The Christmas Gift

"He found himself standing on the corner of life."

That was the scene-setting phrase a teacher-friend in Poland used while telling the story of someone whose life had spiraled downward towards a very painful precipice.

The story didn't end there.

Things actually got better from there.

The view from a place of desperation can also be a place of discovery.

It worked out that way for Ebenezer Scrooge.

It worked out that way for George Bailey.

Coming to the end of ourselves can open the door for someone else to intervene on our behalf.

When we are lost.

When we can not find a way through.

When we are suffering.

We're really more fragile than we look.

Even when we're physically strong.

Or financially strong.

Or at the peak of our career.

We can break.

And then, as another friend of mine likes to say,

                                             "For this, we have Jesus."

A few days ago, Dan heard that his father had to be taken to the hospital.

It was only a short time ago that the family was all together in a much more

celebrative environment.  

But yesterday the family was gathering again.

Seeking peace and leaning on each other.  

Holding hands together.

Through tears.

                       "For this, we have Jesus."

She texted us a couple weeks ago to let us know that doctors had discovered

something concerning.

Days went by in waiting.

Finally some news that wasn't altogether joyous, but still hopeful.

Yet, in the middle of that tension too, I was reminded,

                                                       "For this, we have Jesus."

I can't not say it.

Even though it sounds so trite....still...

This is the message of the season.

God knows us in spite of all of our disguises.

In spite of our veneer.

In spite of our earthly successes.

He knew that we would need more.

He knew that we need his presence.

To catch us when we fall.

To show us a new way to see life.

                                    "For this...he brought to us....Jesus."

                                                                   

Courage To Be Kind

I think that sometimes being loud, 

                                       even arrogant,

              is mistaken for being bold.

Sometimes bold is loud.

But sometimes bold is quiet.

Even, very quiet.

Sometimes bold doesn't say anything at all.

Sometimes the boldest thing is to love; to apply grace or even just kindness.

And to go un-noticed in the process.

I don't feel like I do this well, 

but I've known some who were able to blend kindness and boldness.

Someone who I have held in respect for many years passed away last week.

He spoke both with passion and gentleness.

When he talked about our blindspots as people of faith in Jesus,

                                        there were times he sounded very critical.

When he spoke about his love of Jesus, or Jesus' love for him, his voice could break;

overwhelmed by the grace poured out...upon someone like himself.

He could also make us laugh...a lot.

He was the first "celebrity Christian" I ever met.

And he took time on a few occasions to have discourse with me.

Once, when I was only twenty, I had a one-on-one conversation with him.  

Later on, he responded to some questions I had via snail-mail.

I was a new believer in Jesus and he was kind to me. 

In my ignorance...about...much. 

He had courage to speak to the church about its shortcomings.

He also saw places to offer grace to the church.

He wasn't always appreciated for his words or position on things.

But mostly I felt he was just being honest about helping someone who he thought needed a measure of kindness; an individual or an entire country.

And he asked if we could be the people who just may be able to bring it to them.

He hoped and believed that we could and would do better with more knowledge, transparency and commitment.

Somehow, I believe these thoughts above fit into a portion of scripture that I've been chewing on.

There's a somewhat startling question that Paul asks in his letter to the Romans.

In Chapter two, verse four, he's discussing our tendency to look down on others in judgement, while ignoring the kindnesses that God has poured out on us, believing they would lead to our repentance.  As in...

How do we miss all the kind ways he has been patient with us and return that gesture with impatience directed to others?

It's a pretty significant understanding; the idea that God's kindness is his plan to bring us to repentance.

Now, I'm sure that God's plan has many dimensions to it, as he reaches into all of our hearts to draw us towards himself.  

He knows exactly how each of us are working through the messes in our lives.  

He knows our individual points of pride and resistance.  

He knows the places we have pain and broken-ness.

But I'm captivated by the idea that something as simple as "kindness" would draw us towards Jesus AND that we are expected to pass that simple part of "faith in action" on to others.

I wonder what that would look like in my world...

At the convenience store.

Or on the phone with tele-marketers.

Or while I'm driving through traffic.

When I'm in a hurry.

Or frustrated about all the above.

I looked up the word in the original Greek.  

Kindness = xrēstótēs.

It appears 10 times in the New Testament.

Here are some of the ideas related to it: 

"A Spirit-produced goodness which meets the need and avoids human harshness (cruelty)

...Meeting real needs, in God's way, in His timing."

Not harsh.

Not cruel.

Meeting needs.

In his timing.

Spirit-produced.

It is brave. 

It is true.

It comes from Jesus.

Even when you don't feel like it.

                                        The courage to be kind.

Kept

I have a friend who would say, 

"I know He's real, 'cause He kept me...All these years, He kept me."

He would cup his hands in front of his great, big self and show me how that felt to him; sometimes smiling, sometimes eyes full of tears.  

His story is difficult.

And as long as I have known him, he has struggled in the certainty of his own testimony.

(There's probably moments that we all do.)

He has often had to fight within himself to regain it.

On those days, he felt unprotected.

Without a shield.

Without covering.

Wondering why things happened as they did.

Soul-crushing things.

Without someone he could count on... to keep watch over him.

Someone...to cover his back.

And the pain of that vulnerability, sometimes rolled into a great fear.

I've been reading through the opening of the Genesis story and that's the issue I'm seeing is the weightiest concern of the couple who find themselves there.

God had told them not to eat of the one tree or they would die.

Which is interesting to me because they had no knowledge of what it meant to die.

At least from an experiential perspective.  

They'd never been to a memorial service.

I remember as a kid...maybe 10 years old trying to process what death meant, not coming from a home of faith, it was staggering; even overwhelming to consider.

I saw the gray-skinned body of my Grandpa, lying in an ornately designed coffin.

Twas the first time I recall seeing what "death" looked like...in a person...and it was gray.

I faintly remember a conversation with my mom after that.  

There was a panic that ran through me....Knowing that one day I would turn to call for her, reach out for her and she would not be there to respond.

And I cried about it.  For a good while I think.

Death's meaning was just beginning to find its place in my thinking because it was in the news.

People talked about it.  

They went to things called funerals to observe it.  

Wars created lots of it.

But in Genesis, they really didn't have any of that to view the concept from, and maybe that's why when you read through the passage, its odd to see that it wasn't death that made them afraid.

It was actually nakedness that made them hide.

"I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; so I hid."

How weird is that?

And I kept looking through that passage.  Reading it over and over.

The Creator's response is, "Who told you that you were naked?" 

Almost as though "naked" was a word that didn't fit in his vocabulary.

Otherwise, he may have said something like, 

"Yes, you are naked and how objectionable that is to me, at least you found something to cover up with, it helps cover your hideous nakedness."

He doesn't address any of that at all.  But then, why would he?  

He made those bodies, in His own image.

So, after the couple explains the process of their poor decision-making, he turns to the serpent and pronounces judgement upon him.

But let's go back to the dialogue about being naked for a moment.

The Hebrew word appears ten times in the OT.  Seven times apart from this passage.

(Once in Deuteronomy and six in Ezekiel.)

In each instance it either refers to a person or the nation of Israel, not so much as unclothed, but as being unprotected.  In fact the root of the word means to be exposed.  

Additionally, in four of those verses the phrase, "naked and bare," appears.  

Enhancing the idea that there are two different ideas being presented.

God didn't see Adam and Eve's lack of clothing as a problem.  In fact they didn't either until after the conversation with the serpent.

Being exposed is a different matter. 

It's an internal issue, an internal anxiety; the sense of being uncared for or unprotected.

There are people in my life that I believe that I would do all I can to care for their safety.  

It would hurt me deeply if they questioned that commitment.  

I would feel ashamed if I didn't protect them.

Not because I have been contractually obligated but because I love them.

In one short dialogue the serpent convinced the only two people on earth that the one who made them in love, and beauty could not be trusted to keep their best future in his hands and they would be defenseless against everything to come.  So, fear and mistrust were born, and they hid.

They no longer felt kept.

So many of us are still trying to find the courage to trust that God today.  We fashion our lives around pursuance of things that seem to provide stability.  Things that outwardly speak of strength and security.

In the end it's all just...fig leaves.

However, inwardly what we still really need is a simple trust 

                                                              that He is a good, good God,

                                                                               And that He is for us, like no other can or ever will be.

Hope's Refrain

"...Be ready at any time to give a quiet and reverent answer to anyone who wants a reason for the hope that you have within you." - I Peter 3:15

She keeps her head high

Then bows, kissing the ground 

When she enters the room 

Spirits rise, without a sound

Holding onto our hands

Walks us through the divide

Draws us into her heart 

Pushing past, the pull of the tide

Hope laughs

And she cries

Hope wears no rags

That weigh her down

No stains; no disguise

Hope breathes

Hope calls

Hope lives

Hope stands inside and 

Tears down the walls

She’s never too young

She never grows old

She always remembers

The truth she was told

Can rescue your mind

From that dark, empty place

Leaves shame in the sea

Her sister is Grace

Hope laughs

And she cries

Hope wears no rags

That weigh her down

No stains; no disguise

Hope breathes

Hope calls

Hope lives

Hope stands inside and 

Tears down the walls

Us and Them

We need to be careful.

Of all the places that we draw lines.

Between one-another.

I wish we felt the pull and the pain.

The ache.

The strain.

I wish we heard the ripping noise; when we tore our lives away from 

someone else, for whatever reason.

I wish that we could see how our separation hurt.

Not just their hurt, but how it may impact us as well.

In the story it is recorded as a hopeful "we"....not... "us and them."

                 Let them be one, even as we are one.

We as reconcilers.

We as peacemakers.

We as ambassadors of this coming together, 

of this Shalom.

Instead, too often we see the distance of our differences.

And build a home there,

in the comfort zone of only those like us.

Not with them.

And their ideas.  

And ways.  

And appearance.

Them, on the outside of our peace.

I get it.  

I know that there are some we must leave there.

Because of a history of struggle that we cannot bridge with our presence.

They are few. 

He knows their names, 

and will apply his grace to each of us,

 how and where it's needed.

But for the many others.

Who will go?  

To extend a hand, an invitation to them.

How about,

                         Here we are, send us.

What It Is, And What It's Not

I like to say it a lot.

"Church is not a building.  It's people."

People who are moving together, as under the direction of an unseen hand, with a shared heart.

A symphony of sorts.  Each playing their part.  Not seeking individual attention, or even reward, but trusting that this unseen hand will bring all of the parts together.

And somehow, in voice and in action, there will be a harmony.

A few weeks ago I received a call from someone who had run short.  Another came from someone who felt they had extra.  So, when I entered our gathering place...when I entered the sanctuary, I went to the first and told her that help was on the way.  

She smiled and showed me an envelope that held that "extra".

"It's already here," she said.

Later, someone stepped towards me and whispered in my ear that another really needed someone to pray for them.  

"O.K." I said.  

When I went to find that individual, to pray with them, I couldn't find them.  

It turned out that they had already gone home.  

So, I found the voice that whispered to me and said, "I'm sorry, I missed them and they're gone.  I'll call and make an appointment this week to meet up."

"No problem," they said, and named two others who had come around the person in need and brought them hope and help.

At the very end of our gathering time, we joined together for a moment of reaching towards heaven.  There were at least a dozen voices that called out, maybe closer to twenty.

I wept for the sense of His closeness to us.

For the freedom we were feeling at His feet.

For the warmth I felt in knowing the faces and names of all whose prayers I heard.

I knew them by their voice.

It was harmony.

It was symphony.

It was church.

Eyes To See, Ears To Hear

We are surrounded by teachers.

Gearing ourselves
towards receiving their instruction is the trick.

I had tea and cookies with Anna. 

We first talked about the places in Poland that we had both been to...cities and sites; 

the common threads of our lives.

Then she showed me paintings of places near where her family lived.  And as I was readying to leave, also images of The Virgin Mary and Child from artists of several different countries that she traveled to with her husband before he had passed away.

In between my arrival and leaving she told me how somehow, her mother had been released from the camp in Dachau in order to give birth in a town nearby.

It was close to the end of the war.

There was a nurse in that dark place who had compassion on a prisoner.

There was another woman who secretly fed that baby girl for the twenty four hours after delivery, when life and death hung in the balance.

There were other examples of providential intervention by a God who found a way.

Moments of secret kindnesses during such a terrible time in human history.

Decades later she visited the place of her birth.  She recalled the journey by train and her eyes diverted from mine as she described seeing the street signs outside the train windows.

It was like she was there again. 

Then she returned her gaze to me.

"Would you like another cup of tea?" she asked.

Today, Anna travels to other prisons, not in Germany, but local, and tries to share hope and faith with those who are there.

There was a violin in his hand.

He has played in symphonies, representing the Seattle musical elite, and as an introduction to TED talks.

But he first learned to play as a foster child, at a local elementary school.

He was removed from his family...from the Lummi Tribe of Native Americans here in Washington.

He was placed in a new home.

In a basement.

Only allowed to come to the top of the stairs to pick up his food at meal time.

As it sat waiting for him.

Next to the dog food dishes. 

"Only come past the stairs when you're invited.  Otherwise, you and your brother, stay in the basement."

But in the present, there was a long-fought peace in his words. 

Even a thankfulness for the woman in a public school who first placed that violin in his hands.

And then he played, while I listened.

Beauty.

Hope.

Hurt.

Rose from the strings as the bow criss-crossed against them.

And I wept.

Rudy has attended our church, with his family...many times.

He has spent a good portion of his life trying to work through immigration issues.

The country he came from has no record of his birth.

So he can't go "home."

He has kept up on all his reporting and worked a steady job.

But some kind of miscommunication led to him being taken away from the life he has built here.

So, today he sat on the other side of glass.

We were joined in communication by a phone with a cord on each side of the wall that separated us.

I expected he would be discouraged, but instead he was jubilant.

He slapped his hand against the glass and I did too.

After our greetings I asked how he was handling all of this.

"I feel I am blessed," he said.

"God has found me here in so many ways and continues to speak to me through many people and situations where he tells me he is taking care of me and my family."

We talked for around 20 minutes and then, because I wanted to leave time for others who were waiting,

I prayed and passed the phone on. 

After hugging Rudy's fiancé, I stepped out of that room, walked down a hallway, picked up my car-keys and wallet from the entryway lockers and in a few moments went through double-doors and walked

onto the sidewalk outside.  

The sky was blue.

A gentle breeze was in the air.

I walked towards my car, knowing I could pretty much go wherever I wanted with the rest of my day.

"I feel I am blessed," he said.

Our teachers are everywhere.

May we live with eyes and ears open, 

Ready to receive what they have to give us.

Blessings

I have a young friend.  

Actually, I am blessed to have several young friends and family who help me

to remember what youth looks like.

Sounds like.

Feels like. 

Otherwise, I'll start talking about how far it was to walk to school,

and begin sentences with the phrase, "Back in my day..."

A few weeks ago I was in a meeting at our church.

Mostly it was all twenty-somethings.

AND lest you should be dismayed, they were talking about the challenges

of our faith in Jesus, and how it's not always...simple.

AND that sometimes the lessons that come through difficulty, hurt or pain

can be very worthwhile.

There was almost an audible and shared exhale in that truth.

People dropped their eyes to the floor and nodded their heads thoughtfully.

Then my young friend said,

"Sometimes, it's okay...letting it suck for a minute."

His eyes were watery and his voice was a bit shaky when he said those words.

I know his story, and I know that he met Christ for the first time in exactly one of those moments.

I know that Christ continues to meet him...whenever things, "suck."

I want to tie an apron string between this idea and another...

"Blessing" is a word of our faith.

I think it is largely misunderstood.  Too often it has come to mean an unexpected windfall of good things.

Money.  A new job.  A new relationship.  A new house or new car.  Anything that makes me smile or brings happiness into my life.

That isn't terrible, but I believe it's too thin.

So,
I propose a new definition.

What if....Blessings became anything that pushes/pulls us into a deeper trust, 

a more knowing relationship with Jesus.

If that can be true, then letting life suck for a minute might be helpful.

It might push/pull me past what I feel in that instant, deepening my hope in my Savior.

AND what a blessing that would be.

Beneath 167

Sunrise.  Sunset.

The two words open the chorus of a song that's included in one of my favorite stories ever portrayed on stage or screen...Fiddler On The Roof.

The lyrics speak to the passing of time during the transitional moments of our lives.

AND that there are so many more that happen when we are mostly unaware.

I have to admit, I'm a sucker for all of the songs that speak to this.

"Time In A Bottle."

"Butterfly Kisses."

"Cats In The Cradle."

(Insert your favorite song in this space here)

I think that the reason these lyrics or thoughts are so meaningful to me is that not only do they speak to the different chapters of our lives, they remind us that our time of watching anyone or anything grow up is fleeting.

Perhaps it's my vocation.  Perhaps it's my age.  Perhaps it's a little of both.  :)

Recently, I was driving under 167 on Kent/Des Moines Road and another thought, held in tension

with those above came to mind...

I have stood next to, or sat near, held the hand of many who have passed into the next experience of life after that here on earth.

Those on the precipice.

A few have been fearful.  Some have been filled with grief or regret.

But others have marched steadily, honestly and with certainty into that good, good new sunrise.

One, who had battled ALS through their last months said, "For some reason, Jesus has allowed this into my life, so I have determined to make friends with it.  I want to discover what truth it has for me before I go.  It does not frighten me."  A few weeks later this great, big man met his Jesus face to face.

I asked another one day if he was ready for his next life step.  He was in his 70's emaciated by cancer, but sitting up on his living room chair, he said, "Sometimes, Jesus is right there."  He held his arm outward with strength, pointing to a place a few feet in front of him."  And I looked to that space, almost expecting to see who he was pointing to, because of the certainty of his words.

A third, said quietly, "He told me He's going to make more more like myself than I've ever been."

Sunsets always give way to another sunrise.  

Let us not live in fear or regret.

That which we let go of will only be replaced with something much better. 

He promised....If it were not true he would have told us so.  

His words, not mine.

He's Still There

I found a book a while back.

It's a kid's book modeled after the "Where's Waldo?" series.

Except, instead of looking for a tall, thin fellow in a striped shirt and stocking cap amidst 

a great, swarming mob, you're supposed to locate the artist's depiction of...get ready...Jesus.

It feels like a worthy process to just consider 

how Jesus might be part of our lives; where he might show up,

and how he might be seen, or maybe be there but unseen.

I believe we are mostly unaware that he is with us...most of our days.

Yet he promised us that once we invite him into our lives, it would be impossible to shake him, 

even if we tried.

Still...I think that the issue is less about geography and more about our peace of mind and spirit.

Looking for him in a drawing or picture is one thing, finding him in the middle of my messy life experience is another.

Yet, I think that's exactly where we need to experience him and where he wants most for us to seek after him.

In the middle of community injustices and disease.

In the middle of wars, and rumors of war.

Standing for the hurting, the lost, the disenfranchised.

In the midst of my personal confusion or...

Loss.

Depression.

Weariness.

In my immensity of grief. 

CS Lewis said, 

           "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, 

               but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

That really makes me go, "Hmmmmmmm."

I have a friend who wrote these words in song titled, "Broken Down," many years back, in reflection upon a cancer diagnosis that took his life at 23 years of age.

   "I think I know you're there, but I could really use a sign.

    And I think I'm doin' okay, but I could use some sleep tonight.

    I think that I'm working this out, but I could use some peace of mind.

    I don't think I've ever been this alone, I don't think I've ever been this alive."

These thoughts all reflect to me the presence of Jesus in moments of life that he may be difficult to be found and yet is absolutely available if I can sidestep those things that would distract me from his spirit.

Can I have one foot planted in the discomfort of my hurt and understand that while he doesn't 

remove me from that space and all its complications he will sustain me there?

I think so.

And I'm grateful for his hand in mine.

It means everything.

But in the moment....I can still hurt.

Yes.

(Link to the song mentioned, "Broken Down" by Spencer Green)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDJsEYqX04s

Tell Me A Story

A short memory; almost a dream came to me a few days ago.

It was in that sweet moment before the day begins and sleep was still trying to hang onto my body...

I was maybe four years old.

Sitting on my Grandpa's lap as he read me a book.  

It wasn't the first time, but it would be the last.

It was perhaps Dr. Seuss, but I'm not sure.

I remember the bright colors of the characters on the pages.

Short sentences.  Maybe six or eight words was all.

I remember the light from outside, spilling down on us through small, rectangular windows 

in a daylight basement.  The short staircase across from us, leading up to the mud-room on one side and the kitchen on the other.

Grandpa's shop was out the front door, a short distance away.  

There, the night before, under a tin-roof overhang we made ice-cream with a wooden bucket, a crank, rock-salt and a lot of tired arms putting in their time.

It was vanilla.

And it was good, but it took a long time for something you could get in a square box at the store, take home and eat right away. At least that's how it seemed to me, as a child.

I had learned to read myself, just a little bit, but Grandma or Grandpa reading to me

was always better, they sometimes did voices for the characters in the story.

That's the best.

As Grandpa was reading I began to notice that the story he was telling me wasn't the same as

what was printed.

On maybe the third page, I laughed and said, "Grandpa...that's not what it says."

He said, "Sure it is."

I said, "No it's not," still giggling.

He said, "How do you know?"

I said, "Because I can read some, and those aren't the words."

And he forced a smile and slowly closed the book.

"Nope," he said, "It's not the story you're reading, but it's the one I see."

He paused, looked down at the floor, and then said,

"You probably don't need Grandpa to read to you anymore, because you already know what it says."

He gently set me down off the bed, grabbed his work gloves, turned his back to me, climbed the stairs and was out the front door and headed to the barn before I even moved.

Today, I don't think that little boy was in the wrong.

Nor do I resent my Grandfather's response in any way.

He never mentioned that moment again, and we enjoyed a really wonderful relationship our whole time here on this earth.

I think the reason this memory has come back to me is less about blame or guilt and more about something else. 

Way back then...nearly 60 years ago, I didn't know what happened in that moment, but I knew that

something was changing, and at the least, it was awkward.

A long time later, I discovered that my Grandpa, 

in spite of all the amazing things he knew how to do...

He knew about cows: how to round them up, how to milk them, brand them, tag them, feed them, heal them, and bring them into the world.

He also knew the same about horses, pigs, ducks and chickens.

He knew about engines, all kinds: cars, tractors, trucks, mowers and could figure out why they didn't run right...and he would fix them for anyone who didn't understand what he knew.

He could fix clocks: the kind on the wall, the kind that would cuckoo, the kind that would strike a bell, sit on the mantle, stand in a corner, taller than I, or the ones that went on your wrist or in your pocket.

He could build a house, a barn, a fence or a corral.

In spite of all this that he did know...he never learned to read.  

He could write his name and not much else.

When he was quite young he went to work on his parents farm, and there was no time for "schoolin'" in his life from that day forward.  

So, the day he closed that book, it was an end to a thing we had shared and it never came back.

Even at four years old there was a sadness I felt and somehow I also knew Grandpa was embarrassed

but I didn't know why. 

I think that is part of the lesson in this memory today.  

How able am I to let go of what has been and find joy in what comes next?

He loved telling stories.

Fortunately, he kept telling them, they just didn't come out of books, they came out of his life.

AND this might be the other thing that I'm learning.

My favorite stories are the ones I hear about people themselves.

The story that they have seen and lived.

The truth of their moments.

The source of their hopes, passions and even their disappointments or rejection.

Oftentimes their story is very different than the one I thought I knew about them.

Sometimes they're revealed haltingly, with intense struggle or the converse, 

they are told without any feeling at all.

I have even heard some told with laughter in what felt to be wrong places.

Places where there was pain, and nothing that was funny at all; but there it was in their voice.

A concealer, a disguise, a mask.

Dr. Seuss was a good storyteller, but honestly, my Grandpa was better.

At least I'll always think so.

And I'm incredibly thankful for the stories that were his,

                                The ones that came out after he put the book down.