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.