Through Locked Doors

On the evening of that first day of the week, when the disciples were together, with the doors locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you!"  After He had said this, he showed them his hands and his side.  The disciples were overjoyed when they saw the Lord (Jn 20:19-20).

 

We have so many locked doors in our lives --- doors locked and barred against the entrance of God.  We are rational creatures, especially in the West, so influenced by Greek culture and philosophy, and we resist believing things that we cannot see, hear, and taste for ourselves.  We are "like gods;" the Greeks created their gods in their own image, and we tend to reduce our god to manageable proportions, an idol that we can manipulate and control according to our own designs.  As Thomas said, "Unless I put my hand into His side and my fingers into the nail-holes, I will not believe!"  (I trust in my own mind, my own senses; unless I "see," I will not believe.)

 

There are other locked doors to our souls also -- fear, trauma, woundedness, rejection, disappointment, failure, human respect -- all have worked together to seal the doors of our hearts against the entrance of God.  If we open the door, we let in all the things we have been trying to shut out in self-defense.  It hurts too much; it is easier to remain walled-in against man and God.  We don't want to be fools, trusting in fairy tales, in things that are not real.  We need to be strong, independent in body and mind; we need to take care of ourselves. 

 

But in spite of all, He comes!  He comes through our locked doors and stands in our midst.  He is there, in spite of all we have done to keep Him away.  In spite of fear, greed, hopelessness, and despair, He is still Emmanuel, God with us!  He still wants to bring us peace, and knowing that we will not go to Him, He comes to us right where we are.

 

I have just finished reading Getting Life, by Michael Morton, the story of a man who served 25 years in prison for a crime he did not commit -- the murder of his wife.  The clear evidence of his innocence was deliberately suppressed by a miscarriage of justice.  The small-town sheriff was determined to "solve" the case and "prove" his worth, so he buried testimony and evidence that Morton did not commit the crime.  Not only did Morton lose his wife, but his 3-year old son was cruelly ripped from his arms and given to a family Morton did not wish to raise his son.  The next 25 years, as we can well imagine, were a nightmare of despair.  He was locked in maximum security prisons with the insane, the cruel, and the hopeless. 

 

As Morton's son grew older, he was told and believed that his father was guilty; he no longer wanted to see or visit him in prison, and he changed his name to that of a man Morton didn't even know.  At that point,

 

..I felt the blow emotionally, psychologically --- and ultimately -- spiritually.  Suddenly, the only anchor I had was gone.  Eric was the only safe place I'd had left.  He had been the receptacle of all my hopes and dreams.  He was the light at the end of the tunnel.  He was my idol, my religion -- my reason for living.  I believed in him.  He was the only thing.  And he had vanished.

 

I felt so bad, so hopeless, and so defeated, so broken, that I did something completely out of character for me.  I cried out to God.  I begged for a sign, for a reason to go on, for a way out of my abyss and my pain -- for some deliverance, some reassurance, some relief.  Something.  Anything. 

 

I got nothing.  Only silence and emptiness -- further proof that I'd been right all along: there really was no one there.  I truly was alone.  So I plodded on, day after day.  Every twenty-four-hour stretch was filled with familiar tedium---working, working out, eating, and sleeping.  Then doing it again, and again, and again.  Each day was just another gray day in prison.  There had been thousands like it for me in the past, and it appeared there would be thousands more in the future.

 

At the end of yet another tiresome and typical day, I pulled myself onto my bunk.  It was late, and I was worn out.  My cell partner was already asleep and snoring.  I put on my radio headphones and switched off the small light beside my bunk.  I tuned in to a classical music station, closed my eyes, and began listening --- preparing to be carried away into another night of dark and dreamless sleep. 

 

What happened next changed my life. 

 

With no warning whatsoever, a bright, blinding, golden light burst into the room.  The light swallowed up everything; it enveloped me.  I felt wrapped in that light -- a warm, wonderful, comforting light.  It was a sensation different from any I had ever know.  I felt like I was floating above my bunk---fearlessly, effortlessly, blissfully.  My ears were filled not with music but with an incomprehensible roar.  I didn't know if it was the thunderous roll of a massive wind or the crash and rumble of great, rushing waters.  I felt I was being lifted by a monumental power --- by something mighty but gentle, formidable and yet more forgiving than anything I had ever experienced.

 

But most of all --- more than the beautiful light or the roar of unseen winds or the pure pleasure this experience gave me --- I remember the infinite peace and joy, the limitless compassion and the intense love I felt aimed right at me.

 

At that moment, this power was not meant for all of the world or for all of humanity --- it was being shared directly and specifically with me.  Only me.  And I knew without being told that it was nothing less than God's perfect, boundless love.

 

After so many years in prison, after being rejected by virtually everyone-- after being bounced out of courts and kept behind bars; after losing my wife, my son, my life ---this was the moment when everything changed.  Finally, at long last, I felt peace-- real peace-- and I reveled in it.  I escaped into the beautiful moment. 

 

The next thing I knew, my alarm was going off, the lights were on, and I was back in my same old cell, in the same place -- in the same prison.  I had the same problems and the same limits.

 

But for me it was a new day.

 

Tomorrow, I will add Morton's subsequent reflections on what had happened to him that night.  Someone, maybe Thomas Aquinas, defined theology as "faith seeking understanding."  Like Morton, most people first have an experience of God and then seek to understand what has happened to them, as certainly did the apostles, both before and after their experience of the Resurrection of Jesus. 

 

What happened to them was not simply a historic event; it is what happens in every life that cries out to God  --- He comes.  He enters through all of our locked doors; He cuts through our fears and apprehensions.  He is with us, in us, and for us.  And He will not let us go.