Romans 8:28, Genesis 50:20
One of the first jobs I had living in Hawaii was working at a coffee/ice cream shop downtown. The gourmet ice cream we served was Tropical Dreams, the best ice cream in Hawaii. Flavors included chocolate mac nut, toasted coconut, and my favorite: salted caramel. All delicious, and I got a free scoop every shift.
It wasn’t long after this that I read a book by John Eldredge about Jesus called Beautiful Outlaw. I really like Eldredge’s books, and this was no exception. In it he challenges the reader to look at the stories about Jesus from the angle that the Lord was perhaps having a lot of fun with what could possibly be called shenanigans. For example, was he being ornery when asking the disciples if they caught anything in their nets (knowing they hadn’t), perhaps guessing it might ruffle their feathers a bit? Did he get a kick out of telling Peter to go catch a fish in order to pay his taxes? These sorts of things.
Towards the end of the book Eldredge talks about how Jesus continues to be playful with his people in very personal ways. After sharing many stories about other believers, he closes his chapter called “Letting Jesus Be Himself—Encounters”, with this story of his own experience:
I was going to call this book Jesus of a Thousand Hearts because of the way he continually breaks into my life. He “speaks” to me through hearts. I’ll find stones in the shape of hearts in rivers where I’m fishing. I’ve seen them almost step-by-step up a mountainside when on a grueling climb. Praying in the morning I’ll look out the window and passing by will be a heart-shaped cloud. Dinner rolls, seashells, stains on my jeans. I’ve won the lottery when it comes to hearts from Jesus. But I am ashamed to admit that last summer, I grew a little impatient with them. I was going through a trying time and seeking God for the answer to many questions. Often, he would simply give me a heart in reply. I’d be walking down the sidewalk, and there in the cement see a heart-shaped hole, made by a bubble when they poured the sidewalk.
I actually grew a little dismissive of them. I didn’t want hearts—I wanted answers.
So, Jesus stopped giving these treasures of our friendship.
Last fall, while walking through an alpine meadow bow hunting, I was asking him, “How come you don’t give me hearts anymore?” I asked it in a pouting kind of way. At that moment something gray caught my eye. I looked down midstride, and there in the grass, about as big as a dinner plate, was a dried piece of cow manure—in the perfect shape of a heart.
If I didn’t know Jesus adores me, if I didn’t know he is playful, and if our relationship didn’t allow me to receive a playful tease, I might have misinterpreted the icon. But I loved it. It was both, “Oh, so now you want a heart?” And, “I adore you still.” A cow-pie heart. That is so Jesus. Wish I’d taken a photo of it—we could have put it on the cover of this book.
I really like that story, and I’d like to share another one in which I believe Jesus was, in similar fashion, making a joke with me.
Not long after I started working for Roto-Rooter I was called to a job at the Tropical Dreams factory. Yes, the very place where they make all those delicious flavors and home of the best ice cream in Hawaii.
But the dream quickly turned into a nightmare.
Like all dreams and nightmares, the details are a bit fuzzy. But I will share with you what I remember.
I remember I arrived at the job while my wife and a group of our friends were in an active text thread. What all the incoming comments were about, I don’t know. I just remember it was amusing and I was a little bummed I had to ignore all the buzzing in my pocket as I embarked on solving the mystery of why the main pipe wouldn’t drain.
I remember I had to open a circular cover outside to access an underground tank that was full of ice cream-making waste, whatever that consists of. Decomposing creams, sugars, flavors, perhaps.
I remember that for some reason I stuck my head in this hole, probably to see if the incoming pipe was plugged.
I remember the smell of this hole revealed that this was indeed an utter bastion of putridness. In Roto-Rooter Theology #4 I noted that there is not much in the drain cleaning world that is nastier than grease. Well, this was nastier.
I remember I extracted my head from the hole and took a break to look at my phone to check on the conversation I hadn’t been part of because I’d been busy sniffing an uruk-hai’s posterior.
Before saying what happened next, let me reflect a moment on the smell of this hole. My theory is that while ugly ducklings do turn into beautiful swans and “gutters grow the sweetest rose,” the opposite is also true as the loveliest things, when rotting, create the worst of odors. This explains why the underbelly of the makings of such wonderful ice cream could smell so foul.
Back to the story: When I looked at my phone the first thing I saw in the thread was a picture sent by one of my friends. I was somewhat shocked to see that it was a very disturbing image, perhaps from some horror movie, of a quite scary clown peeking out from a grate or manhole in the street.
I happen to have a very strong aversion to horror movies. I never watch them, and even jokes about them make me uneasy. That’s how I felt for perhaps a second or two when seeing this picture, especially completely out of context of whatever the text conversation was. But what happened the next moment was amazing. It was like the Holy Spirit elbowed me and without using the words, what I sensed being communicated was something like Wouldn’t you say this perfectly describes what’s happening in that hole right over there? Like the clown’s wicked smile, here you have the freakish abomination that is ice cream ingredients gone bad. Ha!
It was actually so funny to me that I think I may have laughed out loud. And of course, the deeper message that came across was: You may feel alone and like you’re missing out as you deal with this stench. But I see you, I’m with you, and I’m cracking jokes.
Honestly, like Eldredge’s cow pie, this divine encounter was a very precious thing and it made my day. I no longer cared about missing out on the text thread, and the smell lost its edge. I immediately knew in a fresh way to what extent Jesus really was with me there on the job. It truly was as wonderful as if I’d been given a gigantic scoop of salted caramel.
The Lord out-clowned the clown that day, and it was hilarious.
Forgiving Gollum 