I didn't get to watch what happened to Lindsey Jacobellis as she attempted to earn a gold medal in Vancouver during the snowboard cross finals Tuesday night, but I sure heard about it this morning on the news. I would like her to know that my spirit is with her as she - hopefully - ignores the media replays of her gold-medal-miss-mishap in Torino and her off-track-means-no-medal mishap last night. And I'm guessing that there are plenty of others like me who, being well-acquainted with life's second-tier moments, feel our inner demons commiserating with hers.
I would assume that Jacobellis has been working toward her goal of gold-medal redemption for the better part of the past four years. And now what? Now she has to integrate what actually happened with whatever she chooses to do next.
We've all been there at some point, haven't we. And we all know how difficult those regrouping days can be. Actually, I think "difficult" might be too inadequate a word for the type of grief and soul searching she must experience before she feels ready to move forward again.
Surely, as a winner of many titles and medals - including lots of gold, Jacobellis knows that she is gold medal material - even if it's not Olympic gold. Still, she has to wonder why Olympic gold has eluded her. I know I would if wearing her same ski boots.
Because I have this way of making life all about me, the replaying of Jacobellis' Torino finish this morning reminded me of my own second place finishes in life - three in particular that I experienced before my 18th birthday. Each memory earned gray matter space for a quirky reason: In each instance, a panel of judges almost awarded me the top honor, but then a coin flip or some unknown rationale found me claiming second – not first – place.
I wonder if that's why I stopped looking for opportunities to compete at all – at least where panels of judges are concerned. I also wonder if that has helped me as the parent of a child with disabilities. Perhaps I learned to dismiss assertions that smacked of subjectivity long, long ago.
"You want to believe that something you do or you have or that you believe you are is better than mine? Go ahead. I won't tell you differently."
Well, truth be told, I might try to tell you in a subtle, questioning sort of way, but I won't keep trying for long. What's the point?
Life isn't about winning. Life isn't about judging. Life isn't about being better than somebody else.
Life is about love, as unapologetically corny as that sounds.
Love what you are doing. Love who you are with. Love who you are: an incredible child, created by God for the good of the universe.
I believe that piece of advice is as good as ... no, wait a minute: It is better than - gold.
Showing posts with label child of God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label child of God. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
God's Divine "Be All You Can Be" Campaign
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Third Sunday after Epiphany
- Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10
- Psalm 19
- 1 Corinthians 12:12-31a
- Luke 4:14-21
"May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer."
If your house is anything like ours, you probably have at least one thing – or likely even a few things – that are still lying around as remnants of this Christmas past. In our house it’s a basket of Christmas cards (and the basket is still collecting cards!), an ornament that I got this year but forgot to pack with our collection of ornaments from previous years, and a table-top of miniature lighted homes that I can never bear to put away until sometime around the first day of February. Somehow, keeping the lights on in our little snow village helps me feel warmer during these frigid January nights.
I even caught Stross watching a Christmas program on YouTube this week. It seems he has my genetic disposition to hold onto a little piece of Christmas for as long as possible. And, why not? After all, the somber, introspective days of Lent will be upon us soon enough – formally leaving behind all the fun of a baby’s birth and the wonder of a God who loved us enough to share in our human experience.
Beyond the physical trappings of a holiday like Christmas, we carry memories of other special holidays with us in profound ways, don’t we? And we are able to bring back memories through things like a favorite smell (baked bread? vanilla candles? Grandpa’s pipe or Grandma’s cologne?) or by examining a treasured object that we hold in our hand as we attempt to connect with another time and place (a pressed flower … dad’s pocket knife … Grandmother’s favorite earrings … a rock that possibly contains a speck of gold). Or perhaps by closing our eyes as we listen to a song (Amazing Grace? Beautiful Savior? REO Speedwagon’s “I Can’t Fight This Feeling”). Well they don’t all have to be churchy. Special memories are special memories and that song just happens to be the one that was playing 26 years ago in February when I knew my night would end with Mark and I sharing our first kiss. What a great song … What a great memory … *sigh*
It seems there’s something healing about this kind of remembering. At least that’s how I feel when I allow myself to engage in something I’ve come to think of as nostalgia therapy. For me it usually involves grabbing an old family photo album, a childhood scrapbook or a yearbook, and then going someplace where I can quietly sit and linger over the pages as long as I like. I examine the expressions of high school or college classmates, and I study the faces of relatives who – like me – don’t look the same as they used to.
The closest I’ve come to understanding why I do this is that I want to remember. I want to feel what it felt like to be me, back when life was – I don’t know … simpler? Less complicated? More mysterious in a good way? … I’m not sure. But each time my nostalgia therapy reconnects me to God, allowing me to keep moving forward with God but in a new way. That’s what I thought about when I first read today’s scripture from Nehemiah.
We are told that it was the first day of the seventh ecclesiastical year, the New Year’s Day of the Jewish civil year. It was a time of great celebration – and Ezra, a priestly scribe who had led about 5,000 Israelite exiles from Babylon back to Jerusalem, was bestowed with the honor of reading the scripture for the Feast of Trumpets.
It was a high honor, indeed, and this practice had often been neglected during the years the Israelites lived in Babylon, a foreign land. So as Ezra read, we are told they were attentive; they were patient (they stood listening from morning to midday); and that they were overcome with a sense of what they were hearing – so much so that they wept.
They were – once again or maybe for the first time – hearing about a God who loved them. A God who had laid out five full books of law to show just how much God cared for them. And life, it seemed, hadn’t really gone the way this chosen people of God had thought it would.
Still, here they stood – returned from exile and celebrating … remembering … and then weeping …
But the weeping didn’t last for long, for the Levite priests who were assisting Erza that day comforted them with these words: “Be quiet, for this day is holy; do not be grieved.”
And so all the people “went their way to eat and drink and to send portions” to those who had nothing “and to make great rejoicing” because they had understood.
So, what exactly had they understood? Why were they able to go on their way renewed?
I don’t think it was just the food and beverage.
I think they got revived through an ancient version of my 21st century nostalgia therapy. I think these people of God – recently returned from exile in a foreign land – were reminded of the special place they held as God’s chosen people. And then they got back to the business of being just that: God’s people, living in community with one another and taking care of those (how did the verse say it?) “for whom nothing had been prepared.”
Everybody it seemed was to be part of the party.
It’s not all that different from what we hear being described in today’s New Testament lesson from the book of 1st Corinthians, is it? Paul’s letter is to a group of people – new followers of Christ – who are attempting to live in community, in a new way. As chapter 12 begins, we hear Paul reminding them that they are no longer a pagan people prone to worship idols. They are a spiritual people of God equipped with a variety of spiritual gifts – no gift more important or special than another. In fact, Paul stresses that God needs all gifts to work together in order for this church to work for God’s glory.
Paul seems to really like this metaphor of the body, for he uses it more than once. He also lists types of spiritual gifts in more than one of his letters to the early churches. But it is difficult to recognize a metaphor in action – to see the words leap off the paper and come to life as something bigger than the literal translation.
And if we get too literal about a metaphor, we might get tripped up. For example, what is someone like me, who has a child born with birth defects, to think when I read: “If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be?” Paul could also have asked: “If the whole body were arms, where would the feet be?” And had he written that I would not want my child to feel less simply because his non-functional legs might be considered less by some. After all, in Paul’s day, those who were born malformed or became malformed were considered unclean and not worthy of entrance to the temple. Fortunately, Paul takes great pains to stress that the value of the body lies in way the individual members are able to work together, and he stresses that “the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.” Amen and amen.
No matter who we are or how we identify with Paul’s metaphor, we can envision a physical body – eye, ear, hand, foot, heart and more – all working together. That’s easy. But envisioning the body of Christ functioning together – what does that look like? I mean, really?
Maybe we get stuck wanting to know which part of the body we are? For instance, wouldn’t you love it if we had a special day each year where we all got together and someone walked by us saying something like: “Joy, you have the gift of (fill in the blank). Now, here is your special nametag. Please wear this so we all know that you are the appendix.”
What!?! The appendix?
I’m not sure I like being the appendix. Would you? An appendix is something modern science has basically found a bit unnecessary. I would like to be something a bit more flashy … a bit more important, wouldn’t you? … Or maybe you wouldn’t … Maybe you want to be one of the hidden parts of the body Paul talked about. Or maybe something visible but considered by the unknowing as lessor.
Does it matter? You know, I don’t really think it does, and I think that was Paul’s point. It does not matter what part of the body you are. It just matters that you realize you are part of the body – and an important one and needed one at that.
I think we do understand we are part of something bigger than ourselves – but I’m not sure we always like it … or maybe we’re just not sure what to do about it.
Let’s see: What are the spiritual gifts Paul lists in this passage? Wisdom … knowledge … faith … healing … working of miracles … prophecy … discernment of spirits … speaking in tongues … interpretation of tongues … It can be pretty easy to look at that list and strike several off outright, can’t it? Healing? … me? No way … Prophecy?… yeah, right … Speaking in tongues? … umm … pretty sure not … no, not that one. …
Are you crazy …?
In fact, I remember being in fifth grade and hearing this very scripture read at my church. Oh, it caused me such an overwhelming sense of dread. I heard Paul’s words telling me that each one of us is given gifts for the manifestation of the common good. Based on the list I heard, I didn’t want those gifts. I mean really. How could you go about your daily life performing miracles, prophesying and speaking in tongues without being labeled an absolute freak?
As I sat in the pew that day, I envisioned God reaching down through the vaulted sanctuary ceiling and laying an invisible hand on me that would cause me to involuntarily rise to my feet and begin speaking in tongues – right there in the United Methodist Church of West Union, Iowa. So I did what any self-respecting, God-fearing fifth grader would do. I began to pray: “Dear God, please don’t bless me. Please don’t bless me. You can give me some gifts. But not that one God. Please, please. Dear. God. Please not that one… and not some of the other ones either. I think I’d rather not be a gifted child of God. It seems a bit scary.”
And, you know what? God must have answered my prayer. Well, at least I’ve not ever involuntarily risen to my feet in church to begin speaking in tongues. Must not be how God works.
Seriously, I think I felt in fifth grade what each of us feels at some point in our lives: a fear of what could happen if we fully gave ourselves to God’s work here on earth.
One of my favorite quotes – sometimes mistakenly attributed to Nelson Mandela – is by an author named Marianne Williamson. She wrote:
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us – it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Do you hear that? Marianne, the apostle Paul and God all agree. You are incredibly gifted.
What’s more. You need to be who you are as a child of God so that others can be who they are. Each one of us is part of the larger whole. This is HUGE! For my life will be less if you aren’t living as the incredible child of God you were created to be and yours will be less if I’m not living that way as well. Think of it as God’s Divine “Be All You Can Be Campaign.”
• You are gifted.
• You don’t need it plastered on a nametag or feared as some supernatural force. You just are.
• And your giftedness is equally important as the giftedness of the person to your left … to your right … in front of you … behind you… walking across the parking lot across the street right now … strolling through Dollar General right now or pushing a cart down the aisles of Bill’s Family Foods or Forest City Foods.
• You are part of the body and belong to a God who will not let you go.
Will you remember this?
You know those ornaments and cards and albums I spoke of earlier? They are tangible reminders for me of moments that hold great meaning. Things I can see that help me connect to things I can’t see anymore.
This is the season of Epiphany – the celebration of God manifested in the person of Jesus Christ – a tangible expression of God’s love for you.
A God who brings good news to the poor … releases captives … gives sight to those who can’t see … and sets oppressed people free.
And you know what? That stuff is happening every day on this kingdom come to earth. This year – this brand new year of 2010 – is the year of the Lord. And you’ll find the Lord busier than ever:
• digging through rubble to lift people to safety,
• picking up a scared child to whisper reassuring words,
• packing food into a box and helping a family carry it to their car,
• clearing a driveway of snow so a woman can drive to work,
• smiling at a guy in line who looks like he could use a smile,
• handing a quarter to a girl at a checkout counter because hers fell behind some shelving,
• saying he’s sorry to his friend because he knows the words hurt,
• mailing a card with a check tucked inside so someone's month will end a little easier.
The list could go on and on and on … and you know why … I know you do: because the members of the body of Christ are equipped with spiritual gifts – each one important – each one necessary – each one needed.
And we are a busy bunch.
Child of God … I am so grateful to be part of the body with you.
You know the story of Christmas. You know the story of Easter. May you also know what it means for a risen Christ to be made manifest in your life – to live and walk and laugh and work and cry and smile with you, with us.
Immanuel, God with us.
Immanuel, may we always remember what it means to serve a God who loved us enough to become one of us – who continues to be with us – and who makes certain that we are never alone.
Amen.
Third Sunday after Epiphany
- Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10
- Psalm 19
- 1 Corinthians 12:12-31a
- Luke 4:14-21
"May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer."
If your house is anything like ours, you probably have at least one thing – or likely even a few things – that are still lying around as remnants of this Christmas past. In our house it’s a basket of Christmas cards (and the basket is still collecting cards!), an ornament that I got this year but forgot to pack with our collection of ornaments from previous years, and a table-top of miniature lighted homes that I can never bear to put away until sometime around the first day of February. Somehow, keeping the lights on in our little snow village helps me feel warmer during these frigid January nights.
I even caught Stross watching a Christmas program on YouTube this week. It seems he has my genetic disposition to hold onto a little piece of Christmas for as long as possible. And, why not? After all, the somber, introspective days of Lent will be upon us soon enough – formally leaving behind all the fun of a baby’s birth and the wonder of a God who loved us enough to share in our human experience.
Beyond the physical trappings of a holiday like Christmas, we carry memories of other special holidays with us in profound ways, don’t we? And we are able to bring back memories through things like a favorite smell (baked bread? vanilla candles? Grandpa’s pipe or Grandma’s cologne?) or by examining a treasured object that we hold in our hand as we attempt to connect with another time and place (a pressed flower … dad’s pocket knife … Grandmother’s favorite earrings … a rock that possibly contains a speck of gold). Or perhaps by closing our eyes as we listen to a song (Amazing Grace? Beautiful Savior? REO Speedwagon’s “I Can’t Fight This Feeling”). Well they don’t all have to be churchy. Special memories are special memories and that song just happens to be the one that was playing 26 years ago in February when I knew my night would end with Mark and I sharing our first kiss. What a great song … What a great memory … *sigh*
It seems there’s something healing about this kind of remembering. At least that’s how I feel when I allow myself to engage in something I’ve come to think of as nostalgia therapy. For me it usually involves grabbing an old family photo album, a childhood scrapbook or a yearbook, and then going someplace where I can quietly sit and linger over the pages as long as I like. I examine the expressions of high school or college classmates, and I study the faces of relatives who – like me – don’t look the same as they used to.
The closest I’ve come to understanding why I do this is that I want to remember. I want to feel what it felt like to be me, back when life was – I don’t know … simpler? Less complicated? More mysterious in a good way? … I’m not sure. But each time my nostalgia therapy reconnects me to God, allowing me to keep moving forward with God but in a new way. That’s what I thought about when I first read today’s scripture from Nehemiah.
We are told that it was the first day of the seventh ecclesiastical year, the New Year’s Day of the Jewish civil year. It was a time of great celebration – and Ezra, a priestly scribe who had led about 5,000 Israelite exiles from Babylon back to Jerusalem, was bestowed with the honor of reading the scripture for the Feast of Trumpets.
It was a high honor, indeed, and this practice had often been neglected during the years the Israelites lived in Babylon, a foreign land. So as Ezra read, we are told they were attentive; they were patient (they stood listening from morning to midday); and that they were overcome with a sense of what they were hearing – so much so that they wept.
They were – once again or maybe for the first time – hearing about a God who loved them. A God who had laid out five full books of law to show just how much God cared for them. And life, it seemed, hadn’t really gone the way this chosen people of God had thought it would.
Still, here they stood – returned from exile and celebrating … remembering … and then weeping …
But the weeping didn’t last for long, for the Levite priests who were assisting Erza that day comforted them with these words: “Be quiet, for this day is holy; do not be grieved.”
And so all the people “went their way to eat and drink and to send portions” to those who had nothing “and to make great rejoicing” because they had understood.
So, what exactly had they understood? Why were they able to go on their way renewed?
I don’t think it was just the food and beverage.
I think they got revived through an ancient version of my 21st century nostalgia therapy. I think these people of God – recently returned from exile in a foreign land – were reminded of the special place they held as God’s chosen people. And then they got back to the business of being just that: God’s people, living in community with one another and taking care of those (how did the verse say it?) “for whom nothing had been prepared.”
Everybody it seemed was to be part of the party.
It’s not all that different from what we hear being described in today’s New Testament lesson from the book of 1st Corinthians, is it? Paul’s letter is to a group of people – new followers of Christ – who are attempting to live in community, in a new way. As chapter 12 begins, we hear Paul reminding them that they are no longer a pagan people prone to worship idols. They are a spiritual people of God equipped with a variety of spiritual gifts – no gift more important or special than another. In fact, Paul stresses that God needs all gifts to work together in order for this church to work for God’s glory.
Paul seems to really like this metaphor of the body, for he uses it more than once. He also lists types of spiritual gifts in more than one of his letters to the early churches. But it is difficult to recognize a metaphor in action – to see the words leap off the paper and come to life as something bigger than the literal translation.
And if we get too literal about a metaphor, we might get tripped up. For example, what is someone like me, who has a child born with birth defects, to think when I read: “If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be?” Paul could also have asked: “If the whole body were arms, where would the feet be?” And had he written that I would not want my child to feel less simply because his non-functional legs might be considered less by some. After all, in Paul’s day, those who were born malformed or became malformed were considered unclean and not worthy of entrance to the temple. Fortunately, Paul takes great pains to stress that the value of the body lies in way the individual members are able to work together, and he stresses that “the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.” Amen and amen.
No matter who we are or how we identify with Paul’s metaphor, we can envision a physical body – eye, ear, hand, foot, heart and more – all working together. That’s easy. But envisioning the body of Christ functioning together – what does that look like? I mean, really?
Maybe we get stuck wanting to know which part of the body we are? For instance, wouldn’t you love it if we had a special day each year where we all got together and someone walked by us saying something like: “Joy, you have the gift of (fill in the blank). Now, here is your special nametag. Please wear this so we all know that you are the appendix.”
What!?! The appendix?
I’m not sure I like being the appendix. Would you? An appendix is something modern science has basically found a bit unnecessary. I would like to be something a bit more flashy … a bit more important, wouldn’t you? … Or maybe you wouldn’t … Maybe you want to be one of the hidden parts of the body Paul talked about. Or maybe something visible but considered by the unknowing as lessor.
Does it matter? You know, I don’t really think it does, and I think that was Paul’s point. It does not matter what part of the body you are. It just matters that you realize you are part of the body – and an important one and needed one at that.
I think we do understand we are part of something bigger than ourselves – but I’m not sure we always like it … or maybe we’re just not sure what to do about it.
Let’s see: What are the spiritual gifts Paul lists in this passage? Wisdom … knowledge … faith … healing … working of miracles … prophecy … discernment of spirits … speaking in tongues … interpretation of tongues … It can be pretty easy to look at that list and strike several off outright, can’t it? Healing? … me? No way … Prophecy?… yeah, right … Speaking in tongues? … umm … pretty sure not … no, not that one. …
Are you crazy …?
In fact, I remember being in fifth grade and hearing this very scripture read at my church. Oh, it caused me such an overwhelming sense of dread. I heard Paul’s words telling me that each one of us is given gifts for the manifestation of the common good. Based on the list I heard, I didn’t want those gifts. I mean really. How could you go about your daily life performing miracles, prophesying and speaking in tongues without being labeled an absolute freak?
As I sat in the pew that day, I envisioned God reaching down through the vaulted sanctuary ceiling and laying an invisible hand on me that would cause me to involuntarily rise to my feet and begin speaking in tongues – right there in the United Methodist Church of West Union, Iowa. So I did what any self-respecting, God-fearing fifth grader would do. I began to pray: “Dear God, please don’t bless me. Please don’t bless me. You can give me some gifts. But not that one God. Please, please. Dear. God. Please not that one… and not some of the other ones either. I think I’d rather not be a gifted child of God. It seems a bit scary.”
And, you know what? God must have answered my prayer. Well, at least I’ve not ever involuntarily risen to my feet in church to begin speaking in tongues. Must not be how God works.
Seriously, I think I felt in fifth grade what each of us feels at some point in our lives: a fear of what could happen if we fully gave ourselves to God’s work here on earth.
One of my favorite quotes – sometimes mistakenly attributed to Nelson Mandela – is by an author named Marianne Williamson. She wrote:
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us – it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Do you hear that? Marianne, the apostle Paul and God all agree. You are incredibly gifted.
What’s more. You need to be who you are as a child of God so that others can be who they are. Each one of us is part of the larger whole. This is HUGE! For my life will be less if you aren’t living as the incredible child of God you were created to be and yours will be less if I’m not living that way as well. Think of it as God’s Divine “Be All You Can Be Campaign.”
• You are gifted.
• You don’t need it plastered on a nametag or feared as some supernatural force. You just are.
• And your giftedness is equally important as the giftedness of the person to your left … to your right … in front of you … behind you… walking across the parking lot across the street right now … strolling through Dollar General right now or pushing a cart down the aisles of Bill’s Family Foods or Forest City Foods.
• You are part of the body and belong to a God who will not let you go.
Will you remember this?
You know those ornaments and cards and albums I spoke of earlier? They are tangible reminders for me of moments that hold great meaning. Things I can see that help me connect to things I can’t see anymore.
This is the season of Epiphany – the celebration of God manifested in the person of Jesus Christ – a tangible expression of God’s love for you.
A God who brings good news to the poor … releases captives … gives sight to those who can’t see … and sets oppressed people free.
And you know what? That stuff is happening every day on this kingdom come to earth. This year – this brand new year of 2010 – is the year of the Lord. And you’ll find the Lord busier than ever:
• digging through rubble to lift people to safety,
• picking up a scared child to whisper reassuring words,
• packing food into a box and helping a family carry it to their car,
• clearing a driveway of snow so a woman can drive to work,
• smiling at a guy in line who looks like he could use a smile,
• handing a quarter to a girl at a checkout counter because hers fell behind some shelving,
• saying he’s sorry to his friend because he knows the words hurt,
• mailing a card with a check tucked inside so someone's month will end a little easier.
The list could go on and on and on … and you know why … I know you do: because the members of the body of Christ are equipped with spiritual gifts – each one important – each one necessary – each one needed.
And we are a busy bunch.
Child of God … I am so grateful to be part of the body with you.
You know the story of Christmas. You know the story of Easter. May you also know what it means for a risen Christ to be made manifest in your life – to live and walk and laugh and work and cry and smile with you, with us.
Immanuel, God with us.
Immanuel, may we always remember what it means to serve a God who loved us enough to become one of us – who continues to be with us – and who makes certain that we are never alone.
Amen.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Hemmed In and Invincible
Many Bible passages have a special meaning to me. I’m sure you may be able to say the same. You have likely read or heard a piece of scripture at a certain time in your life when the moment connected deeply – and now you always remember the special significance of that passage. Even though I have ascribed personal meaning to quite a few passages myself only one Bible passage holds this particular distinction: I can remember specific details about where I was when the words grabbed me in an intense, personal way. It was Tuesday, Jan. 12, 1982, and the passage was the 139th chapter of Psalms.
I hope you won’t be disappointed to learn that I wasn’t in need of a dramatic intervention at the time. Or, that there was nothing life-threatening occurring or no situation where I needed to be supplied with dynamic words to share for a specific situation.
I was simply sitting on a twin-sized bed in the home of my host family in Owatonna, Iowa, reflecting on my day.
You see, I had arrived in the city the previous day at about 4 p.m. to join 19 other young women from across the state of Iowa – all seniors in high school – who were competing in the Iowa Junior Miss program. Seventeen of them had arrived at various times that Sunday morning, and two on Sunday afternoon – one who had even arrived by snowmobile. I, who lived four hours north, had been delayed nearly 24-additional hours by a monster blizzard that had closed most major highways in the majority of counties on the eastern part of the state: The Great Blizzard of ’82.
(Hummmmm… a bit like this January it might seem.)
Anyway … I was 48 hours behind them, as all the other young women had already held multiple rehearsals and had gotten a big jump on learning the choreography to the poise and physical fitness routines for the pageant nights.
Now … I think I’d like to pause here a moment to reshape some possible misconceptions. I was in Ottumwa to participate in a scholarship program to earn money for college, not a program that invited others to scrutinize my personal physique – (not that there’s anything inherently wrong with the kind of scholarship competitions that require women to walk past judges wearing hardly any fabric) – this just wasn’t one of those deals.
This was a scholarship competition in pageant form with the heaviest scrutiny placed on academic standings and a judge’s interview to learn your personal philosophies and your understanding of current events. The talent portion and other routines were primarily for the show aspect –for the audiences that would be attending at the end of the week. Still, the judges would be watching and scoring those portions, too. I needed to learn the routines as quickly as possible, hoping the others would help me even though we were competitors. I had a lot of catching up to do before the pageant nights on Friday and Saturday.
So on Tuesday night as I sat on the pale, flowered and ruffled twin bed that really belonged to my 7-year-old host sister, I probably was feeling a tad overwhelmed … a little bit lonely … and probably a lotta bit out of my element. But I wasn’t scared. Not at all. My wee-bit-arrogant psyche got energized at times like these – not scared. I wasn’t even apprehensive.
So, what was I?
I was … well … maybe the best word would be: eager. I was eager to see what might be possible.
I wanted to know what was God planning to do with my life, because I was certainly ready! – whatever ready meant.
Now, why did I reach for my Bible that night? To petition God for a good showing later in the week? For a special blessing of success? No. I knew that was a bit silly. Perhaps I grabbed my Bible as a way to quiet for bedtime … or to summon a bit of holiness as I took on the challenges that faced me that week … or maybe it was simply to curb my loneliness. Whatever the reason, that night as I read the words of David, the psalmist king, I felt as if God had asked David write the words so they might speak to me in that moment.
“You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up. You discern my thoughts from far away. Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.”
Right there: Those were the words that shot into my core and then suspended my thoughts in time – a moment that I continue to hold close. “Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.”
How incredible … How purely horrifying. How … well … How: Wow!
And how – ultimately – reassuring.
I don’t know about you. But I’m compulsively candid and sometimes – many times – I say things before thinking about the consequences. I did it in 1982. I do it today. With Facebook, I’m even likely to type things without thinking.
Even when I try not to, I do it anyway. (Paul wrote a great passage about such a problem, but I’ll save that for another time.)
In this passage, David let me know that before a word as on my tongue, God knew it completely. Therefore, despite my human malfunctions, I could be confident God knew my Spirit in spite of my misspeaks and misdeeds. Yet, the words David wrote in the 139th Psalm don’t speak of predestination or forethought – they speak of David’s awareness that God knew him intimately. Verses later we learn that David has enemies – people who had accused him of things. David was being wrongly accused of something – and through the words he pored out in this Psalm, it’s clear David took comfort in the fact that God knew better.
God – David tells – us was acquainted with all David’s ways. And David was so confident that God was pleased with him, he invited God to “search him” and “know his heart” to “test” him and “know his thoughts.” David – we can tell – feels up to the challenge of living as God’s child because he knows God will always be with him.
Wow.
Sitting on that bed in Ottumwa that January night, I knew God was well acquainted with me too. I knew I could withstand unforeseen challenges – even when I felt out of my element – because I had God as my constant - intimate - life companion.
The divine closeness I felt in that moment was too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain and too vast for me to out flee – not that I wanted to, mind you. I simply felt fantastic knowing I couldn’t escape God if I tried. That sort of relationship can make you invincible. It might even help you lead a nation as one of the most notable kings in history despite your human failings. Surely it could even help a 17-year-old girl learn choreography quickly and make new friends even quicker.
I was tempted to not tell you now I did that week, because it really doesn’t matter. I’d already gained something extremely important that Tuesday night. I did, however, finish as one of the judges' top finalists (2nd runner up) and was voted by the other young women to receive their top Junior Miss honor – the "Spirit of Junior Miss." As you can imagine, that award meant far more to me than anything the judge's presented that night. Perhaps even more interesting: One of the judges that year happened to be the president of Wartburg College (Dr. Robert Vogel) and the scholarships I earned that night helped me pay for the four years I spent on that campus – four wonderful years that have shaped the rest of my life.
Perhaps you can identify with feeling an affinity for such place of learning.
At a minimum I hope you connect with this: the Creator God who formed you in your mothers’ womb continues to hem you in behind and before – don’t try to understand it for its knowledge is too high to attain. And, I guess you can try to flee such a relationship, but know that it won’t work.
God’s hand is holding you fast.
And tonight as you are preparing to lie down for the night, take a moment to sit on your bed and think of God. See if you can’t think a thought that God doesn’t already know as it’s forming in the depths of your being. See if you can imagine a place God won’t already be… I don’t believe it’s possible.
You – fearful and wonderful child of God – Go in peace to love and serve God. You are invincible. Amen.
I hope you won’t be disappointed to learn that I wasn’t in need of a dramatic intervention at the time. Or, that there was nothing life-threatening occurring or no situation where I needed to be supplied with dynamic words to share for a specific situation.
I was simply sitting on a twin-sized bed in the home of my host family in Owatonna, Iowa, reflecting on my day.
You see, I had arrived in the city the previous day at about 4 p.m. to join 19 other young women from across the state of Iowa – all seniors in high school – who were competing in the Iowa Junior Miss program. Seventeen of them had arrived at various times that Sunday morning, and two on Sunday afternoon – one who had even arrived by snowmobile. I, who lived four hours north, had been delayed nearly 24-additional hours by a monster blizzard that had closed most major highways in the majority of counties on the eastern part of the state: The Great Blizzard of ’82.
(Hummmmm… a bit like this January it might seem.)
Anyway … I was 48 hours behind them, as all the other young women had already held multiple rehearsals and had gotten a big jump on learning the choreography to the poise and physical fitness routines for the pageant nights.
Now … I think I’d like to pause here a moment to reshape some possible misconceptions. I was in Ottumwa to participate in a scholarship program to earn money for college, not a program that invited others to scrutinize my personal physique – (not that there’s anything inherently wrong with the kind of scholarship competitions that require women to walk past judges wearing hardly any fabric) – this just wasn’t one of those deals.
This was a scholarship competition in pageant form with the heaviest scrutiny placed on academic standings and a judge’s interview to learn your personal philosophies and your understanding of current events. The talent portion and other routines were primarily for the show aspect –for the audiences that would be attending at the end of the week. Still, the judges would be watching and scoring those portions, too. I needed to learn the routines as quickly as possible, hoping the others would help me even though we were competitors. I had a lot of catching up to do before the pageant nights on Friday and Saturday.
So on Tuesday night as I sat on the pale, flowered and ruffled twin bed that really belonged to my 7-year-old host sister, I probably was feeling a tad overwhelmed … a little bit lonely … and probably a lotta bit out of my element. But I wasn’t scared. Not at all. My wee-bit-arrogant psyche got energized at times like these – not scared. I wasn’t even apprehensive.
So, what was I?
I was … well … maybe the best word would be: eager. I was eager to see what might be possible.
I wanted to know what was God planning to do with my life, because I was certainly ready! – whatever ready meant.
Now, why did I reach for my Bible that night? To petition God for a good showing later in the week? For a special blessing of success? No. I knew that was a bit silly. Perhaps I grabbed my Bible as a way to quiet for bedtime … or to summon a bit of holiness as I took on the challenges that faced me that week … or maybe it was simply to curb my loneliness. Whatever the reason, that night as I read the words of David, the psalmist king, I felt as if God had asked David write the words so they might speak to me in that moment.
“You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up. You discern my thoughts from far away. Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.”
Right there: Those were the words that shot into my core and then suspended my thoughts in time – a moment that I continue to hold close. “Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.”
How incredible … How purely horrifying. How … well … How: Wow!
And how – ultimately – reassuring.
I don’t know about you. But I’m compulsively candid and sometimes – many times – I say things before thinking about the consequences. I did it in 1982. I do it today. With Facebook, I’m even likely to type things without thinking.
Even when I try not to, I do it anyway. (Paul wrote a great passage about such a problem, but I’ll save that for another time.)
In this passage, David let me know that before a word as on my tongue, God knew it completely. Therefore, despite my human malfunctions, I could be confident God knew my Spirit in spite of my misspeaks and misdeeds. Yet, the words David wrote in the 139th Psalm don’t speak of predestination or forethought – they speak of David’s awareness that God knew him intimately. Verses later we learn that David has enemies – people who had accused him of things. David was being wrongly accused of something – and through the words he pored out in this Psalm, it’s clear David took comfort in the fact that God knew better.
God – David tells – us was acquainted with all David’s ways. And David was so confident that God was pleased with him, he invited God to “search him” and “know his heart” to “test” him and “know his thoughts.” David – we can tell – feels up to the challenge of living as God’s child because he knows God will always be with him.
Wow.
Sitting on that bed in Ottumwa that January night, I knew God was well acquainted with me too. I knew I could withstand unforeseen challenges – even when I felt out of my element – because I had God as my constant - intimate - life companion.
The divine closeness I felt in that moment was too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain and too vast for me to out flee – not that I wanted to, mind you. I simply felt fantastic knowing I couldn’t escape God if I tried. That sort of relationship can make you invincible. It might even help you lead a nation as one of the most notable kings in history despite your human failings. Surely it could even help a 17-year-old girl learn choreography quickly and make new friends even quicker.
I was tempted to not tell you now I did that week, because it really doesn’t matter. I’d already gained something extremely important that Tuesday night. I did, however, finish as one of the judges' top finalists (2nd runner up) and was voted by the other young women to receive their top Junior Miss honor – the "Spirit of Junior Miss." As you can imagine, that award meant far more to me than anything the judge's presented that night. Perhaps even more interesting: One of the judges that year happened to be the president of Wartburg College (Dr. Robert Vogel) and the scholarships I earned that night helped me pay for the four years I spent on that campus – four wonderful years that have shaped the rest of my life.
Perhaps you can identify with feeling an affinity for such place of learning.
At a minimum I hope you connect with this: the Creator God who formed you in your mothers’ womb continues to hem you in behind and before – don’t try to understand it for its knowledge is too high to attain. And, I guess you can try to flee such a relationship, but know that it won’t work.
God’s hand is holding you fast.
And tonight as you are preparing to lie down for the night, take a moment to sit on your bed and think of God. See if you can’t think a thought that God doesn’t already know as it’s forming in the depths of your being. See if you can imagine a place God won’t already be… I don’t believe it’s possible.
You – fearful and wonderful child of God – Go in peace to love and serve God. You are invincible. Amen.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Process of Remembrance
Sometimes I feel like I should apologize for my overt emotional transparency, for I know many people are not comfortable around those who regularly put emotionally tainted thoughts on display. However, if you have visited my blog before, you know that I flash both emotions and thoughts at will – a characteristic, I believe, that might be dictated by my DNA.
So if this is your first time to my blog: beware. I'm pretty hung up on me. To be even more clear: This blog is all about me, all the time.
That shouldn't be a surprise, for that's what a blog is – a web log that provides a running commentary on a topic or serves as an online diary. My blog is mostly the latter flavored with a bit of the former, and I regard this blog as an extension of Involuntary Joy, the memoir I wrote about my first five years as a mom. How I share what's on my mind matches the book's tone, and I believe the copy on the book's cover describes it best:
My blog's purpose – declared in full view as the subhead – is to answer a perpetual question: "Who am I now?" I believe this question has a universal answer that remains constant – a child of God – as well as an answer that varies with each person who is asking. It's the Part 2 of the question that intrigues me most, for it deepens Part 1: "I am a child of God who …"
Who what?
Thinks this {fill in the blank}.
Is afraid of this {fill in the blank}.
Is reluctant to admit this {fill in the blank}.
Wishes she could stop doing this {fill in the blank}.
Is deeply grateful for this {fill in the blank}.
You get the idea.
For me, coming up with answers for the blanks requires a type of self-examination that's aided by memory. I gain insight about where I'm going based on introspection about where I've been. Sometimes my process for remembrance is intentional, like paging through photo albums and yearbooks or reading through files filled with letters, documents and old journal entries. I find affirmation in this jumbled chronicle of my life's milestone moments – reassurance that who I am has been sufficient and who I can be holds great promise.
Other times remembrance simply happens, triggered by memories that bubble into present day events. This type of bubbling happened this weekend as I helped apply stage makeup to cast members in a high school production of "Oklahoma." Stage makeup colors many of my high school memories, connecting me to the leading lady I used to be. I was a young woman who earned a musical theatre scholarship to the University of Northern Iowa but decided not to use it. This earlier version of me was a dramatic, real-life ingenue who realized that pursuing life as an actress would forever change her – likely becoming more dramatic and less like an ingenue.
This weekend, when I saw the high school actors, I remembered me and felt gratitude for the wonder of my life's journey.
Had I become an actress, I don't think I'd have become a mother; for as I shared in the epilogue of Involuntary Joy, I had decided not to have children at the time I was entertaining college scholarships. Perhaps, I'd have eventually felt a maternal pull as part of a storybook storyline with a real-life equivalent of a leading man. Or maybe I'd have been drawn to the motherhood experience out of a desire to really know what being a mother felt like, not just acting such a part.
I'll never know.
On Saturday, as I remembered the me of then, I was thankful for the me of now – a mom watching her son stretch his moral imagination by becoming a cowboy. And not just any cowboy – a toe tapping, tap dancing, lasso roping, singing one. While I've never performed the role of a cowboy, I saw myself in my son, loving every minute of what it took to bring his role to life in front of an adoring audience. Regardless of where his life's journey carries him, I believe that one day he, too, will remember those moments and wonder how they might help answer the question: "Who am I now?"
Remembrance is a powerful practice, isn't it? Holy days of remembrance connect the people of Israel to the God of their fathers. Muslims recount Allah's faithfulness as a way of experiencing the same. Like the disciples of these and other faith expressions, I've found that remembering who I used to be and where I've been establishes a divine connection that sustains my hope for all that is to come.
We are all children of God – every one of us. Children of God who ... well, you fill in the blank.
For the record: My favorite role was Reno Sweeney, a character definitely not of the ingenue mold. Interestingly, she's probably the one I related to best, as well – except for her former prostitute and friend-to-gangsters status. I love Reno's complexity and her brazen, let's-put-everything-on-the-table-friend attitude.
...
So if this is your first time to my blog: beware. I'm pretty hung up on me. To be even more clear: This blog is all about me, all the time.
That shouldn't be a surprise, for that's what a blog is – a web log that provides a running commentary on a topic or serves as an online diary. My blog is mostly the latter flavored with a bit of the former, and I regard this blog as an extension of Involuntary Joy, the memoir I wrote about my first five years as a mom. How I share what's on my mind matches the book's tone, and I believe the copy on the book's cover describes it best:
Involuntary Joy relates the fullness of her story, with blemishes exposed and vulnerabilities offered for full examination.
So, again: beware. You're gonna get the full story of what's happening in my life, with blemishes exposed and vulnerabilities offered to you for full examination. I simply don't know another way to do it.My blog's purpose – declared in full view as the subhead – is to answer a perpetual question: "Who am I now?" I believe this question has a universal answer that remains constant – a child of God – as well as an answer that varies with each person who is asking. It's the Part 2 of the question that intrigues me most, for it deepens Part 1: "I am a child of God who …"
Who what?
Thinks this {fill in the blank}.
Is afraid of this {fill in the blank}.
Is reluctant to admit this {fill in the blank}.
Wishes she could stop doing this {fill in the blank}.
Is deeply grateful for this {fill in the blank}.
You get the idea.
For me, coming up with answers for the blanks requires a type of self-examination that's aided by memory. I gain insight about where I'm going based on introspection about where I've been. Sometimes my process for remembrance is intentional, like paging through photo albums and yearbooks or reading through files filled with letters, documents and old journal entries. I find affirmation in this jumbled chronicle of my life's milestone moments – reassurance that who I am has been sufficient and who I can be holds great promise.
Other times remembrance simply happens, triggered by memories that bubble into present day events. This type of bubbling happened this weekend as I helped apply stage makeup to cast members in a high school production of "Oklahoma." Stage makeup colors many of my high school memories, connecting me to the leading lady I used to be. I was a young woman who earned a musical theatre scholarship to the University of Northern Iowa but decided not to use it. This earlier version of me was a dramatic, real-life ingenue who realized that pursuing life as an actress would forever change her – likely becoming more dramatic and less like an ingenue.
This weekend, when I saw the high school actors, I remembered me and felt gratitude for the wonder of my life's journey.
Had I become an actress, I don't think I'd have become a mother; for as I shared in the epilogue of Involuntary Joy, I had decided not to have children at the time I was entertaining college scholarships. Perhaps, I'd have eventually felt a maternal pull as part of a storybook storyline with a real-life equivalent of a leading man. Or maybe I'd have been drawn to the motherhood experience out of a desire to really know what being a mother felt like, not just acting such a part.
I'll never know.
On Saturday, as I remembered the me of then, I was thankful for the me of now – a mom watching her son stretch his moral imagination by becoming a cowboy. And not just any cowboy – a toe tapping, tap dancing, lasso roping, singing one. While I've never performed the role of a cowboy, I saw myself in my son, loving every minute of what it took to bring his role to life in front of an adoring audience. Regardless of where his life's journey carries him, I believe that one day he, too, will remember those moments and wonder how they might help answer the question: "Who am I now?"
Remembrance is a powerful practice, isn't it? Holy days of remembrance connect the people of Israel to the God of their fathers. Muslims recount Allah's faithfulness as a way of experiencing the same. Like the disciples of these and other faith expressions, I've found that remembering who I used to be and where I've been establishes a divine connection that sustains my hope for all that is to come.
We are all children of God – every one of us. Children of God who ... well, you fill in the blank.
For the record: My favorite role was Reno Sweeney, a character definitely not of the ingenue mold. Interestingly, she's probably the one I related to best, as well – except for her former prostitute and friend-to-gangsters status. I love Reno's complexity and her brazen, let's-put-everything-on-the-table-friend attitude.
...
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Know the plans
In the face of disappointment, some either offer comfort or find comfort in the statement: “God has a plan for you.”
I wonder: Why?
Please note this is a big ‘why.’ A ‘why’ so big that it’s chock-full of other ‘whys’:
• Why would God divinely alter what I assume has been a previously endorsed plan? (Or, if a plan is being altered, does that mean a person has actually been on the wrong plan?)
• Why would God alter a plan without prior notice? (Is God really that spontaneous?)
• Why, if there is some form of prior notice, is it so easily missed? (Certainly God can grab a person’s attention in good and clear ways.)
• Why would God use disappointment as a way to move a child created in God's image toward a new plan? (Doesn’t that make God bad even if the plan is supposedly better?)
• Why can’t God just go with the plan currently in place and simply improve it if necessary? (After all, God IS God.)
• Why does someone else seem to know God’s plan for another person’s life while the one God’s working on seems rather oblivious? (Again, can’t God get someone’s attention whenever and wherever God wants?)
If I had to focus on only one of the whys, it would be this one: Why do we need assurance that God has a specific plan for our lives anyway?
When Mark and I married in May 1986, we chose Jeremiah 29:11 as the central verse for our marriage ceremony. It’s probably the most popular “plan” verse of the Bible: “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” (NIV)
Idealistic, young lovers with a lifetime of only good things in store, we vowed to share who we were with each other, facing any circumstance life threw our way. We clung to this promise, confident nothing could sidetrack the wonderful plan God had for us individually or as a couple. Believing in a providential plan provided reassurance that we could prevail regardless of what might come.
Then, five years into our marriage “what might” did come. And you know what? We were right about not being sidetracked or overtaken; we continued to prosper, although probably not in the way we understood the hope of prosperity then.
Truthfully, I can’t attest to what we understood then. Who were we in our 20s anyway? We certainly lacked the capacity to look into our future as we know it today. And if we could have seen or even gotten a glimpse of our future, it may have altered how we followed “the plan.” For whoever we were then, we had a much smaller concept of God. We believed there was only one correct plan, and if we missed our opportunity to stay on course, well, we didn’t want to find out what could go wrong.
God was in charge. We just needed to follow.
But you know what? In the process of trying not to misstep, we discovered a prosperity promise even more provocative regarding God’s capacity for hope and a future: The God of the universe is so expansive, it’s impossible to get lost. No matter which direction we step, God is already there. What a relief! That kind of providence is providential, indeed.
Moreover, God’s love is expansive, too, encompassing every child created in God’s image. This all-encompassing love renders God incapable of inflicting pain on those created to reflect the very image of God. This expansive, providential love is personified grace, or God in action.
After 25 years together (one courting, one engaged and 23 married), Mark and I now allow God to surprise us with displays of expansive grace – grace so huge we are able to see God in the midst of some pretty dire circumstances. It’s a grace that begs this question: “Why shy away from prosperity that can intangibly sustain even during times of want?”
Not capable of comprehending the anxiety and hopelessness of exile, we might find it easy to ignore the powerful context of Jeremiah’s words. He was writing to people banished to Babylon, encouraging them to settle down. “Go ahead and do things that might give you roots,” he told them, “Even if you are in a land that’s foreign to you, I’m right here.”
It’s truly a grow-where-you’re-planted message. So why not get comfortable with a more contemporary interpretation of this popular text: “Wherever you go, there you are. And, guess what? God is there too.”
Really. Go ahead. Enjoy life as it happens and wherever it might lead you, for God “knows the plans” not just “the plan.” God is one step ahead of you no matter the direction you’re headed.
Do you have a better plan?
I wonder: Why?
Please note this is a big ‘why.’ A ‘why’ so big that it’s chock-full of other ‘whys’:
• Why would God divinely alter what I assume has been a previously endorsed plan? (Or, if a plan is being altered, does that mean a person has actually been on the wrong plan?)
• Why would God alter a plan without prior notice? (Is God really that spontaneous?)
• Why, if there is some form of prior notice, is it so easily missed? (Certainly God can grab a person’s attention in good and clear ways.)
• Why would God use disappointment as a way to move a child created in God's image toward a new plan? (Doesn’t that make God bad even if the plan is supposedly better?)
• Why can’t God just go with the plan currently in place and simply improve it if necessary? (After all, God IS God.)
• Why does someone else seem to know God’s plan for another person’s life while the one God’s working on seems rather oblivious? (Again, can’t God get someone’s attention whenever and wherever God wants?)
If I had to focus on only one of the whys, it would be this one: Why do we need assurance that God has a specific plan for our lives anyway?
When Mark and I married in May 1986, we chose Jeremiah 29:11 as the central verse for our marriage ceremony. It’s probably the most popular “plan” verse of the Bible: “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” (NIV)
Idealistic, young lovers with a lifetime of only good things in store, we vowed to share who we were with each other, facing any circumstance life threw our way. We clung to this promise, confident nothing could sidetrack the wonderful plan God had for us individually or as a couple. Believing in a providential plan provided reassurance that we could prevail regardless of what might come.
Then, five years into our marriage “what might” did come. And you know what? We were right about not being sidetracked or overtaken; we continued to prosper, although probably not in the way we understood the hope of prosperity then.
Truthfully, I can’t attest to what we understood then. Who were we in our 20s anyway? We certainly lacked the capacity to look into our future as we know it today. And if we could have seen or even gotten a glimpse of our future, it may have altered how we followed “the plan.” For whoever we were then, we had a much smaller concept of God. We believed there was only one correct plan, and if we missed our opportunity to stay on course, well, we didn’t want to find out what could go wrong.
God was in charge. We just needed to follow.
But you know what? In the process of trying not to misstep, we discovered a prosperity promise even more provocative regarding God’s capacity for hope and a future: The God of the universe is so expansive, it’s impossible to get lost. No matter which direction we step, God is already there. What a relief! That kind of providence is providential, indeed.
Moreover, God’s love is expansive, too, encompassing every child created in God’s image. This all-encompassing love renders God incapable of inflicting pain on those created to reflect the very image of God. This expansive, providential love is personified grace, or God in action.
After 25 years together (one courting, one engaged and 23 married), Mark and I now allow God to surprise us with displays of expansive grace – grace so huge we are able to see God in the midst of some pretty dire circumstances. It’s a grace that begs this question: “Why shy away from prosperity that can intangibly sustain even during times of want?”
Not capable of comprehending the anxiety and hopelessness of exile, we might find it easy to ignore the powerful context of Jeremiah’s words. He was writing to people banished to Babylon, encouraging them to settle down. “Go ahead and do things that might give you roots,” he told them, “Even if you are in a land that’s foreign to you, I’m right here.”
It’s truly a grow-where-you’re-planted message. So why not get comfortable with a more contemporary interpretation of this popular text: “Wherever you go, there you are. And, guess what? God is there too.”
Really. Go ahead. Enjoy life as it happens and wherever it might lead you, for God “knows the plans” not just “the plan.” God is one step ahead of you no matter the direction you’re headed.
Do you have a better plan?
Monday, June 30, 2008
What is at Life's Center Anyway...
...what IS at my life's center? Sometime I'll write about this as follow up to the metaphor entry. And then I'll address this question: Is Stross really the center of my life? Sometimes it feels like it, but the real answer is basically: No. He's just the center of my perfect storm. There's a difference.
Of course, that response leads to this question (which really was the point of the first question): What centers your life, Joy?
Ah....good question....
My shortest answer: Love
My shortest, more complete answer: The fulfillment of my identity as a child of God (defines how I grace-filledly share love).
My longer answer: (To Come!)
Of course, that response leads to this question (which really was the point of the first question): What centers your life, Joy?
Ah....good question....
My shortest answer: Love
My shortest, more complete answer: The fulfillment of my identity as a child of God (defines how I grace-filledly share love).
My longer answer: (To Come!)
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