Praying for Peace

We are beginning our final week of studies at Jerusalem University College and I’m still marveling that we are here, getting to walk around and see and touch this place. We spent several days last week in the desert, where both the heat and the beauty were incredible, and where Isaiah 40 and Psalm 90 with their words about the frailty of human life and the faithfulness of God spoke with a new (and ancient) depth and power.

And today we are in Jerusalem, where celebrations and protests are anticipated because it’s the 55^th anniversary of the reunification of Jerusalem in 1967. There’s some anxiety in the air, and a much greater police presence.

Last Sunday we worshipped with Christ Church, the first Protestant church in the city, and today we worshipped with a small English speaking congregation at Lutheran Church of the Redeemer, the second Protestant church in the city. It wasn’t by design, but seemed fitting. Both services were beautiful and left me missing Boston Square and feeling connected to you at the same time. Last week, during the communion liturgy, just after we proclaimed the mystery of faith (Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again), the congregation also said: “We are brothers and sisters through Jesus’ blood. We have died together, we will rise together, we will live together.” What a powerful statement of unity. It had me thinking about some of the ways we’ve experienced this at Boston Square. And it had me thinking about how important it is for Christians to learn to live together, because we’re going to be doing it for a long time.

This morning’s service included prayers for peace for Jerusalem today as well as prayers for Christian unity and the sermon was on John 17 and Jesus’ prayer for unity. It was challenging, especially as we pray for the Christian Reformed Church Synod as it convenes and we wonder what will happen, and what unity might mean or cost . . .

Yesterday and today Jay and I visited the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the traditional site of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial. You could smell the incense before you could see the church. There are chapels and altars everywhere and at the site of the tomb both yesterday and today there was a priest ushering people in and out. Part of his job seemed to be keeping people who were wearing shorts from entering the tomb area. His expression was very stern and we saw him turn people away and I keep wondering about it. Is he trying to teach reverence for God? To keep people from treating holy things too casually? And what it is like to be turned away? Is it experienced as rejection? Does it prompt reflection? Do they come back later in pants? Does the priest wonder about the people he turned away? And what does this communicate about Jesus?

One of my favorite sites we visited this week (after our time in the desert) was Jacob’s Well in Samaria, where Jesus asked a woman for a drink of water. (We actually got to drink a sip of water from the well!) We heard about the differences between Jews and Samaritans (who are still around and still live there) and how each group thinks they are more pure or faithful to God than the other. The questions of who is in and who is out and who is faithful and who is not were big then and they are big now. And Jesus didn’t hesitate to cross the lines and borders in inviting people to follow him.

Paging through the Corrymeela Prayer Book this morning, I came across this Prayer for Groups that I’m sitting with today as I pray for peace in Jerusalem and for peace among Christians:

God of groups,

You are within and beyond all of our borders,

our names for you; our words about you; our gatherings;

our stories about you.

 

We seek to praise but sometimes we imprison.

 

May we always be curious about what is beyond borders,

going there gently, knowing you have always been there.

 

We ask this because we know that

you are within

and beyond

all our groups and our stories.

 

Amen.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Elizabeth made it to Israel without too much difficulty. After rescheduling our flights because I came down with COVID a week before we were scheduled to fly, we decided to send Elizabeth on ahead so she could start the class in Jerusalem pretty much on time, while I needed to wait a bit longer before I was cleared to fly.

Elizabeth arrived on Tuesday, just a day late. She missed some of the orientation and a trip to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, but not too much else. She navigated all of the airport transfers and luggage pick-up and airport COVID test and shared taxi to Jerusalem like a pro. She settled in well and started making new friends.

I, on the other hand, have been a different story. The plan was that I would fly the next day after I cleared COVID protocols. But this meant I had a different itinerary that had me flying from Grand Rapids to Newark to Brussels to Tel Aviv. I smiled when, as I checked in at the airport, I looked over and discovered Chad Gunnoe standing next to me waiting to drop off his luggage. He was on his way to Iceland with a student group from Aquinas.

I should have taken it as a bad omen, though, when he told me he had been scheduled to fly out the day before but their flight had been canceled. He had spent nine hours on the phone with United trying to get his group rescheduled, only to end up with two of them going straight to Iceland while the other eleven were heading to Germany where they would have to spend the night in Heidelberg before going on to Iceland (ironically without, it should be noted, Chad Gunnoe—an expert in the history of Heidelberg).

That first flight was delayed by about an hour. That wasn’t too bad because I had two hours scheduled in Newark before heading to Brussels. As we deplaned, I asked Chad if they were going to be okay despite the delay, and he noted that they had a six-hour layover. I cringed and said I should probably get off to my flight that was now less than an hour away.

Five hours later, after my flight had been delayed again and again as they replaced and then rescheduled a malfunctioning module in our airplane, I looked over as I got into line now late at night and discovered that I was lining up next to the gate for Reykjavik. And sure enough, there was Chad, getting on his plane before I was getting on mine. I had spent most of the last five hours in line at the United customer service counter trying to reschedule my connecting flight to Tel Aviv, since it was clear I would not make my connection in Brussels. Thankfully I was able to connect over the phone, after waiting on hold for almost an hour. They rescheduled me for a later flight connecting through Frankfort, this time on Lufthansa. I didn’t really want yet another connecting flight, but at least I was still scheduled to get into Tel Aviv the same day I had been expecting.

When we landed in Brussels I grabbed something to eat and then made it to the Lufthansa gate once they announced where it was. I asked at the gate for my boarding pass since the reservation change had been made over the phone. They were extremely unhelpful, however, and refused to let me board the flight. At one point the gate agent turned her back on me and refused to acknowledge that I was even there. Before turning her back, she told me I would need to leave the terminal and find a United representative and have them reschedule my flight. But then she refused to tell me where I might find such a United representative or explain exactly what she meant.

I tried another gate where a Brussels Air flight that was also a United flight was about to leave. She kindly informed me that all the United people had already gone home—they were only there in the morning. I left the terminal and tried to find the United check-in. The counter where it was supposed to be now proudly displayed Qatar Airlines. I asked at the information desk—United is only there in the morning and they had all gone home. And now I couldn’t get back in the terminal because I didn’t have a boarding pass.

I tried calling United. After waiting on hold for another hour, I finally started talking to someone. He said he could change my flight, but I’d have to pay a change fee. I kindly informed him it was United’s fault I was stuck in an airport in Brussels. After significant back-and-forth, he finally rescheduled me for the next day’s direct flight to Tel Aviv at no additional charge. But I’d have to stay overnight in Brussels. And figure out what happened to my luggage.

After spending another 45 minutes trying to track down my luggage, the representative asked if I had another flight scheduled. I said yes, so she said not to worry about it—it’s better to leave it at the airport and it will get connected to my next flight.

I then found a nearby hotel reservation for the night and tried to figure out the hotel shuttle. I was back at the airport before 7 the next morning so I’d have time to find a United representative if there were any difficulties. This time, however, I had no issues getting my boarding pass—this time on Brussels Air. I made sure to note there was luggage somewhere at the airport that needed to go with me, and they assured me they would add it. I then found myself with plenty of time before my flight, so I breathed a bit easier, hopeful I would finally make it to Tel Aviv. I must admit that as I spent the night in Brussels, I had wondered if perhaps I would be better served just turning around and going home.

The flight into Tel Aviv was uneventful. Once I landed and made it through customs, however, my luggage was no where to be found. I waited in line for forty-five minutes to make a claim, and—sure enough, it was still waiting in Brussels. Hmm…it should get here tomorrow, they said. That would be Friday. But then the next day was Sabbath, so they wouldn’t be able to deliver it until Sunday.

It's now Monday evening, and I still don’t have my bag. I’ve been wearing the same clothes I boarded the plane with last Tuesday. I’m hopeful that maybe my bag will come late tonight. There’s a staff member from Jerusalem University College flying in to Tel Aviv tonight, and they have all my bag information, and will stop at the luggage claim and try to pick it up for me. If it’s there. And if they let these people take it for me. And if they can find it (another student had his luggage delayed as well—and it was just sitting in a pile in a back room at the airport until someone went to pick it up).

We leave for a three-day excursion to the desert tomorrow, leaving at 7 am. I’d really like to have my bag before then. In the grand scheme of things, however, I suppose it’s a fairly mild inconvenience. Mostly I’m just grateful to finally be here. There were moments I wasn’t sure I would make it. In the end, I missed three days of class, but the days I’ve been a part of have been intense and good—pretty much everything we had hoped for and expected. We’ve already seen some amazing sites. We’ve done a lot of hiking. We’ve deepened our understanding of Scripture and in particular the land and how knowledge of the land informs our reading of Scripture. We’ve decided to do a fall sermon series on the book of Deuteronomy (well, maybe not…). And we’ve grown in our appreciation for God’s care for us.

This series of unfortunate events (that’s not quite over yet…) has been hard. But it’s reminded me yet again that we are dependent upon God. And God cares for us.

One of the lessons we’ve learned in class this week is that a land “flowing with milk and honey” doesn’t mean prosperous and lush. That was Egypt. God tells the people in Deuteronomy 11:10 that the land God is leading them to is not like what they knew in Egypt where they could plant seeds, and if they needed to irrigate them, they could just drag their foot from the river and make a path for water. No—this new land was going to be harsher. Water would be much scarcer. In some places, you won’t be able to grow anything—sheep and goats might barely survive on what little green there is. But it’s a land God cares for. A land God watches over. You will be dependent upon God, but know that God loves you.

This last is a lesson we sometimes forget. But it’s no less true for us as it was for ancient Israel. We are dependent upon God. And that’s okay. Because God loves us.

The Land Between

These last couple of weeks have been a blur of softball, soccer and baseball games, various appointments, and lots of details in preparation for Jay and my trip to Israel. And maps. Lots of maps. The course we’ll be taking at Jerusalem University College is called the History and Geography of the Bible, and sometime earlier this spring, two large packets of maps arrived, with instructions to study and work with them before arriving in Israel. We’ve come to the conclusion that we should have started sooner . . .

The resources we’re using – maps and study guides – all talk about the land of Israel as ‘The Land Between.’ It reminds me of how often we are aware of being in a place or time between – Holy Saturday between Good Friday and Easter, Advent between the already and not yet coming of God’s kingdom.

One guide says, ‘This Land Between is never isolated and throughout history more often than not was a powerless pawn in greater struggles.’ One of the things I’m relearning is how small Israel is and was in the world. A reminder that God over and over again chooses small things, small places, small communities to demonstrate God’s work in the world. Another guide describes the land as a ‘fragile testing ground of faith between sea, desert, and great political powers.’ A fragile testing ground of faith feels familiar too, as we continue to live with ambiguous loss.

In between studying maps, I’ve also been re-reading In the Shelter by Padraig O Tuama. This prayer, near the end of the book, resonated with me and I wanted to share it with you all.

Collect

God of watching,

whose gaze I doubt and rally against both,

but in which I take refuge, despite my limited vision.

Shelter me today,

against the flitting nature of my own focus,

and help me find a calm kind of standing.

And when I falter, which is likely,

give me the courage and the kindness to begin again with hope and coping.

For you are the one whose watchfulness is steady.

Amen.

 

God of silence,

who watches our growth and our decay,

who watches tsunamis and summer holidays,

who cares for the widow, the orphan,

the banker, the terrorist, the student,

the politician, the freedom fighter.

We pray to be nurtured in our own silences.

We pray that we might find in those silences

truth, compassion, fatigue and hearing.

Because you, you, you see all, and are often silent.

And we need to hope that you are not inattentive to our needs.

Amen.

 

God of darkness

You must be the god of darkness

because if you are not, whom else can we turn to?

Turn to us now.

Turn to us.

Turn your face to us.

Because it is dark here.

And we are in need. We are people in need.

We can barely remember our own truth, and if you too have

forgotten,

then we are without hope of a map.

Turn to us now.

Turn to us.

Turn your face to us.

Because you turned toward us in the body of incarnation.

You turned toward us.

Amen.

  

May you know you are held in God’s loving watchfulness and silent presence, and that God’s face is turned toward you in the darkness.

Poems for Holy Week and the Week After

These are some poems that have been on my mind the last couple of weeks. The first two came to mind during our Palm Sunday service. I thought of Mary Oliver’s poem when Jay mentioned in his sermon how difficult it is to get a donkey to do anything it doesn’t want to do. And I thought of George Herbert’s poem as we received communion that morning – God’s love made edible, Jesus’ life poured out that we might know forgiveness. The last poem, by Barbara Holmes, may be less familiar than the others. I saw it on social media last spring, soon after another shooting death, and it came to mind again this week as I sit with Jesus’ words of blessing for those who have not seen but have still believed (John 20:29).

The Poet Thinks About the Donkey

On the outskirts of Jerusalem
the donkey waited.
Not especially brave, or filled with understanding,
he stood and waited.

How horses, turned out into the meadow,
   leap with delight!
How doves, released from their cages,
   clatter away, splashed with sunlight.

But the donkey, tied to a tree as usual, waited.
Then he let himself be led away.
Then he let the stranger mount.

Never had he seen such crowds!
And I wonder if he at all imagined what was to happen.
Still, he was what he had always been: small, dark, obedient.

I hope, finally, he felt brave.
I hope, finally, he loved the man who rode so lightly upon him,
as he lifted one dusty hoof and stepped, as he had to, forward.

- Mary Oliver

Love III

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
            Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
            From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
            If I lack’d anything.

‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’
            Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
            I cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
            ‘Who made the eyes but I?’

‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame
            Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’
            ‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
            So I did sit and eat.

-       George Herbert

 

Joy Unspeakable

erupts when you least expect it;

when the burden is greatest,

when the hope is gone

after bullets fly.

It rises

on the crest of impossibility,

it sways to the rhythm

of steadfast hearts,

and celebrates

what we cannot see.

 

-       Barbara A Holmes

Praying in the Garden

I’ve been re-reading the book Unfettered: Imagining a Childlike Faith… by Mandy Smith, and this section caught my attention again. (I think I may have quoted the first part in a sermon or midweek reflection when I read the book before, this time the second part is what caught me):

‘Celebrating what God can do without knowing what God will do brought me to a new place of hovering – hovering between the known and the unknown. Paradox is a place where we are very uncomfortable and where God is right at home . . . It’s a place Jesus visits in the garden of Gethsemane, and his prayer there provides the perfect way for humans to hover . . . There is a way for us to be honest about our hope for particular outcomes and at the same time to trust that God is good and powerful regardless of how the prayer is answered.’

I’m feel particularly aware of discomfort and tension this week, especially with the death of Patrick Lyoya just a few blocks from church. Tension between the terrible pain expressed in the march on Saturday and our joyful procession with palm branches on Sunday; tension between what we long for for our community and the brokenness that exists in it. I’m longing for hope and I’m afraid.

Jesus’ prayer in the garden is ‘please take this cup from me’ and also ‘not my will but yours be done.’ And I haven’t really thought about it as a model for our prayer before, but it is. Both parts of it. The part where Jesus prays for what he wants – the cup to pass – and the part where he prays for God’s will to be done. It’s a hard and scary prayer, because of course, we know that the cup didn’t pass and that God’s will was done and it meant death before resurrection. And I don’t know how to untangle how this might relate to what’s just happened in our city, or what’s happening in our world. It feels hard to trust that God’s will might somehow be done in all the suffering around and within us.

But I’m hearing in this a deep invitation to pray, to pray for what we want, to be honest with God with our hopes and our desperation, with our longings for ourselves and our loved ones and our city and world, to somehow express and entrust these things to God, AND to hold on to and trust that God is good and powerful regardless of what happens. To pray for what we want and to pray that God’s will be done.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to pray for what I want, because I’m afraid it won’t happen. And sometimes I’m afraid to pray for God’s will be done, because I’m afraid of what might happen. But I’m hearing an invitation to have the courage to pray for both. And as I look for this courage, I’m reminded of the song Open My Hands by Sarah Groves:

I believe in a blessing I don’t understand

I’ve seen rain fall on wicked and the just

Rain is no measure of his faithfulness

He withholds no good thing from us

No good thing from us, no good thing from us

 

I believe in a peace that flows deeper than pain

That broken find healing in love

Pain is no measure of his faithfulness

He withholds no good thing from us

No good thing from us, no good thing from us

 

I will open my hands, will open my heart

I will open my hands, will open my heart

I am nodding an emphatic yes

To all that You have for me

 

I believe in a fountain that will never dry

Though I’ve thirsted and didn’t have enough

Thirst is no measure of his faithfulness

He withholds no good thing from us,

No good thing from us, no good thing from us

 

I will open my hands, will open my heart

I will open my hands, will open my heart

I am nodding an emphatic yes

To all that You have for me

 

As we draw close to Good Friday and Easter, may God grant us courage to pray with Jesus – both for what we want, and that God’s will be done.

Found

I preached on the parable of the Lost Son on Sunday, and as I mentioned in the sermon, I found Amy Jill Levine’s book Short Stories by Jesus to be really helpful as I wrestled with the story.

She had these observations about parables that didn’t make it into the sermon, but that I’ve continued to ponder this week:

. . . what makes the parables mysterious, or difficult, is that they challenge us to look into hidden aspects of our own values, our own lives. They bring to the surface unasked questions, and they reveal the answers we have always known, but refuse to acknowledge.

Parables . . . tease us into recognizing what we’ve already always known, and they do so by reframing our vision. The point is less that they reveal something new than that they tap into our memories, our values, and deepest longings and so they resurrect what is very old, very wise, and very precious. And often, very unsettling.

As I shared in the sermon, I’ve come to a new and deeper appreciation for the father’s words to the older son at the end of the parable: ‘My beloved child, you are always with me and everything I have is yours . . .’ I’m still sitting with those words this week, and I keep running into these lost and found parables in my daily life.

On Friday night last week we went to see the Grand Rapids Christian Middle School production of Godspell Junior. We haven’t been to a play in a long time, and I wore my favorite bright pink embroidered blouse from Mexico with my bright yellow scarf from London and a favorite pair of earrings that Jay and the kids gave me several years ago. When we got home after the play, I was only wearing one of the earrings. I really like those earrings – they were from Haiti, they went with lots of things, and they were precious to me because the kids picked them out for me.

The next morning, I texted Jay (who was out with Peter doing Little League tryouts) to ask him to search the car, in case it had fallen out there. I asked Emma if there was a lost and found at the high school that she or I could check on Monday. And I asked Bri, when she went back for the afternoon performance, if she could look for it. She reminded me that she would be backstage, so unlikely to be where I lost it. I was heading out for a walk with Luna when both girls said, ‘Just walk over the high school and see if it’s outside.’

The weather on Saturday morning was not pleasant, but the dog and I needed a walk, so we headed over to the high school, and there it was, right by the door, where I had taken off my mask when we headed outside. I cheered – I may have even jumped up and down – I definitely confused Luna who wasn’t sure what was going on. I texted Jay right away – found it! And when I got home, I announced to the girls, ‘I’m like the woman with the coin! We’re even going to celebrate!’ One of them pointed out that we were going to celebrate because it was a belated birthday gathering, not because I found my earring, but I was really glad. Thinking about it still makes me smile.

And, as I said, I’m still thinking about these parables. I try to do the wordle each night and on Monday night, the word was ‘FOUND’.

Longing for Coffee

Council is reading the book Soul Feast by Marjorie Thompson together this year. We’re reading a chapter a month and then briefly discussing what we’ve read at the opening of our time together. Soul Feast is a book about spiritual disciplines, and each chapter goes in-depth on a particular way of deepening our spiritual lives.

We’ve already discussed prayer, worship, Sabbath, and several others. The chapter we read for this past Monday’s meeting was on fasting. The author distinguished between fasting from food and “fasting” from other things in our lives that threaten to become more important to us than God (social media, anyone?). Both types of fasting have their place. Fasting from food helps us remember that just as our physical bodies need to be fed regularly, so our spiritual selves need to be nourished regularly as well. Our lives are just as dependent upon God as they are upon food and taking time to fast can remind us that we do not live on bread alone. And fasting from other things helps us keep our lives in proper order and can help keep things that are not God from taking the place of God.

Embedded in this chapter was a brief critique of the practice of giving something up for the season of Lent. Thompson was none too keen on the practice, implying it was more for show than anything else and didn’t necessarily get us into a long-term rhythm where the practice could shape us spiritually over time. At one point she even referred to such things as “frivolities.” This caught my attention, since, for the first time in my life, I’ve actually given something up for Lent. Something that has cost me dearly.

Oh, I’ve tried this before in the past. I’ve given up chocolate. Or I’ve given up sugar. And these forays into Lenten practice have typically lasted about three or four days before I decide that I’ve learned enough and don’t need to sacrifice in this way anymore. Or I’ve simply failed. I’ve caved. I’ve eaten chocolate and then decided it’s not really all that spiritually important anyway and thrown my Lenten practice out the window.

This year, however, has been different. This year I’ve given up coffee. And I’m sticking to it. I was drinking a lot of coffee before Lent. Often well into the afternoon. Enough that Peter saw me one day and noted, “Dad, you drink a lot of coffee.” And he followed it up with, “You should go a week without coffee.” Apparently, I hadn’t had enough coffee that day, because I was just crazy enough to say, “Okay.” And then I was crazy enough to say, “I’ll give it up for Lent.”

This is the first Lent where this practice has been meaningful to me. I used to rely on coffee to get me going in the morning. I would look forward to it with breakfast. I’d have a cup with my Duolingo Spanish homework. I’d sip some while trying to figure out the Wordle of the day. But now there’s a noticeable gap there. Something missing. Orange juice isn’t quite the same. Tea isn’t cutting it. But I’ve noticed I’m more spiritually attuned. I’m very conscious that I’m doing this to remind myself that God is the source of my life—not coffee (or anything else). It’s led me to pray more (mostly without swear words). I’m more aware of little decisions I make throughout the day that affect my mood or my attentiveness to God.

One of the best aspects of this practice has been my Sunday cup of coffee. Sundays don’t count in Lent because Sundays are still celebrations of the Resurrection. Count them up—the forty days of Lent only works if you don’t count the Sundays. And that means that on Sundays I get to enjoy a cup of coffee. And that means folks at Boston Square don’t need to see “Grouchy Jay.” But it also means that already on Friday I begin looking forward to Sunday. I begin to think, “Ah…only two more days before I get to enjoy a cup of coffee…” And then I think to myself, “I get to enjoy a cup of coffee on Sunday because of the Resurrection.” And then I think, “I get to have life because of the Resurrection.” (coffee doesn’t equal life for me, but it is a part of the fullness of life). And then, because of the gift of the fullness of life that Sunday represents, I begin looking ahead to Sunday because we get to worship. And that’s something that has not been enough a part of my life. It’s a new feeling—this looking ahead to Sunday—and I like it.

What’s more is that this Lenten practice has me looking ahead to the new creation. Not because we’ll be able to have all the coffee we want there (we will, won’t we?), but because the new creation will be a wonderful goodness that Sunday’s are just a taste of. Looking ahead to Sundays is a reminder that Sundays with coffee are just a glimmer of the goodness of the new creation. We may need to endure some hardship here and now, there may even be some things God asks us to do without, but there is a day coming—not too far out—when all will be made right.

I wasn’t really sure what to expect when I decided to give up coffee for Lent. Headaches, mostly. Grumpy mornings, maybe. I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to do it. But I’m grateful I’m trying it. It’s already taught me a lot, even if it is a bit frivolous and not what the spiritual life is truly about.

Growing Something New

One of the songs that’s been on my heart since the first spring of this pandemic is, ‘Grown Something New’ by Matt Frazier. We sang it years ago, when I attended an Urbana Convention in college:

Lord, you’re the keeper of what you grow

You water, you guard, for fruit to show

for mercy and justice to flow

You planted the vineyard, our needs you know

 

Grow something new in our lives, oh God

Grow something peaceful, grow something true

Grow something new in our lives, oh God

Grow something new, turn our hope back to you.

 

The song is on my mind again these days, as I bought marigold seeds and biodegradable pots and put them in the prayer room at church for Boston Square and Community Kids folks to pray with and plant.

 

It’s on my mind as I pray for God’s light and life to grow in me and through me.

 

And it’s on my mind, as I sit these words from Catherine of Sienna, a mystic and activist from the 1300s:

 

The sun hears the fields talking about effort

and the sun

smiles,

 

and whispers to

me,

 

“Why don’t the fields just rest, for

I am willing to do

everything

 

to help them

grow?”

 

Rest, my dears,

in Prayer.

 

And with this prayer, from Quaker Isaac Pennington:

Be no more than God has made you.

Give over your own willing;

Give over your own running;

Give over your own desiring to know or to be anything.

Sink down to the seed which God sows in the heart.

Let that grow in you;

be in you;

breathe in you;

act in you;

And you will find, by sweet experience, that the Lord

knows, loves, and owns that and will lead you

to the inheritance of life,

which is God’s portion.

 

Amen.

God's Grandeur

God’s Grandeur by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

            It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

            It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

            And all is scared with trade; bleared, smeared

            with toil;

            And wears man’s smudge and share’s man’s smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

 

And for all this, nature is never spent:

            There lives the dearest, freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

            Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward,

            springs—

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

            World broods with warm breast and with ah!

            bright wings!

 

I usually think of this poem in the fall, with the brilliance of color that comes when the leaves change their colors, but it’s been on my mind this week, as we’ve walked to school in daylight, as the ice has mostly melted of the sidewalks (for now) and as the birds are beginning to brighten in color and to sing.

 

On Tuesday, Jay announced that it was the first day of meteorological spring. I hadn’t heard that term before and looked it up. Meteorologists divide the year into four seasons, based on date rather than temperature for purposes of record keeping. So meteorological spring is always March 1-May 31. It’s different from astronomical spring, which begins with the vernal equinox, which falls somewhere between March 19 and 21 each year. I sort of knew about that, and I looked up what the vernal equinox is (it’s when the sun is directly over the equator on its journey higher in the northern hemisphere sky, according to nbcnewyork.com). So there’s meteorological spring, astronomical spring and there’s also liturgical spring, which begins today, with Ash Wednesday.

 

The word Lent comes from the Old English word laencte, meaning the lengthening of daylight hours, or spring. Jennifer Holberg had a beautiful article about this on the Reformed Journal blog today, with an invitation to us to pay attention to the growing light. On Sunday I preached about my parents’ four-year-old friend who invited us to ‘prepare to be amazed,’ and since then I’ve been trying to pay attention to ordinary wonders. I’ve noticed the maple tree across from our house has buds on it, and the sun reflecting almost blindingly on the melting ice at the park across the street. And although the melting snow reveals some trash, and the world goes not well, ‘nature is never spent.’ The daylight is lengthening, and signs of life are returning, and it seems particularly amazing.

 

As we begin this Lent, this liturgical spring, may you sense the Spirit’s loving presence bent and brooding with warm breast and bright wings over our world and over you too.

Whirled Peas

This past Monday was Presidents’ Day. That, combined with Russia’s increased aggression in Ukraine, got me thinking about an extra-credit take-home math problem our daughters had to do for Algebra. It was one of those where the authors of the problem were trying to make math fun, so they opened the problem with a joke, and to get the answer you needed to solve a series of algebra problems that would then spell out the answer. 

In this case, the question was, “Why did the president put vegetables in the blender?” Both our girls had friends over, so they split into teams and decided to race to see who could come up with the answer first. The correct answer was supposed to be, “Because he wanted whirled peas.” Both teams quickly got to work, and once I figured out the answer myself, I spent most of the time trying to find a way to adjust the problem so the answer would use “she” instead of “he”.

It wasn’t too long, however, before the cry rang out, “We got it! We win!” “What’d you come up with?” I asked. “Because he wanted whirled pigs,” was the response. Hmm… I looked skeptically at the team claiming to win, trying to figure out in what world this answer might make any sense. Then I turned slowly to the other team and told them to keep working.

I find myself longing these days—not for whirled peas, but for world peace. I keep the image of the new heaven and the new earth in Revelation 21 in my mind. I wonder what it will be like when God completes what God promises to do in verse 5—make all things new. I long for the day when there will be no more sorrow or suffering or pain or death. I think quite a bit about Revelation 7:9-10, where there is a great multitude gathered around the throne of God, from every nation and tribe, people and language. And together they cry out in a loud voice—one voice, all together—“Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.”

Salvation is for all nations. All people. All languages. They’ll all be there before the throne. Ukrainians and Russians both. God loves us all, and it is salvation that brings us together. The work of God in our lives that breaks down those barriers that divide us. It is salvation that, in the end, will bring world peace. I wonder sometimes if it’s salvation from ourselves as much as anything else.

Does that mean we need to wait until Jesus returns to experience world peace? I hope not. I suspect, however, that, until Jesus returns, our fallen human natures, too often deep in the grip of sin, make world peace here and now pretty well unattainable. I’ll keep doing what I can, though. And encourage anyone who will listen to do what they can too. Even a glimmer of the peace of the Kingdom of Heaven would be welcome.

Shucks, I might even settle for whirled peace at the moment. Whirled peas, though, I think I’ll pass on. And whirled pigs—well, you can keep those for yourself.

Blessing and Butterflies

A couple of weeks ago I attended some of the Calvin Institute for Christian Worship’s annual Worship Symposium. Most of it was virtual, and this year’s theme was The Beatitudes. I’ve been drawn to the first Beatitude, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,’ since preaching it a few years ago at Boston Square and reading Eugene Peterson’s translation of it in the Message: “You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and God’s rule.” I have that ‘end of your rope’ feeling pretty often these days as we navigate another pandemic winter, and various family illnesses. I find the song ‘Come with me for the journey is long,’ often on my lips and in my heart.

One of the worship services I attended was the one based on ‘Blessed are the poor in Spirit,’ and the opening of the service was led by Kate Williams. She is an editor for GIA and a musician and she spoke these words of blessing at the service:

Blessed are those who are ready for change.

Blessed are those with their eyes squeezed shut, hoping it hasn’t started yet, waiting for it to pass.

Blessed are those with the freedom to embrace it as it happens.

Blessed are the colors and smells and crinkling sounds that remind us that time is still passing.

Blessed are those who are fading.

Blessed is the welcome coolness of a world on fire.

Blessed is the sacred cycle that teaches us rhythm and balance, of letting go and making room.

Blessed are those who dare to believe that their days will brighten again, someday. Blessed are those who do not know what will be next.

Blessed is the wisdom that teaches us to quiet, to listen, to allow the darkening days to do their work of renewal.

Blessed are those who are falling, who are weeping, who are waiting on bated breath, who are fearing to find that fragile hope once more.

Blessed is the God who catches all who fall, who is weeping with us, waiting with us, fearing with us, hoping with us. Always with us.

Blessed are those who bear witness to the love story of rising again, over and over.

I’ve been sitting with these words, finding myself in various lines, various days, holding on to the promise that God is always with us, remembering the love story of rising over and over.

Earlier this week I visited Fredrick Meijer Gardens. I noticed on Facebook last week that they had received their first shipment of chrysalises for the butterfly exhibit that officially begins in March, and I wanted to see if any of the chrysalises were moving yet. And some of them were! I heard a small child next to me counting the butterflies that had already emerged in the butterfly trailer– 17! – waiting to be strong enough to be released into the conservatory. I spent a long time staring at those freshly-emerged butterflies – their deep stillness as they wait for their new wings to dry. The slow beating of their wings when they can move them reminded me of breath – open/closed, in/out. Such fragility and beauty and newness and vibrant life. A few had already been released into the conservatory, including this one, getting its bearings on the ground not far from the trailer.

Butterflies are such powerful images of change, of dying to the old and rising to the new. Teresa of Avila writes about this, and talks about being held in the cocoon of God’s love as we die to our selves and emerge transformed.

This week may you remember that you are blessed, wherever you find yourself, and that you are held in the cocoon or chrysalis of God’s love.

Life without Chili Verde

The other day I tried a new recipe. I made chili verde. It was a tasty combination of shredded pork, green chilis, green enchilada sauce, onions, tomatoes, and a variety of spices. All in the instant pot, and an hour later it’s done. Perfect for a cold winter night. The only problem was, I was the only one who seemed to like it.

When we had leftovers night a few nights later, I was the only one who chose to have the chili verde. I noted how it was particularly good the second time around—the flavors had developed even more as it had time sit in the refrigerator.

In fact, I liked it so much this second time that I began thinking about having it again. There was just a bit remaining, so as I tucked it away in the refrigerator in a small leftover container, I thought about how it would make a wonderful lunch the next day.

The next morning, about mid-morning, my stomach started growling. Breakfast wasn’t lasting—I thought I might need a snack. But then I remembered the chili verde. And I smiled. And I knew something good was coming. And I decided to pass on a snack so I could enjoy the chili verde even more when lunch came around. Just the thought of enjoying that chili verde sustained me through the morning. Made me smile every time I thought about it.

But then lunch came. And I opened the fridge. And I went to grab the chili verde. Only…I couldn’t find it. I knew it was in there—I had put it there myself. I wondered if maybe it had gotten hidden behind some of the other leftovers, so I took most things out of the fridge and I searched each shelf carefully. No chili verde.

Then I had an unsettling thought—perhaps one of my daughters had taken the chili verde for their school lunch. But that couldn’t be…they didn’t even like the chili verde. I checked the leftover cornbread we had served with it. It too was gone! I begrudgingly made myself a sandwich and began plotting what to say to my daughter when she returned home from school.

When questioned upon her arrival, she didn’t even try to hide it. Yes, she had taken the chili verde. It was “not too bad,” she said. But why? Why would you do such a thing when you didn’t really even like the chili verde? When you knew there was a someone in the house who had a craving for chili verde? Someone—me—who was looking forward to eating the chili verde?

“Well,” came the explanation. “It was easier than making a sandwich.” Oof. I missed out on my chili verde because eating it was easier than making a sandwich.

I’ve learned to not hold things too tightly in this household. If I do, it’s liable to lead to disappointment. It’s just part of living with four other people. It’s not that they have things in for me or are trying to make my life miserable—it’s more that things don’t always go my way and I can’t always expect everything to go the way I want them to. Indeed, I’m actually kind of glad my daughter enjoyed the chili verde. It’s far more interesting culinary-wise than a sandwich, and it shows a willingness to try different foods—even ones she might not have liked all that much the first time. It makes me happy to see that adventurous spirit, even if it was adventure rooted in a matter of convenience. And it reminds me once again to put other people’s needs before my own. To set aside my own wants for the flourishing of others. To look to the interests of others, as Philippians 2:4 says. It just would have been far easier to deal with my disappointment if she hadn’t admitted that there was actually enough left for two. That she would have had plenty if she had just brought half of it and left some behind for me.

This has had me thinking quite a bit about the Christian life. We sometimes think that God owes us. That since we’ve given our lives to God, since we’ve made sacrifices for God, since we’ve been good and obedient and maybe even missed for God’s sake opportunities we would have liked to pursue—God owes it to us to make life easy for us. To give us a break or two along the way. We may even sometimes have our hearts set on something, and then it feels like it gets taken away from us at the last moment.

And then when things are hard, or life doesn’t turn out how we envisioned it would, or something devastating happens to us, or we miss out on something we had our heart set on, we get angry with God. We feel God has let us down somehow or we question whether God even exists or if God loves us. But God never promises that things will go well for us or that life will be easy. In fact, Jesus tells in Matthew 5 and Luke 6 to consider it pure joy when things are hard for us—when people persecute us or ridicule us for following Jesus. That means that it’s actually quite likely that life is going to hard sometimes. And it’s not difficult to look at the early church and see this playing out. Paul in Romans 5 tells us that we glory in our sufferings because suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And that hope, Paul says, does not put us to shame. But to produce that hope, there will be suffering. There will be disappointment—at least it will seem like disappointment in the moment.

So even if we are suffering, even if life is hard, even if we are facing disappointment and the desires of our hearts are falling through our fingers, we must not give up hope. We won’t always know why God allows bad things to happen to us, but we do know God loves us. We know God loves us just by looking at Jesus and all God has done for us. And with God’s love in our hearts, we can endure all things. Even life without chili verde.

The Light in the Darkness

Ever since Brianna was born, Elizabeth and I have been relegated to sleeping upstairs. This has the advantage of us having an entire floor of the house to ourselves (it’s a 1 ½ story house, so the upstairs is a bit compact). But it has the significant disadvantage of being particularly hot in the summer and cold in the winter. There are also a number of other small items that make it less than ideal—one of which, up until last week, was the lack of overhead lighting in the bedroom space.

There’s always been a ceiling fan in this space, but the only lighting came from a floor lamp and two side lamps on nightstands. This generally hasn’t been a big deal—we don’t spend a lot of time up there and the side lights work just fine as we’re getting into bed. But I’ve always thought it would be nice to have a light on the ceiling fan.

This is one of those projects that you know is a good idea and probably won’t take too much effort, but it’s never a high enough priority to ever get done. I had known in the back of my mind that they make light kits to add on to ceiling fans, but for some reason I thought our ceiling fan wouldn’t be a good match for those and we’d be better off replacing the whole thing altogether—a significantly bigger project.

Winter is particularly dark up there because I place those plastic winterizer sheets over the skylights. This means the shades stay down on the skylights from November until March, and there’s very little natural light. When we tried to pack for vacation a few weeks ago and had everything laid out on our bed, I was having so much trouble seeing what color the shirts were that I was bringing that I decided I had had enough and it was time to get an overhead light in there.

I decided to start with trying a light conversion kit. Turns out it worked just fine. It was pretty slick, actually (though I did need to splice into the main power line because the leads that had been designed for this were dead). When all was connected and the light bulbs installed, I switched on the light. I couldn’t believe how bright it was in there. Should have done that fifteen years ago.

It’s so nice up there now. Sometimes I go upstairs just to turn the light on and marvel at how bright it is. How easy it is to see things. It’s warm and welcoming now. I could envision sitting up there and reading—something I wouldn’t have even considered before.

We see a lot more about the room than we used to. The pictures on the walls stand out. The colors are brighter. We can use the room for sorting laundry and working on other projects. But we also noticed some places that we hadn’t dusted for awhile. There was one spot on the wall behind the nightstand on the outside wall that was actually a little moldy. The spider webs could no longer hide in the shadows.

Every time I go up there now, I’m reminded about Biblical passages on light. Isaiah 9:2 tells us “the people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” I spent too many years walking in darkness upstairs—it’s so nice to finally have the light. It’s the same with having Jesus in our lives.

John 1:5 tells us Jesus is the light of the world, and the light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it. I flip that light switch on, and the darkness scatters. It doesn’t stand a chance—like the light of Jesus shining in the darkness of this world. The darkness can’t push back. It runs from the light.

John 3:19-21 tells us that light has come into the world, but people loved darkness rather than light. They didn’t want the light to expose their lives, to make their dark corners exposed. They preferred living in the shadows where they could hide parts of their lives. Every time I turn on that light upstairs, I think about the dark corners of that room I can see now, and I remember how our lives are open books to God. How Jesus can see all parts of our lives—even those parts we’d like to keep hidden. 1 John 1:5 says that in God there is no darkness at all—it’s better for us to come into the light. To have our lives exposed. And if we do that—if we walk in the light—the blood of Jesus will purify us from all our sin.

Lastly, flipping on that light and scattering the darkness reminds me of Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5. “You are the light of the world,” he tells us. “Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” We are called to bring light to the world. To shine in the darkness that too often surrounds us. To be the good the world needs.