The heart becomes brittle and splinters into tiny shards from time to time, when untended, when bumped and jostled by bodies loose-joined, when it's carried not again and again to the Maker's house with palms upward and fingers spread eagle offering again and again, asking, again and again, "Spin it back together, again and again."
Life and hearts get undone. Like the laundry. Again and again. Like leaves scattered, fall again, oh Spring!
How little Life the heart retains when let alone. When it sits on a park bench in solitude but without a prayer. When it is carried in a chest and hurried here and there by Adidas-driven feet, runners pounding the pavement, lungs stinging, striving to suck in more air. When what it really needs, especially needs, is something again a little more eternal, a lot less fleeting. A hug, a healing, a whisper, an embrace, a drink of blood-wine from the chalice cup beneath the cross. A remembering. Uplifted. Heart-upturned. Rising-lifted from her chest and put back together again.
With a pulse returned. Phathump. Phathump. Mmhmm. Amen.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Monday, July 29, 2013
The Meaning of Marriage
So yesterday as I passed the book shelf at our church, I noticed a new face; like, it just popped out at me:
The Meaning of Marriage.
Maybe because I'm on the threshold of beginning my third decade of marriage. And I'm so excited to be here, knowing my husband and I have been given a gift most precious - two decades together.
The book's subtitle is "Facing the Complexities of Commitment with the Wisdom of God."
If this sounds intriguing to you - whether you are single or married (for its audience is intended for both species; the authors have lived several decades rooted in the scriptures, living their own unique union and ministering to a demographic of predominantly single people), by all means, grab a copy over at Amazon. Or somewhere.
'Tis a good find.
The Meaning of Marriage.
Maybe because I'm on the threshold of beginning my third decade of marriage. And I'm so excited to be here, knowing my husband and I have been given a gift most precious - two decades together.
The book's subtitle is "Facing the Complexities of Commitment with the Wisdom of God."
If this sounds intriguing to you - whether you are single or married (for its audience is intended for both species; the authors have lived several decades rooted in the scriptures, living their own unique union and ministering to a demographic of predominantly single people), by all means, grab a copy over at Amazon. Or somewhere.
'Tis a good find.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Young Love
(An Oral Reading - Tempo Lento; Affettuoso)
Love knows so many affinities.
The love of chocolate, the love of beaches, the love of high cliffs, the love of soaring hawks, the love of poetry hidden in song; the motion of two entwined, moving harmoniously to jazz infused promise.
Love is.
Young love unfolds upon itself in discovery and surprise - oh, delight, awakened for the first time.
Its gaze goes no further than its own feeling, overcome with its own awareness-es. Like an infant discovering its hands or toes for the first time, yet with a power and force yesterday unknown, Young Love embraces itself.
Each newness is a burst of ecstasy. It seeks an expression. It casts nothing more than a glancing benignity toward those left gazing either in wise perception, remembering, recognizing, understanding, or, in confusion and isolation, beholding a rite or a party where one has yet to be initiated.
Young Love remains fresh and vibrant when the thing it discovers is explored fully over time, like eternity, unending; not peripherally encountered like a sunrise in passing (then forgotten), but one where its rays are soaked and absorbed all the day through, year upon year.
Young Love is not yet Mature Love.
Mature Love moves alongside his lover, knows her imperfections and forgets not his first delights, but focuses not upon them, as if they were things to be grasped (or opposed - things to hate or things to love, separately). Mature Love, vibrant with the remembrances of youth but wizened by the long journey two lovers make as One, has climbed the mountain, stood upon its pinnacle and looks not down on himself as satisfied alone with first delights, but sees the vista beyond as if upon a threshold. Mature Love hears a call beyond himself, to a full journey ahead - to a place unknown.
Mature Love unwraps himself, lifts himself up from his own good feeling with sentiments aroused by beauty's first kiss, and places his feet, with trepidation perhaps at times, upon a path less traveled by a fearful man. Wholly awakened to the thought of his beloved, he treks bravely down into the hills beneath the pinnacle and does what only he can do for his beloved - forgetting himself, as Christ does, he serves her, for her good; he seeks his own beloved amid unfamiliar vales, he uncovers what she desires and most needs, and then upon the valley, he goes and dies to bring her joy.
It is a glory.
Oh, beloved mystery, unfolding, he comes upon her, beholding what only he ought know, the power of her beauty and breath as one made exquisite flesh.
Her own mature love echoes this crescendo, her own accompaniment - a tale of hopes and dreams,
some tucked away, many
creased with wrinkled joy
and sorrow, too. He calls to her yet, still clumsily-dumbly forgetting after many years she has her own speech which he must find and use. Her faith runs bold as surging streams she finds below and crosses. She loses her footing more than once, disoriented with daring and careless, unkempt wounds, but searching for a quieter place, she leaves clues for her beloved, calling out his name, searching for the light of his eyes, drawing nearer, nearer - and so (at last) they are found.
Their finding is part of this mystery; it's the whisper of Mature Love. She in hope never leaves, even when hope wears thin and bare; she goes on calling, he keeps on laboring, understanding in time that he who once wooed her becomes now her wooing.
Mature Love knows this. Mature Love tends to it and becomes them both. While breath remains, it leaves neither beloved bereaved.
As jazz infused promise melds into jazz infused memories, their rhythm lies pulsating upon each step of the journey. Sometimes holding hands, sometimes off the familiar path they go, but together they go.
Beauty becomes his beloved
fresh like fallen snow upon the vales;
Treasured is their worth, their joy
and their pain an offering;
Yes, healed as one.
No more just newness discovered,
a sentiment secured and guarded as first love,
but a life as one - well lived.
(holy)
Love knows so many affinities.
The love of chocolate, the love of beaches, the love of high cliffs, the love of soaring hawks, the love of poetry hidden in song; the motion of two entwined, moving harmoniously to jazz infused promise.
Love is.
Young love unfolds upon itself in discovery and surprise - oh, delight, awakened for the first time.
Its gaze goes no further than its own feeling, overcome with its own awareness-es. Like an infant discovering its hands or toes for the first time, yet with a power and force yesterday unknown, Young Love embraces itself.
Each newness is a burst of ecstasy. It seeks an expression. It casts nothing more than a glancing benignity toward those left gazing either in wise perception, remembering, recognizing, understanding, or, in confusion and isolation, beholding a rite or a party where one has yet to be initiated.
Young Love remains fresh and vibrant when the thing it discovers is explored fully over time, like eternity, unending; not peripherally encountered like a sunrise in passing (then forgotten), but one where its rays are soaked and absorbed all the day through, year upon year.
Young Love is not yet Mature Love.
Mature Love moves alongside his lover, knows her imperfections and forgets not his first delights, but focuses not upon them, as if they were things to be grasped (or opposed - things to hate or things to love, separately). Mature Love, vibrant with the remembrances of youth but wizened by the long journey two lovers make as One, has climbed the mountain, stood upon its pinnacle and looks not down on himself as satisfied alone with first delights, but sees the vista beyond as if upon a threshold. Mature Love hears a call beyond himself, to a full journey ahead - to a place unknown.
Mature Love unwraps himself, lifts himself up from his own good feeling with sentiments aroused by beauty's first kiss, and places his feet, with trepidation perhaps at times, upon a path less traveled by a fearful man. Wholly awakened to the thought of his beloved, he treks bravely down into the hills beneath the pinnacle and does what only he can do for his beloved - forgetting himself, as Christ does, he serves her, for her good; he seeks his own beloved amid unfamiliar vales, he uncovers what she desires and most needs, and then upon the valley, he goes and dies to bring her joy.
It is a glory.
Oh, beloved mystery, unfolding, he comes upon her, beholding what only he ought know, the power of her beauty and breath as one made exquisite flesh.
Her own mature love echoes this crescendo, her own accompaniment - a tale of hopes and dreams,
some tucked away, many
creased with wrinkled joy
and sorrow, too. He calls to her yet, still clumsily-dumbly forgetting after many years she has her own speech which he must find and use. Her faith runs bold as surging streams she finds below and crosses. She loses her footing more than once, disoriented with daring and careless, unkempt wounds, but searching for a quieter place, she leaves clues for her beloved, calling out his name, searching for the light of his eyes, drawing nearer, nearer - and so (at last) they are found.
Their finding is part of this mystery; it's the whisper of Mature Love. She in hope never leaves, even when hope wears thin and bare; she goes on calling, he keeps on laboring, understanding in time that he who once wooed her becomes now her wooing.
Mature Love knows this. Mature Love tends to it and becomes them both. While breath remains, it leaves neither beloved bereaved.
As jazz infused promise melds into jazz infused memories, their rhythm lies pulsating upon each step of the journey. Sometimes holding hands, sometimes off the familiar path they go, but together they go.
Beauty becomes his beloved
fresh like fallen snow upon the vales;
Treasured is their worth, their joy
and their pain an offering;
Yes, healed as one.
No more just newness discovered,
a sentiment secured and guarded as first love,
but a life as one - well lived.
(holy)
Mended
A phrase whispers,
"The Liveliness of a soul, the Liveliness of a soul, the Liveliness of a soul."
What of Grace cannot be mended?
What with Love goes untended?
These are His gifts.
~
What of grace cannot be mended.
What with love goes untended.
~
Not death nor breathless nights,
Not life or joyous day.
The Liveliness of a soul, the Liveliness of a soul, the Liveliness of a soul.
'Tis mended.
"The Liveliness of a soul, the Liveliness of a soul, the Liveliness of a soul."
What of Grace cannot be mended?
What with Love goes untended?
These are His gifts.
~
What of grace cannot be mended.
What with love goes untended.
~
Not death nor breathless nights,
Not life or joyous day.
The Liveliness of a soul, the Liveliness of a soul, the Liveliness of a soul.
'Tis mended.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
A Special Guest
"Black"
The colorless shade like the dead of night
with drapes of dark silk made
banishing the night;
It creeps in by a shadow
the candles lose their flame
turning dark the meadow
Silencing the victim's claim.
(Written by Jill Leppert)
The colorless shade like the dead of night
with drapes of dark silk made
banishing the night;
It creeps in by a shadow
the candles lose their flame
turning dark the meadow
Silencing the victim's claim.
(Written by Jill Leppert)
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Of Hunger and Thirst
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness for they will be satisfied." (Jesus, the Christ)
I imagine my sleeping child, how utterly peaceful; bathed in quiet calm, her features at rest.
Simply beholding a sleeping child, simply remembering the sight of my own children slumbering as infants draws a calm across my soul like a blanket gently laid over tired, aching limbs.
The day is young yet. The morning sunlight still hasn't reached its peak. My children sleep in, of course; now they are teenagers. I don't mind. They are good kids, and they have been working hard. There's time for such rest.
What does this have to do with hunger and thirst? And righteousness?And satisfaction.
A lot.
Rest speaks of fulfillment. It's what occurs when our bodies are full or have done their work and can do no more. It's what occurs when our souls are filled, properly.
Hunger and thirst settles into our bones like marrow. Without them, we would die.
And to not know fulfillment is to sorrow. Are you sorrowing in any way? In a lot of ways? To know quality satisfaction is to discover a place of rest, and it is a very real, literal place, if but for a time. Allow me to explain.
The meaning implied in this scripture, to hunger, tells us how we live best. That is we are "the hungering ones," or those who receive, expend and then hunger afresh. That's definitive of our lives, or at least it ought to be.
We know what occurs when a person loses their appetite for food, for life.
We know this like we know we need air to breathe, water to drink, and food for energy.
But there's something more to be seen. There is an appropriateness to our desire and the object deserving of it, one that truly fulfills. Jesus called it "righteousness."
We know that in this world not all air is fit to breathe. Not all water is potable. Not all food is healthy. Nor are all things that glitter, gold. So, perhaps if we are wise and over time through trial and error, we come to understand that not all things we stretch our hands out to touch properly satisfies longing, or desire, or our inner craving for something more. Whatever that is.
I suggest to you that it is righteousness.
We are blessed if we hunger and thirst for that ... but what exactly is righteousness? As he says it here, at least. (Matthew 5, The Sermon on the Mount)
This is something worth thinking about. Won't you join me?
Here's a place I'm going to go for help: 1 Corinthians 1:30
I imagine my sleeping child, how utterly peaceful; bathed in quiet calm, her features at rest.
Simply beholding a sleeping child, simply remembering the sight of my own children slumbering as infants draws a calm across my soul like a blanket gently laid over tired, aching limbs.
The day is young yet. The morning sunlight still hasn't reached its peak. My children sleep in, of course; now they are teenagers. I don't mind. They are good kids, and they have been working hard. There's time for such rest.
What does this have to do with hunger and thirst? And righteousness?And satisfaction.
A lot.
Rest speaks of fulfillment. It's what occurs when our bodies are full or have done their work and can do no more. It's what occurs when our souls are filled, properly.
Hunger and thirst settles into our bones like marrow. Without them, we would die.
And to not know fulfillment is to sorrow. Are you sorrowing in any way? In a lot of ways? To know quality satisfaction is to discover a place of rest, and it is a very real, literal place, if but for a time. Allow me to explain.
The meaning implied in this scripture, to hunger, tells us how we live best. That is we are "the hungering ones," or those who receive, expend and then hunger afresh. That's definitive of our lives, or at least it ought to be.
We know what occurs when a person loses their appetite for food, for life.
We know this like we know we need air to breathe, water to drink, and food for energy.
But there's something more to be seen. There is an appropriateness to our desire and the object deserving of it, one that truly fulfills. Jesus called it "righteousness."
We know that in this world not all air is fit to breathe. Not all water is potable. Not all food is healthy. Nor are all things that glitter, gold. So, perhaps if we are wise and over time through trial and error, we come to understand that not all things we stretch our hands out to touch properly satisfies longing, or desire, or our inner craving for something more. Whatever that is.
I suggest to you that it is righteousness.
We are blessed if we hunger and thirst for that ... but what exactly is righteousness? As he says it here, at least. (Matthew 5, The Sermon on the Mount)
This is something worth thinking about. Won't you join me?
Here's a place I'm going to go for help: 1 Corinthians 1:30
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Grace Falls
Have you ever wished you could go back to a particular situation? Or a moment in time?
When everything seemed good. Really good.
Deeply good. (Or not, and then, "course correct"?)
I wonder what we would do differently, if anything.
If we would still end up where we are today.
I wonder.
How about you?
So, I am having a conversation with myself today. It goes like this:
It does no good to think about going back when it is not possible. Even if I look back and try to learn from the situation or event, everything about it becomes unfamiliar in the present tense, because people have changed. Physical places - altered. The sun rises and sets, repeatedly, and the earth spins me into another time.
Yes, there eludes a permanence that would be necessary to re-invent.
Does this sound discouraging? I am tempted here to be sad - to wear sadness like a shirt and pants, my feet trimmed in its matching sandals, like name-brand sorrow. But I think it is only truly so if our means to permanence is fixated upon the transient stuff of a world passing us by - people, places, events: children, parents, friends; momentary laughter, fleeting hugs, conversations like snapshots in time or memory.
But, oh, not discouraging when we behold something lasting:
Grace and her family, oh, eternal relevance - permanence.
Do you see them?
Grace and her twin, Mercy, pour down over our heads like rain water cascading from a cliff.
Have you stepped into it lately? Have you stood there, letting them massage and pound the sore out of your soul? Are you soaked to the bone, hopeful, again, now offering hope unreservedly as you step forward into the new day.
Oh, but where do these, Grace and Mercy, dwell? And from where do they cascade? You may ask. It is important to ask, important to know.
To discover, yes.
Here is a good place to go, to know:
- The Gospel of John -
Yes, John knew about permanence and transience.
He knew what it was to be loved - permanently, perfectly, beyond sin and error.
May you be richly blessed as you discover.
When everything seemed good. Really good.
Deeply good. (Or not, and then, "course correct"?)
I wonder what we would do differently, if anything.
If we would still end up where we are today.
I wonder.
How about you?
So, I am having a conversation with myself today. It goes like this:
It does no good to think about going back when it is not possible. Even if I look back and try to learn from the situation or event, everything about it becomes unfamiliar in the present tense, because people have changed. Physical places - altered. The sun rises and sets, repeatedly, and the earth spins me into another time.
Yes, there eludes a permanence that would be necessary to re-invent.
Does this sound discouraging? I am tempted here to be sad - to wear sadness like a shirt and pants, my feet trimmed in its matching sandals, like name-brand sorrow. But I think it is only truly so if our means to permanence is fixated upon the transient stuff of a world passing us by - people, places, events: children, parents, friends; momentary laughter, fleeting hugs, conversations like snapshots in time or memory.
But, oh, not discouraging when we behold something lasting:
Grace and her family, oh, eternal relevance - permanence.
Do you see them?
Grace and her twin, Mercy, pour down over our heads like rain water cascading from a cliff.
Have you stepped into it lately? Have you stood there, letting them massage and pound the sore out of your soul? Are you soaked to the bone, hopeful, again, now offering hope unreservedly as you step forward into the new day.
Oh, but where do these, Grace and Mercy, dwell? And from where do they cascade? You may ask. It is important to ask, important to know.
To discover, yes.
Here is a good place to go, to know:
- The Gospel of John -
Yes, John knew about permanence and transience.
He knew what it was to be loved - permanently, perfectly, beyond sin and error.
May you be richly blessed as you discover.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Confident!
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." (Psalm 46)
I'm living in a continually vulnerable state (estate). I tremble that it is so.
My nervous system is awake now. Alert.
To be so aware of vulnerability highly arouses my bodily senses.
Vulnerability and Longing,
Trembling translucent garments
flowing off my shoulders,
silhouetted against a twilight sky.
Oh, how to live, to dwell like this ...in the gale.
Recalling, remembering
Whose I am
Who regards me as His own child, daughter.
I'm living in a physical world between
the now
and
not yet.
By remembering God my Father
and
Christ my Lord, my Brother,
by
doing this together, one
brave
step
one confident
stride
in front of
the other,
risking
This exposure to life's elements that hail and rain
around and
upon me.
Calling life's biggest bluffs - recalling
there's a grace and a longing that
endures to the end
with hope,
and a permanence that's firm like an oak and hard like crystal and diamonds
Transcending.
"Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way." (Psalm 46)
I'm living in a continually vulnerable state (estate). I tremble that it is so.
My nervous system is awake now. Alert.
To be so aware of vulnerability highly arouses my bodily senses.
Vulnerability and Longing,
Trembling translucent garments
flowing off my shoulders,
silhouetted against a twilight sky.
Oh, how to live, to dwell like this ...in the gale.
Recalling, remembering
Whose I am
Who regards me as His own child, daughter.
I'm living in a physical world between
the now
and
not yet.
By remembering God my Father
and
Christ my Lord, my Brother,
by
doing this together, one
brave
step
one confident
stride
in front of
the other,
risking
This exposure to life's elements that hail and rain
around and
upon me.
Calling life's biggest bluffs - recalling
there's a grace and a longing that
endures to the end
with hope,
and a permanence that's firm like an oak and hard like crystal and diamonds
Transcending.
"Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way." (Psalm 46)
Sunday, May 26, 2013
In the Garden & Beholding
It's in the beholding.
It's in the seeing.
Blended with desire
That we choose. Or decide a course of action or a response.
Foreseeing betrayal, He loved.
John 13
It begins with John saying something profound about Christ - about who He was. Only, it wasn't what others thought. It's what Jesus knew that John writes.
His actions flowed from it, were rooted in it ...
He knew God had given all things to Him
He knew where He came from
He knew where He was going
Even the cross, it's gore, He knew
Even the betrayal of friends, He knew
He was completely secure in the knowing.
So he took off his outer garments, filled the basin, and knelt down at his friends' feet...even Judas' feet. And cleaned them.
Formative.
Act.
Behold.
He knew those whom he washed.
He knew the pain their actions (and omissions) would thrust upon his physical body. And soul.
(Imagine, rejection and betrayal and innocence.)
But He did it securely. He knew where he was going.
That God would be made known - like never-before-known.
In Him.
He in God.
And God in them. Yes, even in them who bore him ill. Them who "knew not what they do."
And he told us to love likewise.
Life batters us. It gets rough. But it matters.
I believe that we can love and live like this, like Jesus did, and still (yes, still) maintain justice. After all, justice is always first on everyone's mind when a wrong or omission is done. It is on everyone's mind for good reason. For Goodness' sake, yes.
Justice, after all, is about one thing in particular: Maintaining righteousness, surely; in the face of sin, in its self-absorbed ill-will we inflict on others, Justice Loves. It sees sin's disregard for another's property or person. Justice - it's about healing the wronged, and arresting the wrong-doer for the same purpose. It's for redemption. It's not about vengeance. Or it's anger. It's about a different anger. And a deeper love. That doesn't excuse. Yes, for Goodness' sake.
There is a time for healing. And we can do that, too. We can heal.
Jesus was betrayed and then the betrayal killed him. And then he rose. It took him three days. (Sometimes, it seems like it takes me years to recover, and I did not suffer as He did, not even close, so I know, because He lives and is wholly well, I shall be, too, in Him.) And in the killing and the dying, yes, he bore justice for all, through bearing injustice. He loved clean through our sin, completely.
Sometimes, in living and loving, in healing from sorrows dealt unjustly, it takes wisdom and trust to know that forgiveness is not one more betrayal (of justice, for self); to know that forgiveness fixes itself upon God, upon knowing what Jesus knew; to know that there is a grace that holds it all together, even when we cannot, and we must rest from the effects of someone's sin. I wonder if maybe Jesus was in some manner "healing forward" in the garden before he took on the world's injustices, its penalties. Because, because He knew. And it was agony to know. There wouldn't be time on the cross to heal. It was all about the breaking, the dying. He was supposed to die. He knew it. But His soul, His spirit needed to be well, his will to forgive, to go through with forgiveness, strong. So, he sweated drops of blood, and he gasped a prayer, "Not my will, but Yours be done, Father."
And the angel came
To the Son of Man,
God in flesh,
And strengthened Him
Who knew us. Mankind. The betrayals we drown in, he knew. (Sin is the betrayal of all that is good and right, yes.) So, He knew His friends.
But he loved completely.
Exposing himself.
Vulnerable, he lived;
Vulnerable he died.
Victorious he rose.
And he invites us to rise like that, with him - in him.
To love each other.
---
Yes, it took me a long time to recover from it.
Maybe I imagine poorly and get it wrong. Maybe, but I just know how this past year and a painful friendship has fallen like residue across the landscape; of how it reminds me of particular things past, of experiences and events (emotively) I'd forgotten - how like a tempest cast from past sorrows.
I am still recovering, it feels like, at least on some days. (I tried to tell her, but she couldn't hear me.)
In myself, in my imagining, I choose a response to her.
I am formed by these two; by imaginings and response.
I am not locked by bitterness, shut up in sorrow. I am free (in Jesus' love) to love.
I am called, in spite of the hurt and the knowing, to serve her - to love her. Yes, Jesus knew his friend. Yet (and) he loved him. Yet (and) he vulnerably washed his dust-covered feet. All 12 of his friends' dirty feet, he scrubbed. And loved.
He knew. It mattered that he do it for them. Yes, it mattered that he love. So he did. Why? How? Because he knew something. He knew from where he had come. And he knew where he was going. And that God (his Father, with whom he was intimately acquainted) had placed all things in his hands.
And, so, because He knew it (and John told us), I know, too. I am in His hands. Safe, careful hands. I am made alive in Him. I can love with my eyes wide open. And if I am worn out and tired or exhausted by the effort or the exchange, there is a garden I can go to, to pray. Where the angels occupy and his own Spirit comes fresh as the dew at dawn. Before the cross. And at the resurrection.
Glory (amen)
It's in the seeing.
Blended with desire
That we choose. Or decide a course of action or a response.
Foreseeing betrayal, He loved.
John 13
It begins with John saying something profound about Christ - about who He was. Only, it wasn't what others thought. It's what Jesus knew that John writes.
His actions flowed from it, were rooted in it ...
He knew God had given all things to Him
He knew where He came from
He knew where He was going
Even the cross, it's gore, He knew
Even the betrayal of friends, He knew
He was completely secure in the knowing.
So he took off his outer garments, filled the basin, and knelt down at his friends' feet...even Judas' feet. And cleaned them.
Formative.
Act.
Behold.
He knew those whom he washed.
He knew the pain their actions (and omissions) would thrust upon his physical body. And soul.
(Imagine, rejection and betrayal and innocence.)
But He did it securely. He knew where he was going.
That God would be made known - like never-before-known.
In Him.
He in God.
And God in them. Yes, even in them who bore him ill. Them who "knew not what they do."
And he told us to love likewise.
Life batters us. It gets rough. But it matters.
I believe that we can love and live like this, like Jesus did, and still (yes, still) maintain justice. After all, justice is always first on everyone's mind when a wrong or omission is done. It is on everyone's mind for good reason. For Goodness' sake, yes.
Justice, after all, is about one thing in particular: Maintaining righteousness, surely; in the face of sin, in its self-absorbed ill-will we inflict on others, Justice Loves. It sees sin's disregard for another's property or person. Justice - it's about healing the wronged, and arresting the wrong-doer for the same purpose. It's for redemption. It's not about vengeance. Or it's anger. It's about a different anger. And a deeper love. That doesn't excuse. Yes, for Goodness' sake.
There is a time for healing. And we can do that, too. We can heal.
Jesus was betrayed and then the betrayal killed him. And then he rose. It took him three days. (Sometimes, it seems like it takes me years to recover, and I did not suffer as He did, not even close, so I know, because He lives and is wholly well, I shall be, too, in Him.) And in the killing and the dying, yes, he bore justice for all, through bearing injustice. He loved clean through our sin, completely.
Sometimes, in living and loving, in healing from sorrows dealt unjustly, it takes wisdom and trust to know that forgiveness is not one more betrayal (of justice, for self); to know that forgiveness fixes itself upon God, upon knowing what Jesus knew; to know that there is a grace that holds it all together, even when we cannot, and we must rest from the effects of someone's sin. I wonder if maybe Jesus was in some manner "healing forward" in the garden before he took on the world's injustices, its penalties. Because, because He knew. And it was agony to know. There wouldn't be time on the cross to heal. It was all about the breaking, the dying. He was supposed to die. He knew it. But His soul, His spirit needed to be well, his will to forgive, to go through with forgiveness, strong. So, he sweated drops of blood, and he gasped a prayer, "Not my will, but Yours be done, Father."
And the angel came
To the Son of Man,
God in flesh,
And strengthened Him
Who knew us. Mankind. The betrayals we drown in, he knew. (Sin is the betrayal of all that is good and right, yes.) So, He knew His friends.
But he loved completely.
Exposing himself.
Vulnerable, he lived;
Vulnerable he died.
Victorious he rose.
And he invites us to rise like that, with him - in him.
To love each other.
---
Yes, it took me a long time to recover from it.
Maybe I imagine poorly and get it wrong. Maybe, but I just know how this past year and a painful friendship has fallen like residue across the landscape; of how it reminds me of particular things past, of experiences and events (emotively) I'd forgotten - how like a tempest cast from past sorrows.
I am still recovering, it feels like, at least on some days. (I tried to tell her, but she couldn't hear me.)
In myself, in my imagining, I choose a response to her.
I am formed by these two; by imaginings and response.
I am not locked by bitterness, shut up in sorrow. I am free (in Jesus' love) to love.
I am called, in spite of the hurt and the knowing, to serve her - to love her. Yes, Jesus knew his friend. Yet (and) he loved him. Yet (and) he vulnerably washed his dust-covered feet. All 12 of his friends' dirty feet, he scrubbed. And loved.
He knew. It mattered that he do it for them. Yes, it mattered that he love. So he did. Why? How? Because he knew something. He knew from where he had come. And he knew where he was going. And that God (his Father, with whom he was intimately acquainted) had placed all things in his hands.
And, so, because He knew it (and John told us), I know, too. I am in His hands. Safe, careful hands. I am made alive in Him. I can love with my eyes wide open. And if I am worn out and tired or exhausted by the effort or the exchange, there is a garden I can go to, to pray. Where the angels occupy and his own Spirit comes fresh as the dew at dawn. Before the cross. And at the resurrection.
Glory (amen)
At Home or Not
He who has prepared us for this very thing is God,
who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee.
Disillusioned?
Oh, sorrow: It tastes bitter.
Pours down like hail - some days.
"Vanity, all is vanity."
So said the wisest man ever. An empty chasing after wind, this thing called life; so in despondency, on really bad days, it can feel like there's not a whole lot of living worth doing.
(Oh, but maybe it's in the chasing after that things go awry. After all, we construct our lives carefully, planning, choosing, building around a certain paradigm of importance - even paradigms of important goodness.)
You know the routine (or on groggy days, the grind). Wake up, dress, toss the laundry into the machine, grab a coffee (toast if you're lucky), out the door with a cell-phone in one hand, and a toddler on a hip. Buckle him into his car seat. You look back in the rear-view mirror and the toddler's growing peach fuzz on his upper lip. His voice has changed, too. Yep, he's morphing as you're driving down the road.
Soon, he's driving. And you're in the rear-view mirror. Waving. Goodbye.
I wonder how long it took Solomon to get there? To realize it? To make such a profound sorrowing statement? More importantly, I wonder if he ever recovered from the shock?
Surely, he had to have been intoxicated for a long time. On women. Fame. Fortune.
Oh, wait. That's not your life.
On diapers, soccer games, pizza, family vacations, root beer floats, chores, birthdays, good friends, love-making with a husband, long chats and meandering talks.
I must be strange.
I love all those things.
But, they're not enough.
Inside
I
am the Sahara.
Looking for the oasis.
And it's nowhere in view.
At least not externally.
I do well to remember it.
No, the oasis springs up from inside, from a secret, quiet place where One dwells with me, constantly, as His child. So, if I am the Sahara inside at this point of my life, if everything is scorched and baked by the heat of day and chilled by the cool of night, I've not been dwelling there, in that secret place.
Do you ever feel like that? Do you ever take time to feel it?
The longer I live, the more respect I gain for the old - who have learned to live well.
It takes courage.
To.
Live.
Well. Old. A certain knowing, a confidence in grace and truth and beauty and love.
To embrace bodies falling apart. Or children who bear grandchildren who come when they can, if not at all.
Oh, what brings meaning to your life?
Significance. Relevance.
For I know that I am given these things (in my head, yes, I know).
But some days are shifting underfoot like sand dunes caught in a hurricane.
On those days, I can't see my hands. Or feet. (No, I'm not pregnant.)
I may feel irrelevant, yet I know that to stay engaged is eternally right.
To breathe is holy.
(Oh, my, yes - een when you're not sure why you're breathing - breathe!)
It brings the God who made you (much) glory.
To love.
To hope.
To cherish.
To embrace.
Maybe I am meant only to live this day in order to hold someone who needs holding.
Maybe I am meant only to live this day in order to smile for someone who needs cheering.
Maybe I am meant only to breathe one more breath in order to type this sentence ...
Yes, maybe.
Tomorrow will come. And I will hold that someone, and I will smile, too, and I will breathe one more time.
Amen.
(Here is the rest of the story in 2 Corinthians 5:1-10 ...)
For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling, if indeed by putting it on we may not be found naked. For while we are still in this tent, we groan, being burdened—not that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee.
who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee.
So we are always of good courage ... So whether
we are at home or away,
we make it our aim to please him.
2 Corinthians 5
Disillusioned?
Oh, sorrow: It tastes bitter.
Pours down like hail - some days.
"Vanity, all is vanity."
So said the wisest man ever. An empty chasing after wind, this thing called life; so in despondency, on really bad days, it can feel like there's not a whole lot of living worth doing.
(Oh, but maybe it's in the chasing after that things go awry. After all, we construct our lives carefully, planning, choosing, building around a certain paradigm of importance - even paradigms of important goodness.)
You know the routine (or on groggy days, the grind). Wake up, dress, toss the laundry into the machine, grab a coffee (toast if you're lucky), out the door with a cell-phone in one hand, and a toddler on a hip. Buckle him into his car seat. You look back in the rear-view mirror and the toddler's growing peach fuzz on his upper lip. His voice has changed, too. Yep, he's morphing as you're driving down the road.
Soon, he's driving. And you're in the rear-view mirror. Waving. Goodbye.
I wonder how long it took Solomon to get there? To realize it? To make such a profound sorrowing statement? More importantly, I wonder if he ever recovered from the shock?
Surely, he had to have been intoxicated for a long time. On women. Fame. Fortune.
Oh, wait. That's not your life.
On diapers, soccer games, pizza, family vacations, root beer floats, chores, birthdays, good friends, love-making with a husband, long chats and meandering talks.
I must be strange.
I love all those things.
But, they're not enough.
Inside
I
am the Sahara.
Looking for the oasis.
And it's nowhere in view.
At least not externally.
I do well to remember it.
No, the oasis springs up from inside, from a secret, quiet place where One dwells with me, constantly, as His child. So, if I am the Sahara inside at this point of my life, if everything is scorched and baked by the heat of day and chilled by the cool of night, I've not been dwelling there, in that secret place.
Do you ever feel like that? Do you ever take time to feel it?
The longer I live, the more respect I gain for the old - who have learned to live well.
It takes courage.
To.
Live.
Well. Old. A certain knowing, a confidence in grace and truth and beauty and love.
To embrace bodies falling apart. Or children who bear grandchildren who come when they can, if not at all.
Oh, what brings meaning to your life?
Significance. Relevance.
For I know that I am given these things (in my head, yes, I know).
But some days are shifting underfoot like sand dunes caught in a hurricane.
On those days, I can't see my hands. Or feet. (No, I'm not pregnant.)
I may feel irrelevant, yet I know that to stay engaged is eternally right.
To breathe is holy.
(Oh, my, yes - een when you're not sure why you're breathing - breathe!)
It brings the God who made you (much) glory.
To love.
To hope.
To cherish.
To embrace.
Maybe I am meant only to live this day in order to hold someone who needs holding.
Maybe I am meant only to live this day in order to smile for someone who needs cheering.
Maybe I am meant only to breathe one more breath in order to type this sentence ...
Yes, maybe.
Tomorrow will come. And I will hold that someone, and I will smile, too, and I will breathe one more time.
Amen.
(Here is the rest of the story in 2 Corinthians 5:1-10 ...)
For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling, if indeed by putting it on we may not be found naked. For while we are still in this tent, we groan, being burdened—not that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee.
So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord, for we walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him. For
we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each one
may receive what is due for what he has done in the body, whether good
or evil.
Do You Ever Wonder?
Do you ever wonder
why the soles of your feet
blister
before the day is done?
Or why your soul
yet thirsts
when the wine
runs
dry?
Or why a dark sky
feels foreboding
when the
sun
is
high?
Do you ever wonder
why we
fill
up
with amusements
when they're
done?
Do you ever wonder why?
why the soles of your feet
blister
before the day is done?
Or why your soul
yet thirsts
when the wine
runs
dry?
Or why a dark sky
feels foreboding
when the
sun
is
high?
Do you ever wonder
why we
fill
up
with amusements
when they're
done?
Do you ever wonder why?
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Diamonds in the Mud
Last week I had spent a few hours over a couple of days talking with a "for life and grace" friend. She is the sort of friend who has over the years listened to my thoughts (like confetti scattered and blown across the landscape of past and present) and says to my confusion, “Here, it’s like this.” And, so, a picture begins to emerge, a pattern amidst the mess and rubble, and what we behold is a pattern that looks like Grace and the presence of the Father – who has become my Lord; who is my Shepherd.
She had called the previous weekend to chat (it had been a while), and she realized as we shared back and forth that it would be helpful to walk with me through the materials of her seminar talk recently given to a group of university women, wives of spiritual leaders; and so we talked through a piece of
it one afternoon and then again later, a bit more.
We have one more portion to discuss.
The topic of the seminar was the process of transformation in a Christian's life – how it
happens. (That is, how we walk out the deep and beautiful truths of being "in Christ" in literal experience; how to identify “old life” experiences that wrongly have informed our life
before coming to Jesus Christ and being made new in "all things.") It's about how we are
renewed in the spirit of our minds now as God’s dear children - how we are being
continually transformed into LIFE.
Or not. In other words, it's not a passive, static life; not for the faint-of-heart. There are choices to be made and Truth to be embodied.
Of this Life: Think, abundance of grace, the never-runs-dry variety. Significance, no matter your place in life. Security, like the love and acceptance
that so often eludes relationships in a fallen, messy world. Yes, all the stuff
we seek in this world of impermanence – it is that life, oh my, yes!! Haha :) It does exist!
It helps to write it out.
But, it’s much better to live it, walk it out, to breathe it – to stay with the
Father. She said something recently
that has been sticking to me like a burr – only a good burr. How the Word of God is filled with the Spirit
of God. Literally, God’s Spirit inhabits His Word, and He transforms us as we yield ourselves to it,
by obeying. And as we do, we begin to incarnate His very life, indwelling us - hands and feet doing Life. Jesus’ blood washes us clean, His
word cleanses us (John 15), and the more we soak in His presence and bathe in it (through contemplation, choice and obedience), the more it fills our pores, splashing over into newness - into life-giving joy. (Oh, the power of His Spirit.)
Parakletos. It’s the Greek word for the Holy Spirit and it defines His role in our
lives. He is “helper,” “advocate,” “intercessor,” not to mention one who is "succourer." He is
Spirit, yes, but He functions like the physical presence of Jesus to the disciples
– only better, because He is not limited by His humanity – as Jesus bore. It is why Jesus told the disciples it was better for them that He go away so the Comforter could come to them. And, so, now in the Spirit, Christ dwells in us, unhindered by flesh and bones, and we walk in Him,
and not in our flesh ... not dominated by sin.
"I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me." (Galatians 2:20)
So, like an old pair of clothes, we put off those old patterns - thoughts and beliefs and sentiments and sins - that we adorned ourselves with in our old man; having learned, as my friend said, by less-than-helpful experiences and trained by sin; but now - now we embrace the life He meant for us all along.
Redeemed. Yes. That is the word. It is what is most real of the Jesus follower.
"I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me." (Galatians 2:20)
So, like an old pair of clothes, we put off those old patterns - thoughts and beliefs and sentiments and sins - that we adorned ourselves with in our old man; having learned, as my friend said, by less-than-helpful experiences and trained by sin; but now - now we embrace the life He meant for us all along.
Redeemed. Yes. That is the word. It is what is most real of the Jesus follower.
Over time, as we "experience" renewal by walking in such grace and Truth, we may even begin to comprehend that
(YES!) this IS the life we were made to live. :)
Oh, to God’s glory and our joy – and it’s the holiest of things, to live like this. It's filled with beauty. I mean, how can LOVE, JOY, PEACE, PATIENCE, GENTLENESS, KINDNESS, and SELF-Control NOT be beautiful? I mean, seriously. They shine like diamonds upon the mud of life.
Oh, to God’s glory and our joy – and it’s the holiest of things, to live like this. It's filled with beauty. I mean, how can LOVE, JOY, PEACE, PATIENCE, GENTLENESS, KINDNESS, and SELF-Control NOT be beautiful? I mean, seriously. They shine like diamonds upon the mud of life.
I want to BE a diamond. I want to BE what He has made me to be as a woman, a wife, a mother, a friend, daughter -- a human being. Made in His image. Filled with His glory, emanating. I can't imagine that anything in life can be more exquisite than just this thing.
Like diamonds in mud, we begin to reflect Life and Light, prisms of grace, pouring life-sustaining truth and comfort and healing
out to those near us. And like a bubbling fountain inside of us, His life overflows, splashing others nearby. Quenching their thirst; and they come back for more, desiring. Until He makes His home in them, as well;
and so from the fountain grows a Vine and its branches.
Rooted and built up in Christ, we are.
Overflowing like a river its banks in spring. And we are new.
Overflowing like a river its banks in spring. And we are new.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Friends & Loved Ones
Sometimes, I need to trust God with a friend.
Sometimes, I need to trust God for a friend.
Sometimes, I need to trust God with a loved one.
Sometimes, I need to trust God for a loved one.
But, always, I need to trust.
When I fail to trust like this (always)
I will risk harm - harming them,
Clouding their view of God, obscuring
His presence.
The Lord is near.
(Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God of hosts. The whole earth is filled with His glory.)
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
A Paper Beach and Penny Candy
A morning mist casts its translucent sheet and it hovers lazily, teasing the rising of a jubilant, summer sun. The fireball laughs and blazes through the haze. Its luminance shines through and hurts my eyes to gaze toward it. Hills and trees and meadows are baptized in light and droplets as they awaken from their slumber, and a song is cast across my world. The green field-grass lies like a blanket drenched in the awakening of this dawn. Inside, next to my elbow rests a stack of books for the upcoming school year, and my world suddenly becomes too cramped or crowded. Dug Down Deep, Growing Up Christian, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Whatever Happened to Penny Candy? sit upon the desk. (By the way, yes, whatever did happen to it!? I still remember going to my grandparent's small country store as a child and sliding the glass door open on the candy case, carefully holding the small brown paper sack, and counting the coins in my hand a second or third time to be sure I had enough money to buy fireballs, tootsie rolls, sugar daddies on sticks, or single-wrapped bubble gum or pixie sticks filled with pure colored sugar. And then there were the wax sticks filled with pink, blue or green liquid sugar. Oh, sweet heaven!) To a kid. But I'm no longer that kid. I am a woman. With stacks of books. I am many things - but of late, crafting a learning experience for our children has become my wine and bread - oh, this life! My mind is laden with schedules, menus, how to keep the house clean another year while we do school and live in it continually. Yes, ours is a busy house and this is our work. My head does the metaphoric spin until I am intoxicated by the motion. Drunk and delirious. On the side of the refrigerator, a magnetic pad of paper did hang. It's down to one last scrap, the bottom half torn off for who remembers what purpose - a note for something most likely. What remains of the paper beach shows the tops of palm trees ensconcing a blue background and across the top it reads, "Life's a Beach." At least half a beach, if I look at it now. It's a bit skimpy. But I keep it still, for, Oh, even in the midst of this life where the hills are drenched in misty balm and books pile around me like a barn stacked with square bales, I'm always dreaming. Yes, the stacks of books and laundry are ever-present, and I realize how small a woman I am to sit here in its midst and to dream; oh, how frail I am to make any of it happen - let alone to happen well. Especially when the work load itself casts a veil translucent, hard to see through, and makes me feel alone. But, a friend is sent and draws up near to my own ladened faith, and, so, with literal presence and sometimes words she reminds me what is most real: "Never alone," she says. The words hug me, hover over me and baptize me. The scrap of paper beach has an endearment scribbled on it (a bit hastily one day), and it reminds me, too: "It is okay to be frail because God clothes us with His power. It is okay to need Love, because He loves us."
(Amen)
Holy to be frail, holy to be clothed, holy to be loved.
Holy is our God.
(I want to give credit where it is due. I think the endearment came from a talk given by one of the good folks over at The Circe Institute. If you are an educator, you will be most glad for having clicked the link to the right of this column and visited their website.)
(Amen)
Holy to be frail, holy to be clothed, holy to be loved.
Holy is our God.
(I want to give credit where it is due. I think the endearment came from a talk given by one of the good folks over at The Circe Institute. If you are an educator, you will be most glad for having clicked the link to the right of this column and visited their website.)
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
As Promised - Part 2
Psalm 23 - reflections
Okay, so here's a little more. (If you missed Part 1 - please scroll down one post)
He anoints my head with oil.
May we begin with a confession of sorts? I am only a student of theology in the sense that the Lord has rescued me (literally), and I love to learn about Him and His ways, who he is - in all the ways he, with care and intention, reveals himself to us, primarily in the Bible and secondarily in the physical world and its beauty and order - not in an academic sense with earned degrees from formal study. I am removed, too, thousands of years from the imagery of ancient Israel where oil and heads at one time meant something hugely significant, only today they seem odd.
But there's a thing here to be grasped.
A Shepherd's Look at Psalm 23 by Phillip Keller helps with this. He explains how a Shepherd during fly season cares for the vulnerability of his sheep's heads by covering it with a special oil or grease.
Oil or grease, I'm sorry, they just sound really gross. Like, I would get really upset if someone smeared or poured it over my head. Seriously, gross. But pause a moment (sil vous plait). Just imagine the tender caring. The application of the Shepherd's hands carefully covering the ewes' and rams' and lambs' heads. I am reminded of the significance of oil in biblical times, how it represented God's presence and his own anointing upon kings or priests. You see, even the kings needed such anointing. What were they but mere men otherwise? Unable and unfit to serve the holiness of a holy God, or to lead his own people.
Yes, David, Israel's king and the one who inscribed these beautiful words of Psalm 23, understood the relationship between the Lord and the oil upon his own head. Are not these words of tender caring and provision beautiful to us because they speak of something we need? Yes. We need greased heads, protection and anointing - His presence upon us where we are most vulnerable.
My cup runs over.
What more can be said?
Except this: Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Goodness and Mercy are literal things, like sunshine falling unexpectedly across the living room floor. Like the brush of a kiss on a sleeping face. Like silk wrapped around a sorrowing wound. Goodness and Mercy, waters from God, rush in us, through us, around us. Gathering droplets, Mercy falls down like rain. It covers the morning earth, and we step onto the grass, leaving barefooted prints. Fears, regrets and sorrows of sins grown old, wash from our skin. Their voices blend into a harmony, calling, softly, then loudly, like rolling foam beneath the falls, laughing, joyfully speaking, "Yes, my Dear, the water's clear and it's clean; take a plunge, and when you step away, let its Beauty flow from your soul." (from Reflections of Mercy: Psalm 23 - posted June 5, 2012)
I want to back up a wee bit in this beautiful Psalm as we draw our visit here to a close. It is to here that we go:
He restores my soul.
Amen. Not just any amen but the sort of amen that rolls deep like Bach's suite no. 1 for cello through a canyon at sunrise. Yes, He restores my soul. Amen.
And here:
He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
Can we be okay with this? I mean, really okay?
Paths.
of.
Righteousness.
Do we have any idea what this means? I'm not sure that I do, not totally, but is it possible to assume that it's a place where our feet walk and our lungs breathe in right things? Can we assume it's a really, really good place to be walking?
Have you ever gone walking on a path and experienced so much joy in the walking? An eagle suddenly lifts from the tree tops overhead, wings spread as he glides across the lake. An otter slides off the embankment and dips into the cool water as the sun slides behind shadowed mountains. And you take a breath and notice the crisp air slip into your own lungs - and you realize you're on the perfect path.
But sometimes, well, often if you are me, the experience goes more akin to this:
"Uh oh, there goes little lamb off into the bush country again. Aw, look at her go, how cute, oops, stuck in the briars."
Here comes the Shepherd.
I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you.
And this:
Be not like a horse or a mule, without understanding, which must be curbed with bit and bridle,
or it will not stay near you. (Psalm 32)
And so the Shepherd lovingly calls her back - or rescues her if needed.
You see, upon these paths of righteousness, no briars harm lamb-soul. Not on such paths. Not if she's fixing her attention on the Shepherd. Yes, lamb-soul may run into troubles and walk through dark valleys, but never alone. And the darkness cannot harm her, not really. Not when her response is to the Shepherd, not to the bewildering of her senses as she walks through darkness.
Remember the table? Yes. Literal table, friend. If you are like me (human), you often fail to realize that in the middle of dark valleys His presence remains constant. It's dark. You cannot see him. But, if you pause and be still, can you hear him? Have you known his presence? Maybe through a friend. Maybe through a nurse or a doctor. Or a policeman. Or a judge who works justice. But, it's a ministry of the Shepherd on our behalf. Or maybe all those human hands and feet of mercy have scattered, and so you are still walking a lonely path. Then reach out for His hand. In the dark. I promise you, he's near. Enough. To touch.
Have you noticed? It's okay, all it takes is a whispered prayer. "Lord, help me." It is his presence that he first brings to your situation. Isn't that kind? After all, it's the thing we most need. We need Him. More than we need something fixed or altered. Yes, we need Him.
One last thought.
For His name's sake.
I'm not sure what the terrain under your foot is at present, how rocky or how unfamiliar.
But I'm hearing an echo in my own memory that reels back at the phrase: For His name's sake. Maybe YOU are a saint and totally get that as a good thing, or maybe you feel something like this, a twang of embitterment. Or maybe a pool of it is where you are swimming. It sometimes will sound like this: "But you don't know what it's like to be ripped apart from your family." And, "You don't know what it's like to be betrayed." Or, "I've suffered from disease for 10 years, and I'm done, can't handle more." Or, something more grievous than words can express, "I've lost my son to a dumb war and politicians."
The Shepherd weeps for you, with you. But here's the thing: For his name's sake.
"How egotistical of this Shepherd." No friend.
We bear His name.
We do so if we are following Him and identifying with Him through faith in Christ Jesus. So, yes, for His name's sake. It's for beauty's sake, it's how He loves. And it's why he dare not let us alone in our sin or with our sorrow, and why we are led daily in paths of righteousness.
It's also why he prepares that table before us in the presence of our enemies. And it's why we must pause in our journeys. For his name's sake. We are part of that name - as heirs adopted, because of Christ Jesus.
Turn to the table with your sorrow. And see the Shepherd spreading it. It's for you, from His hands. And ask, see what He would have you do with the things you carry silently. And partake of His care. It is a costly care pierced through and through with particular love.
We bear His name.
(Bowing. Amen.)
Thank you for joining me.
And for your enjoyment: Bach Suite no. 1 in G for Cello
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&NR=1&v=wk8QNzkzwYg
Okay, so here's a little more. (If you missed Part 1 - please scroll down one post)
He anoints my head with oil.
May we begin with a confession of sorts? I am only a student of theology in the sense that the Lord has rescued me (literally), and I love to learn about Him and His ways, who he is - in all the ways he, with care and intention, reveals himself to us, primarily in the Bible and secondarily in the physical world and its beauty and order - not in an academic sense with earned degrees from formal study. I am removed, too, thousands of years from the imagery of ancient Israel where oil and heads at one time meant something hugely significant, only today they seem odd.
But there's a thing here to be grasped.
A Shepherd's Look at Psalm 23 by Phillip Keller helps with this. He explains how a Shepherd during fly season cares for the vulnerability of his sheep's heads by covering it with a special oil or grease.
Oil or grease, I'm sorry, they just sound really gross. Like, I would get really upset if someone smeared or poured it over my head. Seriously, gross. But pause a moment (sil vous plait). Just imagine the tender caring. The application of the Shepherd's hands carefully covering the ewes' and rams' and lambs' heads. I am reminded of the significance of oil in biblical times, how it represented God's presence and his own anointing upon kings or priests. You see, even the kings needed such anointing. What were they but mere men otherwise? Unable and unfit to serve the holiness of a holy God, or to lead his own people.
Yes, David, Israel's king and the one who inscribed these beautiful words of Psalm 23, understood the relationship between the Lord and the oil upon his own head. Are not these words of tender caring and provision beautiful to us because they speak of something we need? Yes. We need greased heads, protection and anointing - His presence upon us where we are most vulnerable.
My cup runs over.
What more can be said?
Except this: Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Goodness and Mercy are literal things, like sunshine falling unexpectedly across the living room floor. Like the brush of a kiss on a sleeping face. Like silk wrapped around a sorrowing wound. Goodness and Mercy, waters from God, rush in us, through us, around us. Gathering droplets, Mercy falls down like rain. It covers the morning earth, and we step onto the grass, leaving barefooted prints. Fears, regrets and sorrows of sins grown old, wash from our skin. Their voices blend into a harmony, calling, softly, then loudly, like rolling foam beneath the falls, laughing, joyfully speaking, "Yes, my Dear, the water's clear and it's clean; take a plunge, and when you step away, let its Beauty flow from your soul." (from Reflections of Mercy: Psalm 23 - posted June 5, 2012)
I want to back up a wee bit in this beautiful Psalm as we draw our visit here to a close. It is to here that we go:
He restores my soul.
Amen. Not just any amen but the sort of amen that rolls deep like Bach's suite no. 1 for cello through a canyon at sunrise. Yes, He restores my soul. Amen.
And here:
He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
Can we be okay with this? I mean, really okay?
Paths.
of.
Righteousness.
Do we have any idea what this means? I'm not sure that I do, not totally, but is it possible to assume that it's a place where our feet walk and our lungs breathe in right things? Can we assume it's a really, really good place to be walking?
Have you ever gone walking on a path and experienced so much joy in the walking? An eagle suddenly lifts from the tree tops overhead, wings spread as he glides across the lake. An otter slides off the embankment and dips into the cool water as the sun slides behind shadowed mountains. And you take a breath and notice the crisp air slip into your own lungs - and you realize you're on the perfect path.
But sometimes, well, often if you are me, the experience goes more akin to this:
"Uh oh, there goes little lamb off into the bush country again. Aw, look at her go, how cute, oops, stuck in the briars."
Here comes the Shepherd.
I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you.
And this:
Be not like a horse or a mule, without understanding, which must be curbed with bit and bridle,
or it will not stay near you. (Psalm 32)
And so the Shepherd lovingly calls her back - or rescues her if needed.
You see, upon these paths of righteousness, no briars harm lamb-soul. Not on such paths. Not if she's fixing her attention on the Shepherd. Yes, lamb-soul may run into troubles and walk through dark valleys, but never alone. And the darkness cannot harm her, not really. Not when her response is to the Shepherd, not to the bewildering of her senses as she walks through darkness.
Remember the table? Yes. Literal table, friend. If you are like me (human), you often fail to realize that in the middle of dark valleys His presence remains constant. It's dark. You cannot see him. But, if you pause and be still, can you hear him? Have you known his presence? Maybe through a friend. Maybe through a nurse or a doctor. Or a policeman. Or a judge who works justice. But, it's a ministry of the Shepherd on our behalf. Or maybe all those human hands and feet of mercy have scattered, and so you are still walking a lonely path. Then reach out for His hand. In the dark. I promise you, he's near. Enough. To touch.
Have you noticed? It's okay, all it takes is a whispered prayer. "Lord, help me." It is his presence that he first brings to your situation. Isn't that kind? After all, it's the thing we most need. We need Him. More than we need something fixed or altered. Yes, we need Him.
One last thought.
For His name's sake.
I'm not sure what the terrain under your foot is at present, how rocky or how unfamiliar.
But I'm hearing an echo in my own memory that reels back at the phrase: For His name's sake. Maybe YOU are a saint and totally get that as a good thing, or maybe you feel something like this, a twang of embitterment. Or maybe a pool of it is where you are swimming. It sometimes will sound like this: "But you don't know what it's like to be ripped apart from your family." And, "You don't know what it's like to be betrayed." Or, "I've suffered from disease for 10 years, and I'm done, can't handle more." Or, something more grievous than words can express, "I've lost my son to a dumb war and politicians."
The Shepherd weeps for you, with you. But here's the thing: For his name's sake.
"How egotistical of this Shepherd." No friend.
We bear His name.
We do so if we are following Him and identifying with Him through faith in Christ Jesus. So, yes, for His name's sake. It's for beauty's sake, it's how He loves. And it's why he dare not let us alone in our sin or with our sorrow, and why we are led daily in paths of righteousness.
It's also why he prepares that table before us in the presence of our enemies. And it's why we must pause in our journeys. For his name's sake. We are part of that name - as heirs adopted, because of Christ Jesus.
Turn to the table with your sorrow. And see the Shepherd spreading it. It's for you, from His hands. And ask, see what He would have you do with the things you carry silently. And partake of His care. It is a costly care pierced through and through with particular love.
We bear His name.
(Bowing. Amen.)
Thank you for joining me.
And for your enjoyment: Bach Suite no. 1 in G for Cello
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&NR=1&v=wk8QNzkzwYg
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Of tables, enemies and oil - Part 1
Psalm 23 - more reflections
"You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil. My cup runs over."
Oh, can you see the lamb-soul who walks through the valley of the shadow of death, and fears no evil? 'Shepherd' guides this one through the valley of deep darkness.
Have you been there? Does your valley fall beneath shadows? Or can you remember how bewildering to feel or perceive a devastating isolation?
"I will fear no evil, for You are with me." Oh, literal presence. Oh, Savior-Shepherd nearest to me. Amen.
Oh, but there is more, yes, keep reading.
You prepare a table before me. In the presence of my enemies.
Just imagine for a moment, friends, with me. If you are the lamb-soul of the Lord's own keeping, and you are surrounded by opposition, where does the Shepherd wish to draw your attention? Is it to the hoards of things mounting or pressing against you? Is it to the opposition? No. None of these.
Pause for just a moment and let your eye find the Shepherd. Do you see him? Where is he and what is he doing - we've all wondered this at one time or another. But the psalmist knew. The Shepherd's at the table. What is He doing?
Ah, yes, preparing. A table.
Now, why is it here? Does he mean for you to draw near to it or does he mean merely to tease you? If he's working on this 'table,' then it means you both have stopped for a time in your journey. And, yes, there a crowd gathering nearby, and it's an unkind-unfriendly and threatening one. Doesn't he notice? Doesn't he care? But still, you are stopped. And he's preparing.
Now here's where knowing the Shepherd makes all the difference in the world. I mean really knowing Him. The sort of knowing that is rooted not just in declarative statements and facts, but the sort of knowing that remembers all the streams and still waters, all the rescuing he's done with his "rod and staff" that comfort. It means relying on a very particular sort of Shepherd who cares for you in a very particular sort of way. And you know it. (Or maybe not. Maybe you do not know the Shepherd. Yet.)
Just for a moment, let's think of the 'unfriendlies' who are lurking, watching. Of Enemies - two things here: One, our enemy is identified in Ephesians and Corinthians, and it is not as we may assume. It is not "flesh and blood" but "principalities and powers in high places"; and, Two, and this is so very cool, the fact of the TABLE spread before you in the presence of pending harm assumes the Shepherd is guarding, watching over you in such a way that offers protection. And you know this - that He is capable of doing so because he is no human shepherd with human limitations. Otherwise, how could we ever eat and grow strong and be made well? Is that not the point of the table?
Even in the presence of enemies.
Can you see its contents? Or are you seeing only the hoards (yet)? Is it not a feast, spread out; spacious, gracious, lavish with every good thing we need? What do you see?
It's okay, friend - really it is - to turn for a moment, from observing the hoards. It's okay to turn from those unkind words or betrayals. (Like, when we are handed betrayals, what are we to do with them? What CAN we do with them, really? So, somebody betrayed us, and it hurts for real - deeply. And we find ourselves in the shadows. Or we've lost someone dear or something precious and now we are alone. What can be done, really?)
Yes, turn to the Shepherd. He has something for you. He does.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of ... .
Where are you standing in proximity to it? Come nearer, look closer. What does the Shepherd prepare and place before you "in the presence of your enemies"? Is He a kind Shepherd or not? Maybe he's going to clip your wool, but that's embarrassing, don't think he'll do that before a rogue audience, now do you? Even if we do deserve it. (Well, yea, Jesus got "clipped" before a hostile group. But that was for love, for you and for me. And, yea, the Shepherd will single out sheep for their clipping, but it's always with careful-loving-tender hands. It's not for harm. Or to humiliate. Jesus bore our humiliation. In full. So, there must be something more the Lord as Shepherd is about doing if it's not for harm or to humiliate, don't you think? So, like, love is kind and patient, and inviting. We do dumb things to ourselves, granted, but that's different.)
Okay, so I digress, but here's the point: I don't really know what's "on the table" for you, but I know His character informs us all we need to understand or how to interpret what's happening to us. Yep, it's bad-really bad, sometimes, those things that happen to us. But His character is mercy. His character is kindness. His character is constancy. His character is patience. It is righteous and good and in Him no darkness (or ruin) dwells. And all of it rests on this: His characters is sovereign. In other words, we are not.
So everything is falling apart. Yep. Sometimes, it does. But does it automatically mean that you or I must fall apart with it? Or can we come to the table in the presence of so much bad? And even if we do, physically or mentally or emotionally fall apart, does He hold onto us any less? Is his provision lessened? No. In fact, where sin abounds (our own or another's) grace abounds more. Whatever YOU need, as His lamb, you can be sure it's there. Really.
Ask Him.
But here's the thing, as well, if all we can see or heed or give our attention to are the hoards in our presence, and not the Shepherd whose presence is real and is preparing what we need, we won't see what it is he places "before me" in their presence. His promise is true. But sometimes our vision is blurred. How sad to pay heed to our enemies. And not to the Lord or his care.
You see, dear Reader, here's what I have learned about the table he prepares. The table has a place, a setting, and a tending. And it has sheep - and sheep need a particular kind of table. And the sheep need literal green grass. And running brooks to quench their thirsts. And tables. Prepared.
How much more then, will the Lord, provide what you need - literally? Do you need rescue? Or do you need perseverance? Do you need faith? Or do you need grace? Do you need joy? Do you need hope? Each of these is a very literal thing, and they are offered literally, not as abstractions. We live in a world filled with mountains, valleys, trees, flowers, running-gurgling streams. We live in a world over-flowing with beautiful children, kittens, wild stallions and baseballs and footballs. With diamonds and silver and gold. And coal. (Yuck, but okay, nice to be warm.)
A world of ideas, of thought.
It's a world of God's own thought made literal - incarnated. He knows we need incarnated rescue. He knows we need literal grapes and apples and oranges. Metaphoric food simply won't help our hunger or thirst physically. Metaphoric justice won't defend a child who needs defended. Metaphoric grace won't wipe the perspiring brow of a condemned man. An act of kindness is very real, and it helps us regain our souls, our hopes. So, Yes, he does know, and it comes "in the fullness of time."
You are cordially invited to the Table.
--
Later this week, I plan to share a few more thoughts on Psalm 23 before moving to other topics. Please join me! :)
Also, in the archives there are a two other articles on which I have shared more reflections on Psalm 23. It is so beautiful a psalm. If you have time for nothing else, why not just read it? Blessings!!!
"You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil. My cup runs over."
Oh, can you see the lamb-soul who walks through the valley of the shadow of death, and fears no evil? 'Shepherd' guides this one through the valley of deep darkness.
Have you been there? Does your valley fall beneath shadows? Or can you remember how bewildering to feel or perceive a devastating isolation?
"I will fear no evil, for You are with me." Oh, literal presence. Oh, Savior-Shepherd nearest to me. Amen.
Oh, but there is more, yes, keep reading.
You prepare a table before me. In the presence of my enemies.
Just imagine for a moment, friends, with me. If you are the lamb-soul of the Lord's own keeping, and you are surrounded by opposition, where does the Shepherd wish to draw your attention? Is it to the hoards of things mounting or pressing against you? Is it to the opposition? No. None of these.
Pause for just a moment and let your eye find the Shepherd. Do you see him? Where is he and what is he doing - we've all wondered this at one time or another. But the psalmist knew. The Shepherd's at the table. What is He doing?
Ah, yes, preparing. A table.
Now, why is it here? Does he mean for you to draw near to it or does he mean merely to tease you? If he's working on this 'table,' then it means you both have stopped for a time in your journey. And, yes, there a crowd gathering nearby, and it's an unkind-unfriendly and threatening one. Doesn't he notice? Doesn't he care? But still, you are stopped. And he's preparing.
Now here's where knowing the Shepherd makes all the difference in the world. I mean really knowing Him. The sort of knowing that is rooted not just in declarative statements and facts, but the sort of knowing that remembers all the streams and still waters, all the rescuing he's done with his "rod and staff" that comfort. It means relying on a very particular sort of Shepherd who cares for you in a very particular sort of way. And you know it. (Or maybe not. Maybe you do not know the Shepherd. Yet.)
Just for a moment, let's think of the 'unfriendlies' who are lurking, watching. Of Enemies - two things here: One, our enemy is identified in Ephesians and Corinthians, and it is not as we may assume. It is not "flesh and blood" but "principalities and powers in high places"; and, Two, and this is so very cool, the fact of the TABLE spread before you in the presence of pending harm assumes the Shepherd is guarding, watching over you in such a way that offers protection. And you know this - that He is capable of doing so because he is no human shepherd with human limitations. Otherwise, how could we ever eat and grow strong and be made well? Is that not the point of the table?
Even in the presence of enemies.
Can you see its contents? Or are you seeing only the hoards (yet)? Is it not a feast, spread out; spacious, gracious, lavish with every good thing we need? What do you see?
It's okay, friend - really it is - to turn for a moment, from observing the hoards. It's okay to turn from those unkind words or betrayals. (Like, when we are handed betrayals, what are we to do with them? What CAN we do with them, really? So, somebody betrayed us, and it hurts for real - deeply. And we find ourselves in the shadows. Or we've lost someone dear or something precious and now we are alone. What can be done, really?)
Yes, turn to the Shepherd. He has something for you. He does.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of ... .
Where are you standing in proximity to it? Come nearer, look closer. What does the Shepherd prepare and place before you "in the presence of your enemies"? Is He a kind Shepherd or not? Maybe he's going to clip your wool, but that's embarrassing, don't think he'll do that before a rogue audience, now do you? Even if we do deserve it. (Well, yea, Jesus got "clipped" before a hostile group. But that was for love, for you and for me. And, yea, the Shepherd will single out sheep for their clipping, but it's always with careful-loving-tender hands. It's not for harm. Or to humiliate. Jesus bore our humiliation. In full. So, there must be something more the Lord as Shepherd is about doing if it's not for harm or to humiliate, don't you think? So, like, love is kind and patient, and inviting. We do dumb things to ourselves, granted, but that's different.)
Okay, so I digress, but here's the point: I don't really know what's "on the table" for you, but I know His character informs us all we need to understand or how to interpret what's happening to us. Yep, it's bad-really bad, sometimes, those things that happen to us. But His character is mercy. His character is kindness. His character is constancy. His character is patience. It is righteous and good and in Him no darkness (or ruin) dwells. And all of it rests on this: His characters is sovereign. In other words, we are not.
So everything is falling apart. Yep. Sometimes, it does. But does it automatically mean that you or I must fall apart with it? Or can we come to the table in the presence of so much bad? And even if we do, physically or mentally or emotionally fall apart, does He hold onto us any less? Is his provision lessened? No. In fact, where sin abounds (our own or another's) grace abounds more. Whatever YOU need, as His lamb, you can be sure it's there. Really.
Ask Him.
But here's the thing, as well, if all we can see or heed or give our attention to are the hoards in our presence, and not the Shepherd whose presence is real and is preparing what we need, we won't see what it is he places "before me" in their presence. His promise is true. But sometimes our vision is blurred. How sad to pay heed to our enemies. And not to the Lord or his care.
You see, dear Reader, here's what I have learned about the table he prepares. The table has a place, a setting, and a tending. And it has sheep - and sheep need a particular kind of table. And the sheep need literal green grass. And running brooks to quench their thirsts. And tables. Prepared.
How much more then, will the Lord, provide what you need - literally? Do you need rescue? Or do you need perseverance? Do you need faith? Or do you need grace? Do you need joy? Do you need hope? Each of these is a very literal thing, and they are offered literally, not as abstractions. We live in a world filled with mountains, valleys, trees, flowers, running-gurgling streams. We live in a world over-flowing with beautiful children, kittens, wild stallions and baseballs and footballs. With diamonds and silver and gold. And coal. (Yuck, but okay, nice to be warm.)
A world of ideas, of thought.
It's a world of God's own thought made literal - incarnated. He knows we need incarnated rescue. He knows we need literal grapes and apples and oranges. Metaphoric food simply won't help our hunger or thirst physically. Metaphoric justice won't defend a child who needs defended. Metaphoric grace won't wipe the perspiring brow of a condemned man. An act of kindness is very real, and it helps us regain our souls, our hopes. So, Yes, he does know, and it comes "in the fullness of time."
You are cordially invited to the Table.
--
Later this week, I plan to share a few more thoughts on Psalm 23 before moving to other topics. Please join me! :)
Also, in the archives there are a two other articles on which I have shared more reflections on Psalm 23. It is so beautiful a psalm. If you have time for nothing else, why not just read it? Blessings!!!
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Wrinkled Wonders
They call her Wonder. She sneaks around the bushes ready to pounce on her friend. "Boo!" Giggles erupt.
She stands in a grassy field bent, very, very still. "Watching babies!" she says, and so she is. Hundreds of tiny praying mantises hatched. Crawling about her in the tall grass, she stares, lips pressed firmly then part and spread widely. "Look!"
Wonder hangs upside down from a tree branch and lets the blood pulse into her head; her mouth opens and she laughs.
Wonder licks her ice cream cone from the top. Then she bites a hole and sucks from the bottom. The cone softens as the ice cream melts. It runs and drips. Wonder's fingers turn sticky. She wipes them on her jeans and grins.
Wonder picks strawberries and stuffs them in her pockets. Her doll needs a red dress and so she needs some "dye." Wonder gathers bouquets of daisies and dandelions. She adorns adobe miniatures with yellow and white petals.
Wonder hangs bed sheets from a clothes line and pretends she's a brave princess banished from her castle. A wreath of morning glories trails down her shoulders.
Wonder flies down a steep hill upon her two-wheeled bicycle. Erect she spreads her arms like kite wings while the wind whips against her poised torso, legs pumping, feet swishing round and round.
Wonder falls over, hard. She rolls. She looks up at the sky. She sees clouds and feels her pain. Her tears fall. Her face shines wet in the afternoon sunlight.
And for a moment, she wonders if she can stand. The skin on her leg burns. Then Grace kneels over her gently, brushes her forehead and looks into Wonder's eyes. Grace sees something new there. She sees mingled with pain, fear.
"Your soul shall grow old and brittle, Wonder, wrinkled like the face of that old tree-beard if you lay there too long. Come now, you are not hurt too badly; here's my hand," and Grace pulls up Wonder. She embraces Wonder as she lets her young friend rest upon her wise breast. Wonder feels Grace's heart beating. She turns her face upward. Her tears leave tracks of smeared dirt drying upon her tanned cheeks. Wonder smiles. Grace smiles.
They walk home together, pushing the broken bicycle. And passing on their way, Grace holds out her hand to a wrinkled man fallen near the path. There's a lady at his side bent with sorrow.
Wonder looks at her friend. And Grace nods.
"Wonder, help her stand again."
She stands in a grassy field bent, very, very still. "Watching babies!" she says, and so she is. Hundreds of tiny praying mantises hatched. Crawling about her in the tall grass, she stares, lips pressed firmly then part and spread widely. "Look!"
Wonder hangs upside down from a tree branch and lets the blood pulse into her head; her mouth opens and she laughs.
Wonder licks her ice cream cone from the top. Then she bites a hole and sucks from the bottom. The cone softens as the ice cream melts. It runs and drips. Wonder's fingers turn sticky. She wipes them on her jeans and grins.
Wonder picks strawberries and stuffs them in her pockets. Her doll needs a red dress and so she needs some "dye." Wonder gathers bouquets of daisies and dandelions. She adorns adobe miniatures with yellow and white petals.
Wonder hangs bed sheets from a clothes line and pretends she's a brave princess banished from her castle. A wreath of morning glories trails down her shoulders.
Wonder flies down a steep hill upon her two-wheeled bicycle. Erect she spreads her arms like kite wings while the wind whips against her poised torso, legs pumping, feet swishing round and round.
Wonder falls over, hard. She rolls. She looks up at the sky. She sees clouds and feels her pain. Her tears fall. Her face shines wet in the afternoon sunlight.
And for a moment, she wonders if she can stand. The skin on her leg burns. Then Grace kneels over her gently, brushes her forehead and looks into Wonder's eyes. Grace sees something new there. She sees mingled with pain, fear.
"Your soul shall grow old and brittle, Wonder, wrinkled like the face of that old tree-beard if you lay there too long. Come now, you are not hurt too badly; here's my hand," and Grace pulls up Wonder. She embraces Wonder as she lets her young friend rest upon her wise breast. Wonder feels Grace's heart beating. She turns her face upward. Her tears leave tracks of smeared dirt drying upon her tanned cheeks. Wonder smiles. Grace smiles.
They walk home together, pushing the broken bicycle. And passing on their way, Grace holds out her hand to a wrinkled man fallen near the path. There's a lady at his side bent with sorrow.
Wonder looks at her friend. And Grace nods.
"Wonder, help her stand again."
Thursday, July 19, 2012
R.S.V.P - A Personal Matter
"It is wicked to not respond." The invitation read at the end where the typical and polite "please respond" may be found. Only, it wasn't. It was this note, instead.
"Oh, really?" the recipient holding the invitation asked with incredulous consternation. His hands trembled with anger, boiling over into a pressured rage. His neck veins bulged and turned blue.
"What idiots!" He shouted and crumpled the invitation up into his fist. He tossed it from the window of his limousine as his driver gazed forward into the neon lights of night life in Vegas.
In a house in Appalachia, a house perched on a peak of the Blue Ridge Mountains, far from the bulging-veined man, another man sat at his desk near a cup of coffee with steam lisping over the black brew.
"Hmm, so now I am wicked if I do not respond."
"Sounds a lot like coercion," and, so, he tucked the note beneath a pile of bills.
Then, another man, sweat-covered after a dusty day's work, walked slowly home from the heartland fields where his combine sat idle and broken. Beams of sunlight filtered the dust rising from the ground beneath his feet. His lips parted, cracked. His tongue was thick and heavy. His mind revolved around how he would make an appeal to the banker. His bank account was broke, too.
He walked past the mailbox, reached in and found a postcard. His eyes slid across the gold-embossed lettering. His hand trembled. His dry, sticky tongue ran across parched lips, as he kept gazing at the words.
"You are invited to the wedding feast." (The President)
His eyes scanned to the bottom and read again "It is wicked not to reply." Not an illiterate man, though a man of the earth, he was cultured and recognized the absence of "repondez si'l vous plait." It read something like a veiled threat.
"It's a hoax," he thought, a bit annoyed as he pondered the details of the card, rubbed the dried sweat upon his forehead, shrugged and tucked the card into his chest pocket as he ascended the steps. "Yep, it's a hoax. You'd think folks would have better things to do with their time," and, so, he turned in his thoughts again how he would pay for the repairs to the harvest machine.
The porch's plank-boards creaked loudly beneath his weight. He dropped his large frame into the hickory rocker, and absent-minded, pulled the card from his pocket.
It bore the official seal of the Oval Office.
Just then a car with tinted windows pulled onto the farm-lane leading to the weathered house where he sat. He squinted and looked toward the approaching vehicle and could discern two figures with dark suits and tinted glasses, and so he waited, and then stood tall, stretching his tired limbs as the car came to a stop.
"Mr. Regan?" The passenger asked as he stood next to the car with government tags.
"Yes, Sir, that's me," the farmer said, holding the card in his hand.
"You are requested by the President to come to the White House for a special banquet, and," with a lowering of his voice, said, "Let me remind you, it is wicked not to respond."
"How can I respond to a thing that reads like a hoax?" The farmer said dryly, squinting narrowly at the two men.
"You respond one of two ways," the man said, sliding his sunglasses from his face and slipping them into his suit coat. "You respond in faith or you respond in fear of punishment."
"Then," said the farmer, beginning to tremble slightly, "What do you know of the President? What does anyone know!! Damn him."
"Yes, He is my father," the man smiled broadly.
"Then what say you? How should I respond?"
"You respond today and you respond in confidence. It is a good invitation. No hoax, he is honorable. The others have not believed my report, and so they do not come."
The farmer held the invitation up once again and read its words. And, then, that's when he noticed the fine print:
"All is provided for your coming."
"What is this 'all is provided' business?" the earthy man spoke still dryly. His tongue still heavy with thirst.
The driver of the car had walked to the trunk and flipped it open. He pulled a brief case and a garment bag from it.
"Here, everything you need has been bought already. I think you'll be satisfied with its custom design. Your itinerary is revealed daily, in envelopes, and in succession."
The man dropped the items on the dusty ground, and both officials climbed back into the car. The farmer watched the trail of fine brown soil billowing behind them as they drove back down the lane.
He stared at the case and bag. After a few moments, he descended the steps and walked toward the items, and opened the briefcase. Within, he found a small leather book. Its pages were yellowed with age, and one was creased. He opened to it and scanned its instructions.
"You are to depart the morning after receiving these provisions. Go to the nearest airport and there you will find a courier with ticket information. Do not delay. You must come or you will die."
He looked across the fields to where sat the combine. He mused, "I'm already as good as dead."
He picked up the bag and briefcase and walked back up the steps and entered his house.
Morning comes early.
"Oh, really?" the recipient holding the invitation asked with incredulous consternation. His hands trembled with anger, boiling over into a pressured rage. His neck veins bulged and turned blue.
"What idiots!" He shouted and crumpled the invitation up into his fist. He tossed it from the window of his limousine as his driver gazed forward into the neon lights of night life in Vegas.
In a house in Appalachia, a house perched on a peak of the Blue Ridge Mountains, far from the bulging-veined man, another man sat at his desk near a cup of coffee with steam lisping over the black brew.
"Hmm, so now I am wicked if I do not respond."
"Sounds a lot like coercion," and, so, he tucked the note beneath a pile of bills.
Then, another man, sweat-covered after a dusty day's work, walked slowly home from the heartland fields where his combine sat idle and broken. Beams of sunlight filtered the dust rising from the ground beneath his feet. His lips parted, cracked. His tongue was thick and heavy. His mind revolved around how he would make an appeal to the banker. His bank account was broke, too.
He walked past the mailbox, reached in and found a postcard. His eyes slid across the gold-embossed lettering. His hand trembled. His dry, sticky tongue ran across parched lips, as he kept gazing at the words.
"You are invited to the wedding feast." (The President)
His eyes scanned to the bottom and read again "It is wicked not to reply." Not an illiterate man, though a man of the earth, he was cultured and recognized the absence of "repondez si'l vous plait." It read something like a veiled threat.
"It's a hoax," he thought, a bit annoyed as he pondered the details of the card, rubbed the dried sweat upon his forehead, shrugged and tucked the card into his chest pocket as he ascended the steps. "Yep, it's a hoax. You'd think folks would have better things to do with their time," and, so, he turned in his thoughts again how he would pay for the repairs to the harvest machine.
The porch's plank-boards creaked loudly beneath his weight. He dropped his large frame into the hickory rocker, and absent-minded, pulled the card from his pocket.
It bore the official seal of the Oval Office.
Just then a car with tinted windows pulled onto the farm-lane leading to the weathered house where he sat. He squinted and looked toward the approaching vehicle and could discern two figures with dark suits and tinted glasses, and so he waited, and then stood tall, stretching his tired limbs as the car came to a stop.
"Mr. Regan?" The passenger asked as he stood next to the car with government tags.
"Yes, Sir, that's me," the farmer said, holding the card in his hand.
"You are requested by the President to come to the White House for a special banquet, and," with a lowering of his voice, said, "Let me remind you, it is wicked not to respond."
"How can I respond to a thing that reads like a hoax?" The farmer said dryly, squinting narrowly at the two men.
"You respond one of two ways," the man said, sliding his sunglasses from his face and slipping them into his suit coat. "You respond in faith or you respond in fear of punishment."
"Then," said the farmer, beginning to tremble slightly, "What do you know of the President? What does anyone know!! Damn him."
"Yes, He is my father," the man smiled broadly.
"Then what say you? How should I respond?"
"You respond today and you respond in confidence. It is a good invitation. No hoax, he is honorable. The others have not believed my report, and so they do not come."
The farmer held the invitation up once again and read its words. And, then, that's when he noticed the fine print:
"All is provided for your coming."
"What is this 'all is provided' business?" the earthy man spoke still dryly. His tongue still heavy with thirst.
The driver of the car had walked to the trunk and flipped it open. He pulled a brief case and a garment bag from it.
"Here, everything you need has been bought already. I think you'll be satisfied with its custom design. Your itinerary is revealed daily, in envelopes, and in succession."
The man dropped the items on the dusty ground, and both officials climbed back into the car. The farmer watched the trail of fine brown soil billowing behind them as they drove back down the lane.
He stared at the case and bag. After a few moments, he descended the steps and walked toward the items, and opened the briefcase. Within, he found a small leather book. Its pages were yellowed with age, and one was creased. He opened to it and scanned its instructions.
"You are to depart the morning after receiving these provisions. Go to the nearest airport and there you will find a courier with ticket information. Do not delay. You must come or you will die."
He looked across the fields to where sat the combine. He mused, "I'm already as good as dead."
He picked up the bag and briefcase and walked back up the steps and entered his house.
Morning comes early.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Altars for Nestlings
Psalm 84
How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts!
My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and flesh sing for joy
to the living God.
Even the sparrow finds a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young,
at your altars, O Lord of hosts,
my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in your house,
ever singing your praise! Selah
Blessed are those whose strength is in you,
in whose heart are the highways to Zion.
As they go through the Valley of Baca (of weeping)
they make it a place of springs;
the early rain also covers it with pools.
They go from strength to strength;
each one appears before God in Zion.
O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer;
give ear, O God of Jacob! Selah
Behold our shield, O God;
look on the face of your anointed!
For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
than dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
the Lord bestows favor and honor.
No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!
Is this not just stunningly exquisite? The whole psalm, from start to finish? Yes. It is beautiful. Do you see the tenderness, the longing, the highways leading through the hearts of those who are blessed, "whose strength is in God"? Who go from strength to strength. Who appear before God in his holy dwelling. Whose valley of weeping overflows with springs and pools. Do you know what this means, friend? It means when we trust, it is a very, very good entrusting with the Lord God. It means, "No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly."
It means this: "O Lord of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!"
Even as we walk through the Valley of Weeping. It means all of it.
How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts!
My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and flesh sing for joy
to the living God.
Even the sparrow finds a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young,
at your altars, O Lord of hosts,
my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in your house,
ever singing your praise! Selah
Blessed are those whose strength is in you,
in whose heart are the highways to Zion.
As they go through the Valley of Baca (of weeping)
they make it a place of springs;
the early rain also covers it with pools.
They go from strength to strength;
each one appears before God in Zion.
O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer;
give ear, O God of Jacob! Selah
Behold our shield, O God;
look on the face of your anointed!
For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
than dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
the Lord bestows favor and honor.
No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!
Is this not just stunningly exquisite? The whole psalm, from start to finish? Yes. It is beautiful. Do you see the tenderness, the longing, the highways leading through the hearts of those who are blessed, "whose strength is in God"? Who go from strength to strength. Who appear before God in his holy dwelling. Whose valley of weeping overflows with springs and pools. Do you know what this means, friend? It means when we trust, it is a very, very good entrusting with the Lord God. It means, "No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly."
It means this: "O Lord of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!"
Even as we walk through the Valley of Weeping. It means all of it.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Of Joy (or, Beyond the Chicken)
Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.”
"If you knew the gift of God,
and
who it is that is saying to you,
'Give me a drink,’ you would have asked
him,
and he would have given you living water ...
a spring of water welling up to eternal life." (John 4)
There's a life beyond the chicken. And all the guilt.
It took me a long while to realize it. (It's hard to get over ugly scenes or messes. Yes. Yes, it is. It takes time. And a measure of grace large enough to bathe in hourly.) So, I heard a conversation the other day, and it's what the topic wasn't about that matters. (It wasn't about guilt.) It started out something like this:
"It gives me pleasure, daughter, when you trust Me with the thing that gives you joy."
(pause)
"Father?"
"Your delight is found in Me. I am your joy. Drink and be satisfied."
(Was it a command? No, it was an invitation - adorned for one's heart. Oh What to do now.)
"Literally? You mean literally to drink of you, from you?"
"Yes, child, quite literally."
"Father, forgive me for not drinking. You mean for me to come to You."
"Yes, literally."
"To be satisfied?"
"Yes, satisfied."
(Oh, most definitely, and Most Really.)
Do you notice what is absent in this conversation? It's what drew me up short. It's so "other" and so different than where I usually track on my own. You see, there is no mention of chickens. Or beams. Or condemnation. Not a nary bit. And I must wonder why there is none of it. I'm beginning to suspect something else is the point: It's not our guilt that the Lord is most concerned about. Yes, he graciously pays for it, our debt; he removes it from our souls. Quite literally. He does it. Because it is a necessary removal. A washing and cleansing of the best sort which speaks of who He is (holy Abba). And because it gets in the way of something more, he removes it.
Do we understand that it's about far more? Far, far more. Can we see (pause, and read slowly): It is for Joy that he endured so much. (Hebrews 12:1-2). A particular joy. Do we have any idea of what sort? Shh, Listen. I can hear one coming, coming near, with The Invitation. It's written, elegantly, beautifully and simply, "Come." To a wedding. And a feast. It's a union. Of rich, deep Joy. It's where our life and his own intersect. It's where we ought dwell, where our roots sink deepest and best. Into Joy. It's where longing and desire meet together expectantly, where mercy and truth kiss each other, tenderly. It's how we are made well. Rooted in His love, and having been rooted there, Joy grows and we are made strong. Is this what Jesus meant when he said, "Come to me all those who labor and are heavy laden"? (That is, to those who are weary and pause long enough to admit it is that way, every day.) We're to come. And meet with promise.
So, what do I do with such an Invitation? (It is a very personal thing, that which we do.)
"The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped. My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to him in song." (Psalm 28)
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