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.

Here Be Lions (Hic Sunt Leones)

As I sat down to write this reflection, the phrase ‘here be lions’ came to mind and I looked it up. Versions of this phrase (also ‘here be dragons’ or ‘here be monsters’) were written on the edges of maps in the Middle Ages marking unknown territory. Here be lions.

The phrase came to mind, not because I was thinking about medieval maps or unknown territory, but because since early December I’ve been encountering a lot of lions.

It started with a dream a few nights before the women’s retreat – actually a nightmare. In my dream I was at the Hermitage (where we’ve held our retreats for several years and again this year) walking around the property and everywhere I turned there was a lion. Some sleeping, some walking away from me, some hidden behind trees and bushes. Pretty much lions everywhere, and always a sense of danger, though none of them were attacking me.

When I woke up, I thought, “Wow. I guess I’m nervous about the retreat.” And I was – we haven’t had a women’s retreat for a while, December is a busy month, I wasn’t sure how it would go with COVID precautions, etc…. I didn’t think too much more about the dream until I got to the Hermitage and brought my overnight bag up to the apartment where I was staying. I sat down, took off my shoes and looked up to see this picture on the wall. A lion. Not exactly scary, but not safe either, despite the lamb.

When I got home from the retreat, I kept running into images of lions everywhere. Someone posted a picture on Facebook of a frozen weeping willow tree that looked like a lion’s head. The devotional our family was reading for Advent included artwork for each day and the day after the retreat the image was a lion with the Christ child at the center. I looked up from reading one night and noticed a lion ornament on our tree, made by my great aunt when I was really little. One of the kids mentioned learning about the name Lion of Judah as a name for Jesus during Bible class at school. Lions everywhere. . .

I took all of this as invitation to explore a bit. I looked up lions on Bible Gateway – turns out there are a lot of mentions of lions in the Bible – usually negative, with the exceptions of Lion of Judah and the images of the peaceful kingdom in Isaiah. I also decided to re-read some of the Chronicles of Narnia. And eventually, I found myself sitting with this scene from Prince Caspian. The children have been reunited with Aslan (The Lion who is a lot like Jesus), after not listening to Lucy and not going the way Aslan told her to go.

Then, after an awful pause, the deep voice said, “Susan.” Susan made no answer but the others thought she was crying. “You have listened to fears, child,” said Aslan. “Come, let me breathe on you. Forget them. Are you brave again?” “A little, Aslan,” said Susan.

I read that scene and thought - Susan is me. It is hard not to listen to fears these days, not to let them be louder than the voice of love. I desperately need Jesus’ presence with me with the closeness of breath, reminding me, ‘do not be afraid.’

I’m still running into images of lions, though they are slowing down a bit. Jay treated me to this beer in Florida, chosen for the flavor, not the image on the can.

Peter came home last week with the news that his basketball team had finally chosen their name – the lions! Someone was wearing lion earrings at church on Sunday. And on Facebook today, a dear friend (without knowing about my dream) shared an image of a lion and the words of Romans 8 ‘nothing can separate us from the love of Christ.’

I don’t know why I’m encountering lions so often – it feels a little silly. But I’m receiving them as reminders in these days that often feel like the unknown territory on the edge of the map. Reminders of Jesus’ presence and words ‘do not be afraid;’ reminders that feel as intimate as breath.

Screaming Inside Our Hearts

We received a lot of Christmas cards this year. A few years ago, it seemed the number of cards we were receiving was dwindling each year. Almost as if people were giving up on the practice—perhaps because it was easier to stay in touch throughout the year via social media and yearly cards weren’t so meaningful anymore, perhaps lives had become too busy, perhaps online greetings had replaced the need to fill out physical addresses and write personal notes. But this past year, and the year before that, we’ve received more Christmas cards in the mail again. Maybe it’s a COVID thing—there’s something powerful about reaching out to others in a physical way. A tangible way of saying “I care about you” in a world where we’re constantly reminded of how fleeting life is. 

My favorite cards are the ones that give bullet-point updates on significant moments of the past year—more than a quickly written “Merry Christmas” but not a three-page tome that takes all of the holidays to read. Bonus points if those bullet-points are unusual insights into the other person’s life. And so one of my favorite lines from all the Christmas cards we received was this: “Quote of the year: Please scream inside your heart!”

This came from a family with kids not-too-far-off from the age of our own, so it was instantly relatable. I found myself envisioning the events that led up to this quote being uttered. Picturing the frustration upon frustration that led to scream upon scream, until one person finally had had enough and blurted out, “Please scream inside your heart!”

I’ve found myself pondering this quite a bit, actually. The past two years (has it been almost two years already?!) of pandemic has made the screaming much more frequent. Many days we’re just barely holding things together and it doesn’t take much to push us over the edge. A scream can be incredibly cathartic, and sometimes that’s all we need to reset everything and tackle things anew. After all, it’s important to be able to express our feelings. To release some of our frustration. To give voice to our anger and disappointment and tiredness. That’s why the lament psalms in the Bible are so powerful and important.

But there have been a lot of screams. A lot. Of screams. To the point where at least one member of a family we know can’t take it anymore. And I wonder—is there a “right-level” amount of screaming? At what point do we cross the line? Or should we be allowed to scream all we need to just to make it through the day? Are there special pandemic rules for screaming? Or extra allowances for screaming that we’re given for such a time as this? Is “please scream inside your heart” a sort of middle ground? A sort of “yes, we all need to scream these days, and it’s good to scream, and you should scream…but I can only handle so much of other people screaming, so please do it discreetly”? There is so much I don’t know when it comes to screaming.

But there is one thing I do know. Somehow in the midst of all this, I keep coming back to Hebrews 4:14-16. “Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” There’s a lot in these few verses, but of central importance is that Jesus is able to empathize with our weaknesses. He knows what it’s like to be human. He knows how much we want to scream sometimes. And because he is our high priest—because he brings our needs before God the Father and in turn conveys God’s love back to us—we can come to God with confidence. We can bring all that is frustrating us, all that is troubling us, all that is causing us to want to scream before God the Father. And it is okay. And we don’t need to keep it in our hearts. And when we bring it to God, we will be met with mercy and we will find grace. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll make it through our time of need.

 

Two Prayers for the New Year

Friends, I’d planned to write a longer reflection this week, but school is canceled this afternoon because of the winter storm, so those thoughts will wait. In the meantime, here are two prayers that caught my attention for the New Year. I want to spend time this week praying and savoring them both.

The first is from Seeking God’s Face:

Maker of heaven and earth, space and time, entering this new year I put my hope in you, trusting that you will provide whatever I need for body and soul and turn to my good whatever adversity you send me. Thank you that you are able to do this because you are almighty God, and that you desire to do this because you are a faithful Father. Amen.

The second was shared by a friend on Facebook and was written by Jeff Chu:

May you make room for both delight and disappointment, joy and sorrow, and through it all, may you feel the courage to name these things candidly and to navigate them wisely.

May you perceive the beauty around you and within you—in the dance of the sunshine on freshly fallen snow, in the growth of the buds that will soon enough pop up to remind us of the resilience of life, in the swirls and whirls of a flock of birds against a blue sky, in an unexpected burst of shared laughter, in the gift of an offered confidence, in the satisfying savor of a favorite meal, in the complexity of the body that receives that goodness but also honestly vexes you—and may all this stir in you not just gratitude but also wonder.

May you know deep and true rest: rest that enfolds you into its restorative gentleness, rest that fuels you for the road ahead, rest that sings to you a story of grace.

May you sense the possibility of hope.

May you be blindsided by blessing.

May you feel the strong and tender embrace of the God who made you, the God who gave his body and breath for you, and the God who accompanies you still.

May you be attentive to the love that is always with you and for you, recognizing its steady presence, receiving it with gladness, and lavishing it onto a world that so yearns for its justice and its balm.

Amen.