If it be your will, that I speak no more

And my voice be still, as it was before

I will speak no more—I shall abide until

I am spoken for, if it be your will (Leonard Cohen, “If It Be Your Will,” Various Positions)

I took a class—Reading the Gospel of John—that was, in short, a life-changing experience. Part of the class was to take a passage from the Gospel of John and just wrestle with it for the whole quarter. And wrestle with it I did. I felt like I pushed it, prodded it, trying to get meaning from it. Sometimes, it pushed back. I was both frustrated and enlightened, wounded and blessed—and came away with a very different picture of both God and myself.

A bit about my background going into this study: I grew up in a pretty happy Adventist home. I was okay with church and God and religion. That is, until I entered my undergrad program at Walla Walla College and was rudely awakened to the nature of church politics and disagreements. I was seriously shocked by the 1995 women’s ordination vote at Utrecht. It had never occurred to me that such a thing would even be up for discussion! There were a few other painful memories from that time which I won’t get into here, but suffice to say that by the time I left college, my faith in the church and God had been tested. However, my professors in the theology department at Walla Walla encouraged me to stick with the church and pursue a career in ministry. Because of their encouragement, I was more determined than ever to stick with the church. Problem was, I wasn’t sure if the church would want me. Eight years of pastoring left me feeling even more ambivalent and torn. I liked working with people—yet there were some serious wounds—some serious doubts—that kept eating away at my confidence.

With that background, I approached the Gospel of John. And even though I had read John before, although I thought I knew how to read the Bible, I was totally unprepared for what I found. Probably my two least favorite things in the world are confrontation and authority. When it comes to either of those things, I start stammering and hesitating, but the Jesus I met in John was fluent in the use of both. In John 5, the passage I wrestled with all quarter, Jesus heals a man, not because anyone challenges him, not because the man asks, not even as a response to faith. Jesus pretty much heals the guy because he can. It might be more accurate to say that Jesus didn’t heal the man, Jesus commanded the man to act like a healthy man, and the man obeyed. In the subsequent confrontation with the Jewish leaders, Jesus tells them, “My Father will show you greater things than these, so that you will be astonished.” Later on in the gospel, 14:12, Jesus is talking with his disciples and he makes this really astonishing promise: “The one who believes in me will do greater things than these.” I realized, reading these passages, that when I’d say things like “the church is Jesus’ body on earth,” I didn’t really get what I was saying. Jesus commissioned his disciples—and through them, the church—to become one with God, like he and the Father were one, and take up the role of Jesus on earth. To do even greater things than Jesus did when he was here.

In my study, I saw myself in that sick man of John 5. I had been carrying these wounds around, I’d been hurt by authority, hurt by my own attempts to use authority in ways that proved unhelpful or hurtful to others. I didn’t want to be healed. I didn’t want any of that, the authority, the responsibility, the self-confident swagger of those who “can” and “know.” My place was with the beggars and the cripples, the “sat upon, the spat upon, the ratted on.” But here comes Jesus, with purpose in his eyes and a gift in his hands. He’s got healing for me, but more than that, he’s got a mission, he’s got authority, he’s got power. “Do you want to be made well?” he asks. I tell him. I’m too far gone, Jesus. I’m too wounded, I can’t get in that pool, I don’t have the power, I can’t walk out of here and start exercising power. Go on and call someone else. But Jesus doesn’t listen. He doesn’t accept the excuses. He doesn’t go away. Just like in John 5:8, he simply commands: “Take up your mat and walk.” So what do I do now?

“Take up your mat and walk.” I guess there is nothing to do but take up my mat and obey. Take up my mat and change the world--dare I say, do even greater things than Jesus? So at the end of this study, at the end of this class, I shrugged my shoulders, muttered “oh, bother,” and went to take up my mat…and walk.

If it be your will, that a voice be true

From this broken hill, I will sing to you

From this broken hill, all your praises they shall ring

If it be your will to let me sing…