Irony is a funny thing... by definition. It’s finding 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife. It’s meeting the man of your dreams... and then meeting his beautiful wife. Irony is responsible for making you laugh at really, really inappropriate times and for inserting various “f” words into otherwise benign phrases (e.g. “fan-frickin’-tastic”). Or something like that. So I’m told.
But irony is also something very not funny. The Greeks defined the ironic life as a sad, sad song with a sad, sad ending. The ironic life was one of failure, of destruction... of blindness. In literature or drama, an ironic character would spend his or her days cocooned in ignorance, experiencing the throws and blows of life without ever really knowing why everything they touched seemed to fall apart. But what is perhaps worse than the not-so-blissful ignorance of the ironic character is the fact that the audience knew exactly what was wrong—the whole time—and couldn’t say anything. Perhaps they wanted to, but that fourth wall is in no way transparent. It’s a mighty fortress. No matter how much you yell at the TV, no one is going to hear you. (Except for, of course, the poor sap who you watch TV with. Or your cat, or something.)
I often think of myself as an ironic character, chained and bound by her “tragic flaw.” I can’t seem to hear (or choose not to hear) when God graciously knocks at that fourth wall, bringing truth, bringing sight, bringing grace, rewriting the tragedy. Rather than stopping the show and letting him speak. But he keeps knocking.
“Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen diligently to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. Incline your ear, and come to me; hear, that your soul may live; and I will make with you an everlasting covenant, my steadfast, sure love for David. Behold, I made him a witness to the peoples, a leader and commander for the peoples. Behold, you shall call a nation that you do not know, and a nation that did not know you shall run to you, because of the Lord your God, and of the Holy One of Israel, for he has glorified you.”—Isaiah 55:1-5
The ironic life is the shameful life. It is a life—as Harvey Turner described on Easter at Living Stones—that is completely consumed with the question “what is wrong with me?” and ignores the answer. The shameful one believes that he or she has a tragic flaw that is a mystery to them and completely obvious to God, to others... or it would be if they let anyone get that close. The shameful one believes that both parties identify and judge them by their tragic flaw and not by grace. The shameful one tries in futility to compensate for this ‘tragic flaw’ by spending money for what is not bread and working—fingers to the bone—for what will never satisfy. This is the life of shame. And this is what’s wrong with me, and maybe you.
Maybe you’ve spent your life trying to convince yourself that what you’ve purchased is satisfying, is good enough for you, when it clearly is not—because it’s not the Bread of Life. Here’s the truth about our sad, sad situation: it doesn’t have to be. The God of the universe is offering an everlasting covenant that can never be broken. How? Because Jesus died for shame. He died for every tragic flaw. He rose again to extend his loving arm and smash the dividing wall between us and him. He crushes the fourth wall. He breaks power of irony. He knows what’s wrong with you and wants to show you—your whole life long—how he’s healed you.
I am broken by the fact that he keeps knocking, keeps offering, keeps forgiving, keeps talking, keeps prodding, keeps listening, keeps pursuing, keeps providing... keeps loving. Broken. There is no greater love, no greater sustenance, no richer taste I’ve ever known or will ever know. I am broken by the fact that he is healing my blindness and giving me eyes that can see the truth so that I may be free from my shame. I am broken by the fact that he sets me free to love others as he does... to witness, to plead for, to yearn for the freedom of many.
You don’t have to resign yourself to the ironic, shameful life. He can give you a new story. He may or may not give you a knife in the middle of 10,000 spoons, but he can show you how he's better than what you think you need. He can show you that he's the answer to your shame and more satisfying than the cockamamie solutions you've invented. Let him.
