thoughts on lent

This is the third year that my Lenten fast has come in the form of detaching from Facebook for 40-something days. I’ve given up caffeine before (great way to get a Lenten headache and develop latent Lenten irritability). I’ve passed up sweets, TV, and various other components of my day to day existence, but none has exposed my soul to the degree that fasting from Facebook has. That sounds odd, maybe even petty, and I’m mildly embarrassed to admit it. But it’s true.

The thing is, though my other Lenten fasts have required some measure of sacrifice (did I mention the caffeine headache?), or at least heightened awareness, none has really felt like more than an inconvenience. Knowing that the purpose of Lenten fasting is to create spaces to pause and consider God, consider what this season before Easter really signifies in our lives, I would occasionally attempt to turn a caffeine headache into a pained prayer, or a sweet tooth moment into a brief entrée for the holy into the common. If I am honest, though, my awareness of God’s presence was not heightened to any great degree during those particular Lenten seasons. Fasting from Facebook, however, brings into bold clarity something of which I am only vaguely aware most of the time:

I am deeply lonely a lot of the time, and I attempt to use Facebook to fill in my empty spaces.

Well now, that’s embarrassing. As I said, I am vaguely aware of this most of the time. That’s because if I am honest with myself, I know full well that Facebook is actually a pretty shitty antidote to loneliness. Using Facebook as a substitute for human interaction is like using Runts to fill a fruit craving (on what planet does that actually taste like a banana?). I open the page, hope for a notification, maybe scan some photos and statuses (stati?), as if that actually means I’ve had some form of interaction with someone or shared life with them in any significant way. I get a little disappointed, maybe even jaded, and close the window, only to reopen it as soon as a pang of loneliness (or boredom) hits, as if the odds of the Facebook-Fix healing my heart this time are somehow higher than they were 2 minutes ago. Unlikely, and I know it, but I twitch like an addict and type in the address again.

Enter Lent, when no matter how big the twitch is, maintaining my integrity means staying my hand and sitting with my loneliness. It isn’t a fleeting craving for sugar, or a moment before Tylenol kicks in, or a brief interlude while I figure out what to do with the TV off. It’s this huge space in me that aches more than itches. And there, in the vacuum, a space opens for God. There my awareness of my own heart is heightened, and my mind is recalled to a recognition that he has promised to fill that vacuum in a way that no one else will ever be able to do. I recall memories of times in my life when I leaned more fully into the belief that he belongs in that space. And I am keenly aware that these days I daily post a No Vacancy sign so that Facebook can promise company and stand me up again. And again. And again.

I wish I could say that I am awesome, and that Easter comes and goes and I have stopped inviting Facebook over for dinner quite as often. That would be a lie. But I can say that with each passing Lent, I become a little more aware, a little less satisfied by my box of relational Runts. My prayer is that in pausing, in being aware, I also begin to develop deeper habits of inviting God to fill those empty spaces with himself, and let Facebook take its rightful place in the periphery. Fun, but not a fix. Thank God for Lent. 

on staying

He said ludicrous things.
Stories and snippets and zingers,
ludicrous and beautiful.
Seeds, pearls, yeast, trees.
Trash heaps and teeth gnashing
and kingdoms.
Everyone was there.
Women around the bread oven,
fisherman and farmers
merchants
whores
rich men
rulers.
And then the deal breaker.
Flesh and blood, a feast.
They all heard him, the madman.
They heard him, and most of them
did what any sane person ought to do.
They turned around,
and wandered home to the alleys,
across the fields,
back to their boats and palaces
and undisturbed consciences.

A few stayed.
As crazy as he was, I suppose,
but they trusted him.
Years later, with their crops long failed
and their fishing nets rotted through,
they ate flesh, drank blood.
They dined on redemption
like kings at the table.
They caught glimpses,
and saw within themselves
seeds, pearls, yeast, trees.
Kingdoms.

(inspired by John 6:53-69)

retrospect II: he called, but I wasn't home

(I came across a poem I started in March of 2012 and decided to finish it. It's the follow up to one I wrote in June of 2006, called retrospect: what I found instead.)

I've gone looking for Peace before.

One time I drove for hours,

crossed a state line, walked unfamiliar streets

where I imagined I might find him.

Peace wasn't there. 

I met his brother instead-

He sneaked up silently

and kept me company on the drive home. 

That time, it was enough for me.

Lately, though, I am missing him. 

I think of Peace's warmth,

his arm around my shoulder,

and I find myself in search of him again.

I'd drive to Cheyenne, 

but he wouldn't be there.

And I probably won't find him next week 

in the desert

on the sandstone 

in the endless expanse of sky.

So I write him letters,

I look at maps,

I meander down side streets and 

I ask others if they have seen him.

Some have

but they can't say more;

They can't say why Peace eludes me.

His brother-

His brother, Quiet, likely knows,

but I elude Quiet just as Peace eludes me.

I fidget

I search

I consult maps, friends, books.

I keep company with Noise, instead. 

I drive across state lines

again and again,

leaving Quiet

alone on my couch,

alone

with the answers

I've gone looking for. 

life after terror

I often hear people talk about a post 9-11 world. When I was working with elementary school students last year and would see birth dates from 2005, it would occasionally strike me that they would know of the attacks on the World Trade Center only as an historical fact. Co-workers commented about how these kids would never know what the world was like before 9-11. And honestly, I could never quite wrap my head around what that meant. Is the world really all that different, other than the fact that my odds of getting strip searched at the airport are significantly higher as time goes on? Maye it's basic for everyone else, but despite the fact that I was a junior in college in 2001 and had plenty of pre-9-11 experience, I just couldn't see the difference all that clearly.

Several months ago, there was a mini-earthquake in Lexington. Most people didn't feel it. But I was alone on the 15th floor of an office building, where a small tremor is amplified, and I felt the whole building shake. The thing is, I don't associate Kentucky with earthquakes, so it didn't cross my mind as a possible explanation. What did cross my mind was an image of the whole building tumbling down around me ala a bomb or some other attack, and I quickly left the building. In time it became clear that all was ok, and I went back to my office, but it took a while to shake the sense of terror.

A few weeks ago, I was walking out of the same office building when I heard a rumble. I still don't know what it was, but I do know that I spent most of the walk from my office to the pharmacy thinking about whether the phone lines would be tied up if I needed to tell my husband that it's ok, I wasn't in the building when "it" happened--whatever horror "it" might have been. The strange thing was that it was sort of a mundane thought process. I was casually making a contingency plan. That's when it began to sink in to me. That was when I thought, "THIS is what they mean by a post 9-11 world."

Recently, I considered asking a stranger to watch my things (mostly my backpack) while I ran to the restroom at Barnes and Noble. And then I pictured a shredded black backpack on a sidewalk in Boston, and I thought, "I don't know if that situation will feel safe to anyone anymore." A girl at the library asked the same favor of me today, and though I did it without hesitation, I was a little more antsy to see her return than I would have been a month ago. I live in a post-Boston marathon world.

Since that mini-earthquake, I have been thinking about what all this means for the life of faith. I think of John's words: "There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear." That's one of those verses that's beautiful as a platitude, perhaps an embroidered pillow or a bookmark, but completely unsettling when taken seriously. Take it in for a moment. There is a love so deep and high and long and wide that it actually eclipses fear entirely. It is the trump card of all trump cards. THAT is the love of God. It's an ocean I dip my toe in sometimes.

Faith that overcomes fear, that banks on the trump card even when the ante has been raised immeasurably--would be an astounding statement to a watching world. I'm wrestling with that today.

watersheds and wanderings

It's been a while. And by that, I mean way, way too long. It's not that I haven't started to write a few times. There are several unfinished drafts floating around in a file on my desktop. It would appear, however, that I haven't been able to complete a thought in almost a year now. Perhaps that should worry me. Perhaps it has just been one long transition, or series of transitions, and I haven't really had my feet on the ground for a while. At some point, I suppose, if I am to retain that precious part of myself that is a writer, I will have to be content with publishing an unfinished thought or two...

I write now from Kentucky, where I have entered the arena of the social sciences at the PhD level, no small transition from my M.A. in theology. As a Christian, it has been disorienting at best. I have stepped from the world of corporate prayer, to a world where Christianity is assessed through the framework of Durkheim's collective effervescence. I wrestle. I shift in my seat. I ponder effervescence and the reality of God. At times I feel like I've lost my moorings, like I am one pinky-hold away from losing my faith. A little numb and a lot lost describes the general goings on of my heart most of the time these days. 

The wrestling. My history professor in college (shout out to you, Dr. Mullins) spoke often of "watershed moments" in history. They are the moments that redefine all the moments that come before and after: case in point, the Enlightenment. What came before is now considered mostly dark and uninformed. What comes after, is.... enlightened. What comes after is the light of positivist reason, empirical truth at last. As a student of Theology, a Christian, and an intellectual, I often find myself standing atop the watershed of the Enlightenment, looking down one side and then the other, wondering if the division is necessary, questioning assumptions about which side is closer to truth than the other.   

A post-Enlightenment world is the water we swim in, to be sure. All the more in my current studies. The age of reason. The power of science. Homo mensura: man (and all his unequivocal data) the measure. I'm not dissing rationality and empirical science. I'm all for discovering patterns in human interaction (hence, dedicating my brain in slavery to sociology for a season) and I'm a big fan of a heliocentric universe. Data is great and useful and powerful. But here's the part that troubles me. This water we swim in....it's a blip in the grand scheme of history. A few hundred years. No much older than our country (which is given far too much watershed shed status than is deserved, I would suggest). Can it really be the measure of all that has come before? Am I really stupid to embrace mystery and a bit of divine nonsense? Paul wrote to the Corinthians, telling them that the wisdom of God would seem like foolishness to the world. The implication here, of course, is that embracing the wisdom of God will make us look like fools. In this stage of my life, I chafe against looking like a fool much more than I have before.

Talking to a friend about this, I was reminded of an experience I had in college. I remember it in detail. I remember that it wasn’t quite dark, just the dimmest shade of dusk. I was walking on a stretch of sidewalk next to married student housing, alone. It was cool but not cold. I had been wrestling with the nonsensical nature of the gospel message. It was ludicrous, really. I was restless on the inside, talking to God out loud, telling him that the whole thing was just crazy, and that I didn’t know what I thought about it anymore.

I heard it then as clearly as an audible voice. “This is where you leap.”

I literally stopped in my tracks that night. “This is where you leap” was not a reassurance that my beliefs made sense. It wasn’t even an argument against my claim that they were downright ludicrous. It was a call to faith. And I leaped into the most incredible adventure I could have asked for. Perhaps I am on the precipice again, and the decision before me is the same as it was that night on the sidewalk near married student housing.

I am realizing that, in reality, everyone is going on faith in some way or another. I mean, trusting the truth of the few hundred years of water flowing down on this side of the Enlightenment is still choosing a basket to put your eggs in and hoping it holds together.

It’s a pinky-hold, man. I’m out on the sidewalk again. I find myself longing for the listening ear of those who shared that campus with me. It's easing past the dimmest shade of dusk, and it's colder than before. "This is where you leap."

Here ends my disjointed thinking. This time, I will post it anyway.

Book Review: In Constant Prayer

I recently joined Book Sneeze, a project of Thomas Nelson, which offers readers a free copy of a book in return for posting a review. My first free book, authored by Robert Benson, is reviewed below:

In Constant Prayer addresses a topic only recently brought to the fore in many modern churches. The praying of the hours, or the Divine Office, has been used as a pattern of prayer, a unifying language of petition, for millennia. Throughout the book, Benson provides both an introduction to the practice as well as insight into its application in our 21^st century lives. He boldly takes on many of the concerns and excuses commonly offered—busyness, inaccessibility, etc.—with humor and personal stories.

Though In Constant Prayer has many strong points, the fact that its key weaknesses lie within the first third of the book may prevent many readers from “hanging in there” long enough to appreciate its value. In his effort to present himself in a humble manner, proclaiming himself a non-expert in the subject, Benson goes a bit too far. Though I appreciate an author who refuses arrogance, I do expect the writer to express some level of credibility if I am going to believe his work is worth reading. Benson does not navigate this balance well. As well, some of his statements regarding the relationship between the ancient and modern church seem ill informed, especially as I come from a theology/church history background. Finally, the writing itself is often disjointed, as if Benson inserted some of his favorite quotes or brief thoughts where they simply didn’t fit in a cohesive way.

Overall, however, Benson offers excellent insight into common excuses, and does so in a way that is simultaneously gentle and bold. His humor is ever-present, and his words are consistently thought provoking and challenging. If you pick up this book, hang in there. The beginning may be rough, but the read is definitely worth it in the end.  

letters from the waiting room

I have been antsy lately. Being restless isn’t all that strange for me, granted. I am a person of passion, and restlessness often follows close behind passion. But the trouble lately is I am antsy all the time. All the time. My days have become an unending stretch of edge-of-seat, hand-wringing antsiness. I feel like my heart has set up shop in a waiting room- waiting for news about my applications, waiting for word from a friend, waiting to know where we will be living next. Waiting for some change, some news, some salve for my unsettled insides.

It is understandable, then, that I have had a pretty hard time remaining present to anyone or anything lately. Last week, I found myself thinking that I would like to go to sleep and not wake up until I am on the far side of some of the things I am waiting for. The space between desire and fulfillment is one of great tension. I am exhausted from dwelling in it.

Thank God for weddings. In the weeks before my two friends recently tied the knot, with the big day rapidly approaching, last minute needs came to the fore (as they always do with weddings) and jobs were handed out. Despite the fact that the bride and groom are two dear friends of mine, I suddenly found myself annoyed with all talk of weddings, and I chafed at the thought of taking on any helping role. I didn’t know why, really. It isn’t like me. I tried to talk myself into a better mindset over and over, but oh man, I wanted to exit the whole scene and go sit alone in my waiting room.

The tension, the chafing persisted. Until the Tuesday preceding the wedding, when those of us at my church’s evening service somehow came around to discussing the notion that we—the body of Christ—belong to one another. I don’t even remember how we got there, or what the scripture was that week. All I know is that I heard it loud and clear on the inside: My community and I, we belong to one another- I to them, and they to me. I realized how self-centered I was becoming in my waiting room. How selfish it really is to want to go to sleep just to avoid the ache that can come with waiting. I realized that I belonged to people who needed me to be awake, to people who needed me to be present in the moment and not just on the far side of my restlessness. This included my soon-to-be-wed friends. And so, in a dual-purpose event, two people I love got married and I got a seismic shift on the inside. I entered fully into the occasion. It was an exhausting and beautiful weekend, both life-giving and full of unexpected joys.

I got a seismic shift, but not a salve. This is still a letter from the waiting room. Still waiting for news, waiting for word from a friend, waiting. And it still hurts. In the midst of it, though, I am finding life in the in-between. I am a little more aware of the present moment, a little more alert to those to whom I belong. Yes, thank God for weddings. And in the end, thank God for waiting rooms where, if I am paying attention, I will often find God himself keeping me company and speaking to my antsy heart.

a new first day

I love the Exodus story. Every other year, I read through the Chronological or One Year Bible, and it is always a highlight. What an incredible story.

A few days ago, as I read through Exodus 12, I noticed something I have never spotted before:

"While the Israelites were still in the land of Egypt, the LORD gave the following instructions to Moses and Aaron: 'From now on, this month will be the first month of the year for you. ...This is a day to remember. Each year, from generation to generation, you must celebrate it as a special festival to the LORD. This is a law for all time.'" (12:2, 14). Note that the Israelites are still in Egypt. The promise of salvation from oppression has been made, but the exodus has not yet come about. In the midst of the tension between promise and fulfillment (a tension we are often called to dwell in), God makes a command that calls for an incredible amount of faith: "Completely reorder your time, your record of history. I am about to transfigure all of life for you- what you know of me and how you relate to me. From now on, your entire calendar will be based on beginning each year with telling the story you are about to enter into."

It is a reordering of their lives indeed. Brought out of slavery under Egyptian rule, the Israelites are swept into a journey that proved far more adventurous than they ever could have expected, following a God who was far more wild than they sometimes wished. He brings them out from Egypt, then tells them to backtrack a bit; You know, "Just so I can let their army catch up and almost overtake you. For my glory." Um...ok. He leads them into a desert where they find only bitter water at first. Perfect. And he asks them to walk right into the middle of a perfectly good sea, trusting that the waters will hold back long enough for them to pass through. Sure. No biggie.

From generation to generation, God says, tell this story. If nothing else, you can say, "This, my son, is a festival to remember the day that our lives became...interesting."

My life as a disciple of Jesus is full of stories when life became adventurous and God seemed particularly wild. And I do remember them from time to time. I have a feeling that God, however, would ask of me the same thing he asked of the Israelites: "Allow me to become so central, my story so large, that it completely reorders your time, your life, your history. Remember the day I brought you out of slavery. It is the new first day of your life. Never stop telling the story."

The first day I was brought out of slavery was June 16th, 1996. I stood up to say that I wanted to follow the One who love me, and life got...interesting. I must remember that day. But I realized as I read those words from Exodus that God is bringing me out of slavery in a million other steps along the way. I often encounter them with awe, astounded, yet remember them blithely. Absentmindedly. I suddenly recall walking through a perfectly good sea as if it were dry ground, and all I can think is, "Oh yeah, I forgot about that." Again and again, I go back to the old order of things. God, however, asks me to let these moments be entire paradigm shifts. He asks me to allow them to reorder my world. "Today is the day I showed you my wonders. Tell and retell this story."

Goal for the year: Begin living my life by a different kind of calendar. The one in which all of time, all of my life, all of my history has been reordered- transfigured- by the story of God in my life. And learn to tell and retell the story.

blessed

They call it "flying signs." I didn't know there was a name for it, of course, until I was given the skinny from the inside. Until my clients came in and told me, quite nonchalantly, that in order to get their alcohol that day, they flew a sign. And I didn't have much perspective on it until then, either. Not until I knew their lives, their stories. Not until I called detox in vain, asking for at least a hint that they were there, were safe. Not until I watched them come back from rehab and blow it. Again.

Flying signs: Standing on a corner with a well-tailored (to look believable) carboard sign.

I write this knowing that I can't generalize all those who fly signs. I can't call them all fakes or manipulators, and if it helps, I also can't say that I dislike even those who fall into one of those two categories. But my time working at a homeless day center and winter shelter did change my perspective. I don't hand out money now, even if I do still feel hard and uncomfortable passing by them on a million city corners. On occasion, I will buy someone a meal or a tank of gas. But I mostly drive by. The dilemma I feel in those moments is rooted in my wrestling match with what it means to love. After watching client after client destroy themselves with alcohol and drugs, not actually in need of food as much as freedom from addiction, I no longer believe it is loving to aid someone in feeding that addiction. I wept for clients who made it 100 days without booze, almost got themselves back in housing, and came to me trashed and broken some unfortunate afternoon- back at square one. And so I continue to wrestle with all the uncomfortable ways those clients- friends- changed my perspective on love, and with what that should mean for my actions, but for now, it's where I have landed.

Recently, however, a sign-flyer gave ma a different change in perspective. He gave me what I now recognize as a true gift.

I was headed home after work that day, tired and perhaps unnecessarily grumpy (an all too common malady for me). Waiting on the offramp for the light to change, one almost always sees a figure of some shape or story, wandering the shoulder with a cardboard sign, and today was no different. At times, I am selfishly irked by the fact that I must wrestle inwardly yet again, when I am already tired and, quite frankly, would rather have my conscience left undisturbed (terrible, that thought). I shifted in my seat, and my eyes darted between detachment and the natural desire to read what has been scrawled on this particular shred of cardboard. I caught a glance of the ragged, worn man and watched him walk toward me. I caught his gaze, but saw that, unlike any other scenario like this one, his eyes asked me no questions. I paused, and then I saw his sign.

Scrawled messily in black marker, on a scrap of cardboard that had surely seen better days, were three words: "I am blessed."

That was it. No attached request. No "I am blessed, but pretty darn hungry, too." Just a declaration that caught me so off guard that I almost missed my light. Shaggy, dirty, and very likely pretty darn hungry, this man wandered the shoulder of our busy commutes and told us all, lined up and probably thinking a multitude of complaining thoughts, that he was blessed.

It has been months since then, but I cannot shake his image. His face. The moment I caught his eyes. And of course, I cannot shake the words written on his sign. In the busyness of my day, in the frustration of wrestling with the meaning of love, in the million ways I live as if I am the center of the universe...in all of these things, I completely forget the truth he shared so clearly with me. I am blessed. It is true of me now, and would remain true of me even if I were to find myself in that man's shoes. In many ways, he redeemed each encounter I have with a ragged face, flying a sign. There, alongside the dilemma, is a memory and a reminder.

Take a breath and chill out, Katie. You are blessed.

I, the oppressor

Over the last several years, I've put a lot more thought into how I spend my money. You know, "responsible consumerism" and all. It began sort of on accident, when I was in a class that required me to write a weekly essay evaluating a news article from the viewpoint of biblical ethics. One week, while flipping through the only magazine I had (at the last minute, of course), I found an article about Wal-Mart's then-recent application with the FDIC to have their own bank. It was pretty much my only option, and so I began an essay that I honestly imagined would involve pulling ideas out of...that place from which less-than-grand ideas often come.

The more I read, the more I hunted through the Word, I was surprised to find some compelling reasons to avoid America's favorite mega store. (In the beginning, it had mostly to do with the destruction of community, a huge biblical value. Later, of course, I discovered a plethora of other reasons to stay away.) I began to mention the notion to other people, and it was on my mind a lot. It wasn't until about a year later, though, that I decided my words left me a hypocrite, and I made my last purchase at Wal-Mart.

Over the next couple years, I ran into other people who cared about their habits of consumerism. I read about food ethics, and I spent bits and pieces of time researching which clothing companies used sweat shops. I learned about fair trade, and about how to invest my money in organizations that support those whom larger corporations often exploit. Still, I felt a little overwhelmed trying to find information, and wished for a comprehensive guide. I searched, but found none. That is, until one day, wandering into a fair trade store not far from my house, I happened upon such a guide: Better World Shopper. The book (and website) rank a huge variety of stores and products for their ethical practices. Information in hand, I was forced to turn a corner and radically change how I spent my money. My goal became to consume nothing that got below a "C" in ethical rankings, and to seek even better than that when possible.

I did all this with a conviction that was passionate and yet still a little ambiguous. It was the right thing to do, right? The way of Christ calls us not to take part in supporting injustice, not to be an accessory to the crime, right? But hey, it's good enough for me to do my best. I mean, at least I'm not as bad as some other people, right?

The ambiguity left completely when, while preparing to lead a Bible study one day, I was faced with James 5:1-6:
"Now listen, you rich people, weep and wail because of the misery that is coming on you. ² Your wealth has rotted, and moths have eaten your clothes. ³ Your gold and silver are corroded. Their corrosion will testify against you and eat your flesh like fire. You have hoarded wealth in the last days. ⁴ Look! The wages you failed to pay the workers who mowed your fields are crying out against you. The cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord Almighty. ⁵ You have lived on earth in luxury and self-indulgence. You have fattened yourselves in the day of slaughter. ⁶ You have condemned and murdered the innocent one, who was not opposing you."

The temptation with such verses is to distance ourselves from them, to try and learn from the warning given to "those other people." You know, the ones who oppress people and whose workers' wages cry out against them. Wow, such a harsh warning for "those people." It's gonna be a rough ending for them. As I prepared, though, I felt God asking me to linger over these words and listen a little more."What is oppression?" I sensed him ask me.

oppression noun

1. the exercise of authority or power in a burdensome, cruel, or unjust manner.

"Oppression is the misuse of power," I replied in my mind. "What is power?" he asked next. (Dictionary-wise, power in this sense is defined as "sway, rule, sovereignty.") "Well, in America, money is power," I thought. "I mean, other things provide power here, too. But money seems to be king in the long run."

It took only a second to hit me like a brick to the noggin. Oppression is the misuse of power. Money is power. To misuse my money, then, to misemploy my financial voice, no matter how insignificant it might seem at times, was to oppress. It was not just to be an accessory to the crime, somewhat distanced. It was to be the oppressor. The hammer hit even harder when I heard a sermon by a man named Steve Chalke, who runs an anti human traffikking organization called Stop the Traffik. Speaking about oppression in the world of chocolate production (raise your hand if you invest your power- aka money- in chocolate), he read a simple quote from a young boy who served as slave in the industry, on the Ivory Coast (where much of our chocolate comes from).

"When you eat chocolate," the boy said, "you eat my flesh." Over a year later, I tear up as I write those words. My consumption of a particular brand of sweet oppresses a young boy half a world away. I might even sponsor a kid like him through Compassion, and then turn around and perpetuate the systems that will enslave him.

(Side note: For a list of ways to eat chocolate without being the oppressor, check out Stop the Traffik's chocolate guide, or consult Better World Shopper.)

As a follower to Jesus Christ, I do not want my misused dollars to cry out against me. I want to hear and respond to the prompting of 1 Timothy 6:17-19, trusting in God rather than the almighty dollar, and using my money- my power- to do good. I will be honest: Responsible consumerism is a pain in the rear. It takes a lot of extra brain power. It limits my options, eliminates some favorites, and it thwarts convenience and the ever-tempting bargain. It almost always costs more. But I believe in a God who will stretch my dollar if I use it well.

I, the oppressor, have not always used my power well. May I depart from that pattern a little more, every day, for the rest of my life.

Pedro the Wise strikes again

It's summer, which means the lure of two wheels on dirt has come. Just yesterday, I returned home in classic form: a little blood, some gear grease in unusual places, and a lot of dirt. "I fell," were my first words to my husband. "Clearly," he replied, and laughed at me.

(Pedro, by the way, is the bike from which I fell.)

When I bike alone, which is usually the case (anyone want to donate an old bike to my husband?), I talk a lot. Not in my head, mind you. Out loud. I probably sound crazy, but somehow it is a part of how I navigate it all, my biking world of hills and rocks and sharp curves, all beckoning me to overcome them. Often, when I am approaching a hill that looks less-than-possible (generally when I am coming from the bottom), I will say, "I own you." Yep, that's right: I say "I own you." (Occasionally, "You're mine.") Of course, the hill cares very little about my deluded sense of ownership, and I'm sure its sense of self-worth would not be rattled by my successfully making my way to the top. In reality, I am speaking to myself. I am declaring to myself that the obstacle before me does not have the upper hand. I am declaring that I am capable of overcoming anything, no matter how daunting. Anything.

A few days ago, when I approached a few sketchy spots involving uneven rocks and a rather lengthy fall should I slip, I found myself saying, "No death wishes today, I think. No death wishes today." These are places where I weigh the glory of overcoming against the guaranteed broken bones (maybe death) of the fall, and I decide to take the humble route. Picking up my bike and trying to convince myself that I am not a chicken, I carry Pedro over the rocks and prepare to take on the hill immediately following. "No death wishes today."

The most common phrase to come from my mouth (and one that I have actually said many times even when I'm not alone) is, "No quitting allowed." In the midst of a hill that I had planned to own, when my muscles are about to stage an insurrection and gravity makes a compelling case for surrender, I tell myself that quitting is not an option. Failure? Yes, it is an option that I cannot always preclude. Quitting? This is what I have control over, and it is the thing I refuse. "No quitting allowed" reminds me of the difference between the two. Often it plays out with me falling to the ground before I will ever stop pedaling.

Every time I get back in the rhythm of mountain biking, I am reminded of a strange truth: it somehow makes me a braver person. Consistently facing obstacles from the seat of my trusty steed (this designation builds Pedro's ego), my perspective on life is a little different. I am more likely to face a daunting hill on this new adventure called marriage by saying, "I own you." Yes, I will tell that hurdle that it doesn't have the upper hand. Perhaps when life presents me with an obstacle and my heart calls for surrender, I will declare that there is "no quitting allowed," and that if I fail, it sure as hell won't be because I gave up. And maybe I will learn to face some circumstances in life in which the consequences outweigh the benefits, and I will have the humility to say, "No death wishes today, I think. No death wishes today." Perhaps I could learn to choose humility and wisdom over blind, prideful risk-taking, and begin to understand that my self-worth is in no way lessened as I pick up my bike and carry it for a while.

Here's to you, Pedro, for reminding me of what it means to be both brave and wise. And here's to you, God, for being creative enough to use an old, gray mountain bike to get through to my often distracted heart.

small town Sunday: old paintings and new covenants

In an effort to do greater justice to the power of Holy Week, our pastor has mixed things up a bit. Rather than celebrating Holy Week during....well, Holy Week, we are taking the six Sundays before Easter and using each to celebrate a day of Holy Week. Hence, though next Sunday is traditionally Palm Sunday, we will be observing Good Friday. It has felt a little odd at points, but I have begun to really appreciate it, especially today: Maundy Thursday.

In place of the traditional service order, today's gathering was a mix of long readings from Mark 14 (read by the most amazing liturgical reader I have ever encountered: the man reads in a way that makes one chew on Scripture and, perhaps for the first time, actually taste it) and short reflections from the pastor. Following the reading of verses 17-26, in which Jesus eats the Passover meal with his disciples, our congregation partook of communion. Yet our pastor asked us to do this in a new way today. Rather than simply dipping the bread in the cup and partaking as we usually do, we were to instead feed the bread and juice to the person behind us. Yep, literally turn and place it in their mouths. This was, not surprisingly, a bit awkward, all of us eating and then feeding, looking like baby birds as we accepted the juice-soaked bread from the hands of the one before us. As I made my way up the line toward the front, I began to hear that, in the place of words usually spoken by those giving communion, some members of the congregation were speaking sacred words to one another as they offered the intimate gesture of passing the elements from hand to mouth. Indeed, the man before me, a friend and retired pastor, looked at me and spoke a deep reminder of what that meal symbolized. There was something newly beautiful about it, hearing those words from him, spoken specifically for me.

Stepping forward to reach for the elements, with Tim coming behind me to receive it, I considered simply saying what is most often spoken in that setting, something about bread and cups and covenants and forgiveness. But a phrase overcame me somewhere in between placing my final step and reaching for the bread. Honestly, I can think of times when I would have brushed it aside, simply so as not to sound odd, except that this morning it was overpowering. It echoed in my mind as I took the little piece of bread, that symbol of a broken body of love, and dipped it in the dark red reminder of a covenant of forgiveness. And I turned to Tim, placed the communion gift in his mouth and simply said, "This changes everything."

They were words that came out of my own mouth, yet I spent much of the remainder of the service pondering them. This changes everything. This bread, this cup--they rewrite the entire script of creation for those who, through the eyes of faith, look to see the grace and reconciliation happening all around us, even in the midst of ugliness that sometimes astounds us. This changes everything. It changes the way we treat enemies, it turns the notion of status on its head, and it dethrones pride and guilt both in the presence of divine and underserved grace. This changes everything. And yet I sat and felt, on the inside, as if my life did not show evidence of a belief that it changed much of anything at all, at least in how I relate to God and to myself.

Beyond feeling a tad disheartened, I couldn't shake the familiarity of the phrase. It struck a chord that I couldn't name, until I finally remembered a painting I did in college during the time when I was most debilitated by the vicious side effects of my epilepsy medication. My concept of my limitations, the way in which I related to people, the lens through which I saw the world: all of these things had been uprooted and thrown topsy turvy as those little pills rewrote the rules for my bodily existence. The painting was simple, and was perhaps my neatest work during that time when chemicals caused my hands to twitch at random. It was a giant pill bottle, the likeness of the basic, orange bottle I opened every day, complete with label. Behind it, written sideways and blurred (in a representation of what the world felt like to me at the time) were three words: this changes everything. It was a visual representation of what had for months felt like a devastating reality. That stupid bottle, those little pills, the chemicals coursing through my brain: it had changed everything. It had stolen something from me and made the whole of life seem sideways and blurry. I think somehow I hoped someone might look at the painting and understand: This changes everything.

Communion, I sat there and realized, is supposed to change my life on that same level. The reality of the gospel, of a new covenant by which I am received as a daughter into the Kingdom of God, ought to do much of what my medication did. It ought to transform my concept of my limitations, to change the way in which I relate to people, and to offer a totally new lens through which I see the world. Indeed, it ought to rewrite the rules for my bodily and spiritual existence. Perhaps I have not recognized it, or allowed myself to be overtaken by its recreative powers, but the reality remains nonetheless: this bread, this cup, this covenant changes everything. Except this time it carries my past the place where all is sideways and blurry, and slowly shows me a world that is suddenly set aright, suddenly in focus, suddenly in color.

In the end, I realize that communion is not so different a thing from my painting. It is a visual reminder of a wonderfully devastating reality. And it changes everything.

small town Sunday: a justified life

Each week at church, somewhere near the middle of the service, we practice "the passing of the peace." Church members rise from their pews and offer warm greetings, "Peace be with you," and, "Good to see you." I have to say that our pastor does a great job of at least puting forth the intended power of that gesture; he reminds us again and again that it is a time to speak peace and reconciliation to one another as a people who have been reconciled to God and to one another. And honestly, I try. I want to look into the eye of my neighbor and mean it in a powerful way. I want to speak, "Peace be with you" as one who believes that the power of the Spirit of peace is somehow present in those words. It has always disappointed me that I am somehow unable to make that transition from random, amiable greeting to powerful declaration of truth.

A few weeks ago, when our pastor was enjoying a much needed vacation to sandy places, we had a guest speaker. His story was a powerful one; he had personally met Martin Luther King Jr. and had lived a life marked by a willingness to act on behalf of justice even when doing so ran counter to the status quo (which is most often the case of genuine justice, I suppose). However, though his message impacted me, what has remained with me most is what he said as an introduction to our weekly peace-passing. "Offer one another signs of peace," he said, "and while your at it, perhaps ask your neighbor what he has done to justify his existence this week." I didn't hear anybody ask the question. I mean, for the most part those who fill pews are shy about such questions, if not afraid of them altogether. I wanted to ask it, but I didn't.

We should have asked each other the question.

I may not have posed the inquiry to anyone in the church that day, but I have been asking it of myself for many days since. What have I done to justify my existence? To justify my existence? It is a profound and unsettling question. The temptation, at least at first, is to find the question a bit offensive. "What do you mean, justify my existence? I don't have to justify anything; God created me simply because he loves me." This, of course, would be simultaneously true and a cop-out of sorts. We must balance the notion that we are created simply out of love with the biblical assumption that we are not created to be well-loved bumps on a log engraved "theology". Case in point: Abraham was told quite plainly that God's promise stated both that he would be blessed and that he would be a blessing. Millenia later, Jesus, when commisioning his disciples before he returned to the Father, did not, surprisingly, tell them to go and spend their lives thinking about how much he loved them, warmly shaking hands on a million successive Sundays. He told them to go and make disciples. To go and be a part of bringing about a Kingdom marked by justice and love and compassion. In a way, he told them to go and justify their existence. Following that command seldom left those disciples in safe places. It generally shook up the very existence he had told them to justify.

I think of it this way: I ask myself if I can stand before God and say, " Today I have been a good steward of the life you gave me. I have allowed you to use it as you wish, no matter the cost." Essentially, today I have been willing to be shaken up and taken to uncomfortable, unsafe places. On the day our guest speaker asked us that question, I don't know that I could have said those words. May I strive to live up to them in the days to come, to embrace the radical challenge that found me right in the middle of a small town Sunday.

p.s. you might wanna flip that upside down

I've heard Jeremiah 29:11 about a million times. In fact, a fairly cheesy version of blared out of my car speakers today, "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD...." I've heard it at graduation commencements, seen it in sympathy cards, spotted it on inspirational posters. And I have read it many, many times on the pages of the Bible. This time, however, I was struck by the context. I spotted the blaring "p.s" for the very first time: "I have plans to prosper you! Plans for hope, for a future! (p.s. first you are going to be in exile for a very, very long time.)"

Ok God, that's a little like saying to the hopeless, unemployed person, "I have a job for you! (p.s. first you will be financially destitute for at least three decades)"

Great. Thanks. Can't wait to start.

It sounds so backward, doesn't it? And yet as I read Jeremiah a month or so ago, I realized how much of his message calls us to interpret events in an upside down sort of way. It calls us to reconsider what good plans are. Case in point: a huge portion of the nation of Judah is dragged off into exile by the Babylonians. Those left behind are probably thinking, "Well, the punishment has come and we came out on top! God took the guilty ones and removed them from the land, and it's all smooth sailing from here." On the other hand, those trudging off across the desert, their backs to the land promised to their Fathers, their steps taking them toward the land of their oppressor, must be thinking, "The punishment for the sin of Judah has fallen on us. We are the cursed ones, and our brothers will be happy in the land again."

And God says, "Nope. Flip it upside down."

Through a vision of figs (because figs always make me think of people groups, you?), God speaks to Jeremiah about this. In the vision, there are two baskets of figgy goodness. One basket actually is figgy goodness. The other is figgy badness; the fruit is rotten. About these baskets, God says to Jeremiah,

"Like these good figs, I regard as good the exiles from Judah, whom I sent away from this place to the land of the Babylonians. My eyes will watch over them for their good, and I will bring them back to this land. I will build them up and not tear them down; I will plant them and not uproot them. I will give them a heart to know me, that I am the LORD. They will be my people, and I will be their God, for they will return to me with all their heart." (24:5-7)

It's good to be a good fig, no? As for the rotten fruit, God says,

"But like the poor figs, which are so bad that they cannot be eaten...so will I deal with Zedekiah king of Judah, his officials, and the survivors from Jerusalem, whether they remain in this land or live in Egypt. I will make them abhorrent and an offense to all the kingdoms of the earth, a reproach and a byword, an object of riducule and cursing, wherever I banish them. I will send the sword, famine and plague against them until they are destroyed from the land I gave to them and their fathers." (24:8-10)

Suddenly Babylon sounds like Candy Land, right? Suddenly there's no place like anywhere-but-home.

It seems that those who escaped being captured by the Babylonians and remain in Jerusalem are not, in fact, the lucky ones. Not even the king. They were not spared because they are awesome. In fact, the scene in Jerusalem is about to make exile look like an evening with Mr. Rogers. Yes folks, those who think they have come out on top will soon be dead. And those who think they have been forever rejected? They will soon be planting vineyards in Babylon, far from home but safe and well.

Now I can't paint a dichotomy of good and evil kind of image here. I mean, the ones who are stuck checking out the Babylonian real estate market for a 70 year investment aren't all innocent cherubs. They have a long way to go in mending their ways, and the prophet Ezekiel is on his way to lay down the divine smack. But they are the figs with a future. Their story doesn't end in sword and famine and plague. It ends in prosperity and hope. In between now and the end, though, there is a long walk to Babylon and a lot of years away from home.

In the end, I guess the whole thing has me wondering how limited our interpretations of "good" and "prosperous" plans are. Do we quote Jeremiah 29:11 with the underlying assumption that it can serve as a sort of talisman against such "bad" things as, oh, I don't know....exile? Would we consider the verse a dud if God's plans led us to a slave market in the middle east, with our own lives up for the bidding? (Makes me think of a guy I once read about named Joseph....) Maybe it all means that when we look around at the situations of our lives, when we begin to interpret who ended up with the good plans and who got the rotten fig...when we look at those things, we need to listen long enough to let the Father say,

"Nope. Flip it upside down."

prayer and potential

April through August. Never before have I let so much time pass without putting my thoughts into writing. So much life has come and gone over the last 4 months. In the midst of it, I let myself get spread a little too thin. To return to this place of expression, to journaling, to letter-writing...these are some of my biggest desires in the months ahead. Ah, but back to the placing of thoughts on paper...

So I have been thinking a lot about potential this summer. In June, my small group chose to read through the book of 2 Peter (followed by 1 Peter...you know, like you do). I've always loved this epistle, penned by the bumbling and yet dauntless disciple to whom I have often related most. This time through his words, however, brought forth a depth of challenge I had never seen before, even in the most familiar of verses (the one quoted beneath hung on the wall of my bedroom all throughout high school).

"His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires."

Everything we need. It seems that God did not give us life and godliness directly, though that is what we often ask of him: "Father, I am a mess. Please make me godly." What he gave us instead was everything we need to turn around and choose to let him actualize that burning ball of potential in our Spirits. And so while we plead with him to make us godly, the seed of godliness and everything needed to make it burst forth into life are already within us. As I thought about it, it called to mind a passage from Ephesians:

I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, ¹⁹and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is like the working of his mighty strength...


There it is again. Paul isn't praying that the Ephesian believers would have power. He is praying that though would realize that they already do. He is praying that these children of God, who are bursting at the seams with the very power of resurrection, would let it loose and live lives of resurrection. We have everything we need.

Later in 2 Peter, we encountered the notion again. In chapter 3, Peter states the reason for His writing as follows: Dear friends, this is now my second letter to you. I have written both of them as reminders to stimulate you to wholesome thinking. Ok, sounds reasonable enough. He wants them to start thinking wholesome thoughts. Good deal. But then we read it in the NKJV, and the truth of chapter 1 stepped into the light again: Dear friends, this is already the second letter I have written you, in which I am trying to stir up your pure mind by way of reminder.

To be honest, I chuckled at this thought, and actually joked out loud, "I don't think there's a pure mind to stir up in me." Immediately I sensed the Spirit check me on that statement, sensed it with a clarity that I don't often encounter in my life of discipleship. Everything we need. There is a pure mind in me, burning with potential and waiting for me to set aside my old way of thinking and let it come to life. The clarity of that moment was so keen that I had to stop and say to my friends, "What I just said about not having a pure mind..it isn't true."

This all may sound basic, but it has begun to change the way I pray. I suppose that my prayers have always been much like the one I mentioned above. "God, I want to be really alive, to be godly. Father, give me a pure mind." Those are discouraging prayers, in some ways. They come from a heart that just hopes God can come through and make me something other than what I seem to be most of the time. Instead, God calls me to a prayer whose nuance is subtle yet profound: "Father, help me to actualize the pure mind that you've place in me. God, help me to choose to live out the potential for godliness that is just waiting to burst out of my life." There is hope in that prayer. It emerges from a belief that I am already have the thing that I hunger for. It is a prayer of faith in a God of resurrection: I already have everything I need. I just need to courage and wisdom to let that burning ball of potential loose in my life.

lessons in shutting up

Jesus threw some zingers out, I tell you.

Case in point: here's one makes me cringe pretty much every time I read it: "The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks."

I have spent the last week or so regretting pretty much every time I open my mouth. It seems that every time I utter a phrase or two, I am left with an aftertaste of either a) superficiality, or b) bitterness. As the days pass, I crave silence more and more, simply because speech inevitably leads to frustration. I guess I figure that if I just shut up long enough, maybe things will smooth out a little. Jesus' words remind me that there is something else at stake: my heart. As I began to look back over my words from the week, this is the emerging portrait of my heart, that deep place from which my words flow: afraid, bitter, jealous, critical, and a semi-shade of empty. Even in light of Jesus' reminder, the conclusion is in many ways the same: shutting up is probably a good idea. The difference is that silence is not the fix, but the starting place. It is an avenue for encounter with the one who changes not just the overflow of the heart, but the heart itself. Silence, then, becomes far more than just a temporary form of damage control.

In my desire for reprieve from my stupid mouth, I pulled one of my favorite books off the shelf as I headed out the door this morning. The plan was to spend a few (hopefully speechless) hours at a coffee shop, and the book was Henri Nouwen's The Way of the Heart, a short but hugely impactful look at the importance of the monastic virtues of solitude, silence, and prayer in our current context. His words on silence have stayed with me in a profound way since I first read them: "Silence teaches us to speak." According to Nouwen, words are meant to give life, but can only do so when they are rooted in a listening silence. The way we throw words around left and right as if it's a virtue to constantly tell all (I am as guilty as anyone of this) has cheapened words. They are stripped of their sacredness, their power. More than that, they are actually dangerous. James tells us that the tongue is a world of evil, and in most of our lives we seem happy to prove his point. Nouwen writes that even an abundance of good words is a cheap substitute for the rich utterances that come from one who has allowed silence to teach him to truly speak. In that deep silence, the inner fire of the Spirit is guarded and kindled. It is the Spirit who teaches us to speak not death, or even simply distraction, but life and healing.

Nouwen nails it. But the nitty gritty of it all...that's the challenge ahead. Silence is not exactly easily incorporated into my daily life. Just this morning I had to explain to someone that my lack of words was not, as he had supposed, due to my being angry with him. It requires a whole paradigm shift to learn to spend time with others with few words involved. I don't know where to start, really. But I'll try, because I crave that carefully guarded fire of the Spirit. I crave the taste of words that reflect the creative and life-giving power of my Maker. From the fruit of my lips, Proverbs tells me, I will be nourished. I feel like I've been downing package after package of corn syrup-y fruit snacks. Some resemblance to fruit in shape, pretty much none in nutrition or taste. I think I've hit my limit.

I'm ready for a growing season of silence, in hopes of tasting the real stuff instead. Less crap, more fruit. Jesus, help me shut up long enough to get there.

lenten loneliness

Confession: I have practiced a lenten fast for several years now, and it has rarely meant a lot to me, at least not on any spiritual level. Lacking sweets or caffeine or whatnot generally doesn't remind me of Jesus or his suffering much. The year I gave up TV in a house that constantly had it on may have been the most effective fast in previous years, simply because it opened my eyes to the vast amount of time I actually have, and how much peaceful I am when I spend it on fruitful things. Still, not much to knit my story with Christ's.

This year, for the first time, my lenten fast felt connected to the story of the passion. I gave up Facebook, which those who use it daily will understand to be a challenging task. That, honestly, is why I took a friend's suggestion to leave it behind for 40 days-- because I knew it would hurt a little. But I had chosen other fasts for the same reason in years past, and as I mentioned, they did little to connect me to Jesus' walk toward Jerusalem, his journey toward death and then life. Little did I know, Facebook would break that pattern.

At random (I am reading the One Year Bible this year), I read through the passion narrative just before Lent began. One thing stood out to me as I read the story, something that had not struck me so deeply before. It was the deep loneliness and sadness of Christ as he prays in the garden and walks through the events leading up to his death. Weeping in the garden, asking God to choose some other way, he returns again and again to find that his closest friends can't stay awake to pray for him. Then moments after the mob arrives to take him, each of those who had walked closely with him--those who had been his friends--turn tail and run. They leave him standing there, and he walks through the most horrific of nights alone. The next day, as he breathes his last on the cross, he cries out in agony as even his Father seems to have abandoned him. Such loneliness. I imagine that Jesus' life had been growing in estrangement for many days before that night in the garden. As he moved forward in ministry, speaking subversive and often divisive words, and predicting an ending that no one seemed to grasp, Jesus sense of aloneness must have been acute.

I realized something during those days when I wanted to so much to log on to my account, and had to choose not to. I became aware of the role that Facebook often plays in my life--it is a salve for loneliness, a false fix when I feel estranged and disconnected. It opens the door, on a shallow level, to be instantly connected to the goings on of people in my life. I can even stop and make a comment, verbally jumping into a story in which I might normally play no part. My lenten time of staying away from that vehicle of connection (save for a few times on the road, since I had to connect with places to sleep...) forced me to sit with my aloneness, with my estrangement, and consider the far greater loneliness of Jesus. Again and again throughout those weeks, I was called back to look in on that place in the garden where he wept, on the trials and flogging where his only company was those who hated him. For the sake of my salvation, out of sheer love, Christ chose to walk a path of loneliness. He felt it just as any other human does, and yet he chose the path of estrangement anyway.

As I return to Facebook, Easter having come and gone, I am called to remember another thing. Facebook doesn't need to be the salve for my estrangement when loneliness strikes. I am called to remember that the effect of Christ's loneliness is my reconciliation. It is an intimate connection with the One who created me, and who is always with me. I pray that I will learn to enjoy tools that connect me with my friends, yet refuse to bank all my hopes on false fixes. The Christ of Lent, the resurrected One of Easter...he is to be the salve for all my broken places.

small town Sunday: mosaics

Sunday after Sunday, these last few weeks, I have sat in my pew in Green Mountain Falls with the same thought: "I need to write about this." It has become a mosaic of beautiful and challenging moments in my mind. And so that is what I come to offer now: tiny, colorful pieces of faith and community, drawn from the deep well of my small town Sundays.

At the opening of every service, our Pastor asks the congregation if there is anything they are thankful for. There is seldom the awkward silence that one might expect (in fact, one time there was such a silence, and the Pastor exclaimed, "What's up? Usually I can't shut you guys up!"). My favorite moments of thanks almost invariably come from the two small children that are usually sitting in the pew in front of me. They will raise their tiny hands, and to my delight, the Pastor never fails to call on them. The outcome is usually hilarious. One time, the little girl--maybe 4--spoke loudly: "When you're in the snow, you'd better wear boots!" Last week, she simply asked a question: "Does Jesus live in Woodland Park?" Shortly thereafter, her younger brother took his turn. "It's snowing today," he proclaimed, "And I want lots of bouncy balls!" Smiling from two feet behind, I thought, "I am thankful for these kids, for a church that validates them." And, of course, for the giant bowtie around the neck of the 10 year old behind me.

Our church follows the liturgical calendar, and the first Scripture reading for the day is often read by a member of the congregation--sometimes adults, sometimes children. My favorite is an older man, who walks to the lectern slowly and reads at about the same pace. It is beautiful. Recently, upon reaching the lectern, he held up a torn piece of paper in his shaky hand. "You might notice," he spoke slowly, "that my Scripture has been eaten by a large, black dog," and then continued with his reading. A couple weeks later, again having concluded his slow walk to the stage, he paused and announced, "I'm a little off balance today. One of my hearing aids is dead." And on with the reading.

The sermons, of course, usually leave some sort of mark on me, whether laughter or deep thought. When the liturgy presented us with Jesus' apocalyptic words from Luke (I think), the Pastor began with, "I figure if Jesus could sum up the end of the world in about ten lines, I should also be fairly brief this morning." And he was. On the Sunday following the tragic earthquake in Haiti, he opened with a bold statement: "Those who stand in pulpits this morning and claim to have answers, I would argue, are blaspheming." I have always appreciated that he is willing to call his congregation to wrestle with the difficult and seemingly nonsensical aspects of the world we live in, of the gospel, and of what it looks like to be a disciple. There are moments to be treasured from the children's sermons as well. One week, after trying to perform a rather obvious magic trick, he led them through this simple prayer: "Thank you, God, for silly magic tricks and for miracles. Help us to know the difference." Yes, God, help me to know the difference.

Last Sunday, it was a visiting preacher who left a mark on my life. He had cerebral palsy: His gestures were awkward, and his words were difficult to understand. And yet, he was one of the most gifted speakers I have ever heard, and his simple presence taught me something of courage. This man had followed God's call to preach even when it seemed like a crazy proposition. I thought of Moses, who claimed he was not good with words and yet was called to speak to Pharaoh. I thought of a poem by Ruth Bell Graham:

He is not eloquent
as men count such;
for him
words trip and stumble
giving speech
an awkward touch,
and humble:
so, much
is left unsaid
that he would say
if he were eloquent.
Wisely discontent,
compassion driven
(as avarice drives some,
ambition others),
the old, the lonely,
and the outcast come;
all are welcome,
all find a home,
all — his brothers.

Behind him
deeds rise quietly
to stay;

And those with eyes to see
can see
all he can say.

Perhaps he'd not have spent
his life this way
if he were eloquent.

"God uses ordinary people, " this courageous man reminded us, "because frankly, God likes ordinary people." And so, having followed God into an unlikely calling, he left an indelible mark on the lives of an entire congregation of ordinary people.

Tomorrow, I will make the drive up the pass, my insides slowing down as I make my way out of the city and onto the quiet street that runs through Green Mountain Falls. I will experience the presence of God in the gathering of his ordinary people. And tomorrow, sitting behind thankful children in my favorite pew, I will likewise be thankful. Thankful for snow boots and bouncy balls, for Scripture-eating dogs and silly magic tricks, for bowties and sermons and potlucks. Thankful, that is, for the whole mosaic of my treasured small town Sundays.

love for the oppressor

After only a few months of living in our neighborhood, my roommates and I made up a little ditty about the fine folks we pay rent to; It was called, "Mr. Slumlord", and was sung to the tune of Mr. Sandman. In this low-income setting, where we have come with the goal of showing the love of Christ to those we call neighbors, it has been difficult to watch them taken advantage of again and again. Charging outlandish rents (when compared with the assessed value of the actual trailers) and ignoring code requirements in the name of being cheap, our landlords seem to have no problem kicking folks while they're down. Meanwhile, they drive home to a huge house in the richest part of town, and take annual vacations to Hawaii. I don't understand it, and it makes me angry. I want to hate them, and I consistently rip on them. I have somehow come to the conclusion that I should love my neighbors and disdain my landlords. Love the oppressed, hate the oppressor.

It is not the gospel.

That is the message God has been opening my eyes to over the last few weeks. It is true that our landlords actions are wrong, and I am in no way called to condone, or even to remain silent about them. Yet I am unequivocally called to love them. The gospel speaks of a God who sends rain on the just and the unjust alike. It speaks of a Messiah who came for both the oppressor and the oppressed. It speaks of One who, when being brutally nailed to a chunk of wood, asked God to forgive those who were swinging the hammer. "If you love only those who love you, what good is that...?" asks Jesus. And so I begin to ask myself--and to ask God--what it would mean for me to show extravagant love to the oppressor in our midst.

Now it is important that I chose to love simply for love's own sake, but I will admit that I am becoming more aware of the strategy in loving my landlords. They are the people of greatest influence in our neighborhood. If their hearts are changed, and their actions follow suit, then the situation of every single one of our nieghbors could improve. The oppressor may become the advocate, the catalyst for change.

If I am honest, sometimes I think it's actually a kind of righteousness, my hatred for the oppressor in my midst. And indeed, some of David's great laments suggest the same. Yet the one to whom I have chosen to follow, the Christ whose truth I am banking my life on, calls me to love. "Love never fails..." THIS is the gospel. May I learn to live it well.

lessons from a Christmas Eve candle

Christmas Eve in Indiana. I found myself in a small church sanctuary in Mishawaka, listening to the traditional Scripture readings of the season and singing carols. Sadly, the music did not include my favorite lyrical reflections: O Holy Night, and O Come, O Come Emmanuel. They are the songs which call me back to the deep longing into which the Christ child was born. A people who mourned in lonely exile, who pined away in sin and error--these are the people to whom a savior was given that night. The songs remind me to hear the call of Christmas: Rejoice! Emmanuel has come, and the soul has felt its worth.

The service ended as most Christmas Eve services do, with the lighting of small candles while we all sang Silent Night. (Though at the church I used to attend in Carbondale, they actually play the Hallelujah chorus instead.) As we sang, I stared at the candle. I watched as the wax melted into a clear pool of liquid around the wick and then dribbled down the side and into my protective plastic holder...thing. I turned and saw Tim tip his candle toward his bulletin, playing with the wax in the way that, if we are honest, every person in the sanctuary wants to do. Verse by verse, the candles continued to burn. A year or two more of keeping vigil over the singing of Silent Night, and the candle would be gone, melted entirely and spilled on perhaps a few more Christmas Eve bulletins.

I realized something as I stared at my candle. That small flickering light is meant to symbolize the light of the world, the call to let my flame flicker bravely in the darkness in the name of the one whom we celebrate each Christmas. What I realized was this: the continual, vigilant burning does not end well for the candle. The candle receives no honor or award for longevity or faithfulness: The candle disappears. Its form--it's existence--is sacrificed to its purpose.

In many ways, this is the gospel. As John the Baptist once said, the goal is that Christ would become greater, and his servants would become less. The fire of the Holy One is all consuming, and the life of faithful discipleship is made of a million small deaths. We sacrifice ourselves to our purpose, which is to let God burn so brightly in our lives that we ourselves are less and less visible, and eventually we disappear into the love that burned us up. We give up self preservation because we trust that we will one day be re-formed and made new in that place which is invisible to us while we are in the world.

This little light of mine, may God help me let it shine. And may he create in me a heart that is willing to disappear so that some may find their way home.