I miss this place. . . .

I’m not sure what happened.  But I think in the last six months, most of my posts have been posts about how I don’t write posts anymore.  So maybe I should stop that.  Maybe I should just write them when I feel like it, just for me and my 11 closest friends, and call it a blog.  And not worry about how much time lapses.

I’ve had much much much going on in the last little bit.  I had my ordination exams in August.  Well.  Two of them.  I wrote about that.  Then the school year started.  Then my father-in-law’s health seemed to go into rapid decline.  I thank God we were down (529 miles away) to visit him in August and then again in September.  Then we got a call the week of Thanksgiving that he really had taken a downward turn and we picked up and went down again.  Blessed Thanksgiving.  Blessed time with him and with his wife whom we adore.  Phenomenally good food, every bit and bite.  And my father-in-law whose eating was getting worrisome had quite the big meal and we all rejoiced in it.  There’s just something glaringly not-right about a man with-his-last-name not eating voraciously.

When we said goodbye at the end of that visit, we were saying goodbye, and we knew it.

Sure enough, another call came less than a week before Christmas saying the end had come.  So we spent the week before Christmas in two different places:  Ry and me with his step-mom and her kids, and our kids with their aunt and uncle down the road from home.  Blessed, blessed time.  My sister married the best man in the world.  I know I’m supposed to say I did, but I think even my husband agrees:  my sister did.  My sister who works full-time and her husband who also works full-time both rearranged their schedules to share the responsibilities of taking my three kids into their home with two teen-aged-girls from Sunday through Thursday the week of Christmas.  And my kids were troupers.  Even Ruthie, who’s never had anyone but mommy or daddy successfully put her to bed, simply lay down and read with either aunt or uncle until she fell right off to sleep.  All three of my kids did amazingly well, especially given the fact that they went to bed on Saturday night knowing nothing about it and their dad and I were gone before they left for church on Sunday morning.  Crazy times.

As for Ry and me . . . wow.  Such a difficult, difficult time.  But also such a blessed time for us to walk through it together, just the two of us.  The lesson learned that week:  Death Sucks.  There I said it.  I even said the less socially acceptable word.  I mean, death stinks too, but that’s too ambiguous a sentence.  But “Death Sucks!”?  Crystal clear.  Anyone who tells you differently is wrong.  When you’re fed the line, “Death is a part of life.”  Say, “Yeah, but it’s not supposed to be.  Humanity and its stupidity brought it into the world.  Not the Great Designer.”

Ry’s dad had been unwell for years, having received a devastating, no-way-out-but-down diagnosis at the insanely young age of 58.  So, it’s not like we didn’t see this coming.  And, like I said, when we left at Thanksgiving, we both knew we wouldn’t see him alive again.  But when the time actually came?  When the day came when we would no longer see those smiling brown eyes?  Devastating.  As much as the end of suffering brings relief, the end of life brings a void.  And we felt it.  We felt it hard all week and we continue to feel it.  It seems 36 is too young to be a patriarch.  And I think my dear husband feels that.

We praise God for the faith and hope and assurance that while death sucks, it does not have the final word.  When we received the call that my father-in-law had died, the five of us were snuggled on the couch gazing at our just-trimmed tree.  We were resting in that magic moment:  right after you’ve hung all the stuff on the tree, you light it, and sit back and bask in its glow and its beauty and its lopsided ornament-arrangement (if your kids are small).  Then the phone rang.  And having received a head’s up the day before, I think we both knew what that call was.  The tears in the eyes of my of-German-descent stoic husband told me we were right.

So, the five of us hunkered back together on the couch while Ry shared the news with our kids.  And after expressing sadness, my kids jumped right into imagining Grandpa as he is now.  “Now Grandpa can talk!  Now Grandpa can eat!  Now Grandpa can walk and run and work on projects!”  All five of us reveled in visions of Grandpa as he should be.  My favorite vision is of this Grandpa-to-my-extroverted-Boy arriving on the scene of a literally endless supply of new people to meet and greet and get to know.

As comforted as we are by these visions, however, the weight of death, the Death that Sucks, still rests upon our shoulders and clouds our thoughts and sneaks a tear in now and then.  Our hearts ache for the beloved wife who’s left behind.  Left behind to wander her house with empty arms and empty hands, lost in the void left not only by her husband, but by the absence of all the intense care-giving that have occupied her last six years.  As intense as that care-giving was, I know she’d do it all again in a heartbeat and she’d continue right on doing it indefinitely if she could.  Her heart knows this death thing is not natural.  Natural is oneness, blessed unity, with her husband.  Having him taken away to be somewhere else, anywhere else, is just wrong.  And she knows it, and feels it, and lives it and breathes it every day.

Those are my disjointed thoughts on death.  I can’t wrap it up into a neat ending.  I have no deep insights.  I really have nothing to say in the face of it.  Death Sucks.  But Death is not the Victor.  Meanwhile, Death simply Sucks.

Talkin’ ’bout proselytizing . . .

I admit, I am woefully out of touch with the political/popular culture/news networks/word-on-the-national-street scene.  I am.  But this whole Brit Hume thing hit my radar last night and again this morning.  Last night I heard about it on the “Daily Show with John Stewart” and this morning one of my friends linked to the article I just linked to.  Now, sure, sure, the fact that I watch the Daily Show says something about me, politically.  It does.  I admit.  But probably not as much as you might think.  I’m more of a political misfit than anything else.  That’s my full-disclosure disclaimer.  And I’m not going to say a whole lot specifically about the Brit Hume thing because I figure you can Google it and find out everything you want about it.

What struck me most about the article linked above is not the article itself, but comment #4 under the article.  I didn’t even read beyond comment 4.1 because I want to hope that 4.1 is accurate and I don’t want to discover otherwise.  And comment 4 was enough to get my dander up and start my rant a’ragin’ about proselytizing in general.  Although, I was using the word evangelizing.  In my world, they’re the same thing.  I looked up proselytize on the Mirriam Webster dictionary site and it says, “to induce someone to convert to one’s faith.”  When I look up evangelize, it says, “1. to preach the gospel to; 2. to convert to Christianity.”  So, to my reading, evangelizing is the Christian form of proselytizing.  I suspect I’ve lost some people right there.  That’s OK.

Now I’m going to say something shocking:  I don’t have a problem with proselytizing or evangelizing.  In fact, I make a living doing it.  Well, at this point I make a pittance because I do very little of it professionally, but still.  Ultimately?  It is my job not only to proselytize, but to equip others to do the very same thing.  My form of proselytizing is called evangelizing because of the root of that word, evangel, is a form of the phrase Good News and that’s the same as Gospel and that’s the story of Jesus I’m telling (that involves Greek and if you want me to draw it out a bit, I will, but I didn’t want to waste words flaunting my Greekiness ).   And, because I’m trying my darnedest to convince people that this Good News about Jesus is true–and, consequently, exclusively true–then, yeah.  I think you could safely call it proselytizing.

Now.  That being said . . . There is a way to evangelize and there is a way not to evangelize.  And to determine the effectiveness of one’s evangelistic tactics, I’ve devised a simple tool:

When you evangelize, do people

A.  run toward you, to hear more?  Or

B.  run screaming to get as far away from you as they possibly can, as fast as they can?

If you answered (A.) . . . Congratulations!  You are indeed evangelizing!  You are sharing Good News that is, apparently, being perceived as Good News and there is a strong possibility that God will use you to enlighten and enliven people to his Truth.

If you answered (B.)  . . . Sorry.  You lose.  Even if what you are sharing is Good News, it is not worth a darn if people don’t hear it as Good News and want nothing to do with you or your News.  Rather than evangelizing–or proselytizing–you are demonizing the Good News, presenting it in such a way that it sends people running as if from demons.  You are making a bad name for all Christians and, most heinous of all, for the name above all names, no other by which we must be saved, the Lord of all creation, Jesus Christ.

So.  Should Brit Hume should be called out on the carpet for proselytizing?  Well.  Probably not in the way it’s presently being done.  Because really, he wasn’t proselytizing.  Well.  He probably was proselytizing:  he might have been convincing people to convert to some faith, just not to his own Christian faith.  But whatever he was doing, he was not evangelizing.  Even if your News is Good, when you present it all wrong, you’re not going to convince anybody.  The fact that non-believers are running in the opposite direction should be proof enough of that.  So, really, the people being most vocal in their fury toward Brit Hume really have nothing to worry about, as he is doing nothing to convert people to Christ.  And the people who should be most annoyed by him, who should be doing the calling out and holding to account, are Christian believers, ones who are striving and doing their darnedest to succeed in making disciples of all nations.

New Year, New Plans

So, I hear it’s a new year.  And I’ve noticed that many of the bloggers I follow are posting some pensive pieces, reflecting on the year that has passed, looking forward to the year that is to come.  So it got me thinking . . . maybe I should do that.  I’m such a copycat.

Let’s see . . . last year . . . let’s see . . . Is it too much to say, “It was the best of years, it was the worst of years . . .” ?  Probably.  And I’m not even convinced there were any parts to it that would qualify as “best.”  Well.  That can’t be true in a household with three healthy, beautiful children under eight.  Of course there were some “best of” times.  These are the magic years. . . .

Ruthie has spent most of the year as a two-year-old.  That, obviously, has brought its challenges, but at the same time, it’s brought us to the point where this whole parenting game is getting less intense every day.  Sure, sure, she yells and screams her every need, desire, and whim and you have to beg her to stop yelling at you.  And yes.  Yes, she does beat the stuffing out of her siblings on a regular basis, particularly her big sister.  But.  At the end of the day, she is super sweet and a funnier toddler there never has been.  She’s got chutzpah enough for the whole household and she lives every feeling to the fullest extent possible.  She fights hard, but she loves just as hard.  She lives with passion.  With gusto.  I look forward to seeing all of her raw energy and passion and drive come to fruition as she, with time, develops self-control and discernment.  What a joy!  What an absolute joy, this third kid o’ mine.

Isaac Boy turned seven mid-year.  I just discovered last week that not only was Isaac born on his Grandpa’s birthday, but the two of them were born within seven minutes of one another, Isaac on a Thursday, Grandpa on a Wednesday.  Isaac was happy to hear all those similarities.  I love seven.  I think seven is a wonderful, wonderful age.  He’s still full of grand ideas, but he’s acquiring more and more skills to make them happen.  He’s gained independence and asserts it very matter-of-factly.  He has nothing to prove, he simply can do some things on his own.  But seven is still little.  Still nice and little.  Even if, in the case of my boy, seven comes in a 72 lb., 54.5 inch package with a vocabulary better than most adults I know.  Seven is still little.  So my boy has a dear friend named Osbert:  a dollar store, long-armed, door-knob hanger penguin.  He named him after the penguin in a storybook of the same name and, while the little guy has been around for two years, sometime in the last six months he became Isaac’s new best friend.  I bought Osbert a Christmas present.  We bought Osbert a friend (another penguin-shaped penguin named Pete) for whom Isaac wants me to make a Santa hat and scarf like Osbert’s.  I even took Osbert to Isaac’s Christmas concert at school and held him up where he could see and wave to Isaac on the stage.  I’ve grown quite fond of Osbert myself.  At some point during the year, Isaac decided he didn’t need his blankie anymore–a sad, sad, day–but I really think Osbert came to replace the blankie rather immediately.  Apparently seven is too big for a blankie, but not too big for a beloved stuffed pal.  So, now Isaac goes to bed with Osbert right next to his cheek, and his old friend Polar Bear (who’s been around since year one) next to Osbert and Pete on the other side of Polar Bear, held in Isaac’s hand.  And every night, I tuck in and kiss goodnight all four of them:  *smack* “Goodnight, Isaac Boy.”  *smack*  “Goodnight, Osbert.”  *smack*  “Goodnight, Polar Bear.”  *smack*  “Goodnight, Pete.”  Seven year old boys are awfully nice.

Then my Hannah Girlie.  She turned five just over a month ago, so she spent the year as a four-year-old.  I’ll be honest, historically four has not been my favorite age.  But.  This is Hannah.  So, while four has not been my favorite age for her, she’s still Hannah, so even her four is sweet as can be.  I’m amazed at how she’s grown this year.  All around growth.  She has grown longer and leaner and her face has lengthened and her nose has gained a bridge.  And she’s older.  She started half-day pre-K this school year, so that adds a certain worldliness to her.  What is amazing to me is her empathy.  The thing is, that this child had empathy as a two year old, long before she ever should have been able to see past the end of her nose–ask Ruthie.  It’s not a slight, it’s just a developmental fact of life.  The world of a two-year-old revolves around herself.  And that’s OK.  But Hannah at two was worried that guests were hungry and thirsty, she was upset if someone else was hurt and sought to offer comfort.  The list goes on.  We were bowled over by it.  But now.  Now she’s at the age when she should be developing empathy.  So, she’s actually developing more.  The girl who’s always been aware of the feelings of those around her, concerned for them, caring for them, is growing even more caring and concerned.  I don’t know how big this girl’s heart is, but I’m not sure how it fits in her chest.

Well.  Now I’m just bragging.  Now I’ve turned this into one of those Christmas cards that make you gag.  Ooops.  It’s not my fault, though.  I cannot be held responsible.  It’s these kids.  They’re too great.  It has little to nothing to do with me, it’s just the way they were issued.

So, maybe this year wasn’t all bad.  It was pretty bad.  It was awfully bad in spots.  But then there were these three bright spots.  I do like these kids.  They’re keepers.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll reflect on some other stuff going on.  Don’t worry, you can eat a heavy meal beforehand, there will be no more nauseating goo streaming forth from me.  I’ll go back to my regularly scheduled sarcasm and pessimism and actually come up with some plans.  As per the title of this post.

Retail therapy . . .

So, we’ve entered the lesser known stage of grief known as Retail Therapy.  It’s still driven by productivity, but the productivity took the show on the road as Ry and I did a little shopping today.  I wasn’t going to write about it, maybe everybody’s sick of listening to the aftermath of our loss of Ry’s dad.  But then I thought, well, it’s not like anyone is being forced to read it and maybe, just maybe, someone else out there on the planet will happen by and find some helpful information here.  Either way, the bottom line is the writing of it is helpful for me.  My blog.  My prerogative. 

So.  Shopping.  We did some shopping today.  We dropped the kids at my mom and dad’s.  When I set it up, it was just going to be long enough for us to go to the grocery store and make one other stop.  But when I was leaving the kids, I bamboozled my mom into keeping the kids until near bedtime.  So, Ry and I made a date of it.

We bought a bookcase for our bedroom.  It’s a part of our “Let’s Clean Up the Second Floor” Chicken-with-its-head-cut-off dance.  I’m excited about it because I’ve been collecting piles of books and papers and junk in our bedroom for quite some time but we only have this one, teeny tiny bookshelf in our room so stuff is spilling out all over the place.  I have a cardboard box of books, a laundry basket of books, and some piles of books and folders on the floor.  Hideous, really.  I’m hoping when we return to the at-home version of the the Headless Chicken Dance tomorrow, that we’ll find more of the office space and I can shift my files over to there.  Old sermons, old academic papers, old lesson plans.  Things I need to store, but don’t need lined up on the floor of my bedroom.  So, tomorrow a new bookcase will go up and be filled immediately, but then my room will be neat and tidy.  Well.  Almost.  There still the tops of our dressers to deal with. . . .

Let’s see.  What else?  Got a new pair of jammies, super on sale.  And Ry and I picked up some miscellaneous little things at the Great Big Home Improvement store.  I honestly can’t remember what, exactly.

There was one thing we didn’t buy, that Ry’s wanted for some time, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to authorize tonight:  a boat.  Or a canoe.  One of them.  It seemed like such a fitting tribute to his dad.  But, alsas, alack, it’s not to be.  Not this time anyway.

Best part of the evening was going out for Mexican at a restaurant I absolutely love.  Everything there is the best.  The best salsa.  The best warm, fresh chips.  The best booths and tables.  The best staff.  The best food.  The best margaritas.  And.  Bonus!  Tonight (Wednesday) was margarita night, so my drink was half off.  Anyway, it was wonderful to sit at table with Ry, feel my margarita, talk about his dad and cry a little bit.  It was good.  For both of us.

Our date ended with a romantic trip to the grocery store.  I had to get the supplies for our annual New Year’s Day pork chop and sauerkraut dinner.  We have my sister and her husband and daughters up.  It will be fun and yummy.

See?  I am feeling better.  More optimistic.  It was the shopping.

Grief’s a funny thing . . .

Not a hee-hee, ha-ha kind of funny–which, I presume, you knew–just odd.

So, today, my beautiful, wonderful, grieving husband was on. FIRE! cleaning stuff out, hanging up pictures we haven’t seen in who knows how long . . . Actually, now that I think of it, I do know how long it’s been since we’ve seen these pictures.   They were wrapped in newspapers dated April 2002.  Yes.  2002.  They were wrapped up by helpful friends who helped us move out of seminary housing (our second time) and into the very first house we bought.  I was 8 months pregnant, ready to deliver Isaac in a month, contracting all over the place, two weeks from graduation, days from completing the semester’s classes.   Anyway, we’ve moved again since then.  And four more years have passed.

Today.  My husband picks today to unload a box that’s been packed up for nearly 8 years.  Grief’s a funny thing.

Our home office space got cleaned out, I sorted through heaps of clothes:  hand-me-downs as well as clean laundry that just never made it to the drawers.  We have 5 kitchen trash bags ready to be given away and another three bags of trash, clothing and otherwise.  We have hope of finishing it tomorrow.

Today.  We pick today to clean out a messy room that’s been a hideously cluttered wreck of a room for 18 months.  Today we start cleaning it out.  Prompted by my ambitious husband.  Grief’s a funny thing.

So, Ry’s on fire, all charged up and being productive all over the place.  He barely ate all day, but no matter, there was plenty of coffee on hand and the fuel of grief ablaze within him.

I myself thought I’d be just fine just shuffling around in my sweat pants and fleece pullover.  I wandered rather aimlessly, beyond the couple of minutes I decided to help Ry by sorting through those clothes.

I was more content to dig through the old boxes of his dad’s stuff and his dad’s dad’s stuff, which included some of his dad’s brother’s stuff and his mom’s stuff.  I found a 116 year-old Bible that belonged to Ry’s great-grandmother.  I also found some 110 year-old books of Bible stories and some other cool book things.  Also found some interesting military paraphernalia from Ry’s great-uncle who served in the Pacific during World War II.  Lots of fun stuff like that.  I pulled out the box and slowly pulled stuff out and looked, and packed back up, all while Ry cleared out and unpacked and hung up and did all manner of running about.  Grief’s a funny thing.

Our hearts are heavy.  My heart, on my sleeve, weighs down both of my arms and my feet and my head.  I don’t know how it works, but Ry’s heavy heart must throb extra blood to his extremities as he runs around like a chicken with its head cut off.  Grief’s a funny thing.

We laugh a lot.  We cry some.  We hug most of all.  We know.  We both know that grief’s a funny thing and that we who are, by nature, so very, very different are slogging through that grief in two completely different ways.  But it’s OK.  We’re going through it together.  We’re grieving together in the way that’s right for each one of us, all the while trying ever-so hard to look ahead to the healing and restoration that is to come.

But for now. . . . For now we rend our garments and toss 8 year-old newspaper and 100 year-old book dust upon our heads and wear pajamas all day.

We’ll get there.  We just have to slog through it.  Slog through the grief.  You can’t go around it.  You have to go through it.  Grief’s a funny thing.

A Christmas Eve Meditation from the Bereaved

The following is the meditation my husband gave at our church’s Christmas Eve service.  Ry’s father died at the age of 64 Saturday evening after a six-year journey through dementia.  Ry and I left early Sunday morning to drive 529 miles to spend the days following with his father’s devastated widow (Ry’s step-mother) and her children and grandchildren.  I had strongly encouraged Ry to find someone else to fill in for him on Thursday evening.  He refused.  I encouraged him to skip the meditation, simply to do lessons and carols.  He refused.  I didn’t see him do it and I’m not even sure when he did it, but somehow, someway, he came up with these words.  This week, and most weeks, this man is my hero.  I give thanks to God for the husband he gave me and I pray that together and in all things our lives will be lived to His glory.

I don ‘t have very much to say to you tonight. And for some I suppose, that’s the best Christmas gift a minister can give to his congregation.

What I do want to say to you is thanks. Thank you for the support and prayer and concern that you have extended to me and my family since my father’s death on Saturday.

Thank you for giving me the confidence and the freedom and the assurance I needed in order leave town, to be with my father’s wife and family, even on the Sunday before Christmas, knowing that everything and everyone here would get along just fine.

Thank you for being the kind of church that cares for its pastor in the same way that you would like to be cared for.

As you might imagine, this has been a tough week. Lee and I pulled into our driveway at 3:00 this morning, and right now I’m not sure how ready for Christmas I am. But here we are.

Having spent the last few days looking back over my dad’s life, over his long illness, mourning his death, it feels a little strange jumping right back into the holidays – the celebrations and gatherings, the feasts, even the gifts. Yet here we are, Christmas Eve, and ready or not, Christmas morning is closing fast.

And even though I don’t have all my presents wrapped, even though Isaac and I still have more lights to hang on our house – this year I am especially grateful for Christmas. In the wake of my father’s death, this one thing I know, now more than ever – we need Christmas.

When I say that, I don’t mean that we need all the trappings and trimmings. Not the trees and the ribbons, the wreaths and the greenery – as beautiful as they are.

I don’t mean we need gifting and the giving – though what a wonderful way to show the people you love how grateful you are for them.

I don’t mean we need the big meals and the piles of cookies and sweets – I know it may surprise some of you to hear me say that, especially you who have witnessed firsthand just how much I love food.

When I say we need of Christmas what I mean is that we need this event, this remembrance, this reminder of Jesus’ life – the advent, the arrival, of God with us – we need Christmas because in times like this, when the realities of life are hitting hard, Christmas answers questions.

Jesus’ birth – God, taking on flesh, God stepping into our world, answers the question, “where is God?” God is here – as threatening, as hard to reach out to as a newborn baby.

Jesus’ birth in the manger, poor and alone, answers the question, “has God forgotten me?” No, God has come for you. There is no place to far, to hard to reach, for God to find you.

Jesus’ birth – his life of healing and teaching and service, answers the question, “will God leave me broken?” No, God has come to make you whole. Whether in this life, or in the life to come, God will make all wrongs right.

Jesus’ birth – his sacrifice, his death, his victory over death, over darkness, answers the question, “is there hope, and release, and rescue?” Yes, God has opened the way to life as God intended for all his children – life of peace, joy, for all time, life in his presence, life of celebration.

No matter what our circumstances, whether we’re ready or not – Christmas comes, because Jesus came – bringing with him proof of God’s love – God’s hand to hold, God’s Word to hear, God’s life to share.

Jesus came, for you, for me, for light, for hope, for life beyond this broken world. Thanks be to God. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Life’s Miscellany

Ummm . . . let’s see. Apparently I gave up writing for Fall. Who knew it was a traditional time of fasting?

What else? . . . I’ve just discovered Pandora Radio. Not more than ten minutes ago. Who knew there was a way to find more music like some of the random songs I’ve come to find and enjoy? Maybe I’ll start listening to music again. I’ve been on a bit of a music hiatus for . . . Oh, I don’t know . . . a decade or so. I’m actually kind of excited, because I’ve been missing having music in my life.

OK. . . . Now what? Apparently Christmas is coming. Some might say it’s only ten days away, but I’m skeptical. Because if it were indeed only ten days away, surely I would have at least a present or two on hand and I don’t. No tree up. No presents bought. Well. Maybe one is on the way in the mail via a catalog order, but it’s for the one other fully literate member of my family, so I won’t give away anything more than I already have. Otherwise though . . . nothing. zilch. Noodle!! (ten points for the one who gets that reference.) No tree. An Advent wreath-like thing that’s been lit approximately three times so far and we’re, what? twenty-two days into Advent now? Oh. We do have lights on our house. That deserves a separate paragraph . . .

My Boy. Just call him Clark.  Specifically the Christmas Vacation version.  But really, Clark in general.  In fact he’s at least the fourth generation Clark.  Isaac.  Ry.  His father.  And his father before him . . . These men.  These men with their grand ideas.  Grand ideas borne of such noble motives.  Eternal, anything-is-possible optimism, never-say-die determination and perseverance.  Along with an inexplicable susceptibility to bad luck.  I love these men.  Every one of them.  So, Isaac’s latest manifestation of his inner Clark is his commitment to turning our house into a Christmas light extravaganza.  Given the fact that Ry and I, in our 15 Christmases as a family, have never been motivated enough to decorate any one of our homes–and this is our fifth Christmas-time dwelling–beyond a single strand of white lights once or twice in one apartment, we’ve given Isaac free reign and dubbed him King of Christmas Decorations.  As a result, my house looks like it’s been decorated by a seven year old with two good trips to K-mart.  It’s beautiful.

In other news . . . I’m getting a job.  Starting in January I will be the “Worship Leader” for the teeny tiny Presbyterian church in my teeny tiny town.  I’ll be leading worship (including preaching) every Sunday and doing crisis visitation.  It’s an absolutely minimal time commitment, which is simply perfect for where my family is right now.  I’m hoping the session of our family’s church will move the time of the service from 9:30 to 10:00, that way I’ll be able to get from the 8:30 service in our town to our family church in time for the start of worship, or at least by the end of the announcements.  I’m still committed to being with my kids as they grow up in the church and grow in their experience of worship.  I think Isaac and I came up with a wonderful solution this past week though.  He came to worship with me in our town, then we went to where his dad was preaching in time for Isaac to attend Sunday school there.  Best of both worlds.  It’s been to-my-core important for my children to worship with the rest of the believing community on Sunday mornings, but I’ve struggled to balance that desire with my kids’ comfort and enjoyment of their overall experience with church.  The church already runs most of our life, I want them to enjoy the fun and fellowship with their friends that is the added blessing of being part of a congregation.  Anyway, that’s really a whole other post . . .

Back to my new job . . . apparently I’m going to preaching every Sunday from now till I die.  Give or take.  That’s a little intimidating.  Scary.  Exciting.  Exhausting.  Scary.  And I admit I have some fear of alienating most to all of my Christian friends who are, for the most part, part of traditions that do not see women serving in preaching and teaching ministries to be in keeping with Scripture.  Just Saturday I watched a woman’s face fall as I shared with her that I’d be leading worship at the church in our teeny tiny town.  We just had been enjoying a conversation about our struggles with deciding whether or not to homeschool, determining the best educational path for our children when they move from our rather insulated elementary school to meeting up with the worldlier children from the southern part of our district in middle school.  There we were, bonding over our shared faith, our shared concern for our children’s moral and spiritual well-being, feeling like we had found a sister in the plight.  And I mention my leading worship and . . . confusion followed by polite head nods.  Anyway . . . there it is.  My used-to-be secret concerns about my vocation.

That’s enough chitty-chat chatter for one post.  Each of those paragraphs could have been a post in itself, probably.  Of course, my intention was to write far less.  But once my fingers start their little tippity-tap dance, they just can’t stop.

You Go. I’ll take care of this., part IV

My title for these reflections is “You go. I’ll take care of this.” And I want to tell you why. My reflections on this passage have left me with this image in my head. You go to your grandmother’s house for a family dinner. After the feast, the dishes are piled in the sink. And just as you’re rolling up your sleeves to get started, Grandma says, “No, no, don’t worry about these, you go . . .” play, work, do, whatever. Grandma’s going to take care of the dishes. I feel like that’s what God is saying here. But instead of talking about the dishes he’s talking about the food itself, and your clothing, your basic necessities. Not so you can sit down and do nothing, but so that you can go. Go out into the world and do the work of his kingdom. Maybe it’s because I’m a homemaker, this image is so strong for me. It’s God serving as the homemaker. The homemaker who takes care of the day-to-day needs. Does the cooking, does the sewing, the basic daily chores, managing the home so that her—and sometimes his—spouse can go to work.

Now, obviously we have some sort of part in this all. Turns out you do actually have to go to the grocery store once in a while. The point is, that the stuff . . . not just the fancy clothes and cars and houses, but the simple things like a roof over your head and a shirt on your back . . . the stuff is not what should be driving us, steering us, moving us from point A to point B. No, the defining catalyst in our life is God’s kingdom.

This passage in Matthew is a very comforting passage. Don’t worry about tomorrow, today’s worries are enough for today. But there is a “so what?” When I was in seminary, that was the critical element in our sermon writing. What’s the “so what”? Where does the rubber meet the road? Here it is: God is providing for our needs, making us content, not in order that we may be complacent. No, God is assuring us that our basic needs will be taken care of so that we are free to seek first and foremost his kingdom.

This is real, everyday stuff with practical implications. I invite you to consider over the coming days, really to consider continually: In what way am I furthering God’s kingdom in my workplace, in my school, in my community? Am I living the life God has called me to? Why do I really want this promotion? For the greater financial freedom or because it’s really what God is calling me to do to further his kingdom? Do you “give to everyone who begs from you, and not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you?” Yeah, that’s in there. Chapter 5, verse 42. Read it. And then keep reading on in the pages that follow. And as you do so, ask yourself, what can I learn and do from this passage that provides lumber for building God’s kingdom? How can I today, witness to the love of God in Jesus Christ? By the power of his Holy Spirit, may God keep that mission ever before our minds. Amen.

You go. I’ll take care of this. part III

The Sermon on the Mount is a tricky part of our How-To Manual. This is crazy stuff. Big demands. I encourage you . . . challenge you . . . no, implore you to go home today and read it. Begin in Matthew, chapter 5 and continue right through chapter 7. Really read it. Read it not as a pat on the back, but as instructions for how to be. Not as “blessed are the poor in spirit, so yay me if I’m poor in spirit.” NO, BE poor in spirit. DO hunger and thirst for righteousness, Do be peacemakers, do be persecuted and rejoice in it. You murder if you are angry, so you had darn well not be angry with someone. You commit adultery if you lust. Tear out your right eye if it causes you to sin. No, really, turn the other cheek to one who has already struck you. Love your enemies. Really. No kidding. Be perfect as God is perfect! Do not store up treasures on earth. Seriously? How am I going to eat?!

Ahh. How am I going to eat.

The sermon on the Mount is so radically counter-cultural. It really makes no worldly sense. Reading it in its entirety leaves us with few options for response. I think people tend to look at it in one of two ways: either as something other-worldly and mystical, which is how I think many non-Christians view it; or as some sort of unattainable ideal, as I think many Christians view it—I fear in order to rationalize our failure to achieve it. But It’s neither. Because if it were either of those, it wouldn’t have made canon’s cut. There’d be no reason to read it. Jesus is not a mystic, he is not other-worldly. That’s the core of our faith. Our God is a pragmatist. He. Put. On. Flesh. And. Dwelt. Among. Us. He lives among us. He’s not in some far off land. It wouldn’t be like him to give us a pile of fluff to dream about. He gives real, concrete guidance. The first draft of the Ten Commandments was written in stone by his very hand! Talk about concrete!

That leaves us with one final option: Jesus really meant it. He meant it for his disciples. And we are his disciples. But how are we to devote ourselves to a primary vocation of proclaiming God’s kingdom?

I think I’ve brought us to the same place Jesus’ first disciples were when they heard Jesus’ words on the mountain: Ok, Jesus, this is all sorts of crazy stuff you’re telling me to do. It all sounds so good, and it sounds so right, but you want me to leave my family behind? I’m their breadwinner you know, and now I’ve got no job. You’re telling me to go off and live this way. It sounds so good, be poor, be meek, don’t store up treasures on earth, don’t serve money. But I have to eat. I have day-to-day needs. How can I meet them? How am I going to eat?!

I can almost hear Jesus pulling up here. Noticing the widened, fearful eyes of his disciples. Wordlessly pleading, “How are we going to do all this?” And Jesus takes some time out to say these reassuring words:

“Don’t worry about your life, what you will eat or drink, or about what you wear. Worrying won’t do you any good. Haven’t you seen how God cares for his creation? Aren’t you part of his creation? Don’t you think he’ll care for you in the same way? It’s the world, the ones who don’t yet know me, who strive for food and drink and clothes. You don’t have to worry about these things. He knows you need them. You Go, seek out God’s kingdom. Give yourself up to his use in building the kingdom, live the life that he’s called you to. He’ll take care of the rest.”

We serve an all-satisfying God. I think on our best days we tend to only go so far as to believe God is providing our spiritual needs, we lean into him to help us face tragedies or even simply weariness. But God is all satisfying. He will provide our every need. Even our very food and drink. Remember that image of the nursing mother. It’s not just heady imagery. It’s literal, it’s practical. A tiny baby doesn’t know how the whole milk thing works, he doesn’t even think to his next meal, but he knows where to go when he needs it. He knows that mommy is magic and she provides this amazing stuff and all he has to do when he’s hungry is turn to her. So it is with us. Not just when it comes to spiritual fortitude, but with our actual, literal hunger. We are free to seek God’s will in our lives, to follow where he calls us, no matter the consequences, knowing that God will take care of the rest. He will provide our basic necessities. He will give us our literal bread to eat, daily.

You Go. I’ll take care of this., part II

To find that message that goes beyond “don’t worry, be happy,” we need to look at the passage in its larger context, as coming within Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. Jesus did not deliver this Sermon on the Mount to the masses. Sometimes Jesus spoke to every Tom, Dick, and Sally. But in Matthew’s rendering of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus is talking to his disciples. He has just recently called them to himself. Some crowds got to following him, but in this instance Jesus heads up the mountain and addresses his disciples directly. He is not talking to the crowds now, he is talking to his disciples, those who have already given everything up to follow him. He is telling them how to be his disciples, his students. Jesus is forming them as a unit, he is giving them an identity, describing a way of being that will set them apart from—even in opposition to—everyone else in their community. He is giving them a how-to lesson on being his disciples. Maybe that’s why the Sermon on the Mount doesn’t make sense outside of the church. Jesus isn’t talking to the multitudes here, he’s talking to those he’s called to himself, the ones he will later (in chapter 10) send out to proclaim the good news, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” And he’s talking to us. His 21st Century disciples. We are the ones he is calling to himself. We are the ones he’s sending out into the world today.

The Good News of the Gospel is not just for you and for me and for our psychological well-being. The Good News of the Gospel is the news of an entirely new Kingdom. An entirely new way of being. It is the ushering in of a whole new creation. Not just for you and me, but for the world. And our part in it, as the Church, is not simply to feel better about facing tomorrow. It’s not even about just helping others feel better about tomorrow. It is about participating with the God of the universe as he creates anew his glorious Kingdom. The start of the rebuilding project was his sending his Son, Jesus Christ. Our savior lived, died, defeated death, and rose again to usher in the New Age, the coming of God’s eternal kingdom, and he has called us, those who call him Lord, along for the ride. The continuation of God’s project, his mission, is his Son’s sending of us, to further that kingdom, to serve that kingdom with all that we have and all that we are. To embody that kingdom, to carry the blueprint around with us, to serve as hammers and nails, lumber and masonry, as he builds his Kingdom with us. All while we await the consummation of the building project with the return of God’s Son.

The Bible as a whole is our how-to manual. How to carry the blue-print, how to serve the project, how to be sent. How to be the tools God uses to build his kingdom. The Bible is the manual that forms us all as God’s mission team.