LAMENTATIONS THREE AND TWENTY-TWO

Someone asked the other day,

"Since his mercies are new every morning....how can I find them?" 

It wasn't a question directed to me.

It was launched into the air on Facebook, 

             like a falling trapeze artist in search of a safety net.

It's a good question.

It cuts through the lofty ideas of our beliefs and scratches at 

REALITY.

God's gifts arrive new each day.  

Yesterday's supply is not meant for today.  

Remember, the manna went rancid in 24 hours.

The rub is that yesterday's worries and pain can still hang onto us day after day.

In other words they don't tend to fade from our thoughts without some form of resolution.

In short...Crud has a tendency to stick with us.

While hope and goodness has to be leaned into daily for it to feel fresh.

And why is that?  I think I might have an answer.

Not the only answer, just an answer.

A possibility.

He shouted, "Lazarus come forth!"

And out of the cave walked a man who had died a few days earlier.

Then Jesus said something that is often dismissed as a menial statement.

A job for the "clean-up crew."

He said, "Take off the grave clothes and let him go."

Our spiritual enemy seeks to keep us STUCK in the "what has been" of our lives.

While Jesus typically calls us forward.

Not because the past doesn't matter, but because he has already dealt with it on our behalf.

It has been cleansed and covered.

So Jesus says things like:

"Go and sin no more."

"Then, feed my sheep."

"Come, follow me, and I will make you..."

And also, "Get rid of the grave clothes."

That includes everything that was part of the death experience.

Our actions, and the actions of others, the emotional pain and disease that led to the grave.

We need to leave that all behind and walk straight to Jesus.

He beckons
us forward and away from our private mire.

Every day.

In order to find the mercies that are new 

                                              EVERY MORNING.

SCARCITY

I met a woman who had provided foster care for a few children.

Her name was Marcella.

One of them was a young man who began coming to our church.

He was tall for a 16-year old.  

Taller than I was by a few inches I think.

So maybe 6' 3".

He struggled at first socially, trying to find his place.

(I feel that most of us do, in some way...struggle to find our place)

There was another thing I noticed at meal time.

While we said grace, at summer camp, 

he was subtly and strategically moving the food on the table 

so that it was all within his reach.

Hamburger patties, Buns, salad, French-fries, tomato slices,

ice-water, all were re-located at arm's length to him,

at a table for eight.

Later, I asked his foster-parent about that.

We (my wife and I) were over to Marcella's for dinner one night.

It was just the three of us.

the young man was gone to a school activity.

After asking about the meal time behavior,

she dropped her head and smiled. Then she said, 

"When he first came to our house, it was much more dramatic.  

He pulled everything directly in front of him, and only after he had a first helping of it all, 

was he comfortable for the serving dishes to move to other places on the table.  

I asked his care-worker about it.  She told me that   

when he was younger, only a child, still living at home with his mother, 

before leaving she would pull some food from the fridge or cupboard and leave it on the floor. 

Then she might disappear for days.  

He never knew when she would return, or if she would return.  So, he got used to hoarding 

whatever there was.  I guess that's what you do when you don't trust in something 

consistently being available, you hold whatever you can, as close as you can to you."

I don't think this story really about food, though it obviously touches on that.

There are many, many things that are necessary for us to feel cared for; to trust

that our lives are secure and protected.

When they are absent, 

we form ways to prepare ourselves, 

shield ourselves

for that possibility that we will not have them again.

It could be food,

or shelter,

or trust,

or hope,

or....love...and friendship.

I have never known how to resolve this story, but whenever I think on it, 

it touches me deeply.  Maybe the answer comes to life in these words...

"...No one claimed that any of their possessions was their own, but they shared everything they had...And God’s grace was so powerfully at work in them all that there were no needy persons among them. For from time to time those who owned land or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone who had need."

And the cry of these words...https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9kn7E-OauJI&list=RD9kn7E-OauJI&start_radio=1

GOIN' WITH

"I'm goin' with," we said.

And then we clamored into a car heading for a ballgame, 

a movie, 

the lake,

or just to go cruising.

I won't try to define cruising here, other than to say,

it was a "together" experience. :)

And we would share the outcome of that adventure also...

Equally.

There are three men.

Hanging on separate crosses.

Life is slowly ebbing from their bodies.

One will remain angry and choose isolation.

Another is anxious and aware of his just consequences in contrast to the third

man on the cross next to him.

In desperation he asks for connection.

"...Remember me!" he pleads.

AND in essence, Jesus says to this man, "No worries, you’re with me!”

In other words, Hereafter....you are “metah” (in the greek)

Or WITH.

It means "amid or accompanied by."

He's saying, it’s me AND you going to paradise.

Everyone there will know that we are inseparable.

Bob Benson used to say, “There’s no space between Jesus and me.”
I am his, he is mine.

No longer alone,

In navigating through this life.

Your past doesn't matter.

Your failings are forgotten.

Your future is secure.

Jesus says, 

"You're WITH me."

COMMUNITY

Below are two thoughts about the same idea.

From different times.

From different people.

About ninety years apart.

They both make us ask questions about ourselves.

In a world that is as torn as ours, can we be woven back together?

Is our heart willing?

Will we put action to our words?

I know that we can be better.

You can lean on me, if I can lean on you.

(Eugene Park – The Folly of Looking For Community) “We now treat community like a stop at Chipotle. You can curate your community, just like your burrito, down to your exact preference. In turn, our nation and churches have become more polarized and tribal than ever before. Turning community into a consumer commodity has led to what the The New York Times has dubbed, 'The Golden Age of Bailing'. If community is 'found,' it is just as easily left…Many of us choose to be architects rather than builders of our communities, dreaming up an ideal church rather than committing to a real church. Yet the more we clutch our own blueprints rather than embrace the people God has placed in front of us, the more grief we will bring to ourselves and to them... Consumer approaches to 'finding' community naturally favor the easiest and smoothest route....Yet it's only through effort, sweat and tears that anything worthy is built...Any genuine community will have to work through conflict.”

(Dietrich Bonhoeffer) “Those who love their dream of a Christian community more than they love the Christian community itself become destroyers of that Christian community.”

INVITED

Being INVITED to a table is an important gift.
It carries with it some understandings.
There’s nearly always a fleeting moment when I sit at a conference table as an INVITED person that I’ll glance around the table and think that my input must be valuable in order that I would be INVITED.  
AND I think well of myself.  
I don’t think there’s anything wrong about that. 
I also experience a sense of being grateful.
AND then, those thoughts are quickly chased away, as I look around the room again and think…
Who is NOT here? 
Who is NOT at the table and should be? 
And WHY ARE THEY NOT HERE? 
Finally, I become fairly convinced that there are others whose input would be more valuable than mine, at the table.  

And my last thought is, How can I step away from my chair and have them sit in it?

Heavy Grace

I have been praying this morning for a "heavy grace" to fall upon some that I love.

Some whose names and faces continuously wade through my spirit.

These are people He has entrusted to me to care about, to care for.

I don't know that this is a term theologians will appreciate, 

but here's what I mean by "heavy grace."

It's "heavy" in order that it cannot be disregarded.

It settles on people like a weighty, warm blanket.

It's "grace" in order that it be understood as a gift, 

          as a release, as security,

                            not condemnation.

Here's why I pray this way...

I believe that there's a voice inside of us, that wants to say, 

                                        "See how good I can be, all on my own!"

And there's another voice, outside of us, but speaking into us, that quietly says,

                                        "That's not the point."

So, we come at it from another angle. 

                     "But see how much better I am than most of the others!"

               And the response is, "That's still not the point."

Then we fail, and in our desperation cry out,

                     "I'm in trouble, 

                            I've made a mess of things. 

                  I've hurt others, and I can't fix myself,

                      let alone the messes I've made.  

                                      I NEED HELP!"

And that voice outside, once more speaks gently into us,

                             "THAT...IS THE POINT."

There it is.  Arms that we can fall back into; 

                                 
a trust fall at the point of our realized need.

                                        AND HE ALWAYS CATCHES US. 

Paul said, "...but He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you[My lovingkindness and My mercy are more than enough—always available—regardless of the situation]; for [My] power is being perfected [and is completed and shows itself most effectively] in [your] weakness.”Therefore, I will all the more gladly boast in my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ [may completely enfold me and] may dwell in me."

Heavy grace.

    

His Table

It's not woke.

It's not even new thought.

It was there in the beginning. 

And it will also be so in the end.

Decades ago, (1964 to be exact) there were those in our church family, 

who did their best to put it as straight-forward as they could.

(Here it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jo6E4LJMvJc&t=77s)

It was recorded alongside a collection of documents, 

in effort to remind us of the way, in times like these.

To represent the heart of the one who made us all,

                  in his image.

                        And invited us ALL

                                           to his table.

(Thank you to those at Hillside who bring us this visual reminder.)

The Redemption of Marah

Find a way this year.

Find a moment to breathe deep.

Mark it as the beginning of your personal Advent.

Not a devotional reading, but a moment in time.

To..."Be still and know." (Psalm 46:10)

From that passage, we're called to a "rapha" experience, 

                                                            a contemplative stillness, 

in order to know (acknowledge or become acquainted with) a truth.

In Exodus, rapha is listed as one of the names for God.  

When God turns the bitter waters of a spring called Marah, 

(The name not only implies bitter, but can also mean rebellion, grief, or hardship) 

into a sweet and drinkable water. 

We are then told, he is Jehovah Rapha or The God Who Heals. 

Rapha can also mean, to make whole or to restore.

Can it be that in our ceasing to strive, and rather approach a place of contemplative stillness,

                           that our spirit finally arrives at where God always is.

That place of wholeness.

Bitterness fades and hope invades,

                                                 physically, mentally and spiritually.

Through the spirit of Rapha.

Through the coming of His Son.

Maybe we can find healing.

This year...

            And for all time.

Against the Door

The first verse in the Bible that I ever memorized was Rev. 3:20.

         

         "Listen! I am standing and knocking at your door. 

                   If you hear my voice and open the door, 

              I will come in and we will eat together. (CEV)"

I was a freshman in college.

My thoughts attached to this verse were life changing.

Taken very literally the verse suggests Jesus is standing on the other side of a door, knocking...and waiting like he's got nothing better to do.

Waiting for me, or waiting for all of us to open the door.  

Like the housekeeping representative in a hotel.

How can he possibly do that?  

Be that committed to even me.

The verse captures my thoughts to this day.  

I have such a difficult time waiting for anything.  I will be looking impatiently at my watch or my phone if I know that five minutes could be expended on anyone or anything else. 

As though I'm just so very busy and it is such an inconvenience for me to wait. 

In the original writing, the greek word translated as "standing"

                                       is pronounced hee-stay-mee. 

It is defined as a prolonged form of stand or abide, bring, continue, covenant, establish, hold up.  

So, as odd as it seems to me, Jesus was saying in essence, 

                             "I am here, and I'm not going anywhere."

AND he's anticipating a response to the commitment he has made to us.

As if  he knows there's something we need, or something we should let go of, 

                                                                    and he wishes to discuss it with us...urgently.

Sometimes, I can feel him there, at the door.

Truthfully, it is not always what I want to feel. 

I'll sigh out loud and think,

                                    Why is he so persistent?

                                          I'm doing fine.  

Still, he waits.

That knocking noise is kind of annoying.

So, not only do I NOT open the door to him,

I'm pushing a figurative chest of drawers up against it.

Which is just silly, because he said he wouldn't enter in without me opening the door anyway.

And he never lies.

In these 45 years of our relationship, he's never pushed the door open.

The stuff I push up against it?

Fear.

Hurt.

Anger.

Control.

Grief.

Apathy.

Pride.

Regret.

Comfort. 

What I want, when I want it. 

...Basically, selfishness.

Finally, I stop and look at all that I have stacked against the door.  

I groan as I recognize that wall of division I've built there,

                                                represents me fighting against myself.

And, that if I want to see that wall come down, 

                             I will need to place my desire to be united with him 

                  above my desire to keep in place those things I built the wall with.

He will wait.

He will stand.

With grace and hope in his heart, 

                                           because, 

                                                               
He is for me.

CHEATING DEATH

A while ago I received a note in the mail.

It was not signed.  

Had no return address.

I ran across it yesterday looking through some old files.

Here are a few lines from the letter:

"I began going to church for the first time in my life just a few months ago.  I wasn't raised to believe in any higher power. (She then explained that to support her husband, she began to attend) 

So, I gave in and finally went to church.  It wasn't at all what I expected...To my surprise, I'm learning a lot about me. I wanted to tell you that last Sunday's sermon really meant a lot.  Even though I couldn't (wouldn't) come forward to the altar, to ask for prayer and to give myself to God, I do believe it will happen someday, I'm just not sure how to do that.  It's very hard to let go of control of one's life, but I'm sure I will be able to soon." 

A couple Sundays later, during the service, I read a couple lines from the note aloud, still not knowing who wrote it.

I shared that Jesus was aware of all the challenges that the writer was sorting through,

and that he was available to move forward whenever she was.

When the service was over, there were several who wished to talk, which is kind of typical.

But I can still remember a couple standing about fifteen feet away; she was wiping her eyes 

with some Kleenex, her husband standing attentively nearby, and something inside me let me know that a divine moment was coming my way.

After finishing my conversation with the others she walked over, and very sheepishly

said, "I wrote that letter you read."

I said to her that somehow I knew it was her a few moments earlier, while they were standing a few feet away.

Her and her husband shared their story with me.  

It was only a bit after that she opened her heart for the Christ...to be her Christ.

AND it was only a little while later, she was diagnosed with a cancer.  

It was aggressive.  

And she left this place quickly....but without fear...and very little regret...because she had been made new in heart and in her mind there was great peace.

Coming back to her note for a moment.

There were two lines that were my favorites. First, was in reference to church:

"It wasn't at all what I expected."  

Oh, how I want that for those who come to our places of worship, or simply meet us as his ambassador that we would surprise them.

Surprise them with joy.

Surprise them with grace.

Surprise them with hope.

Surprise them with belonging...into our hearts, into our homes...into our family.

The second was:

"It's very hard to let go of control of one's life."

Wow. 

That's a mouthful.  At so many levels this is

the big truth.

Thinking back, I can verify that it became her truth.

In those remaining months, 

she had left here, 

she wrestled through it and found life in it, 

                                                      in the letting go.

We miss you, our sister.

But in your letter and in your life, you remain a reminder to me, just how real

this faith can be.

A Gathering of Stones

We lived in a place where people stacked stones.

One upon another.

So they would not forget.

Because of the visual.  

A weight.

Burden.

Stones that speak.

Shout.

Or weep.

Or scream at...

           all of the days... or years gone by...As though they were still caught in the rear-view mirror.

To remember her, or him or these fleeting moments.

When friends, relatives or family experienced great sadness, 

or great joy.

And to live, also, even in the knowledge that whatever happened...

                                                                              there was still,  God.

My wife and I went quietly past some of these silent monuments one day.

We paused and read names.

Some were etched 

and some were scrawled in burnt ash.

I wondered of the hands that placed the stones.

Did they tremor in the process?

Did the person who bent their knee and placed them here

experience grace enough to lift their chin

and stand again?  

To go forward from that day.

Broken stones, 

to remember broken bones,

                           broken hearts.

                                Broken spirits.

But maybe also to remember hope.

                                        Resurrection.

New days after long nights.

                       Because...even after the night...there is still God.

And I believe that because, there is...still God,

                       today, there are also living stones of remembrance who walk among us.

Escape

Not long ago,

I was driving along the edge of a small town, 

              that's being stretched into something bigger.

Passing a series of strip malls and fast food chain restaurants.

It felt like I was looking at an adolescent; not sure what's supposed to come next.

Needing direction and understanding.

A diverse population growing along its borders.

With rough edges, moving into a whirlpool of

                                      abandoned houses, bikini coffee shops. 

                                                                     And people.

I know a young man who grew up 

                                     and into all of this.

He came to church...sporadically.

He was kind and thoughtful.

I loved him, wished to see him more.

We talked about that often.

It was mostly easy conversation.

Comfortable.

Hopeful.

He just seemed distracted, but not distanced.

One day, he found someone 

                         that he was talking about spending his life with.

They came and stood in front of me, his arm around her waist.

Beautiful smiles.

Looking at each other and then back to me.

His eyes, shining with a crystalline blue.

A joy in the both of their hearts that spilled all over their faces.

We talked about a time; maybe a couple weeks down the road,

When we would get together and 

              discuss what might be next for the two of them.

The date came and went.

My texts went unanswered.

Months later, they walked up to greet me after service.

Remarking how the message had spoken to them.

Same beautiful smiles.

We hugged.

Talked about getting together again.

But we never did.

And now he's gone.

In a tragic story; which doesn't feel like the main point of this.

I believe Jesus' arms were strong enough 

                                        to catch him, and keep him.

What I hate is the "in-between" of it all.

The struggle I know he felt.

He had to make choices.

Those choices bore consequence.

I know it.

The church doors were always open.

Many people had offered him sanctuary there,

                                      And even in their own hearts.

But today, I'm thinking about what shapes our choices. 

This young man felt he had to leave home at 15 years old.

He tried to navigate life, mostly on his own from that day forward.

The day to day of his experience, so young, had so many more obstacles than mine.

And....I wonder...

Just how hard it must be to escape the whirlpool of 

                               abandoned houses and bikini coffee shops.