Level ground

Four neat lines.

We file forward singing about the Father’s deep love for us even as we hear our own voice scoffing.

Here the ground is level. It doesn’t matter how old you are or how you vote.

All are welcome. The table is wide.

The body and the blood are for us.

Paul and Silas had followed the Holy Spirit to Philippi.

God was preparing to build the church there.

An influential woman.

An exploited demon-possessed slave girl delivered in the name of Jesus. 

A suicidal jailer and his family.

This is the start of the church in Philippi (Acts 16).

Hardly an auspicious beginning. But isn’t that like Jesus?

Using this unlikely crew to spread the gospel in their city and build the church against which the gates of hell could not prevail.

Isn’t that like Jesus?

I’m lucky to have grown up with parents who believed unflinchingly that the table is wide. I remember all kinds of folks finding their way to our living room, often pouring out their hearts and asking tough questions for hours. Missionaries and misfits. Upstanding citizens and not-so-much. Friends of friends and teenagers scared of demons. Hurting families that had been excluded from their church. Mormons in their Sunday best and one guy that we’re pretty sure was an angel. They’d sip iced tea and munch on homemade cookies and many of them would come to faith there. In my living room.

Isn’t that like Jesus?

Using this unlikely crew to spread the gospel in their city and build the church against which the gates of hell could not prevail.

Voices all around tell us to draw lines. To divide people up into us and them. To decide who is in and who is out. But, friends, that’s not Jesus.

Nope.

The ground is level here.

At his feet.

At the cross.

His love is big enough.

All are welcome. The table is wide.

God is ready to use us all to spread the gospel in our cities and build the church upon which the gates of hell will not prevail.

Isn’t that like Jesus?

Doors

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Holy Spirit lately. About the same power that raised Jesus living inside of his people. Walking around in our homes. In our communities. In our schools and churches. Ready to unleash his power when we call on him. Ready to comfort, to speak wisdom, to advocate, to bear witness to the truth of the gospel. And sometimes to keep us from heading where we think we’re supposed to go.

Wait, what? Yep. Paul and Silas had their bags packed and they were ready to go. 

But the Holy Spirit kept them from preaching the word in the province of Asia.

So, they gave it another try.

But the Spirit of Jesus would not allow them to enter Bithynia either. Acts 16:6-7

It doesn’t sound right. Why would the Holy Spirit keep (Greek word = hinder, restrain, forbid) people from preaching the gospel?

Thanks to The Sound of Music, we like to imagine God closing a door and opening a window. Or we try to jam other scriptures into this story and talk about God closing doors that no one can open (Revelation 3:7). True, but spoken in a completely different context.

The short answer, I think, is that we don’t really know. We read on and hear about Lydia, an influential businesswoman, coming to faith in Jesus. We read about a servant girl being delivered from an evil spirit. We see a jailer rescued from suicide and brought (with his entire family) into the kingdom of God. Perhaps this is why the Holy Spirit kept his people from heading in a different direction.

But lest we believe it all to be rainbows and butterflies, Paul and Silas are also beaten and thrown into jail. And the city is rocked with a violent earthquake. Hardly a smooth and happy welcome.

But Paul had seen clearly, intuitively, that he was called toward Macedonia. And he and Silas set off at once.

Side note: I love that God lays it out so plainly in Paul’s dream. A man from Macedonia begging for help. I have dreams like this sometimes. Someone that I know asking me to pray for them. Doesn’t take too much discernment to figure those ones out!

All this to say:

Sometimes the Holy Spirit blocks our way… even when something seems spiritual and good and right.

Maybe it’s not for now.

Maybe it’s someone else’s calling.

Maybe he’s protecting us.

Most likely, we won’t fully know on this side of heaven.

If the door is shut, it doesn’t always mean that we need to bang it down.

And if the call is clear and the obedience is swift, it doesn’t always mean that things will go smoothly.

Maybe there will be beatings and unfair judgment.

Maybe it will feel like the earth is shifting under our feet.

It doesn’t mean that we misheard.

Or that we are doing something wrong.

Maybe we’re planting seeds that will sprout tomorrow. Or long in the future.

Maybe our prayers and worship in impossible situations will cause someone to ask what they must do to be saved. (Acts 16:25-29).

Maybe our story will be just the encouragement that someone else needs. (Acts 16:40).

Most likely, we won’t fully know on this side of heaven.

If the door is open, it doesn’t always mean that the journey will be easy.

But, friends, we have the same power that raised Jesus living inside of us. Ready to unleash his power when we call on him. Ready to comfort, to speak wisdom, to advocate, to bear witness to the truth of the gospel. And sometimes to keep us from heading where we think we’re supposed to go.

A Little Prayer Circle

Y’all, I love small group prayer.
It’s a little weird, I think.
Because icebreakers and small talk make me want to run.
But give me a little prayer circle (even with people I don’t know well) where we are talking to Jesus instead of each other, and it’s a different story.
And so it is that I find myself plugging my kid into technology after grabbing him from his class so that I can spend fifteen minutes praying with virtual strangers (plus my pastor– he’s cool). I lap them up like water, these moments. I cannot get enough.

Tucked into this little circle, I am reminded today of Romans 4:2.
It’s your kindness that leads us to repentance.

I’ve been thinking lately of how harsh some of our conversations with each other can be. How we’re quick to judge. How even when we’re sharing truth, it sometimes seems to sprout from duty or fear instead of love.
Here’s the thing, friends. Very few of us need to be reminded that we are sinners.
We know.

We’re not drawn to Jesus because his people tell us that we’re a hot mess.
Or terrify us with stories of eternal fire.
We’re drawn to Jesus because of his love.
And, most often, that means that we’re drawn to Jesus because we see the way that his people love.
Love each other.
Love us.
Love long and without judgment.

Love with chrēstotēs (you know I love my Hebrew/Greek keyword Bible)
The kindness, the grace that pervades the whole nature, mellowing all which would have been harsh and austere.
It doesn’t water down the consequences of sin, though it may well keep its mouth shut and leave that part to God.
It just lets grace pervade its whole nature, rubbing smooth the sharp edges of harshness and legalism.
This, friends, is the kindness that leads to repentance. To mind change and heart change and life change.
It’s the kindness that we’re praying will invade the lives of our dear ones this morning, tucked into this little circle. The kindness that will draw them to the true heart of God, the tender Father running toward them with arms open.
It’s the kindness that we’re praying will pervade our nature too, so that our people aren’t tripped up by our rules or judgement on their way to Jesus.

Hope is present tense

Too hard.

I duck my head and close my eyes as another reminder crashes hard against my body.

Just when I think I’ve gotten some traction, gained some ground in learning to live with these great, gaping wounds of loss, another wave crashes.

Another and another and another.

My heart is tired.

Tired of living without the wisdom and love and silliness of my dad.

Tired of holding space for dear ones as the waves of loss crash over their lives, their families too.

Tired of the flashes that sneak their way, unbidden, into my thoughts. Into my dreams. Flashes of memory. Disease. Terror. Sleepless nights and restless days spent waiting.

We had hoped.

They walk along the road to Emmaus as a stranger comes alongside. All they can offer is the broken shards of hope, shards that cut deep into their hands. Into their hearts.

We had hoped he was the One.

They walk together, this stranger and his friends. He takes their shards of hope and weaves them into a bigger story.

Come in and eat with us.

The stranger sits at their table. Not arguing. Not rushing. Not telling them their hope has to feel a certain way. He walks. He sits. He eats.

And he still does, friends.

In those times when our hope feels like past tense. When its shards cut deep into our hands and our heart.

When we are angry at the sun for shining and the world for moving on and this ridiculous stranger for making us rehash the whole story one. more. time.

He still walks. And listens. And weaves our shards of hope into a bigger story if we dare to listen. He still sits at our table. Not arguing. Not rushing. Not telling us that our hope has to feel a certain way. Not ignoring reality or spewing platitudes or wiping tears that have every right to exist or shushing primal screams of anger that speak a truth all their own.

Just being. Alongside.

I do not know much, friends.

But this much I know.

Hope is present tense.

Walking and sitting still, though he may look like a stranger.

And we are not alone.

A breath of life

We’re talking about the end times.  The two witnesses.

And here’s the line that catches me.

But after three and a half days, a breath of life from God entered them, and they stood on their feet 

(Revelation 11:11)

My brain half thinks it knows where this blog post will go.

To those three and a half days.

To Easter Saturday.

To Jesus weeping by the tomb of his friend.

To God being near to the broken hearted.

To making space for grief when things are dead.

To not rushing the need for a happy ending.

And yes.

All of those things are true.

But this is not the word for today.

Very clearly, my heart hears that this is not the word for today.

Today, friends, I need you to know that God is in the business of breathing life.

From humanity’s first breath in the garden, through Calvary, and on to these two witnesses at the end of the story, our God breathes life.

A widow’s son, a synagogue ruler’s daughter, a dear friend.  With a touch, a word, Jesus takes what was dead and breathes life.

He takes the impossible and makes it possible.

He speaks it on the cross and we see it in the blinding light of Easter Sunday.

It is finished.

Indeed.

Death defeated.

Satan trampled.

Hell conquered.

Friends, our God is in the business of breathing life.

Tonight, maybe something looks dead to you.

A relationship.

A dream.

A gift that feels like it fits awkwardly.

A word spoken over you long ago, almost forgotten.

A promise held in your heart, never even spoken aloud.

Or something entirely different.

I know it looks dead, friends.

And another day, I would sit in the ashes and grieve with you over it.

But today, I need you to remember this truth too.

Our God is in the business of breathing life.

Death-defeating, satan-trampling, hell-conquering life.

Let him hold it for a minute.

Refuse to believe that this is how the story ends.

And see what happens.

When I sing for you

We’re talking about spiritual battles, about putting on the armor of God.

And though the war metaphor isn’t my favorite, I know that it’s the right one for this moment.

I feel the heaviness, the battle fatigue on every side.

Dreams deferred. Plans derailed. Losses still raw. Prayers with answers too long in coming.

After all, You are faithful.

I sing to remind myself. To remind the dear ones gathered here.

Never once have I ever walked alone.

I cannot help but pump a victory fist because if I know anything, I know this.

And still.

I remember days when I could barely choke out these words. When the dark was too big. Too scary. And I know today is that day for some of the dear ones gathered here.

I am not a feeler, but I can feel it.

And so I sing extra loud and I pray in pictures instead of words.

Pictures of Jesus gathering his battle-worn loves in his arms. Not snatching, but cradling.

Holding.

Holding us together.

The ones singing extra loud and the ones choking on our words.

Because we’ve been both and we will be again.

Never once did you leave us on our own.

We’re here. Together. Held.

You are faithful, God, You are faithful.

Today. Here. For us.

Eagerly Desired

I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you. (Luke 22:14)

Jesus is huddled in an upper room, about to share his last Passover on earth with the ones he’d called, the ones he dearly loved.

They reclined.  Got comfortable. Ate and drank.

They talked and listened.

They didn’t understand everything that their Savior was telling them, they even bickered about it.

But still

He longed for these moments with them.

He had his heart set on spending time together on this night.

He wanted them there.

Every one of them.

Even the one who would deny before morning.

Even the one who would betray him to death.

We talk a lot about different groups of folks having (or not having) a seat at the table.

About power and privilege and having a voice.

These are important conversations, no doubt.

I believe Jesus was a sweeper of the edges, an advocate for the marginalized.

I believe he toppled ethnocentric, patriarchal expectations.

And I believe he welcomes us all to the table.

Friend, you are welcome.

More than that, you are eagerly desired.

Come.

Come get comfortable, come eat and drink.

Come listen and ask and argue, even when you don’t understand everything.

We, too, are the called ones, the ones dearly loved.

Jesus eagerly desires to spend these moments with us.

With you.

Whether or not the world tells you that you have a seat, you are welcome, of this I am sure.

Come.

Come to the table.

Restless

I’ve been feeling itchy lately.

My heart is restless

Like I can’t quite settle into a routine and I want to change all the things.

Summer does this to me sometimes.

Unmoors me a little and gives me just enough time to imagine all the ways that another path might be better.  Easier. More fulfilling.

Let your eyes look straight ahead; fix your gaze directly before you

(Proverbs 4:25)

It’s these words that my heart snatches onto last week, a seed of thought sown, but not sprouted enough to spill out onto the page.

I think about Peter, stepping out of the boat to follow Jesus, his eyes looking straight ahead, his gaze fixed.  

I imagine him tuning out the distractions for just one second, his friends in the boat yelling for caution and him plugging his ears as he locks eyes with Jesus.

Undeterred, focused, he does the impossible if only for a few steps.

Once upon a time, twice upon a time actually, I’ve felt that kind of focus in my own life, an absolute crystal-clear conviction that I was right where I was supposed to be.  Both of those were hard seasons. Seasons of faith-stretching and exhaustion and impossible questions and confronting messiness.

One was a season in full-time ministry.

The other was a season in foster care (which, to be honest, is also pretty much full time ministry).

It was very clear when it was time to move on from both into more ordinary seasons.

I’m back there again.

Feeling all ordinary and a little bored.

And wondering a little what it means to keep my gaze fixed on Jesus as I make pancakes and run around after my kids at the playground.

I’m holding a Tiny One this morning, her arms wrapped around my neck as I sing

From my mother’s womb, You have chosen me, Love has called my name.

I’ve been born again, into your family.  Your love flows through my veins.

Suddenly I’m all choked up.  I sing these words not just for myself.

But for this Tiny One.  

And for my kiddos who have know too much, too soon.

Whose struggles I hide to protect their privacy.  And also to try to convince you that adoption is good.  That foster adoption is good. That transracial adoption is good.  That single-parent adoption is good.

And they are.

But they are also harder than I want to admit.

Even lots of years later.

But today this is what it means to fix my gaze, of that I am certain.

To let Love flow through my veins.  

To be quiet enough to let the Little Ones, my little ones, hear love calling their name.

To embrace my identity as beloved, as child.  And to speak that identity over the Little Ones. One thousand times, in one thousand ways.

Even while I’m making pancakes.

Lost and Found

I’m running about a week behind with life right now.

Which, considering the ridiculous expectations I put on myself is not too bad. (Can I get an amen?)

In any case, love has been the theme of the week.

Everywhere… in church, on the radio, in the books that I’m reading.  It’s all about love.

Relentless, pursuing love.

These words have been knocking around in my head

How can I be lost when you have called me found?

And they take me back in a second to the time Jesus gave me an ultimatum.

I was young and had grown up in church.

I’d heard the truth all my life, felt it for myself once upon a time and made a little girl’s confession of faith.

And then came my angsty adolescence.

And the disillusioning reality that church was made up of messy, broken people who didn’t always have the best of intentions.

I felt hurt.  And mad.

And I spent almost a whole year locked in my bedroom, scribbling furiously in journals that I probably should burn.

I wasn’t running from God in any outward way.

But there, locked in my anger and isolation, I wanted to make life all about me.

All about how mad I was.  How betrayed I felt.

And Jesus gave me space to be mad (and so, bless them, did my parents– so sorry about that, guys.  So sorry!).

Until one day, right there in my locked bedroom, Jesus spoke as clearly as I’ve ever heard anything.

Enough.  Choose me or walk away.

Right here.  Right now.

Knees on the ground, head in my hands, the answer came without hesitation.

Lord, where else would I go?  You have the words of eternal life.  I believe and know that you are the Holy One of God. (John 6:68-69)

Friends, I was never lost to the God of the universe.  All the while through my angst and isolation, he was pursuing me, loving me.

All the while since I was formed in my mama’s body.  All the while since I made a little girl’s confession of faith, he was pursuing me, loving me.

All the while since, through the soaring joys and the crushing defeats, through the moments of clarity and the fog of not-so-sure, through one hundred thousand ordinary, unremarkable moments, he’s been pursuing me, loving me.

And you too, dear one.

You have never been lost to the God of the universe.  You have not run too far.  You have not fallen too hard.  You have not hidden too well.

Tonight and always, dear one, he is pursuing you.

Tonight and always, dear one, he is loving you.

The Ministry of Paying Attention

Pray in the Spirit on all occasions

These words lodged in my heart at the beginning of Lent this year and they haven’t let me go.

So I started what I called a “prayer experiment.”

Intentionally holding people in prayer without a specific request in mind,

Just waiting and listening.

Sometimes the words come fast and passionately.

Sometimes not at all.

Sometimes they seem a perfect fit for situations I know about.

And sometimes I’m praying hard for healing and I don’t know why.

It’s a learning process, this experiment.

I’m learning that the Holy Spirit does, indeed, help me in my weakness.

And that listening can be exhausting.

And that my motives aren’t always completely pure.

And that I better be ready to do hard things when I step into the listening space.

And I’m learning the power of paying attention.

I don’t have words to wrap around this idea in quite the way I’d like.

But here’s what I know.

Learning to pray in the Spirit means paying attention.

Maybe not listening harder, but listening differently.

Listening with a heart that sees divine fingerprints inside brokenness and hears a heart’s cry to be loved inside pain.

Maybe not seeing better, but seeing differently.

Seeing with a heart that can hold faith and fear, belief and doubt in tension.

A heart that is honest and hopeful.

I know people who have done this well for a long time.

I am not one of those people.

I like to blame this on my introversion.  Or my task-orientation.

I want to pay attention, but people are so needy.  So exhausting.

And yet, the words, the Spirit won’t leave me alone.

Calling out my selfishness and fear for what they are, they pulse and throb still.

Keep on praying for all the Lord’s people.

I want to skip to the end.

To the part where I’ve exercised my listening muscles and this comes easier, more naturally (is that a thing?).

But I’m not there yet.

Here I am so clumsy and unsure of myself.

Never quite sure if this new way of seeing and hearing is just for me or if I’m supposed to spew some prayer words at you right here and now.

Here I am so clumsy and unsure of myself.

And yet so hungry to grow, because I know this is holy work, sacred work

This ministry of paying attention.