An Advent Journey: Stop, Look, Listen - Day 6

"I don't think, friends, that I need to deal with the question of when all this is going to happen. You know as well as I that the day of the Master's coming can't be posted on our calendars. He won't call ahead and make an appointment any more than a burglar would. About the time everybody's walking around complacently, congratulating each other -- 'We've sure got it made! Now we can take it easy!' -- suddenly everything will fall apart. It's going to come as suddenly and inescapably as birth pangs to a pregnant woman. 

But friends, you're not in the dark, so how could you be taken off guard by any of this? You're sons of Light, daughters of Day. We live under wide open skies and know where we stand. So let's not sleepwalk through life like those others. Let's keep our eyes open and be smart. People sleep at night and get drunk at night. But not us! Since we're creatures of Day, let's act like it. Walk out into the daylight sober, dressed up in faith, love and the hope of salvation.

God didn't set us up for an angry rejection but for salvation by our Master, Jesus Christ. He died for us, a death that triggered life. Whether we're awake with the living or asleep with the dead, we're alive with him! So speak encouraging words to one another. Build up hope so you'll be together in this, no one left out, no one left behind. I know you're already doing this; just keep on doing it." -- 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11, The Message

Generally speaking, I am not a huge fan of apocalyptic literature. Don't like dystopian novels (except for Margaret Atwood), am easily pushed to metaphor fatigue by the book of Revelation. There are days when I really, really wish Jesus had not talked as much as he did about The Last Days. 

And then there are the letters to the Christians at Thessalonica. Written early in Paul's ministry, they show us more clearly than anything else that the early church believed themselves to be living in the last days, at least initially. And for some reason, that has always bothered me a little. 

Or it used to.

However. . . this passage, this one right before us today, on the first Friday of Advent 2012, this one I have come to love. A lot. In fact, I believe it contains some of the most important teaching of all the epistolary writing in the entire New Testament. Why? Because it tells us how to live while we wait. 

And we are always waiting, aren't we? Waiting for something, someone, some time. Here is a definition of the verb "to wait": 'to stay in place in expectation of; to remain stationary in readiness or expectation; to look forward expectantly; to be ready and available.' (Courtesy of Merriam-Webster online dictionary)

While we wait -- in a spirit of expectation and readiness and availability -- Paul instructs us to: 
      *remember who we are
      *keep our eyes open
      *be smart
      *dress for the occasion
      *speak words of encouragement and hope to one another

And it is that last one that resonates with something deep inside: encourage one another. Offer good words, hopeful words, loving words. Now that's the kind of apocalyptic writing and thinking and living I can get excited about. 

How do you encourage others? And how are you encouraged as you wait?

Lord, you know how weary I am with doom-mongers -- always a discouraging word to be heard, always a fearful worldview to be touted, always an us vs. them mentality. I am exhausted by that attitude. Especially when I feel it creeping into me, into my thought life -- even into my language. Help me to read these good words from Paul again and again, especially when I feel discouraged by life, by the church, by the world. And help me to choose, every day, to push through the discouraging word and find an encouraging one; to make the move from passive resignation to active anticipation, trusting that there are good things yet to come.

An Advent Journey: Stop, Look, Listen - Day 5

These pictures were taken in 1967 in what is now Zimbabwe, at Matopos National Park. The second and third of these three shots are of the same oddly shaped and extremely large rock with a sheltering ledge built right into it. The paintings drawn under that ledge attest to it's use as a safe refuge. 

"Truly my soul finds rest in God;

my salvation comes from him.

Truly he is my rock and my salvation;

he is my fortress, I will never be shaken.

How long will you assault me?

Would all of you throw me down --

this leaning wall, this tottering fence?

Surely they intend to topple me

from my lofty place;

they take delight in lies.

With their mouths they bless,

but in their hearts they curse.

Yes, my soul, find rest in God;

my hope comes from him.

Truly he is my rock and my salvation;

he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

My salvation and my honor depend on God;

he is my mighty rock, my refuge.

Trust in him at all times,  you people;

pour out your hearts to him,

for God is our refuge.

Surely the lowborn are but a breath,

the highborn are but a lie.

If weighed on a balance, they are nothing;

together they are only a breath.

Do not trust in extortion

or put vain hopes in stolen goods;

though  your riches increase,

do not set  your heart on them.

One thing God has spoken,

two things I have heard;

'Power belongs to you, God,

and with you, Lord, is unfailing love;'

and, 'You reward everyone

according to what they have done."

Psalm 62, TNIV

Whenever I read this psalm, I imagine the one who wrote it sitting high in the hills, looking out over some kind of rocky land mass. I have never been to Israel, but I have been to central Africa and as I read through this song for today, I remembered the overwhelming size of the rocks we saw there. Looking at such large, looming boulders is both daunting and deeply reassuring. 

The psalmist sings out -- cries out -- for such reassurance, for refuge, for shelter, for a place to hide away, safely enfolded by God's goodness and strength. There is an expressed need for bigness, for some sort of reminder that God is larger and stronger than any enemies who might be threatening. The singer wants to feel safe. And so the 'controlling metaphor' for his song is a great, big rock. A fortress-sized rock. An unmovable refuge.

We all want to feel safe. Yet we live in a decidedly unsafe world, with enemies of various kinds on all sides. Fiscal cliffs, sick children, struggling parents, and the very worst enemies of all -- the voices inside our own heads, the ones that tell us we are worthless, useless, unloved and unwanted. 

Advent invites us to sit with that unsafe feeling for a while, to listen to it -- but also to speak back to it. Because Advent also invites us to sit with an expectant young mom and her brave husband, to join them in their waiting, in their uncertainty. And in their amazing trust. There is much we can learn from these two ordinary people, chosen by God for such extraordinary work. 

I imagine that God alone was their Rock, their safe place, during much of the journey to Christmas morning. 

I imagine that this very song was one of their favorites. I know it is one of mine.

Rock of Ages, cleft for me . . . there isn't a rock on this planet large enough to picture YOU. But somehow, these earthy reminders help us to remember that you are bigger, stronger, more sheltering, and far safer than any trouble, struggle, or enemy we may encounter along the way. You never promised us an easy road; you promise us your presence in the midst of it. Thank you for being our Rock and our Refuge.

An Advent Journey: Stop, Look, Listen - Day 4

"This is a vision that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem:

In the last days, the mountain of the Lord's house

will be the highest of all --

the most important place on earth.

It will be raised above the other hills,

and people from all over the world will stream there to worship.

People from many nations will come and say,

'Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD,

to the house of Jacob's God.

There he will teach us his ways,

and we will walk in his paths.'

For the LORD's teaching will go out from Zion;

his word will go out from Jerusalem.

The LORD will mediate between nations

and will settle international disputes.

They will hammer their swords into plowshares

and their spears into pruning hooks.

Nation will no longer fight against nation,

nor train for war anymore."

Isaiah 2:1-4, NLT

Sometimes I think it would be truly grand to have a vision. To see something spectacular and hopeful and encouraging, to see it in living color, larger than life and rich with meaning. 

This vision of Isaiah's is a corker, isn't it? Overflowing with such magnificent images! People moving like living water to God's holy mountain, God himself settling any disputes. And this one - no more training for war. Turning weapons into farm implements -- in essence -- turning away from darkness and into the full light of God's glorious presence. 

YES! I'd love to have a vision like that. 

And then, I realize. 

I DO have a vision like that. . . this very one, right here in front of us on this blustery Advent Wednesday. I don't believe Isaiah wrote this one down just for the heck of it -- no, I don't. I believe Isaiah, or someone writing under his grand name, wrote this down at the insistence of the Holy Spirit, precisely so that we could read it today. 

Because this is a vision that every generation needs to see, this is a picture that all peoples need to have hanging on the walls of their hearts. This is a painting dripping with the colors of life and hope and expectation. And this is a vision perfectly designed for Advent, these 24 days of paying attention, of stilling ourselves so that we can see more clearly, of expecting God to show up in ways that surprise us and slow us and save us. 

This is a vision of God's desired future and this is a promise of wondrous things to come. Wondrous things that can begin now, inside of us, and spreading through us, to larger and larger circles of others who have eyes to see what God is up to in this world. "In the last days..."  Every one of us lives in the last days. Every generation since Jesus walked the earth has lived in the last days. Every generation since Jesus has been slowly, slowly, slowly heading, like rivers of water, to God's holy mountain.

And one day soon, we're going to get there. Glory be!

We're looking for you, Lord. We're looking for you on that high mountain. We want to be a twig in that river that will stream upwards toward you! So now, while we wait, while we watch - will you teach us your ways and show us how to walk in your paths? We want to be ready. We want to be ready!

A Season for the King

We were late to church yesterday morning.

Lots of travel last week,

all of it good, fun, comforting, interesting.

But . . .

we were tired

and moving very s-l-o-w-l-y.

The sanctuary was full as we snuck in the back door,

so we sat in the balcony,

which provides an unusual view.

The large chandeliers that took on the look of a double crown in the photograph.

 It wasn't until I looked at the photo 

that I saw that our view was remarkably apt

for this particular Sunday in the church calendar:

Christ the King Sunday,

the last one in the liturgical year.

Next Sunday is the first Sunday in Advent, 

the turning of a new calendar page.

But yesterday. . .

yesterday was a celebration of the Cosmic Christ,

the One who sits at the right hand of the Father,

the One who will come again in glory,

the One who intercedes for us,

who reigns on our behalf,

and the One for whom the stars sing.

 In the northern hemisphere,

this Sunday comes in the midst of Autumn,

the time of dying,

dying in full, vibrant color.

 It feels fitting to celebrate Christ as King

in this season of the year,

perhaps because it also feels a little bit upside-down.

Wouldn't the bright pinks and purples of spring or summer

be better suited to this kind of recognition?

 Christ is surely King in any season of our years,

but somehow the Fall feels 'right' to me,

a good season to make special note of this truth.

After all, Jesus did not become the kind of king 

that people were anticipating.

He shattered every preconception, every expectation,

every dream that was built on the power structures of our world.

In ways that are deep and profound,

Jesus of Nazareth did not become

Christ the King until

after

the cross,

the empty tomb,

the ascension into the heavenly realms.

Is there any more backwards way to become

a person of royalty than his way?

The way of death,

and resurrection,

and ascension?

 So as the days get shorter,

and the hours of darkness grow;

as the leaves turn brilliant in their farewell address,

as the flowers dry on the stem

and the shadows lengthen on the lawn,

this is the time,

the perfect time,

to remember and to honor our King.

The One who was with God and who became a human person,

taking that long and winding downward journey,

living a more fully human life than any other ever has.

He died an ignominious death,

and by that death and the resurrection

which followed it,

brought us the gift of Full Life

in fellowship with the Triune God.

Only then, did he return to his rightful place

on the throne.

So YES, this season seems about right.

The season of dying in full, vibrant color.

 On this Sunday, we celebrate that the King is for us.

We remember the greatness of our God,

we acknowledge the Glory of a Savior

who is much grander, fuller, more all-compassing

than any Being we can imagine or dream.

Lord of the Harvest?

Surely so.

 Grand Creator of the universe in all its richness and variety?

Yes and amen. 

The One who is above all, around all,

through all and in all?

Yes, yes, yes and YES.

So we sing, "Holy, Holy, Holy," and

"Crown Him with Many Crowns," and

"Creation Song," and "Revelation Song," and

any other hymn of praise that rises to our lips

as we recognize the Bigness of our God.

Next week, we celebrate the Littleness.

Isn't that amazing?

Joining this with Laura Boggess and Jen Ferguson and the Sisterhood, with Cheryl Hyatt Smith and Ann Voskamp this week.

Doesn't quite fit any of their themes exactly, but. . . this is what I've got.

   

Letters to Me - A Book Review

Over the course of the next few months, there will be a number of small-press books making their way out into public view, collections of essays on a theme, carefully edited and lovingly written. This book is one of the first--and, in some ways, one of the most interesting. Nineteen writers were given this assignment: write a letter to your younger self somewhere between the ages of 18 and 30. Advise, if you must, but basically help yourself to see that things have a way of working themselves out. These letters are meant to be offerings of encouragement and hope, written from a distinctly personal and well-informed point of view. After all, the writers know the recipients intimately--more intimately than anyone else.

I was delighted to find some old 'friends' in this collection - Lyla Lindquist, Tamára Lunardo, Shawn Smucker, Charity Singleton, J.B. Wood, Lore Ferguson, Anita Mathias - people I have previously encountered through their blogs and their comments on mine. And none of them disappoints. All are fine writers, good thinkers and excellent communicators.

I loved reading about Shawn's blue-eyed girlfriend, Charity's courageous act of resignation, Tamára's heartfelt choice for life when faced with an unplanned pregnancy as a 19-year-old. Jim Wood begins with, 'GET A GRIP!'--SO perfect for many of us as we look back at our angst-ridden younger selves. But he goes on to celebrate all that happened in those long-ago years, praising and encouraging himself-from-way-back-when. I think we all need to do that from time to time, don't you? Look back with love and support?

If pushed, I guess I'd have to say that Lyla's letter was particularly poignant for me, rich with wry, careful reflection and a superb pages-long metaphor of life-as-a-Rube-Goldberg-contraption:

"So many people think there's a sure-fire, idiot-proof way to know the right thing. They get this idea that God's whole plan for every person on earth can be derailed with one small misstep. I suppose some do get a clear and certain sense of the way they are to go. But it seems that for many of us, the fleeces and pro/con lists, the long straws and coin flips are formalities. Sometimes we're going to have to 'fish or cut bait' as my dad would say. We're just going to have to make a guess. Maybe an educated guess, but it'll be a guess all the same.

"What I want you to know now is that it will work out, better than you could have known or planned. Because for many of us, life is less like following a road map than coursing through a Rube Goldberg contraption. It seems far more like an elaborate series of springs and pulleys, levers and ropes that sets a chain reaction into motion."

And she is off and running for a series of beautifully described twists and turns, rolling down ramps, across all kinds of fascinating obstacles, always following the marble on its relentless path to somewhere. It's gorgeously done and worth the price of the book all by itself.

Yes, Lyla is a friend. But she happens to be an inordinately talented one. Each person in this collection contributes to the whole in their own unique way, telling pieces of his or her story. If you know someone in this age bracket--18 to 30--who is feeling discouraged, a little bit lost, wondering where they're headed, why not purchase a copy of this book and pass it along to them? I know they'll find encouragement. I pray they'll even find a small, sunlit piece of hope to hang onto when the way ahead feels decidedly murky. 

I was given a copy of this book for review purposes but received no other compensation for this essay.

The Saving Grace of Work

This post was originally written almost exactly one year ago in response to an invitation from Charity Singleton for a High Calling Blog Hop. I'm reposting it today for Ed Cyzewski's week of blogposts on "A Hazardous Faith," the title of a recently released book he co-authored. This particular post is actually more about a long-term season of struggle in the life of our family - both my immediate family and our church family. And it speaks to the role of my pastoral work as an anchor and strong center during that tumultuous time. Because, let's face it - LIFE is hazardous - that is just a fact. And following Jesus in the midst of it somehow manages to both add to and subtract from the riskiness of it all. We are never promised sunshine and roses when we choose to place our feet in the shadow of the Rabbi, no matter what the televangelists might tell you. We are not rescued from life and its losses. Rather, we are invited into a relationship that makes those losses easier to navigate, a relationship that never ends and never fails.

2009 was most definitely not my favorite year. Come to think of it, 2008 and 2007 were pretty rotten, too. And 2006 and 2005 were not a whole heckuva lot better. At times, it felt as though we were riding a dangerously out of control roller coaster, careening from side to side, tilting on one very narrow edge as we rounded some treacherous turns and corners.

My dad died at the beginning of this long stretch of tough stuff, a rugged dying, leaving my mom both exhausted from care-giving and desperately lonely for her partner.

My husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer about two months later, enduring painful and debilitating surgery and still in recovery mode during a long-planned anniversary trip to France soon after.

Our son-in-law was applying for long-term disability, literally fading away before our eyes. His wife, our eldest daughter, was beginning an education process that would give her a master's degree and special ed certification in 12 months. Their three boys were struggling to find their bearings in this new universe.

Our middle daughter's 3rd boy was born in distress, tiny and in the NICU for 5 days. Our daughter-in-law needed a slightly dicey C-section for her first-born, just weeks after her cousin's difficult entry into the world.

My youngest brother landed in the ER with a severe leg infection, requiring a long list of care-giving efforts from me, my other brother and our mom. This illness began a long, downward spiral of long-missed diagnoses, homelessness, sober living residences, heart surgery and eventually, sudden death in 2009.

Our son-in-law entered the last year of his life with multiple hospitalizations, serious complications of a wide variety, and a miraculous six-month respite, giving us all some memories that were lovely and lasting. That year, 2008, ended with a devastating pneumonia that took his life in a matter of hours.

And the next year, our beautiful town was hit by wildfires - two times - requiring evacuation from home and church, plunging our worshiping community into emergency mode for months on end.

As I said, it was an unbelievably difficult few years.

And every week, except for vacations and emergencies, I went to work. Many people wondered why. Why do you want to step into other people's difficult situations? Why do you want to visit the sick? Why do you want to write Bible study lessons? Why do you still want to preach in the rotation? Why do you want to lead in worship? Why? Haven't you got enough on your plate already?

I don't know that I can fully answer that question. But I will try to write a coherent list of possible reasons in this space:

work grounded me;

work reminded me I was not alone;

work taught me about community;

work provided an external focus;

work brought at least the illusion of order

to my terribly disordered world;

work kept me from drowning;

work brought relief from the weight of worry that

was an almost constant companion;

work allowed me to stay in touch with the

creative parts of me as well as the care-giving parts;

work gave me a different place to look,

a different place to reflect,

a different space in which to be me -

the me that was called and gifted and capable.

As opposed to the me that was helpless,

impotent and overwhelmed.

Work was something I could do,

something I could manage,

something I could control - within limits.

My life was spinning frantically out of control, at least out of my control, heading down deep and dark crevasses that terrified me. Work was more easily containable, expectations were clear, contributions were valued.

Work was grace for me during that long, long stretch of Job-like living.

Work was a gift,

a gift of God to a weary and worried woman.

It allowed me room to breathe,

it provided me with commitments I could keep,

it brought me into contact with people who

could actually use what I had to offer.

And it brought me into contact with people

who could bear me up,

who could tend my gaping wounds,

who could be as Jesus to me,

even as I tried to be as Jesus to those

I loved most in this world.

I did not do any of it perfectly.

Lord knows, that isn't even possible and it surely wasn't true.

My body let me know how big the load had become last year, when it was my turn to enter the hospital and begin round after round of medical appointments.

The end of 2010 brought the end of my work life. I have missed it at times. But I am discovering that even in the lack of structure and schedule of these first months of retirement, God is underneath. And around and in between. Just as God has always been.

I don't completely understand why this truth is true, I just know this: the gift and grace of work helped me to see and to know God's presence when the roller coaster was tilting crazily. And somehow, we're still here, clinging to the sides of the coaster car, doing our very best to enjoy the ride.

Please check out the other posts being offered today in this busy week of commentary on a powerful topic. Here is a link to today's page at Ed's blog.
And while you're there, why not order a copy of Ed's new book?
He is a great guy, a talented writer and editor and he has a brand new baby boy.
Go on, make his day. 

(Sorry, Ed, I couldn't make the banner work.)

Paying Attention: A Prayer with Photos

Grant that I may I have eyes to see you, Lord.

To see you in the light,

to see you in the dark.

To see you in the rainbow,

to see you in the clouds.

To see you in the new,

to see you in the worn and weary.

To see you in the blessed and blissful details,

to see you in the rougher edges.

To see you in the easy, graceful gifts,

to see you in the slogging, stultifying backwater.

To see you in the immensity of the universe,

to see you in the intensity of a single cell.

Grant that I may have a heart to hear you, Lord.

To hear you in the laughter of children,

to hear you in the slowing of age.

To hear you in the soft sighs of the sea,

to hear you in the harsh cries of the hawk.

To hear you when the joy breaks loose,

to hear you when the sobs don't stop.

To hear you in a beating heart,

to hear you when the beating stops.

To hear you in the wonder of a well-fed child,

to hear you in the one who starves.

To hear you in the still, small voice,

to hear you in the silence 
of questions without answer.

Even there, O Lord.

Even there.

May I have eyes to see,

ears to hear,

and a tongue to tell

the glory of our God.

Even.There.

The photo of the 'shoes' near the end of this prayer is from eastern Europe - 
a WWII memorial sculpture commemorating Hungarian Jews 
who were lined up on the edge of the river, 
told to take off their shoes, and then shot to death.
This reflection was prompted by a post about photography and truth at Kelly Sauer's blog today. She was pondering old versus new in her photographic style. That got me to thinking and praying about the contrasts in this life; that the light and the dark are often closely connected and reflective of one another; that God doesn't abandon us when life looks dismal or terrifying. I need eyes and ears that look and SEE and hear and LISTEN for evidence of the Presence of God - wherever and whatever and whenever.
Sometime during the dark morning hours, I realized that this post was also triggered by the powerful WWII story shared by Ann Voskamp in yesterday's blog post. 
Even in the most horrific of human-devised schemes,
God does not abandon us, God is not absent.
So thank you, Kelly. And thank you, Ann.
I'll put this one with Michelle tonight, Jen tomorrow, and Ann on Wednesday and Duane and Jennifer, too.

Here is a legend for the photographs.

1. Reflections of stained glass on the stone walls of a cathedral in Cologne, Germany, 2009.

2. Sunlight breaking through the clouds as we flew from Florida home to LAX, May 2012

3. Cloud-covered moonlight over Puget Sound while staying on Whidbey Island, August 2007

4. Layers of color at sunset at the same place and time as photo #3

5. Our youngest granddaughter Lilly on the day she was born - 2/25/10

6. An oversized drawing entered in an art contest spotlighting the homeless population of Haarlem, The Netherlands, 2009

7. Our dining room pine buffet, loaded with my much-loved Fiestaware, taken on the day of my mom's 90th birthday party, June 2011

8. Silhouetted ruins above the Rhine River, 2009

9. A tableau of bicycle against the stone wall of a local Catholic retreat center, Spring 2011

10. Garbage gathered at the edge of a marina in Miami FL, May 2012

11. Yosemite National Park, summer 2010

12. A birch leaf in our front yard, fall 2010

13. Sunlight through amber windows at the New Camoldolese (Benedictine) Hermitage Retreat Center, near Big Sur CA, December 2011

14. Our granddaughter Gracie, aged 2, laughing at the antics of her cousin Griffin, aged 2, on Whidbey Island, August 2007 (They're six years old now, soon to turn 7)

15. My favorite centering prayer spot - the beat-up swing that hangs from an oak tree in our front yard, taken in the spring of 2010

16. Hendry's Beach, Santa Barbara CA (officially known as Arroyo Burro State Beach), sunset, winter 2011

17. A bird of prey overhead - maybe a hawk, maybe an osprey, in British Columbia, summer 2007

18. Municipal flower garden, Nuremburg, Germany, 2009

19. The cross on our back fence that marks the place where my youngest brother's ashes are buried. Taken in the spring of 2011.

20. Lilly, playing in her tent, Christmas 2011

21. Santa Barbara cemetery on a foggy morning, winter 2011

22. Lilly's adorable bunny slippers, Christmas 2011

23. A skeletized leaf, picked up by my grandson while we were hiking in the Redwoods near Santa Cruz CA, summer 2011

24. Window angel spotted in a side street of Regensburg, Germany, 2009

25. War Memorial in honor of slain Jewish citizens, Budapest Hungary, 2009

26. Approaching Laity Lodge through the Frio River, the hill country of Texas, September 2011