I was driving on I-94 West, on the way to deal with another layer of trouble. My heart was weighed down and weary. With some semblance of slight perseverance, I decided to listen to a “Faith” playlist I’ve been building in recent weeks. Some of these songs are like spiritual legacy touchpoints. They meant something to me in my spiritual development. However, some of them don’t quite resonate anymore.

Not all the legacy songs are outdated or smack of my own version of “old time religion.” As I drove, one of them grabbed a hold of me and didn’t let go. It’s a song I’ve always felt deeply. It’s called from The Jesus Record by Rich Mullins and a Ragamuffin Band and is simply called “Jesus…”

Back in the 90’s, Rich Mullins was one of my favorite artists. He was a part of the Contemporary Christian Music industry, where the waters can be very shallow and religiosity can pervade. In contrast, Mullins’ lyrics and approach always seemed earthy and real and his music was part of my spiritual soundtrack.

Mullins died in a car accident in 1997. At the time, he’d been working on the songs which would comprise The Jesus Record. The double album was released in 1998, with one disc containing field recordings of Mullins’ demos of those songs. The other disc was recordings of those same songs by his friends and colleagues. “Jesus…” was sung beautifully and hauntingly by Ashley Cleveland. This tragic backstory is part of the reason this song and that album have always meant much to me.

“Jesus” is a prayer. Honestly, it’s more like a desperate plea. The singer knows all the Bible stories. She’s heard of Jesus’ miracles… walking on water, calming the waves, making a lame man walk again… She doesn’t refer to these in a disparaging or faithless manner. No, it’s clear she believes the stories.

While her belief is strong, her personal connection to that story is lacking. She sounds destitute. The troubles in her life have overwhelmed her and she needs just a touch of that miraculous power. And, it’s almost as if that touch is being withheld from her, even as she endures those troubles.

Jesus… They say You spoke and calmed an angry wave
That was tossed across a stormy sea
Please teach me how to listen, how to obey
‘Cause there’s a storm inside of me

“…there’s a storm inside of me…” The wind rushes. The rain pelts. The thunder crashes. The lightning flashes. I get this. In the midst of my multiple layers of trouble, I feel the storm inside of me all the damned time.

Even as she sings of the storm raging in her, she is not hopeless. She reckons leaning into Jesus is the key. Somehow, she believes learning how to listen and obey can fend off the storm.

The chorus gets right down to it. She wants to move from belief to experience. She longs for more than mental ascent and blind faith. Such things seem irrelevant in the middle of the maelstrom. She wants to feel Jesus’ power at work while the storm rages.

Jesus… write me into your story
Whisper it to me
And let me know… I’m yours

There is hope undergirding this request. Why even ask if there’s no hope that it can happen? Again, she’s leaning in and expressing the desire for more, for deeper. She’s read the story, but that’s not enough: she wants to be in the story. Being written into the story would provide assurance that this faith is directed at something very real and intimate.

Despite the hopeful basis of the chorus, the song ends somberly.

Jesus…They drove the cold nails through Your tired hands
And rolled a stone to seal Your grave
Feels like the devil’s rolled a stone onto my heart
Can You roll that stone away?

Oh, that damned stone. I know that stone. For Jesus, it’s the final “nail in his coffin.” verifying he was dead. For the singer, it sounds like a stone formed by trouble, weighing down her heart, keeping her from feeling God’s presence, love, and power. Perhaps it’s even making her heart hard, like the stone itself.

I know that dynamic. When the trouble just keeps on coming, the pressure, stress, and pain begin to accumulate. The sediment begins to calcify into what can feel like a monolith. That monolith not only lays on my heart but can seem to encapsulate it. Sometimes, in those moments, hope begins to wane. I can feel lost and unsure that help is even available or accessible.

This singer’s experience resonates with mine. Notice, she asks Jesus if he can roll the stone away. “Can you?” is significantly different than “Will you?” Perhaps there’s no question about Jesus’ desire to help. She is wondering if he is able to help.

Again, that’s all very real to me. When I experience these stony and stormy moments, I can lose sight of who I’ve always believed Jesus is. While my faith is constantly morphing and cutting fat, it is still alive. And I trust God is always trying to pierce through my armor and break the stone. That trust is not built on maxims, quips, or even bible verses. It’s based on my own experience. Too many times, I’ve sensed God’s love and peace busting through it all and invading my heart.

Lately, I’ve felt the storm and the stone, every damned day. At times, they feel all-consuming, and hope seems distant at best. But, I know… even as my eyes moistened while driving toward more trouble and listening to this song, Jesus has always shown up. He has always, eventually, calmed the storm and moved the stone. It just doesn’t always happen as quickly as I’d like. But it happens… every time… eventually.

We need you. For real. You have stuff living in you that the rest of us need. You do. Impact is hard-wired into your system.

This is not about blowing smoke up your arse. You’re not perfect. Just like me, just like your neighbor, your father, your mother… just like everyone you know… you are faulty and frail. You are limited.

This is not about making you feel like whatever you do is good. Like, just because you are wired for greatness somehow means anything you think, say, or do is justified in some way. Nah… that’s not real. That’s not true. No, you make mistakes. You hurt others. You hurt yourself. Just like I do. But, this is not about that.

No, this is about the good stuff residing in your heart, in your mind, in your body, in your spirit. Living in you is something divine. Greatness that speaks to something greater, someone greater. Holiness that reflects the holiest.

The trick is discovering how that greatness looks, defining that holiness, and harnessing that good stuff. And when you do, everything changes. I mean, you’ll still make mistakes of course. But, everything still changes. Finding your wiring and then living in accordance with it changes everything.

…how you see yourself

…how you see others

…how you see the unseen

See, you being fully you is not just about you. Yes, it works for you. It gives you purpose and meaning. It makes you more effective in the things you try to do. All that is true. But, as importantly, you being fully you changes the world.

You bring things to the table… talents, skills, passions… that we need. We have oppressed people to liberate. We have injustices needing to be ended. We have poverty ripe for erasure. We have disease to be eradicated. We have a world to be revolutionized. And we need YOU.

So, please, be you. Be fully you.

Someone much wiser than me once said, “Blessed are those who make peace, for they will be called the children of God.” Blessed means fortunate or happy. The key there is being seen as a child of God, because the act of peacemaking doesn’t feel especially blessed when you’re in the middle of it.

I’ve tried to be a peacemaker over the years, and I can’t say I’m very good at it. Regardless, I am convinced it is the best way for me to align with how life is designed to work, as best as I can understand those things. However, it is not easy, and it can quickly make me into a target for folks on either side of a conflict.

Sometimes I shy away from the work of peacemaking. It’s easier to choose a side. It’s easier to vilify the other side. It’s easier to dehumanize my enemy. It’s harder to see them as fellow bearers of God’s image because that truth calls me to lean in more, to see the value they inherently carry, and listen more openly. At the end of it all, we may still disagree, but hopefully they’ll know I love them, even if we can’t agree.

Back in my grad study days, I read portions of a book by E. Stanley Jones, called The Unshakable Kingdom and the Unchanging Person. He wrote a little about peacemaking and I find his words encouraging. Basically, he talked about three different ways we can respond to those around us:

Evil: Someone is good to you, and you respond with evil or hatred.

Normal: An eye for an eye… You return good for good and evil for evil. Makes sense to an extent, but never brings real resolution.

Good: Someone does you harm, and you love them in response. You return good for the evil they gave you. You know, like “turning the other cheek.”

Mr. Jones labels that last way as the “Christian” way, but that word has lost it’s meaning in 21^st century America. I think there’s a better word: holy.

Now, I recognize the word “holy” likely needs to be demystified a little. It’s a very churchy word unfortunately. To say someone or something is holy is to say it is unique, set apart, different, etc. It is transcendent in a way.

On the Tomme Suab Show on Converge Radio on Wednesday nights, I’ve been talking about the need for us to make different choices. We look around us and we see all kinds of conflict and turmoil. Division is pervasive. Dehumanizing and vilifying the “other” is the norm. If we want something different, and I really hope we do, it will require us to make different choices. It will require us to live extraordinarily. It will require, if I may, an element of holiness.

Peacemaking is a holy act, which is why engaging in it shows us to be God’s children. Peacemaking requires courage, humility, and a measure of vulnerability. It is not easy. However, there is no better way to approach conflict. In fact, Mr. Jones, who I referred to before, wrote that, of the three levels, it’s the only one that actually has power. Returning evil for good perpetuates evil. An eye for an eye only makes the world go blind (thank you, Mahatma). Choosing to respond to evil with love changes the game.