We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all—all but the sin. So let’s walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help. -Hebrews 4:15 (MSG) There’s a difference when someone thinks they can see where you’re coming from, as compared to having been there themselves. Does that make sense? If my kid is nervous the day before school, I can say, “Sure you are, but you’ll be fine.” But that’s vastly different than me saying, “You know, I remember a time that I was scared to walk into a new place, and it was hard. Let me tell you that story.” In the middle of fear and pain, one response feels distant. But the other makes us feel known. Of course, it goes deeper than school butterflies. When we walk through pain and trauma, many of us have learned that there are no words that can describe the struggle. It’s only when we meet another who has experienced something similar that we can access a glimmer of peace. We don’t even need to have our issues “fixed.” There’s simply something hopeful about being understood. And yet, even when we encounter people who experienced similar pain, fear, or heartache, there is still a limit. Every person is different, and we are complicated. Even when someone has been through something similar, they are not you. They are not able to see into your heart or your head. Not fully, at least. Years ago I had a conversation with a friend of mine who I would later lose to addiction. He was sharing honestly about his many struggles, and how even his hardest circumstances were somehow nudging him toward Jesus. He texted me a simple statement that will stay with me forever, about a conviction that he came to hold. "I have a Christ who suffered, and that’s how I know he identifies with me." So simple. So life-changing. We are given a confidant. A friend. A Lord. A brother… who has the ability to see into the depths of our pain and struggle. But he also experienced all the emotions we could ever imagine. And he hurt. He hurt hard. He gets it. Rejection. Loss. Pressure. Anxiety. Betrayal. Victimization. Temptation. Maybe that’s why Jesus is called “God with us” as his nickname in the Bible. Jesus looks at us squarely in the eyes, seeing past our walls of insecurities and our silent arguments with nobody in particular about how hard life is, or parenting, or dealing with this heartache, or that disease, or this addiction, or that uncertainty, or this responsibility. And instead of telling us to get over it, we hear a voice of gentle humility. I understand. Do we believe this? That Jesus understands? Or have we completely stripped away the humanity of Jesus to the point where we say he was human, but we really think he was mostly God.... so obviously he wasn’t really like us. Maybe like 60/40? When we embrace the extra-ordinary humanity of Jesus, that’s actually when his divine nature explodes into our lives. That’s the moment that we realize that we are truly, entirely, and impossibly… understood. More than your parents understand you. More than your spouse understands you. More than your best friend understands you. Even more than google understands your needs and wants. When we begin to trust that Jesus understands our struggle, and really trust it… Then we can let him lead us toward the way of life, however difficult that might be. Because you’re not alone. You are understood. And you are loved. Jesus, meet me where I am today in a way no one else can. Lead me on from there. Peace, Keith* *I'm on sabbatical until July 7th, so for a while Together For Good will be highlighting our favorite reminders from the archives. Don't worry, if I can't remember writing half of them, I'm hopeful they'll be fresh reminders to you as well!
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Then Jesus stood up again and said to the woman, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?” “No, Lord,” she said. And Jesus said, “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.” -John 8:10-11 Sir, do you have any idea how fast you were driving? There is literally no correct way to answer this question. It’s a trap, friends. If I say “no” then I show myself to be negligent and lacking basic awareness of my own actions behind the wheel. If I say “yes” then I am openly admitting that I was completely aware of breaking the law and did it anyways. So I’ve been put in an impossible situation. A sheepish, “um, maybe 30?” seemed like a nice middle ground. It did not impress. License and registration, please. Truth be told, I was going too fast. I clearly remember the day I was driving to a trailhead for a run and found myself on a small road in the middle of NOWHERE controlled by the DE Fish and Game Commission. Apparently, all Fish and Game Commission roads have a 20mph speed limit. Also apparently, I was driving faster than the prescribed 20mph speed limit. In my defense, I would have gone slower if I had known I’d get in trouble. It's annoying to be caught and be told that you are doing something wrong, isn’t it? It makes you feel terrible. And awaiting the consequences while the police checked out my “license and registration” was not a great way to spend a 5pm on Friday, either. But when he returned, the officer looked at me and said, “well, we’re going to just give you a verbal warning this time. Please be careful, that’s too fast around here. Have a good day.” Oh, the sweet nectar of compassion! Well, this was indeed a very different feeling than I was expecting. I thought I was condemned, but truth be told, I felt a little bit like I had just won the lottery. Woohoo! I’m free! And I was. There was no condemnation! And yet something in me had changed, even though I hadn’t actually been punished. This isn't always the case... but I'm finding it often is. Without question, I left that parking lot driving a bit more slowly than before. And the next time I come there, I’ll be carefully taking my time on the way in. There was a lesson there, as hard as it was for me to admit. And in the end, I’m glad it happened the way it did. I’m better for it……. This is the power of conviction in the life of a Jesus follower. This is also very different from guilt or condemnation. We are tempted to live with two competing mentalities. The first tells us that we are constantly condemned. We walk around feeling like we will never live up to anyone’s (including God’s) expectations. We base everything off of the rules we follow or break, and our lives are characterized by both of those things. And that's why many people observe, like my one dear friend did, that “so many Christians are the least free people I’ve ever met.” If that’s the case, we’re not following Jesus so well. He came to set us free. The other mentality is that, because there is no condemnation from God as we trust Jesus, we no longer need to spend any time on self-development as disciples. We shouldn't really ever feel bad or change our behavior because we are under grace. But that misses the point too. We have been given the Holy Spirit so that we can have assurance that we are not condemned, but also have a little (or big!) nudge that sets us on the correct path when we’re moving in the wrong direction. And because of that amazing two-fold reality, we can rejoice in both the grace and the conviction that comes our way. The Spirit slows us down to ask, “Do you realize how fast you were going there?” Yet consistently comes back and says, "You have another chance. But make the better choice tomorrow. You can do it.” We need that, friends. What a gift to have a Spirit of both grace and truth in our lives. Jesus, help me become aware of the areas of life I’m speeding through dangerously. Teach me a better way. Peace, Keith* *I'm on sabbatical until July 7th, so for a while Together For Good will be highlighting our favorite reminders from the archives. Don't worry, if I can't remember writing half of them, I'm hopeful they'll be fresh reminders to you as well! “Forget about what’s happened; don’t keep going over old history. Be alert, be present. I’m about to do something brand-new." Isaiah 43:18-19 (MSG) In the famous Greek poem The Odyssey, the hero Odysseus is swept away for 10 years, fighting a battle that is not his own. Eager to return to his homeland, his journey is disrupted and he spends 10 more adventurous years on the sea, trying to survive shipwrecks and storms and eventually make his way home. He is seeking peace and tranquility in his homeland, but seems unable to reach it. Finally, he receives a mystical message that his homecoming will indeed happen, but he must make one final journey. And it has to do with the ship oar in his hand. The oar has become a trusty companion over the past decade. It was his tool for survival on the seas, and a reminder of all he's overcome. And now he is told to carry it far inland and plant it into the ground. The land is so far from the sea that the locals won’t know what it is, and they’ll think it’s a farm tool for separating grain and chaff. What an odd task. Now, since The Odyssey is an allegory, there are loads of meaning in each element, and we are free to interpret in our own ways as well. But one thing sticks out in this story... What was critical and meaningful to Odysseus at one time will not always be needed by him in the same way. Odysseus needs to leave behind one of the tools that defined his life, because a new season was at hand. In fact, he would need to intentionally place it behind him in order to move on.* Jesus is constantly inviting us to do this sort of stuff. Call it pruning. Call it becoming new. Call it working out our salvation. But there are times when what has helped us in one season needs to be left behind in order to live fully into the next as we follow him. What if the thing that has fueled you for years, helping you to battle through and survive, is the very thing that needs to be released in order to peacefully move with God to the next phase of your life? What if your need to prove yourself, which has made you a successful businessperson or entrepreneur, is now the thing that is hindering you from being fully present with your children as they grow up? What if your cynicism about churches, which has kept you vigilant and protected after having your trust betrayed in a previous experience, is now no longer needed as you step into truly meaningful community? What if your strength and ability to be independent, which propelled you to leave an abusive relationship many years ago, is not what's needed now as opportunities arise for truly loving, deep spiritual friendships? What if black-and-white understandings of the world, which helped you establish your convictions early in your faith, need to be released so that you can walk with Jesus into the gray and complicated areas of life? What if your oar has been the self-protection of passivity, which allowed you to be comfortable and quiet, when you know that God is stirring you to take some risks and start using your gifts in a new way? What’s your oar? What do you need to put in the ground? Jesus' invitation for the disciples to follow him meant many things, but two of them are obvious. It meant a constant journey, and it meant leaving things behind that they had once relied on. But the future was worth it all. This summer is an amazing time to bury some oars and embrace what’s next. Jesus, give me clarity on what to release, and give me Your presence for the next journey. Peace, Keith* *I'm on sabbatical until July 7th, so for a while Together For Good will be highlighting our favorite reminders from the archives. Don't worry, if I can't remember writing half of them, I'm hopeful they'll be fresh reminders to you as well! I deliberately kept it plain and simple: first Jesus and who he is; then Jesus and what he did—Jesus crucified. -I Corinthians 2:2 This is a two-parter, friends. Holy week begins in only a few days. Holy week is a journey. We walk with Jesus into Jerusalem, onto the cross, and quietly wait in the tomb. It's dramatic, and it's personal. A story this compelling and emotional is the sort of thing that shapes you in the 100th reading as well as the first one. God suffering with all humanity, to heal and restore all humanity. God bearing the sin of the world, to defeat the powers behind that very sin. Jesus, replanting the world with the fertilizer of his very body. Jesus, who turns every understanding of power and violence on its head. If we allow it, the annual recurrence of holy week peels back layers of our own hearts. It's a time to open ourselves up. It's also a time to let the story speak for itself. Have you ever noticed those documents for tests or legal stuff that just says, "this page intentionally left blank?" You may think those blank pages are just a bureaucratic mystery and a conspiracy to destroy trees. I agree. But beyond that, there are reasons. Pages are left blank in legal documents to separate content, so that subjects don't blend together accidentally. And in standardized tests, pages are also left blank to stop those cheaters who might read the next section’s questions before it’s the appropriate time! But despite all theories, one thing is clear: the blankness of the page is not an accident. It's supposed to be there. A blank page means pause and take a breath before something new starts again. Many of us enjoy regularly reading insights from others. We love learning about Jesus and thinking about Christian faith in fresh ways. There is so much content out there. I'm all for it. But there's a shadow side to most everything. And if we're not careful, all the good voices, commentaries, podcasts, books and articles become "spiritual surrogates" in our lives. They may be very good and very helpful at times. But we can also allow them to fill in most of our spiritual gaps and thoughts. We rarely allow ourselves the blank page to pause and encounter Jesus personally with totally open ears.... to embrace a page that's intentionally left blank (and maybe even, to grab a pen....). It's scary. Many of us like all the words and thoughts and ideas of others. And yet, from time to time, we must get out of this mindset and journey into the desert alone with Jesus. On a blank page, no one tells us what we're supposed to think or where we're supposed to focus. We are left to encounter Jesus without a filter. Next week on Thursday you'll get a normal Together for Good email as you head into Good Friday. It will be completely empty, except a single reminder: this page intentionally left blank. Let it invite you to go directly to the story of Jesus with nothing else to fill up the page. Walk with him into Jerusalem. Pray with him in the garden. Grit your teeth when he is unjustly accused. Flinch with him when he is beaten. Hang you head with him on Friday. And wait quietly on Saturday. Encounter the story of Jesus and listen for the whisper of the Divine. Give yourself a blank page and the chance to do some really beautiful work with God on your own in the coming days. Jesus is eager for the time together. If it's helpful to have some framework, you can use these passages as you walk with Jesus this week. Monday: Luke 19:41-48 Tuesday: John 14:1-10 Wednesday: Mark 14:1-11 Thursday: John 13:1-17 Friday: Psalm 22:1-19 Saturday: Matthew 27:62-66 The story of the cross reveals the horror of human brokenness and the beauty of God's forgiving love. The resurrection reveals the hope of God's remaking everything for a future of life. Sometimes that's all the commentary we need. Keep your page blank enough this week for Jesus to speak love to the deepest places in you. Jesus, in the coming days, meet me in your story. Peace, Keith I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. -Ezekiel 36:26 Country music singer Billy Ray Cyrus, who is now the second most famous singer in the Cyrus family, reached fame 31 years ago with his hit song Achy Breaky Heart.Honestly, this song still holds up. How could you not love it? When the singer's girlfriend breaks up with him, he says that she can go ahead and tell everyone. Everyone except his heart... You can tell the world you never was my girl You can burn my clothes when I'm gone Or you can tell your friends just what a fool I've been And laugh and joke about me on the phone. But don't tell my heart, my achy breaky heart I just don't think he'd understand. And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, He might blow up and kill this man The poor guy has a heart that's at risk of being broken. He really wishes it wasn't so breakable. But there are worse types of hearts... Hearts that can never be broken. Hearts that can't ache or break. Hearts that have turned to stone. Ezekiel is a wild and crazy book in the Old Testament with some seriously NOT PG-rated imagery and harsh judgments. God's people had kind of gone off the deep end and given in to a world of violence, idolatry, and neglect of those in need. But the book is not without promises of restoration. In chapter 36, Ezekiel shares one of God's hopeful promises with his people. He says that God is going to move in them one day to change their hearts. He will take their heart of stone away, and in its place he will give them a heart of flesh. The rabbis of old knew this phrase well. In Hebrew, it is lev basar. A heart of flesh is one that is soft and attentive, able to be moved, and able to feel. Centuries ago, the Hasidic teacher Rabbe Nachman of Breslov founded a movement based on cultivating Ezekiel's lev basar. He taught, "there's nothing so whole as a broken heart." The tradition held that a broken heart is different than a sad or depressed one. It is open to one's own suffering and the suffering of others. It is a heart that feels, that has vulnerability and openness. It's a heart that is available for true connection. This is the work of God in us-- to create a heart of flesh that can feel, that can connect with others, and that can even be broken. I find it profound that God promises to transform stony hearts enough that they can be broken once again. It's so easy for us to guard ourselves from discomfort or pain by putting walls around our hearts. If we don't feel, we can't hurt. We can also allow our hearts to be stony toward others. This is especially true for those we don't get along with. We may be moved with compassion for those we feel are suffering unjustly. But for those who have made poor decisions or who we deem to be in the wrong? Our hearts are rarely able to break for them. So we are soft toward one person, stony toward the next one. But Jesus doesn't offer us the choice of deciding who is deserving of softheartedness. A heart of flesh, if God is the one making it, will always be open to the Spirit's moving. It will always have compassion for those who are hurting, regardless of which "side" we might be tempted to think that they are on. I love so much that this heart of flesh is something that God gives us as a gift. The gift of being able to feel and share emotions is a sacred thing. The gift of being able to hurt with those who hurt is a high calling. The gift of embracing vulnerability is the gateway to knowing God and knowing others. Undergoing open heart surgery with Jesus may be terrifying and painful, but it is the way to a full and healthy life. Where do you find your heart stony today? Toward whom? Today is a wonderful day to invite Jesus to soften your own heart-- even to make it breakable-- so that you can be fully human, and fully open to God's movement, once again. Jesus, take whatever has hardened in me, and bring it to life. Peace, Keith "The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.” -Jesus, Mark 12:31 For months I've been journeying with 5 other pastors in a weekly coaching cohort, with the goal of exploring our inner lives and moving toward health and healing. It's been life-changing as I prepare for my upcoming sabbatical. And yep, pastoring for nearly two decades has worn me down and left me ragged in a number of ways. I'm not sure why this sort of reality isn't openly talked about very much. It's probably because pastors fear that if they show signs of weakness and exhaustion, they are failing as spiritual leaders. A piece of me used to think like that. But not anymore. This week our cohort conversation was about self-compassion, and how often this element is overlooked in the Christian journey. For many of us, there's a deeply ingrained mindset that we should be compassionate toward others, but harsh on ourselves. You know- cut it off if it causes you to sin kind of harshness. There are plenty of verses for that, and I believe we need to look honestly at destructive actions. But this attitude extends far beyond sin. If we feel inadequate or limited or we fail in any way, the mindset is to just dig in and grind a little harder. It's the gospel of self-improvement. God helps those who help themselves! I'm intimately familiar with it in my internal monologue. C'mon, Keith. Just be better. At everything. The problem is that this can completely bypass the central part of God's story, that real transformation happens from knowing our belovedness in God's eyes. God's kindness, the scriptures say, is what leads us to becoming whole (Rom 2:4). And Matthew reminds his readers that Jesus would fulfill Isaiah's prophecy about a Messiah so gentle on those who felt weak, that: "A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out" (Matt. 12:20). Even those of us who proclaim God's gentleness on others frequently struggle to embrace the same spirit inwardly in self-compassion. We hear the invitation from Jesus saying, "come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest" and we make sure that those around us understand how good that news is for them. And all the time, the harsh critic of that internal monologue fails to offer the same tenderness that we believe God gives. During our group dialogue, I realized that one of the keys to deeper self-compassion lies in developing a greater imagination. We believe that Jesus is with us all the time, but we rarely take time to imagine his posture toward us during some of the most difficult moments in our past. And it can change how we see ourselves. It can be transformative. What do you think Jesus wants to say to the 9 year old you that thought he had to make everyone laugh in order to be loved? What do you think Jesus wants to say to your young mom self who felt like she was always on the edge of breaking down? What do you think Jesus wants to say to the 30 year old you that was battling addiction and spiraling out of control? What do you think Jesus wants to say to the 40 year old you that walked through that unimaginable divorce? What do you think Jesus wants to say to the you that felt absolutely shattered when you didn't get the promotion at work? What do you think Jesus wants to say to the you who walked through your child's chronic illness and had to be strong for everyone? What do you think Jesus wants to say to the you who wakes up and feels worthless and unmotivated to do anything? Perhaps this week, you can courageously look back at your life and the things that hurt the most. Look back and consider those moments of failure or striving or inadequacy. What would Jesus's gentle compassion sound like in those moments? How might that lead you to new levels of self-compassion and transformation? Consider Jesus sitting with you, embracing you, crying with you, reminding you of your belovedness. You may find that the grace-filled words of Jesus toward your former self will soften your own attitudes toward your current self. God's grace is for all the parts of you-- even the parts that you are frustrated by or that feel deeply broken. Jesus, be gentle with me today. And teach me to do the same. Peace, Keith Commit everything you do to the LORD. Trust him, and he will help you. Psalm 37:5 A few Saturdays ago I watched the US Olympic Marathon trials on NBC. While some of you may think that watching a group of people run for two hours sounds boring, to someone like me it's an unfolding drama at the highest level of entertainment. So many dreams of becoming an Olympian on that starting line. And my goodness, this was an entertaining year. The men's race was all about the story of two training buddies who were former teammates from Brigham Young University. They left everyone else behind in the final few miles, crossing the finish line together and earning a shared trip to Paris this summer. How do two friends both become better than every other marathoner in the nation? Amazing. But what really caught me was when one of them was interviewed with his family a week later. Clayton Young and his wife and toddler sat down to talk about what it means to achieve such a goal, and the effort it took to arrive there. Clayton's wife joked about their shared routines as a family, especially regarding Clayton's eating and his training clothes. "It was honestly a lot of dishes washed, a lot of miles run, a lot of laundry. A lot of little things that just add up. Clayton calls it 'the mundanity of excellence.' There are so many things about being good at something that are just, really mundane and boring and repetitive. But it all adds up to something." I find the phrase "mundanity of excellence" to be so interesting. The concept is true on many levels, not just about greatness, and not just about sports. If we truly desire to move toward a central purpose in our lives, then everything we do-- even the little stuff-- should nudge us toward that ultimate purpose. And that process will always include the mundane. If our goal in life is to experience and express the fullness of life with God as the most faithful disciples we can be, I'm convinced there's a lot of mundanity to it. Everyone desires the rapturous moments with God, but learning to daily declutter our lives so that we can hear God's voice? That's a task that takes a lot of repetition. We all want deep relationships, but sharing enough minutes or coffees with another person to truly get to a soul friendship level? That takes time. Developing a character that is full of grace and love is developed not with big public demonstrations, but with daily gentle moments with your toddler, spouse, coworkers, parents. You don't become more like Jesus because of a wonderful church service. You become more like Jesus by taking your mundane moments every week, and inviting the Spirit to transform them into holy moments. You'll spend about 24 hours this year brushing our teeth (I hope). That's a lot of time! What if brushing your teeth became an opportunity to pray for someone? Or to practice gratitude to God for another day? It would move us just a little toward that beautiful purpose. The Mundanity of Discipleship. For Jesus people, discipleship isn't simply a big decision to follow Jesus. It's learning to make every moment of our lives an expression of that commitment. It's what Eugene Peterson famously described as a long obedience in the same direction. All moving us toward the goal of having the character of Christ formed deeply in us, for the sake of the world. Oswald Chambers summarized it well when he wrote, “The test of a man’s [and woman's] religious life and character is not what he does in the exceptional moments of life, but what he does in the ordinary times, when there is nothing tremendous or exciting on.” What feels mundane today? How might you see it as an opportunity to help you get a little closer to the ultimate goal of becoming like Jesus? Jesus, teach me in the slow and seemingly insignificant moments, how to move toward you. Peace, Keith He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit. -Ephesians 2:17-20 For years I've been interested in the stories of the indigenous tribes of North America, and I often see wisdom in these old stories that points me to the heart of Jesus. The Onondaga Nation just south of Syracuse have a story they have told for over a thousand years, about the time when the Mohawk, Oneida, Cayuga, and Seneca people finally ceased warring against each other. The story goes that the great Creator had been watching and saddened by all that the people had become. They had forgotten the ancient ways, and lived violently. So the Creator decided to send a messenger to them, that they might one day learn to live in peace. He was known as the Peacemaker. He was given a special spirit and a special message. As the Peacemaker began to spread the Creator's message, nations listened and agreed to stop their warring. But the final greatest barrier to working together came from an evil Onondaga man named Tadodaho. Tadodaho was a sorcerer who loved lawlessness and wars, and the people feared him greatly. He was terrifying to look at, and it was said that his mind and body were both so tangled up that snakes writhed in his hair. Every time the idea of working together in harmony would emerge, he brought those conversations to a halt through power, chaos, and fear. The Peacemaker gathered the leaders from all the other nations to come together and confront Tadodaho. Again, he used his sorcery to try to hinder them as they traveled toward him, but the message of peace was too strong. However, upon reaching him, the Peacemaker did not condemn or overpower Tadodaho. The Peacemaker stepped forward and told him that he would have a new purpose. Tadodaho would be chosen to watch over the entire confederacy. He was powerful, and he would now be called to use his power to guide the council with thoughts of peace. In the midst of this, the Peacemaker "combed the snakes out of Tadodaho's hair." Tadodaho agreed to this new offer. He became calmer, now no longer thinking of jealousy, war, or revenge. From now on, his energy would be used for others, not against them. Beautiful story, isn't it? I find it breathtaking. There are plenty of implications, but it got me thinking about the season of Lent that we're in right now. It's a time to journey into the desert with Jesus. A time to go inward, and feel all the weakness and frailty. It's a time repent and remember that we have to trust Jesus for redemption because we can't get there on our own. Honestly, it's a time to let Jesus comb the snakes out of our hair. It's a chance to let the Peacemaker do his work. I hate snakes. I'll probably never write about them again. But I know I've always got some on my head, like Tadodaho. There's something in me that wants to pull toward selfishness and twistedness when I'm tired and discouraged. Something in me that would rather not do the work of wholeness, harmony, and connection. A pull that resists working for peace on the most personal and most public levels. But I love the Peacemaker's way of defeating evil. It is so imaginative. Rather than Tadodaho being thrown in a pit or destroyed, his skills are repurposed for the sake of others. I can't help but think of Jesus' conversation with Peter on the shoreline, when Peter can hardly look him in the eye after he's lost his way. And Jesus, far from condemnation, invites him to use everything that has happened-- every passion, every struggle, every failure- and use it all to lead with wisdom and love. You are redeemed. Now feed my sheep. If you've got some snakes in your hair too, take some time to let Jesus finally get to work with a grace-filled comb. He won't exclude you. He'll forgive and surprise you with a fresh purpose. You can breathe deeply in his love, because you've got a role to play in God's ongoing redemption. Jesus, move me into repentance and grace, so that I can join in your beautiful work. Peace, Keith *Artist Credit: Oren Lyons Starting from scratch, he made the entire human race and made the earth hospitable, with plenty of time and space for living so we could seek after God, and not just grope around in the dark but actually find him. He doesn’t play hide-and-seek with us. He’s not remote; he’s near. Acts 17:27 (The Message paraphrase) Do people say, "Happy Lent?" I don't know. But Lent began yesterday. It’s the 40ish (Sundays don't count) days of preparation before Easter. Some of you may not have even noticed that it’s begun, and some of you have. Noticing. Actually, that’s kind of the point. It’s pretty easy to walk through our lives and not notice. We don’t notice where God might be because we have places to go and people to meet. We don’t notice the non-verbals of those around us who are having a tough time. And the most interesting thing is that we don’t notice what’s happening in the deep places within our own hearts and minds due to distraction. I’ve come to the conclusion that lent is really about awareness. If we are unaware of what’s within us, we can’t possibly open those places to Jesus. It's like a moment when you freak out over a seemingly random event, and you don't admit that the real reason is that you've been anxious about something else for a week and it's just surfacing now. That happens a lot. One thing is THE thing, but a lack of awareness projects that struggle into many unrelated areas. We can walk through our lives unaware of our own internal worlds, or unable to face our struggles head on. We ignore our frailty and live as if we are machines. Or we ignore our capabilities and live as if we are failures. Lent is when we find the spiritual place within ourselves to identify with the frail and powerful Jesus, and when we openly allow Jesus to identify with our frail and capable humanity. We admit we're in need. But we also learn that we are capable of denying ourselves, of releasing unhealthy habits, and of moving toward new life. We are broken people in need of a savior. We are also Spirit-indwelled disciples who are capable of ongoing transformation. Lent is a chance for honest trust to lead to new hope. Lent comes from the Latin word for fortieth which is also where we get the word quarantine (apologies for mentioning that word). Centuries ago, people caught in sin would be quarantined from the church - removed for a time of purification in preparation for the major celebration of the year, Easter. That might seem harsh to us, but there was purpose in an intentional time to lean on Jesus in the wilderness. Soon, others in the church began to honestly say, "yo, we're in need of a time of renewal too, for we all sin!" They began walking alongside the quarantined brothers and sisters, and the church eventually adopted a church-wide season of reflection, trust, and transformation. Together, they walked in honesty and frailty with Jesus, so that they were able to fully celebrate the hope and joy of resurrection. To experience the fullness of life, you must understand the taste of death. We have to become aware of our need, in order to allow Jesus to meet it. In some circles, lent has become a New Years Resolution: The Sequel for people. People give things up so that they can conquer a vice or become healthier. Instead, whether you give something up or not, I want to encourage you to embrace these forty days of awareness. Find time to reflect, and find time for meaningful spiritual conversations away from the busyness of the approaching spring. Get away with Jesus and become aware of what is deep within you. Choose to embrace your need for God, but also choose to trust God in new transformative ways. Become aware. Lent is not a self-improvement project. It’s a journey with Jesus in a fresh way. It will indeed leave us changed, but the goal is more of Jesus, not simply a better version of ourselves. The pressure is off. You have a companion inviting you to dive a little deeper into the type of life that is possible- where joy and beauty live together with pain and frailty, yet always full of hope. Embrace lent this year by getting away with Jesus. He’s not remote; he’s near. It’s worth the effort. Jesus, open my spirit to new levels of honesty and trust with you today, so that I might reflect your image. Peace, Keith *Artist Credit: Yana Agvanyan Here a great number of disabled people used to lie—the blind, the lame, the paralyzed. One who was there had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him.... -John 5:3-5 A few months ago I read the opening line of a prose piece called "Autumn Night" written in 1924 by a Chinese poet named Lu Xun. Beyond my garden wall, you can see two trees. The first is a jujube tree. The second is also a jujube tree. I sat with this unique sentence a bit. Why would the author use such unnecessary wording? Why not just say, "they are both jujube trees?" Are we going for word count here, like in the book reports I used to write in high school? A Tale of Two Cities is a very excellent story about so many different themes and various characters that I find it incredibly exciting and very interesting. (26 words!) No. Good poets only use extra words when they want us to notice something. And Xun does indeed want us to notice something. Two somethings, actually. And it's an important lesson for us about the way of Jesus. Each tree has its own twists and turns. It has its own unique shape and growth history. The poet is suggesting that simply saying "they are both jujube trees," may cause the reader to miss seeing them for their unique individuality. There is singular beauty and details to each of those trees. Yes, there may be similarities or shared descriptors. But they are not the same as each other. And should not be seen as such. One of the most beautiful things about Jesus was his ability to notice people, and to see them beyond labels. He was willing to see each person as unique and worthy of care. He asks different questions of Nicodemus than he asks of other Pharisees. He speaks to Peter differently than to John. He refuses to let Matthew or Zacchaeus simply be seen as tax collectors. Mary and Martha weren't just women, or even sisters. They were unique people with unique needs and unique stories. This is how Jesus worked. He was constantly around crowds, but always noticing the individuals. Jesus had a way of seeing people fully, not just as one of a crowd, but one to be uniquely cared for. We often do the opposite. The tendency is to see people and try to place them in the appropriate "crowds" to define them more easily and decide how worthy they are of love or agreement. People see two liberals or two conservatives. They see two poor people or two teenagers or two Catholics or two immigrants or two queer folks. And they feel like they know all they need to know. We often do not pause to really notice that they might be different from each other; to understand each unique story; to love well. And when we fail to see people as complex and having their own unique stories, we create a culture that caves in on itself, too. Before we realize it, we find ourselves getting grouped into whatever categories people make up for us, being seen not as having our own unique story, but as just one of an easily labeled group. For community to flourish, we must see both trees. For relationships to be transformative, we must be eager to hear one another's stories. This the beautiful way of Jesus. Jesus invites us to look at those around us, gently acknowledging that each one has unique hurts and hopes. Each one has imperfect stories that shaped them. Each one has to eat several meals a day (just like you!) and experiences loss and excitement and regret and joy. How can you notice and care in a new way this week, in a moment that it would be easier to group and label? Jesus, give me your vision to notice faces when I'm tempted to only see the crowd. Peace, Keith |
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