Tag Archives: faith

Around the Corner in 41 Days

You may already know. Advent begins in 41 days. Of course you know ! Who doesn’t have an Advent countdown? (Everyone. Everyone does not have an Advent countdown!)

You have to look past Halloween, All Saints Day, the end of Daylight Savings (a day savored by church leaders), and finally Thanksgiving to land in the liturgical season hovering just around the corner: Advent.

A year ago, I shared the news that with the help of Amazon I published my second book, Wait: an Advent of the Familiar. I was overjoyed to get the book out into the world! So overjoyed, in fact, that I overlooked mistakes I had managed to slip in after the proofreader did her good work. Oy vey.

Since then, I rewrote and reworked parts of the book, smoothed the rough edges and sent it right back out into the world, all spiffed up. You can purchase a paperback on Amazon or at our local bookshop, Faith Expressions. If you like e-books like I do, I will warn you the formatting here and there had a mind of its own. A few times I had to throw my hands in the air and admit defeat. If you like e-books, it is still a great option.

I wrote this book in an effort to help us all (me first) manage our own selves in relationships. By which I mean, move toward the Christmas holiday feeling a bit lighter. Perhaps an old hurt has made a relationship difficult, or political differences, or an episode of a soap opera actually took place in your own family generations ago. Maybe all three of these scenarios apply to you. (If so, this makes you normal.)

When a relationship gets tricky, we tend to react in one of three ways:

  1. Put your head down and ignore the problem. (distance)
  2. Fight, fight, fight. (conflict)
  3. Find an ally who agrees exclusively with you and avoid actually dealing with the issue. (triangling)

These tactics only get you so far down the road before you find yourself stuck in a roundabout, going round and round, repeating the same old relationship pattern, as though you are on stage with a familiar cast of characters performing a play you know all too well. Here you are, an advent of the familiar.

The holiday dinner table is often the set for this familiar play. This book is for you if you would like to find a way out of the roundabout toward a more pleasant Christmas Eve with family and friends.

These 24 short daily devotions will not quickly fix your relationships, but they may offer a new perspective. You may notice that what ticks you off about that family member or friend may not actually be the problem. Perhaps there is more to your feelings than first meets the eye.

The book begins with “wait,” a word that weaves its way through the pages. Because relationships are precious, they deserve a thoughtful pause, which is the meaning behind the liturgical season of Advent.

Slow down your breathing, your rushed words, and your hurried thoughts. Wait here. How might you see that one relationship with a touch of tender mercy, as you wait for the arrival of tender mercy in the manger?

Watching Life

We learn purely from what we see and experience, and I did not expect a life lesson from the [boring] game of golf!

The summer before his junior year, my son embarked on a maiden voyage to the golf course with his buddy. Nearly every day for the past two years, he has swung a club or practiced his putts. He fell hard for this game. Which is the only reason I found myself on a golf course so many times his junior and senior year.

From spectating two seasons of high school golf I have learned two lessons:

  1. The game of golf is freaking hard. I had no idea.
  2. Watching golf is mostly boring, and the same is true of our lives.

Watching your life, what you see is mostly boring. You get up, do something similar to what you did the day before, eat mostly the same food, and at the end of the day you return to bed. Sure, things happen here and there, but our lives are mostly routine.

Only every now and then is there a delightful disruption to the mundane, exactly like the game of golf. Watching golf is somehow exhausting. I think it’s because the excitement is so rare, you have to pay close attention or you miss it.

For example, it is astounding when a player drives a ball perfectly straight down the fairway It doesn’t happen often, so when it does, it is exciting. Or even better, when someone sinks a long putt. Have you spent much time putting? It looks infuriating. A player cannot know with certainty how fast or slow the greens will be, or where a surprise bump might reroute the ball. Why does anyone play this game? I do not understand.

These atypical moments encourage you to keep watching, even though it’s boring. It helps to bring snacks.

Maybe you say: “I prefer a boring life to too much excitement.” I agree, routine is my friend. However, preferring routine can distract you from the rare, exciting moment.

  • When a family member trusts you to listen or to extend a helping hand. This can be an amazing, relationship-building moment.
  • When you are the one who needs more help, and you must trust that God put people in your life to do that for you. This can be an amazing, faith-building moment.
  • When you look outside to witness the graceful flight of a bird and wonder over the aerodynamics of its wings. There is nothing boring about birds – another thing I never imagined I would say! Creation can amaze us all.

May you watch the routines of your life be delightfully disrupted with a glimpse of the non-boring grace of the God who gave you this life, boring parts and all.

Photo by Soheb Zaidi on Unsplash

Please Explain the Ashes

Last night I arrived home with a dirty forehead and an ashy-black left thumbnail. Serving the church can be messy business! My thumb reminded me of my dad’s hands when I was growing up – grease settled into the lines of his palms, framing his nails after decades of fixing vehicles.

Does smearing ashes on foreheads fix anything?

Ash Wednesday, in my experience, draws a crowd. Perhaps deep down we all know we are the broken ones who need fixing. We have fixed our attention here, there, and everywhere but on the simple mercy of Jesus Christ. We have broken our bodies and our spirits by trying to keep up with a fast-moving conveyor belt of fake promises.

Does smearing ashes on foreheads fix anything? Please explain the ashes.

To the little ones, I would say: “These ashes remind you that you belong with Jesus forever.”

To the teenagers, I would say: “These ashes assure you that nothing you do can undo Christ’s eternal love for you.”

To the young adults, I would say: “These ashes ground you in an unending relationship with God amid the uncertainty of life.”

To the middle aged, I would say, “These ashes speak of the fragility of life and your temporary place in it. Christ’s death takes away the ending of your life story.”

To those in the last third of life, I would say, “Your forehead has worn these ashes so many times. By now you have seen me trace this cross above the graves of so many people you love. It’s time for you to be the teacher by the way that you live: hold tightly to God’s eternal love and loosely to your earthly life.”

But to keep things simple, we say the same words to the baby with a brand-new forehead that we say to the elder with the crumpled-up forehead: “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Does smearing ashes on foreheads fix anything?

Absolutely yes.

The ashes smeared on your forehead fix your broken self with the healing grace of God’s promise:

This life is only for now and not forever. Your life with Christ, however, is both for now and forever.

Unlike the fake promises that come at you in ads, in that nagging voice in your head, in the endless ways we compare ourselves with others, God’s promise to be faithful is Gospel truth. It is an unbreakable promise for the broken ones to fix our attention where it belongs. Remember you are dust. To dust you shall return.

Photo by Adrien Olichon on Unsplash

Everything is Fake

Late last night, my daughter and I flew home from a lovely vacation with my mom in New York City. It was so great! The city resembles the kingdom of God, just as Elizabeth Passarella describes it. Every kind of people reside within the five boroughs. Elbow-to-elbow, they share sidewalks, subway trains, and tiny apartments. I squeezed my eyes shut while vehicles squeezed around remarkably tight corners, narrowly missing bikers and pedestrians.

Thousands of religions are represented in the city. In Times Square, we listened to the Muslims chant the mysterious Ramadan prayers. Skull caps and head coverings move through the crowds. Today, my Manhattan friend, Pastor Marsh pointed out, the Christians will be visible with their ashy crosses.

To witness New York City is to see the kingdom of God at work. We are not intended to be a nation of Christians, but a nation of God’s people reflecting God’s limitless glory.

On this Ash Wednesday, I am drawn to a particular story from our trip. We spent much of one day on a bus tour to see some of the major sights that one must see in New York City.

The city that holds every kind of people also holds people with sketchy intentions. We drove by perfectly lined up purses on the sidewalk. Nearby were women with black coats and black bags. Next to them were young men selling AirPods.

“Everything is fake,” our snarky tour guide translated the scene for us. “Those purses,” he explained, “just look closely before buying. The purse might say ‘Couch.’ See the woman with the bag? She will tell you her best handbags are in a building down the street. And who knows what you might buy. Oh, and the box with the AirPods just might be empty.”

He had been a detective once, he explained as he went on to identify a number of other scams we might encounter.

Everything is fake, we remember on Ash Wednesday. The handbags that make us feel as though we have arrived; the purchases that appear to be a good deal when they are no more than an empty box.

Everything is fake. The skincare products that promise to keep us young; the news that convinces us to fear our neighbor; the abundant salary that tricks us into a job we know will leave us miserable.

Everything is fake. The snake in the garden. The voice in our heads that whispers we will never fit in. The machine you work for that never ceases to demand more of you.

Everything is fake. Except for…

the ashy cross someone will draw on your forehead today. This is not fake. It is real. It is as real as the death of Christ for you, as real as God’s promise that you belong to God for all eternity. In fact, the cross is a symbol of the very real promise that no matter how many times you get tricked by the Couch purse or the snake in the garden, you have been claimed forever by the God who remains genuinely faithful.

Photo by Andreas Niendorf on Unsplash

A Trail of Two Words

Two words emerged as a refrain last week when I met via Zoom with my spiritual director. The words wove their way through our prayer and conversation, a pair insistent upon staying together and staying in front of us.

My spiritual director introduced the words, or so I thought. “What a brilliant set of words!” I reflected. The perfect pair for prayer.

Later, I realized he had in fact borrowed the words from me! I found them in my previous blogpost and in my journal. “Wow,” I congratulated myself.

Later still, I noticed the two words in the confession our congregation prayed together on Sunday. The pair of words I thought I had come up with were the brilliant creation of a liturgist.

If I were to follow the trail even further, I would find the words elsewhere. I would find them dripping off the pen of a poet, a theologian, and who knows who else. Probably you.

When my spiritual director and I were in prayer and conversation, we moved through the heaviness of the past month: the weight of goodbyes we said to saints who have gone before us, the long and yet lovely stretch of Christmas worship services.

Prayer may be like this for you, too. Moving along in prayer, you find a side road and without even noticing, you follow the side road away from the main road of your prayers. Suddenly you are sunk in a ditch of worry and regrets.

That’s when my spiritual director said two words that I will keep close by in the year ahead. A pair that is perfect for prayer:

Begin again.

The two words are nothing new. The words are so old, in fact, they are ancient. 

Begin again.

The trail of these two words reminds me that the wisdom you need most may not be in front of you but behind you. God may have abundantly scattered quiet wisdom in a long-ago moment of hardship, or in a past season of celebration. The forgotten seeds grow in the Spirit’s time, a sign of new life.

Begin again.

You cannot see far into the year ahead, yet you can hold onto wisdom God has already given you in years behind.

Photo by Judy Beth Morris on Unsplash

Hey, Don’t You Live Up There?

One Wednesday night at St. John is an adventure story. Within three hours, there is an intensity to the volume of delightful, multi-generational conversation, mishaps, tears and giggles. I love how this gathering reflects life as it truly is: imperfect.

Luther described a theology of the cross as God meeting us not in the positive, perfect moments, but in the thick of life. Call a thing what it is, Luther instructed. And so, we call our lives what they are: hurried and haggard at times, each day our best effort and nothing more. Christ did not die for our sins because we have our lives together, but because we do not.

I love Wednesday nights because this is what we live out – a theology not based on rewards for how well we are living, but a theology that solidly trusts in God’s grace through Christ. This gift of grace is enough. You do not need to do more, try harder, or get better.

Where you live, with your weariness and wondering, is exactly where God meets you. In the adventure story of Wednesday nights, we live out our imperfect lives fully trusting in God’s perfect grace.

The number of stories manifested on a single Wednesday night could fill a book, that is, if you could be on all three floors and in every corner of the building at the same time. Since I cannot, I can only report this small chapter.

I sat behind a young, conversational kiddo at worship. I was doing my best to listen to Christina preach, but my worship neighbor has not yet perfected the art of whispering.

“Hey, what’s your name?” she wanted to know.

“Lisa,” I whispered quietly, dropping a hint.

She gave me a hard look and then threw a glance toward the front of the church where Christina was speaking.

“Hey, don’t you live up there?”

“What?” I whispered, trying to set an example and failing.

“Don’t you live? Up there? Why aren’t you up there?”

Oh, I realized! She thinks my home is the chancel. That I make my bed beside the altar and eat bread and wine for breakfast, lunch and dinner. That I had left my home up front to sit in the back of the church.

She accepted my whispered answer, that it wasn’t my turn to be “up there,” and the night went on. During Communion distribution, she had one more thing to say to me, as she paged through the heavy hymnal.

“I like this book,” she announced. “And this is my church.”

There she was in a community of people who astound me each week. Parents and grandparents who have decided that passing along the Christian faith is worth the work of getting a young family to church, which can be a great deal of work. Many of these parents wear their fatigue on their faces, their time at church a brief intermission from running between kids’ activities.

Because my worship neighbor’s family almost never misses worship, this little girl may not be proficient at whispering, but she is wise enough to know St. John is her church.

The adventure book would capture other moments: grandparents teaching grandkids how to hold their hands for Communion; single parents who visit with their kiddos over supper with no cell phone in sight; a cook who lets nothing get in the way of her dedication to the ministry of the Wednesday night meal; kids who woke up that morning and announced to their moms that they can’t wait to eat at church; ordinary people who extraordinarily teach, mentor, sing, wash tables, bring dessert…

We do none of this perfectly. Perfect is not the goal, not the requirement, indeed not even a helpful aspiration. Perfect is the love of God, who also does not live “up there,” but here, among us, now and always.

Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash

If Only the Disciples Were the Dwarves

It isn’t right to compare the 12 disciples with Snow White’s 7 dwarves, however, I do wish the disciples had been assigned descriptive names. Surely there was a Sleepy or a Clumsy among the 12. Was there a Grumpy or a Bashful? There had to be!

We only know there was a Peter, John, James, Andrew, Philip, Thomas, Bartholomew, Matthew, another James, Simon (not Peter), Judas, and “the” Judas. (Acts 1:13). “The” Judas was replaced by Matthias.

We know Peter is called The Rock, John and his brother James were Power-Hungry, and Thomas has been called Doubter. Beyond these descriptors, the Gospels tell us very little about these followers.

The Gospel text for World Communion Sunday this weekend is the feeding of the 5,000 in Luke 9:10-17, which has me wondering whether there was a disciple who could be called Curious.

Uniquely, this story is told by each of the four Gospel writers. In Luke, the disciples make the assumption that those who gathered to hear Jesus should be in charge of their own lunches. They tell Jesus, “Send the crowd away, so that they may go into the surrounding villages and countryside, to lodge and get provisions, for we are in a deserted place.” (Luke 10:12)

I find this instruction mystifying! By now in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus has healed the sick, cleansed the outcast and calmed a stormy sea. And they have the audacity to tell Jesus what to do? I would name them all Ridiculous.

“You give them something to eat,” Jesus replied, if only the Gospel writer would have clued us in on his tone.

The disciples go on to explain they have only 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread, pointing to the thousands of hungry people.

If I were to watch this scene unfold in real time, I would begin to look for Curious. Was there one disciple, just one, who was suspicious that Jesus was up to something? Was there a single disciple who had a hunch that whatever they had was more than enough for Jesus to satisfy the crowd? Did one of them raise his brows and wonder what more this teacher could do?

Jesus already knew he would have enough to feed the crowd. Eventually, the disciples knew it, too, along with the crowd. The Curious disciple, if there was one, had a head start. It had already occurred to him that anything is possible.

With God, beginnings are disguised as endings and hope masquerades as despair. Power and might turn out to be foolish and the greatest of these is not money or status, but love. With enough curiosity, we recognize abundance in 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread.

I hope to be the Curious disciple as I follow Jesus around in this life. Would I have raised my brows when Jesus broke the loaves, itching to know what he might do next? Or would I have furrowed my brows with the certainty that his meager offering would never be enough?

Will you open your eyes to the wonder of God’s mysterious abundance in your life? Will you set aside your certainty that there is not enough of whatever you worry might run out? Raise your brows, Curious disciple, and watch the bread that is broken satisfy the crowd.

Photo by Yulia Khlebnikova on Unsplash