Closing the Gap

I am officially a Bad Blogger. I haven't posted in almost two months. Bad! And as one who has learned by experience that interpersonal reconciliation is best achieved by plain repentance without an attempt to explain oneself, I won't tell you all my good excuses. I won't tell you, for instance, how insanely busy I've been, or the emphasis I'm trying to put on real life community, or the fact that my creative energies have been sapped by invested in work-related blogging. I won't tell you any of those things, because I hate it when people get defensive and try to justify themselves. It's not only godless, it's annoying.

I was reading an old journal this morning (Why? Because I have four whole days before I leave the country with a team I'm leading, so I was looking for something to stave off the boredom) and was startled by this prayer I'd written: "God, I want to close the gap between me and You."

Me? Close that infinite gap between a holy God and a depraved sinner? What was I thinking?

Granted, it was nearly ten years ago, and I suppose I ought to cut myself some slack for that lousy theology. What shocks me is not that I thought that way or lived that way -- I know that was the case, and I thank God every time I think about how He's rescued me from the dark weariness of striving to make Him like me. What shocks me is that I wrote that down and didn't even recognize that it was the opposite of the Gospel -- a Gospel I thought I'd embraced but clearly didn't understand.

All that to say, it challenges me -- first, to examine my own heart, and second, to examine what I teach, whether by word or by example, to make sure that any challenge to righteous living or obedience or godly standards is never presented without the why (because of love and for His glory) and the how (by His grace). Otherwise I'm just adding to a load that was never intended to be borne the way we tend to bear it because it was already carried with the cross and when He said "It is finished!" it really was.

Snow Day

It's the kind of snow that comes down in thick, wet flakes, sticking to my hair and my nose and my tongue (which, of course, is hanging out to catch it). It's sticking to the trees, too, transforming suburbia into fairyland. The boys across the street are building barricades and itching for a fight. The neighbor kids have the first big snowball ready for their snowman. I have firewood on hand and everything I need for a batch of homemade hot cocoa.

I love today.

Waking up to fresh-fallen snow holds the same wonder it always did, even though I'm a grown-up now and can't stay home and don't even own a sled. Suddenly the world is clean, and even the drab parking lot behind my cheap apartment brims with potential and magic. I know I'm far from the first to make this observation, but when I look out my window at the white-draped world I can't help but be reminded of how God blankets my dinginess with His purity. That's cause for a wonder that only grows, and with it gratitude and delight and awe.

"Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven,
whose sin is covered." - Psalm 32:1

Hope Gratitude

So, the whole regular-or-even-daily posting on gratitude leading up to Thanksgiving didn't pan out quite like I expected, but here's a late one to roll us into Advent.

"I suck but there's hope." That's how some friends and I summed up our lives tonight. It's the Gospel in a nutshell - I'm depraved and helpless, but hope is found in the Cross, in the Christ who doesn't just offer something to be hopeful for but becomes our hope.

His kind of hope isn't the wistful thinking we're accustomed to, the I-hope-I-win-the-lottery optimism that knows all along it will be disappointed. His kind of hope is a sure thing, a promise that we wait for while knowing it's already kept. We have hope that we aren't stuck the way we are, hope for redemption, for the resurrection that cannot be unless death comes first.

The curse of Babel in Genesis 11 is followed by the promise of blessing in Genesis 12. The writing on the wall -- that we're mortal, that we don't measure up, that our false hope will crumble in our fists -- is followed by lions shutting their mouths while Daniel prays and a pagan king opening his to praise the living God. And even as God pronounces to Adam and Eve the dreadful consequence of their sin, he is promising to send the only one who can defeat it.

Like their children and their children's children, we rest in and long for the Savior who came and who is coming. "He comes to make his blessings flow far as the curse is found" -- in every corner of the world, in every corner of my heart.

Gospel Gratitude

It's November, and in preparation for a holiday that begins with a prayer of thankfulness and ends with over-indulgence and football, I'll be posting regularly (daily?) about things I'm grateful for. Gratitude's a discipline to cultivate, not just a feeling. It's also a close cousin to humility, so when the fourth Thursday rolls around I ought to be the humblest person at the table.

Here's today's:

Therefore, since we have been justified by faith,
we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Through him we have also obtained access by faith
into this grace in which we stand,
and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God...
For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly.
For one will scarcely die for a righteous person—
though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die—
but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners,
Christ died for us.

- Romans 5:1-2, 6-8

Any proper "Count My Blessings" list must begin with this mind-boggling truth - not that I loved God, but that He loved me.

Happiness is...

...mercy and mercy and mercy and grace.

On Community

The other night I was planning to post some thoughts about community. But community happened instead.

I've been learning a lot about community lately because I've been in transition. For about a year now the dream of having My Own Place has never been far from my mind. Last week the dream became reality - but at the last minute, I almost bailed.

When I left home nine years ago I moved into what you could call an "intentional community." I don't like that phrase because it's redundant. You can share space and meals and responsibilities, even pray together, but you cannot have real community without being intentional. Anyway, it's been a joy and until recently I had hardly considered living any other way. But this past year it's become obvious to me that I'm [gasp] not nineteen anymore and that having a bit more space to call my own could be a good and healthy thing. My Own Place became an ever-intensifying desire.

So last week I made a bold move of independence and faith and rented an apartment a whole mile away from the house where I've lived and worked with our ministry staff. The process of buying dishes and tea towels, shoving my stuff in my car, and moving in was exciting, until it hit me: wait a minute! I hate being alone!

I mean, I really hate it. I have been called a great many things in my life, but "introvert" is definitely not one of them. My Own Place morphed to My Lonely Place as I began to feel isolated and alone before I'd spent a single night at the apartment.

One thing I've learned over the past few years: when overwhelmed by feelings of isolation, seek out community! So I called my roomies together - you know, all the girls whose house I'd been dreaming of moving out of - and asked for prayer, which they graciously provided. Over the next couple of days I began seeking input from others and praying like crazy.

It was a good process. It forced me to recognize that the idea of My Own Place had become a refuge for me over the past year. A reality check told me that Christ alone is my hope, and shelf space and my own bathroom and food that hasn't been labeled with a Sharpie are not rights to be demanded. I also had to confront my fear of being left high and dry financially. When it finally came down to it, I felt that it was still the right thing to move in and hesitantly did so.

I couldn't have moved out of "community" without the help of my community. Whether they were carrying heavy things or encouraging me when I didn't know what to do or coming over to hang out to help ease the transition, I needed these people, and they were there.

I love how God designed us to need one another. It's really his mercy, isn't it? Independence won't just keep us from meaningful friendships - it will keep us from the cross. Community reminds me that I could never be ok on my own - and by the grace of God, I don't have to be.

The funny thing is that I've been far more intentional about community since I moved out of it. My time with people has been focused - not just sitting in the same room hiding behind my computer or iPhone (the Internet should only enhance real-life community, not replace it). I'm increasingly aware of how much our lives were meant to be shared.

So the other night, when two of the staff girls dropped by (no doubt to keep me from feeling lonely), and then one of my former students arrived as they were leaving, I had no complaints about my post on community being delayed. As my second visitor and I shared a good old-fashioned heart-to-heart on my couch, I thought to myself, "This is what it's all about."

Odds and Ends

This morning I woke up feeling disappointed. Perhaps I should say that I woke up feeling like a disappointment, as the only thing I was disappointed in was myself. Some days are like that - that cloud, that vague sense that I'm not quite ok, that there's something I ought to be doing better or more or differently.

Underneath it all, of course, is the fear that I've disappointed God somehow. The "ought to's" pile up and point the finger. Thank goodness for the Gospel! I grasped for it this morning, while still lying in bed condemning myself for not getting up yet: His love for me has never depended on my good behavior. I am not defined by my unmet ought to's.

And so I had a pretty good day, with a list of small accomplishments. I made productive choices at work. I finally ran a mile after too many months of sporadic exercise. I ate lots of vegetables. I got a library card. I cheered for my friends' softball team. I wrote a long-overdue e-mail to a heart-friend.

Thank goodness once again for the Gospel, which shows up to remind me that I'm nothing on my own. It reveals the castle I thought I was building to be nothing more than a dollhouse, clumsy and crude at best. And that's ok. If I find my worth in what I do, I'll always let myself down eventually. I can't accomplish a thing without His grace. End-of-the-day self-satisfaction leads only to early-morning self-disappointment.

Thank goodness for the Gospel. Thank goodness for my Jesus.

Indeed

We never hunted Easter eggs as kids. Mom and Dad hid jelly beans instead, and it still makes perfect sense to me - who wants an egg? Hardboiled eggs are only good in moderation, but hiding fried eggs would be impractical, and plastic eggs are just silly.

So Easter egg hunts are a new experience and usually make me miss jelly beans tucked between the black keys of a piano, jelly beans hidden amidst the cobwebs of a candlestick or a pottery vase, jelly beans frantically tossed into my basket before the selfish siblings could get them.

My community split up in different homes for “family meals” and then gathered at an open field for a (mostly) grown-up Easter egg hunt. Having no sense of nostalgia over scooping up garish little not eggs containing what I’m trying not to eat, I was unmotivated. But I didn’t want to be a bad sport, so I ventured into the field and before long began a different sort of search.

Our field was generously sprinkled with violets. Soon I was so engrossed in picking them that a green plastic egg hidden in the grass startled me. Violets are significant to me, after all, and on a day like today when we celebrate new life in Christ nothing could be more appropriate to hunt.


The scent of a violet is elusive - I have a distinct memory of being a kid of five or six, perched atop the slide in the backyard with my nose buried in a bloom, trying to take in as much of its perfume as I could. Maybe my sense of smell is aging, or maybe Kentucky violets are shyer than their Yankee cousins, but this spring it seems I can’t catch a whiff of anything.

The collective fragrance of today’s bunch, however, is filling my room. They smell like childhood days spent in a Wisconsin backyard, my imagination my playmate. They smell like happiness and hope.

Which reminds me of how much I enjoyed gathering with various expressions of family today.

• At this morning’s service my joy was increased by celebrating my risen Savior surrounded by others whose hearts hold the same hope - hearts that have become linked to mine.

• Shortly afterwards I marveled at the Gospel story as seen through the eyes of three-year-olds. (When talking to one wide-eyed little girl about Jesus dying on the cross, she asked, “When? Last week?”)

• Then I joined with a slice of community made up of friends old and new, savoring the mutual hospitality of a potluck meal, lingering in conversation long after we’d eaten our fill, sharing the burden of cleaning up when we were done.

• And Resurrection Sunday will culminate with a long-awaited Skype date with one of my dearest heart-friends. We’re separated by land and sea and time zones but share a similar quest to display His splendor as we keep His hope alive.

Together truly is better.

Two Minutes to Resurrection Sunday

Two dozen eggs boiling on the stove, some for deviling, some for decorating. Nine ungodly pounds of ham already in the slow cooker, waiting for the fixin's (that's next), ready to be plugged in tomorrow morning to [slow] cook while I'm at my morning services (attending one, serving one, as they say). A loaf of bread rising in a warm oven. Strawberries ready to be washed and served with sour cream and brown sugar; peppermint tea waiting to be brewed, sweetened, and chilled; a tablecloth needing to be ironed. Tokens of hospitality, fitting for the day we celebrate the greatest hospitality ever offered to undeserving - often unwilling - guests.

I did my shopping last minute, as usual, and drove home a moment ago, anticipating tomorrow's celebration and all it represents. Since Thursday I've been mulling over the weightiness of the cross, with snippets of song the soundtrack for my meditation: "It was my sin that held Him there until it was accomplished...Oh, praise the One who paid my debt...Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"

I was there, and I ought to tremble, and not just sometimes. Friday's story should be familiar to me, but never common.

On tonight's drive, Damien Rice happened to be the soundtrack, and his praise was certainly not directed to the One who paid his debt. But just at the moment that I noticed how big and full the moon is tonight, hanging low and silvery and tempting me to stop and admire instead of go home and cook...just at that moment came the words of praise: "Can't take my eyes off of you!" The words resonated and my heart sang along - and not to the moon!

Oh, Creator of beauty, Giver of life, I often take my eyes off of You. I want to be so captivated by who You are that I cannot look away. Did I say that I want to leave it all behind? Because I do - I want to forsake this body of death! I am the crowd calling for a criminal instead of clinging to You. I am the Pharisees, seeking their own glory instead of Yours. I am the disciples, falling asleep when You asked them to pray. I am Pilate, fearing man instead of trusting You. I have betrayed You and denied You; I have run away from the cost. But Your dying breath bought me life and the veil is torn in two. I am forgiven. It is finished. You paid it all. I am Yours.

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer.
But this I know with all my heart:
His wounds have paid my ransom.

Journal Excerpt

Tues, Jan 13, 2009

Chennai, India

"Then the Lord took note of Sarah as He had said, and the Lord did for Sarah as He had promised."
-Genesis 21:1

Oh, Father, your promises never fail! You always fulfill what you have spoken. As I've been reading about Abraham and Sarah waiting for a child - and waiting, and waiting - laughing at the promise because sometimes you have to laugh so that you don't cry - I've been reminded of my own unfulfilled promises. Certainly I haven't waited as long, and although at times they do seem impossible they are not so impossible as a 90-year-old woman having a child! "Is anything too hard for God?" he asks - and the angel who visits Mary, whose Child fulfills the ultimate promise both to Abraham and to us all, echoes the question, but with confidence: "For nothing will be impossible with God."

You, my God, are a fulfiller. You give good gifts to your children. You will provide. You always do.

Thank you for the greatest Promise of all, that you fulfilled long ago and you fulfill every day in Christ your Son. "In the mount of the Lord it will be provided", they said of the mountain where Isaac wasn't sacrificed. Abraham called you Jehovah Jireh that day, and for the first time today I saw the true significance of that name. You provided a replacement sacrifice for me. You provided what I needed the most - what I still need every day: salvation by grace through faith.