Tradishun!

I've been thinking about tradition lately. This means that at random intervals throughout the day I throw my arms in the air, begin shaking them, swagger forward and burst out singing "Dai dai dai dai, Dai dai dai dai...Tradishun! Tradishun!"

This is the kind of thing that made me a hit in third grade classrooms.

This is the kind of thing that makes my college students very, very uncomfortable.

I've always been a big fan of tradition. When I was a little girl I convinced my younger sister to participate in a yearly Christmas tradition: at least once every childhood Christmas we waited until everyone had fallen asleep, put on our fluffy white slips, and crept out to the Christmas tree where we danced and twirled in the colorful glow of twinkle lights. It was lovely, and I wish we still did it.

My favorite childhood tradition, though, was going out to breakfast with my dad for my birthday. I’d go to bed with excited butterflies in my stomach the night before (no surprise there) and dream about the imminent excursion. I loved this tradition so much that my college roommates and I continued it. Whenever someone's birthday rolled around we'd roll out of bed at an ungodly hour and drive to our local pancake house, where we'd groggily celebrate the years God gave us by stuffing down colossal stacks of chocolate chip pancakes lathered in whipped cream.

Sometimes I like to play the "What is your favorite childhood memory" game with new friends. Invariably, family traditions are right up there with digging a swimming pool in mom's garden and making perfume for her with the neighbors' roses. I think this is because there is something in us that reaches for tradition and wants to weave its colorful textured threads into our living tapestries. Maybe this is because Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof is right: Maybe, with the right kind of traditions, "everyone of us knows who he is."

Of course our starting place for knowing ourselves is knowing God, but I think Tevye is onto something. Here’s why:

Traditions can orient us in God's story, reminding us that we're part of something bigger than ourselves.

As a kid my mom did a unit on Jewish celebrations with me and my siblings (we were home schooled. That may explain a lot about me). We learned about the Passover, during which Messianic Jews remember God's faithfulness to spare the Jews from death before freeing them from slavery, and then look forward from the Exodus to the Cross where Jesus frees us from the bondage of sin. We built a sukkot or booth when we learned about the Festival of Booths that reminds Jews of the years they spent in the dessert, headed toward the land God promised them. We also read about Purim, the festival of lots, during which Jews remember the way God saved them from annihilation as recorded in the book of Esther.

These and other Jewish holidays are structured opportunities built into yearly living that help participants shift their gaze from the stress and uncertainty of daily living to the faithfulness of God. They help to center the hearts of humble celebrants on the sovereignty and provision of God throughout his salvation story that spans the centuries, a story we have become a part of. They are reminders that the same God who fought for them thousands of years ago fights for them today.

The older I get, the more I realize I need this kind of reminding. Because, like the Israelites who grumbled while wandering in the desert after God freed them from Egypt, I am quick to forget God's nearness, power, and faithfulness.

Church and family traditions are also an expression of solidarity, reminding Christ-following participants that they aren’t sojourning through this salvation story alone.

The church I grew up in holds a candlelight service every Christmas Eve. My favorite part of this service is during the last Christmas carol of the evening, when everyone’s candle is lit. As voices fill the once silent sanctuary I find myself wishing I could creep up onto the stage and watch everyone as they remember that silent, holy night so many years ago that changed the course of history.

Instead, I crane my neck, taking in as much of the room as I can from my position. Light dances off the walls and faces, a reminder that we’re a city on a hill, a lamp on a stand, a light that cannot be hidden. And I’m struck by the reality that every believer in the room is part of a Body that spans the globe; a Body that celebrates Christ’s birth in unity because of the cross; a Body that’s been carrying its cross for thousands of years and that grows in grace as the centuries unfold.

I know that when the final song ends and the last candle is snuffed we will disperse, returning to our responsibilities, our hardships, our victories, our pain. But we are all filled with the Life that is the Light of men, reminded afresh that we do not bear our crosses alone.

Finally, what we do with our bodies affects our souls. Traditions and customs can put our bodies in positions that open our souls to growth and change.

This is amazing to me. I’ve heard the whole “what you do with your body affects your soul” talk during many a youth group “sex talk,” but I didn’t really get it until I ran collegiate track.

Day after day in college I ran to the point of blacking out, vomiting, and seizing up with excruciating pain. There came a point during each practice when all I wanted to do was curl up in the fetal position under the bleachers, but I kept moving, pushing my feet into the track, fixing my eyes on the finish line, centering my mind on the upcoming competition.

In that physical pressing and striving something happened to my soul: it began to understand victory over pain and yearned more deeply for heaven. My sturdy body housed a steadily sturdier soul.

I think something similar happens with traditions and customs.

When we kneel to pray we feel the posture that our heart should take, and our hearts may understand humility in a new way. When we fast we know the feeling of sacrifice that results in gain and emptiness that leads to fullness, and our understanding of Christian paradox deepens. When we lay hands on fellow believers to pray we feel what it’s like to support and rally around fellow Christians, to be united as a Church, and our paradigm for living in a Body shifts.

Mysteriously, the seen shapes the unseen, so that one day we can clearly see the fruit of spiritual formation through tradition.

I've focused a bit on Jewish traditions in this blog because I think I can learn from them. In fact, as my soul craves a more textured tapestry of tradition I'm realizing I can learn from other denominations that participate in spiritually forming traditions that are unfamiliar to me.

So I'm curious: what traditions make up your family and church tapestry? I'd love to hear about them as I embark on my summer quest to discover new TRADISHUNS! In the meantime, I'm going to go watch Fiddler on the Roof.

Dai dai dai dai....

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

This photo must never be forgotten. I hereby commit to displaying it annually, thereby keeping its memory alive.

Fine Friends

Today I'm wishing I counted these three among my finest friends.

I think they would make kindred spirits:

Reepicheep
"When I was in my cradle, a wood woman, a Dryad, spoke this verse over me: 'Where sky and water meet, Where the waves grow sweet, Doubt not, Reepicheep, To find all you seek, There is the utter East.' I do not know what it means. But the spell of it has been on me all my life."

-Reepicheep, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis

Rat

"Fastening their boat to a willow, the friends [Mole and Rat] landed in this silent, silver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees, the runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry water-ways. Embarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless sky, did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their quest; till her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly, and left them, and mystery once more held field and river."

"Then a change began slowly to declare itself. The horizon became clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a different look; the mystery began to drop away from them. A bird piped suddenly, and was still; and a light breeze sprang up and set the reeds and bulrushes rustling. Rat, who was in the stern of the boat, while Mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate intentness. Mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with curiosity."

"`It's gone!' sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again. `So beautiful and strange and new. Since it was to end so soon, I almost wish I had never heard it. For it has roused a longing in me that is pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once more and go on listening to it for ever. No! There it is again!' he cried, alert once more. Entranced, he was silent for a long space, spellbound."

-Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

Anne with an 'e'

"Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive--it's such an interesting world. It wouldn't be half so interesting if we know all about everything, would it? There'd be no scope for imagination then, would there?"

-Anne from Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery

Wouldn't it be lovely if we met our favorite "book friends" in heaven?

Expansive Skies

I just got back from a glorious walk near my folks' house in Washington state.

Every time I come home I'm in awe of the expansive skies. I spend so much time in Los Angeles hemmed in by buildings and the thick ribbon of smog painted across the horizons that a stroll under the sweeping Washington sky makes my soul feel free to spread out and rest.

Down in L.A. the people aren't the only ones fenced in by the layers of smog: the east and west are too. I can always see them lodged on the sticky horizon just a few miles off, struggling to break free from the dirty sky, maybe see how far they can stretch before they meet in the middle.

Today I couldn't stop looking east, and then west, and then east again.

In the Pacific Northwest the east and west just keep going. I can see them stretching beyond the farthest horizon for a bit, and then I can't see them anymore.

Do you see the dip in the trees toward the center of the photo just to the left of the white house? That's where the east scurries out of view.

Now look at the horizon, just a couple of inches below the street light. Can you see the dark far-off hill behind the trees? That's where the west soars out of sight.

My horizon gazing today has helped me to understand a little bit better what the Psalmist meant when he said "[God] has removed our sins from us as far as the east is from the west."

Up here, that's really, really far.

Now, if I could only get my heart to fully believe this bit of grace I think I might live a bit more like these "daisies" of the field, resting instead of striving with my head tilted toward the sun, leaning easily in whatever breeze dances by.

When Life Gives You a Lemon Like This, Take a Bath

The lemon tree out front must have Bert and Ernie on its mind...

Banishing the Worrywart

When I was a little girl I was overcome by nervous butterflies before every swimming lesson (what if I had to go off the diving board alone—without floaties?). I don’t remember a single Easter Sunday school lesson as a result of the nervous adrenaline that shot through my body while awaiting our annual after-church cul-de-sac Easter egg hunt (what if everyone took all the good eggs before I got any?).

As a teenager my throat constricted before class presentations (when I was a freshman I had to take a puff of my inhaler during one of my class presentations), and I almost threw up before every track meet (once I actually did. Thank God for track-side outhouses). In college I grew weak and shakey before first dates (all two of them), and felt sick before daily track practice (there was always the possibility of just dropping dead mid-practice from its intensity).

Today, as a grown woman of 26, I haven’t shed very many of my worrywart tendencies. Sometimes I stare at the ceiling late into the night, preoccupied with hypothetical health complications. Occasionally (sometimes often), my chest tightens when I’m faced with the financial unknown, and the slightest change in my life plans sends my heart racing and my mind spinning.

For years I’ve tried to eradicate my anxious tendencies by replacing my worrisome thoughts with true thoughts about God’s goodness and his grace in my life. This is certainly a step toward banishing my worrywart, but I know that I can’t ultimately “fix” my brokenness in this area on my own. Instead, I need to put myself in positions that open myself up to the Holy Spirit’s work in this area of my life so that he can restore my anxious soul. One of the first steps in this journey of learning to open myself up to the Spirit is knowing myself.

Theologians identify two types of human beliefs: conscious and subconscious. Our conscious beliefs are the intellectual beliefs we’re most often aware of and espouse to other people. Our subconscious beliefs are those beliefs rooted deep in our hearts that we are usually unaware of. As Jesus taught, we live from our hearts. Naturally, our subconscious heart-beliefs become quickly evident in our reactions to life’s curve-balls and difficulties.

Most often, our subconscious beliefs look very different from our conscious beliefs. I tell people I believe God is a faithful provider, but I prove the opposite by fretting that he won't provide when I'm without a job or a place to live. I’m quick to assert that God is merciful and good, and yet my doubt of his character becomes apparent when I grow anxious at the first sign of pain or difficulty on the horizon.

Developing an awareness of my untrue subconscious beliefs and the lies they are rooted in has been helpful in my journey toward anxiety-free (or free-er) living. Over the years I’ve recognized that a mistrust of God’s sovereignty most often fuels my peace-decimating beliefs. I fear that God might let things come my way that he’s not aware of or hasn’t “okayed;” that he may fall asleep on the job, or post a “Be Back Later” sign above his desk. And so, like the bumbling 1950s cartoon firemen that scurry too and fro with their small net, assuring the victims in the burning building above that they’re there to catch them, I race back and forth, holding up a safety net should God fall from his throne, assuring him that I’m here if he needs me, that I’ve got his back and have devised Plans B, C, and D should his plans be foiled.*

In an effort to surrender my back-up "net" I’ve been studying the Holy Spirit’s work in time and space, surveying history's panoramic view of God’s sovereignty as he works for our good and his glory. I’ve been bathing my mind in tales of pioneer missionaries, martyrdom, and the church around the world. The testimonies of provision, protection, and an awareness of God’s presence in the midst of suffering are seeds of truth planted in my heart. As the Holy Spirit faithfully tends these seeds they’ve begun to crowd out my subconscious belief that God's sovereignty can't always be trusted, slowly freeing me from the suffocating weeds of worry that so easily squeeze the pleasure out of life.

Here is some recommended reading if you’re interested in checking out some of these incredible stories of God’s goodness and faithfulness throughout history. Please, add to the list! What books have been an encouragement to you in this area?

1. Mission to the Head Hunters, by Frank and Marie Drown
2. Through Gates of Splendor, by Elizabeth Elliot (there is a documentary by this same name on Hulu for FREE! that I recommend)
3. Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, by John Foxe
4. The biblical book of Acts
5. The testimony of Nabeel Qureshi, a former Muslim:http://www.acts17.net/articles/nabeelstestimony.htm
6. Testimonies from Muslims that became Christians: http://www.answering-islam.org/Testimonies/index.html
7. Heroes of the Faith: Amy Carmichael, by Sam Wellman
8. Mission Possible, by Marilyn Laszlo with Luci Tumas
9. From East to West, by Ravi Zacharias
10. End of the Spear, by Steve Saint (there’s a great movie by the same name)
11. The Hiding Place, by Corrie Ten Boom
12. The entire Old Testament (it has so encouraged me with its overarching picture of God's sovereignty!)

*Thanks for my momma for the clever comparison of my panicked mistrust of God to the scampering cartoon firemen.

Evidence for the Historicity of the Bible: Tidbit #2

The first chapter of the biblical book of Ezra relates a decree written by Cyrus, king of Persia, proclaiming freedom for Jewish exiles to return to Jerusalem and rebuild the temple. An archaeological find called the Cyrus Cylinder contains Cyrus's decree, verifying the biblical account.

You can read the prophecy foretelling Cyrus's decision to free the Jews without a ransom payment in Isaiah 44:28; 45:1; and 45:13. This prophecy was made 150 years before Cyrus was born, and the probability of its fulfillment was 1 in 10¹⁵!

Evidence for the Historicity of the Bible: Tidbit #1

Archaeologists have discovered fragments of an Aramaic royal inscription that tells the story of the 9th century defeat of the the kings of Israel and Judah by an Aramean king. This inscription is called the "House of David Inscription" and is the only contemporary reference to David outside the Bible.

You can read about the defeat of the Kings of Israel and Judah in 2 Kings and 2 Chronicles!

To Be Emptied

The moon hangs low reflecting the sun’s muted light onto my brick patio, the inky sky stretched smooth behind it. Far off the crickets cue their evening symphony and the shadowlands hush, settling down to enjoy this serenade.

I step onto the patio, leaving piles of dishes, grading, and homework in my cozy [cluttered] kitchen, and I notice that, for the first time in a long while, my spirit is still, as silent as the night sky before me. The voluble critic who took up residence in my heart years ago has, for a moment, ceased her incessant chatter.

I’m not sure when I first noticed this critic, but life’s growing pressures and accumulating responsibilities have certainly made her louder—she thrives on that kind of thing. She is loudest, though, when I fix my eyes on something that I am certain would be very good for my life (this job, that degree; this relationship, that success), do not ultimately realize this great “good,” am instead given something that I certainly would not have chosen for myself, and continue to cling to the good I thought I should have rather than enjoy the good that is actually in front of me. It is at this point, when my heart is too preoccupied with the “lost” good to actually revel in the good that God has given me, that the critic lapses into loud moans of “If only you had…!” and, “What if you hadn’t…?” and, “So and so has such and such” and, “Why did she get it right but not you?” and, “It would have been different if you had…” and on and on and on.

I realize this tendency to cling to the good I think I need is the same tendency that sent Lucifer soaring from the high heavens to the bowels of hell, and got Adam and Eve booted from a garden of Paradise into a cursed life of thankless work. This tendency is life-sucking, satisfaction-snatching, and joy-stealing. It is poison, and I want to be rid of it.

Of course my know-it-all critic believes I can rid myself of this tendency—that I can somehow rid myself of myself. But in the whole of history no human has ever been able to do that, not alone. And so I’m learning that in order to be rid of the part of me that idolizes my own ideals, the part of me that fuels my insufferable critic, I must be emptied.

I’m learning that being emptied hurts.

I'm learning that being emptied means smacking straight and hard into the insurmountable wall of my weakness, shortsightedness and ineptitude as I try to run fast toward the destination of my choosing. It means falling to the ground and having the things I value the most—the temporal things that make my life feel significant, safe and pain-proof—burned to ashes. It means waiting. Waiting, instead of crawling toward another dream destination full of “good” things I’m certain I must have. Waiting for God to fulfill the promises that I’ve doubted because I’m convinced somewhere deep down that I’m a better life-manager than God is a promise-keeper. Waiting, lying in this bed of ashes, wondering how in the world life could spring up from them, and then lifting my eyes and noticing that I’m sheltered by the emerald canopy of a towering tree and surrounded by green pastures, watered by the stream that surges through them. Being emptied means staying close to that murmuring, rippling brook even as shadows darken my resting place, and becoming keenly aware that I am not alone—I am never alone. In this waiting there is a stirring to life somewhere in my heart as I realize I have been made to lie down in green pastures because I couldn’t dream big enough to choose this reality on my own, and I think that this must be what it means for goodness and mercy to follow me, and maybe I should stop chasing them after all.

I am learning that being emptied means surrendering myself to the only One who could truly empty Himself; the One who surrendered Himself to death so that I could forever escape the dead end of living for the good life I think I deserve. It means lying still before Him in these green pastures and letting Him use the scalpels of failure, sorrow, sickness, and loneliness to cut open my heart so that the misplaced hopes and poorly ordered priorities that have been lodged in its tight crevices can come tumbling out. It means having my inner landscape littered with these piles of heart wreckage, fully exposed to me and to God, and it means letting Him remove the rubbish, instead of trying to hide it away, or even will it away with sheer desire. It means learning severe mercy. It means living grace.

I am learning that being emptied means letting the scarred hands that once dripped deep red love dip into the stream beside me and rub Living Water onto my heart, washing away the layers of the fear of loss that have been plastered thick and hard over the eyes of my heart. It means fixing these eyes that can finally see on His fierce and tender gaze and seeing—really seeing—that in Him to die is to live, to lose is to gain, to be weak is to be strong, and to be emptied is to be filled. Filled with a peace that pulses with gratitude, the conviction that even now my understanding of God’s goodness is but a tiny drop of an infinite sea, and a hope for the future that is as sturdy as the tomb is empty. This filling, it weakens and silences my voluble critic. And this silence, it is being filled with the still small voice that once spoke the cosmos into being and now sears sacred words hot in my still soul: To be emptied is to be filled is to be freed.

© by scj

For Those Of Us Who Scarf

Several months ago, after scarfing down a plate of scrambled eggs, ground turkey, and avocado, I realized that the seconds hand on the clock had only finished one short lap during the time it took me to eat breakfast.

This is what happens when you teach third grade for three years and are used to eating lunch while copying homework packets, talking on the phone to disgruntled parents, making last minute changes to afternoon lesson plans (or writing them for, say, the first time), comforting the kid who just got hit in the head with the tether ball, yelling (in the kindest, most affectionate way possible) at the fifth graders who just sprinted past the door, and rounding up paint for the last minute art project you're going to do that afternoon—all at the same time. In about three minutes, give or take.

When you are a third grade teacher (and grad student) your work becomes your life, which means you don't leave your work at work, which means you don't leave your Road Runner-style eating habits at work either. Enter: meal-breathing; the act of inhaling your meal in just a few short breaths while solving the world's problems. You've gotta breath anyway; breathing in your food is just a clever way of multi-tasking.

After years of eating so fast I couldn't actually taste my food, I decided to make some changes in my dining experiences. So I did what any balanced, well-adjusted 26-year old would do: I got out a stop watch and timed myself eating breakfast. And let me tell you, slowing down took F-O-R-E-V-E-R. It was torturous. It was with great delight that finished my meal, pushed my trusty timer's stop button, and looked down at the final time for my slow-motion meal: five minutes.

Folks, this is not healthy. Not healthy at all. A healthy person doesn't find a five-minute meal a grueling marathon. Healthy people recognize that meals are not just a few steps in a daily routine; they are a snapshot of a lifestyle that spills out of the heart. They are the outer evidence of an inner state; a mirror reflecting the noise and upheaval swirling around in the heart. Healthy people carve time out of their day to rest, to open themselves up to the work of the Holy Spirit in their noisy heart, and they may even use meals to do it.

I really want the healthiness of my meals to go beyond the fact that I've got a plate full of whole foods with the proper proportion of carbs to protein to good fats. I want to be the kind of person who is okay with silence, with being alone, and with slowing down to absorb and be thankful for life's little details, even when I have a mile-long to-do list. I want to be the kind of person who lives in the moment rather than trying to blaze through it; who has a well-ordered inside that results in a well-ordered outside.

Slowing down at breakfast and dinner is one of the steps I'm taking toward giving God a still and silent opportunity to order my inner landscape, since he's the only one who can truly do that kind of thing—our job is to put ourselves in a position that invites him to, thus partnering with him in this inner-ordering. So for all you fellow speed eaters and just plain speed live-ers, here are a few changes I've made that are transforming my breakfast and dinner dining experiences:

1. Set the table for yourself. Use your nice dishes (no paper or plastic allowed), stemware, and a lovely placemat, if you have one.

2. Light candles if it's dark.

3. Make sure there is always a vase (even a small one) of flowers at the table. Putting a vase of flowers on the table is like putting lipstick on after getting all dolled up for a night out. It is the final touch; the cherry on the sundae, the sprinkles on the donut, the generous dollop of sour cream on the taco salad. Furthermore, I once heard that having flowers around the house makes you live longer. To compensate for the hundreds of hours I spend in traffic here in Los Angeles, hours that no doubt raise my blood pressure and are accelerating my death, I have flowers in virtually every corner of my studio. I have also taken up gardening, just to cover my bases.

4. Do not turn on the T.V. I repeat, do not turn on the T.V.

5. Put your fork down after each bite (this is Nancy Jackson wisdom). Look around, lean back in your chair, and take a deep breath. If you're having trouble loosening up from an intense day, try this breathing technique: Let your stomach totally relax so it's sticking out (you may not need to think about this, depending on where you're at in the meal), inhale through your nose (your stomach should expand, rather than your chest—work on that), and breath out through your mouth. I got this breathing technique from the Pioneer Woman, and let me tell you, she never steers me wrong. Except the time I tried to make her best ever frosting recipe and almost gagged from the copious amounts of butter. Other than that, she's very reliable.

6. Eat outside if you can. Between bites feast your eyes on the different shades of color around you, and if you live in Los Angeles, notice the different textures instead (cement, chain link, aluminum...). Smell the breeze and listen for birds.

7. Ask Jesus to join you. He will. He's great company. And company always makes meals seem like celebrations, especially if your company turns water into wine and parties with angels anytime somebody transfers their trust to him. Life should be celebrated.

8. Think back over your day; pray. Ask God what he's doing in your life and heart. Listen. He often talks into the silence, with a still small voice.

I know a lot of you have families of your own and dinner is a rich time of gathering with your home community, rather than a silent time of reflection. But I'm guessing that having a family of your own means you must pace yourself just to make it through the week, so I'm wondering, what do you do to step out of the chaos and into the stillness for a bit?

That goes for all of you: I'd love your suggestions for slowing down as I learn to revamp, not just my meals, but this life I've turned into a rat race. What works for you?

© by scj

Redemption Rising

The sea wind whips around my body, laced with salt and sun. I turn my face toward the gust of ocean perfume, letting it rush into my wet eyes and tangled hair.

A young mother walks by, quieting her crying baby, handing him the leash that pulls her waddling dachshund in her wake.

She looks at me for a moment, and I wonder if she wishes she looked so calm, so easily caught up in this sea-song of grace.

Her son whimpers, and she walks on, tied to the rhythm of baby’s cries, doggie’s waddle, and a checklist that keeps on drumming to the steady tick tock of a time that never slows.

I watch her disappear beyond the climbing jasmine and sailboats, and I’m aware that the song pounding in my heart doesn’t match the calm etched on my face. It swirls, like the eddies beyond the weatherworn docks, and surges like the waves that smooth the wind-tossed sand. 


Its melody is sorrow; its harmony is loss.

My salty eyes sting and I gulp hard, tapping my feet to the drum of the wake, trying to will my spirit to dance in time with the sea. But this inner song swells; rising like the tide, swallowing the stillness the wind carried to me.

There was a time, not very far off, when my spirit sang a different melody. I tried to transpose its symphonic score into words so I could always remember God’s faithfulness, his song-inspiring goodness. Like the Israelites, who sang Miriam’s Song after crossing a split sea, declaring the good things God had done, looking forward to the good things he was yet to do.

But this song of praise, its jubilant melody grew faint, and now this new song pulses through my veins. And this new strain, it sings of hopes that mounted with wings but never summitted, of a sturdy future that turned out to be flickering shadows, of dreams punctured by the sharp thorns of disappointment.

This new song, it sings dissonance into my soul, reverberating tension that makes my insides quiver. And this dissonance, it makes me wonder. Have I lived with a dwarfed vision of God’s goodness, a pint-sized understanding of his faithfulness?

A still small voice answers, “I do not give as the world gives…”

“Behold, I make all things new.” (Revelation 21:5)

And I realize, this song, it speaks of the sorrow God is using to renovate old things, of the loss he is using to make room for gain.

“I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.” (Exekiel 36:26)

This song, it sings of the suffering that softens my heart like clay, in the hands of the Master Artist who would make us hearts like His.

“And [I] will continually guide you, 
And satisfy your desire in scorched places.” (Isaiah 58:11).

This song, it tells of a soul that was striving, full of desire, looking to satisfy, led to rest by the only One who can.

"...do not let your heart be troubled."

This new song, it’s rising, rushing into the cracks in my heart, and I listen hard. I listen because I think I hear a whisper, assuring me that this, this is the sound of redemption.

“Yet if you devote your heart to him and stretch out your hands to him….life will be brighter than noonday, and darkness will become like morning.” (Job 11:13-17)

A Promise Spelled H-O-P-E

A couple of months ago I was roused from a deep sleep by a clear voice declaring, “They’ve bought the lie that their lives are about them.” I’m not sure if a bizarre dream precipitated this declaration, and I don’t know who “they” were, but I know I was one of them. That voice was talking to me.

As the words reverberated in my heart, memories from the past year came crashing into the quiet of my peaceful room. I saw myself packing up and moving from my community of seven years, and then trying to keep my head above water in a new job while bogged down by something that looked suspiciously like mono; I saw a young man slip a radiant diamond on my left hand, and the flurry of activities that gained momentum as a wedding drew nearer; I saw myself in bed in a dark, cluttered apartment while I battled virus after virus in the midst of wedding planning and learning the ropes at work; I saw piles of boxes stashed in every corner of my dark apartment as my mom and fiancé helped me move, once again, to an uncluttered place of my own; I saw my clinical nutritionist telling me my adrenal glands were fried and so was my immune system; I saw rain hit my windshield as I drove home late one night, my left hand feeling naked without the diamond that once graced it; and I saw myself listening to my doctor announce two days later that I had mono and wouldn’t be feeling better anytime soon, and should give myself permission to just rest.

All of these, my memories, from my life, stuffed in the deepest crevices of my heart, and yet somehow, this clear voice speaking into the silence, telling me they’re not really about me.

And then I thought of Joseph, the colorful-coat wearing dreamer from the biblical book of Genesis, who had more sorrowful memories by the age of thirty than most people have after a lifetime. Lonely, blood-stained memories that must have ripped through his soul when he laid down to sleep, woven in and out of his nighttime dreams, and punctuated his days with unbearable grief. Memories of scornful, mocking brothers; of a colorful, bloodied coat; of the long hot caravan ride that left traitorous loved ones looking like ants on the horizon; of the aging, beloved father left to grieve the loss of a favored son; of the silver coins jingling in his slave trader's pocket, given in exchange for his services; of false rape accusations hanging thick in the air; of the disappointment flickering in a boss's eyes after years of earning his trust; of the long days and dark nights in a jail cell surrounded by thieves and murderers; and of the two years waiting in the dark, forgotten by the man who promised he'd remember.

I recently read a book that lauded Joseph's ability to forgive his brothers when they stood before him for the first time in thirteen years, after they caused him unimaginable suffering. I once heard a teacher point to Joseph as our model for trusting God even in the valley of the shadow of death. Awhile back I listened to a professor describe the way God used Joseph to sustain the nation of Egypt, as well as his Jewish family during a brutal famine. But Joseph's story isn't just about Joseph, and it's not just about the individuals Joseph's life touched, or the people God used him to save.

When Joseph was reunited with his brothers in Pharaoh's palace, he begged them, "Now do not be grieved or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here, for God sent me before you to preserve life...God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant in the earth, and to keep you alive by a great deliverance."

His words echoed the words God spoke to his aging, childless great great grandpa Abraham generations earlier: 

"I will make you into a great nation.
I will bless you.
I will make your name great.
You will be a blessing to others. I will bless those who bless you.
I will put a curse on anyone who calls down a curse on you.
All nations on earth
will be blessed because of you."

This ancient promise brought life to Abraham. God blessed him with a son named Isaac, who had a son named Jacob, who had twelve sons, one of whom was named Joseph. And somehow, God planned on using these sons to bless all the nations on the earth. But he had to sustain them and make them into a great nation first.

Joseph was the seed planted in the womb of one of the most powerful nations in the world, where his small clan grew in safety for hundreds of years. Even when enslaved by Egypt, Abraham's great great great great granddaughters birthed many hearty sons, and Pharaoh grew afraid of this great nation.

Joseph was the linchpin whose life enabled his growing family, when freed from slavery in Egypt, to dispense God's justice on the Canaanites and occupy the land of this barbaric, blood-spilling nation.

Joseph's family-turned-nation was great enough, because of their years in Egypt, to settle into Canaan and prosper. And even when the Israelites assumed the horrific practices of their pagan neighbors, and were then attacked by enemies and oppressed by the powerful, a small remnant of God's people clung to the promise he'd made to Father Abraham. A promise God clarified later when he assured his suffering people he'd send a Messiah from the tribe of Joseph's older brother, Judah; a Savior who would bless all the nations of the world.

Joseph's story is 11 of 880 pages in my Bible. Eleven pages in a story that's not finished yet: the story of the Messiah, the Savior born into Abraham's family, who still speaks words of hope to all the nations of the world, declaring: "I have stripped sin of its power, and sorrow no longer has the last word. I will dignify the prostitutes, homeless, and handicapped; I will remove the shame of the adulterer and the guilt of the pious. I will make your blind eyes see stars hanging so bright and low in the sky you'll think you can grab them, and make your deaf ears hear the thunderous roar of rain on the roof; I will heal your lame legs so you can run so hard your heart wants to burst from the thrill of it; I will give rest to the weary. I will make ugly things beautiful and old things new; I will turn tongue-tied hillbillies into international preachers and arrogant businessmen into humble missionaries; I will put bread in the pantries of the poor and use my children to do it; I will be a lover to the lonely widow and a father to the abandoned orphan; I will rid your heart of its hardness and rub ointment into its throbbing cracks when it's broken; I will never leave you or forsake you. I will breathe life into the coffin of your selfishness and free you from the prison of your anxiety; I will be faithful to the divorcee and speak tenderly to the never-been-married; I will restore the relationships you've broken, and I will fight for the weak and oppressed; I will give you victory over death. And if you trust me enough to give your life to me, I will use you to bless the nations. I will graft your vaporous story into my eternal story, and I will use your sorrow-turned-to-joy to show the world that my story is Hope. The hope of glory. The certainty of a happy ending."

© by scj