Righteousness Through Membership

They answered him, "We are Abraham's descendants and have never been slaves of anyone. How can you say that we shall be set free?"

Jesus replied, "I tell you the truth, everyone who sins is a slave to sin. . . . I know you are Abraham's descendants. Yet you are ready to kill me, because you have no room for my word. I am telling you what I have seen in the Father's presence, and you do what you have heard from your father."

"Abraham is our father," they answered.

"If you were Abraham's children," said Jesus, "then you would do the things Abraham did.” (John 8:33–34 and 37–39)

This passage illustrates the ancient Jews’ habit of claiming righteousness through mere membership. We can leave aside for the moment their apparent forgetfulness about slavery. They had been slaves in Egypt for 400 years, enslaved by other empires since, and were now dominated by the Roman Empire.

But Jesus makes clear in this passage (which includes verses 8:33–41) that being a member of a group, even if it’s “the people of God,” does not guarantee freedom from sin. Indeed, a people can be absolutely deceived: the Devil is actually your father, Jesus tells them. This, we can bet, enraged the Israelites. They had been building up national and ethnic pride for several centuries since their return to the land from Babylon. This pride included a rather new, rigid intolerance against foreigners, beginning to resemble Indian upper castes’ distaste for the lower caste “Untouchables.” The Jews knew they were “the people of God.” That is the opposite of being a slave to sin, isn’t it?

Application time: We can have the same problem, of course. Pride in our nation or our neighborhood. But when Judgment Day comes, I don’t think the Lord’s going to consider these things values of righteousness: the U.S.A., Great Britain, Iraq, or Belleview Estates, etc. Pride in our church can be a similar snare. Doesn’t it count for something that I belong to a church willing to take a difficult stand, a church both traditional and Charismatic? Good things, surely, but mere membership is not a guarantee of freedom from sin.

When I ponder where “righteousness through membership” has temptation for me, I think it has to do with my family. Finally, at the age of 42, I got married. Now I have kids. The temptation is to feel, Now I’m somebody; now I am worthy to “speak in the assembly of men.” Look at these beautiful kids; could God not favor someone he has blessed so richly? But I have to admit that such an attempt at righteousness probably amounts to “filthy rags” (Isaiah 64:6). Marriage and kids are far from filthy rags, but my attitude about them could be, if I’m not careful.

Instead, we know from Jesus’ other teachings that righteousness comes from God’s grace. But we have a part too. In John 8 he teaches that freedom from sin comes from doing this: Follow the light of the world (v. 12), believe who Jesus says he is (24). Do what he commands, and thereby be his student. Then we will know the truth, and the truth will set us free (31).

I find it enlightening that Jesus teaches that doing must precede knowing, which is the opposite of what our culture teaches. But that is another meditation for another time.

Amish Friendship Bread

Do you know about this phenomenon? This Amish Friendship Bread thing?

I first heard about it from an aunt who lives in Baton Rouge. She’s not a baker, so that was the first tip-off that this was something different. And then she kept telling me stories about baking this bread every weekend because people loved it and were asking her to make more, please.

Then it started showing up at COA, these yummy, dense, sweet-yet-tart loaves of bread that people loved to eat! Turns out that a cadre of what must be Amish friends were making this bread and bringing it to various events. So when one of them (OK, Sherri) sent out a broadcast that she had Amish Friendship Bread starter to share, I raised my hand.

Here’s how it works. You get a freezer bag containing this starter, made of yeast, flour, sugar, and milk. You hold on to it for a certain number of days, allowing it to ferment, mushing it daily. (Yes, mush. Technical term, I think.) Then you add more flour and sugar and milk, and allow it to ferment another number of days, still mushing daily. At the end of the allotted fermentation time, you go through steps that creates starter to share, and then you make your bread from your reserved starter. And then you try to find people to give the starters to.

Who knew?

OK. I’m the kind of person who makes plans to take a business trip and forgets that I have a dog that needs care while I’m gone. The kind of discipline it takes to mush daily and bake every ten days or so is almost beyond me. I am a responsible person—just barely.

But I confess that watching this stuff ferment is fascinating. It bubbles and grows, filling the bags with air, ultimately yielding enough batter to begin the process all over again. Watching it grow made me wonder, “How could you stop this?”

Not just how I could stop this endless procession of creating, growing, splitting, baking, and distributing. But the yeast! How can it keep growing and multiplying? The sweet, tangy smell of the fermentation fills the kitchen. It touches everything and is virtually indestructible. The key is that it needs to be fed and nurtured. (Remember the sugar, flour, and milk?) If it’s not nurtured or fed, it will stop growing.

Yeast is used in scripture as an object lesson. We all remember that at Passover, yeast (and all leavening) is cleansed from every household. It reminds celebrants that there was no time for bread to rise when the Israelites fled Egypt—a reminder of God’s deliverance. Leavenings are pervasive and powerful and hard to eliminate. Yet once a year, yeast was to be purged out of their lives.

The New Testament also used the imagery of yeast. We think of it mostly as an image of sin. It’s very effect. Sin touches everything. Once begun it’s virtually indestructible. Paul wrote: Your boasting is not good. Don't you know that a little yeast works through the whole batch of dough? Get rid of the old yeast that you may be a new batch without yeast—as you really are. For Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed. Therefore let us keep the Festival, not with the old yeast, the yeast of malice and wickedness, but with bread without yeast, the bread of sincerity and truth. (1 Corinthians 5:6-8)

Jesus warns the disciples to beware of the yeast (bad teaching and hypocrisy) of the Pharisees and Sadducees (Matthew 16:6-12). It’s a sort of comical exchange where the disciples thought Jesus was hungry and Jesus was trying to make a point. Consider how yeasty bad teaching is. Or hypocrisy. It ferments and grows and touches everything.

But then in a remarkably hopeful parable, he offered this: "What shall I compare the kingdom of God to? It is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into a large amount of flour until it worked all through the dough." (Luke 13:20-21)

The kingdom of God is like a yeast. How does a yeast grow? It is fed and nourished, tended until it is worked all through the dough. The kingdom of God will grow and flourish and touch every part of our lives? Every part of our world? What will the kingdom of God touch? Who does the tending and nourishing? What makes it grow?

I’m not sure. I’m one of those who would have had a puzzled look when Jesus offered this parable. But you know, now every time I watch a bag of Amish Friendship Bread starter bubble and grow, I will remember that the kingdom of God is like yeast and that I am part of that kingdom.

Thank you, Lord Jesus, for giving us such homely images to understand your richest gifts. Illuminate my mind to understand your words and to grow in their truth. Thank you.

More

3 "You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.
4 "You're blessed when you feel you've lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.
5 "You're blessed when you're content with just who you are—no more, no less. That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought.
6 "You're blessed when you've worked up a good appetite for God. He's food and drink in the best meal you'll ever eat.
7 "You're blessed when you care. At the moment of being 'carefull,' you find yourselves cared for.
8 "You're blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.
9 "You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family.
10 "You're blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God's kingdom.
11 "Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. 12 You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company. My prophets and witnesses have always gotten into this kind of trouble. (Matthew 5:3–12)

I love how The Message renders these familiar verses. End of my rope. At times I have found myself there. Desperate dependence. Most often I am not there, perhaps because I have several reliable methods of avoidance and distraction. I think it’s a good way to live if you don’t view desperation as an enemy. A well known song says “I’m desperate for You”—Really?

Do you ever sing songs in church, (or look at the words) and think “I’m not quite there, and, there are things in the way, but somewhere down deep I want to be there?” How about the one that says “You’re all I want . . .” Yes, I’m desperate . . .

When I feel I’ve lost what’s most dear to me. Been there a time or two. Not so much. I fear many play at this during Lent. Me too. What seems most dear, most of the time? A few of you have been there. A few of you are there or not far from there now . . .

Embraced . . . “he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him..”; “well done, good and faithful . . . ”; (what words do you long to hear, maybe that you aren’t sure He’ll say?)

And this takes me to verse 6, “worked up a good appetite,” hunger and thirst. This journey toward Jerusalem, toward the cross, if there is anything honest about it, however halting, it works up a good appetite—for more, for release, for celebration. An appetite for the surprise of resurrection, an appetite for stunning glimpses of the kingdom of God here now, an appetite for the feast of all feasts at the marriage of the Lamb . . .

Oh, I skipped verse 5, "content with just who you are"—wow, that seems just impossible. Or more accurately, how on earth can I be desperate and content?! That’s a strange miracle and paradox of the cross, isn’t it: Intense insatiable longing, inexcusable guilt and soul-stilling rest and release.

In all I’m grateful that I don’t need to manufacture this, muster it up. He arouses and uncovers this in me. Always more . . .

New Beginnings

Okay, I just want to tell you that I had a most incredible weekend.

As you may already know, our Student Ministry teamed up with two of our ADV sister churches (Church of the Word and St. Paul's) for a winter retreat at Massanetta Springs. Julian Dobbs spoke on "Getting connected with God" while I was given the privilege of leading worship for the weekend. The general consensus among the leaders was that it was the best retreat we've had in years. This post will be a testimony of what happened there and won't have much to do with Lent. I just think this is really important.

The reason it was great was that the Holy Spirit came and ministered in power throughout the weekend, especially on Saturday night. Julian gave a powerful teaching about being connected with the Holy Spirit and allowing Him to work in our lives. Then we moved into an extended time of worship and prayer ministry, something which has been conspicuously absent from our student ministry for many years. Needless to say, the outpouring was tremendous. As I played, I saw lives being changed right before my eyes. Many of our students received the baptism of the Holy Spirit and those who had already received it were given a greater portion. The floor was littered with students as they fell under the anointing. After a couple hours (I think. I actually have no idea how long it was), we wrapped up the music and I went forward to get my portion and promptly get knocked down under the weight of glory. ;-)

To illustrate the global change, on Friday night I noticed only one or two hands raised during worship, but by Sunday morning more than three quarters of the students felt free to do so. What an amazing victory! I am so proud of our students and I love each one of them to death. I have been praying for this for so long and am downright thrilled to actually see the results. I pray that our students will continue to grow in this anointing and never forgot what God did on this retreat. I praise God for giving them the boldness to step out and allow Him to work in them with such abandon. Thank You, thank You, thank You, Lord. You're awesome!

And, to top it all off, this all happened on my birthday. Plus, it was my final send-off before going away to Toronto for Ministry School. I honestly cannot think of a better birthday/going away present.

Next time, I'll posting from Toronto . So stay tuned, same bat-time, same bat-channel . . .

What's Your Dominant Reality?

If you didn’t get a chance to hear it live this past weekend, by all means slide your mouse over to the Sermons column and listen to The Rev. Jim Hobby speak on the Great Commission. When you do, see if you can pick up one sentence he used, primarily as connecting material, that has caught itself in my brain-folds for this week of Lent III—speaking of the early chapters of Genesis, he said “Sin was the dominant reality.” There’s so much in those five words: sin wasn’t always the dominant reality, but had become so; God acted because in spite of His desires His people had “become something else” (see last Monday’s entry) and required a corrective; sin was the dominant but not the only reality; God’s best isn’t always winning.

When sin is the dominant reality, then—what? A recent book now moving up the Amazon charts declares in the title that it’s God’s Problem. Specifically, according to the author, since “the Bible fails to answer our most important question,” that makes it God’s problem. It’s worth considering whether a.) this actually is “our most important question” (what about "what's going to happen when I die?"), and b.) whether the Bible fails to answer it, but for many people who are suffering, sin is very definitely their dominant reality. This of course is NOT to accuse the suffering of simply receiving their just reward because of their sin(s); the victims of others’ sinfulness suffer just as much. But either way, as it’s of our making, it’s our problem, not God’s.

For most of us, sin wasn’t always the dominant reality. Who among us can’t remember a time, however distant, however brief, when things seemed to be going pretty well, when we knew that God was smiling on us personally? But then, _______ [you can fill in the blank for yourself or others, but for whatever reason, the outcome was the same] and we began to experience the consequences of stepping off the path. Most of us have a very clear memory of how God stepped in—very personal for each of us, yet utterly consistent in His desire and determination that we return.

As we come to realize the difference and the distance between our desires and His, we enter into that oscillation between doing what He wants and doing what we want. On the way, we realize that what we really want is to want what He wants, but success only comes in fits and starts. And so it goes, sometimes for a long, long time—in this way, our dominant reality shifts, sometimes unnoticeably, sometimes jarringly. Lent provides a wonderful opportunity to recognize the moment when the pendulum of our shifting reality changes direction, to narrow its swing, and in the process to realize our desire—our need—to want what He wants. God’s best for us isn’t always winning, but ultimately will always win out. If we can’t do this on our own, yet we aren’t helpless—we can look honestly at our dominant reality, we can decide what we want it to be, we can do our best to be more like Him, and we can rely and depend on the One who wants that more than we do. We can do it; He will help!

Lord, You help us to see the distance between us and You in so many ways. We thank You for this knowledge, though we don’t often feel particular grateful to have it. We know for sure that whatever first distracted us, we left the path because we decided to, so in this season of preparation we ask You to help us want what You want more than we want what we want. We ask for this because we know how much it needs to happen and we know we can’t do it without You—in fact, we can’t even want it without You. We bless you because we also know for sure that You thought of us long before there was anyone here to think of You, and that nothing we can do will cause You to give up on us, now or ever. You are God, we are Your children, and we are truly and eternally grateful. Amen.

Lent - A Celebration of Jesus' Mission Life

Lent is a celebration of Jesus’ mission life as He walked to the cross—a reminder of what He did for us—He died for us, but He also prayed for us, loved us, and led many to His Father. He died to His human self and only did what He saw His Father do. I must die to myself in order to be able to hear Him and to follow in His footsteps.

So, what does that actually mean? Last year I gave up chocolate, but as soon as Lent was over I ate chocolate—not much different than holding my breath for 46 days. (Who said that Lent is only 40 days?) My “self” did not die.

I think I’m getting it. Lent is a time to help me remember . . . but if I really want to DO the work of the Father, a part of me will actually have to die—not pop back up after 46 days. For me, that probably means allowing God to show me the ways I do not submit to the authority that He has put me under: speed limits, no little refrigerator in my classroom, things like that. If I do not submit to an authority I can actually see, then how can He trust me to submit to His authority? He has gently whispered to me that I needed to bring that little refrigerator home and that I need to obey the speed limits—and not just for 46 days.

The refrigerator came back home and He has blessed me by opening up my classroom as an amazing mission field. Almost daily, I have an opportunity to share Him with one of my students—and yes, it’s a public school.

What about my driving? Well, He has blessed me with peace. I drive the speed limit. At first, I had to remind myself to slow down every 50 feet (literally). For you, Lord . . . But I felt so terrible for the poor people who got stuck behind me on the winding roads out in Clifton, where I live, and decided that I would just pull over and let them pass me. But then more would come. . . . The Lord told me: “Pray for my sheep on this road.” So, the streets on which I drive are now a mission field—endless opportunities to pray for all the people in their cars all around.

Thank you, Precious Jesus. You have shown me how to do the work of the Father—and you are allowing me to do just a tiny bit of it. It has been my heart’s desire.

Lent. A time to remember that if I want to follow Jesus to the cross, I must do as He did, in submission to His Father's authority: pray for those He sends to me, love the ones He loves, and then lead those He has placed in my life—my mission field—to His Father.

Forgiveness reflections # 2

How quick are you to forgive people who have hurt your feelings, offended you, lied about you, falsely accused you, said things about your husband or wife, your child or your closest friend that have really upset you? Are you as ready to say ‘O God, heal them, Father bless them, touch them’—or are you still holding on to your pain or resentment?

In 1945 the world was brought face to face with the horrific scenes of the Nazi concentration camps through newsreels and the printed media. Nail marks are still visible in the gas chamber walls of Auschwitz concentration camp where Jews had tried to claw their way out of the suffocating death chambers into which they were herded. After arriving on the trains from the ghettos or other places and being gassed, their hair was cut off and used to stuff cushions. If their teeth had any gold fillings they were wrenched out with pliers–if there were any tattoos on their skin, the skin was carefully peeled off to make lamp shades–if there was any fat on their body at all, which was most unlikely, the fat was taken to make soap and then their bodies were incinerated into ash and sold for fertilizer. From arriving off the train to the point where their ash was available as fertilizer took a mere one and a half hours.

The words that follow are from a prayer that was found in the clothing of a dead child at Ravensbruck concentration camp.

O Lord, remember not only the men and woman of good will, but also those of ill will. But do not remember all of the suffering they have inflicted upon us: Instead remember the fruits we have borne because of this suffering, our fellowship, our loyalty to one another, our humility, our courage, our generosity, the greatness of heart that has grown from this trouble. When our persecutors come to be judged by you, let all of these fruits that we have borne be their forgiveness.

Nailed to the cross, Jesus cried out–Father forgive them, for they know not what they are doing.

The cross of Jesus–amazing love, how can it be that you my God should die for me? . . . but because you have–bold I approach the eternal throne and claim the crown through Christ my own.

From the New Zealand Prayer Book, page 576b:

God of infinite mercy, grant that we who know your pity may rejoice in your forgiveness and gladly forgive others for the sake of Jesus Christ our Savior, who is alive with you and the Holy Spirit, one God now and forever. Amen.

Constraint and Freedom

At the risk of falling prey to a temptation Mark highlighted last week, of talking about something rather than doing it, I want to offer a quotation I ran across recently. It's from James Kiefer, who has written a series of biographical meditations on those commemorated in the liturgical calendar. This is from his piece on the martyr Thomas Becket.

The chief moral that I draw from Thomas's life and death is that when a man seeks to serve God, God graciously accepts that service, even if the man is quite wrong about what it is that God expects of him.

And then there's this one, attributed to Marissa Mayer, Google's Vice President for User Experience:

When people think about creativity, they think about artistic work—unbridled, unguided effort that leads to beautiful effect. But if you look deeper, you'll find that some of the most inspiring art forms, such as haikus, sonatas, and religious paintings, are fraught with constraints. They are beautiful because creativity triumphed over the 'rules.' Constraints shape and focus problems and provide clear challenges to overcome. Creativity thrives best when constrained.

So, what do they have to do with each other? Well, here's one more:

Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. (John 15:2)

The quote from Mayer hints at what may be a fundamental principle about the way God made the world and our brains. Too much freedom is counterproductive. Freedom can even be paralyzing. Writers often talk about the terror of the blank sheet of paper, the flashing cursor at the top of an empty screen. Constraint helps us focus, sparking movement, thought, reflection, action—breaking through our concern with ourselves to help us look outward toward what needs doing. Constraint is, paradoxically, the way to growth.

Rose bushes (as I am learning from sad experience) are naturally more likely to grow branches and leaves than flowers. Grape vines left unconstrained are likely to produce leaves rather than fruit. Neither plant will live up to its intended purpose unless and until it is pruned, sometimes quite vigorously.

God's purpose for us, Jesus says, is to produce fruit. Fruit is destined to be separated from the branch on which it grows, to refresh someone else, to spread its seed. Branches covered only with dense, lush foliage—branches that use the life of the Vine just to hang out—miss the point, and the consequences can be dire.

Thus the constraints we take on during Lent—like those limitations that God graciously throws in our path during the rest of the year—can become an uncomfortable opportunity to allow for growth and, more importantly, fruit. Love in action. Lives lived for God and others.

And Becket? The reasons for his martyrdom are still obscure to me—it sounds too much like power politics. In a sense he serves as a reminder that life is complicated, that the path of faithfulness is not always clear to either ourselves or onlookers. But his life and death have sparked faith (and courage and creativity) in thousands of believers over the years—not least in Chaucer, whose Canterbury Tales is organized around a pilgrimage to Becket's tomb.

Kiefer's comment reminds me of the grace of God. Even though life is complicated, I need never let my freedom paralyze me into inaction. If I act in obedience to what I do know, God's grace will transform my efforts, however misguided, into something that will touch people in ways my constrained imagination could never have conceived.

Of course, I still would rather just grow leaves. I'm good at leaves. Jesus, help me want to open myself to pruning rather than just wait for it to come.

Welcome

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked anything.

‘A guest’, I answered, ‘worthy to be here.’
Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee.’
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
‘Who made the eyes but I?’

‘Truth, Lord, but I have married them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not’, says Love, ‘who bore the blame?’
‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down’, says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
So I did sit and eat.

—George Herbert

A Yearly Physical

I am going to the doctor tomorrow. Nothing is wrong (that I know of). I just decided that it was time to get a checkup, a physical. The first one in, oh, ever. Well, first there was the 20-something “immortal” thing I had going. Then I got busy. Then got pregnant and had a baby. So it isn’t like I haven’t seen a doctor in the past few years, but we were mostly only dealing with a specific issue. And I have realized that there is more to me, physically, than the child-bearing aspect. And those other parts have received little, if any attention. And if you listen to the medical community, they are always talking about a “yearly physical”. So, I am woefully behind.

And that got me thinking about Lent. As I mentioned in my previous post, many Christian traditions look at Lent as an opportunity to take stock of their spiritual lives. A yearly physical, if you will.

Many of us probably take a few moments on a Saturday or Sunday during the worship service to think about our lives, and the Confession provides a brief opportunity to examine some of the places where we are weak. However, how often do we really sit down and take stock of where we are. Or, for an even more challenging task, how often do we ask our Creator to examine us, thoroughly, and give us a report? If you are like me, not nearly often enough.

I don’t want to go to the doctor tomorrow. I don’t want to step on the scale, have my blood pressure read, get my fasting blood sugar taken. I don’t want to be challenged about my lifestyle. I don’t really want him to tell me everything that could be wrong. I don’t want him to warn me about the future. I don’t want a prescription for a life different from the one I am living. But I am now a parent, and I want to be around to see my son grow up, and be a healthy mom for him. And since that desire is greater than my “don’t wants”, I am going to the doctor.

I often (frequently . . . most of the time) don’t want God to look at my life and take my spiritual temperature. Part of me would like to live life in denial of the cost that sin and temptation is taking. But another part of me wants God to be able to use me for His Kingdom work, and that means letting Him take a look at my life and tell me what His prescription is.

And Lent provides a fabulous time for us to get our Yearly Spiritual Physical. Especially if we have set aside some of the more distracting things in our lives. And God is faithful to give us much more than we ask. If we ask for health, He will give us the grace we need to get healthy, with His help.

I still don’t want to go to the doctor. But I am going.

Some Questions

Perhaps it's just me, but this year in particular Lent has has made me uneasy. I participated in Lent mostly because it is what you do when you have an Anglo-Catholic background such as mine. But this year, especially since I was given the opportunity to post on this blog, I have found myself preoccupied with questions about Lent, its origins and intent. Unfortunately, many of these questions are still out looking for their answers.

I have done some preliminary (and perhaps incredulous) research concerning my queries with the aid of the wonder that is Wikipedia and I have learned a few things about this ancient tradition. For instance the name 'lent' comes from "...the Germanic root for spring (specifically Old English lencten; also the Anglo-Saxon name for March—lenct..."

However this hardly gets to the root of the matter. I guess what I'm wrestling with is why we do Lent at all. Why do we insist on living in the wilderness when Christ has delivered us into the promised land? Shouldn't we see ourselves as God himself sees us in light of His Son? Haven't we been crucified with Christ and died to our own sin? Are we not citizens of the Kingdom of Heaven, having been given a royal inheritance?

Did anybody not sin today? I wouldn't count on it. Do we need to recognize and own our sin before the Lord? Absolutely. Is one of the main jobs of the Holy Spirit to convict our hearts? Most assuredly. I'm just having trouble not reducing this whole lent business to a dramatic remembrance of a really big problem that we used to have. Does sin really have the power to trip us up anymore, or do we give it that power by focusing so much of our attention on it?

These are honest questions and I'm honestly trying to answer them. I look forward to reading everyone's comments and getting all of this straightened out!

To Love and Martin Luther

Today the Anglican Kalendar (yes, this is spelled correctly) recognizes the contributions of Martin Luther, who died on this day in 1546 at the age of sixty-three. The appointed prayer makes reference to his being raised up by God to renew and reform His church in the light of His word, and asks that we may be blessed with the faith to boldly proclaim the riches available to us through Christ Jesus. A worthy desire, a “big ask” in Hybel-ese, and a lot to pack into one sentence—renewal, reform, the Word of God, faith, proclamation, and the riches of a relationship with Christ Jesus.

Today is also VD + 4, so on the occasion of sweeping up the wilted rose petals and tossing out what’s left of the Russell Stover’s, I might have taken this packed-in-a-cardboard-heart-tied-with-a-plastic-red-ribbon opportunity to inflict a brief rant on the third-most-commercialized pseudo-holiday of the secular calendar—that would be Valentine’s Day, not what you were thinking I meant by VD. But this is Lent; discipline, grace, and acts of kindness are the order of the day, so I choose not to go there (this time).

Instead, I share what I consider a striking confluence of two sets of facts that on their face are utterly unrelated. First, Martin Luther must have been both pretty strong and very much of a certain type in order to accomplish so much. It doesn’t take a long look backward or forward in time to see that renewal and reform of the church have been a really contentious front-and-center issue from the earliest written records to the many current journals, magazines, popular books, and scholarly tomes on the subject. I presume to presume that this is largely because of people of a similar Luther-ese bent. Scripture is colorfully littered with prophets, priests, and people who saw what God intended, saw what was being made of it, and couldn’t keep from pointing it out to anyone who would listen. Today, can we possibly avoid hearing from people who have some new way to avoid WCS—Withering Church Syndrome?

Second, psychologists have recently confirmed—meaning, someone got a juicy grant—that love only lasts for just so long, and we now know how long that is. No suspense here—love lasts about 18 months; after that it becomes “something else.” The one-liners almost write themselves, but what if this was true? Or, what if this was even partly, or something-like, true? What does it say about our ability to accomplish a “long obedience in the same direction” as couples, as families, or (you knew I was going here) as a church—or the Church—or THE CHURCH? If love in all its passionate obsession just “becomes something else” after awhile, then isn’t it simple logic to think that people who fall in love with their church are going to “go somewhere else” or “do something else” or “become someone else” after awhile, just as a matter of course? BTW, this is just a metaphor for thought, not a Bible commentary, so no flames about loving Jesus first, love is an action word, etc.—I know, you’re right, but that’s not the point here.

We’re very easily distracted, and even without the distractions we will apparently just wander off and “do something else” after awhile. Hence the rise, and the continuing need, for the Martin Luthers that God will always raise up to do what they do best, and what we need most—plead, beg, preach, cajole, nag, create, bless, write, sing, and most of all LOVE us back to where we once belonged before we inadvertently “became something else.” They may come off like Extra-Grace-Required folk more often than not, but we disrespect and ignore them at our own peril, personally and as the Church.

Lord, You made us to be like You, and one thing we know about You is that love is so integral to Your nature that You exist as a Trinity and a Unity one and the same. We thank You for all those You put in our path to keep us focused and help us return when we “become something else.” We ask you for grace to hear You when we receive them, and we also ask for boldness in those times when You want us to join them. We ask it because You told us we could; in all things we give you praise, honor, and blessing. Amen.

Lenten interlude with John Donne

BATTER my heart, three person'd God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due,
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie:
Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe;
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

Forgiveness Reflections # 1

Matt Redman has written a song called, ‘The Cross Has Said It All’, and the words have summed up for me so much of my personal gratitude for Jesus Christ and his cross.

The cross has said it all.
The cross has said it all
I can’t deny what you have shown.
The cross speaks of a God of love
there displayed for all to see.
Jesus Christ our only hope,
a message of the Father’s heart.
Come, my children, come home to me.

As high as the heavens are above the earth
So high is the measure of your great love.
As far as the East is from the West,
So far have you taken our sins from us.

The cross has said it all,
the cross has said it all.
I never recognized your touch
until I met you at the Cross.
We are fallen dust to dust.
How could you do this for us
Son of God? Shed precious blood,
who can comprehend this love?

How high, how wide, how deep?
The cross has said it all.
The cross has said it all.

Without the cross I stand before a Holy God unforgiven of my sin.

Jesus is our forgiveness model. He forgave perfectly. He forgave the way the Father forgives. After all Jesus is the Father come down from heaven to show us how to live our lives. The anguish and struggle Jesus went through that night at Gesthemane was the launching pad for forgiveness. He had not yet bought our forgiveness. He’d only agreed to pay the price for it. In order to complete our forgiveness, Jesus still had to endure the agony of the cross, and then he had to experience three days of death and separation from God.

Forgiveness is tough. It is a violent wrench of the body, soul, and spirit. Forgiveness is not a cheap piece of jewelry that we put on our wrists or around our neck as spiritual decoration. Forgiveness costs and it costs abundantly. It cost Jesus everything he had.

Forgiveness is also very lonely. Jesus asked his friends for support. If we choose to live a life of forgiveness that’s the way it is when we’re struggling to be forgivers.

Forgiveness is a choice, a life style. Jesus was free to choose the process of forgiveness. Forgiveness is a life style that we too are invited to choose to live.

Forgiveness is intense love, dripping with freshly spilled blood. Forgiveness is a heart-breaking choice to love the sinner more than you hate the sin. This is what Jesus came to do.

Forgiveness is free. God offers it. But it’s not cheap. It cost Jesus his life!

Repents of evil

Several days ago I began my morning reading from the Lenten Devotionals. I came across part of a verse from the book of Joel: “[God] repents of evil” (2:13, RSV). My first tendency with a verse like that is to read over it quickly, more or less dismissing it; or, giving it a bit more attention, to explain it away, sort of trivially. That morning I did not do either; it grabbed my attention—what a strange phrase—God repents—and then–of evil. Why does it say it that way?

Can God do evil? Aren’t those mutually exclusive? God—evil . . . So I wanted to read Joel, get the context, & see how other translations put it. I was hooked. This little three-chapter book, buried in the so-called “minor prophets” (I’m sure I’ve read it before several times, but not anytime recently), has captured me as a good place to “hang out” during Lent.

Oh, but it is a bitter story at its beginning. Joel starts out with terrible disaster, despair, sorrow, loss; stunning loss, stopped dead from the routine, unable to worship. . . . Locusts have devastated the land and invaded everywhere, an overwhelming powerful invincible army into every nook and cranny. In my mind’s eye I envision opening closets, cabinets, apparently closed jars and discovering the pulsating insects, chewing up everything. Clothes are taken out of drawers or closets to wear and the locusts are there crawling and devouring. Nevermind that they don’t eat some of those things . . . they are inescapable.

Joel calls his people to face and acknowledge the horrible loss—can you feel it? Weep, lament, stop, despair, all priests and lay-folks at a loss, dress in sackcloth, be silent. Call for a fast, round up everyone to pray–cry out to God–for help, for mercy–that devastation would not continue, that they would be saved.

Can God do evil? Most of us would quickly respond NO! I think that would depend on how you define evil, and, where you are at this moment. Perhaps the places I most easily charge Him with “evil” are the little disruptions that seem to undermine my safe routine. Like when the car suddenly isn’t working right, and there is not a simple obvious solution and I’m expecting to be somewhere else soon. Inside part of me is saying “why are you doing this to me, why now?” How petty, how small . . . What happens when the real locusts come, the whole army?

Does God do evil? I don’t think so. But He will let and even bring consuming locusts to “eat up” what I rely on for life–comfort, safety, pleasure, sense of well-being; what I define as must-have blessing . . .

What do You, O Lord, want to devour & destroy in me, in order to release something better?

For when I am weak, then I am strong

Lent: a time to delicately rub one’s face in the mud and acknowledge the fact that sin has overwhelmed one, and one needs a savior.

“One”: namely, me. Who am I to write a Lenten meditation? was my first thought, upon Sherri’s invitation to post to this blog. For I am not the picture of any kind of self-denial but of the opposite. I could recently be seen reading about the hyper-ascetical Desert Fathers with one hand while holding my 6th (but who’s counting?) slice of pizza in the other. I have obviously not been developing as a church resource on the topic—a Christian spirituality mainstay—of self-denial, and in fact I now weigh more than several Pacific island nations (and my food expenditures probably vies with their GDPs).

I knew that to write my first Lenten meditation would mean choosing one of two paths. One would be the temptation to write about some great spiritual ascetical things I have read about in books. The other would be to actually meditate. The latter led to being honest and personal, which may in itself seem self-indulgent to readers, and would in any case be humbling. But I don’t really think I have a choice.

Now, being overweight is not a sin, but I think gluttony is. Any disobedience to God’s will is sin. And in this arena, I found myself doing what I knew was sin, over and over. And along with it, like a swarm of demons, came the accompanying sins of dishonesty, dissipation, and misusing God’s money. And I postponed day to day—year to year—the implementation of the heavy artillery that would be needed to actually bring it all to an end.

When prayer, principles, promises, and plans weren’t enough I finally reached out to a community of like-minded sinners. (Actually, I think if had prayed more, I would just have gotten to the community sooner.) Dr. Jeffrey Satinover once pointed out how the 12 Steps of AA express basic evangelical Christian theology, if in Step 1 you substitute the word “sin” for “alcohol:”

1. We admitted that we were powerless over sin—that our lives had become unmanageable.

And etc. This I did. Now I write down what I plan to eat each day, ahead of time. But that is not enough. No: I share with a community. I make a phone call at least once a day to another sinner—I mean, over-eater—and share what I wrote down, and what happened the day before. I share reality.

This method can work for arresting not only alcoholism or gluttony but for any type of sinful behavior—anger, greed, pride, lust, and the other two Deadly Sins too. It works because it is God doing the work. For God, the New Testament makes abundantly clear, usually insists on working through other people.

But I don't think the vast majority of Christians, including me, could ever bring ourselves to practice it—until our backs are against the wall (or have “hit bottom”) and we have no other options. It is too humbling. Actually, humiliating feels more accurate, just as humiliating as sharing this with you now.

But it could be worse, I remind myself. Without His grace and a lived repentance, I could instead be judged and punished for all the time and money I have wasted and my many other sins, which is what I deserve.

Also, I remind myself, it works. Or rather, He works.

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” —2 Corinthians 12:9–10

Unclaimed Blessings

There’s a certain irony in asking a single woman to write a blog entry on St. Valentine’s Day.

The same sort of irony found in celebrating St. Valentine’s Day during Lent. It has got to be a Ghirardelli nightmare. I mean, who gives up red roses or diamonds for Lent? Nobody! People give up chocolate for Lent. Like I said, a Ghirardelli nightmare.

Perhaps it’s that a single woman won’t be busy on St. Valentine’s Day. Or that this single woman won’t be busy on St. Valentine’s Day. It makes me smile!

Back when I was still young and full of dreams (when the earth’s crust was still cooling), I attended a Bible institute as my choice of higher education. Those were the days when one of the primary goals of higher education for a young woman was to land a husband, so there was considerable pressure to find a mate. One joke observed that this particular school was like Noah’s ark: people came in single and left in pairs. And it was at this school that I first heard single women described as “unclaimed blessings.” Granted, it was mostly the old codgers—those silver-haired men who considered themselves silver-tongued rascals—who found this description affectionate and clever.

Despite all efforts, I finished school still single, a state that bothers me remarkably little as the years pile up. Though of course, I’ve never forgotten the words of those old men, I suppose because I remain an “unclaimed blessing.” Funny what you remember, isn’t it.

Lent. Right. Here’s my question on February 14, nine days into Lent: Is there such a thing as an unclaimed blessing?

Am I someone’s unclaimed blessing? Not likely. But are there blessings waiting for me that are yet unclaimed? I’d bet the answer is yes.

Though Lent is a penitential season, a season when we go without, where we repent and “forswear our foolish ways,” it is also a time of great blessing, of renewed gratitude, of fresh awareness. It is a time to remember our first Love, the One who loved us, who claimed us, who died for us.

This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins (1 John 4:10).

Dearest Lord, Please open my heart to recognize and receive the blessings that You in your great love have prepared for me. And thank you.

Seek my face

In July, my wife and I adopted a little orange tabby kitten from a rescue. I knew she was special because she was the only kitten we held that day that seemed completely content to just be in my arms. She didn't struggle to get away but just rested and relaxed while I held her. We brought her home with us and quickly fell in love. She was so special, unlike any cat I have ever had. She would impulsively rise up from laying in my lap and just start rubbing my nose and chin with her nose. It was like she just had to get up and give us little kitten kisses. After a few seconds of this, she would turn back around and contentedly lay back down in my lap. This became a regular routine demonstrating just how special she was.

Last month she came down with what seemed to be a runny nose. We took her in to the vet where she underwent a routine examination. The doctor expressed deep concern that she had lost weight and that there seemed to be fluid in her abdomen. After tests and exploratory surgery, she was diagnosed with Feline Infectious Peritonitis, a terminal disease that gave her two weeks to live. She went in for sniffles and never came home. Our hearts broke. I know this is hard for some to understand, but this little kitty (we called her Peachy) expressed unconditional love toward us. She was like no other pet kitten we had ever had. Even though she was with us for just a short time, and her death is terribly painful, I wouldn't trade that time with her for anything.

Now that I am reflecting on her death and during this holy time of Lent, I see my experience in a new light. My love for this little kitten must be a gift from God to show me a glimpse of what it was like for God and His son, Jesus. Jesus gave unconditional love to His Father. Jesus would stop in His day and turn toward His Father and seek His face. How much joy that must have given the Father. How precious Jesus was to the Father. What pain God must have felt when He allowed His son to die. But He knew why and He knew it wasn't the last time that the Father would spend precious time with His Son.

Thank you Father for sending this joy and suffering into my life so that I may know you better. May each one of us come to know God, the Father and His Son, Jesus better through our life experiences (suffering and joy) during this time of Lent and all through our lives. May we all know the joy of His rescuing us from death so that we can seek His face and bask in His peace and love.

Relinquishing Our Plans

So here I sit, staring at my computer screen, wondering what to write. To tell you the truth, I'm incredibly stressed right now. Some of you may know that I lead worship here and there and that I have an upcoming commitment to lead at this Saturday's Men's Breakfast. I had made all the necessary preparations of lining up a band, composing a song list, scheduling a rehearsal and even uploading all of this to my blog to share with those involved. Everything was ready for tomorrow's rehearsal when I got a phone call from a key member of my team informing me that he wouldn't be able to play . . .

Sometimes, when we exert ourselves and make grand plans, when everything is the way that we think it ought to be, the door belonging to the threshold we have all but crossed slams in our faces. I'm reminded of James 4:13–16.

Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." Why, you do not even know what will happen to you tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you should say, "If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that." As it is, you boast and brag. All such boasting is evil.

The point is that God wants to be involved in everything that we do no matter how trivial it may seem. We cannot get wrapped up in our own plans; instead we must put them under His subjection. To risk the use of an analogy, He wants to guide us with precision like the machine that guides the bowling ball back from the other end of the ally and not just be the bumper rails that stay our spastic tosses. He is calling us into a place of constant reliance. He leads us to trust Him absolutely through intimate relationship with Him and we must surrender everything, even our well rehearsed plans.

God really does come through. In the middle of writing this and after having relinquished my plans for the weekend to Him personally, I received an e-mail all but confirming a replacement for this Saturday.

How ’bout that?

Remember thou art dust . . .

Monitor Mode

Last week a friend said to me, “I will never understand men!” As easy as it would be to apply this sentiment in the most general way, she was actually thinking of one man in particular, the one who lives in her house. No more detail is necessary than simply to say that HE was determined to improve their digital communication capabilities while SHE wanted no part of it. SHE couldn’t understand why HE wasn’t getting this; HE couldn’t understand why SHE didn’t embrace the obvious improvement this would be in their lifestyle, if not their life.

Being a man myself, I could speak into this from a very strong position. “What you need to remember,” I told my friend, “is that when we men are sufficiently determined to change our environment, we slip into ‘monitor mode’ with the greatest of ease.” [Confession: I didn’t actually say “monitor mode,” I just think better when I write than when I talk.] Anyway, the point is that “monitor mode” is where we go when we don’t really want to participate in the conversation, we’re just waiting for the other person to say what we want to hear. Once we hear it, we can exit from “monitor mode,” return at least partially to the real world, and move on with changing our environment, ideally using expensive tools and making a lot of noise in the process. In this case HE wanted to hear something like “this is SUCH a great idea; I can’t wait until it works!” SHE wasn’t in that frame of mind, and “monitor mode” took over.

How is this about Lent? Beginning with the Ash Wednesday sermon, and continuing through this past weekend, one of the key words has been “sacrifice.” The centrality of the cross for mission begins with the willingness of Jesus to make the once-for-all sacrifice; Paul sacrificed his superior powers of reasoning and rhetoric in favor of preaching only Christ and Him crucified so that any and all would be won to Jesus solely by the power of the Gospel; we are called during this season of penitence and preparation to sacrifice—what? Something of importance? Something that costs us something? Something to remind us of what our priorities should be? In the midst of deciding whether to give up coffee, beer or chocolate, cable TV, IM-ing or some other newly-created distraction, perhaps we can consider the sacrifice of something more central, something more integral to who we are right now. Because who we are right now and who God made us to be aren’t exactly the same thing right now. Perhaps we can consider sacrificing that “way that we just are” that makes us more interested in ourselves than others, more interested in us than Him.

It’s pretty easy—and I’m pretty sure this applies to women as well as men—to move “in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye” from listening mode to “monitor mode.” And it’s just as easy for us to do that in our vertical relationship as in our horizontal ones. How often do we monitor His various channels of communication, waiting to hear whatever it is we’re waiting for at the moment? How easily, how quickly and how often do we give up monitoring, let alone really listening, and do what we can on our own? Perhaps we could begin this Lent by asking for the grace to sacrifice our personal “monitoring modes” in favor of a renewed determination to really listen and respond.

Lord, give me a willingness to listen as much as I talk—to You and to all those you will put in my path this week. Give me grace to listen, not just monitor; give me a will to respond, not just agree. And give me these things not because I’ve earned them, or deserve them, or even because I’m asking for them—please Lord, grant me these things so that I can be more like You next week than I was last week. In the name of Your Son Jesus I ask these things, and look forward to listening to Your answer! Amen.

A Pruning Season

It started on Wednesday. Yes, Lent also started, but for me, it was a pruning season that started on Wednesday. Each day, a part of me, like a dry withered branch, has been cut open and exposed. Oh, how it hurts and aches. I become desperate, helpless… and must turn to Him.

My prayer: “Reveal to me truth.” He reveals… and then He heals.

I thought that I was giving up sweets for Lent, but what He is really asking me to do is to give up my dependence on myself for Lent and to need and depend only on Him.

Tradition!

One reason I have come to appreciate—even to enjoy—Lent, is the fact that it puts tradition right in your face. We are invited “in the name of the church” to do something we otherwise wouldn't do.

I got started on this train of thought by reading a quote from Karl Barth on somebody else's blog.

To my mind the whole question of tradition falls under the Fifth Commandment: Honor father and mother! Certainly that is a limited authority; we have to obey God more than father and mother. But we have also to obey father and mother. . . . There is no question of bondage and constraint. It is merely that in the Church the same kind of obedience as, I hope, you pay to your father and mother, is demanded of you towards the Church’’s past, towards the “elders” of the Church.

This is in the same vein as Chesterton's famous quote in Orthodoxy (that excellent postmodernist apologetic):

Tradition means giving a vote to most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man's opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man's opinion, even if he is our father.

One of the many saving virtues of such an approach is that, if we make the effort to honor our parents, natural or spiritual, we reap the reward that comes from being forced actually to try something—like observing Lent—that we would otherwise, in our vast wisdom and experience, dismiss out of hand. (We also have the opportunity to avoid a lot of stupidity. Paraphrasing Bismarck, why learn from your own mistakes? Learn from the mistakes and wisdom of others!)

If I offer even a grudging respect for tradition, my willingness to submit and obey opens a door for God to shape me. It's the opposite of looking for an experience tailored to what I think I want. I'm old enough now to recognize that I rarely know what's best for me. The things that will make me a better and happier person are not what I would choose on my own.

Lent in this sense is like liturgy overall: consciously putting yourself in a place where it's not about you, where you don't have to perform, where you're not worrying so much about yourself, is a really healthy thing to do. And it's a relief not to have to make everything up as you go.

Giving Up.

“What are you giving up for Lent?”

How many times have we heard that question in recent days? The answers have a great range, both of degree and kind; from the humorous (“hugging my little brother”) to the extensive (“internet, meat, butter, sugar”).

During Lent, the Eastern Orthodox Church fasts from most everything (food wise) that is good: meat, wine, oil, dairy products and fish. The Roman Catholic Church has a less rigorous fast, but just about everyone knows they fast from meat on Fridays (has anyone noticed that McDonald’s advertises its fish sandwich only during Lent?). At the very least, many Christians in liturgical traditions use Lent as a time for some sort of self-denial. And even Christians in non-liturgical traditions will use Lent as a season for spiritual reflection and prayer, and even an opportunity for some spiritual “cleaning house” of those things which hinder our relationship with Christ.

However, we need to be careful not to view our fast as a means of obtaining some sort of holiness in and of itself. It is easy, for me at least, to be caught in the trap of believing that someone who is giving up more than I am is therefore more pious or devout. The reverse trap also exists; one can believe that there is no value in a Lenten fast.

As with many rituals, there is value, not in the ritual itself, but in what the observer puts into it. If one is giving up lots of tempting foods, for instance, but is at heart using Lent as a diet starter, then he or she will get far less out of it than someone who is only giving up one thing, but taking the spiritual aspect seriously.

I have been thinking of the true definition of self-denial. For me, this means getting “me” out of the way so that God can work in my life. Sometimes that means giving up distractions (internet, television, busy work) so that there is space in my head for God to work. Sometimes self-denial means giving up sweets so that I am not constantly thinking about the next thing to put in my mouth and can think upon the real issues in my life. Sometimes fasting means consciously turning off my inner commentary so that God can get a word in edgewise. Rather than analyzing everything according to ME, turning events and thoughts and actions over to God, and asking His help to see them from His point of view.

I have been reading the Screwtape Letters, of C.S. Lewis, in preparation for our book group (more from that book in further posts). I was struck, within the first few chapters, with the number of times Lewis mentions that temptation will strike, not in the form of a massive sin, but in the mere form of distraction, in a variety of ways. The devil is happy as long as we are not concentrating on God. So that is my Lenten Fast this year: giving up distractions, continually, so that I might hear God.

How about you?

Shush!

I’ve been shushed twice in the last two days. Have I mentioned that I hate being shushed? It’s one of those things that cuts me, that goes to the core of my being. Why? Well, I guess I wonder why friends think it’s OK to shush me. Shushing me means they think I can’t tell right from wrong, or that I can’t recognize where I am and what I’m saying. It means that I need to be managed, that I need to be managed by them. It means I’m embarrassing them.

Do I shush others? I imagine I do, without even thinking. It’s one of those adult-child transactions. If you were ever a child, you were likely shushed. And if you’ve ever accompanied a child into a church, a museum, or a grocery store, you know a well-timed shush is a very important part of your arsenal.

So, is this a Lenten task?

Psalm 46 comes to mind:

“Be still, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth” (Psalm 46:10).
“Enough! Be still! Shush! Know that I am God.”

OK. I’ll shush.

Preparing for a feast

What a poor, benighted age we live in! How we deny ourselves all sauces but the best. How little of what surrounds us is ever offered either by use or abstinence. And there is the secret. Fasting is an offering, too. The dieter says: Sweets are bad; I cannot have them ever. The faster says: Sweets are good; I will not take them now. The dieter is condemned to bitter bondage, to a life which dares not let food in. But the faster is a person preparing for a feast. Lent leads to an Easter, and to mirth and weight of glory.

I ran across these words attributed to Robert Farrar Capon during one of my research projects. My guess is that they are from his classic book The Supper of the Lamb, though I couldn't guarantee it.

This a great admonition for me as I enter this season of Lent, a time traditionally defined by what we are giving up, what we are sacrificing, what we are depriving ourselves. And I suppose there is a place for that in our thinking. It is a season of reflection and mindfulness, and nothing makes me more mindful than not having that one thing that is my habit to enjoy, that gives me pleasure. But perhaps this year at least, I will remember that Lent is a time of preparation, not deprivation. I am, this year, a faster preparing for a feast.

Welcome!

Welcome to Remember Thou Art Dust, a Lenten blog by and for members of Church of the Apostles. We'll have a new post every day for your contemplation, comments and conversation. Thanks for stopping by!