Miracles

Do you believe in miracles? What kind of miracles?

I asked my mother this question and she said that they are an "act of God." But what does that mean, an "act of God?" To some, especially in my Pentecostal tradition, it means physical healings. But then, what would be the purpose of these? Healing for healing’s sake?
Here’s a cliché for you: in following Jesus, I find that it’s not really about me, it’s about doing things to put the focus back on God. Sure, if physical healings give the focus back to Jesus, that’s great. But I think that we have our own magic in medicine today, so that a physical act of God is no longer has the ability to display his power. We even have remedies to cure what used to be thought of as certain types of demon possession: mental illness.

This medicine vs. physical healing debate seems analogous to the story when Moses goes back to Egypt and God does the first miracle; he turns Moses’ staff into a snake. In reaction, the Egyptian sorcerers do the same thing. Big deal. Any god can turn a staff into a snake, they seem to be saying.

So we say with our modern medicine. Don’t get me wrong, I am not poo-pooing our doctors and hospitals. But, we no longer have the necessity for physical healings because of our reliance upon man’s invention. Yet, God still wants to work. Where is our act of God now?

Here’s another cliché: in our hearts. I once heard an analogy about today’s young generation, the millennials, that their hearts are not simply broken, but shattered. They are not broke in two, easily repairable with glue; they are broken in so many pieces and some of pieces may have been lost or misshapen. There’s no putting these hearts back together without an act of God. Even though I am not a millennial (just barely, though), I understand. So many of my friends have been hurt and confused from divorce, sexualization at a young age, and not being given a purpose other than to make their parents happy. And this list is by no means comprehensive. As a result, they search and seek. Some turn to art in angry tones of red and black. Some turn to guitar playing and weed smoking. Some turn to the refuge of their family. Some turn into an Ana or Mia. And some just try to make it through, not knowing if they have a calling at all.

They don’t need God to heal their arm because of a skateboarding incident or to clear up their chicken pox, we have antibiotics for that. They need God to search deep into their souls and do a miraculous work inside of them. To give them the confidence that they were brought here to please God, the most perfect being ever. To give them peace, make them whole, so that they stop searching and start living. (Goodness, I sound like a pharmaceutical commercial.)

Now, what that looks like, I have no clue.