“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” (Psalm 23:1).
At some point, as a young child, my mind messed up the syntax and meaning of the phrase that will hold our attention this week: “I shall not want.” Somehow I connected the idea of “not wanting” with the “the Lord” so that what the Psalm really said was “I shall not want the Lord to be my shepherd.” That didn’t make sense.
The main action word of the sentence, the act of wanting, seems to hang there at the end of the sentence with no point of reference. It is an aimless and vague wanting. Now, a good bit older, I think I get it. Not just the way the words work in the sentence and what the sentence means – but the way our wants can dictate so much about how we live. Wants have a way of hanging there aimlessly, vague in their direction and focus. We want but we don’t know what we want.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” And yet we do. We seem to want all the time, even when we don’t know what.
As we step deeper into Psalm 23 this week we will want to tread carefully. We’re walking the terrain of our desires and the ground is treacherous – not because our desires are bad, but because desire can be a very good thing, a positive motivator of our actions and decisions.
Some of our wants are born on the broad daylight of hope. Desire takes the form of a dream in the mind and soul.
This is the kind of wanting that moves a person to seek counseling because there’s a desire for wholeness and healing in some area of life. This kind of wanting empowers a person to change careers because they deeply desire to do something with their life that makes a difference in someone else’s life. This is the kind of wanting that makes young people decide to get married and gets a young father to work every morning because he’s determined to get to of debt.
Almost everything of worth that we pursue in this life is born of desire. The desire shapes a dream. We see ourselves and our world differently than it is right now and we want what we see. These desires answer God’s beckoning, an invitation to become who God created us to be. This is desire bent heaven-ward, and it is good.
But some of our wants are born in the darkness of fear. This wanting does not live within us as a dream. Rather, we carry it as a kind weight. It is a nagging sense of lack. This kind of want is the discomfort of an empty place and we are certain we can fill it ourselves. This is the “want” of Psalm 23. It is a craving that pulls us away from the shepherd in an attempt to secure our own well being.
I don’t need to rehearse the ways this wanting shows itself in our living. We’re all acquainted with it. Whether it’s the acquisition of things or money or the attainment of a new position in the company or a word of praise and affirmation for something you did. Psalm 23 is telling us that we need not live our days driven by that nagging lack. We don’t have to keep looking for the next thing that will fix us or make things right.
The Rolling Stones sang with an almost angry passion, “I can’t get no satisfaction.” Not a bad song, except for one thing. It’s not true. For those who have a shepherd in Jesus, there is satisfaction. Not a lazy and complacent kind of satisfaction, but a deep trust in the God who shepherds us.
So what do you want today? Think about it. What’s ahead of you, pulling you into the day? What’s behind you, pushing toward your life? Are your wants heaven-bent dreams, or is there a nagging lack – and can you tell the difference?
Prayer:
Plant within us, O God, desires that become dreams and move us toward your will for us. And in those places of fear, the nagging lack where we try to secure our own well being, teach us to trust you as our shepherd. Grant to us today the satisfaction of being loved by one who wills our good and is sufficient for all that we need. We ask this in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Say So . . . With Assurance
The Lord is my shepherd . . . (Psalm 23:1)
There are 150 poem-songs in the book of Psalms. The Hebrew title of the book is literally “Praises.” Somehow the Hebrew morphs to Latin and finally to the English “Psalms.”
That these songs are called “praises” is interesting since many of the Psalms hardly sound praise-like. The Psalmists argue with God, question God and sometimes come quite close to accusing God. But somehow even these anguished utterances are praise when the one who speaks is determined to move toward God in all things. God is praised in shouts of hallelujah as well as in cries of lament.
Of the 150 Psalms in the Bible, 73 of them are designated with a prescript that connects the Psalm with the life of David. The prescripts were added as the Psalms found their place in the worship of Israel. Liturgical notes are characteristic of the Psalms, indicative of the fact that we’re reading a hymn book.
The prescripts that connect 73 Psalms with David sometimes provide a very detailed context for the words of the Psalm: “Of David. When he pretended to be insane before Abimelech” (Ps. 34). At other times we get a very simple line: “A Psalm of David.” Such is the case with Psalm 23. The meaning of this isn’t entirely clear. It might mean a Psalm by David. It might mean the Psalm is about David or was composed for or to David.
Of the 73 Psalms connected with David we can most easily believe that the much loved 23rd Psalm came from David’s own hand. In the mid 1850s the London preacher Charles Spurgeon said that the opening line had a sense of melody in it because it came from David’s heart. “David spake of what he had verified all his life long.” Spurgeon was probably right – but one has to wonder exactly how David came to know this.
And more to the point, how do we come to know the same thing? How do we come to affirm with conviction that “The Lord is my shepherd?”
The most commonly proposed answer to that question is that David himself was a shepherd. He knew what it meant to tend a flock and lead them to water and guide them with rod and staff. No doubt, the days of tending flocks shaped David as both a leader and a poet. But perhaps there’s something more, something deeper that speaks to our own lives and allows us to say exactly what David said with the same deep assurance.
Many years after his days in the fields, not long after he had been anointed as Israel’s king by Samuel, David secured the throne and consolidated power over the unruly twelve tribes. Saul, his benefactor turned nemesis, was dead. David was settled in his palace and at peace from all his enemies. Savoring the sweetness of success and power, David planned to construct a dwelling place for the Ark of the Covenant. The prophet Nathan blessed the plan. “Do whatever seems right to you. The Lord is with you.”
But no sooner had the plan been announced than God spoke to the prophet and told him that David needed to scrub those plans. God wanted to make it clear that he had never needed or asked for a house. Rather than David undertaking to provide for God, God wanted David to understand that God was the one who provided for David. David’s entire life was a story of God’s provision, a story of sovereign grace. From days in the fields to the position of power in the palace – all of it was God’s doing (2 Samuel 7:1-12).
And thus we all know that “the Lord is my shepherd.” The life of each and every one of us has never been a story of our own accomplishment. We are not self-made. We take no credit for the successes and we do not shoulder the failures alone. God is actively guiding, providing, comforting in all of it. The Lord is indeed our shepherd.
After the prophet spoke this message to David, David prayed. “Who am I, O sovereign Lord, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?” (2 Sam. 7:18). Good question. How far has God’s sovereign grace brought you? And do you truly know that the Lord is your shepherd?
Prayer:
Gracious God, we would say with confidence that you are our shepherd. We don’t want to simply repeat familiar words. Give us eyes to see your sovereign grace in our lives, your providential care that has guided our steps when we least sensed your presence. You have brought us this far, and we give you thanks in Jesus’ name. Amen.
There are 150 poem-songs in the book of Psalms. The Hebrew title of the book is literally “Praises.” Somehow the Hebrew morphs to Latin and finally to the English “Psalms.”
That these songs are called “praises” is interesting since many of the Psalms hardly sound praise-like. The Psalmists argue with God, question God and sometimes come quite close to accusing God. But somehow even these anguished utterances are praise when the one who speaks is determined to move toward God in all things. God is praised in shouts of hallelujah as well as in cries of lament.
Of the 150 Psalms in the Bible, 73 of them are designated with a prescript that connects the Psalm with the life of David. The prescripts were added as the Psalms found their place in the worship of Israel. Liturgical notes are characteristic of the Psalms, indicative of the fact that we’re reading a hymn book.
The prescripts that connect 73 Psalms with David sometimes provide a very detailed context for the words of the Psalm: “Of David. When he pretended to be insane before Abimelech” (Ps. 34). At other times we get a very simple line: “A Psalm of David.” Such is the case with Psalm 23. The meaning of this isn’t entirely clear. It might mean a Psalm by David. It might mean the Psalm is about David or was composed for or to David.
Of the 73 Psalms connected with David we can most easily believe that the much loved 23rd Psalm came from David’s own hand. In the mid 1850s the London preacher Charles Spurgeon said that the opening line had a sense of melody in it because it came from David’s heart. “David spake of what he had verified all his life long.” Spurgeon was probably right – but one has to wonder exactly how David came to know this.
And more to the point, how do we come to know the same thing? How do we come to affirm with conviction that “The Lord is my shepherd?”
The most commonly proposed answer to that question is that David himself was a shepherd. He knew what it meant to tend a flock and lead them to water and guide them with rod and staff. No doubt, the days of tending flocks shaped David as both a leader and a poet. But perhaps there’s something more, something deeper that speaks to our own lives and allows us to say exactly what David said with the same deep assurance.
Many years after his days in the fields, not long after he had been anointed as Israel’s king by Samuel, David secured the throne and consolidated power over the unruly twelve tribes. Saul, his benefactor turned nemesis, was dead. David was settled in his palace and at peace from all his enemies. Savoring the sweetness of success and power, David planned to construct a dwelling place for the Ark of the Covenant. The prophet Nathan blessed the plan. “Do whatever seems right to you. The Lord is with you.”
But no sooner had the plan been announced than God spoke to the prophet and told him that David needed to scrub those plans. God wanted to make it clear that he had never needed or asked for a house. Rather than David undertaking to provide for God, God wanted David to understand that God was the one who provided for David. David’s entire life was a story of God’s provision, a story of sovereign grace. From days in the fields to the position of power in the palace – all of it was God’s doing (2 Samuel 7:1-12).
And thus we all know that “the Lord is my shepherd.” The life of each and every one of us has never been a story of our own accomplishment. We are not self-made. We take no credit for the successes and we do not shoulder the failures alone. God is actively guiding, providing, comforting in all of it. The Lord is indeed our shepherd.
After the prophet spoke this message to David, David prayed. “Who am I, O sovereign Lord, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?” (2 Sam. 7:18). Good question. How far has God’s sovereign grace brought you? And do you truly know that the Lord is your shepherd?
Prayer:
Gracious God, we would say with confidence that you are our shepherd. We don’t want to simply repeat familiar words. Give us eyes to see your sovereign grace in our lives, your providential care that has guided our steps when we least sensed your presence. You have brought us this far, and we give you thanks in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Needed: A Shepherd
The Lord is my shepherd . . . (Psalm 23:1).
First, I’m defensive and a little bit angry. Then I feel foolish, as if I should have seen what someone else has so deftly pointed out. And then finally I step back and take an honest look at my own opinion and make an effort to evaluate the contrasting opinion based on its merits.
That’s what I hope I’m doing now – honestly evaluating, thinking things through. Since reading a nationally known pastor’s outright dismissal of the “shepherd” as a model for what pastors do, I’ve had to negotiate the angry, foolish, thoughtful cycle of idea grief. I’m still not sure I’m where I need to be with the whole thing.
The words that troubled me are in print, so I’m able to review them and listen to them over and over again, trying to make sure I’m hearing what was really said. This highly regarded teacher is someone who I greatly respect. I listen to his podcast. So when he said in an interview that the word “shepherd” was irrelevant, he got my attention. Here’s the quote, admittedly removed from context:
“That word [shepherd] needs to go away. Jesus talked about shepherds because there was one over there in a pasture he could point to . . . I’ve never seen a flock. I’ve never spent five minutes with a shepherd. It was culturally relevant in the time of Jesus but it’s not culturally relevant anymore.” (Leadership Journal, May 28, 2007).
I get that. I claim little to no experience with shepherds or flocks of livestock of any kind. In my first church in Oklahoma I knew that several of my members owned cows, but I never actually had interaction with their cattle. On my recent trip to the Holy Land – an ideal place for getting first-hand knowledge of biblical images and metaphors – the shepherds I saw were off at a distance. I do have a good picture from one of my fellow pilgrims of a shepherd with whom we had some up-close contact, but the picture is all I have of that experience.
Shepherds are not easily found in metro-Atlanta. But while I acknowledge the truth of what this fellow-pastor says, I just can’t reach his conclusion.
For one thing, his position elevates personal experience to an unworthy height while it sells people short. Meaningful knowledge cannot be tethered to what I myself have seen and done. It is entirely possible affirm as “true” something that is alien to my own life experience. My own story can never be an adequate measure of what is worthy and helpful. And it is also possible that intelligent people are capable of comprehending the meaning of a metaphor that is foreign to their own time and culture.
Jesus didn’t use the word “shepherd” because there was one in a field that he could see and point to. Jesus used “shepherd” because he had read Isaiah and the Psalms. The concept came to him from Israel’s history, not a Judean hillside.
But beyond that there is this practical matter. If you jettison the biblical image of a “shepherd” what will you replace it with? Is there anything that we can see and identify that offers a suitable and adequate substitute the Biblical image? What speaks most powerfully to the deepest needs of our life?
The Lord is . . . my adviser? We need far more than advice. The Lord is . . . my boss? That hardly stirs our affections. The Lord is . . . my CEO? These days that stirs nothing but disdain and distrust. The Lord is my . . . coach? That might get at what we need. Personal coaching is big these days. The Lord is my . . . counselor? Maybe – but good counselors pay close attention to boundaries. The shepherd risks his life for the sheep. Counselor is close, but not quite there.
Maybe what we need is exactly what Psalm 23 says. We need a shepherd.
How do you see it? Why does it matter that Jesus is a “good shepherd?” Could he meet you in the details of your life as something else?
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, you called yourself a good shepherd. While the image is strange to us, we know you in what you do with us – the way you guide us and seek us out when lost and lead us to what will sustain us and give us life. We will not fight over words. We only seek to follow you as you do your work among us by your Holy Spirit. Do that work today, we pray. Amen.
First, I’m defensive and a little bit angry. Then I feel foolish, as if I should have seen what someone else has so deftly pointed out. And then finally I step back and take an honest look at my own opinion and make an effort to evaluate the contrasting opinion based on its merits.
That’s what I hope I’m doing now – honestly evaluating, thinking things through. Since reading a nationally known pastor’s outright dismissal of the “shepherd” as a model for what pastors do, I’ve had to negotiate the angry, foolish, thoughtful cycle of idea grief. I’m still not sure I’m where I need to be with the whole thing.
The words that troubled me are in print, so I’m able to review them and listen to them over and over again, trying to make sure I’m hearing what was really said. This highly regarded teacher is someone who I greatly respect. I listen to his podcast. So when he said in an interview that the word “shepherd” was irrelevant, he got my attention. Here’s the quote, admittedly removed from context:
“That word [shepherd] needs to go away. Jesus talked about shepherds because there was one over there in a pasture he could point to . . . I’ve never seen a flock. I’ve never spent five minutes with a shepherd. It was culturally relevant in the time of Jesus but it’s not culturally relevant anymore.” (Leadership Journal, May 28, 2007).
I get that. I claim little to no experience with shepherds or flocks of livestock of any kind. In my first church in Oklahoma I knew that several of my members owned cows, but I never actually had interaction with their cattle. On my recent trip to the Holy Land – an ideal place for getting first-hand knowledge of biblical images and metaphors – the shepherds I saw were off at a distance. I do have a good picture from one of my fellow pilgrims of a shepherd with whom we had some up-close contact, but the picture is all I have of that experience.
Shepherds are not easily found in metro-Atlanta. But while I acknowledge the truth of what this fellow-pastor says, I just can’t reach his conclusion.
For one thing, his position elevates personal experience to an unworthy height while it sells people short. Meaningful knowledge cannot be tethered to what I myself have seen and done. It is entirely possible affirm as “true” something that is alien to my own life experience. My own story can never be an adequate measure of what is worthy and helpful. And it is also possible that intelligent people are capable of comprehending the meaning of a metaphor that is foreign to their own time and culture.
Jesus didn’t use the word “shepherd” because there was one in a field that he could see and point to. Jesus used “shepherd” because he had read Isaiah and the Psalms. The concept came to him from Israel’s history, not a Judean hillside.
But beyond that there is this practical matter. If you jettison the biblical image of a “shepherd” what will you replace it with? Is there anything that we can see and identify that offers a suitable and adequate substitute the Biblical image? What speaks most powerfully to the deepest needs of our life?
The Lord is . . . my adviser? We need far more than advice. The Lord is . . . my boss? That hardly stirs our affections. The Lord is . . . my CEO? These days that stirs nothing but disdain and distrust. The Lord is my . . . coach? That might get at what we need. Personal coaching is big these days. The Lord is my . . . counselor? Maybe – but good counselors pay close attention to boundaries. The shepherd risks his life for the sheep. Counselor is close, but not quite there.
Maybe what we need is exactly what Psalm 23 says. We need a shepherd.
How do you see it? Why does it matter that Jesus is a “good shepherd?” Could he meet you in the details of your life as something else?
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, you called yourself a good shepherd. While the image is strange to us, we know you in what you do with us – the way you guide us and seek us out when lost and lead us to what will sustain us and give us life. We will not fight over words. We only seek to follow you as you do your work among us by your Holy Spirit. Do that work today, we pray. Amen.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Learning to Mean What We Pray
“The Lord is my shepherd . . .” (Psalm 23:1).
I had no idea what I was in for. I can’t recall now if I had purchased popcorn and a big Coke. If I had it seems to me I wasted my money. You can’t watch the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan and snack on popcorn. There’s just something wrong, almost irreverent about it.
Yesterday, June 6th, 2010, was the 66th anniversary of the allied forces invasion of the beaches of Normandy, known since that time as D-Day. I’ve never been to Normandy, but I’d like to go someday. For now, as lame as it sounds, my knowledge of D-Day has come entirely from books and documentaries. The most intense experience came from a movie. I sat in a cushioned chair and watched a recreation of the event on a screen.
Maybe that’s what D-Day made possible. A kid born in 1962 would sit a comfy dark theater in 1998 watching a movie about the hell some other kids walked into in 1944. And were it not for the bravery and the sacrifice and horror of what happened in 1944, the 1998 popcorn and movie experience might not have ever happened.
I only saw the movie once, and it’s been awhile. Snapshots of the gruesome opening scene have stayed with me: Crowded amphibious assault vessels approaching Omaha Beach, ocean spray raining down on solemn faces, the absence of frivolity, the presence of courage and fear. Just enough courage to do what the day demanded. Just enough fear to appreciate the gravity of what was being done.
I haven’t researched this and I can’t prove it, but I have to believe that on those boats there was someone, perhaps many, maybe hundreds, who knew and prayed the 23rd Psalm. As the fog parted to reveal a distant shore, as the beaches came closer, as doors dropped and bullets ripped the damp air, surely someone had repeated again and again, “The Lord is my shepherd.”
On June 6, 1944 the valley of the shadow of death took more substance than a mere shadow. Many of the men who walked into that valley didn’t walk out of it. And this begs the question: what does it mean to say “the Lord is my shepherd?” If even one person prayed those words and believed them only to die moments later on the beach, how are we to understand the shepherding presence of God in our lives? What does it look like? What does it mean for us to say “the Lord is my shepherd?” How do we say it and mean it?
In the weeks ahead we’ll be taking a leisurely look at the shepherding work of God by walking through each line of the 23rd Psalm. In his commentary on the Psalms, Old Testament scholar James L. Mays maintains that the entire 23rd Psalm is an exposition of the very first line – “the Lord is my shepherd.” Our reflections in the weeks ahead will seek to give shape and texture to how God shepherds your life.
Most of us who undertake to pray the words of the 23rd Psalm will never face anything like the horror of D-Day. Rather, we seek to affirm the shepherding presence of God in far more ordinary circumstances of life. We claim God as our shepherd as we make career decisions and navigate morning traffic. We claim God as our shepherd as we exercise parental wisdom and prepare a budget. We claim God as our shepherd when we plan vacations and then travel to enjoy what we’ve planned.
In every aspect of life, God is indeed a shepherd to us. The death on Normandy’s beaches did not negate the shepherding love of God for us. The loss of a job and the bad results of a biopsy do not render the shepherding presence of God null and void. The tensions in your marriage and the fluctuations of the market do not make the familiar words meaningless.
“The Lord is my shepherd.”
In the coming weeks we will seek to pray these words and learn what they mean. And along the way, by God’s grace, we may also learn to mean what we pray.
Prayer:
We give you thanks, O God, for your shepherding presence in our lives. Throughout this day meet us in ordinary events and routines and teach us what it means to live in the confidence of your shepherding love. We claim it boldly now in the name of Jesus, the good shepherd. Amen.
I had no idea what I was in for. I can’t recall now if I had purchased popcorn and a big Coke. If I had it seems to me I wasted my money. You can’t watch the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan and snack on popcorn. There’s just something wrong, almost irreverent about it.
Yesterday, June 6th, 2010, was the 66th anniversary of the allied forces invasion of the beaches of Normandy, known since that time as D-Day. I’ve never been to Normandy, but I’d like to go someday. For now, as lame as it sounds, my knowledge of D-Day has come entirely from books and documentaries. The most intense experience came from a movie. I sat in a cushioned chair and watched a recreation of the event on a screen.
Maybe that’s what D-Day made possible. A kid born in 1962 would sit a comfy dark theater in 1998 watching a movie about the hell some other kids walked into in 1944. And were it not for the bravery and the sacrifice and horror of what happened in 1944, the 1998 popcorn and movie experience might not have ever happened.
I only saw the movie once, and it’s been awhile. Snapshots of the gruesome opening scene have stayed with me: Crowded amphibious assault vessels approaching Omaha Beach, ocean spray raining down on solemn faces, the absence of frivolity, the presence of courage and fear. Just enough courage to do what the day demanded. Just enough fear to appreciate the gravity of what was being done.
I haven’t researched this and I can’t prove it, but I have to believe that on those boats there was someone, perhaps many, maybe hundreds, who knew and prayed the 23rd Psalm. As the fog parted to reveal a distant shore, as the beaches came closer, as doors dropped and bullets ripped the damp air, surely someone had repeated again and again, “The Lord is my shepherd.”
On June 6, 1944 the valley of the shadow of death took more substance than a mere shadow. Many of the men who walked into that valley didn’t walk out of it. And this begs the question: what does it mean to say “the Lord is my shepherd?” If even one person prayed those words and believed them only to die moments later on the beach, how are we to understand the shepherding presence of God in our lives? What does it look like? What does it mean for us to say “the Lord is my shepherd?” How do we say it and mean it?
In the weeks ahead we’ll be taking a leisurely look at the shepherding work of God by walking through each line of the 23rd Psalm. In his commentary on the Psalms, Old Testament scholar James L. Mays maintains that the entire 23rd Psalm is an exposition of the very first line – “the Lord is my shepherd.” Our reflections in the weeks ahead will seek to give shape and texture to how God shepherds your life.
Most of us who undertake to pray the words of the 23rd Psalm will never face anything like the horror of D-Day. Rather, we seek to affirm the shepherding presence of God in far more ordinary circumstances of life. We claim God as our shepherd as we make career decisions and navigate morning traffic. We claim God as our shepherd as we exercise parental wisdom and prepare a budget. We claim God as our shepherd when we plan vacations and then travel to enjoy what we’ve planned.
In every aspect of life, God is indeed a shepherd to us. The death on Normandy’s beaches did not negate the shepherding love of God for us. The loss of a job and the bad results of a biopsy do not render the shepherding presence of God null and void. The tensions in your marriage and the fluctuations of the market do not make the familiar words meaningless.
“The Lord is my shepherd.”
In the coming weeks we will seek to pray these words and learn what they mean. And along the way, by God’s grace, we may also learn to mean what we pray.
Prayer:
We give you thanks, O God, for your shepherding presence in our lives. Throughout this day meet us in ordinary events and routines and teach us what it means to live in the confidence of your shepherding love. We claim it boldly now in the name of Jesus, the good shepherd. Amen.
Friday, May 14, 2010
For Anna on Her 11th Birthday
She never left the temple but worshiped night and day, fasting and praying (Luke 2:37).
I’m writing this on my daughter’s eleventh birthday. You’ll be reading a day or so after.
Technically, of course, her birthday is over. May 12th has come and gone. That’s the way I remember birthdays as a kid. You had a birth day. But now it seems that kids get something akin to a birth week – a string of celebrations and observances that span an indefinite period of days. So as you open this email the birthday “season” is in full swing.
I launched the season by taking Anna to breakfast before school. I won’t be at home to enjoy the birthday dinner that Marnie has planned, so I decided to treat my daughter to breakfast. That was a birthday first for us, but I liked it and I think she did as well. Maybe we’ve discovered a new tradition.
It’s probably time for a new tradition. I have one that my “little girl” has outgrown, although she still tolerates my foolishness, allowing me to repeat this birthday liturgy year after year. It started several years back when she truly was little and it goes like this. I’ll ask her how old she’s going to be. When she tells me I ponder it for a moment and act shocked. After a brief stunned silence I feign a distraught plea, begging her “No . . . No . . . don’t do it . . . please don’t do it.” The idea is that I don’t want her to get older.
And truth be told – part of me really doesn’t want her to get older. She used to laugh at this. Now she rolls her eyes or humors me with a polite chuckle.
********
In February Anna stopped breathing.
We knew something wasn’t right. We’d already had her in the emergency room earlier in the day. We’d had her looked at and we planned to doctor her through it. But the ongoing breathing complaints had us stumped. Once it was clear to us that she wasn’t going to sleep that night we all piled in the car and headed back to the hospital.
And then she stopped breathing. I didn’t see that coming. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. We were in the car when it happened. Words fail me here. Some feelings and images come back with clarity: Driving fast and scared, struggling to get her limp body into the ER, seeing her on a ventilator, the cold room, her skin a mottled pink and pale.
And then a week later it was over. She was barely able to stand being held in the hospital that last day, waiting to be discharged. She was angry that we weren’t planning to let her go to church the very next day. Now it’s as if nothing ever happened.
But it did happen. And on her birthday my “Don’t do it” act is just that. A big act. I want her to do it. I want her to age and grow. I love seeing her get a year older, knowing that she’s on her way to becoming who God made her to be. I love the anticipation of watching her days unfold, year after year.
********
Our Anna was named for the prophetess Anna in Luke 2. Luke tells us very little about this Anna. She never shows up again in the pages of scripture. She makes a very brief appearance, playing a supporting role to the aged Simeon on the day that Mary and Joseph present the infant Jesus to the Lord at the temple, following the commands of the Torah.
On that day there were two people who recognized the Holy family: Simeon and Anna. Anna had been married for seven years but then lived as a widow until the age of eighty-four. Her life was spent worshiping and waiting for God’s saving work on behalf of his people. When Mary and Joseph arrived with their son Anna recognized the child, gave thanks and praise to God, and spoke to others about who this child was.
I pray that my Anna will enjoy a long marriage with children and grandchildren of her own. But above all of that, and of far greater significance, I pray that with every passing year she will grow to imitate the aged Anna of the temple. May every passing year find her learning to worship. May the years sharpen her capacity for seeing God’s work in the world. May her heart be filled with thanksgiving and her mouth be bold to speak of Jesus.
And with every passing year may she know the presence of God’s Spirit and the working of God’s power in her life. The kind of blessing that says, “You go right ahead and do it. For this you were made.” And may you know the same.
Prayer:
By the power of your Spirit, O God, may we live our days and every passing year telling your story, giving you praise, delighting in your saving works through Christ our Lord. Amen.
I’m writing this on my daughter’s eleventh birthday. You’ll be reading a day or so after.
Technically, of course, her birthday is over. May 12th has come and gone. That’s the way I remember birthdays as a kid. You had a birth day. But now it seems that kids get something akin to a birth week – a string of celebrations and observances that span an indefinite period of days. So as you open this email the birthday “season” is in full swing.
I launched the season by taking Anna to breakfast before school. I won’t be at home to enjoy the birthday dinner that Marnie has planned, so I decided to treat my daughter to breakfast. That was a birthday first for us, but I liked it and I think she did as well. Maybe we’ve discovered a new tradition.
It’s probably time for a new tradition. I have one that my “little girl” has outgrown, although she still tolerates my foolishness, allowing me to repeat this birthday liturgy year after year. It started several years back when she truly was little and it goes like this. I’ll ask her how old she’s going to be. When she tells me I ponder it for a moment and act shocked. After a brief stunned silence I feign a distraught plea, begging her “No . . . No . . . don’t do it . . . please don’t do it.” The idea is that I don’t want her to get older.
And truth be told – part of me really doesn’t want her to get older. She used to laugh at this. Now she rolls her eyes or humors me with a polite chuckle.
********
We knew something wasn’t right. We’d already had her in the emergency room earlier in the day. We’d had her looked at and we planned to doctor her through it. But the ongoing breathing complaints had us stumped. Once it was clear to us that she wasn’t going to sleep that night we all piled in the car and headed back to the hospital.
And then she stopped breathing. I didn’t see that coming. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. We were in the car when it happened. Words fail me here. Some feelings and images come back with clarity: Driving fast and scared, struggling to get her limp body into the ER, seeing her on a ventilator, the cold room, her skin a mottled pink and pale.
And then a week later it was over. She was barely able to stand being held in the hospital that last day, waiting to be discharged. She was angry that we weren’t planning to let her go to church the very next day. Now it’s as if nothing ever happened.
But it did happen. And on her birthday my “Don’t do it” act is just that. A big act. I want her to do it. I want her to age and grow. I love seeing her get a year older, knowing that she’s on her way to becoming who God made her to be. I love the anticipation of watching her days unfold, year after year.
********
On that day there were two people who recognized the Holy family: Simeon and Anna. Anna had been married for seven years but then lived as a widow until the age of eighty-four. Her life was spent worshiping and waiting for God’s saving work on behalf of his people. When Mary and Joseph arrived with their son Anna recognized the child, gave thanks and praise to God, and spoke to others about who this child was.
I pray that my Anna will enjoy a long marriage with children and grandchildren of her own. But above all of that, and of far greater significance, I pray that with every passing year she will grow to imitate the aged Anna of the temple. May every passing year find her learning to worship. May the years sharpen her capacity for seeing God’s work in the world. May her heart be filled with thanksgiving and her mouth be bold to speak of Jesus.
And with every passing year may she know the presence of God’s Spirit and the working of God’s power in her life. The kind of blessing that says, “You go right ahead and do it. For this you were made.” And may you know the same.
Prayer:
By the power of your Spirit, O God, may we live our days and every passing year telling your story, giving you praise, delighting in your saving works through Christ our Lord. Amen.
Friday, April 02, 2010
The Tree and the Temple
Peter remembered and said to Jesus, “Rabbi, look! The fig tree you cursed has withered!” (Mark 11:21)
On Sunday he wept.
That seems like a strange response to celebration and acclamation. You won’t see that at a Macy’s parade, the person perched atop the float shedding tears. It’s out of place. Nevertheless, at some point on his journey toward Jerusalem, from his seat on the colt, Jesus wept over the city.
As Luke tells the story, Jesus wept because this city and its inhabitants did not know what would bring them peace. Not much has changed in Jerusalem. For that matter, there are plenty of people in Atlanta and Seattle and Des Moines who share the same ignorance. We want peace, but don’t know how to get it. Maybe we refuse what we know. Peace – the kind that “passes understanding” – is found in Jesus. As Jesus approached Jerusalem he knew that this truth was hidden from their eyes (Luke 19:41-42). They would not look to him for peace. In an effort to restore peace and keep the peace, they would kill him. So Jesus wept for Jerusalem.
But the weeping didn’t last long. On the day after that triumphal entry, according to Mark’s rendering of events, Jesus cursed.
Jesus and his disciples were on their way to the Temple when Jesus spotted a fig tree and went to see if had fruit, possibly hoping for a snack since he was hungry. There was no fruit to be found. It was a bit early in the season for figs and the tree had only leaves on its branches. This provoked the curse – not profanity or foul language, but a pronouncement of permanent barrenness. “May no one ever eat fruit from you again” (Mark 11:14).
Jesus then made his way from the tree to the temple. At the temple he again lets his indignation loose on the money changers and vendors who have distorted what temple worship was all about. He drove them out, turned their tables over, scattered their profits all over the temple floor.
Sunday’s weeping is replaced with Monday’s cursing, the tears prelude to a tirade.
********
I’ve never liked the fig story. While pastors are hesitant to admit this, I’ve never really understood it. The story doesn’t reflect well on our Lord. His “cursing” of tree that has no fruit sounds a bit like a tantrum. Jesus didn’t get his snack and he’s irritable. I don’t put up with this kind of thing from my own children and I sure don’t want to see it in Jesus.
But the tree makes a little more sense when placed in the context of the temple story. Both the tree and the temple are barren and that’s what Jesus sees. He isn’t being petty or throwing a fit in the temple, and he isn’t having a tantrum at the tree. The temple worship that had deteriorated into a commercial enterprise is barren, failing to bear the fruit of true worship. The tree that bears no fruit anticipates what Jesus will find at the temple. The tree is the temple and the temple is the tree.
But in the larger context of Holy Week Jesus’ weeping and cursing, the tears and the righteous indignation say something about how God sees us and the fruitless, barren places in our own lives. On one level, sin is our failure to be all that God made us to be. Sin renders our lives barren and fruitless, a shallow existence that goes through the motions of living but never truly lives.
Jesus sees this and weeps. Jesus sees this and goes to work cleaning house, restoring a heart that truly loves God and bears fruit in the world. What Jesus said to the tree was a word of judgment. What Jesus did in the temple was likewise an act of judgment. And what Jesus did on the cross was judgment as well – but not condemnation.
“This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit” (John 15:8). How is the fruitfulness of your life today? Are you going through motions or growing in grace?
Prayer:
Fill me with your Spirit today, O God, that my life might bear fruit in this world. Apart from your help I will not be the person you have made me to be. My own efforts at fruitfulness are bound to fail without your grace. Thank you for the cross and the judgment Jesus bore for my empty, barren ways. Bring me into resurrection life, I pray, in Jesus’ name. Amen.
On Sunday he wept.
That seems like a strange response to celebration and acclamation. You won’t see that at a Macy’s parade, the person perched atop the float shedding tears. It’s out of place. Nevertheless, at some point on his journey toward Jerusalem, from his seat on the colt, Jesus wept over the city.
As Luke tells the story, Jesus wept because this city and its inhabitants did not know what would bring them peace. Not much has changed in Jerusalem. For that matter, there are plenty of people in Atlanta and Seattle and Des Moines who share the same ignorance. We want peace, but don’t know how to get it. Maybe we refuse what we know. Peace – the kind that “passes understanding” – is found in Jesus. As Jesus approached Jerusalem he knew that this truth was hidden from their eyes (Luke 19:41-42). They would not look to him for peace. In an effort to restore peace and keep the peace, they would kill him. So Jesus wept for Jerusalem.
But the weeping didn’t last long. On the day after that triumphal entry, according to Mark’s rendering of events, Jesus cursed.
Jesus and his disciples were on their way to the Temple when Jesus spotted a fig tree and went to see if had fruit, possibly hoping for a snack since he was hungry. There was no fruit to be found. It was a bit early in the season for figs and the tree had only leaves on its branches. This provoked the curse – not profanity or foul language, but a pronouncement of permanent barrenness. “May no one ever eat fruit from you again” (Mark 11:14).
Jesus then made his way from the tree to the temple. At the temple he again lets his indignation loose on the money changers and vendors who have distorted what temple worship was all about. He drove them out, turned their tables over, scattered their profits all over the temple floor.
Sunday’s weeping is replaced with Monday’s cursing, the tears prelude to a tirade.
********
I’ve never liked the fig story. While pastors are hesitant to admit this, I’ve never really understood it. The story doesn’t reflect well on our Lord. His “cursing” of tree that has no fruit sounds a bit like a tantrum. Jesus didn’t get his snack and he’s irritable. I don’t put up with this kind of thing from my own children and I sure don’t want to see it in Jesus.
But the tree makes a little more sense when placed in the context of the temple story. Both the tree and the temple are barren and that’s what Jesus sees. He isn’t being petty or throwing a fit in the temple, and he isn’t having a tantrum at the tree. The temple worship that had deteriorated into a commercial enterprise is barren, failing to bear the fruit of true worship. The tree that bears no fruit anticipates what Jesus will find at the temple. The tree is the temple and the temple is the tree.
But in the larger context of Holy Week Jesus’ weeping and cursing, the tears and the righteous indignation say something about how God sees us and the fruitless, barren places in our own lives. On one level, sin is our failure to be all that God made us to be. Sin renders our lives barren and fruitless, a shallow existence that goes through the motions of living but never truly lives.
Jesus sees this and weeps. Jesus sees this and goes to work cleaning house, restoring a heart that truly loves God and bears fruit in the world. What Jesus said to the tree was a word of judgment. What Jesus did in the temple was likewise an act of judgment. And what Jesus did on the cross was judgment as well – but not condemnation.
“This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit” (John 15:8). How is the fruitfulness of your life today? Are you going through motions or growing in grace?
Prayer:
Fill me with your Spirit today, O God, that my life might bear fruit in this world. Apart from your help I will not be the person you have made me to be. My own efforts at fruitfulness are bound to fail without your grace. Thank you for the cross and the judgment Jesus bore for my empty, barren ways. Bring me into resurrection life, I pray, in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
A Broken and Beautiful Thing
She broke the jar and poured the perfume on his head (Mark 14:3).
By Tuesday Jesus needed a break. He found what he needed in the little village of Bethany.
A traditional chronology of the last week of Jesus’ life tells us that the days played out as follows: Sunday was the day Jesus entered Jerusalem, praises shouted, branches waved, cloaks spread out like a rug, expectations running high. That parade was soon forgotten. On Monday Jesus cleared the temple of money changers and animal vendors, quoting the prophet Jeremiah and chastising those who had turned God’s house of prayer into a den of robbers. Things were getting tense. By Tuesday Jesus needed a break from the noise and clamor of Jerusalem at Passover.
The respite Jesus needed was found at the home of a man known as Simon the Leper. We have no idea who this man was. His name never appears again in the pages of scripture. The simplest explanation was that Simon was a man who had suffered from leprosy until Jesus healed him. Now, well and whole and restored to his home in Bethany, he hosts a meal for Jesus.
While Jesus was reclining at the table “a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume” (14:3) Sound and scent were almost simultaneous, the shattered vessel releasing an aroma that quickly filled the room. And almost as quickly, the murmuring started.
The presenting issue was the waste of such a valuable and precious commodity. That’s what some of those present complained about. It isn’t clear if they were sharing the meal, involved in the intimacies of table fellowship with Jesus and others, or if they were religiously curious spectators. Gossip mongers making nice until they could find something to talk about.
The unspoken issue, the deeper issue, might have been the woman herself. A female had made her way to the place where Jesus reclined – highly unusual in that cultural setting. As Luke tells the story, the woman had a reputation that should have caused a truly righteous man to recoil. That Jesus didn’t flinch caused tongues to wag.
“Leave her alone,” Jesus said as they unleashed their harsh rebukes at her. “She has done a beautiful thing to me” (14:6). Beautiful indeed.
********
All of the beauty in this Holy Week drama is seen in broken things and broken people. The meal is hosted by a man who still lives with the moniker of his former life: Simon the Leper. While possibly used affectionately by neighbors who marveled at his healing, the nickname evoked his broken self. A man once diseased and feared and rejected now made well, hosting a meal for the one who touched his shredded flesh and made him whole again.
There is beauty in the broken jar, a delicate rounded vessel with a long neck, holding expensive perfume. Once a vessel like that was broken, everything in it would flow out, completely emptied, nothing held back. And that act of devotion came from a woman who very likely knew her own brokenness.
The people who missed entirely the beautiful that happened in that room in Bethany were the competent people, the smart people who knew the value of a dollar. They were superficially devout people who spoke loudly abut the poor but were strangers to mercy. They might not have been hostile to Jesus, but they didn’t quite get him. Those words about anointing and burial sailed right by them (14:8). They missed the beautiful thing.
Holy Week won’t mean much to those who avoid their own brokenness and despise it in others. That’s true for the simple reason that Holy Week is taking us to a very broken place – the place of crucifixion and death. Apart from that Resurrection is thin and Easter becomes little more than “cute.” Settle for cute Easter, and you’ve missed the truly beautiful thing.
But seeing the beauty means getting close to the broken things and broken ones: a leper, a questionable woman, a shattered jar – all broken. And then there’s Jesus taking the image to himself. “This is my body . . . broken.”
He has done a beautiful thing for us. Beautiful indeed.
Prayer:
We work hard, O God, at concealing the broken pieces of our lives. We mask them with our charisma and the trappings of a successful life. Teach us to see the beauty in those broken places of our own lives – and also in the brokenness of our neighbor. Save us from the kind of competence that distances us from you and the beautiful thing you want to do in us through Jesus our Lord. Amen. .
By Tuesday Jesus needed a break. He found what he needed in the little village of Bethany.
A traditional chronology of the last week of Jesus’ life tells us that the days played out as follows: Sunday was the day Jesus entered Jerusalem, praises shouted, branches waved, cloaks spread out like a rug, expectations running high. That parade was soon forgotten. On Monday Jesus cleared the temple of money changers and animal vendors, quoting the prophet Jeremiah and chastising those who had turned God’s house of prayer into a den of robbers. Things were getting tense. By Tuesday Jesus needed a break from the noise and clamor of Jerusalem at Passover.
The respite Jesus needed was found at the home of a man known as Simon the Leper. We have no idea who this man was. His name never appears again in the pages of scripture. The simplest explanation was that Simon was a man who had suffered from leprosy until Jesus healed him. Now, well and whole and restored to his home in Bethany, he hosts a meal for Jesus.
While Jesus was reclining at the table “a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume” (14:3) Sound and scent were almost simultaneous, the shattered vessel releasing an aroma that quickly filled the room. And almost as quickly, the murmuring started.
The presenting issue was the waste of such a valuable and precious commodity. That’s what some of those present complained about. It isn’t clear if they were sharing the meal, involved in the intimacies of table fellowship with Jesus and others, or if they were religiously curious spectators. Gossip mongers making nice until they could find something to talk about.
The unspoken issue, the deeper issue, might have been the woman herself. A female had made her way to the place where Jesus reclined – highly unusual in that cultural setting. As Luke tells the story, the woman had a reputation that should have caused a truly righteous man to recoil. That Jesus didn’t flinch caused tongues to wag.
“Leave her alone,” Jesus said as they unleashed their harsh rebukes at her. “She has done a beautiful thing to me” (14:6). Beautiful indeed.
********
There is beauty in the broken jar, a delicate rounded vessel with a long neck, holding expensive perfume. Once a vessel like that was broken, everything in it would flow out, completely emptied, nothing held back. And that act of devotion came from a woman who very likely knew her own brokenness.
The people who missed entirely the beautiful that happened in that room in Bethany were the competent people, the smart people who knew the value of a dollar. They were superficially devout people who spoke loudly abut the poor but were strangers to mercy. They might not have been hostile to Jesus, but they didn’t quite get him. Those words about anointing and burial sailed right by them (14:8). They missed the beautiful thing.
Holy Week won’t mean much to those who avoid their own brokenness and despise it in others. That’s true for the simple reason that Holy Week is taking us to a very broken place – the place of crucifixion and death. Apart from that Resurrection is thin and Easter becomes little more than “cute.” Settle for cute Easter, and you’ve missed the truly beautiful thing.
But seeing the beauty means getting close to the broken things and broken ones: a leper, a questionable woman, a shattered jar – all broken. And then there’s Jesus taking the image to himself. “This is my body . . . broken.”
He has done a beautiful thing for us. Beautiful indeed.
Prayer:
We work hard, O God, at concealing the broken pieces of our lives. We mask them with our charisma and the trappings of a successful life. Teach us to see the beauty in those broken places of our own lives – and also in the brokenness of our neighbor. Save us from the kind of competence that distances us from you and the beautiful thing you want to do in us through Jesus our Lord. Amen. .
Monday, March 29, 2010
Expectations
. . . the whole crowd of disciples began to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen (Luke 19:37).
Few places are harder to live than in the gap between what we expect and what we get, that barren stretch that separates what we think we deserve and what our lives have actually delivered to us. We can barely tolerate being there and we’ll do anything to find a way out.
Sometimes that means we adjust our expectations. The pain of disappointment is alleviated by lowering our sights. But with every downward adjustment hope is diminished, and eventually we find we’ve stopped dreaming altogether.
Another strategy moves in the opposite direction. Sometimes the tension between what we expect and what we get pushes us to do whatever we need to do to secure our own happiness. We lash out at whoever or whatever gets in the way of what should have been.
Of course, we often ricochet back and forth between both of those responses: resignation or anger, passive acceptance or violent force. What we find most difficult is what the Psalmist urged. “Wait on the Lord” (Psalm 27:14).
Holy Week is bracketed by shouting crowds. On the front end of Holy Week we remember the day Jesus entered the city of Jerusalem. Luke tells us that the crowd that welcomed him that day “praised God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen” (19:37). Their shouts were grounded in past events, but those past events had shaped their expectations of what would soon be.
The miracle-working Jesus was their King. The very manner of his approach to Jerusalem, mounted on a colt, spoke to his identity as the one of whom Zechariah had prophesied (Zech. 9:9). These shouts carried the weight of expectations shaped by the hope of what a warrior king would do.
By the time we get to the end of the week those expectations are thoroughly shattered. This celebrated King has failed to deliver and now the crowds are shouting something different. “Hosanna” has morphed to “Crucify.” Holy Week is the story of what it means to walk with Jesus in the midst of unmet expectations.
We find ourselves in good company. This kind of disappointment isn’t unique to the godless or the wicked. Even Jesus’ closest followers struggled during those final days of his life. And they failed. Some of them failed big: Judas’ disappointment with Jesus, and then with himself, was so deep that he took his own life. Peter caved to his fear and denied Jesus. Eventually, by Friday afternoon, all of the disciples have scattered.
And as for us – plenty of us live every day with unmet expectations. Some of them are minor: a driver in front of you failed to use his turn signal; you assumed your spouse had made the bank deposit when you wrote the check, or the kitchen completely messed up your order when you happened to be on a tight schedule.
Of course, some of our expectations go to the core of who we are. A single adult approaches another birthday marking yet another decade without the dreamed of mate and the dreamed of children. The long-awaited retirement brings a deadening boredom and feelings of uselessness. The new purchase becomes a draining burden rather than the status symbol it was supposed to be. The promotion proves to be a wrong fit for your best skills. In short, things are not working out like you had hoped they would.
That gap between what we expected and what we actually experience is the place where faith wanes. During this week – or for that matter during any week – when the tension between what you hoped for and what you’ve received feel unbearable, hear the invitation of Jesus. Stay with him. Listen to his words. Watch what he’s doing. Don’t get swept up the noisy demands and expectations of the culture. God is at work. Such hardly seems to be the case, and you may not see it now. But God is at work.
To all who feel the ache of something that hasn’t worked out according to plan, welcome to Jerusalem.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, keep us close to you in the final days of this Lenten journey. Our expectations so easily become demands. We stop praying and start giving direction. Keep us attentive to what you are doing, especially when life unfolds in ways we didn’t expect or ask for. Teach us trust, even in the shadow of the cross. Amen.
Few places are harder to live than in the gap between what we expect and what we get, that barren stretch that separates what we think we deserve and what our lives have actually delivered to us. We can barely tolerate being there and we’ll do anything to find a way out.
Sometimes that means we adjust our expectations. The pain of disappointment is alleviated by lowering our sights. But with every downward adjustment hope is diminished, and eventually we find we’ve stopped dreaming altogether.
Another strategy moves in the opposite direction. Sometimes the tension between what we expect and what we get pushes us to do whatever we need to do to secure our own happiness. We lash out at whoever or whatever gets in the way of what should have been.
Of course, we often ricochet back and forth between both of those responses: resignation or anger, passive acceptance or violent force. What we find most difficult is what the Psalmist urged. “Wait on the Lord” (Psalm 27:14).
Holy Week is bracketed by shouting crowds. On the front end of Holy Week we remember the day Jesus entered the city of Jerusalem. Luke tells us that the crowd that welcomed him that day “praised God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen” (19:37). Their shouts were grounded in past events, but those past events had shaped their expectations of what would soon be.
The miracle-working Jesus was their King. The very manner of his approach to Jerusalem, mounted on a colt, spoke to his identity as the one of whom Zechariah had prophesied (Zech. 9:9). These shouts carried the weight of expectations shaped by the hope of what a warrior king would do.
By the time we get to the end of the week those expectations are thoroughly shattered. This celebrated King has failed to deliver and now the crowds are shouting something different. “Hosanna” has morphed to “Crucify.” Holy Week is the story of what it means to walk with Jesus in the midst of unmet expectations.
We find ourselves in good company. This kind of disappointment isn’t unique to the godless or the wicked. Even Jesus’ closest followers struggled during those final days of his life. And they failed. Some of them failed big: Judas’ disappointment with Jesus, and then with himself, was so deep that he took his own life. Peter caved to his fear and denied Jesus. Eventually, by Friday afternoon, all of the disciples have scattered.
And as for us – plenty of us live every day with unmet expectations. Some of them are minor: a driver in front of you failed to use his turn signal; you assumed your spouse had made the bank deposit when you wrote the check, or the kitchen completely messed up your order when you happened to be on a tight schedule.
Of course, some of our expectations go to the core of who we are. A single adult approaches another birthday marking yet another decade without the dreamed of mate and the dreamed of children. The long-awaited retirement brings a deadening boredom and feelings of uselessness. The new purchase becomes a draining burden rather than the status symbol it was supposed to be. The promotion proves to be a wrong fit for your best skills. In short, things are not working out like you had hoped they would.
That gap between what we expected and what we actually experience is the place where faith wanes. During this week – or for that matter during any week – when the tension between what you hoped for and what you’ve received feel unbearable, hear the invitation of Jesus. Stay with him. Listen to his words. Watch what he’s doing. Don’t get swept up the noisy demands and expectations of the culture. God is at work. Such hardly seems to be the case, and you may not see it now. But God is at work.
To all who feel the ache of something that hasn’t worked out according to plan, welcome to Jerusalem.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, keep us close to you in the final days of this Lenten journey. Our expectations so easily become demands. We stop praying and start giving direction. Keep us attentive to what you are doing, especially when life unfolds in ways we didn’t expect or ask for. Teach us trust, even in the shadow of the cross. Amen.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Finding Your Way Back
The Lord said to him, “Go back the way you came . . . and anoint Elisha. . . ” (1 Kings 19:15).
My daughter lost her jacket at church last Wednesday night. It just disappeared, grew legs and walked off. We searched for while, but it had been a long day, we were both tired and it was time to go home. Part of me wanted to be hard-nosed about it, dig in and let her know we weren’t going anywhere until she found that jacket. Another part of me – the part that won – just wanted to go home.
“Maybe it’ll turn up, Anna.” That’s what I said out loud to her. Inside my head I was thinking, “We’ll never see that jacket again.” I knew I’d be back the next day and I’d look again.
Thursday morning: A little more time, much less tired. I did what you always do when you’ve lost something. I tried to retrace her steps. Her first stop on Wednesday afternoon was Marnie’s office. That had been thoroughly searched and we knew it wasn’t there. The second stop was bell choir. We hadn’t thought of that on Wednesday night. The story has a simple but happy ending. I walked up the room where she has hand bells and there it was. It hadn’t been hard to find. It was simply a matter of going back to where she had been.
“Go back the way you came.” This was God’s word to Elijah. Sometimes God says the same thing to us.
********
Last week we spent several days with Elijah on Mount Horeb, the mountain Elijah had fled to in his fear and despair. A cave makes a great hiding place, but it makes a lousy home. The good news is that the story of Elijah does not end on Mount Horeb.
“Go back the way you came.”
There was still more for Elijah to do. God hadn’t finished with him, but God’s purposes for Elijah couldn’t be fulfilled in a cave. Elijah would have to crawl out of the hole he had found in which to stoke his anxieties and self-pity. He would have to retrace his steps and find his calling once again.
“Go back the way you came.”
That sounds simple but for many nothing could be harder. For one thing the steps that took you to where you are today might have been very painful. The cave of self-pity or self-doubt was never a place you thought you’d be, and you’re not entirely sure how you got there. Going back and revisiting those steps may be the last thing you want to do. You’d just as soon not walk through that desert again.
But as hard as it might be, the promise that gives strength for the journey is that you can find your way back. The cave is not the end of your story. You can find your way back to a place of usefulness and purpose. You can find your way back to a clear direction. You can find your way back to being someone who has something to offer that shapes another person’s life.
Elijah made his way back through to the place where he found Elisha, the one who would carry on what Elijah had started. That’s the story we’ll spend time with this week. But for today, what would it mean for you to “Go back the way you came?” What steps do you need to retrace and what might you find once you do that?
Prayer:
Gracious God, let every step we take today be taken with you. If there are steps that need to be retraced, make us bold to walk that way that we might once again discover who you’ve called us to be and what you’ve called us to do in this world. In all that we do, we pray that you would make our steps firm and keep faithful as we seek to walk as Jesus walked. We pray this n his name. Amen.
My daughter lost her jacket at church last Wednesday night. It just disappeared, grew legs and walked off. We searched for while, but it had been a long day, we were both tired and it was time to go home. Part of me wanted to be hard-nosed about it, dig in and let her know we weren’t going anywhere until she found that jacket. Another part of me – the part that won – just wanted to go home.
“Maybe it’ll turn up, Anna.” That’s what I said out loud to her. Inside my head I was thinking, “We’ll never see that jacket again.” I knew I’d be back the next day and I’d look again.
Thursday morning: A little more time, much less tired. I did what you always do when you’ve lost something. I tried to retrace her steps. Her first stop on Wednesday afternoon was Marnie’s office. That had been thoroughly searched and we knew it wasn’t there. The second stop was bell choir. We hadn’t thought of that on Wednesday night. The story has a simple but happy ending. I walked up the room where she has hand bells and there it was. It hadn’t been hard to find. It was simply a matter of going back to where she had been.
“Go back the way you came.” This was God’s word to Elijah. Sometimes God says the same thing to us.
********
“Go back the way you came.”
There was still more for Elijah to do. God hadn’t finished with him, but God’s purposes for Elijah couldn’t be fulfilled in a cave. Elijah would have to crawl out of the hole he had found in which to stoke his anxieties and self-pity. He would have to retrace his steps and find his calling once again.
“Go back the way you came.”
That sounds simple but for many nothing could be harder. For one thing the steps that took you to where you are today might have been very painful. The cave of self-pity or self-doubt was never a place you thought you’d be, and you’re not entirely sure how you got there. Going back and revisiting those steps may be the last thing you want to do. You’d just as soon not walk through that desert again.
But as hard as it might be, the promise that gives strength for the journey is that you can find your way back. The cave is not the end of your story. You can find your way back to a place of usefulness and purpose. You can find your way back to a clear direction. You can find your way back to being someone who has something to offer that shapes another person’s life.
Elijah made his way back through to the place where he found Elisha, the one who would carry on what Elijah had started. That’s the story we’ll spend time with this week. But for today, what would it mean for you to “Go back the way you came?” What steps do you need to retrace and what might you find once you do that?
Prayer:
Gracious God, let every step we take today be taken with you. If there are steps that need to be retraced, make us bold to walk that way that we might once again discover who you’ve called us to be and what you’ve called us to do in this world. In all that we do, we pray that you would make our steps firm and keep faithful as we seek to walk as Jesus walked. We pray this n his name. Amen.
Friday, March 05, 2010
He Hid His Face
And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it he pulled his cloak over his face . . . (1 Kings 19:13).
Time for a reality check. That voice that Elijah heard on Mount Horeb – we’ve got it all wrong.
Our Bible translations don’t help us much here. We are told that on Mount Horeb Elijah heard a “still small voice.” That’s the King James Version, the familiar and time tested phrase that captures the nature of the divine utterance. The “still” and the “small” is described in stark contrast to the bluster of wind and fire and earthquake, all of which were void of God’s voice and presence.
Other translations take the “still small voice” and make it a “gentle whisper” (NIV). One translation says that it was “the sound of sheer silence” (NRSV). The New English Bible says that Elijah heard a “low murmuring sound” while the Jerusalem Bible calls it “the sound of a gentle breeze.”
A still small voice. That sounds nice doesn’t it? Soothing. God’s voice caressing us, lulling us into a peaceful state of mind.
But whatever this voice was – breeze, whisper, sheer silence – it caused Elijah to hide his face. That’s not the behavior of one soothed and lulled. That’s the action of one awed, convicted, fearful.
I recall being outdoors on a work in site in the middle of an Oklahoma August. From time to time a gentle breeze would disturb the shade-less heat. Your response is to lift your face, to catch as much of it as you can for as long as it lasts. That’s not what Elijah did. He covered his face when God spoke. The voice may have indeed been a whispering voice, breeze-like in tone and volume, but it evoked something deep in Elijah. It made him hide his face.
Mark Buchanan rightly states that
There is a dreadfulness about God. This is seldom said. We often cherish a pious delusion about ourselves: that we truly desire God and that all that’s lacking to pursue deepest intimacy with Him is adequate skill, sufficient knowledge, proper motivation. But is this so? Down in our bones, mingled with our blood, silent and potent as instinct, is a dread of God. This is primal fear. The voice of God, the presence of God, holds not comfort but terror. (Your God is Too Safe, 22-23).
Long before whispering to Elijah, God held another mountain top conversation with Moses. When Moses came down from the mountain the Israelites kept their distance from him. They told him, “speak to us yourself and we will listen, but do not have God speak to us or we will die” (Exodus 20:18-19). The voice of God would be too much.
So back to the “still small voice.” Two things are required of us: Be careful and be courageous.
Be careful in your listening: This voice is not easily heard and it will not be found in the loud and obvious blustering of our culture or even of our churches. Loud and showy religion is one of Satan’s closest allies in keeping people deaf to God. Be careful in your listening.
And be courageous: When God speaks you may be undone. As the writer to the Hebrews reminds us, “it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Hebrews 10:31). The voice of God could change your life. It could change your plans. If you’re trying to hear God speak be sure you’re ready for what that might mean for your life. God’s words are never given to us as a mere lullaby.
What is truly amazing is the God wills to speak to us. The real question, as always, is whether we are willing to listen.
Prayer:
We will not take your voice lightly, O God. Help us to listen carefully, discerning your words and your will in the middle of our busy and noisy lives. And make us bold as we listen for what the Spirit says, ready to be changed and ready to respond in obedience. Amen.
Time for a reality check. That voice that Elijah heard on Mount Horeb – we’ve got it all wrong.
Our Bible translations don’t help us much here. We are told that on Mount Horeb Elijah heard a “still small voice.” That’s the King James Version, the familiar and time tested phrase that captures the nature of the divine utterance. The “still” and the “small” is described in stark contrast to the bluster of wind and fire and earthquake, all of which were void of God’s voice and presence.
Other translations take the “still small voice” and make it a “gentle whisper” (NIV). One translation says that it was “the sound of sheer silence” (NRSV). The New English Bible says that Elijah heard a “low murmuring sound” while the Jerusalem Bible calls it “the sound of a gentle breeze.”
A still small voice. That sounds nice doesn’t it? Soothing. God’s voice caressing us, lulling us into a peaceful state of mind.
But whatever this voice was – breeze, whisper, sheer silence – it caused Elijah to hide his face. That’s not the behavior of one soothed and lulled. That’s the action of one awed, convicted, fearful.
I recall being outdoors on a work in site in the middle of an Oklahoma August. From time to time a gentle breeze would disturb the shade-less heat. Your response is to lift your face, to catch as much of it as you can for as long as it lasts. That’s not what Elijah did. He covered his face when God spoke. The voice may have indeed been a whispering voice, breeze-like in tone and volume, but it evoked something deep in Elijah. It made him hide his face.
Mark Buchanan rightly states that
There is a dreadfulness about God. This is seldom said. We often cherish a pious delusion about ourselves: that we truly desire God and that all that’s lacking to pursue deepest intimacy with Him is adequate skill, sufficient knowledge, proper motivation. But is this so? Down in our bones, mingled with our blood, silent and potent as instinct, is a dread of God. This is primal fear. The voice of God, the presence of God, holds not comfort but terror. (Your God is Too Safe, 22-23).
Long before whispering to Elijah, God held another mountain top conversation with Moses. When Moses came down from the mountain the Israelites kept their distance from him. They told him, “speak to us yourself and we will listen, but do not have God speak to us or we will die” (Exodus 20:18-19). The voice of God would be too much.
So back to the “still small voice.” Two things are required of us: Be careful and be courageous.
Be careful in your listening: This voice is not easily heard and it will not be found in the loud and obvious blustering of our culture or even of our churches. Loud and showy religion is one of Satan’s closest allies in keeping people deaf to God. Be careful in your listening.
And be courageous: When God speaks you may be undone. As the writer to the Hebrews reminds us, “it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Hebrews 10:31). The voice of God could change your life. It could change your plans. If you’re trying to hear God speak be sure you’re ready for what that might mean for your life. God’s words are never given to us as a mere lullaby.
What is truly amazing is the God wills to speak to us. The real question, as always, is whether we are willing to listen.
Prayer:
We will not take your voice lightly, O God. Help us to listen carefully, discerning your words and your will in the middle of our busy and noisy lives. And make us bold as we listen for what the Spirit says, ready to be changed and ready to respond in obedience. Amen.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Lightweight Deity
Now Ahab told Jezebel everything Elijah had done . . . Elijah was afraid and ran for his life (1 Kings 19:1-5).
We’re waiting on a growth spurt. Could be any time now. I’ve made use of biblical language in assuring my son that he’ll shoot up any day – “like a thief I the night . . . you do not know the day or the hour.” But it will come.
In the meantime we let him eat just about anything he wants. I’m not sure that’s such a great idea. It sure won’t hasten the “thief in the night” thing, but maybe it’ll get more meat on the bones. Imagine my surprise when my son announced that he needed to abstain from a meal before a wrestling meet. He explained that he was only a half-pound shy of having to move up to the next weight class and he didn’t want to do that.
Weight classes make sense in wrestling. They keep things fair and they keep things safe. That’s obvious I guess, but I’m new to the whole wrestling subculture. Whereas I’m typically encouraging him to bulk up, I wasn’t sure I wanted him in the next weight class. It means bigger opponents. In theory he’s bigger too – but it didn’t look that way to me.
Strength and size are important in wrestling. And they also matter in our walk with God.
We’re waiting on a growth spurt. Could be any time now. I’ve made use of biblical language in assuring my son that he’ll shoot up any day – “like a thief I the night . . . you do not know the day or the hour.” But it will come.
In the meantime we let him eat just about anything he wants. I’m not sure that’s such a great idea. It sure won’t hasten the “thief in the night” thing, but maybe it’ll get more meat on the bones. Imagine my surprise when my son announced that he needed to abstain from a meal before a wrestling meet. He explained that he was only a half-pound shy of having to move up to the next weight class and he didn’t want to do that.
Weight classes make sense in wrestling. They keep things fair and they keep things safe. That’s obvious I guess, but I’m new to the whole wrestling subculture. Whereas I’m typically encouraging him to bulk up, I wasn’t sure I wanted him in the next weight class. It means bigger opponents. In theory he’s bigger too – but it didn’t look that way to me.
Strength and size are important in wrestling. And they also matter in our walk with God.
********
Short version of the story: Baal was pinned in seconds by Elijah’s God. Baal had nothing to offer in response to the loud and frantic prayers of his prophets, more than four hundred of them pleading hour after hour for a show of strength. Their prayers met with Elijah’s taunts and silent skies.
Then Elijah prayed. A short request, simple and clear in it purpose: send fire so that all may know that you, O Lord, are God (1 Kings 18:37-38). And fire fell from heaven.
The shocking thing about this story is its aftermath. Having defeated Baal’s prophets, Elijah is a wanted man, hunted by Queen Jezebel. In the face of her threats, God suddenly became small, a lightweight deity. The pagan Queen became large, a heavyweight ruler. Fear gripped Elijah’s heart and he ran for his life.
********
How is it that God so easily and often becomes small in our eyes?
Elijah’s name means “The Lord is God.” We say we believe it. But the slightest opposition from some pretender to power in our lives can send us into a tailspin of anxiety. Our God is suddenly shrunken and weak – and something else stands large and powerful in our minds and claims lordship over our hearts.
The person making hiring decisions becomes strong and powerful against our lightweight deity. The stock market and drama of Wall Street looms large as God pales in the background, swallowed up in the noise of trading. A supervisor becomes the heavyweight, far too much for our scrawny God. God gets small, even when we know better, even when we’ve lived through something where we’ve seen fire fall from heaven.
In 1961 J. B. Phillps wrote a book titled “Your God is too Small.” If such a thing could be written in 1961, how much more so in 2010? As this year begins, what weight class have you placed God in? And what would it take for God to once again become a heavyweight deity – Powerful, Sovereign, Creator God.
Prayer:
Forgive us for seeing you as small, O God, while other things stand large and formidable in our minds and in our hearts. We would recover our sense of your power today, living with the strength that comes from serving a great and mighty God who is at the same time faithful in caring for us. Grant us courage for all that we face and a vision of your presence with us. Amen.
Elijah’s name means “The Lord is God.” We say we believe it. But the slightest opposition from some pretender to power in our lives can send us into a tailspin of anxiety. Our God is suddenly shrunken and weak – and something else stands large and powerful in our minds and claims lordship over our hearts.
The person making hiring decisions becomes strong and powerful against our lightweight deity. The stock market and drama of Wall Street looms large as God pales in the background, swallowed up in the noise of trading. A supervisor becomes the heavyweight, far too much for our scrawny God. God gets small, even when we know better, even when we’ve lived through something where we’ve seen fire fall from heaven.
In 1961 J. B. Phillps wrote a book titled “Your God is too Small.” If such a thing could be written in 1961, how much more so in 2010? As this year begins, what weight class have you placed God in? And what would it take for God to once again become a heavyweight deity – Powerful, Sovereign, Creator God.
Prayer:
Forgive us for seeing you as small, O God, while other things stand large and formidable in our minds and in our hearts. We would recover our sense of your power today, living with the strength that comes from serving a great and mighty God who is at the same time faithful in caring for us. Grant us courage for all that we face and a vision of your presence with us. Amen.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
For My Wife on Valentine's Day
For the first time in a week I woke up this morning and heard you breathing next to me. There have been other weeks when I woke up to silence, finding emptiness beside me as you traveled, other mornings when I found your place strangely vacant when you didn’t sleep well and the sleeplessness pushed you to get up and get some work done.
But your absence from our home in these recent days has been like nothing we’ve ever lived through. Our house has been empty as you and I kept vigil by our daughter’s hospital bed. There were a few nights when our energies and attention ran in different directions – me here with John trying to create some sense of normalcy; you there with Anna in exile, removed from anything we know as normal and familiar.
In these days we have lived through a strange absence. Often standing in the same room, focused on the same little girl, wanting the same things and managing a common life while distant from what we know as our life together.
And now, as of last night, we are home: under the same roof, sharing the same meals, back in our beds. God’s grace to us has meant a return to home and health. It is not always that way for everyone. We know that now like we didn’t know it a week ago.
And there is something else I know now in a new way.
A marriage grows over time as two people give themselves to the same things. Love is not simply what people ‘have’ or ‘feel’ for each other. Love is something they share as they give themselves to a common life. Ruth’s words to Naomi capture it so well. “Your people will be my people and your God will be my God.” A shared people, a shared place, a shared faith – these are threads that over time become a cable that we often speak of as “commitment.”
Having been with you in that hospital room, having made the horrific journey there a week ago, having stood with you mute with fear outside the trauma room, having seen you weary by her bed and restless on the chair that could never truly become a bed, I know now that we are bound by a common love.
I love what you love Marnie. I love the same two children. I love the work of raising them, the joys and heartaches and annoyances. I love your people – both the family that made you who you are and the family of faith you serve. I love your vocation, the calling to shepherd the flock of God. Indeed we are bound by a common love: love directed at the same things and life built on the same foundation.
But today is Valentines Day and there is more to say. I do not simply love what you love. I love you. Unadorned. Nothing added. Just you.
Today is also Sunday –a day of worship. As you have done every moment of the past week, you will stay with our little girl as she recovers. I will make my way to place where we worship and serve together. Worship will be sweet today. I am a blessed man. I will give God thanks for his gifts, for the health of our daughter and the home we share; for the gifts of people who have loved us and the good work we have of loving them in return.
And with the gifts we share I will thank God for the gift that is mine alone: The gift of you, my wife, my love, my delight. My Valentine.
But your absence from our home in these recent days has been like nothing we’ve ever lived through. Our house has been empty as you and I kept vigil by our daughter’s hospital bed. There were a few nights when our energies and attention ran in different directions – me here with John trying to create some sense of normalcy; you there with Anna in exile, removed from anything we know as normal and familiar.
In these days we have lived through a strange absence. Often standing in the same room, focused on the same little girl, wanting the same things and managing a common life while distant from what we know as our life together.
And now, as of last night, we are home: under the same roof, sharing the same meals, back in our beds. God’s grace to us has meant a return to home and health. It is not always that way for everyone. We know that now like we didn’t know it a week ago.
And there is something else I know now in a new way.
A marriage grows over time as two people give themselves to the same things. Love is not simply what people ‘have’ or ‘feel’ for each other. Love is something they share as they give themselves to a common life. Ruth’s words to Naomi capture it so well. “Your people will be my people and your God will be my God.” A shared people, a shared place, a shared faith – these are threads that over time become a cable that we often speak of as “commitment.”
Having been with you in that hospital room, having made the horrific journey there a week ago, having stood with you mute with fear outside the trauma room, having seen you weary by her bed and restless on the chair that could never truly become a bed, I know now that we are bound by a common love.
I love what you love Marnie. I love the same two children. I love the work of raising them, the joys and heartaches and annoyances. I love your people – both the family that made you who you are and the family of faith you serve. I love your vocation, the calling to shepherd the flock of God. Indeed we are bound by a common love: love directed at the same things and life built on the same foundation.
But today is Valentines Day and there is more to say. I do not simply love what you love. I love you. Unadorned. Nothing added. Just you.
Today is also Sunday –a day of worship. As you have done every moment of the past week, you will stay with our little girl as she recovers. I will make my way to place where we worship and serve together. Worship will be sweet today. I am a blessed man. I will give God thanks for his gifts, for the health of our daughter and the home we share; for the gifts of people who have loved us and the good work we have of loving them in return.
And with the gifts we share I will thank God for the gift that is mine alone: The gift of you, my wife, my love, my delight. My Valentine.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Broom Trees
He came to a broom tree, sat down under it, and prayed that he might die (1 Kings 19:4).
I was trying to figure out what to do with my life and I needed some help. I attended church, but I really didn’t know my pastor. Right about that time Mercer University, where I was a student, had brought on a new Pastor to the University and he seemed to be a very thoughtful and trustworthy man. I made an appointment to talk with him.
Looking back, I don’t remember the details of my conversation with Dr. C. Welton Gaddy. What I remember now is the way he listened, his total lack of interest in trying to “recruit” me for the ministry, his comfort with my angst and his counsel that didn’t tell me what to do. And he was no-nonsense: He basically told me that if I thought being a pastor was some kind of ticket to a life of holy bliss I’d be sorely disappointed. Now, twenty-three years after my ordination, I get it.
Not long after that conversation I went to Texas for seminary. I’ve only encountered Dr. Gaddy one time since then, and very briefly at that. It was during my doctoral work that I came across a book he had written. That in itself wasn’t such a big deal. He had authored several books by that time. However the title of this one provoked my curiosity: A Soul Under Siege: Surviving Clergy Depression.
A quick glance at the back cover summarized the story. This man whose counsel I had sought and whom I admired for his wisdom and pastoral sensitivity had hit a wall in his personal and professional life. He had admitted himself to a psychiatric hospital to get help with his depression. The book is confessional and reflective, telling the story of a public persona that didn’t square with some deeper inner realities. After living that way for a long time Gaddy, like Elijah, found himself by a broom tree. That’s when the time in the hospital happened.
Thankfully, he was willing to talk about it. Far too many of us spend our energies avoiding the broom trees or pretending that we’ve never spent time in the shade of one. What we learn from Welton Gaddy, and from Elijah, is that broom trees are we find a peculiar kind of mercy.
********
A death-threat from Queen Jezebel had sent Elijah running for his life. When he stopped running and dropped exhausted beneath the broom tree things weren’t going so well. He was a full day’s journey into the desert and he was alone, having left his servant back in Beersheba. Isolation and fatigue, mixed with fear is a lethal combination for any soul. Under the broom tree you begin to think you’d be better off dead. At least that’s what Elijah prayed for.
A broom tree is the place where myths are exposed. The idea that one experience of a spiritual high means immunity from future spiritual lows is exposed as a myth. And self-sufficiency is exposed as a myth. The broom tree is a place where we are brought to the end of ourselves. Then and only then do we discover the true meaning of grace. Elijah prays a desperate prayer under the broom tree – but God does not answer with rebuke or lecture. The prophet is simply told to get up and eat. This is followed by a long nap, and then another meal.
Broom trees appear in a variety of forms; we find them in different places. The period of unemployment, the month after the funeral when meals no longer arrive at your door, the first day after the divorce is finalized – broom trees all. Our inclination is to minimize our time there, rush off to the next mountain as quickly as we can mange. But God meets us under the broom trees in ways we don’t experience elsewhere. God sustains us there ands gives us what we need, getting us ready for the next leg of the journey. We sleep and eat, and eat and sleep again.
Do not resent the broom tree. Don’t look for detours around that place or try to cover the tracks that led you there. The broom tree is not a sign of your failure and weakness. It is a part of your formation as a person created and called by God.
Where have the broom trees been in your life?
Prayer:
We give you thanks, O God, for meeting us in places we’d rather not go. We thank you for the way you lead us to those barren places and then give us what we need in order to move on. Thank you for the simple gifts of grace that sustain us from day to day. Meet us in this day and keep us faithful in our journey with you, we pray. Amen.
I was trying to figure out what to do with my life and I needed some help. I attended church, but I really didn’t know my pastor. Right about that time Mercer University, where I was a student, had brought on a new Pastor to the University and he seemed to be a very thoughtful and trustworthy man. I made an appointment to talk with him.
Looking back, I don’t remember the details of my conversation with Dr. C. Welton Gaddy. What I remember now is the way he listened, his total lack of interest in trying to “recruit” me for the ministry, his comfort with my angst and his counsel that didn’t tell me what to do. And he was no-nonsense: He basically told me that if I thought being a pastor was some kind of ticket to a life of holy bliss I’d be sorely disappointed. Now, twenty-three years after my ordination, I get it.
Not long after that conversation I went to Texas for seminary. I’ve only encountered Dr. Gaddy one time since then, and very briefly at that. It was during my doctoral work that I came across a book he had written. That in itself wasn’t such a big deal. He had authored several books by that time. However the title of this one provoked my curiosity: A Soul Under Siege: Surviving Clergy Depression.
A quick glance at the back cover summarized the story. This man whose counsel I had sought and whom I admired for his wisdom and pastoral sensitivity had hit a wall in his personal and professional life. He had admitted himself to a psychiatric hospital to get help with his depression. The book is confessional and reflective, telling the story of a public persona that didn’t square with some deeper inner realities. After living that way for a long time Gaddy, like Elijah, found himself by a broom tree. That’s when the time in the hospital happened.
Thankfully, he was willing to talk about it. Far too many of us spend our energies avoiding the broom trees or pretending that we’ve never spent time in the shade of one. What we learn from Welton Gaddy, and from Elijah, is that broom trees are we find a peculiar kind of mercy.
********
A broom tree is the place where myths are exposed. The idea that one experience of a spiritual high means immunity from future spiritual lows is exposed as a myth. And self-sufficiency is exposed as a myth. The broom tree is a place where we are brought to the end of ourselves. Then and only then do we discover the true meaning of grace. Elijah prays a desperate prayer under the broom tree – but God does not answer with rebuke or lecture. The prophet is simply told to get up and eat. This is followed by a long nap, and then another meal.
Broom trees appear in a variety of forms; we find them in different places. The period of unemployment, the month after the funeral when meals no longer arrive at your door, the first day after the divorce is finalized – broom trees all. Our inclination is to minimize our time there, rush off to the next mountain as quickly as we can mange. But God meets us under the broom trees in ways we don’t experience elsewhere. God sustains us there ands gives us what we need, getting us ready for the next leg of the journey. We sleep and eat, and eat and sleep again.
Do not resent the broom tree. Don’t look for detours around that place or try to cover the tracks that led you there. The broom tree is not a sign of your failure and weakness. It is a part of your formation as a person created and called by God.
Where have the broom trees been in your life?
Prayer:
We give you thanks, O God, for meeting us in places we’d rather not go. We thank you for the way you lead us to those barren places and then give us what we need in order to move on. Thank you for the simple gifts of grace that sustain us from day to day. Meet us in this day and keep us faithful in our journey with you, we pray. Amen.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Questions and Answers
And the word of the Lord came to him: “What are you doing here, Elijah?” (1 Kings 19:9).
In his cave of despair, hiding and afraid and eaten up with doubts, Elijah was questioned by God. Not coddled. Not comforted. Questioned.
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
The question is ambiguous. The meaning of the question can be changed by playing with it, putting the emphasis on a different word with each asking.
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
Was God’s questioning a rebuke: An implied accusation that the prophet had abandoned his calling and lost his nerve? Or was the question an invitation: A chance for Elijah to examine his faith and learn again the meaning of his own name – “The Lord is God.”
Maybe it was both. The truly interesting thing about this question is that God asks it twice. The first time it is asked, Elijah answers with lament and self-pity. God responds to that with the “still small voice” we spoke of yesterday.
And then God asked the question again. “What are you doing here, Elijah?” We might expect that by now Elijah has a different answer. He’s covered his face at the sound of God’s whisper. Now he’s seized with a Holy awe and ready to re-engage the godless Ahab and Jezebel. Now Elijah knows who he is and what he’s called by God to do.
Not so. Elijah gives the same pitiful answer. He’s still complaining, still feeling like God has dealt him a bad hand, still consumed with dark emotions.
And this time God simply says “Go back the way you came.” Get up. Get going. We’ve got work to do. God gives no explanations and offers no apologies or assurances to Elijah. God gives instruction and asks for obedience. So it is in the life of faith.
********
I’m feeling somewhat defensive on God’s behalf today. The images of destruction and suffering coming from Haiti have set me back on my heels a bit. Things like that can do that to me. I wish they didn’t but they do.
I believe the meaning of Elijah’s name. I believe “The Lord is God.” God is ruling all things, changing seasons and counting the hairs of our heads and keeping track of the smallest sparrow that falls from the sky. He never slumbers nor sleeps. He never gets caught off-guard as if he didn’t see something coming, whether earthquakes or bank failures. Our God reigns – unhindered and absolutely sovereign in all things. I believe that.
But I wouldn’t mind some help in making sense of massive suffering. Like Elijah, I’d welcome a word of reassurance, a sentence of explanation, a promise of future good to which all things inevitably lead. Just a word will do, even if it’s whispered and seizes me with a holy terror. I’ll take it anyway. Maybe you would too.
We won’t get it. As best I can tell from Elijah’s experience on Mt. Horeb and from other stories - the suffering Job and the indignation of Jonah – God will not provide footnotes and explanations to his ways in this world. We might feel like we’ve got some questions for God. But it always God who questions us.
What are you doing here?
In the family you belong to, in the company you work for, in the city where you live, in the church you attend . . . what are you doing? The question may carry rebuke: there’s something you should be doing that you aren’t. The question may be invitation: have you discovered what God has for you?
But in the end, as with Elijah, it always calls us back to simple obedience. Get up. Go back. Get to work. As for Haiti, get on your knees and pray. Get out your checkbook and give. If you feel led, get on a plane and go. Leave the cave of despair, let go of the need for explanations, and obey in radical trust and faith.
What are you doing where you are right now and what will obedience look like in your life today?
Prayer:
Almighty God, you call us to lives of obedience and faith. Living this way is sometimes hard for us as questions get in the way – things we can’t understand, things that make faith difficult. Meet us as you met Elijah and call us from the cave of fear and doubt to bold acts of obedience. In places near and far away, “your kingdom come” we pray in Jesus’ name. Amen.
In his cave of despair, hiding and afraid and eaten up with doubts, Elijah was questioned by God. Not coddled. Not comforted. Questioned.
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
The question is ambiguous. The meaning of the question can be changed by playing with it, putting the emphasis on a different word with each asking.
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
Was God’s questioning a rebuke: An implied accusation that the prophet had abandoned his calling and lost his nerve? Or was the question an invitation: A chance for Elijah to examine his faith and learn again the meaning of his own name – “The Lord is God.”
Maybe it was both. The truly interesting thing about this question is that God asks it twice. The first time it is asked, Elijah answers with lament and self-pity. God responds to that with the “still small voice” we spoke of yesterday.
And then God asked the question again. “What are you doing here, Elijah?” We might expect that by now Elijah has a different answer. He’s covered his face at the sound of God’s whisper. Now he’s seized with a Holy awe and ready to re-engage the godless Ahab and Jezebel. Now Elijah knows who he is and what he’s called by God to do.
Not so. Elijah gives the same pitiful answer. He’s still complaining, still feeling like God has dealt him a bad hand, still consumed with dark emotions.
And this time God simply says “Go back the way you came.” Get up. Get going. We’ve got work to do. God gives no explanations and offers no apologies or assurances to Elijah. God gives instruction and asks for obedience. So it is in the life of faith.
********
I’m feeling somewhat defensive on God’s behalf today. The images of destruction and suffering coming from Haiti have set me back on my heels a bit. Things like that can do that to me. I wish they didn’t but they do.
I believe the meaning of Elijah’s name. I believe “The Lord is God.” God is ruling all things, changing seasons and counting the hairs of our heads and keeping track of the smallest sparrow that falls from the sky. He never slumbers nor sleeps. He never gets caught off-guard as if he didn’t see something coming, whether earthquakes or bank failures. Our God reigns – unhindered and absolutely sovereign in all things. I believe that.
But I wouldn’t mind some help in making sense of massive suffering. Like Elijah, I’d welcome a word of reassurance, a sentence of explanation, a promise of future good to which all things inevitably lead. Just a word will do, even if it’s whispered and seizes me with a holy terror. I’ll take it anyway. Maybe you would too.
We won’t get it. As best I can tell from Elijah’s experience on Mt. Horeb and from other stories - the suffering Job and the indignation of Jonah – God will not provide footnotes and explanations to his ways in this world. We might feel like we’ve got some questions for God. But it always God who questions us.
What are you doing here?
In the family you belong to, in the company you work for, in the city where you live, in the church you attend . . . what are you doing? The question may carry rebuke: there’s something you should be doing that you aren’t. The question may be invitation: have you discovered what God has for you?
But in the end, as with Elijah, it always calls us back to simple obedience. Get up. Go back. Get to work. As for Haiti, get on your knees and pray. Get out your checkbook and give. If you feel led, get on a plane and go. Leave the cave of despair, let go of the need for explanations, and obey in radical trust and faith.
What are you doing where you are right now and what will obedience look like in your life today?
Prayer:
Almighty God, you call us to lives of obedience and faith. Living this way is sometimes hard for us as questions get in the way – things we can’t understand, things that make faith difficult. Meet us as you met Elijah and call us from the cave of fear and doubt to bold acts of obedience. In places near and far away, “your kingdom come” we pray in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Tested in Blessing
For the jar of flour was not used up and the jug of oil did not run dry . . . (1 Kings 17:16)
Once his water supply was exhausted he knew he would have to go somewhere else. Elijah had hidden by the brook because that’s where God told him to go. It was not a place of his own choosing. Hiding by the brook was an act of obedience. And now the brook was dry.
Is this how God rewards obedience?
The providence of God is strange to us. We would like to think that obedience leads to reward. What we see in Elijah is that obedience simply prepares us for the next act of obedience. God used the dry brook to send the prophet to Zarephath in the pagan region of Sidon – again, not a popular destination for a Hebrew prophet.
Whereas Elijah had been fed by ravens by the Kerith Ravine, a widow would feed him in Zarephath. As promised, Elijah met a widow at the gates of the town. When he asked her for a piece of bread she made it clear to Elijah that she had enough for one meal, and that meal would be for her and her son. After that they would likely die soon. The prophet was on his own.
But God spoke through the prophet, inviting an act of trust on the part of this widow. She used her meager supply of flour and oil and fed Elijah first. Seeing a miracle sometimes means taking a risk. Having used what she had to feed Elijah this widow discovered a fresh supply of oil and flour every day.
********
Some of the best known stories in the pages of the Bible are bread stories
As Moses led the Hebrews out of Egypt and through the wilderness, God provided bread from heaven every morning. The people were to gather what they needed for that day. Trying to stockpile bread for tomorrow ended in rot and decay (Exodus 16:4).
Jesus replicated God’s gift of wilderness manna when he fed a multitude with a few loaves of bread and some fish. Gathered in a desolate place, thousands had more than they could eat (John 6:11-12). Later Jesus would say that he himself was the bread of life, the bread that comes from heaven and gives life to all people ( John 6:35).
And then there’s Elijah and the widow discovering the daily deposit of oil and flour.
The wilderness manna, the oil and flour, the multitudes fed with fishes and loaves: we naturally regard these things as gifts from God, great blessings that speak of God’s love and grace. But in Deuteronomy 8 we learn that often God uses blessings to test us.
Remember how the LORD your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands. 3 He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna, which neither you nor your fathers had known, to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD (Deut. 8:2-3).
God does not test us solely in trouble an affliction. Testing does not come in the form of loss and grief, in illness and death, in physical pain and mental distress. Such things test us, to be sure – but just as often God tests us in blessing. The blessings and gifts reveal the posture of hearts as much as the suffering does.
When we wake up every morning and find fresh oil and flour, the test is this: will we love the oil and flour? Will we depend on bread? Or will we love the God who meet us daily with more grace and sustains us in wilderness places?
How have you been blessed today – and what does the blessing show you about the affections of your heart and the object of your hope?
Prayer:
“Break thou the bread of life, Dear Lord, to me; As thou didst break the loaves beside the sea; Beyond the sacred page I seek the Lord; My Spirit pants for thee, O Living Word” (Break Thou the Bread of Life, The Hymnbook, p. 219)
Once his water supply was exhausted he knew he would have to go somewhere else. Elijah had hidden by the brook because that’s where God told him to go. It was not a place of his own choosing. Hiding by the brook was an act of obedience. And now the brook was dry.
Is this how God rewards obedience?
The providence of God is strange to us. We would like to think that obedience leads to reward. What we see in Elijah is that obedience simply prepares us for the next act of obedience. God used the dry brook to send the prophet to Zarephath in the pagan region of Sidon – again, not a popular destination for a Hebrew prophet.
Whereas Elijah had been fed by ravens by the Kerith Ravine, a widow would feed him in Zarephath. As promised, Elijah met a widow at the gates of the town. When he asked her for a piece of bread she made it clear to Elijah that she had enough for one meal, and that meal would be for her and her son. After that they would likely die soon. The prophet was on his own.
But God spoke through the prophet, inviting an act of trust on the part of this widow. She used her meager supply of flour and oil and fed Elijah first. Seeing a miracle sometimes means taking a risk. Having used what she had to feed Elijah this widow discovered a fresh supply of oil and flour every day.
********
As Moses led the Hebrews out of Egypt and through the wilderness, God provided bread from heaven every morning. The people were to gather what they needed for that day. Trying to stockpile bread for tomorrow ended in rot and decay (Exodus 16:4).
Jesus replicated God’s gift of wilderness manna when he fed a multitude with a few loaves of bread and some fish. Gathered in a desolate place, thousands had more than they could eat (John 6:11-12). Later Jesus would say that he himself was the bread of life, the bread that comes from heaven and gives life to all people ( John 6:35).
And then there’s Elijah and the widow discovering the daily deposit of oil and flour.
The wilderness manna, the oil and flour, the multitudes fed with fishes and loaves: we naturally regard these things as gifts from God, great blessings that speak of God’s love and grace. But in Deuteronomy 8 we learn that often God uses blessings to test us.
Remember how the LORD your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands. 3 He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna, which neither you nor your fathers had known, to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD (Deut. 8:2-3).
God does not test us solely in trouble an affliction. Testing does not come in the form of loss and grief, in illness and death, in physical pain and mental distress. Such things test us, to be sure – but just as often God tests us in blessing. The blessings and gifts reveal the posture of hearts as much as the suffering does.
When we wake up every morning and find fresh oil and flour, the test is this: will we love the oil and flour? Will we depend on bread? Or will we love the God who meet us daily with more grace and sustains us in wilderness places?
How have you been blessed today – and what does the blessing show you about the affections of your heart and the object of your hope?
Prayer:
“Break thou the bread of life, Dear Lord, to me; As thou didst break the loaves beside the sea; Beyond the sacred page I seek the Lord; My Spirit pants for thee, O Living Word” (Break Thou the Bread of Life, The Hymnbook, p. 219)
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Forecasting
After a while the brook dried up because there was no rain in the land (1 Kings 17:7).
I can’t wait for next week. I’m feeling more anticipation for January 13 or 14 than I did for December 25th. By the middle of next week our daytime highs will reach the 40s and overnight lows will only be in the 30s. At least that’s what my favorite meteorologist reported last night before I fell asleep.
People who live in the North, or who live down here and grew up in the North, think we’re a joke when it comes to winter weather. Sure, we tend to overreact at times. The slightest mention of winter precipitation sends us in a panic to Home Depot for a generator, followed by a stop at Kroger for bread and milk, lest our children perish. Go ahead all you transplanted Yankees. Laugh all you want.
But understand our context here in the Sunbelt. Winter means slipping on a windbreaker when you jog at 6:00 a.m. Once we live through a few spells of nighttime lows below 20 and a possible ice or snow event, we’ve paid our dues to old man winter. He’s like an annoying relative who makes an obligatory annual visit and then goes home, not a moment too soon.
So next week. Bring it on. I’m not asking for balmy. I just want bearable.
********
Most of us can endure almost anything if we have a sense that eventually things will change. We can tolerate the intolerable for a while. We can put up with the unbearable if we see daylight at the end of the tunnel, something that assures us that the unpleasant present will inevitably give way to future blessing.
In matters far more serious than a wave of cold weather, we are willing to suffer and believe that God is at work in our affliction. What erodes faith isn’t the suffering, but the sense that the suffering won’t stop: The absence of a finish line, the lack of a horizon on which we see a shelter, a refuge, relief.
When Elijah told King Ahab that there would be “neither dew nor rain” the declaration was open-ended. No long range forecast was given to indicate how long the drought would last. The Elijah stories in 1 Kings 17 and 18 don’t give clear indications as to the length of the drought. The book of James in the New Testament says it lasted three and a half years (James 5:17). As best we can tell, not even Elijah knew when it would end. He just lived through it and in it until God gave rain.
One of the greatest challenges to a life of faith is living in the midst of a barren place and barren conditions without the slightest sense that things will ever change. Such conditions have a way of exposing us and the deepest affection of our hearts. They reveal the substance of our faith.
A life of faith doesn’t merely endure the present drought. Faith embraces it.
The tendency, shared by all of us, is to place our hope in a forecast. This has a subtle way of replacing our hope in God. We want to know when: when will I get better, when will the economy rebound, when will I find my soul-mate, when will the company recognize my talents and skills? A good forecast makes faith unnecessary.
But God doesn’t give us forecasts, at least not often and where it most matters. God invites a daily walk in the conditions we have right in front of us. That’s where God’s glory gets revealed. Fire falls from heaven; a small cloud promises a downpour (18:45). And a demonstration of God’s glory beats a forecast any day.
Prayer:
I will embrace the conditions of this day, O God, not as a test of endurance but as an invitation to faith. Give me eyes to see your glory and recognize your work – especially in the unlikely and unwanted details of this day. Amen.
I can’t wait for next week. I’m feeling more anticipation for January 13 or 14 than I did for December 25th. By the middle of next week our daytime highs will reach the 40s and overnight lows will only be in the 30s. At least that’s what my favorite meteorologist reported last night before I fell asleep.
People who live in the North, or who live down here and grew up in the North, think we’re a joke when it comes to winter weather. Sure, we tend to overreact at times. The slightest mention of winter precipitation sends us in a panic to Home Depot for a generator, followed by a stop at Kroger for bread and milk, lest our children perish. Go ahead all you transplanted Yankees. Laugh all you want.
But understand our context here in the Sunbelt. Winter means slipping on a windbreaker when you jog at 6:00 a.m. Once we live through a few spells of nighttime lows below 20 and a possible ice or snow event, we’ve paid our dues to old man winter. He’s like an annoying relative who makes an obligatory annual visit and then goes home, not a moment too soon.
So next week. Bring it on. I’m not asking for balmy. I just want bearable.
********
In matters far more serious than a wave of cold weather, we are willing to suffer and believe that God is at work in our affliction. What erodes faith isn’t the suffering, but the sense that the suffering won’t stop: The absence of a finish line, the lack of a horizon on which we see a shelter, a refuge, relief.
When Elijah told King Ahab that there would be “neither dew nor rain” the declaration was open-ended. No long range forecast was given to indicate how long the drought would last. The Elijah stories in 1 Kings 17 and 18 don’t give clear indications as to the length of the drought. The book of James in the New Testament says it lasted three and a half years (James 5:17). As best we can tell, not even Elijah knew when it would end. He just lived through it and in it until God gave rain.
One of the greatest challenges to a life of faith is living in the midst of a barren place and barren conditions without the slightest sense that things will ever change. Such conditions have a way of exposing us and the deepest affection of our hearts. They reveal the substance of our faith.
A life of faith doesn’t merely endure the present drought. Faith embraces it.
The tendency, shared by all of us, is to place our hope in a forecast. This has a subtle way of replacing our hope in God. We want to know when: when will I get better, when will the economy rebound, when will I find my soul-mate, when will the company recognize my talents and skills? A good forecast makes faith unnecessary.
But God doesn’t give us forecasts, at least not often and where it most matters. God invites a daily walk in the conditions we have right in front of us. That’s where God’s glory gets revealed. Fire falls from heaven; a small cloud promises a downpour (18:45). And a demonstration of God’s glory beats a forecast any day.
Prayer:
I will embrace the conditions of this day, O God, not as a test of endurance but as an invitation to faith. Give me eyes to see your glory and recognize your work – especially in the unlikely and unwanted details of this day. Amen.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Claiming Exemptions
“As the Lord the God of Israel lives, before whom I stand, there shall be neither dew nor rain these years except by my word” (1 Kings 17:1 ESV).
Running from a fight had never been his style. Hiding was never his preferred strategy for dealing with trouble. Hesitation and reticence were alien to him. Once given a word to speak for God, Elijah itched to speak it like a thoroughbred being held back at the start-line of a race.
Thus his terse message to Ahab: “it will not rain until I say so.” The moment was confrontational. Elijah was going head to head with Israel’s faithless King and that King’s false god. Few Kings will tolerate that kind of thing; they will not lose face when treated with shameless disrespect.
So God told Elijah to hide in a ravine on the east side of the Jordan River. Elijah was to stay there, out of the way, removed from the action. He had said what needed to be said. God would take it from here until further notice. In the meantime, the prophet would survive by drinking water from the brook and being fed daily by ravens.
For a while the water in the Kerith ravine ran freely and wide. Elijah drank at will, quenching his thirst and washing down the food that came by ravens every morning and evening. But soon the flow of water narrowed. As God kept his word and confirmed Elijah’s message, the daily supply of water diminished to a trickle. One day, even that had stopped.
The brook dried up.
Running from a fight had never been his style. Hiding was never his preferred strategy for dealing with trouble. Hesitation and reticence were alien to him. Once given a word to speak for God, Elijah itched to speak it like a thoroughbred being held back at the start-line of a race.
Thus his terse message to Ahab: “it will not rain until I say so.” The moment was confrontational. Elijah was going head to head with Israel’s faithless King and that King’s false god. Few Kings will tolerate that kind of thing; they will not lose face when treated with shameless disrespect.
So God told Elijah to hide in a ravine on the east side of the Jordan River. Elijah was to stay there, out of the way, removed from the action. He had said what needed to be said. God would take it from here until further notice. In the meantime, the prophet would survive by drinking water from the brook and being fed daily by ravens.
For a while the water in the Kerith ravine ran freely and wide. Elijah drank at will, quenching his thirst and washing down the food that came by ravens every morning and evening. But soon the flow of water narrowed. As God kept his word and confirmed Elijah’s message, the daily supply of water diminished to a trickle. One day, even that had stopped.
The brook dried up.
********
We assume that if we will be obedient to what God commands and seek to live life in a way that pleases God, we will somehow dodge the varied troubles that are visited upon the disobedient and the self-indulgent.
We claim exemptions: We will seek to know God’s will and live in it, and the cancer will not find us or those we love. The accident will miss us. The lay-offs will not impact us. We may not be exactly where we want to be. Life won’t be picture perfect. But, like Elijah, we will be fed daily and drink freely from the brook.
Sometimes, however, the brook dries up. Even for bold prophets and ordinary faithful people, the stream narrows to a sliver and then stops altogether.
As we keep company with Elijah in the coming weeks we’ll see that the promise of God for a new year does not include exemptions. This doesn’t mean we should expect the illness or the lay-off or the accident. We can live the coming days knowing hat God wills our good.
The story of Elijah reminds us that God accomplishes that good in the midst of circumstances we would choose to avoid. God is purposefully at work by the diminishing brook. God uses deprivation in one place to move the prophet to a new place where grace is discovered anew. God still works that way.
As we seek to discover what it means to live well in this New Year Elijah will be our guide. We begin not by claiming exemptions but by recognizing our need for grace. Brooks and creeks diminish. God’s faithfulness doesn’t.
Prayer:
Too often, Lord God, our faith grows small as we see the brook running dry. We feel cheated or deceived. Teach us through the prophet Elijah to look to you rather than flowing streams, whether of water or money, good fortune or good health. In the coming days of this year accomplish your purposes for us, reminding us that you work for our good in all things. We ask this in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Advent Reflections on the Magi: A Perfectly Good Waste of Time
After Jesus was born . . . Magi from the east came to Jerusalem (Matt. 2:1).
On the way into work this morning I was honked at twice. The first time I deserved it. I’ll not go into details, but the honker was within their honking rights. The second time was unnecessary. I was a little slow moving at a green light. The person behind me quickly concluded that I needed some encouragement. That one bothered me.
In addition to being honked at twice I’m very much aware of the fact that I nearly honked at other less competent drivers at least twice on my commute this morning - maybe three times. Again, details aren’t important. I’m also aware that the persons at whom my honks would have been directed were doing what I apparently did to someone else. They were impeding my progress, slowing me down, getting in the way.
I was reminded this morning that we’re all in such a hurry. To be deterred in the least is a terrible injustice in Atlanta. We’ve got to keep moving. I saw it in others around me. And most importantly I saw it in myself.
********
Yesterday a friend told me that she and her husband would be reading the scripture and lighting the advent candle in their church worship service this weekend. She shared this with obvious delight and just a touch of disbelief.
A few years ago she went to church here and there but her husband rarely went at all. About two years ago they tried a church that I had told her about not far from their home. Her husband started going with her. A few months ago he was baptized. And this Sunday they’ll play a role in leading worship.
“That’s called conversion,” I said when she told me what they were doing. She agreed with me that it didn’t happen quickly. What she and her husband will do this weekend was years in the making.
For all our hurrying, there are some things that simply will not be rushed. The journey to Jesus is one of those things.
********
The story of the Magi is in many ways a mirror of what happens every Christmas. The details have changed. Gone are the camels that we assume bore the three kings and their gifts. We know what gold is, but frankincense and myrrh rarely show up under our trees or in our celebrations.
The piece of the story that gets played out over and over is that somewhere, somehow people are slowly making their way toward Jesus. Even in a place like Atlanta, this is a journey that can’t be rushed.
Some have been en route for years. Others take a first step by reluctantly showing up at church. Whatever the journey looks like, the Spirit of God is working. Powerful Herod could not derail the Magi. He couldn’t lay claim to their trip and use it for his own advancement. The long journey to Jesus would not be stopped or hindered or thwarted.
Maybe you know someone who is making their way toward Jesus this Christmas. Maybe that someone is you. Take your time. This is God’s work, and God works in ways that we may not understand. Ask your questions – just as the Magi did. But keep following the star that prompted you to begin moving in the first place.
This is sometimes a long slow journey. But what seems so slow to us is the Spirit’s way of leading to Jesus – and that’s a perfectly good waste of time.
Prayer:
Draw us to yourself this Christmas, O Christ. Keep us moving, even if slowly. Guard us from being impatient with you and your Spirit. Forgive our tendency to set your schedule and dictate plans. Cause us to become humble followers, we pray. Amen.
On the way into work this morning I was honked at twice. The first time I deserved it. I’ll not go into details, but the honker was within their honking rights. The second time was unnecessary. I was a little slow moving at a green light. The person behind me quickly concluded that I needed some encouragement. That one bothered me.
In addition to being honked at twice I’m very much aware of the fact that I nearly honked at other less competent drivers at least twice on my commute this morning - maybe three times. Again, details aren’t important. I’m also aware that the persons at whom my honks would have been directed were doing what I apparently did to someone else. They were impeding my progress, slowing me down, getting in the way.
I was reminded this morning that we’re all in such a hurry. To be deterred in the least is a terrible injustice in Atlanta. We’ve got to keep moving. I saw it in others around me. And most importantly I saw it in myself.
********
A few years ago she went to church here and there but her husband rarely went at all. About two years ago they tried a church that I had told her about not far from their home. Her husband started going with her. A few months ago he was baptized. And this Sunday they’ll play a role in leading worship.
“That’s called conversion,” I said when she told me what they were doing. She agreed with me that it didn’t happen quickly. What she and her husband will do this weekend was years in the making.
For all our hurrying, there are some things that simply will not be rushed. The journey to Jesus is one of those things.
********
The story of the Magi is in many ways a mirror of what happens every Christmas. The details have changed. Gone are the camels that we assume bore the three kings and their gifts. We know what gold is, but frankincense and myrrh rarely show up under our trees or in our celebrations.
The piece of the story that gets played out over and over is that somewhere, somehow people are slowly making their way toward Jesus. Even in a place like Atlanta, this is a journey that can’t be rushed.
Some have been en route for years. Others take a first step by reluctantly showing up at church. Whatever the journey looks like, the Spirit of God is working. Powerful Herod could not derail the Magi. He couldn’t lay claim to their trip and use it for his own advancement. The long journey to Jesus would not be stopped or hindered or thwarted.
Maybe you know someone who is making their way toward Jesus this Christmas. Maybe that someone is you. Take your time. This is God’s work, and God works in ways that we may not understand. Ask your questions – just as the Magi did. But keep following the star that prompted you to begin moving in the first place.
This is sometimes a long slow journey. But what seems so slow to us is the Spirit’s way of leading to Jesus – and that’s a perfectly good waste of time.
Prayer:
Draw us to yourself this Christmas, O Christ. Keep us moving, even if slowly. Guard us from being impatient with you and your Spirit. Forgive our tendency to set your schedule and dictate plans. Cause us to become humble followers, we pray. Amen.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Advent Reflections on the Magi: It Takes a While to Get There
Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, “Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews?” (Matthew 2:1-2).
Wise men came from the east.
That’s vague. The same could be said of three professors who show up at Peachtree church from UGA, making their way from Athens to Buckhead. What is east? Who are these visitors to Bethlehem and where have they come from?
Few scholars have examined those questions as thoroughly as Raymond Brown in his monumental work The Birth of the Messiah. Hint: Don’t take this one to the beach. Brown explores possible answers to these questions and the most reasonable arguments for each. A quick summary might be as follows: Matthew’s Greek word “magoi” can mean “magician” or “astrologer” Given the prominence of a star in Matthew’s story “astrologer” seems like the best answer.
“The east” can be Persia, Babylon, or Arabia. Again, the best option is Persia. To know why, consult Brown.
Wherever these star-gazing scholars came from, this much is clear. Getting from where they were to where they wanted to be was a very long journey. By the time they arrived in Judea the infant Jesus is no longer an infant. Our manger scenes, featuring a post-partum Mary surrounded by the shepherds and magi from the east isn’t quite right. The magi were late to the party. Late but not left out.
Eventually they made it. They came to the place where Jesus was, they fell before the child and worshiped him and presented gifts. What they sought, they found – it just took a while to get there.
********
Once the dishes have been put away after the Thanksgiving meal, most of us set a course for Christmas. Some waste no time getting the journey started. Thanksgiving weekend is the time to buy the tree and decorate the house. Perhaps for love of the seasonal d̩cor Рor perhaps because December's merciless schedule will not allow a time to do that kind of thing.
Others of us need a little more warm-up time. Having resisted the siren call of retailers to get ready for Christmas in mid-October, we find we can’t quite work up the momentum we need to embrace December and all that comes with it.
At some point, however, we start the pilgrimage toward the Christ child. We take our first weary steps toward the little town of Bethlehem, fully intending to take our place ‘round yon virgin.
And maybe at some point we realize that the distance to that place of worship and adoration is much further than we thought. The calendar threatens us. December 25 is fast approaching and there’s nothing you can do to slow it down. It approaches at what feels like lightning speed.
But you’re just not there. Your mind is distracted; your heart is crowded with other matters; your body is tired; your schedule is relentless. We all want to arrive at the place where we kneel in glad and humble worship before this child, this King. It just takes a while to get there.
Take encouragement from three visitors from the east who would not be deterred. Stay on this journey. Go hard after God until you find your kneeling place. It’s really about the worship, not the calendar. And it’s never too late for that. You can reach the place of worship – even if it takes a little while to get there.
Prayer:
We would seek you, O God, with determined hearts this Christmas season. Lead us with your light to the place of true worship. Sustain us through detours of busy-ness and the burdens that stretch us thin these days. Grant us joy in this journey, we pray. Amen.
Wise men came from the east.
That’s vague. The same could be said of three professors who show up at Peachtree church from UGA, making their way from Athens to Buckhead. What is east? Who are these visitors to Bethlehem and where have they come from?
Few scholars have examined those questions as thoroughly as Raymond Brown in his monumental work The Birth of the Messiah. Hint: Don’t take this one to the beach. Brown explores possible answers to these questions and the most reasonable arguments for each. A quick summary might be as follows: Matthew’s Greek word “magoi” can mean “magician” or “astrologer” Given the prominence of a star in Matthew’s story “astrologer” seems like the best answer.
“The east” can be Persia, Babylon, or Arabia. Again, the best option is Persia. To know why, consult Brown.
Wherever these star-gazing scholars came from, this much is clear. Getting from where they were to where they wanted to be was a very long journey. By the time they arrived in Judea the infant Jesus is no longer an infant. Our manger scenes, featuring a post-partum Mary surrounded by the shepherds and magi from the east isn’t quite right. The magi were late to the party. Late but not left out.
Eventually they made it. They came to the place where Jesus was, they fell before the child and worshiped him and presented gifts. What they sought, they found – it just took a while to get there.
********
Others of us need a little more warm-up time. Having resisted the siren call of retailers to get ready for Christmas in mid-October, we find we can’t quite work up the momentum we need to embrace December and all that comes with it.
At some point, however, we start the pilgrimage toward the Christ child. We take our first weary steps toward the little town of Bethlehem, fully intending to take our place ‘round yon virgin.
And maybe at some point we realize that the distance to that place of worship and adoration is much further than we thought. The calendar threatens us. December 25 is fast approaching and there’s nothing you can do to slow it down. It approaches at what feels like lightning speed.
But you’re just not there. Your mind is distracted; your heart is crowded with other matters; your body is tired; your schedule is relentless. We all want to arrive at the place where we kneel in glad and humble worship before this child, this King. It just takes a while to get there.
Take encouragement from three visitors from the east who would not be deterred. Stay on this journey. Go hard after God until you find your kneeling place. It’s really about the worship, not the calendar. And it’s never too late for that. You can reach the place of worship – even if it takes a little while to get there.
Prayer:
We would seek you, O God, with determined hearts this Christmas season. Lead us with your light to the place of true worship. Sustain us through detours of busy-ness and the burdens that stretch us thin these days. Grant us joy in this journey, we pray. Amen.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Advent Reflections on Joseph: The Power of "With"
The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel" - which means, "God with us" (Matthew 1:23).
Whether in story or song, we yearn for resolution. We don’t always get it. Some musical composers seem to delight in the discordant, regarding the unfinished sound as artistry. Some writers leave us wondering and guessing, regarding the jagged edges of the tale as closer to reality. They may be right.
But that doesn’t change the fact that the ear and the mind instinctively seek resolution. We want the chords to progress in such a way that we hear and feel the conclusion of the piece. We like for the varied plot-lines of the story to come together in such way that the fragments form a unified whole. “They lived happily ever after” is what we like to hear.
Matthew’s story of Jesus’ birth lacks resolution. As we typically read it and hear it read, the story ends nicely enough with Joseph taking Mary as his wife. But while this ending is simple, it isn’t neat. Much is left untold.
The fall-out from the marriage remains untold. Craig Keener writes that “Joseph’s obedience to God cost him the right to value his own reputation.” And then there’s the little detail about “having no union with her” until the birth of Jesus. They’re married, but not fully married. This isn’t quite happily ever after. Resolution eludes us at the end of Matthew’s story.
There is one line however that helps us make sense of what Joseph did and how he did it. When the Angel spoke the words that the prophet Isaiah had spoken long ago, the child is identified as Immanuel – “God with us.”
********
“God with us.” That truth is at the core of the Christmas story, and in some way it is at the core of our own stories as well - especially the messy stories, the stories that lack resolution and leave us groping about for what’s next.
The power of “with” changes everything, precisely because it is truly “with.” God present in the varied realities of this day: God with us in all places and all circumstances. God with us in offices and malls, in gyms and courtrooms, on airplanes and tennis courts. God with us in illnesses and in our sleep, in heartache and in love.
The power of “with” tells us that God is not simply “above”: Aloof, distant, watching to see how we’ll manage and whether we’ll screw up. And it also tells us that God is not “against.” The messy story you’re living right now is not punishment or revenge.
We tend to think that when God is with us, the story will always resolve. We sometimes doubt “God with us” because if it were true, life would surely look differently than it does today. Joseph wouldn’t be stuck in a celibate marriage with a pregnant wife, and we’d be getting something other than we’ve got as well.
But “God with us” means that God enters fully into the life you have right now. And if God embraces your life, maybe you can embrace it too. You can do the hard thing and accept the difficult reality – just as Joseph did. And you can do it with deep peace and bold confidence, knowing that ultimately in all things God is working for your good. All things will one day resolve, and until then we live in faith obedience. That’s the power of “with.”
Prayer:
I will claim the Angel’s words to Joseph as your promise to me, O God. You are with us. In Jesus you entered fully into the experience of life and embraced it all. Because you are with us we can do the same. Grant us the gift of your Spirit that we might live fully in you presence today. Amen.
Whether in story or song, we yearn for resolution. We don’t always get it. Some musical composers seem to delight in the discordant, regarding the unfinished sound as artistry. Some writers leave us wondering and guessing, regarding the jagged edges of the tale as closer to reality. They may be right.
But that doesn’t change the fact that the ear and the mind instinctively seek resolution. We want the chords to progress in such a way that we hear and feel the conclusion of the piece. We like for the varied plot-lines of the story to come together in such way that the fragments form a unified whole. “They lived happily ever after” is what we like to hear.
Matthew’s story of Jesus’ birth lacks resolution. As we typically read it and hear it read, the story ends nicely enough with Joseph taking Mary as his wife. But while this ending is simple, it isn’t neat. Much is left untold.
The fall-out from the marriage remains untold. Craig Keener writes that “Joseph’s obedience to God cost him the right to value his own reputation.” And then there’s the little detail about “having no union with her” until the birth of Jesus. They’re married, but not fully married. This isn’t quite happily ever after. Resolution eludes us at the end of Matthew’s story.
There is one line however that helps us make sense of what Joseph did and how he did it. When the Angel spoke the words that the prophet Isaiah had spoken long ago, the child is identified as Immanuel – “God with us.”
********
“God with us.” That truth is at the core of the Christmas story, and in some way it is at the core of our own stories as well - especially the messy stories, the stories that lack resolution and leave us groping about for what’s next.
The power of “with” changes everything, precisely because it is truly “with.” God present in the varied realities of this day: God with us in all places and all circumstances. God with us in offices and malls, in gyms and courtrooms, on airplanes and tennis courts. God with us in illnesses and in our sleep, in heartache and in love.
The power of “with” tells us that God is not simply “above”: Aloof, distant, watching to see how we’ll manage and whether we’ll screw up. And it also tells us that God is not “against.” The messy story you’re living right now is not punishment or revenge.
We tend to think that when God is with us, the story will always resolve. We sometimes doubt “God with us” because if it were true, life would surely look differently than it does today. Joseph wouldn’t be stuck in a celibate marriage with a pregnant wife, and we’d be getting something other than we’ve got as well.
But “God with us” means that God enters fully into the life you have right now. And if God embraces your life, maybe you can embrace it too. You can do the hard thing and accept the difficult reality – just as Joseph did. And you can do it with deep peace and bold confidence, knowing that ultimately in all things God is working for your good. All things will one day resolve, and until then we live in faith obedience. That’s the power of “with.”
Prayer:
I will claim the Angel’s words to Joseph as your promise to me, O God. You are with us. In Jesus you entered fully into the experience of life and embraced it all. Because you are with us we can do the same. Grant us the gift of your Spirit that we might live fully in you presence today. Amen.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Advent Reflections on Joseph: Plans
Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph . . . (Matt. 1:18).
It was a simple plan, well tested and widely practiced. Everyone knew how it went. It was life-changing but it wasn’t complicated. Joseph and Mary would become husband and wife. The plan had been in place for a while, blessed by both families. The process was clear and the anticipation was high. It was a good plan. This is what a young man and a young woman were supposed to do.
This plan had a way of creating momentum for other plans. The wedding would one day be followed by children. The children would require Joseph to invest himself in his trade and create a flourishing business. So many plans and all of them good.
And then, at the height of anticipation, the plan unraveled. As one plan caved, a chain reaction was unleashed in Joseph’s soul and he saw all of his plans shredded, every dream disintegrating like a lump of sugar in hot tea.
The undreamed of and the unimaginable shoved aside the imagined future. An unplanned pregnancy and all that comes with it: questions and speculation, shame and scorn.
And so Joseph devised another plan: a quiet divorce. Damage control. It was the best he could do. He would do what God’s law required while guarding Mary’s reputation as much as he could.
But while Joseph was grieving the death of his dreams and scurrying for an alternative plan, trying to make the best out of what couldn’t have been any worse, he was told that the whole mess was actually part of a much larger plan. This pregnancy was of the Holy Spirit, and through it God was working to save his people from their sin.
Joseph’s life wasn’t being lived according to his own plan; his life was part of a plan that he never dreamed of. The plan at the center of his life was God’s plan – and God’s plan was being worked out while Joseph’s plans were falling apart.
********
On the day that Mary and Joseph met, Jesus was already planned and the work of salvation through him was fully formed in God’s mind.
Go back further. On the day Joseph and Mary’s grandparents met, Jesus was already planned. The story Matthew tells us goes back as far as the prophet Isaiah to show us that Jesus was a well formed plan in God’s salvation story.
There is truth in this familiar Christmas story that serves to anchor us when our plans are falling apart – and at Christmas plans are especially vulnerable to falling apart. The big meal didn’t turn out right, the family gathering was awkward, the gifts didn’t fit or missed the mark in some other way, the flight was delayed or the trip was canceled altogether.
We picture the perfect Christmas, but rarely get it. And we picture the dream life but don’t see the dream become reality. Joseph’s story is our story, and it is retold day after day.
But the anchor is this: there is a plan bigger than the one you placed on your calendar. There’s a dream larger than the one you direct while also playing the starring role. God has a plan and this plan will not unravel. It is a plan to reclaim and restore a broken, messed up world. God is always carrying out his plans and purposes – and you are invited to be a part of that story.
God’s plans are being worked out, even when your plans are falling apart. What have you got planned for today? What might God have planned for you?
Prayer:
Gracious God, we wake up and enter every day with plans, both large and small. We dream of our future and schedule meetings. We interview for jobs and book flights. We spend our days planning. And when our plans fall apart the true source of our faith and hope is revealed. Help us to trust you with this day’s plans, and with all that we dream about for our lives. Include us in your story, we pray, and work out your plan for us in all that we do. Amen.
It was a simple plan, well tested and widely practiced. Everyone knew how it went. It was life-changing but it wasn’t complicated. Joseph and Mary would become husband and wife. The plan had been in place for a while, blessed by both families. The process was clear and the anticipation was high. It was a good plan. This is what a young man and a young woman were supposed to do.
This plan had a way of creating momentum for other plans. The wedding would one day be followed by children. The children would require Joseph to invest himself in his trade and create a flourishing business. So many plans and all of them good.
And then, at the height of anticipation, the plan unraveled. As one plan caved, a chain reaction was unleashed in Joseph’s soul and he saw all of his plans shredded, every dream disintegrating like a lump of sugar in hot tea.
The undreamed of and the unimaginable shoved aside the imagined future. An unplanned pregnancy and all that comes with it: questions and speculation, shame and scorn.
And so Joseph devised another plan: a quiet divorce. Damage control. It was the best he could do. He would do what God’s law required while guarding Mary’s reputation as much as he could.
But while Joseph was grieving the death of his dreams and scurrying for an alternative plan, trying to make the best out of what couldn’t have been any worse, he was told that the whole mess was actually part of a much larger plan. This pregnancy was of the Holy Spirit, and through it God was working to save his people from their sin.
Joseph’s life wasn’t being lived according to his own plan; his life was part of a plan that he never dreamed of. The plan at the center of his life was God’s plan – and God’s plan was being worked out while Joseph’s plans were falling apart.
********
On the day that Mary and Joseph met, Jesus was already planned and the work of salvation through him was fully formed in God’s mind.
Go back further. On the day Joseph and Mary’s grandparents met, Jesus was already planned. The story Matthew tells us goes back as far as the prophet Isaiah to show us that Jesus was a well formed plan in God’s salvation story.
There is truth in this familiar Christmas story that serves to anchor us when our plans are falling apart – and at Christmas plans are especially vulnerable to falling apart. The big meal didn’t turn out right, the family gathering was awkward, the gifts didn’t fit or missed the mark in some other way, the flight was delayed or the trip was canceled altogether.
We picture the perfect Christmas, but rarely get it. And we picture the dream life but don’t see the dream become reality. Joseph’s story is our story, and it is retold day after day.
But the anchor is this: there is a plan bigger than the one you placed on your calendar. There’s a dream larger than the one you direct while also playing the starring role. God has a plan and this plan will not unravel. It is a plan to reclaim and restore a broken, messed up world. God is always carrying out his plans and purposes – and you are invited to be a part of that story.
God’s plans are being worked out, even when your plans are falling apart. What have you got planned for today? What might God have planned for you?
Prayer:
Gracious God, we wake up and enter every day with plans, both large and small. We dream of our future and schedule meetings. We interview for jobs and book flights. We spend our days planning. And when our plans fall apart the true source of our faith and hope is revealed. Help us to trust you with this day’s plans, and with all that we dream about for our lives. Include us in your story, we pray, and work out your plan for us in all that we do. Amen.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Advent Reflections on Joseph: Waiting and Wrestling
Because Joseph was a righteous man and did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly (Matt. 1:19).
Until I received the email from my son’s wrestling coach last week, I had no idea what I was in for. The world of middle school wrestling is uncharted territory for me. The email did us the favor of not sugar-coating what Saturday’s tournament would be like. “This will be the longest day of our season.”
I had to have my son on the team bus by 6:00 a.m. and myself in McDonough by 9:00 a.m. But the email couldn’t really prepare me for what I experienced this past Saturday. The place was loud and raucous and I knew immediately that I had been a fool for bringing a book along with me, although I wasn’t the only one (and I did see one dad with his laptop).
The tournament was double-elimination. The main gym at Union Grove High School in McDonough had six mats with matches happening simultaneously all day long; another area had two more mats for more advanced wrestlers.
My son lost his first match. At least one more to go. His next match was placed on the schedule and we had about an hour long wait. He won that time. The next match was placed on the schedule. More waiting. Then he won again. His next match was placed on the schedule followed by still more waiting. And then he won yet again. After more waiting he had his fifth match of the day – and that’s when it ended for him. But by that time it was almost 5:00 pm.
I learned plenty about wrestling on Saturday. I learned that a wrestling match can be over in a hurry. This is nothing like watching your kid play baseball. Even a match that lasts a good while is over in a matter of minutes. And I also learned that there are long stretches of waiting.
In a wrestling tournament, good wrestling and long waiting are a package deal.
The story of Joseph’s discovery of Mary’s pregnancy is a wrestling story. Matthew gives it to us in spare language. Mary is pledged to Joseph, the marital commitment in place without the full benefits and living arrangements of the marital relationship. This is when Joseph discovers that Mary is pregnant. And this is when the wrestling begins, unseen and yet strenuous. Joseph grappling with God, grappling with his own heart and mind.
Again, Matthew shows us none of this except to say that Joseph “considered” how he could divorce Mary quietly and thus protect her from public disgrace. But can such “considering” be anything less than anguish and pain? How long did he “consider?” How many sleepless nights, how many bitter questions hurled at heaven? How many tense conversations with his beloved? How many fake smiles at neighbors as if all was well?
And even once the Angel has appeared and Joseph has taken Mary as is wife, the difficulties are hardly over. Craig Keener notes that Joseph’s decision to go ahead with his marriage was a decision to sacrifice his own reputation. The wrestling surely didn’t stop. Wrestling mingled with waiting until the birth in the Bethlehem stable.
Many of us come to Advent wrestling and waiting; life has us in a head-lock and we’re trying desperately to find the right move that will loosen its grip. With the Psalmist we ask “How long must I wrestle with my thoughts?” (Ps. 13:2). Christmas doesn’t change the fact that we’re wrestling with decisions that need to be made, decisions we wish could make over again, afflicted bodies, conflicted relationships and competing expectations. We wrestle through one challenge only to face another.
But in the midst of the wrestling, Joseph’s and ours, there is this assurance: the Holy Spirit is at work. To see it may require waiting, long waiting and still more wrestling. But God is active in your wrestling story.
What opponent will you wrestle today?
Prayer:
Grant to us, O God, the patience to trust you in all things and the strength to wrestle long until we see your hand at work: show your hand in the difficult situations, the perplexing questions, the stubborn circumstances that refuse to budge. Be present with us in the struggles of this day, making us confident as we wrestle and wait in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Until I received the email from my son’s wrestling coach last week, I had no idea what I was in for. The world of middle school wrestling is uncharted territory for me. The email did us the favor of not sugar-coating what Saturday’s tournament would be like. “This will be the longest day of our season.”
I had to have my son on the team bus by 6:00 a.m. and myself in McDonough by 9:00 a.m. But the email couldn’t really prepare me for what I experienced this past Saturday. The place was loud and raucous and I knew immediately that I had been a fool for bringing a book along with me, although I wasn’t the only one (and I did see one dad with his laptop).
The tournament was double-elimination. The main gym at Union Grove High School in McDonough had six mats with matches happening simultaneously all day long; another area had two more mats for more advanced wrestlers.
My son lost his first match. At least one more to go. His next match was placed on the schedule and we had about an hour long wait. He won that time. The next match was placed on the schedule. More waiting. Then he won again. His next match was placed on the schedule followed by still more waiting. And then he won yet again. After more waiting he had his fifth match of the day – and that’s when it ended for him. But by that time it was almost 5:00 pm.
I learned plenty about wrestling on Saturday. I learned that a wrestling match can be over in a hurry. This is nothing like watching your kid play baseball. Even a match that lasts a good while is over in a matter of minutes. And I also learned that there are long stretches of waiting.
In a wrestling tournament, good wrestling and long waiting are a package deal.
********
The story of Joseph’s discovery of Mary’s pregnancy is a wrestling story. Matthew gives it to us in spare language. Mary is pledged to Joseph, the marital commitment in place without the full benefits and living arrangements of the marital relationship. This is when Joseph discovers that Mary is pregnant. And this is when the wrestling begins, unseen and yet strenuous. Joseph grappling with God, grappling with his own heart and mind.
Again, Matthew shows us none of this except to say that Joseph “considered” how he could divorce Mary quietly and thus protect her from public disgrace. But can such “considering” be anything less than anguish and pain? How long did he “consider?” How many sleepless nights, how many bitter questions hurled at heaven? How many tense conversations with his beloved? How many fake smiles at neighbors as if all was well?
And even once the Angel has appeared and Joseph has taken Mary as is wife, the difficulties are hardly over. Craig Keener notes that Joseph’s decision to go ahead with his marriage was a decision to sacrifice his own reputation. The wrestling surely didn’t stop. Wrestling mingled with waiting until the birth in the Bethlehem stable.
Many of us come to Advent wrestling and waiting; life has us in a head-lock and we’re trying desperately to find the right move that will loosen its grip. With the Psalmist we ask “How long must I wrestle with my thoughts?” (Ps. 13:2). Christmas doesn’t change the fact that we’re wrestling with decisions that need to be made, decisions we wish could make over again, afflicted bodies, conflicted relationships and competing expectations. We wrestle through one challenge only to face another.
But in the midst of the wrestling, Joseph’s and ours, there is this assurance: the Holy Spirit is at work. To see it may require waiting, long waiting and still more wrestling. But God is active in your wrestling story.
What opponent will you wrestle today?
Prayer:
Grant to us, O God, the patience to trust you in all things and the strength to wrestle long until we see your hand at work: show your hand in the difficult situations, the perplexing questions, the stubborn circumstances that refuse to budge. Be present with us in the struggles of this day, making us confident as we wrestle and wait in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Advent Reflections on Simeon: Cradling Salvation
Simeon took him in his arms and praised God . . . (Luke 2:28)
In the churches that introduced me to Jesus and nurtured my faith, Baptism was a sloppy affair. You had to change your clothes, put on a white robe, hold your nose and allow the pastor to lower you backwards all the way under, at least until the water completely covered your face. That kind of baptism demonstrated real faith – not only in Jesus as Lord and Savior, but in the person who held you and lowered you into the “watery grave.”
I love immersion baptism – the kind where the water doesn’t go on you; you go in the water. When I met with the Presbytery’s committee on ministry in order to become a card-carrying Presby Pastor, they questioned me about some of my reservations about leaving the tradition that had shaped my faith and educated me for ministry. I only had one: “You people don’t use enough water,” I said. They laughed. “How much does it take,” one of them replied.
Let me hasten to add that I love infant baptism too. I’ll confess that I’m probably not able to articulate the most cogent and compelling argument for why we baptize babies. Focus on the word “baptism” in infant baptism and you can end up mired in some thorny theological and biblical questions.
What draws me to infant baptism isn’t the word “baptism.” Rather, it’s the word “infant.” Sure, the act or “sacrament” of infant baptism says something profound about the nature of God’s grace. But on a far more practical level, there’s something very special about holding someone else’s baby and speaking blessing over that child.
Some babies don’t like to be held by the pastor. Some parents bring young ones for baptism who are well beyond infancy and can actually run from you (I’ve had that happen). But some sleep in your arms and still others look at you like they understand clearly every word you’re saying as you name Father, Son and Holy Spirit over them.
It is a great privilege, a sacred moment, when parents place their child in your arms for a word of blessing.
The story of Simeon is always told at or near the Christmas season. It is numbered among the biblical texts that we associate with the birth of Jesus. But among these nativity stories, Simeon is the only one who actually takes the infant into his arms. His song gives thanks to God that “my eyes have seen your salvation.” But Simeon doesn’t merely see salvation. He cradles it, holds it close, pulls it to himself in an intimate act of worship.
The Shepherds rushed to the stable to “see this thing that has happened.” As best we can tell, their encounter with Jesus was one of seeing and beholding. The magi also journeyed to find the child. Their worship was expressed in the bringing of gifts. There are angels who sing and animals who witness the event. Even in the temple that day the elderly Anna gave thanks to God and spoke of the child (the first woman preacher). But Simeon takes the baby into his arms.
In these days of Advent Simeon’s example invites us to ponder our own response to the birth of Jesus and the salvation accomplished through him. Specifically, we are invited to be more than spectators and observers. We are challenged to do more than give gifts. We are reminded that Christmas can mean more than speaking about Jesus’ birth.
God’s saving work through Jesus is meant to be embraced. As Simeon’s words make clear, this salvation is being prepared in the sight of all people – but many people at Christmas are simply too busy too embrace it. Some find it too familiar. They talk about it, they watch the story from their pew, but have yet to take the Christ into their arms and cradle the God’s work of salvation as their own.
How will you encounter the Christ child this year? Have you embraced God’s saving work as your own?
Prayer:
We give you thanks, O God, for your saving work in Jesus Christ. We marvel that this work is for all nations, prepared in the sight of all people. Knowing that we cannot share what we do not possess ourselves, we will embrace this salvation and hold it close. Change us and save us – and empower us to share the good news of salvation with the world. Amen.
In the churches that introduced me to Jesus and nurtured my faith, Baptism was a sloppy affair. You had to change your clothes, put on a white robe, hold your nose and allow the pastor to lower you backwards all the way under, at least until the water completely covered your face. That kind of baptism demonstrated real faith – not only in Jesus as Lord and Savior, but in the person who held you and lowered you into the “watery grave.”
I love immersion baptism – the kind where the water doesn’t go on you; you go in the water. When I met with the Presbytery’s committee on ministry in order to become a card-carrying Presby Pastor, they questioned me about some of my reservations about leaving the tradition that had shaped my faith and educated me for ministry. I only had one: “You people don’t use enough water,” I said. They laughed. “How much does it take,” one of them replied.
Let me hasten to add that I love infant baptism too. I’ll confess that I’m probably not able to articulate the most cogent and compelling argument for why we baptize babies. Focus on the word “baptism” in infant baptism and you can end up mired in some thorny theological and biblical questions.
What draws me to infant baptism isn’t the word “baptism.” Rather, it’s the word “infant.” Sure, the act or “sacrament” of infant baptism says something profound about the nature of God’s grace. But on a far more practical level, there’s something very special about holding someone else’s baby and speaking blessing over that child.
Some babies don’t like to be held by the pastor. Some parents bring young ones for baptism who are well beyond infancy and can actually run from you (I’ve had that happen). But some sleep in your arms and still others look at you like they understand clearly every word you’re saying as you name Father, Son and Holy Spirit over them.
It is a great privilege, a sacred moment, when parents place their child in your arms for a word of blessing.
********
This is the moment of the Simeon story that holds my attention today. Luke narrates the scene in a terse sentence or two. Mary and Joseph arrive at the Temple to present their son, and the next thing we know Simeon has the child in his arms, praising God with prayerful song.The story of Simeon is always told at or near the Christmas season. It is numbered among the biblical texts that we associate with the birth of Jesus. But among these nativity stories, Simeon is the only one who actually takes the infant into his arms. His song gives thanks to God that “my eyes have seen your salvation.” But Simeon doesn’t merely see salvation. He cradles it, holds it close, pulls it to himself in an intimate act of worship.
The Shepherds rushed to the stable to “see this thing that has happened.” As best we can tell, their encounter with Jesus was one of seeing and beholding. The magi also journeyed to find the child. Their worship was expressed in the bringing of gifts. There are angels who sing and animals who witness the event. Even in the temple that day the elderly Anna gave thanks to God and spoke of the child (the first woman preacher). But Simeon takes the baby into his arms.
In these days of Advent Simeon’s example invites us to ponder our own response to the birth of Jesus and the salvation accomplished through him. Specifically, we are invited to be more than spectators and observers. We are challenged to do more than give gifts. We are reminded that Christmas can mean more than speaking about Jesus’ birth.
God’s saving work through Jesus is meant to be embraced. As Simeon’s words make clear, this salvation is being prepared in the sight of all people – but many people at Christmas are simply too busy too embrace it. Some find it too familiar. They talk about it, they watch the story from their pew, but have yet to take the Christ into their arms and cradle the God’s work of salvation as their own.
How will you encounter the Christ child this year? Have you embraced God’s saving work as your own?
Prayer:
We give you thanks, O God, for your saving work in Jesus Christ. We marvel that this work is for all nations, prepared in the sight of all people. Knowing that we cannot share what we do not possess ourselves, we will embrace this salvation and hold it close. Change us and save us – and empower us to share the good news of salvation with the world. Amen.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Advent Reflections on Simeon: The Spirit of Obedience
Joseph and Mary took him to Jerusalem to present him to he Lord (as it is written in the Law of the Lord, “Every first born male is to be consecrated to the Lord.”). (Luke 2:22-23).
She was wide awake long before she needed to be. She hadn’t slept much and what sleep she managed was light, easily interrupted by every sound that came from her baby boy. Even when the baby slept soundly she would lie awake and listen to his breathing. Sometimes she stared into the dark just waiting for the arrival of morning’s first light and the moment when she could nudge Joseph and tell him it was time to get ready. She had been waiting for this day for weeks.
Today they would take their month old son and present him at the temple.
Since the day of his birth they had known they would make this trip to Jerusalem. They knew this because the practice was established by God in the days of Moses. For centuries this is what the faithful had done in keeping with God’s law.
The presentation of their baby at the temple wasn’t their idea. It wasn’t something they discussed as a nice opportunity to make a family memory. It was never regarded as something they chose to do. They were commanded to do it. Even the timing of the trip was set forth in the Law. The time for Mary’s purification following childbirth had to be completed (Lev. 12:1-5). So it now was, and so they would go.
The temple presentation was an act of obedience.
********
As Mary and Joseph made their way to the temple that day another man was doing the same thing. This man was not presenting a child. Those days were long gone for him. He was, like the young couple, a man who cared about the Law of God. He was righteous and devout. He knew what God had said and he lived his life according to what God had spoken.
But the defining characteristic of Simeon’s life was his intimate fellowship with God through the Holy Spirit. Yes, Simeon knew the Law, but he was one upon whom the Spirit of God rested. The Spirit had conveyed to Simeon a very significant promise. And when Simeon made his way to the temple that day he did so led by the Spirit.
Simeon arrived at the temple because he knew within himself that the Spirit was prompting him to go there.
********
And so they met. An encounter orchestrated by God, a confluence of obedience to the Law and sensitive response to the promptings of the Holy Spirit. An obedient life and a Spirit-led life came together around the person of Jesus. So it is even now, this day. So it is for you.
Responsiveness to the leading of the Spirit and obedience to the written word of God are never two separate ways of living the life of faith. Think long and hard about any kind of spiritual talk that speaks of “fresh winds” of the Spirit that blow in a direction counter to the plainly written words of God in scripture. When Jesus is held at the center of a life of faith, obedience to the law of God and sensitivity to the Spirit of God will meet, congruent and inseparable.
This has implications for how we live our days. Obedience is never mere obedience, gritting our teeth with determined resolve to do what’s right even if we hate it and even if it kills us. And sensitivity to the Spirit is never vague impulse or a wave of sincere feeling. True God-honoring obedience is made possible by the Spirit, and sensitivity to the Spirit’s leading is shaped by the word.
Following the Spirit, obeying the Law: which of these comes easiest to you? Answer this truthfully, and then pray earnestly for the other.
Prayer:
Lead me this day, O God, in the footsteps of Joseph and Mary: Attentive and obedient to what your word says. Lead me also in the footsteps of Simeon: Sensitive and responsive to the promptings of the Holy Spirit. Help me to live this day in the Spirit of obedience, to the glory of your name. Amen.
She was wide awake long before she needed to be. She hadn’t slept much and what sleep she managed was light, easily interrupted by every sound that came from her baby boy. Even when the baby slept soundly she would lie awake and listen to his breathing. Sometimes she stared into the dark just waiting for the arrival of morning’s first light and the moment when she could nudge Joseph and tell him it was time to get ready. She had been waiting for this day for weeks.
Today they would take their month old son and present him at the temple.
Since the day of his birth they had known they would make this trip to Jerusalem. They knew this because the practice was established by God in the days of Moses. For centuries this is what the faithful had done in keeping with God’s law.
The presentation of their baby at the temple wasn’t their idea. It wasn’t something they discussed as a nice opportunity to make a family memory. It was never regarded as something they chose to do. They were commanded to do it. Even the timing of the trip was set forth in the Law. The time for Mary’s purification following childbirth had to be completed (Lev. 12:1-5). So it now was, and so they would go.
The temple presentation was an act of obedience.
********
But the defining characteristic of Simeon’s life was his intimate fellowship with God through the Holy Spirit. Yes, Simeon knew the Law, but he was one upon whom the Spirit of God rested. The Spirit had conveyed to Simeon a very significant promise. And when Simeon made his way to the temple that day he did so led by the Spirit.
Simeon arrived at the temple because he knew within himself that the Spirit was prompting him to go there.
********
Responsiveness to the leading of the Spirit and obedience to the written word of God are never two separate ways of living the life of faith. Think long and hard about any kind of spiritual talk that speaks of “fresh winds” of the Spirit that blow in a direction counter to the plainly written words of God in scripture. When Jesus is held at the center of a life of faith, obedience to the law of God and sensitivity to the Spirit of God will meet, congruent and inseparable.
This has implications for how we live our days. Obedience is never mere obedience, gritting our teeth with determined resolve to do what’s right even if we hate it and even if it kills us. And sensitivity to the Spirit is never vague impulse or a wave of sincere feeling. True God-honoring obedience is made possible by the Spirit, and sensitivity to the Spirit’s leading is shaped by the word.
Following the Spirit, obeying the Law: which of these comes easiest to you? Answer this truthfully, and then pray earnestly for the other.
Prayer:
Lead me this day, O God, in the footsteps of Joseph and Mary: Attentive and obedient to what your word says. Lead me also in the footsteps of Simeon: Sensitive and responsive to the promptings of the Holy Spirit. Help me to live this day in the Spirit of obedience, to the glory of your name. Amen.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Advent Reflections on Simeon: Moment of Recognition
It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord’s Christ . . . (Luke 2:27-28).
How did he know? How did he know that they were the ones? How did he know that this was the child?
All he had been given was a promise. At some point in his life, at a time unknown to us, Simeon had been told by the Holy Spirit that he would not die until he had seen the Lord’s Christ. He had been told this would happen, but didn’t have clue as to when it would happen or who he was looking for. No details, no dates, no descriptions. Just a promise.
At first there was an excitement to all of this, an eager readiness to see what the Spirit had said he would see. Every day felt like the day. Every morning brimmed with possibility. Every occasion of temple worship was charged with the presence of the Holy. Something of enormous significance was about to happen. God was going to do a work which generations of faithful men and women had yearned to see. And Simeon would see it.
But years passed. The mornings became increasingly difficult for Simeon. He didn’t charge into the day with the same energy he once had. It took a while to get moving, and when he moved he moved slowly. The brimming possibility of each day had gradually become a wistful perhaps. He still went to the temple. He still said his prayers. After all, he was a righteous and devout man.
The years brought questions. There were moments when he wondered if he had misunderstood what the Spirit had conveyed to him years ago, but the nagging doubts never lingered long. With the passing of time Simeon had lost some energy, he had lost his wife. He had even lost most of his hair. But he never lost his conviction that God would one day bring salvation to Israel – and to the nations of the world as well. Simeon had been given a promise.
And the promise was enough. It was enough to get him out of bed each day, enough to strengthen his soul when his body was weak and tired, enough to comfort his heart when he felt alone, enough to keep him alert and attentive.
********
What we imagine to be true of Simeon’s life we know to be true for a fact of our own. Most of us know all too well how the life of faith soars and slumps. We live some of our days in eager pursuit of what God has for us, even if we’re not exactly sure what that is. God is at work in the world and we’re involved. And then there are days when we live as if by muscle memory, saying the right things, doing the right things, but we do so because that’s what we’ve always done.
The enemy of our faith rarely attacks us at the point of our deepest held beliefs. That is heavily defended territory for most of us, and Satan is smart enough to know it. Rather than a frontal attack on our beliefs, the enemy of our faith simply lulls us into inattention. We stop noticing the divine presence. We stop looking for God’s activity in our world. Today will be like yesterday, this year like last year. Our expectations flat-line.
What Simeon never stopped doing was paying attention. That’s how he knew. That’s how he spotted that particular couple and sensed something different about their baby. The long awaited moment of recognition came to a man who held fast to a promise and lived his days believing. That’s not easy to do.
This day is another opportunity to rub the crust from the eyes of your soul and pay attention. Advent is a deep yearning to see God at work in the world. The baby Simeon blessed in the temple that day would one day explain that the Spirit moves like wind. You can’t see where it comes from or where it is going, but you can notice where it is moving (John 3:8). And the moment of recognition belongs to those who pay attention.
Prayer:
Gracious God, I want to live my days like Simeon – grounded in the conviction that you are at work in this world. I confess that there are days when it’s hard to believe this, hard to see what you’re doing. Your absence seems obvious, your presence illusory. Help me to pay attention today and keep me alert for signs of your grace. I will hold to your promises confident that you are holding me as I wait and watch. Amen.
How did he know? How did he know that they were the ones? How did he know that this was the child?
All he had been given was a promise. At some point in his life, at a time unknown to us, Simeon had been told by the Holy Spirit that he would not die until he had seen the Lord’s Christ. He had been told this would happen, but didn’t have clue as to when it would happen or who he was looking for. No details, no dates, no descriptions. Just a promise.
At first there was an excitement to all of this, an eager readiness to see what the Spirit had said he would see. Every day felt like the day. Every morning brimmed with possibility. Every occasion of temple worship was charged with the presence of the Holy. Something of enormous significance was about to happen. God was going to do a work which generations of faithful men and women had yearned to see. And Simeon would see it.
But years passed. The mornings became increasingly difficult for Simeon. He didn’t charge into the day with the same energy he once had. It took a while to get moving, and when he moved he moved slowly. The brimming possibility of each day had gradually become a wistful perhaps. He still went to the temple. He still said his prayers. After all, he was a righteous and devout man.
The years brought questions. There were moments when he wondered if he had misunderstood what the Spirit had conveyed to him years ago, but the nagging doubts never lingered long. With the passing of time Simeon had lost some energy, he had lost his wife. He had even lost most of his hair. But he never lost his conviction that God would one day bring salvation to Israel – and to the nations of the world as well. Simeon had been given a promise.
And the promise was enough. It was enough to get him out of bed each day, enough to strengthen his soul when his body was weak and tired, enough to comfort his heart when he felt alone, enough to keep him alert and attentive.
********
The enemy of our faith rarely attacks us at the point of our deepest held beliefs. That is heavily defended territory for most of us, and Satan is smart enough to know it. Rather than a frontal attack on our beliefs, the enemy of our faith simply lulls us into inattention. We stop noticing the divine presence. We stop looking for God’s activity in our world. Today will be like yesterday, this year like last year. Our expectations flat-line.
What Simeon never stopped doing was paying attention. That’s how he knew. That’s how he spotted that particular couple and sensed something different about their baby. The long awaited moment of recognition came to a man who held fast to a promise and lived his days believing. That’s not easy to do.
This day is another opportunity to rub the crust from the eyes of your soul and pay attention. Advent is a deep yearning to see God at work in the world. The baby Simeon blessed in the temple that day would one day explain that the Spirit moves like wind. You can’t see where it comes from or where it is going, but you can notice where it is moving (John 3:8). And the moment of recognition belongs to those who pay attention.
Prayer:
Gracious God, I want to live my days like Simeon – grounded in the conviction that you are at work in this world. I confess that there are days when it’s hard to believe this, hard to see what you’re doing. Your absence seems obvious, your presence illusory. Help me to pay attention today and keep me alert for signs of your grace. I will hold to your promises confident that you are holding me as I wait and watch. Amen.
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