Clouds

I grew up listening to and singing a lot of hymns. On Sunday mornings my dad would often awaken us by playing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s ‘Hymns Triumphant’ record on the stereo really loudly. I remember learning to read the hymns in the hymnal, verse by verse, my mom’s finger guiding me word by word, her other hand firmly balancing the book on the edge of the pew in front of us while we stood singing.

And I’ve had a verse from a hymn running through my mind for several days this week:

You fearful saints, fresh courage take;

    the clouds you so much dread

are big with mercy and shall break

    in blessings on your head.

 

It took me a bit to figure out which hymn it’s from (verse 3 of God Moves in a Mysterious Way by William Cowper) and I wonder if it came to mind at first because of the word dread and last week’s passage about how the Egyptians came to dread the Israelites. It feels like there is a lot to dread these days. And I’ve been finding a lot of comfort in these words.

 

I’ve written before about being aware of my fears these days, how it’s been helpful to name them before God. This week is no exception, especially with school beginning and so many unknowns. I’m definitely one of the ‘fearful saints’ and the hymn has reminded me that I’m not alone, and that being afraid doesn’t somehow make me less a beloved child of God. I’m fearful and a saint, claimed by Christ and made holy. And God’s people have faced dreadful things before and been afraid and still beloved.

 

I’m not sure how to ‘fresh courage take,’ but I’m praying for fresh courage. Praying to trust God with all my heart, mind and strength. Remembering that courage is lived out in small actions, in being faithful. Remembering who I am and to whom I belong and remembering that my children and all of you belong to God and are held in God’s loving hands.

 

And as I’ve been singing ‘the clouds . . . are big with mercy,’ I’ve been paying attention to the clouds in the sky while walking with Emma towards school in the morning and while walking Luna at night. There’s been such a variety this week, and as I’ve been reflecting on this today, I’m aware that God’s mercy is full of variety too—uniquely shaped to meet each of us in our particular sufferings and needs.

 

One of my recent favorite books for older kids is The Inquisitor’s Tale by Adam Gidwitz. There are a lot of things I like about it, but one of the things I appreciated most was that what the main characters feared most turned out to be what saved them. I think of that when I think of the last part of this verse ‘the clouds you so much dread . . . shall break in blessings on your head.’ This isn’t a promise that nothing bad will happen or that we won’t suffer, instead it is an affirmation that God is the one who brings life out of death, that God is the one who gives blessings, and that nothing can separate us from God’s love.

Sunsets

I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur of sunsets. I grew up mostly in Holland, Michigan, and my family would often find itself heading out to the beach in the evening to catch the sunset over Lake Michigan. No two sunsets were ever the same and it was strikingly hard to predict ahead of time exactly what a sunset was going to look like. There were times we were sure it was going to be gorgeous, but then it just seemed to fizzle away. And there were other times we weren’t sure if it was worth making the effort to head out to the beach, only to be astounded at the beauty that soon stretched across the sky.

One thing I noticed, however, was that while sunsets were fairly popular and we were by no means the only ones who would pause in the day to take in the beauty, many folks left the beach as soon as the sun slipped behind the horizon. They left as soon as they could no longer see the sun, yet it was often not until the sun had been gone for several minutes that the true brilliance of the reds and oranges striking the clouds lit up the sky. Many people simply left too early.

The past few weeks we’ve been on vacation and we had the opportunity to take in a number of sunsets over Lake Michigan. Some of them were stunningly beautiful, and others simply fizzled. A few we thought were going to be duds rewarded our perseverance and lit up the sky after most other folks had left. One night, as we were leaving, (waiting long enough to be sure that the best had already passed) I turned to my children and passed along what I thought was one of my more profound bits of life wisdom: “Kids…here’s the thing about life: You never can tell when a sunset’s at its peak.” Elizabeth burst out laughing. Apparently she had expected something a bit more profound to follow the words, “Here’s the thing about life…”

I had intended this bit of wisdom to be simply about sunsets. I thought conveying this nugget of evening insight warranted the proclamation, “Here’s the thing about life…” Maybe that was a bit of an overstretch—but of course, it’s true about so much more than sunsets, too. It’s impossible to judge in the moment whether things are going to improve or get worse from here on out. Is this the worst the pandemic is going to get? Is it going to improve from here, or might another wave bring more suffering and uncertainty? What about the political divide in the United States and through much of the world? Is it going to start to heal, or is it only going to fracture even more? Will the economy start to recover, or will there be more lay-offs? Will your health improve or will it take a turn for the worse? Will your family relationships begin to heal or will they be more fractured?

Some of these things we can control or at least affect. Many of them we cannot. But here’s the thing about life—no matter whether we’re on an upswing and things seem to be improving or whether we’re in one of those moments when everything seems to be falling apart, we know how it all turns out. And it turns out Good.

“Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city, and his servants will serve him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever.” Revelation 22:1-5 (NIV)

 

Tilling the Soil

I’ve had a chorus I learned at Urbana years ago running through my mind lately:

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 lettuce in our garden turned bitter a few weeks ago, and there was a lot of it. The plants had grown huge – wide and leafy and tall – and didn’t taste right anymore. We needed the space to plant something new. So I spent a hot Saturday morning pulling out and shaking the dirt off and composting all of the plants.

And the next week, Peter and I planted bean seeds. He raked the soil to soften it and we carefully marked our rows and took turns digging and putting the seeds in place and covering them with the dirt. Later we watered them, since the day was hot, and made sure the sprinkling hose was working so they would continue to be watered. And then we waited, and I wondered and worried about whether or not they would grow. Was it too late in the season? Too hot? Did we put them deep enough? Too deep? I’m not a very confident gardener.

But last Saturday night I saw them – the bean plants! About 6 inches high. When I showed Peter the next day, he noticed that one of the plants still had the seed on top – now opened and dried in the sun. It will be a few weeks yet till we get beans – they have more growing to do – but I’m hopeful and thankful.

And as I was praying about what to write about this week, the song and the image of the bean plant with the seed on top kept coming to mind. And with it the question – what seeds are you planting?

Last night I read the tributes to Congressman and Civil Rights leader John Lewis in the most recent Time Magazine. This paragraph from the article “Marching Orders” by Brittany Packnett Cunningham caught my attention:

No matter the work we do, all of us are clear: we stand on the precipice of transformation now because people like John Lewis tilled the soil. Though this transformation may seem sudden to those who are not ardent students of Black history, the seedlings of freedom have been planted over generations. Any change is the direct result of persistent freedom work and hands that never left the plow. Amongst the greatest to farm the lands of liberation, John Lewis sits high in the American canon of heroes because his blood and tears watered the ground on which we now stand.

What seeds are you planting? Are we planting?

The first midweek reflection Jay sent out back in March was about how the pandemic is a time for change, for transformation: a time to consider what in our lives we want to change and what we want to hold on to. As the summer comes closer to its end and the pandemic is lasting a lot longer than I had naively hoped, I find myself revisiting those questions. What do I want to change? What’s bitter and needs to come out? And what do I want to plant, to nurture?

And of course we don’t do any of the work of planting or nurturing or harvesting alone. We work in community, the communion of saints that includes heroes like John Lewis. And it’s God who makes things grow – we can’t transform ourselves. And yet it’s good to step back and look at our gardens from time to time and ask, what seeds am I planting? And what new thing, by God’s grace, is growing in me? In us? In our world?

Showing Up

I’ve hit a plateau running.

When I first started running again this spring for the first in years, each time I went out I was shaving fifteen or twenty seconds off my previous best time for the same route. As my legs adapted to getting in the rhythm again, I saw noticeable improvement day by day. It was exciting. Motivating even. Each time I returned home huffing and puffing I had a burst of euphoria when I checked my time and saw much I had improved over the last time I had run that route.

I’m no longer cutting seconds off my time each time I go out. In fact I’m not even sure when the last time was that I lowered my best time. Truth be told, more often than not these days, my running times are increasing rather than decreasing. And it seems to be harder sometimes to get up the hills. I’ve plateaued. And if I’m honest, I’m actually rather shocked that I’ve plateaued at close to a full minute per mile slower pace than I was running just ten or fifteen years ago.

Maybe, I tell myself, if I press through this wall, I’ll start lowering my time again. Maybe if I start running more often—or maybe less often?—I’ll start seeing clear improvement again.

But maybe, Elizabeth told me last week as I noted yet again that that day’s run hadn’t been my best time, running isn’t about results as much as it is about just showing up. “It’s like fishing,” she said. “The point isn’t so much actually catching fish as it is simply being there. On a lake. In nature. Fishing.”

One of my better fishing outings...

When we were first dating, Elizabeth graciously joined me on some fishing adventures. I’m not, however, a particularly good fisherperson—I just enjoy being outside fishing. It doesn’t matter to me so much whether we catch anything or not. And the first few times Elizabeth joined me, we seemed to have particularly bad luck. Elizabeth tactfully tried to ask why I even bothered, and I explained to her that the point of fishing was not actually catching fish.

The point of running, at least at this point in my life, is not about seeing clear results. It’s not about being fast. Or seeing clear improvement each and every day. Or feeling stronger as I go. It’s about being faithful. Showing up. Doing it—whether I feel like it or not. Because it’s good for me—whether I see it clearly or not.

Elizabeth and I often say the same thing about the spiritual life. At times, prayer can be electric—you can feel connected with God. But other times it feels empty. Sometimes like God isn’t there. Likewise reading Scripture can be transformative, especially when we have a new insight into a difficult passage or finally make sense of something that’s bothered us for a long time. But other times, reading Scripture can feel like going through the motions. It can get familiar and feel stale. And other spiritual practices can feel the same way—they sometimes feel like a burden or a chore, rather than something we’re eager to do.

But the spiritual life is not always about seeing results—especially clear and noticeable results. Those results are good, and they’re exciting when they do happen, but the spiritual life is more about just showing up. Being faithful. Doing it, even when we don’t feel like doing it. It’s those times that prayer shapes us the most. Those times that reading Scripture shapes us, even if we don’t see it at the time.

Keep Going!

Last week one of the readings in Seeking God’s Face included these verses from the book of Hebrews: Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame and sat down at the right hand of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. (Hebrews 12:1-3) 

I know I’ve written about these verses a few months ago, talking about visiting the hippodrome when Jay and I were in Israel and picturing the cloud of witnesses cheering us on as we ran the dirt track there. But when I read these verses last week, it wasn’t the idea of a crowd cheering me on or the image of the hippodrome by the Mediterranean Sea that came to mind. Instead it was the trail to the lighthouse at Ludington State Park.

On our recent vacation, we spent a few nights camping in Ludington, and one hot morning we hiked the lighthouse trail. For those of you not familiar with it – it’s about a mile and a half to lighthouse – mostly flat, on an access road through dunes and near small ponds. There’s a lot of sand and stones to get caught in your sandals and not much shade at all. There’s a side trail to a shipwreck to explore on the beach, and various interpretive signs along the way and it’s one of our favorite hikes. We like to take the road/trail out and then hike back along the beach. And I will admit that though it isn’t very far, it usually feels longer and farther than you think it might. Especially if the wind is fierce . . .

This time as we hiked, we saw another family coming back toward us – a mom and 3 girls – all looking hot and tired and a bit exasperated. The two older girls, maybe 8 or 9 years old, were walking ahead of their mom, cheeks flushed, but doing fine. The youngest daughter – maybe 5 years old, was behind her, and sat down on the road, took off one of her sandals and said, ‘it’s too far!’ Her mom replied, ‘Keep going! We’ve got to put one foot in front of the other. Don’t sit down! We just have to keep going!’

As I read these words from Hebrews last week I kept seeing that little girl sitting in the middle of the path, her legs stretched out in the sand, and her mom calling to her, ‘Keep going!’ ‘One foot in front of the other . . .’ ‘Keep going!’

I am so thankful we had some time away and at the same time it’s a bit hard to come back, even though I love our home and our work and all of you. I’m tired of being home most of the time, of preaching to my phone, of calling instead of seeing people. Of so many things being so different and complicated. It’s easy for me to grow weary. I need that encouragement – one foot in front of the other. Keep going. Keep praying. Keep listening. Keep loving. You are not alone. You are surrounded by witnesses. Jesus goes before and behind and alongside each one of us, day by day, step by step. Keep going!

Walking Apocalypses

One of the practices I’ve adopted during this pandemic has been running. I’ve always gone in spurts with my running—picking it up for a few months and then letting it slide again. For the last six or seven years, though, I’ve had various aches and pains that have kept me from running. First a hamstring injury. Then an ankle pain. Then a knee issue. Then the other ankle…

It was enough of an issue that before we went to Israel I bought special inserts for my shoes and compression socks for my ankles to help alleviate the pain. I had already been experiencing some relief, but for whatever reason, since we’ve been back in Grand Rapids, my ankles and knees have felt better than they have in five or so years.

I’ve never been a running fanatic, but for the past several months, I’ve been running about 3 miles 2-3 times per week. It’s been good for my body and my soul, especially as some of the other physical activity I used to participate in regularly has been curtailed.

It helps me to listen to something as I run, and I’ve used the time to discover a few new podcasts. One I’ve particularly appreciated is The Bible Project. It’s a series on how to read the Bible, and the two hosts spend each episode looking at different genres of the Bible and giving background and insights on how to approach each style.

At this point, I’ve mostly just listened to the episodes on how to read Apocalyptic literature—books like Revelation and Daniel and parts of the prophets. One of the key starting points, they say, is to understand that “apocalypse” in the Bible doesn’t mean “end of the world destruction” as we commonly think of it in today’s world. Rather, it simply means a revealing (or revelation!). A glimpse of the world as God sees it. In a week or so, I’ll get to preach about Jacob’s dream at Bethel—the dream of angels going up and down the stairway to heaven—and this is a small piece of apocalyptic literature in the middle of the book of Genesis. It’s apocalyptic because it is a vision—a revealing—of the world as God sees it.

One of the concepts I’ve appreciated most from these podcasts from the Bible Project is the centrality they place on the idea of the image of God being placed in humanity. In Genesis 1:26, as God creates humanity, God says, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.” Understanding this, the hosts say, is key to understanding our relationship to God and our relationship to the rest of creation. And to help us understand it, they actually use the concept of apocalypse.

Humanity, they say, is supposed to be a walking, talking, breathing apocalypse. An apocalypse not in terms of destroying the world (though it seems sometimes that we might be better at representing this definition), but rather an apocalypse in terms of revealing God. Showing the rest of the world what God is like. Not that we look like God so much as that we are meant to embody God’s love and God’s care and God’s goodness.

The Ten Commandments given by God as recorded in Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5 begin with the command “Do not have any other gods before me.” And then we’re told “Do not make a graven image of me.” All of the other gods of the Egyptians and the Amalekites and the Canaanites and the Philistines and all the other people surrounding Israel had representations of themselves that had been made by those people—something the people could look to and say, “That’s my god.” But not the Israelites. Because Israel’s God—our God—was saying, at least on a certain level—I already have my image. I already have my representation to the world. It’s you.

When Elizabeth and I were in Israel in March, we saw plenty of places where there were high places and altars where the people of Israel had set up images of God or idols of other gods. They were never particularly good at following these early commandments. And every time they made an image of God, they were not only disobeying God, but they were also abdicating their own responsibility. They were setting aside their own responsibility to be image-bearers of God. To be a walking apocalypse to the world of God’s goodness and love.

I wish I could say we’re different. I’m thankful, at least, that we don’t typically make images or idols of God. But I don’t think we’re necessarily all that much better at being image-bearers of God. At being walking apocalypses to the world of God’s goodness and love.

It’s an extraordinary responsibility. And I’m humbled that God has confidence in us that we can do it. And I look forward to the day when I can do it completely without ever falling short. That might not happen until God makes all things new. But until then, I’ll do the best I can.

Resting in God

One of the books I pray with often is the prayer book Seeking God’s Face – it’s one that we used for several years with council and one that we read and preached with for a year as a whole church several years ago. And this week, it’s been the repeated daily invitation at the beginning of the prayer time that has caught my attention: “Let the beloved of the Lord rest secure in him, for he shields him all day long, and the one the Lord loves rests between his shoulders.” Deuteronomy 33:12

The first thing I notice in this is an invitation to rest secure in God. Our book discussion of Liturgy of the Ordinary concluded last week, and the final chapter was about rest. Resting is related to accepting our limits, remembering that we are not God. One of the interesting insights from the chapter was how in Genesis 1, as we noticed a few weeks ago, the rhythm is ‘there was evening and there was morning, the first (or second, etc) day.’ The day begins in the evening, with rest. Rest comes first. God’s goodness, God’s provision, God’s love is there before we do anything. And as I read this invitation from Deuteronomy first thing in the morning, before I do anything, there’s an invitation to rest. To trust God’s goodness, to remember that God is God and I am not.

A couple of weeks ago Jay and I had the honor of officiating Josh Hiemstra and Meredith Fennema’s wedding, and in his meditation, Jay quoted this sonnet from Wendell Berry:

Whatever is foreseen in joy

Must be lived out from day to day.

Vision held open in the dark

By our ten thousand days of work.

Harvest will fill the barn; for that

The hand must ache, the face must sweat.

And yet no leaf or grain is filled

By work of ours; the field is tilled

And left to grace. That we may reap,

Great work is done while we’re asleep.

When we work well, a Sabbath mood

Rests on our day, and finds it good.

This invitation from Deuteronomy reminds me to rest in the goodness of God, even before I begin my day, so that I can attend to my daily tasks well.

A couple of images come to mind with this invitation too, with the part about resting between God’s shoulders. The first is a scene from the Lord of the Rings movies when giant eagles appear and rescue Gandalf and his friends. As I remember it, Gandalf rides on an eagle’s back, between its shoulders. The image of God as a mighty eagle, bearing us up, rescuing us. There are moments when I would love to fly away on the back of an eagle….

The second image is a memory of how Jay and I would carry our kids, when they were small, on our backs in a cloth backpack when we were hiking or taking long walks. The image of God carrying us, safe and secure, snuggled in on God’s back.

And even though I might sometimes wish for God to swoop in like an eagle and rescue me from my fears and from some of the challenges of daily life, it’s this second image I’m finding most helpful this week – the reminder that God is really close, really near. It’s awfully easy for me to forget this in these times of so much uncertainty about what is ahead, and in these times of separation from people that I love. I need this daily reminder that God is not up, not far away, not distant, but near, carrying me on God’s own back, snug and secure. Holding me when I am afraid and uncertain, when I’m upset with myself or others, carrying me in the ups and downs of each day. God is with me, holding me safe between God’s shoulders.

I’m keeping this image in mind as I’m praying for you all this week – praying for peace of mind, for rest, praying you will know you are held close by God in love.

 “Let the beloved of the Lord rest secure in him, for he shields him all day long, and the one the Lord loves rests between his shoulders.” Deuteronomy 33:12