What we think about God
It was a mantra drummed into me as a child along with always say please and thank you and, in our working class family with limited resources, finish what’s on your plate. I generally do as I’m told, and so in my early days ate every last scrap of school dinners, some of which looked like an aerial view of a farmyard, yet I expressed the required gratitude for them. But one saying looms large in my memory, a safeguarding sentence that my parents repeated whenever I went off to play football in the park. Don’t talk to strangers.
In my young mind, the approach of a stranger signalled menace. I probably screamed and sprinted away from a few perfectly innocent souls who were just friendly, but hey, better safe than sorry. I was hardwired to be suspicious of an unfamiliar face from an early age.
And so, years later, when a total stranger suddenly moved into my house, I felt extremely anxious. I was told that he was kind and utterly trustworthy. Apparently, he’d paid a lot to be a part of my household, but still he set me on edge. For one thing, I heard that he could be unpredictable. Others who knew him said that there had been times when he’d totally surprised them. But my nervousness increased as I learned that he was quite demanding. Insisting that he knew best, it soon became clear that he sought to be in charge of the place. Before he showed up, I’d lived independently, doing my own thing, usually with disastrous results, but now I was shocked to discover that before I made any major decision, he expected me to ask him for planning permission.
What made it more challenging was this: much of the time, he said little, at least in my hearing, so I was constantly wondering what he was thinking. And to cap it all, he was invisible.
The stranger, perhaps obviously, was and is Jesus. He’s the One who, in the book of Revelation, portrays Himself as knocking on the doors of our lives, lamp in hand, requesting entry, if you please. And in talking about His followers, Jesus taught, ‘Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them’ (John 14:23). Ultimately, of course, that speaks of our eternal future, gathered for always in the Father’s house, but in the meantime, the gospel message is that Christ does not just come to us, but lives in us. Our bodies are temples. We’ve opened that door, and He has moved in.
That truth is wonderful, reassuring, and at times, utterly bewildering. As a new Christian, I so desperately wanted to please the Lord, but He was and is so utterly different from any other person I’ve ever met. The theologian Rudolph Otto described him as the great stranger, powerful and holy like no other. He comes as Lord, not advisor. He gives everything, and demands all of us. He reveals so much, but leaves more shrouded in clouds of mystery.
I heard that He had a perfect plan for my life, but trying to find it felt like putting together a ten thousand piece jigsaw puzzle. Some described prayer as a conversation, but usually He didn’t seem so very chatty.
And that’s why I remain so grateful that in my early days of faith, I was part of a loving, caring church family, and a pastor who truly had a shepherd’s heart. They gently guided me through my fog banks of confusion, and helped settle my heart in times when I feared that I’d terminally displeased Him.
So when someone responds to Christ, and experiences the joy and disorientation of being a new disciple, let’s not just pat them on the back, but take them into our hearts. As we’re willing to answer their questions, never dismissing any enquiry as silly, and as we’re faithful when they stumble, keeping silence with our tut-tutting, we’ll surely help them navigate their brand new world. That way they’ll come to know the truth: that the stranger is actually the very best friend there is, and now that He is at home with us, we can rest in being at home with Him.