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.

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

Isaiah 49:

14 But Zion said, “the LORD has forsaken me,
And the Lord has forgotten me.”
15 “Can a woman forget her nursing Child
And have no compassion on the son of her womb
Even these may forget, but I will not forget you.
16 Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands;
Your walls are continually before me.”

Psalm 131:

1 O LORD, my heart is not proud, nor my eyes haughty;
Nor do I involve myself in great matters,
Or in things too difficult for me.
2 Surely I have composed and quieted my soul;
Like a weaned child rests against his mother,
My soul is like a weaned child within me.
3 O Israel, hope in the LORD
From this time forth and forever

Matthew 6:

25 “For this reason I say to you, do not be worried about your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink; nor for your body, as to what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? 26 “Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? 27 “And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life? 28 “And why are you worried about clothing? Observe how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin, 29 yet I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these. 30 “But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the furnace, will He not much more clothe you? You of little faith! 31 “Do not worry then, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear for clothing?’ 32 “For the Gentiles eagerly seek all these things; for your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. 33 “But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. 34 “So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

These were the three lectionary passages for a Sunday last May when I was serving as pulpit supply at a nearby church. Immediately after reading the three texts, my mind began to spin, placing all three passages together quite easily. First, there was the passage from Isaiah: “Zion (Israel) said, ‘The Lord has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me’.” In response the Lord compares himself to a nursing mother, telling Zion that a nursing mother is more likely to forget her child than the Lord is to forget his own. Now, Isaiah’s audience would not have been so far removed from the nursing image as we in our modern, Western culture might be, so let me help flesh out this reality for you.

Anyone who has nursed or has known well someone who has, knows how next to impossible it is for a nursing mother to forget her child. A nursing mother’s ability or inability to forget her nursling is not simply a function of how much she loves her child, or how good a mother she is. No, there’s a lot more to it than that. A nursing mother can’t forget her nursing child because her body won’t let her. Her body remembers for her. If she is absent from her child for a time longer than they would normally go between nursings, a mother’s body tells her quite plainly, quite full-ly, and sometimes even quite pain-full-ly that her child is missing. A mother who has to spend extra, unexpected time away from her young nursling is just as desperate to reunite with her baby as he is with her.

This is the kind of love and connection God is speaking of here. God will not forget his own, he cannot forget his own. In fact it’s even easier for a nursing mother to forget her nursling, and that is a physical impossibility. Isaiah 49 assures Zion, and by extension us, in no uncertain terms, that we will not be forgotten by our Lord. He will remember us, he will remain faithful to us, and is faithful to us, even when we have forgotten him.

In Psalm 131, David speaks of resting content in the Lord, as a weaned child with his mother. A weaned child has a calm, a contentment, a security. Resting in the arms of the one who has provided all his needs until his needs were fulfilled, a weaned child rests, assured of continuing love and care, assured that the one who has met his needs of the past will continue to meet the needs that are to come.

The passage from Matthew, this excerpt from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, continues the Psalmist’s theme. David, calmed and content in the arms of the Lord, lives the life called for in Matthew 6:24-34. Not worrying about tomorrow, trusting God to provide for his needs as God provides for the lilies of the fields, David doesn’t have to worry about tomorrow. Nor do we.

So within about 15 minutes of reading the lectionary texts, I had that. Ok, I’m done, I figured. But that won’t take long to say, that’s hardly a full sermon. In fact, it’s only about 4 minutes’ worth. But then again, what more is there to say? God does not forget us, he remains with us, faithful to us, supplying our every need: food, shelter, clothing, giving us nothing to worry about. It’s all right there, spelled out so neatly, so easily.

But is that it? Really? As amazing as all that is, I think there’s still more to be learned from those three passages working together.

While it’s all very true, here, in this context, falling in the midst of the Sermon on the Mount as it does, this passage is saying far more than “Don’t worry, be happy.”

I lift my eyes up . . .

¹I will lift up my eyes to the mountains;
From where shall my help come?
²My help comes from the LORD,
Who made heaven and earth.
³He will not allow your foot to slip;
He who keeps you will not slumber.
⁴Behold, He who keeps Israel
Will neither slumber nor sleep.
⁵The LORD is your keeper;
The LORD is your shade on your right hand.
⁶The sun will not smite you by day,
Nor the moon by night.
⁷The LORD will protect you from all evil;
He will keep your soul.
⁸The LORD will guard your going out and your coming in
From this time forth and forever.

I’ve had a lot going on lately.  Specifically, had a crazy couple of weeks back in the middle of September. On September 14^th, I received a call from my mother. She and my father had just returned from an appointment with my father’s neurologist.

Back in the early spring, my 63 year old father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. This was a hefty blow to the former Marine Master Sgt., and a Teamster who made his living carrying refrigerators around. It was also a mighty blow to the three women of his life: his wife of 41 years and his two grown daughters. Visions of watching this strong, proud man who had worked so hard, so well, his whole life—beginning at the age of 12—physically weaken and deteriorate before our eyes began creeping in from the deep, dark corners of our minds.

This was not how it was supposed to be. We had all grown convinced of an entirely different scenario for his death. His own father, along with his father’s brother, had died of sudden heart attacks at the tender age of 42. Their sister also had her first heart attack at 42, however it wasn’t until suffering her second at 54 that she joined her brothers in early death. Losing his father when he was twelve and a most beloved uncle when he was 16 left my father with an immense appreciation for life. He never took a moment for granted, and began counting every year past age 42 as an especially precious gift.

The other side of that coin was that, as a family, we all assumed that my father, like his father before him, would be cut down swiftly and in the prime of his life. That image, that fear, truly was a driving force in our life.

But. But then came the diagnosis in the spring: Parkinson’s. And our vision of my father being struck down suddenly, in all of his strength, were replaced with shadows of deterioration and longterm care. Devastating. And certainly bad enough.

Now. Back to September 14^th. . . . During this, my father’s second visit with the neurologist, issues beyond my father’s tremors were raised. Behavioral changes, cognitive changes—changes we had attributed to something else—changes observable to the neurologist, put something new on his radar screen: dementia. Specifically, Lewy Body dementia.

Suddenly our vision for my father’s last years shifted yet again. Instead of a strong body failing and deteriorating, we now imagine my father’s mind failing, growing incapable of speech, of even recognizing me or my sister or the woman he’s loved since he was 17 or even his 5 grandchildren.

The thing is, I don’t have to work very hard to imagine the realities of dementia. My 64 year old father-in-law is in the later stages of his own bout with dementia. Diagnosed nearly seven years ago with a form of dementia called Frontotemporal Dementia (or FTD)–go ahead, do the math . . . that’s right, he was 57 when he was diagnosed—the dementia’s effects on him are profound. And heartbreaking.

When I heard of my father’s possible diagnosis of dementia, Ry and I were actually waiting to hear details on his step-mother’s trip to visit her brother on the other side of the country. Feeling a deep need to visit her ailing brother, my step-mother-in-law reluctantly asked if we could go and care for my father-in-law while she left town for 5 days. We were happy to oblige. Our plans were confirmed midweek: we would leave Sunday to spend the week with my father-in-law.

Ry and I slogged through that week: spending extra time with my mother and sister—all of us reeling from my father’s new diagnosis—making arrangements with the school to get work for my 2^nd grader to do while we were out of town for a week, both of us preparing sermons for Sunday morning in two different pulpits. Too late to arrange for pulpit supply for Ry, and with me as the pulpit supply at another church, we decided to head south after we all returned home from church on Sunday and packed up the minivan with all our stuff and three kids. We began the 530 mile trip at 3:30 in the afternoon and arrived at my in-law’s at 2:30 in the morning. Ry’s step-mother left home at 10 the next morning, and on two to three hours of sleep for each of us, Ry and I hit the ground running.

Our week consisted of a whole lot of care-taking, lots and lots of dishes, and what seemed to be a continual parade of meals and snacks and drinks. And our week was filled with amazing blessing as we were able to express our love for my father-in-law in real and tangible ways, and watch our children learn by example our family’s expectation for loving one another.

However. I’ll be honest. Our week was exhausting. And our week was overwhelming. And because the days following my own father’s diagnosis were spent in that flurry of activity, I hadn’t time to stop and really think things through, to really process it. Still the news was weighing on me, and somewhere around mid-week, on a morning after both my father-in-law and our youngest had a bad night’s sleep, I hit a wall.

On Wednesday morning, I had a few quiet moments to myself in the only place a mom can have in her own home, provided the room has a room that locks: the shower. In the quiet, I reflected on my week. I had spent the week caring for my father-in-law, loving on him, his face with only glimmers of expression, his brown eyes only occasionally finding my own in any meaningful way, sometimes confused, often simply staring to space. These images of him raced through my mind, but then before I knew what was happening, the images changed. My father-in-law’s brown eyes were replaced by the clear blue eyes of my father, the expressionless face grew broader, fairer. My mind continued down the path of foreseeing. Thoughts of how I would explain to my children how the brain of their other grandfather now has something wrong with it. I wondered if they would begin to consider this brain deterioration as simply the way the world works and then would begin to worry about their own father’s brain or even their own. I began to wonder how my mother with her own health concerns would be able to care for my father and I realized she would need a great deal of help from my sister and me. I started to think about how after seven years it seemed I was finally putting that Master’s of Divinity to work, serving churches, but how would I balance that now? Throughout my thoughts of all the ways my life would be affected by my father’s future, my father’s face, superimposed over my father-in-law’s condition, continued to come in and out of focus before my mind.

My mind was whirling, buzzing, with all of what would be required of my family in the coming years, while at the same time feeling intensely the heart-wrenching burden of my father-in-law’s condition. Aching for him, and for his wife and for my husband. Knowing that the end is in sight, realizing the huge hole that will open up in our lives without him in it. And my heart ached for my father, for the things he’d have to go through before he lost awareness. Truly, this was not all about me.

Whirring, buzzing, spinning, turning, every which way a big, scary mess. Until finally I found myself completely overwhelmed by all that lay ahead.

And it’s at this point that I did the only thing I think anyone in those circumstances would do, can do. I cried out to God. “Lord, how am I going to get through this? How are we all going to get through this?” An image had formed in my head. A mountain. I was staring at this enormous mountain in front of me and somehow, some way, I needed to climb up and over it and pass through to the other side. “How, Lord? How am I going to get over that mountain?!”

It doesn’t happen often. I think because I don’t listen often enough, but I believe the Lord answered me. And he answered me with his very own Word.

“I lift my eyes up to the mountains. Where will my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”

To be honest, I heard the verse in the form of the song I know. “I lift my eyes up. Up to the mountains. Where does my help come from? My help comes from you, maker of heaven. Creator of the earth.”

How many times had I sung that song? Countless. Countless many. Many many. With my hands raised and my eyes closed (even though I’m Presbyterian), I had envisioned a vast open space with big mountains, like the rockies—enormous, jagged, imposing mountains. Mountains that demonstrate the power of the One who made them. I envisioned God above those mountains. You know, kind of a Mt. Sinai vision: God, himself, dwelling on a high, rocky mountain. God of power. Beautiful vision, truly. I had sung the song marveling at God’s awesome power to have created such magnificent mountains and to be so beyond the scope of those magnificent mountains, that he dwells above them and beyond them. So to this point this song, this Psalm, was a song that reminded me of God’s strength and power, but in a far off sort of way. God, Big God, way above the mountains, providing help to me. A beautiful image. Truly.

But not the one that came to mind on that day I cried out to him and he answered with this Psalm. Suddenly, I saw things much differently. Suddenly the mountain was not evidence of God’s majesty, of his amazing power of creativity. Suddenly, the mountain was this overwhelming task that was set before me. In my mind I was now at the foot of one of those enormous, imposing Rockies, and my task was to scale it. And I’m no outdoors-woman. But God was assuring me I would make it over to the other side.

When I had a chance to sit down with a Bible and look at the rest of the Psalm, it came into still fuller clarity for me. It does not describe a far-off God providing help from on high. It describes a God who is my climbing partner and then some. “He will not let your foot be moved.” I trip a lot. The image of God holding onto my foot so it doesn’t slip on the graveled terrain? Wow. Suddenly I had a clear image of the ultimate hiking partner. One who would stay right by my side and compensate for any uneven terrain, keeping me on track.

“He who keeps you will not slumber.” You know this is talking about a place where critters come and eat you in the night while you sleep. But God never sleeps, so when you need rest, he keeps things going, he keeps you safe. I was assured that even in the midst of the worst moments to come, there would be time and space for my rest. I cannot keep watch at all times, but when I can’t, the Lord, who never sleeps, will keep it all in his sight and care.

“The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.” Day and night, the Lord will be there, protecting me from the elements, protecting me from the harsh realities of the journey.

“The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.” I will survive this. I will. I will not plummet to my death. I will not be buried in an avalanche or a mudslide. The Lord will keep me.

“The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore.” The Lord will be here with me through it all. Wherever I go, whatever I do. In this life as well as the one to come.

Praise and thanks be to God for his Word.

Some questions and reflections, part I

My ordination exams are half over now.  I took my Theological Competence and Biblical Exegesis sections.  By request, I’ll share two of my questions and responses to them.  Mostly so you can see what I’m doing.  Be kind.  Because I don’t want to find out prematurely that I failed miserably. 

First, the passage I’m reading and working with is 2 Peter 3:8-15a.  Here it is:

⁸But do not let this one fact escape your notice, beloved, that with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like one day. ⁹The Lord is not slow about His promise, as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing for any to perish but for all to come to repentance^{.  10}But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, in which the heavens will pass away with a roar and the elements will be destroyed with intense heat, and the earth and its works will be burned up.¹¹Since all these things are to be destroyed in this way, what sort of people ought you to be in holy conduct and godliness, ¹²looking for and hastening the coming of the day of God, because of which the heavens will be destroyed by burning, and the elements will melt with intense heat! ¹³But according to His promise we are looking for new heavens and a new earth, in which righteousness dwells. ¹⁴Therefore, beloved, since you look for these things, be diligent to be found by Him in peace, spotless and blameless, ¹⁵and regard the patience of our Lord as salvation.

And the first question I’ll share:

Discuss the tension in this passage between divine wrath and judgment implicit in the fiery destruction of this world, on the one hand, and divine grace and redemption expressed in God’s patience in providing opportunity for salvation, on the other.  How does this passage contribute to your understanding of the relationship between God’s justice and mercy?

And my answer:

Sometimes in the face of passages such as 2 Peter 3:8-15, in which we find impending doom and destruction, it’s easy for us to so focus on the visions of destruction that we lose sight of God’s grace that continues to abound even here. It is important to remember the larger context of this passage. It is not presented as a warning to the unrighteous, it is presented as a word of hope to the believing community. Here in 3:10-15 we find a tension between the wrath of God and the mercy of God.

On the one hand, the believing community is told that God will destroy the godless, that the earth and the heavens will be destroyed, that the false teachers will be revealed for who they are, while the godly will remain to see the day of the new heaven and new earth where their righteousness is at home. On the other hand, we hear tell of a God of patience, one who wants no one to perish but all to come to repentance.

Perhaps in the tension we find the depth of both God’s justice and mercy. It is within God’s power and within his right to destroy the godless, to rid the world and creation of all unrighteousness. As the believing community stands in the midst of the godless, under the pull and sway of those who would have them turn from what is right and true and godly, it is an encouraging word to know that those other forces, those ungodly, false teachers deserve God’s wrath and that God will exact his justice. However, it is not God’s desire to destroy anyone. Yes, they deserve it. But God does not want it. God wants all to come to repentance, and it is out of that desire that he waits for his day to come. He waits patiently to give everyone a chance to repent. Great is the God who holds the power and the right to exercise great wrath and judgment, yet withholds it in patience for all to repent and turn toward him.

I think our Reformed sensibilities—our reverence of God’s sovereignty above all else, and our humility in maintaining the mystery contained within our God—prevent us from delving further into God’s rationale, his plans. This passage of 2 Peter leaves us with an irresolvable tension. On the one hand, God is indeed a God of justice, a God who demands obedience and worship and single-minded allegiance; and God will indeed exact his justice. On the other hand, God is a God of infinite mercy and grace, a God who emptied himself, humbled himself to the point of death on a cross, in order to fulfill his own justice on our behalf. 2 Peter declares that God does not want any to perish but wants all to come to repentance. Ours is not to resolve the tension, but to live in it: to embrace the hope that we who remain steadfast in Christ’s righteousness will find our home in the new heavens and the new earth, and never to cease in our proclamation of God’s glorious gospel of mercy that the day will come when all will come to repentance.

More tomorrow . . .

Answering some questions . . .

My last post in which I rambled on about how theology matters prompted the following comment from one of my imaginary friends:

My favorite college prof. drilled that into my head: THEOLOGY MATTERS! And it does. It really, really does.

And I am at a place right now where I am scared to death that I’m wrong. “We as human beings bring our own baggage and junk to the Bible, read into it and out of it things that are informed by our own experiences and biases.” This is so very true. When I read the Bible, I still see it through my old theological glasses so easily. So how do we ever know that we’re right? I don’t need to be right about everything, His “ways are higher than [my] ways”, and His “thoughts are higher than [my] thoughts.” But what about the basics? How do I know that God looks on me in grace and isn’t disgusted by my failing to measure up?

I’ve been thinking about this since July 27th, when she wrote it, but have had limited online time in the meantime.  But still, the question has been floating around.  Then when I started commenting in response I realized it was all getting too long for a comment, that it may very well be a post in and of itself.  So that’s what I made it.

I’m going to start backwards though.

“How do I know that God looks on me in grace and isn’t disgusted by my failing to measure up?”

Well, my answer to that one is that both are true.    God is disgusted by your failure to measure up.  He’s also disgusted by the presence of sin in the world that makes it impossible for you to measure up.  Which is why he sent his Son, to clean the whole mess up.  Now your failures are buried with Christ, and when God looks at you he sees *Christ’s* righteousness, and all of your failures cannot change that.  And your successes are Christ’s successes.  All of our good works are, first of all, Christ working in us, and second of all, stacked together, are like trying to climb a step-ladder to heaven.  So great is the divide between our sinfulness and God’s holiness.

Of course, you know all that, because you’ve come to this whole “new” theology.  So now the question is, how do we know *we’re* right and “they’re” wrong?  Or even simply that we’re right?  I still suspect I’m going to see Jesus face to face some day and say “ooOOOOOOoooohhh.  Now I get it.  Boy was I wrong.“  Because we’re humans trying to do the best we can with what we’ve got.  But we’re not doing it alone.  We do it with the help of a powerful Advocate.  But how do we know we’re hearing Him, and not someone else?  We test the spirits.  Some of the ways I do that . . .

Which direction is this idea sending me?  Running toward God with open arms?  Or away from God?  Ecstatic in God’s love for me?  Or cowering and trembling in fear?  What does the whole of Scripture tell me is God’s desire for me in my relationship with him?

Which leads me to another question I ask . . . Is this idea reflective of one little piece of Scripture, one verse, one sentence?  Or is it reflective of the entirety of Scripture.  I’m always looking for the big-picture ideas.  Ones that reflect *all* of Scripture.  I also think when a problem arises, a discrepancy, a seeming contradiction, the problem lies with my understanding, and again, look to the whole of Scripture.  Big picture.  That one may be less helpful.

A big one for me is the corporate voice of the Church.  I believe we best discern the words of the Holy Spirit in a group.  Of course, there are big groups holding onto these dissenting opinions, so that’s not quite enough.  I guess the mere fact that the particular theology I ascribe to has been hanging around for 475 years (and more, if you count Luther )  And still (way) more if you count Augustine’s influence on the Reformers) holds a lot of weight with me.  Not because I think those men were any better than you or I or anyone else for that matter.  They are men.  Men men men.  And their ideas are secondary, subservient to, Scripture.  But their ideas came *from* Scripture.  And their way of reading Scripture was reading it in its entirety, as if it is one big book.  And, to me anyway, if you’re going to claim the authority of Scripture, you ought to claim that the whole thing is authoritative and equally so.  I think that’s what my 500 year old friend did.  I see a lot of picking and choosing in the more modern theologies.  I also see such a bias so enormously informed by Western individualism and the Enlightenment that it’s sometimes hard to extract the theology from that bias.  It seems to be the driving force of it, the culture-bound nature of it.

I guess you could say the culture of the Reformers was equally binding on them.  Maybe I find a lot of encouragement (that it’s accurate) in the fact that the theology has stood the test of time and that it has been easily transferred from one culture to another.  As if the theology can be transferred without the culture.  The timelessness of a given theology, to me, speaks to the timelessness of the One who inspired it. . . .

Of course, now the Roman Catholics will–and with every right–pshaw and say, “500 years??!!  You’ve got to be kidding me! You think that’s old??!!“  Likewise-and more so–my Eastern Orthodox brethren.  So, you know, obviously time isn’t the only test of truth.  But it helps.  The age of the doctrines, the broader the adherents, these things help me feel better about my newfangled theological notions.

At the end of the day, though, I think I stay most with my earlier thoughts.  Is this idea leading me to run toward God or away from him?  Remember that it wasn’t until Sin came on the scene that Adam and Eve realized they were naked and started cowering and hiding.  And, ultimately, I remind myself that nobody’s right.  Nobody’s got it all together.  It’s all through a glass darkly.  But the good news remains that God’s love is big enough to cover my bad theology.  Nothing . . .  Not even my skewed and dead wrong theologizing . . . can ever separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.  And I know that is true because God said so.  And the fact that he has never stopped pursuing his people illustrates it.  And those thoughts make me want to lay myself bare and lie prostrate before him–not out of shame, but out of adoration–and bask in his love and in his glory.  That’s a theology I can live with.

For the three-millionth time . . .

Theology matters.

The problem could lie with me, but I have encountered many people who are resistant to hear my going on and on teaching about theology. People-in-the-pews (though, in this case, they’re actually sitting around a table for a study) effectively saying (though much more politely and “churchly”) “Will ya shut up about Calvin already?!!” Or “I don’t want to hear the word Reformed ever again!” Or (and this one is closer to verbatim) “Why do we need all this theology talk anyway? Can’t we just read the Bible?”

I’ll be honest. Sometimes it hurts my feelings. I’m led to question my greatest intellectual passion and pretty much my whole perceived reason for being, not to mention everything I’ve done with my brain for the last 10 years and-then-some. Other times I don’t care. I might look at is as my hobby, my fun and games. Some people crochet, I theologize. At those moments, while I’m not really changing my ways, I am buying into the opinions of my naysayers, and discrediting the global value of my intellectual pursuits. Right or wrong. That’s what I’m doing.

So, I get in this place where I think there really is no value in what I’m doing/thinking/studying/ranting beyond my pure enjoyment and, occasionally, dragging someone else in on my intellectual gymnastics for a little fun. Just for kicks.

And then. And then I have an encounter with a person who has been seriously messed up by the theology they’ve been taught, the theology they’ve been steeped in, the theology that has shaped their walks. And then I have a stark reminder that theology does, indeed, matter. It matters very much.

The reality is that we can’t “just read the Bible.” We as human beings bring our own baggage and junk to the Bible, read into it and out of it things that are informed by our own experiences and biases. If it were indeed possible to “just read the Bible” or have simply “Bible-focused theology,” there wouldn’t be thirty-five million (give or take) denominations. Most everybody thinks they’re being faithful to the Bible, nobody’s throwing the thing out. I think groups are better or worse at recognizing their own cultural biases and personal lenses through which they read Scripture, but at the end of the day, everyone’s got them.

So, my point in all that rambling is that everybody has a theology, everybody has some sort of driving doctrine, even if they claim otherwise. And the shape and scope of that theology, each flavor, each doctrine, matters. Real people get real hurt by crappy theology.

There. I said crappy. Call the cops. I’m being judgmental. But crappy is as crappy hurts. I spent Sunday afternoon with a woman of immense faith. By that I mean she was raised in the church, switched denominations upon marrying, but continued to be a faithful member of a church. She has taken as completely unquestionable truth the identity of Jesus Christ as Lord. She believes and knows to her core that Jesus Christ is God incarnate, Lord of all; that he died on her behalf, taking with him her sins, defeating death to rise again, all to reconcile her to God. In other words, in the words of another tradition, she is saved. Period.

And she’s scared to death. Better said, she’s scared of death. And she’s scared of God. And she’s scared she could never possibly be good enough to get to heaven, that were Jesus to return right now, she’d be spending eternity burning in the fiery pit of hell. She spoke of hating when one of her pastors would speak of how wonderful Jesus’ return will be. She trembles at the thought. She has been convinced by the same people who convinced her of the truth of the gospel that her salvation is in her tenuous grip, that one wrong move and it’s all over. She fears the consequences of some life changes she’s made in the last several years that has led her to keep company with an Irish Catholic. She has now entered the fast and slippery track to hades as she has begun to drink an occasional glass of wine (*gasp*) and journey to gambling establishments a couple of times a year. I nearly worded that last sentence “She enjoys the occasional glass of wine and trip to casinos,” but I’m quite certain she doesn’t truly enjoy any of it, so convinced is she that they are contributing to her purchase of a one-way ticket to you-know-where. Instead she almost enjoys herself, while at the same time resigning herself to her fate of eternal damnation. Happy times, I tell ya.

I know I’m supposed to just appreciate the differences between denominations. I know I’m supposed to agree to disagree. And most of the time I do. I might joke to the contrary, but I really have an appreciation for how the personalities that go with each denomination and the emphases each brings to the table all work together to present a fuller picture of all we can understand about God this side of the Kingdom.

But sometimes . . . sometimes I’m confronted with the consequences of a theology other than my own and I think, No. Some ideas about God are just wrong. I’m not claiming that I’ve got it all together, I’m not. But when a teaching about God, one’s words about God, leave a person trembling in fear–leave a believer trembling in fear, something is terribly wrong.

When we read the epistles, we find joyful anticipation of Christ’s return. The epistles, even Revelation, are words of hope to a struggling community. How many of the first Christians would have signed on if doing so not only threatened their lives through persecution but also left them scared to death of . . . well . . . death. What’s the point?

“If we have hoped in Christ for this life only, we are of all men most to be pitied.” (1Cor 15:19)

To that I say, “You’re not kidding, Paul.”

I admit I haven’t researched this alternative theology extensively for my little ramblings here, but this much I know is true. The Gospel is, literally, Good News. That’s what the word means. It is good news. And good news don’t leave the believer fearful and crawling under the pews. It just don’t. Sure, preach your fire and brimstone if you want, if you truly believe it a good means of conversion (though the million ways I disagree with that would take at least another post.)
But when you’re preaching to the believers, to the people who have been convinced of the truth of the gospel, preach them some good news, will you? Preach them the kind of news that helps them sleep at night and get out of bed in the morning. Preach them the kind of good news they can cling to when they’re faced with major surgery and old age and, especially, major surgery in old age.

If the gospel taught and received leaves the recipient hopeless and filled with fear, or scrambling to keep up, to keep the law, to be good enough, this is no good news at all. I dare to say it is a different gospel, not that there is another gospel, from the gospel of Christ (Gal 1:6-9). For the gospel of Jesus Christ is a good news of hope and assurance, news of salvation.

Theology is just that: words about God. The words we speak about God, matter. And the words we speak, after we stop reading and lift our heads up from the Bible, are indeed theology. So, for the three-millionth time: theology matters. It is a matter of life and death: both how we live our life (in hope or dread?) and how we face our death (in hope or dread).

Big Enough God, And How!

So as briefly alluded to in my last desperate post, my husband was out of town this past week. He left around two on Sunday afternoon and returned at nine o’clock last night. The anticipation of this trip was part of what sent me off the deep end on Sunday. I am so not that mother.  You know, the one who does everything around the house, all the cooking, everything to take care of the kids, is the only one whose sleep is disturbed by children that go bump in the night.  I am so not that mother.

I am the mother whose husband picks up food from the grocery store on his way home from work, walks in the door and gets to cooking.  Except on the evenings I throw the children to him and take on the task of cooking the food before I cook the children.  And except for the evenings I throw the children and the dinner prep at him and hide away somewhere.  I’m that mother.

So, when the Daddy leaves town, things change around here.  The whole system changes.  And it scares me.

But you know what?  This week was amazing.  Starting with the eye-opening encounter with God on a beautiful country road on Sunday and continuing on through to Thursday:  miraculous intervention.  Miraculous patience, miraculous drive.  All week long I kept my eyes on the two feet right in front of me, paying no attention to the days-without-husband that stretched before me.  In fact, the hardest day was yesterday when I knew it was almost over and I kept looking past the task at hand and toward the top of the knoll.  It was then that I began tripping, losing momentum.

Until that point, I simply did what was right before me.  Change this diaper, not “Urgh, all these diapers!!!“  Toddler decides to awaken 3 1/2 hours before I go to sleep?  OK.  Get up and love on sleepless toddler.  Don’t think about how tired you’re going to feel all day long.

Maybe some of you are saying, “Well, of course!”  But this is not my way.  This is one of my biggest struggles, to get so lost in the scope of the entire task (whatever it is) that I’m left paralyzed and unable to take a single step toward accomplishing it.  Not so this week.  This week I took things one thing, one moment at a time.  I did set some longterm goals, however.  1.  My husband will come home to a house neater and cleaner than the one he left and 2.  I will get all of these clean clothes folded and put away.  And I surpassed these goals by a mile.  One pile of toys at a time.  One basket of clothes at a time.  When I looked in my room full of clean clothes yesterday (and I do mean full) I didn’t succumb to paralysis, I picked one pile and got to work.

I can’t count the number of times this week I raised words of gratitude to the One I know was responsible for this transformation.  I really had been in a dark spot these last few weeks, going through a cycle of questioning all of my faith.  The whole thing, the whole God story, seemed so distant, so unreal to me.  And then I yelled at God on Sunday.  I did.  I yelled and argued and essentially told him I wasn’t buying what he was selling.

And how did he respond?  With a swift smite?  No.  With grace.  With grace sufficient and abundant.  With more grace than I knew I needed or could imagine available.  Without a doubt I know that God met me this week.  Met me on the pretty road to nowhere, with windmills off in the distance and brown hay on either side.  Met me in each gross never-ending-this-kid-eats-entirely-too-much-fiber diaper.  In every solo bedtime with crazed toddler and tired olders.  In every minute of each and every day.  His grace was sufficient.

His grace is sufficient.  For yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  Praise be to God!

Big Enough God

So I ran away from home this morning. Well, I didn’t really run, more a quick walk. And it wasn’t really away from home, it was away from my family. They were parked in the mini-van next to the church. I kid you not.

Ry was still in the church, due out any second, the kids were buckled up after yet another frustratingly exhausting and demoralizing Sunday morning at church. Everyday around here has felt that way lately. I don’t know if it’s Isaac’s transition home from school for the summer, his and Hannah’s transition to spending all day every day with one another, the unfortunate clashing of their disparate developmental stages, their mother’s status as a total, certifiable basket case, or all of the above. Whatever the source, these last couple of weeks have been hard. Really, deep in my soul hard.

This morning I hit a wall.

After another crummy Sunday at church—we’ve been in a crummy pattern for the last two months or so, prior to that Sunday morning was a happy, happy time in our family. . . .After another crummy Sunday at church, I was returning to the minivan after helping close up the church, barring the door (literally), and before I even got within reach of the thing, I could hear it. The whining. The yelling. The he said/she said/mommy solve this problem for us cries. And I hit the wall.

I shut the van doors and kept walking. And walking. And walking. I can’t say for sure but I’m thinking I made it two miles.

Up the hill I stormed, walking as fast as my legs could carry me. Too furious overwhelmed frustrated defeated—I’m not really sure—to form thoughts. Just blind fury, or rage, or I don’t even know if there was anger in it. But it was blind. And it was overpowering.

Down the hill I began to cry out. Why? Why oh why oh why did I agree to have children, God?! I’m sorry. I’m sorry I told you I wanted to have children for you. I shouldn’t have had children. I’m totally incapable of being a mother.

Lee, you know I don’t make mistakes. You know I knew what I was doing when I gave you these children.

Yeah, I know. I know they’re really your children. Your children you’ve given to me for a time to guide and teach. But I just can’t do it. And I don’t know if I really believe that anyway. I mean in my head, yeah, but when it comes to the day-to-day? I’m not so sure. I think I still think I’m responsible for how they turn out. I don’t think I really believe all this stuff I spout off on all the time. I’m just saying it.

Huff, puff, huff . . . Uphill I climb. I just can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this. I am such a horrid, horrid mother. I’m doing something horribly wrong. I can’t do this by myself. I can’t make it through the week without my husband I can’t I can’t even do it with him home. I can’t I suck I can’t.

I see daisies on the side of the road. Consider the lilies of the field. Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about tomorrow. Fine, sure. But I can’t even make it through the right now. I know I’m supposed to lean in to you. My grace is sufficient. I know that. I hear that. Maybe I don’t know it. I don’t see how. I don’t hear it, I don’t feel it. I just can’t get through the every moment of every day.

Down the hill I go. Trod trod trodding. I just can’t do it. Fine, don’t worry about tomorrow. I know that. But I can’t do right now. When they’re screaming and whining at each other and Ruth the Wonder Will is yelling NO! at me and screaming at me, what in the world am I doing? What am I raising? Ugh. And look at that big hill, another big hill . . .

Don’t look at the whole hill in front of you. Just look immediately in front of you, just right in front of your feet. Don’t worry that you’re going up hill. Just take every step forward, I will get you over the hill.

Oh. This little two-foot square of asphalt in front of me is not a hill, it’s just a couple of steps to take. I won’t look at the hill in front of me, that way it won’t overwhelm me. Just take the steps to cross this square of asphalt right in front of me. . .

Yes. That’s it. Just the steps right in front of you. I will give you what you need right now, let me worry about where you’re going. These are my children too. I can get them where I want to get them in spite of you. Let me worry about the hill, about the long range. You deal with the moment to moment.

Yeah, but that’s not exactly true. I do have to worry about how these kids are going to make their future decisions, how they’re going to deal with conflict, how they will face the world.

You are not their only influence. You are not in charge of the universe, Little Miss Reformed Girl.

Oh. Well. I don’t want to screw it up. I don’t. I don’t want to turn them away from you because I am loving them so badly all in your name.

Just focus on the steps in front of you. I will get you over the hill.

Wow. I made it up that big hill. It’s flat now. I can breathe more easily. And I hear the tell-tale squeak of my minivan breaks behind me. A kind and gentle man looks out the window and asks if I want a ride.

Then I eavesdrop on a conversation in the back of the minivan.

“God is everywhere Hannah. He could be sitting right here next to us. There’s only one God, but he’s everywhere.”

“Is he over there by the bushes?”

“He could be, you never know.”

“Is he there on the side of the road, next to that dog?”

“Yep. He’s there next to that dog.”

“Maybe he’s taking care of the dog.”

“Sure he’s taking care of the dog. He’s taking care of everybody. You can’t see him, but you know. This you know: that he’s there, he’s always there with you.”

“Isaac, how come we talk to God and he can hear us but we can’t hear him?”

“Well, Hannah, the thing is, sometimes if you’re very quiet and you listen very carefully and you pray to God and you’re very quiet and you listen, you can hear him talking to you. He’s everywhere.”

Even following a renegade mommy as she runs away from home. Even sitting in a dirty smelly minivan with a sweaty mommy and tired children. Speaking to the renegade mommy through the sweet faith of her children. Reminding her both that she’s never out of his reach, and that she must not have been doing such a horrible job after all.

Christian Death Revisited

I pretty much said it all in the four posts on death I wrote back during Lent, but on Saturday I was on the receiving end of the blessing that comes in understanding death through Christian, hope-filled eyes.

I attended the memorial service of my friend Jack. Remember that he was a seminary classmate of mine, so unlike with the previous two funerals I attended, this one was in my own tradition, my own flavor. Presbyterian. Decent and in order. It was wonderful. And awful. And wonderful.

First. No remnants of a lifeless earthly body in sight. It is so much easier to envision a glorified body when you’re not staring at a corpse, a box holding a corpse, or a pretty jar of dusty remains.

Second. It was a service of worship. It had all the elements of a Sunday morning worship service, in the usual order. So, for me, that was comforting. In fact it was more than comforting. After few to no worship services without children in tow over the last 7 years, it was glorious simply to be in a worship service by myself!

The thing with this funeral is I needed it. I walked into that room with so many hang-ups, so much grief. I walked in angry that such a man, such a pastor, would go through all it took to complete seminary and be ordained, beginning at the age of 53, and have such a short pastorate. Yes. I said angry. I admit it. I was angry over this thing. This mess. Maybe that’s another post in and of itself: Being Angry with God. Suffice it to say, Saturday morning? I was angry.

I was also guilty. Oodles and oodles and piles and piles of guilt, weighing heavily on my shoulders. I did not reach out to Jack when he was sick. When he needed me. And I think I just unwittingly got to the heart of my problem. I didn’t think he needed me. I looked at myself and didn’t see a whole lot need-worthy: I figured he had all those other people in the presbytery who would reach out to him and care for him. He didn’t need me. I didn’t mean as much to him in seminary as he had meant to me . . . Again. Maybe another post for another day: the things I learned about myself in the wake of my friend’s death. Suffice it to say, Saturday morning? I was guilty. I was guilty for having fallen far, far short of the kind of friend Jack deserved, of the kind of conduct becoming of a future pastor. Conduct becoming of any Christian really.

And I was sad. Just plain sad. I was sad that I wouldn’t see my friend again. I was sad that I had missed out on seeing him recently, so caught up in the day-to-day mommyhood am I. And I was sad for his wife, who is truly so sweet, who now has to figure out a whole new life without her partner and companion of 25 years. I was sad for all of his family and I was sad for the churches he had served. Sad sad sad. We were all going to miss him so much.

So, I walked into that sanctuary a bona fide mess. And what did I encounter there, in that space and time? Good news. Good, good news. In the face of such a tragic story, in the face of raging anger, burdensome guilt, and palpable sadness, I heard Good news. Death is not the end, Jesus Christ is the victor over death and through his faith we have assurance of everlasting life. We have assurance that Jack, while no longer with us, is very much alive. Alive in the Savior who died for him, who rose for him. And we have assurance that this same Savior died for us, rose for us, and prays for us. That as one who is in Christ, I am a new creation right here, right now. My old life, of anger and guilt and sadness, is gone and a new life has begun. Right here. Right now.

In that hour, I was invited to die with Christ once again, to be raised with him once again. Raised to new life. While I shook and sobbed and grieved and owned my every sorrow–not sugar coating it, not glossing over it, not shaming myself for not relying more fully on God’s grace–at the same time my very spirit was renewed. Internally I lay prostrate at the foot of the cross, and then I was raised up. I felt it. I lived it.

I left that funeral still sad over our loss, but sad tempered with joy that my loss was Jack’s gain. Having sobbed my sadness, I was released from the pit, left with some residual dust to wear and own until I’m ready to brush it off completely.

I left that funeral still feeling somewhat guilty, but guilty with a purpose: guilt used not to beat myself over the head repeatedly, but to motivate me to change, to not make this same mistake again. To just suck it up already–the social phobia, the self-loathing–and do the work that God has called me to do: mourn with those who mourn, weep with those who weep. Reach out to those who suffer, never again just turn my back and assume someone else is doing it. I was reminded that the same spirit who raised Jesus Christ from the dead dwells in me, gives life to my mortal body, can and will empower me, change me, move me to do his will.

And I left that funeral with my anger dissipated. Sitting in that place I was reminded of God’s sovereignty and love. Sovereignty and love. Because those two must always go hand in hand. To understand God’s sovereignty apart from his love is so frightening as we envision an arbitrary despot. But to understand his love apart from his sovereignty is so disheartening, so discouraging as it robs us of strength and power. No, there in that place, at Jack’s memorial service, I was reminded both of God’s sovereignty and of his love. And for that reason, I was able to release some of my anger, and regain some of my trust in the fact that God knows what he’s doing. Notice I said some. I am still a work in progress.

I left that funeral a totally different person than when I went in. I was transformed. I give all glory to the One who met me there that day: the Living Lord who conquered death that I might have life: abundant and eternal. A more fitting closing hymn there could not have been:

There’s a sweet, sweet Spirit in this place, And I know that it’s the Spirit of the Lord.

There are sweet expressions on each face, And I know they feel the presence of the Lord.

Sweet Holy Spirit, sweet heavenly Dove, stay right here with us, filling us with your love.

And for these blessings we lift our hearts in praise.

Without a doubt we’ll know that we have been revived when we shall leave this place.

Truly it is only in the context of a Christian memorial service where these can be the final words sung. Words chosen by a wife and daughter who deeply adored the one who has died and believed that the service just wouldn’t be right without that song.

I rejoiced in the words, I rejoiced in the revival of my own spirit, and I rejoiced for my friend Jack who has indeed been revived now that he’s left this place. And I look forward to seeing him again.

Thinking about death . . . (part 4) Christian Hope.

I’m realizing I want this to be bigger than I can make it. Trying to trim down and remember my context. Frustrated theologians are so . . . well . . . frustrating!

Christian Hope. That was the difference between the two funerals I attended.

In one we were encouraged to claim the promises of a savior who can be trusted to keep his promises. In the other we were invited to hope for the best, and if we all do the right thing, we will, maybe, see Adella again.

In one, we looked forward as a done deal to spending time with Sherrie as she ran and sang and rejoiced in the Lord. In the other, we were to be “comforted” by the vision of Adella at rest. At peace. Like this eternal sleep and quiet and solitude. I found no comfort in hearing over and over again about my vivacious, gregarious, life-embracing aunt being left in “peace” and “rest”. I found greater comfort in the words of her sister who envisions Adella waiting for her two older sisters at the softball field, ready to play a good game when they all finally arrive.

I guess that rest and peace thing is secondary to the hope component, but I think they fit together as hope set the tone for Sherrie’s funeral, and I think the lack thereof set the tone for Adella’s.

Some thoughts on Christian hope. . . .

Romans 5:1-5 ¹Therefore, having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, ²through whom also we have obtained our introduction by faith into this grace in which we stand; and we exult in hope of the glory of God. ³And not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; ⁴and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; ⁵and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.

Romans 8:14-25 ¹⁴For all who are being led by the Spirit of God, these are sons of God. ¹⁵For you have not received a spirit of slavery leading to fear again, but you have received a spirit of adoption as sons by which we cry out, Abba! Father!” ¹⁶The Spirit Himself testifies with our spirit that we are children of God, ¹⁷and if children, heirs also, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, if indeed we suffer with Him so that we may also be glorified with Him. ¹⁸For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed to us. ¹⁹For the anxious longing of the creation waits eagerly for the revealing of the sons of God. ²⁰For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it, in hope ²¹that the creation itself also will be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God. ²²For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now. ²³And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body. ²⁴For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? ²⁵But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.

Christian hope is not Disney hope. It is not, “When you wish upon a star . . .” It’s not meteorologic hope: “It looks like the clouds are going the other way, we can hope it won’t rain on Saturday.” It’s not parental hope: “I sure hope Ruth starts sleeping through every night very soon.”

No. It is sure. It is certain. In his Institutes of the Christian Religion (3.2.7), Calvin defines faith as “a firm and certain knowledge of God’s benevolence toward us, founded upon the truth of the freely given promise in Christ, both revealed to our minds and sealed upon our hearts through the Holy Spirit.” Christian hope is that firm and certain knowledge extended into the future, applied to the things we have not seen. Just as sure, just as certain, just not yet happened. As we Christians. we are caught between an already and a not yet: already Christ has come, Christ has died, Christ is risen, and not yet, but some day, he will come again. As we sit in this liminal state between already and not yet, we have faith in the already and hope in the yet to come. We have a certain knowledge of God’s past and present benevolence toward us, and we are eagerly awaiting the full consummation of all that God has promised us.

That is Christian hope.

And that is, sadly, not what I heard at Aunt Adella’s funeral, and yet so much what I wanted my uncle and cousins to hear. Christian hope, true Christian hope, is something worth committing your whole life to, worth leaning into, worth everything. Some priest’s paltry wishful thinking about maayyybe getting to see Aunt Adella some day? Not even close. Prayers offered up to sanits, asking for them to “help” Aunt Adella find her way to heaven? Pitiful. Images of an eternally resting woman lying in a grave? So very disheartening. In the midst of this family full of people in desperate need of the Gospel, both in the face of death and in their day-to-day lives, I wept for the lost opportunity. For the failure of this particular church to have any real and lasting words of true Christian hope for a gathering so raw and so open to hearing God’s Great News. Instead, despite his claim to the contrary, the priest offered hope for this life only and it truly was pitiful (1Cor 15:19).

Such a stark contrast to the funeral from the day before. Sherrie’s funeral abounded in Christian hope. We were all invited to hope–actively, fully, confidently–in Sherrie’s glorification, in her new body, in her new life, in and through and with her Lord. This, my friends, is Good News. And in this hope, Sherrie’s brother was able to look more fully at her life in this world and recognize the blessing in it, see God’s hand all over it, testify to the witness to the Good News Sherrie’s own limited life was. Together we stood with a firm and certain knowledge that Sherrie’s life spent in so broken a body with so damaged a brain was not the end of the story, embracing our sure and certain hope that we would see her again in the form God, in his infinite love and grace, created all of creation to be.

So. This whole thing took me forever to finish. It haunted me, it stirred around and around in my mind as the weeks dragged on. But you know what? The project lasted all through Lent. How ironic. Or appropriate, really. My first days of Lent were spent learning of these deaths and preparing for and attending these funerals. As I finish my reflections, I’m just days from celebrating with gusto the day that defines us as Christians. I am within sight of Easter morning. I celebrate in faith, with joy, the resurrection of our Lord. And through him, in hope, I eagerly await his return when all will be made new, all will be as it should be, when we who have received a spirit of adoption and are children of God, joint heirs with Christ, are glorified with him. I eagerly await that day. Come, Lord Jesus!