11. The Price Is Outrageous
11
The Price Is Outrageous
It is wintertime as I am writing this. My afternoon walks take me along a shore road lined with wild rosebushes and bittersweet. The bittersweet holds its crusty little orange and yellow pods. The rosebushes are dried brown thickets of wicked thorns and shriveled rosehips. I see in them the stark beauty to which Lilias Trotter opened my eyes—the signs of death, which presage the signs of life.
Using another metaphor in his book, The Mirror of the Sea, Joseph Conrad sees death as both a landfall and a departure, an arriving and a leaving, the two things that mark the rhythmical swing of a seaman’s life and of a ship’s career. Describing his last visit with his old captain who was dying, he writes,
I observed his weary eyes gaze steadily ahead, as if there had been nothing between him and the straight line of sea and sky, where whatever a seaman is looking for is first bound to appear. But I have also seen his eyes rest fondly upon the faces in the room, upon the pictures on the wall, upon all the familiar objects of that home, whose abiding and clear image must have flashed often on his memory in times of stress and anxiety at sea. Was he looking out for a strange Landfall, or taking with an untroubled mind the bearings for his last Departure? It is hard to say, for in that voyage from which no man returns Landfall and Departure are instantaneous, merging together into one moment of supreme and final attention.1
Loneliness, as we have noted, is a kind of death. Looking at it through the eyes of the old sea captain, perhaps we may see it as a simultaneous exit and entrance. The loneliness of widowhood was an exit from the comforts and consolations of having a husband, and an entrance into the strange world of having to make unilateral decisions again and to learn to say “I” instead of “we.” With the grace of God and the passage of time (also one of His graces), I got used to that world. But that was not the end of God’s story. When I fell in love with my present husband, Lars Gren, I was lonely all over again. We were not separated for long years as Jim and I had been, yet I missed him. The house in which I had got used to living alone suddenly seemed empty.
Then we were married. Marriage, too, as we have noted, is a death—a Landfall and Departure, a launching out into unknown deeps for which we need chart and compass. Who knows what is in store for him when he stands, in the wedding ceremony, “before God and these witnesses” and is charged “as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed”? He makes prodigious promises to “love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep only unto her,” so long as they both shall live. Does he know what he is saying when he takes her as his wedded wife, “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part”? What if it turns out not better, richer, and healthier, but worse, poorer, and sicker? Has he a warrant then to abandon his vows? Never. It was for this that he made vows, not mere promises. There are no footnotes or conditions attached.
When my beloved Uncle Tom was in his eighties, and had cancer himself, he gave Aunt Dot, his wife, round-the-clock nursing care for four years, the last years of her life. When she died, I told him how greatly I admired his willingness to do this. I said I did not think many men would have done what he did, and I thought he was wonderful.
“Wonderful?” he said. “What’s wonderful about it? It’s what I promised to do, isn’t it?” Bless his great heart!
Who knows what he is getting into when he decides to follow Christ with no turning back? Christ, like the bridegroom, offers everything. The old wedding ceremony (now sadly altered) requires the man to say, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” He is promising everything he is, everything he has. So does God. “All things are yours. . . . And you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s” (1 Cor. 3:21, 23 NKJV).
Discipleship is exactly like marriage in many ways. In both Old and New Testaments the profoundly intimate relationship between God and His people is represented by the analogy of bridegroom and bride. The prophet Isaiah says to Israel, “Your husband is your maker, whose name is the LORD of Hosts. . . . The Lord has acknowledged you a wife again . . . your God has called you a bride” (Isa. 54:5–6). The apostle Paul uses the marriage relationship to express Christ’s love for His Bride, His headship and her submission. In the Book of the Revelation one of the seven angels says to John, “Come, and I will show you the bride, the wife of the Lamb” (Rev. 21:9 NEB). The Book of Common Prayer speaks of matrimony as “an honorable estate, instituted of God, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and His Church.”
Christ has already given us everything when He gave us Himself. He asks for everything in return—there must be no reserved corners, no secret disclaimers, no insistence on individual rights, no escape clauses. The bride, in the old ceremony, promises not only to have, hold, love, and cherish, but also to obey, “according to God’s holy ordinance.” Where do women get the idea they can omit that?
Obedience is a part of love’s burden—for the disciple as for the wife.
A disciple is also a soldier. Père Didon, in his Spiritual Letters, wrote,
I do not want people who come with me under certain reservations. In battle you need soldiers who fear nothing. The roads are rugged, the precipices are steep; there may be feelings of dizziness on the heights, gusts of wind, peals of thunder, fierce eagles, nights of awful gloom; fear them not! There are also the joys of sunlight, flowers such as are not in the plain, the purest of air, restful nooks, and the stars smile thence like the eyes of God.2
Jesus never lured disciples by false advertising. Once, when great crowds were following Him, He turned to them and said, “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, even his own life, he cannot be a disciple of mine. No one who does not carry his cross and come with me can be a disciple of mine” (Luke 14:26–27 NEB).
With terms like that, there was never a stampede to join Him then. There is not likely to be one now. The requirements have not been modernized as the marriage vows have. The requirements for discipleship are very much like the old marriage vows: impossible.
Jesus underlined the impossibility by telling about a man figuring the cost of building a tower, and a king who has an army of ten thousand. “Can he face an enemy coming to meet him with twenty thousand?” asks Jesus.3 “Which means to say,” writes M. Maritain,
before setting to work for God and to fight against the devil, first calculate your forces; and if you consider yourself well enough equipped to begin you are a fool, because the tower to be built costs an outrageous price, and the enemy coming out to meet you is an angel before whom you are of no account. Get to know yourself so well that you cannot contemplate yourself without flinching; then there will be room for hope. Only in the sure knowledge that you are obliged to do the impossible and that you can do the impossible in him who strengthens you are you ready for a task which can be performed only through the cross.4
Is Jesus about to make some kind of deal with potential recruits? Will He waive a few of the requisites? No. He adds one more: “So also none of you can be a disciple of mine without parting with all his possessions” (Luke 14:31 NEB).
Marriage is like that too. No bride or groom can enter marriage without surrendering the right to self. But of course people get married all the time with no intention whatever of doing that. In most cases nobody has told them they need to, and their understanding of the nature of love is wildly fanciful. They have found a human being who, they suppose, is capable of meeting their needs—the perfect mate, compatible, lovable, comprehensible. But this prize package is always a surprise package. They are headed for trouble, for unless they learn daily to make the sacrifices of love, the marriage is at best only a “working relationship,” not a union. At worst, it dissolves.
Who can possibly enter into marriage, much less discipleship? The Lord asks far too much. Surely He does not expect it of us. Surely He exaggerates.
Does He? Twice He repeats His unequivocal words to great crowds. He is not speaking privately to the twelve whom He had instructed at length in the principles of discipleship, but to the masses. His message is: What I am asking is more than any of you can possibly give. You must ask for terms.
There is no hope for any of us until we confess our helplessness. Then we are in a position to receive grace. There we have the “terms”: grace—first, last, and always. So long as we see ourselves as competent we do not qualify. Jesus vividly depicted the obligations as beyond us. But Come to Me, He says. Carry your cross and come with Me. I alone can make you a disciple.
The disciple should not be surprised if, as he travels the road with Christ, some of the old gang begins to thin out. He may feel lonely at first, but then he sees that there are many Companions of the Way whom he would never have met on a lower road. A college student said to me, “You realize you’re talking to a very small audience.” I asked what he meant. “You’re only talking to people who are really serious about following Christ. Most of us don’t think we have to go that far.”
It is heartening to know that there are in fact many who want to go all the way. The letters I get prove it. Here is one from a man who has watched what he believed was a friendship destined to deepen and blossom into marriage wither and crumble to dust.
He told me the story from the beginning, its ups and downs, his heart-searching and assurances from the Lord, her warm responses and cold shoulders, his patient waiting. He prayed that the Lord would show him what it means to love one’s wife as Christ loved the Church and gave Himself up for her; it seemed that to put his own wants and needs aside in deference to hers was not a hard thing to do, for he loved her. She made it clear that she did not feel for him what he felt for her.
In the heat of emotion it’s tough to see straight. To lay my hopes and desires of spending our lives together upon the altar was a dimension I never considered. That was everything! Could God, would God ask for so much? . . . I do not know what will come of this sacrifice. I do know that obedience is the question. To that end I have tried to do my best to be faithful. A sacrifice of this type is not a one-time event. It must happen every time I see her, every time I remember her. Sacrifice, obedience, and grace are the instruments of victory here. It is a miracle in the making, a testimony of God’s love overcoming despair, brokenness, and self.
My only recourse was to my knees. I prayed for understanding and direction. I believed the Lord was telling me to hang in there. So I did. Every night I would pray for the Lord to continue His healing work in Roxanne [not her real name] and that his character would be manifested in her life. I also prayed that I would be faithful to persevere during that time so that his love would shine in my life. The mystery of the meaning of Christ’s sacrifice for the Church was something I needed to know more about, so I asked God to show me how that could be manifested in my life.
Roxanne’s attitude changed. There was more freedom, greater warmth, better communication.
I couldn’t believe how good those times were! We thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. She was the type of friend I had longed for over many years. I loved to do things with her and for her. Nothing was a burden. It was a joy to serve her and be a support. It was at that time that I wrote to you because I realized that if there were equal feelings on her part I would dishonor my Lord to move ahead without commitment to love and serve her for the rest of my life. In my heart I purposed to do so.
This was followed by difficulties of various kinds. Then she asked that they not see each other so much. Richard [not his real name] agreed, and continued to pray for God’s work in both hearts. Then she began to feel trapped, became cold and distant, finally told Richard he was a “very special friend,” but there was “no romance” in her heart for him.
I am chilled to the very core. How could I have been so wrong? I feel I’m in a avoid, unable to see and fearful to love. It is very difficult to trust my interpretations of God’s word as they might apply to specific circumstances. My sense of vision has been clouded to the point of near blindness. Nonetheless the one ray of light that pierces through this darkness is God’s love for me. The house may have been swept away but the foundation is intact. . . . At this time when I feel so weak and hurt is the opportunity for me to put my faith on the line. To let the love Paul speaks of in Corinthians, and the fruit of the Spirit noted in Galatians, be made profoundly manifest in my life now is to participate in the victory of Christ. It is at this point that I must press on because in that perseverance is the fertile soil where God will plant and nurture the seed of his strength; and it is in His strength that I can live.
Perhaps it seems I have wandered far from the thicket of thorns and shriveled rosehips on the windswept coast, with which I began this chapter. The principle applies—life springs out of death. What rose may spring into flower, perhaps long hence in Richard’s life, from this thicket of thorns?