The Hiding Place

            Last we met, three weeks ago, we talked about what it’s like to know that the Lord covers our shame. Today, I want to stretch that out a bit, with one of my favorite verses from Colossians 3.

            488 Alameda Street, Detroit, MI. We’ll call it mid-August of the year 1974. The Michigan State Fair- within 300 yards from my boyhood home- was gearing up for another season. The public school teachers of Detroit were considering yet another strike, threatening this 8-year-old with the possibly of an extended summer vacation. These were the greatest of days.

             My friends and I all lived by the same rule back then. We left our homes in the morning during those summers, we came back to eat, but from dawn til dusk, the neighborhood was ours, and all we had to wait for was one thing. When the street lights came on, it was time to go home.

            But there were days, perhaps more than I remember, when the whole neighborhood of 3-4^th graders (all eight of us) were given an extension. We could stay out even later than the street lights, and when we able to manage this, the choice was clear. It was the oak tree near the street in front of my house. The tree which- last I checked- still stands proud to this day. It was the gathering place for one the greatest childhood rituals in the history of man… this tree was the centerpiece of a game we called “hide-and-seek”.

             One lone crusader leaned against the tree, eyes closed, arms covering the face, counting “Mississippis”, 20 to be exact, while the rest of us ran. Ran like the wind in the face of the evening dusk. Most of the same spots were always taken. The flatbed of Sherry’s dad’s truck. The odd little nook behind Timmy’s garage. Or lost in the middle of Danny’s vast array of bushes on the side of his house. But me… I had my own place, that to this day, I’m not sure anybody ever discovered. It was my little secret. My very own, undiscovered hiding place.

            I ran through our next door neighbor’s backyard- to throw my friends off the scent- and came back up around the other side of the house. My neighbor had an old, high porch that led to his front door. Vertical wood slats made their way around the entire porch wrapped around the front of the house. Each appeared to be firmly girded in place. But I knew of two consecutive wood slats that were loose at the bottom- loose enough to slide to the side, and wide enough to squeeze my skinny little 70lb. frame through the slats and under the porch. I was never caught (at least… that’s how I remember it).

            There was, therefore, a feeling under there. A sense of safety. I remember thinking as an eight year old child that if I were ever in trouble, if I ever needed to run from any monster in my bedroom or an intruder in my house… this is where I would run. Because, at least in my mind, I was safe.

            And I would listen, from my position under that porch, to one friend after another- one at a time- yelling when they were captured. Taking inventory of who remained unaccounted. Invariably, the names echoing down the street whittled to mine. Sometimes, after sweet victory, I would sneak from the porch, run back through the backyard, hop 8-9 fences, and emerge half way down the street in the opposite direction. Just to ensure the lasting legacy of my hiding place.

            Three years later, my friends were gone. All of them. Moved out to the ‘burbs. Some only 15-20 minutes, but to a child who spent a lifetime finding them right across the street, a 20-minute drive could have well been the moon. By the time I was 11, I was the sole survivor of the gang that once roamed Alameda Street in Detroit. They were, without doubt, friends of a lifetime.

            It’s been 30-some years since I last slid through the loose slats of wood under the neighbor’s porch. But I have to admit, there have been times in life, when I was tempted to take a trip back to Alameda Street to find out just how many more strips of wood I’d have to break away to slide back under. Times in life when I’d just as soon hide from the disappointments, or the tragedies, the pressures. To return to a time and place where I knew that no matter what was happening on the outside, no matter who was failing or who was yelling down the street, I was always safe, and in the end, I would exit the winner.

            You know, we hear the Lord say that things like anger or malice or slander or lying are things that He despises and things that we should put off. He says that that which belongs to our earthly nature: sexual immorality, evil desires, greed… that these are things which He fully expects us to rid ourselves. And we find that not only are we competing with the pressures of the world, but even more so, the impossible standards that the Lord Himself sets before our soul. We have the world saying “this, this, this”, our very nature saying, “that, that, that”, and God saying, “Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!” And suddenly, we can’t do anything right.

            We’re not talkin’ eating all of your vegetables, here. This is not a matter of failing to wash behind your ears. These are the things of spiritual life and eternal death. And if we ever really stopped to consider the depth of our failures to do what is right in the eyes of the Lord… it is very scary. And no secret place, hidden under our neighbor’s porch, could conceal us from God. Adam and Eve quickly discovered… you can’t hide from God.

            So where do we go? When we’re afraid. When we’re lost. When we’re troubled. When the world is screaming, our lives are failing, or our hearts are breaking. Where do we go?

            There is a house set high on a hill. A house in a city which needs no sun. A house where friends stay forever, because they never leave. A house where the shouts are shouts of victory from those who reside. A house where you will forever find singing and rejoicing. The house of my Father. The house of His Son, my brother, Jesus. “For you died,” Colossians says, “and your life is now hidden with Christ in God”. Your hiding place.

            And there is a feeling there. A sense beyond mere safety. A place to run and hide when our lives crumble around us, and a place where we can know (deeply and passionately) that no matter how often we fail, no matter how disappointing our meager attempts turn out in trying to please God, we are hiding with Jesus. The One who promises never to leave us (Mt 28:20). The One who is always the same (Heb. 13:8). The One who emerges the winner (Col 2:15).

            Jesus is our hiding place. And if our lives are hidden with Jesus- this much I know: No matter our fears, no matter our life’s greatest defeats, we emerge victorious. There is no other exit from this hiding place, but triumph.

            I don’t always know when or how He makes good on His promises. But I do know why. Why is found in a place called Calvary. A place where the Son of God exposed Himself to the pain and sin of the world, so that when that pain and sin made its way to my door, to my heart, there would be a place for me to hide.

            A blessing Jesus forfeited when the nails pierced His hands and the sword His heart. Jesus allowed Himself to be captured, so that we might run to our hiding place, find safety, and win the day.

            488 Alameda Street, Detroit, MI. Those were the greatest of days.

But the best has yet to come.