received great joy and hope for the future, but make no mistake, there are troubles in this life. Christ promised that even if we “weep and lament . . . your sorrow shall be turned into joy” (John 16:20). The third verse of “Jesus! What a Friend for Sinners” expresses this well.

Jesus! what a Help in sorrow!
While the billows o’er me roll,
Even when my heart is breaking,
He, my Comfort, helps my soul.

Our text shows that even when Israel was about to be captured and exiled, Isaiah still anticipated their return and ultimate victory. “Therefore the redeemed of the LORD shall return, and come with singing unto Zion; and everlasting joy shall be upon their head: they shall obtain gladness and joy; and sorrow and mourning shall flee away” (Isaiah 51:11).

In this life He has not left us without comfort, for Christ promised His disciples, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27). Even when death and separation are imminent, “I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13).

And in the next life, the “forever” life, “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away” (Revelation 21:4). JDM

He Wants Us to Come

And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely. —Revelation 22:17

God takes great pleasure in having a helpless soul come to Him simply and plainly and intimately. He takes pleasure in having us come to Him. This kind of Christianity doesn’t draw big crowds. It draws only those who have their hearts set on God, who want God more than they want anything else in the world. These people want the spiritual experience that comes from knowing God for Himself. They could have everything stripped away from them and still have God.

These people are not vastly numerous in any given locality. This kind of Christianity doesn’t draw big crowds, but it is likely to draw the hungriest ones, the thirstiest ones and some of the best ones. And so God takes great pleasure in having helpless people come to Him, simply and plainly and intimately. He wants us to come without all that great overlording of theology. He wants us to come as simply and as plainly as a little child. And if the Holy Spirit touches you, you’ll come like that.

Thank You, Lord, for this warm invitation. I come to You humbly, deeply grateful for Your compassionate desire to meet with me and fill me. Amen.

Riches of Grace For Us

God hath in these last days spoken by his Son…by whom also he made the worlds. (Hebrews 1:2)

Would it startle you if I dared to say that the living God has never done anything in His universe apart from Jesus Christ?

Christians seem to be woefully unaware of the full meaning and measure of the grace of God. Why should we question God’s provision when the Holy Spirit tells us through the Apostle John that the Word who became flesh is “full of grace and truth”? Brethren, the stars in their courses, the frogs that croak beside the lake, the angels in heaven above and men and women on earth below—all came out of the channel we call the eternal Word!

In the book of Revelation, John bears record of the whole universe joining to give praise to the Lamb that was slain. Under the earth and on the earth, and above the earth John heard creatures praising Jesus Christ, all joining in a great chorus: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory and blessing!”

Yes, surely the entire universe is beneficiary of God’s rich grace in Jesus Christ!

Suppose you see a lake

Suppose you see a lake, and there are twenty or thirty streamlets running into it: why,
there will not be one strong river in the whole country; there will be a number of little
brooks which will be dried up in the summer, and will be temporary torrents in winter. They
will every one of them be useless for any great purpose, because there is not water enough
in the lake to feed more than one great stream. Now, a man’s heart has only enough life in it
to pursue one object fully. Ye must not give half your love to Christ, and the other half to
the world. No man can serve God and mammon.