Fire on the Mountain

Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down, that the mountains might quake at your presence -- as when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil -- to make your name known to your adversaries, and that the nations might tremble at your presence!

When you did awesome things that we did not look for, you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence. -- Isaiah 64:1-3

This is a variation on a post I did a year and a half ago.  

We expect an answer when we pray, or we should.  Even if our prayer is simply to understand, we may be shocked when our eyes are opened.  We are apt to find that the world is not nearly as neat and predictable as we thought.  And that is not true only for those who suddenly become enlightened from materialism.  The religious are often just as surprised to find that the hermeneutic track they have been following so carefully leads them to a place where the bridge is out.  

In fact, I think it is possible that the journey does not really begin until the well-trod path ends.  We need to follow the signs and markers left by those who have gone before us.  We need a path to follow, but it will take us only to the jumping-off place.  At that point we will find that most of our maps are of limited value.  What we need is a guide, someone who knows the unknown country.  Jesus pointed out to Nicodemus, “No one has ascended into heaven except He who has descended from heaven.”  Only the Spirit of Christ is able to take us where we need to go.  There are saints we will meet along the way, teachers, some still in this world, some already in the next, who will instruct us and, perhaps, point us in this direction or that, but there are no paths in that country, for each individual must reach the destination by his or her own course.

I am not sure how to express this, but I will start.  It seems to me that as it is usually presented, Christianity is lacking in wildness.  I almost want to say manliness, but that’s too limiting.  It is just too tame, too civilized.  The reality of Christ is raw and primitive in blood and pain and joy.  I can hardly bring myself to write the word “surrender” in relation to our obedience because what God is looking for is more of a wild, ecstatic abandon.  Compared to the simpering model of modern Christianity, the real saints are spiritual berserkers.  I can think of a few Christians in the last hundred years who might fit the model – Bonhoeffer, John Paul II, and Solzhenitsyn immediately come to mind, perhaps Chuck Colson.  Alas, we have too much of the church following in the footsteps of nice guys, like Joel Osteen – not to mention the idiots, con-men, and charlatans. 

I am not suggesting clubbing people over the head with Gospel, being annoying or obnoxious.  I just think when God comes into our lives it is much more like “the mountains quaked” than “isn’t that special”.  The presence of God is mode-shattering.  You cannot continue to look at things the same way when everything around you that you thought was solid is melting like wax.  The reason God is not doing “awesome things that we did not look for” is that because, as soon as He starts, we start worrying about whether the neighbors think we are crazy or if they will kick us out of the PTA. 

I would never have been teaching Sunday School or doing Wednesday night Bible studies back in the old days if I had been off in the unknown country.  First, I had to reach the end of the road, and as long as we are on the road, we have to follow the rules of the road.  Nothing wrong with that.  But once you are off in the bush, the only rule is listening to the Guide, especially when the bushes are all burning.     

Rides

I'm not a brave person. I don't know that I've ever done anything brave. I have done dangerous things and lots and lots of foolish things. Sometimes I did dangerous things because I didn't know any better, sometimes because I was too afraid to admit I was a coward, and sometimes because it had to be done. I've gotten off a motorcycle just about every way imaginable: high-side, low-side, over the handlebars and off the back. Every once in a while I stopped the bike before I got off. I've tried riding horses that didn't want to be ridden — and I know a couple of unique ways of dismounting. I've been punched, kicked, stomped, knocked down, and my pastor ran over me with a car. I'm not brave but I do have a high tolerance for pain.

Snakes used to scare me. My mom once beat me for what seemed like a good thirty minutes trying to get me to go into the cellar after, I think, a jar of pickles. I had seen a lizard's tail — but it could have been a snake — flash behind something down there the day before and a whipping didn't seem all that bad. I have a high tolerance for pain. I'm not scared of snakes any more, but they still creep me out. If I walk up on one unexpectedly, I exhale forcefully enough to make a distinctive sound, sort of like "ah-fhoo". Releasing my ki, I then moonwalk about six inches off the ground and proceed to chop the poor creature into multiple pieces or blast it into the next county.

I used to be afraid of heights, but I could climb to the top of any tree — maybe I figured I'd hit a limb on the way down. I could shinny up a rope, but I didn't trust ladders. Eventually I got used to stuff like that. Flying never bothered me, though otherwise I don't necessarily like being more than twenty or thirty feet off the ground, and I'd never make it as an ironworker, but I wouldn't call it a phobia.

I rode all the rides at the fair when I was a kid. I never liked the ferris wheel unless I was riding with a kissable girl. The first really cool rollercoaster I rode was at Silver Dollar City: Fire In The Hole. It was a brandnew ride when I got on in 1972. A few days ago I rode it with my fifteen-year-old granddaughter, and, even though we had ridden it about seven times in a row just before the park closed for the winter, it still made her scream when we took the first drop in the dark. It is a combination dark ride and rollercoaster, all indoors, and a cult classic.

But SDC has more rollercoasters these days. There is Thunderation, a rather modest steel coaster that goes through a tunnel and has several cars turned backward. It tops out a little under 50mph and has an 80-foot drop. Then there is Powderkeg, a launched coaster that goes from a deadstop to 53 mph in 2.8 seconds. You'll pull about 3.9g's on Powderkeg. It tops out close to 65mph and has a 110-foot drop. It is over half a mile long, has lots of curves, and is very smooth despite the acceleration. I'd call it my favorite Silver Dollar City ride. Finally, there is Wildfire. It maxes out at 3.6g's, but the top speed is a little higher than Powderkeg. It also has a 155 foot drop and I don't know how many inversions. I don't know how many inversions, despite the fact that I rode it twice last Saturday. A bunch. Upside down is not one of my favorite positions. I can handle acceleration. The drop isn't that bad, but upside down I wasn't too sure about.

It was just my granddaughter and me on the rides, and she cannot be intimidated. I was with her on her first little steel rollercoaster — which also went upside down. I can still hear her screaming that she was going to kill me for talking her into it. She's fifteen. Probably next year or the year after, she'll be riding with a boyfriend. Loops don't make any difference. We rode Powderkeg and the Giant Swing. The Swing was kind of a letdown. It's not nearly as cool as our old favorite the Orbiter at the late lamented Celebration City park.

From the Swing we went to Wildfire. I was not really looking forward to it, but I wasn't going to back out. I made sure the pockets of my cargo pants were well secured. You're in a car on Wildfire, but you can't touch the floor. The harness comes down and buckles with a couple of seatbelt-type straps. There's no question that you are locked in tight. I made it all right going up the hill and through the big drop. I saw that first loop coming, and I did the unthinkable. I shut my eyes. Like a twelve-year-old girl. I don't think I screamed. After that, the loops just kept coming, and I made it without a major heartattack. We left the park for a little while to eat a late lunch and came back to ride Thunderation backward until our backs gave out. Then we hit Powderkeg three or four more times.

Finally, after sunset, it was back for one more shot at Wildfire. My granddaughter was going to ride it by herself, thinking, I suppose, that I hadn't really enjoyed it the last time. She had seen my pained picture in the gallery. Now the crowd had thinned. As I walked toward the entrance, I thought about the harness. I checked my pockets. Lunch had been shaken down on the other rides. There was no chance I was going to lose it. "I think I'm good this time," I said. "I think I'll ride."

I was relaxed enough as I strapped in. With eyes wide-open, I took in the sometimes blurred track ahead. Every turn, every loop was just more to be enjoyed. I was completely at peace, laughing in the cool breeze, ground over my head, stars under foot.

God answers prayers, then, through the limitless array of experiences, reactions, and thoughts that come to us, both despite of and in light of what we may think of as unanswered prayers. There are always responses ... (Spoto, In Silence)

Prayer is never unanswered. It sensitizes us to the will of God. God's will is revealed to us as we pray, and, in our prayer, we find the power to embrace that will and unite our own with His. We find that His will is not something to dread. Jesus was not masochistic or stoic when He said, "Not My will, but Thine be done", and neither are we.

In fact, it is a lot like learning to love rollercoasters and thrill rides. Once you are convinced that the designers mean to create sensations rather than kill you, it is easy to relax and — ok, maybe not relax — but thoroughly enjoy the trip. Once we learn that God's intention is not to destroy us or play games with us, but rather to give us eternal, abundant life, joy, and peace, we may not be able to exactly relax, but we can certainly begin to appreciate the track we find ourselves on. Even if it's upside down in the dark.