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.