An Open Letter to Brave New Englanders

Dear New Englanders,

We've had a tedious relationship, you and I.

Back in college, I prayed for you often.  I prayed that God would stir up your affections for Him, that He would send workers to the harvest. I did not want to be one of them.

But when I heard clearly the call to move to this strange land, I suspected it might be one of the most exciting adventures of my life. Even though I often felt scathed by your expert sarcasm {which, let's be honest, mostly goes over my head} and although I wasn't sure how to interpret your skepticism about the new girl who moved from Tennessee, some of you quickly became dear friends.  As for those of you who held me at arms' length, I found your aloofness oddly endearing. You played hard to get, made me work for your friendship. And I'm a firm believer that nothing good comes easy.

More than five years later, you have won me over. I love your smarts and your spunk, your quick wit and your killer work ethic.  I'm warmed by your love of the created world and of adventure.  In spite of my prepster sentiments (not that I'm alone in those here), I have even come to love your granola men with their burly beards and your earthy-crunchy women with their Nalgenes in tow. {Heck, I even bought one myself, and I'm happy to report that I drink more water, thanks to you.}

Most of all,

you have charmed me with your incredible resilience in the face of tragedy, storm, and unthinkable human suffering. 

There is an image of you emblazoned on my mind from the morning after the formidable October snowstorm of 2011: Trees were down everywhere and most of the roads were closed as I tried to make my way to church, which of course had not been canceled. All was eerily still, except for you, young and old, out shoveling your driveways. As if your lives depended on it.

That was when—finally—I think I really understood you:

You are fierce because you have to be here.  

You set your face to the elements and press on.  

And two years ago, when the brightest December morning turned to darkest night, you refused to be undone. In the harshest winter storm of all, you have held your ground. Like those brave souls out shoveling October snow, you are picking up the pieces of unimaginable pain in the midst of what ought not be. 

You inspire me to be braver, unflinching, able to withstand the cold.

I am forever grateful for the example of your unyielding hearts. You make me proud to live in this foreign land. And I trust that God is using even this to draw you closer to Himself.

An Open Letter to the Walnut Hill Class of 2014...and all my Connecticut kiddos

Just about month ago, as the loveliness and longing of Advent was unfolding almost too quickly for me to notice, I packed my bags and moved north. Leaving my students at Walnut Hill has just about torn my heart in in two. Oh how I have loved those precious, spunky, (sometimes prickly), wonderful ones! In this season of singleness, I can't begin to explain how much "mine" they have felt. The sweetest gift of grace from the very best Giver, so much more love than I could have ever asked or imagined. 

This post, originally penned sentimentally for my most recent grads, has become a note of deepest hope for them all--the several hundred students I've been honored to know and to lead these past five years, and especially the current high schoolers.

On our last meetings together, I reminded them of Paul's words to his beloved Timothy: "For I know whom I have believed, and am convinced that He is able to guard that which I have entrusted unto Him until that Day" (2 Timothy 1:12). And so I offer back those who were never truly mine, trusting that He is able to keep them steadfastly for His glory and their good.

***

Something about sending off the class of 2014 has messed me up. Maybe it's because they're the first class of students at Walnut Hill whom I've known since they were middle schoolers. Or maybe it's because my own ten-year high school reunion has just passed that I'm feeling extra sentimental. Maybe a little of both. As I think about their adventures in the coming years, I'm mindful that there's so much more I wish I could have taught them.

Dear Class of 2014,

As you make your way out in the wide world, I am so proud of you and so excited about all you will accomplish. There will be great temptation, however, to focus your life on lesser things: what you can do (success) or whom you're with (relationship). I'm most concerned with who you will be (character); this is what really counts for eternity. And the gospel says that you can't do it on your own. But there is One who lived a perfectly obedient life on your behalf so that you could inherit his own righteousness (2 Corinthians 5:21)! Determine now the kind of man or woman you want to be, and then ask Jesus to help you to live in him, making decisions every day with that end in mind.

I hope you will be brave.
I am certain that courage will be called for in your generation more than ever before. And this passive, faint-hearted approach of those around you will not do. We need you to have guts, to take risks, to refuse to back down. I pray fierce prayers for you that the lessons you have learned in little Connecticut will make you steady in the midst of difficult times. You have nothing to fear in this life, friends, for the God of the universe goes before you! Be strong and courageous.

I hope you will stay tender.
Being brave doesn't mean being macho. So guys, I hope you will allow your hearts to be soft toward the weak and vulnerable, toward your sisters in Christ, and toward the love of God that pursues you forever. You were created to be both strong and merciful. Sometimes it's difficult to find the balance, I know. But a brave man without compassion will fail to be brave about the things that matter most.

And girls, this world can be unkind to women. It's easy to let your heart become stony, to build walls that would protect you from hurtful, catty words or from unkind men. In fact, society tells us that we should become just like men to avoid being hurt by them. But how Jesus longs to use your tenderness for his kingdom work if you will just let him be the one to hold your heart! You will have to be tough in some ways in order to stay tender in the most important ways. Finding the balance requires discernment and love. Don't let people abuse your heart, but please, don't harden it either.

I hope you will fight for honor.
The world is desperate for men and women who will take up the call to live with integrity. Does the idea of honor sound old-fashioned? It's not. It's desperately needed. Honor is gritting your teeth and doing the right thing. It's boldness to stand for what is pure and righteous and true. Honor is asking Jesus again and again for a heart like his own.

I hope you will keep asking good questions. 
I have learned so much from you about dealing honestly with doubt (you 2014 grads especially). Thank you for having the courage to tackle hard questions and to make our community a place of authenticity. You kept me on my toes in a way that has stretched my own faith, reminding me that the gospel is both simple and complex. As you make your way in the world, into classrooms where truth is antagonized, to parties where your morals are challenged, to boardrooms where ethics get hazy, I hope you will never be satisfied with a face-value faith. Don't get too comfortable. Wade out into the deep things of God and trust Him to lead you.

I hope you will choose church.
Not just to go to church, but to be the Church. The Church is people; it's not a building. And loving Jesus means loving that which he loves. On the cross, he proved his crazy, reckless love for the Church. So no, you can't claim Jesus as some revolutionary and then reject his Church.

The Church is people, and people are messy. They will hurt you at times and you'll wonder how this can be God's plan for humanity. Please stick it out. Find healthy leaders who are willing to admit when they're wrong. Commit to a body of believers. Devote yourself to serving God's people. Work toward unity. And remember that these are your brothers and sisters because of the blood of Jesus spilt for you.

I hope you will walk with Jesus. 
"What does that even mean?" I can hear some of you (recent grads) still asking. It's a good question, {{there you go again with those good questions!}} and I hope you'll keep on asking it as long as you live. I can't answer it perfectly, and I don't want to because then I would rob you of the journey.

But here's a start:
...It means holding onto the promises of God when you feel like your world is caving in.
...It means relentlessly pursuing a deeper understanding of God's character so that you will know Him as a Person.
...It means choosing to obey God's Word when everyone else is doing what feels good in the moment.
...It means taking huge, God-honoring risks, knowing that this world is not the final Answer.
...It means gut-wrenching sacrifice that demands all you've got and more because you know that in suffering you are truly identified with Jesus.

I hope you will take heart.
We live in a rapidly changing world, and perilous times no doubt lie ahead. How easy it would be for you to become discouraged and lose heart. But the kingdom is here! Aslan is on the move! Our good King Jesus is looking for radically joyful, obedient servants who will humbly obey Him in the midst of uncertainty. I long that when He says, "Who will go for us?" He might find each of you willing.

You make my heart burst with pride in who you are becoming. What a privilege it has been to be your leader.

Go love and serve the world in Jesus' name,
Chelsea

in which we see our own poverty

As I near the five-year mark of my time at Walnut Hill, I have been contemplating a lot what these Connecticut years have meant and the gifts that have resulted. Among the sweetest of these is the little village in Nassau that is consuming more and more of my affection.

Tonight--a few weeks after returning with a team of fourteen students--my heart is bursting with love for the little ones we've come to call friends and swelling with pride in my students, these 17 and 18-year-old fearless ambassadors of peace and goodness.

It is the greatest privilege of my life to sit at the crux of discipleship and justice, 

...where students I love are being transformed as they meet God in the dingy, mired, beautiful
places. 

{Blessed am I among women!}

...where the lowest and the least are teaching us about things of true value. 

We have much still to learn, my students and I. We have much still to repent.

Together we set our faces, unflinching, to look upon suffering, injustice, and poverty that we cannot fix. We determine to be present in a place most would prefer to ignore.

We throw ourselves headlong into the darkness to find, amazingly, 

that the Light is already there. 

And so we offer all we have, really. We give ourselves to creative work that we hope will spark more creativity. We give the millionth piggyback ride and pray that a child will know she is valuable and loved. We share our stories and ask good questions. We play, we dance, we encourage. We leave behind pieces of our hearts in this place that is at once dark and beaming because that's what love does. We open our eyes, and as we do we begin to see things as they really are.

{{It's not enough. But it's far more valuable than I could have dreamed five years ago.}}

It strikes me again, as we try to offer something that will last beyond the short week and the soccer ball we brought, that these beautiful brown babies with their deep, knowing eyes are some of my best teachers. Our upside-down world with all its lies about power and beauty tells them that our milky white skin and our privileged citizenship mean we have more to offer.

But I know a more real Reality: That their voices and their presence are needed. That they shall inherit the earth (Matthew 5:4). That He is near to them. That they have infinite worth because they are His.

And I wonder if they know that they are changing me, revealing the depth of my own poverty and the reaches of a Love that finds me in it.

The Art of Waiting

I had a lovely breakfast date with a friend this morning, and as my mind lingered over our shared words about times of transition and being 20-somethings, I started to think about waiting.

Everyone I know is waiting for something.

Waiting to meet the right person.

Waiting to get engaged.

Waiting to have a baby.

Waiting to adopt a baby.

Waiting for a promotion, a raise, or the right job to begin with.

Waiting for clarity, direction, purpose, or fulfillment.

Our 20s, especially, are chock full of waiting and transition. But I also think there's something about waiting that is common to man.

A couple of months ago, as I was preparing to teach at our Sunday night service, I met with my friend and "coach" Mike for a pre-service pep talk. (You know, the kind of coach's talk that makes you more nervous, in the best way possible.) As we chatted about the passage at hand--Exodus 32 on the Golden Calf--Mike made a suggestion: Maybe the word for our people is about waiting. "It was while they were waiting for Moses to come back down the mountain that the people sinned," Mike pointed out.

Yes. 

It was a powerful word. Not the one God had given me to share that night, but a word from my pastor and friend, and one that was not only for me, I think. I've been chewing on it ever since.

Moses had hardly been gone a month when the people went the way of their pagan neighbors and erected the golden calf. Just like the Israelites, it is in these moments of waiting when we can become fretful and disheartened. In our impatience we go our own way, devise our own schemes, make idols for ourselves. We forget God's goodness and His words to us. We neglect the covenant. We compromise.

But there is one who perfectly trusted in the Father's timing.

In our John Manuscript study tonight, we dissected Chapter Seven, in which Jesus observes the Festival of Booths. One of the remarkable things that rose to the top of our rather clumsy interpretation was Jesus' repeated words about his time having "not yet come" (John 7:6, 8). Just as God sent His Son at just-the-right, appointed time, so would He send him to the cross at the exact moment He ordained. Jesus knew this, so there was no need for him to rush into things. The Father who sent him from heaven would cause His plans to unfold in perfect timing.

Interestingly, the Festival of Booths, or Sukkot, looks back to a season of waiting. The Israelites were nomads, wandering the desert, looking for the Promised Land. I don't think it's any coincidence that in this passage with so much to say about God's perfect timing, Jesus observes this feast of waiting outside in tents.

How much more joyful our experience of life would be if we learned the art of waiting! If we settled into uncertainty, refusing to compromise in the in-between times. If we asked God to still our hearts and willingly walked with Him into the unknown.

After all, the Apostle Peter reminds us that our waiting is not just for a new job or a baby. Ultimately, we are waiting for the return of our King:

But according to his promise we are waiting for new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells. Therefore, beloved, since you are waiting for these, be diligent to be found by him without spot or blemish, and at peace (2 Peter 3:13-14).

Your waiting will not end a moment later than God intends. He has designed it to bring you closer to Him, and also to bless you with a thousand graces that remain yet unseen. Will you trust Him?

things I've learned lately

I was a schemer from the beginning, always trying to make my own way, to "arrange for my own happiness," (to quote Eldredge).  It's a an old identity I've crucified time and again.

I remember when a college friend laughingly calling me that (a schemer) during our freshman Bible study. He said it teasingly and with and brotherly affection; I received it in jest and maybe even with a little pride in my knack for making things happen. In the next moment, God used it to cut me to the
heart.  I am a schemer, I thought. As many times as I'd already put to death that sin, it persisted.

And so today. The combination of my fierce determination and insatiable optimism is a force to be reckoned with when it's tempered with the Holy Spirit's grace and authority.  God often uses it to get things done. But leaning on my own strength, those two attributes together become my Achilles heal. The gift of faith turned inward on oneself is a detestable thing unto God, and a sin I continue to tangle with, I'm ashamed to say.

I don't know quite how to describe it, but God is doing something so sweet in my life recently. He has been wooing me in this area once again, reminding me how perfectly trustworthy He is, and how capable to get things done with or without me.

Anticipating our trip to Nassau this April, I had wrestled with how to bring a couple of additional teammates along. Not wanting students on the Summer Trips team ever to feel left out or as though I'm playing favorites, I really struggled to know how to choose who to invite. As I prayed about it though, God was faithful to make it clear which student and which adult male leader were the right fit for the project. The finances, however, remained in question.

True to form, I furiously set to work surveying all possible fundraising options, evaluating my own finances, and putting out feelers for spare flyer miles. When nothing panned out, I found myself having to surrender again and again my desire to control the situation. The sense that the two guys were supposed to join us lingered, and I schemed and then gave the whole thing back to God every day for weeks.

On the Tuesday before our departure, a friend handed me a check and said, "We don't have flyer miles, but that's for your flights next week." In the chaos of some middle school drama that night at youth group, I went home having forgotten to look at the check. When I arrived in the office the next morning, I found that it was in nearly the exact amount for the two flights, and by 10:30 p.m. on Wednesday, just four days before our departure, we had booked two more tickets. How fun to see God at work on our behalf! And how much more precious as Kim and I realized throughout the week how faithfully God had provided for us thorough the presence of the two guys, a needed thing in the rough neighborhood where we work. As I wait for His provision in other areas of my life, I'm reminded that I can count on it from my Good Shepherd.  Often it's in the eleventh hour, but always it's in His perfect timing.

In the chaos of this past year of splitting my time between Connecticut and Boston's North Shore, of working at capacity and then some at Walnut Hill while tackling an unadvisable course load, of navigating difficult relationships and waiting out uncertainty in a whole host of ways, He has proven Himself anew as my Advocate and generous Benefactor. In the tenderness of His presence with me, He has revealed His work righting wrongs, redeeming past hurts, and defending my cause.
Sometimes I feel as though I've lost months of my life in this manic season of juggling too much, and yet there's just this richness to the things He is showing me about His own character.

It's as though He is fortifying my walls--maybe preparing me for something hard, even. I'm not afraid, as long as the Cloud of His presence goes with me (it does), and as long as He's holding my little life and all the plates I work so hard to keep spinning easily in the palm of His hand (He is).

I'm remembering that I can trust Him with my future: Ministry, singleness, location, even my biggest dreams. He can have it all.

Lord, You are my portion

and my cup of blessing;

You hold my future.

The boundary lines have fallen for me

in pleasant places;

indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.

Psalm 16:5-6

Beauty and Affliction

"But two things pierce the human soul," wrote Simone Weil, "beauty and affliction."

Sweet friends at Anna's

The words of the Christian mystic ring especially true in Nassau, where we experience such humbling beauty and such immense pain--all in concentrated time and space. Our hearts are pricked, and we are not the same again.

Having just returned from the second annual April edition of the Nassau trip, my heart is full and also achy this morning. It gets harder to leave that place each time. And although I'm so proud of our little team and what we accomplished in only three full days on the worksite, the time flew by too quickly. I find myself wishing that today could be another day for piggyback rides and plaiting hair and sharing our peanut butter.

All of life to me is generally a bold and joy-filled adventure, with the difficult stuff inspiring as much wonder as the fun. But there's something about returning from Nassau that makes the breakneck pace of my cushy Connecticut life feel a little numb--and after this trip especially, in which the company was so sweet, the work so satisfying, and the experiences so rich with meaning.

The best little team--what a privilege to serve alongside these three!
(Photo creds to our dear friend Mindy Seeley at the ALC.)

The Project
It was a joyful encounter with God this past week to watch my three teammates create.  In their own unique ways, they are each desperately creative: Kim with her big ideas and her paint, Steve with his words (which I know are always taking shape in his head, even when he's not putting pen to paper), and Jon from behind the lens of his camera.

In a place that is characterized by rubble and trash, I am inspired by the way God has been inviting us to image forth His creative presence: first with Will's garden project last year, and now with Kim's project to invite the kids to help paint the classrooms at Carmichael Church.  As our relationships in the Carmichael neighborhood continue to blossom and flourish through the years, I pray that these creative marks left on their places will shape and empower the community.  Love creates, and creativity inspires courage.  Such is our ongoing calling in Nassau, I'm learning.

My girl Kiddi washing up.

Watching excited Haitian kids sponge paint flowers on the walls of their now canary-yellow Sunday school classroom, so giddy to participate in this work, to leave their imprint on a building where the entire community gathers, my heart could have burst.  We say with God that it is good (Genesis 1:24).

The All-Saints Visit
There were so many sweet moments with the team this past week, but one I will never forget is our brief visit to the All Saints Camp. I had not been back since Ms. Moxey's passing more than a year ago. I avoided a visit last April, and was ashamed at my relief when it wasn't feasible for me to go with the students this past July. It felt scary and hard to return to this place that I love, having lost our matriarch.

But as I prepared for last week's trip, I had the feeling that maybe it was time. And how appropriately timed with Easter because Ms. Moxey lived the resurrection life more fully than anyone I have ever known. True to her nickname, which means "force of character or determination," her contagious joy, reckless love for others, and inexplicable courage displayed the presence of God with her. Tim Keller writes, "The difference between knowing Christ and knowing the power of his resurrection is the difference between knowing a person and resembling a person." Ms. Moxey not only knew but closely resembled Jesus.  And as Keller goes on to say, "Death actually moves this process on to perfection." Standing at her memorial, thinking of her influence and the power of Christ in her, a flood of emotion washed over my aching heart.

I'm forever grateful to these three compassionate souls for their grace in going with me on that first dreaded pilgrimage back, and for giving me a few tearful moments to revel in the tension of pain and beauty, the longing for Ms. Moxey in this life and the joy at knowing she is with our Lord forever. Thank you, friends!

The Sunrise
Earlier that same morning we had one of the most transcendent experiences I can remember, a stolen sunrise on Cabbage Beach that sums up the trip for me. We awoke at 5:00 a.m., eager to make the most of our last few hours on the island and jealous for one last glimpse of sun and sea. In the foggy stillness of those last minutes before first light, we made our way ungraciously to Paradise Island, racing the clock to find the perfect spot.

Cloud cover made the sunrise slow in coming. So after Jon shot the first blushed hues, we all got in the water to watch the rays unfurl their magic.

Just thinking about it still takes my breath away: The peaceful calm of the deserted beach. The perfect chill of the water and the subtle fierceness of its enveloping waves. The clouds becoming pinker and more saturated with each untainted moment. The quiet conversation about Jesus and life and beauty. And finally, the magnificent tangerine sun coming up giant and full, so compelling we couldn't take our eyes away. It was all so beautiful, it made my heart hurt.

With calm, easy strokes, our two bold swimmers made their way back to the beach to snap some photos and then out to us again in the water, laughing and carefree.  As I watched Kim and Stephen swim in the glow of that sparkling light, I couldn't help but think of the limitless possibility their young lives hold. Their college choices may still be uncertain--but they will change the world, those two. Kim with her diligence and organization and her ability to make plans come together so effortlessly. And Stephen, like his namesake the martyr, with his inspiring words and boldness to speak about God's goodness.  I'm so proud of them and so thankful for the ways in which their hearts have been pierced for the things of God: His creation, His people, His beauty, His participation in suffering.

Fortunately for us, and for our Haitian friends with all their suffering and all their joy, the sunrise reminds us: "His mercies are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness!" (Lamentations 3:23).

We do not want merely to see beauty... we want something else which can hardly be put into words- to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. 
- C.S. Lewis

Our good friend and member of the ALC family, Kevin, was a godsend to us! He also painted the dove on the wall.

So close, so far away

This week marks the first time I've vacationed with my family in the Caymans since I began visiting the Caribbean for a different reason three years ago: to spend time in the little Haitian village on Carmichael Road. Since that time, I have made five trips and it has become a place as dear to me as these beloved islands I've been visiting my whole life. I've needed this time away for rest and respite and reflection after a daunting season of ministry and study. But I have been missing Carmichael especially this week.

When I first started going to Nassau, telling the kids, "We love you; see you in a year" seemed a little flat, but it was all I had and so in my quivering heart, I let it be enough. I shrank back from the overwhelming need because there wasn't space in my heart yet, space carved out by the years and the gut-wrenching stories and the deepening of friendships, for anything more. But as the trips and the years have gone by those words taste sickening coming out of my mouth. They are bile on a hot Bahamian day. I can no longer say them.

"See you next year...."

When I'll bring you a few measly snack crackers and teach you a Bible story.

When I'll come knock on your door to play for a few hours, carry you on my shoulders.

How insufficient in the face of death and rape and hunger and deportations that rip apart families.

How insufficient when my big brother, Jesus, left his perfect Home to drag me out of my brokenness. When he came to our impoverished neighborhood and paid the debt to give me a new inheritance.

How can I claim him and do nothing in the face of the brokenness I see in the little Haitian slum in Nassau?

No, these friends have become too dear only to say "See you next year."  Now I know their names, one by one. I have listened to their stories. I have been asked to take them home with me. I have seen their hell, and it demands a more valiant response. I may be small, but I have power and wealth beyond what they can dream. And I walk with a Big God.

My God says that He is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). That He rescues the oppressed (Psalm 103:6).

When I used to read these verses in Scripture, I don't think I understood. Not really, not in any way that mattered. I never lost sleep over whether my little friends had enough to eat, or wondering if the Bahamian government had made them orphans.

But as my heart has been enlarged little by little through their suffering, I think I am finally beginning to see. Jesus knows firsthand what it feels like to be broken, oppressed. He has absorbed the smack of cursing words spoken to a foreigner; he knows how it smarts to be rejected and despised.  He has borne for us the sting of death, has become an orphan on our behalf.

It's a profound mystery that they know Him in a way foreign to me--I with all my theology and books and lofty ideas. I am spiritually obese, feasting on the rich things of God with all too little action. He nourishes them day by day in a way they probably do not understand, but they expend every ounce, every droplet of His nearness for their survival in a harsh world. As they share their food with one another, take care of the little babies, dream of a better future, they display His nearness.

So how can I be near to Him without drawing near to these little ones He holds so dear?  These precious gems with whom he willingly identified? His Word is clear: to be made like him I must become like the least.

That directive seems hazy in a twenty-first century world, especially one in which I have such tremendous resources. How obscure that Jesus would invite me to make myself small! As I write this, I am enjoying the little luxuries of diving and rest and fish tacos and rum punch on an island not so very far from Nassau.  These are good gifts from God to rejuvenate a weary soul, not to be disdained or ashamed of. But when I let them cloud my vision and cheer my heart to the point there is no room for the suffering of the poor, I have taken giant steps away from Jesus.

she who has received grace

Today has been an ungracious sort of day.

I was late for a volunteer recruitment meeting. I struggled, aggravated, through my Hebrew studies as a bewildered mama tried unsuccessfully to control her screaming toddler. I very aggressively slammed a shopping cart into the corral in frustration that the grocery store customer before me felt too hurried to put it back. I had a little temper tantrum in the car as my commute to a friend's house was doubled in the crazy holiday traffic. I ranted to my family on the phone about some unwelcome news I received this week. Despite a lovely brunch with friends this afternoon, I headed home annoyed that there was more work to be done for church tomorrow.

Chalk it up to the shortest day of the year and the winter blues, but I did not feel Christmasy. And I certainly didn't feel full of grace.

The past year has been like that. I have wanted to be brave and beautiful in the midst of little challenges and more looming adversity. But I haven't handled each trial with the sort of poise I would have hoped. Instead it has all felt pretty clumsy.

I hate these sorts of days because gracious is what I want most of all to be.  That and gutsy.  But the grace usually feels harder to come by than the guts.

I was feeling frustrated with myself when I read the loveliest words in the Gordon-Conwell Advent Devotional, day 20, written by early Christian history professor Dr. Donald Fairbairn:

When the angel Gabriel greets Mary, he uses an expression that has proven difficult to translate. The Latin Vulgate renders it with the equivalent of, "O one who is full of grace." The King James renders it, "Thou that art highly favored." And the ESV has, "O favored one." The Greek expression is a single word, a passive form of the verb for "to grace." Perhaps the most precise way to render it in English would be "O you who have received grace." Gabriel is not talking about Mary as a source of grace, but as a recipient of grace. 

The Vulgate's translation feels darn near impossible to live up to, and I bet Mary would agree. Maybe her temperament was a bit less fiery than mine, but I'll bet she had some ungracious days, too. {{She was human, after all.}} But Mary had received grace--literally, had been graced--in the most precious, Incarnate way.

Dr. Fairbairn continues: 

As for what this grace consists of, the next phrase holds the key: "the Lord is with you." At heart, grace is not God's giving us just any kind of favor; it is his giving us his very presence. 

God with us--grace for my unloveliest, pitch-a-fit sort of days. Unmerited favor in the here-with-us presence of God. The Word become flesh for us, giving us access to the Father, making us sons and daughters.

I am not always {read: hardly ever} full of grace. But tonight I am most thankful for the grace received through the Incarnation, God's strength in my weakness.

How Christmas Myth Prepares Us for Advent Truth

We're already more than a week into Advent and I've barely begun the daily Scriptures, much less posted them for friends to download. {they're included at the bottom of this post!} I have to confess that I'm a little sad my Christmas decorations are all neatly packed away in storage. I think their absence this year has made me feel less Christmasy, so I've finally decided that I must get at least a tabletop tree to adorn "the Shire" (my room at the Dorsch Casa, affectionately named because it has a short, hobbit-hole door that opens into a large, high-ceilinged space with lots of glorious light--it reminds us all of a hobbit hole!).

Tonight I'm shamelessly re-blogging a post I wrote for my Church since the Reformation class in response to a forum question about whether or not Christians should observe the secular traditions associated with Christmas.  I hope it inspires you to read not only the Advent Scriptures this month, but also some fancy that will help you to believe in the seemingly too-wonderful story of God in the manger.

My family has always celebrated Christmas with a lot of intensity and sparkle. In an almost Narnian way, the fanciful traditions of Santa Claus were mingled with the nativity, which I understood from an early age to be the true meaning of Christmas. While I have heard many of my gospel-minded friends express concern about confusing their kids with notions of the jolly old elf sliding down their chimney, these two aspects of my family's Christmases never seemed to me to conflict.

I remember one special Christmas Eve when Santa Claus made a visit to my grandparents' living room.  I was about five and desperately enthralled with the magic of it all, although my older cousins recognized the man in the red suit as a man from their church. Being the youngest, I anxiously awaited my turn as Santa addressed the cousins one by one, giving us each a gift and whispering a secret in our ears. Finally, Santa presented me with my gift, and then, pulling me close whispered, "You know that Jesus is the real reason for Christmas."  In a strange way, it was one if the holiest moments of my life, when I sensed that all I had heard about Jesus was true.  Thus began an even deeper faith in Santa {{he was a Christian! Somehow I had sensed it all along!}} and in the Jesus we both shared.  Believing in Santa helped me to believe in Jesus. And when I stopped believing in Santa, I kept right on believing in his God.

I recently read a Wall Street Journal article from 2008 in which a Christian father explains why he encourages his kids to believe in Santa. He writes: "This sheds light on a seeming paradox in St. Paul's letter to Roman Christians: "For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made. . . ." How does one see "invisible attributes"? Only people raised on fairy tales can make sense of that. It belongs in a terrain where magic glasses can illumine what was heretofore hidden, where rabbit holes open into wonderlands."  

I dearly love this idea that myth prepares our hearts for Truth, and never sense it so profoundly as at Christmastime.

I must say that I am disturbed by moralistic interpretations of Santa Claus, such as the Elf on the Shelf tradition (although the lighted-hearted Facebook pictures of his mischievous escapades are hilarious) that conflict with a gospel of grace. But that was not the Santa I knew growing up--thanks, I suppose, to the fact that my parents didn't rely on his pending visit as a way to make me behave.  I agree with others who have commented that we need to resist the secularization of Christmas, including the accompanying, all-too-prevalent materialism. However I think there is a way to hold the mystery of the Incarnation in tension with the fairy tails--and traditions--that help us to believe it.   

 As Sally Lloyd-Jones retells the meeting of Mary and the angel Gabriel in her beloved Jesus Storybook Bible, "So Mary trusted God more than what her eyes could see. And she believed." 

Advent Scriptures 2013: Daily Readings to Anticipate Christmas

standing on his shoulders

One summer night at Greenwoods a former youth intern, now a good friend, envisioned leadership for me using John Maxwell's image of a leader allowing others to stand on her shoulders.  A leader, my friend shared, is someone who recognizes the gifts and abilities of others and empowers those people to go further than he could.

{{I'm not much for books about leadership--save the one course I took in Richmond's Jepson School of Leadership Studies--so I love when other people read this stuff and give me the CliffsNotes recap.}}

As I thought about how desperately I want to be that kind of leader, I recalled hearing Sandra McCracken relate the heart-wrenching story on which her chilling song "Age After Age" is based.  It was the night of the Live Under Lights and Wires release party in Nashville, a magical night at a hip East Nashville venue where Sandra and Derek played the songs and shared the stories of her then-current album.  I wept right there at the party when she told the tale of two young brothers who were swept up in quicksand in the Mississippi River.  When they pulled the younger one out of the sand alive, they found that he was standing on the shoulders of his older brother.

On the edge of the river, the mighty Mississippi
Two boys spent their summers on the banks of the levy
When the waters burst and broke the dam
they were swallowed in a wave of sand
they pulled the younger one out by the hand
from standing on his brother's shoulders.

One nation under God, young and proud she stumbled
With a trail of tears left by those who were outnumbered
She said, "This land is your land, this land is mine, unless you are an Indian"
But a higher ground we have tried to find"
standing on their shoulders.

Age after age
of heroes and soldiers
it gives me sight and makes me brave,
standing on their shoulders

  One man in the shadow of the white-washed cathedrals
He tried to pull the system through the eye of the needle
To his conscience bound he would not recant for the freedom of the Saints
And truth is truth is truth
and we are standing on his shoulders

To the ones left behind who are picking up the pieces
of planes, bombs, and buildings of innocence and evil
'Cause when the news and noise and flowers die,
and you still wake up alone
There is a God who knows every tear you cry
and this world is on his shoulders

In the last year and a half as my role at Walnut Hill has evolved, I have reflected on this image often.  I am not naturally good at delegation.  I struggle to prioritize.  Like generations of Kingstons before me, I hold tightly to my responsibilities, thinking it's easier to do them myself than to give them away.  I have been begging God to help me let go, to delegate, to empower those around me.

I am a young church leader with a lot to learn.  But there is one thing I know, and it's that the church will not grow until we shepherds of the flock follow Jesus into this work of empowering others.  We are after all, standing on his shoulders.

...And the government will be upon his shoulders {Isaiah 9:6}

 ...And the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him {Isaiah 53:5}

How parenting your teenager is a lot like riding a horse

I think a lot about parenting when I'm riding my thoroughbred Aiden Magee.

Lately I've been finding myself getting aggravated with Aiden for making me work so hard at moving him forward.  I'm exhausted after our warm-up alone, having used all my strength just to get him going at an acceptable pace.  In reality, if I were more consistent, he would be too.

Sound familiar?!

A good analogy came to me this week as I was preparing to teach a parenting class for some moms in our morning women's ministry at church.  The youth team is leading this class on the book For Parents Only: Getting Inside The Head of Your Kid, and my first week to teach was on a chapter about how middle and high school students want freedom more than nearly anything else.   

I had a blast hanging out with a room full of very insightful moms, some with small children and others with kids in our ministry.  Here's what I shared with them:

If you're pulling back on the reins with everything you've got, you're already out of control.

When you ride a horse, you need to use your whole body to halt him.  Your legs around his girth keep his legs engaged as you prepare to stop.  Your gluts and abs contract to help you sit squarely in the saddle to signal the halt.  And your hands squeezing the reins ever so slightly reinforce your other aids.  Pulling back on the bit alone will only get you into a tug-of-war--one that a twelve-hundred pound animal will win every time!

Just the same, your teenager will most likely win a tug-of-war with you.  

It's not that he weighs more {well, maybe he does at this point...} or that she can actually outsmart you.  But kids in their middle and high school years want freedom so badly, they will do nearly anything to get it. "Freedom is like cocaine to a teenager," our authors from the parenting book have observed.  If you tug back, it starts a vicious cycle of desperation. 

When you want to put a horse "on the bit" as we say, coaxing him into a lovely frame, similar rules to the principles about halting apply.  You use your seat and your legs to keep the horse moving forward, pushing from his hind end to engage his entire body.  You keep a firm contact with his mouth via the outside rein, giving a half-halt, or a light tug, every now and then.  And with the inside rein, you give.  A death grip on his mouth has the opposite effect of what you're after, causing the horse to stretch out his neck in resistance rather than softening it in sunmission.

A trainer recently instructed me to stop everything I'm doing with my hands every so often for three short strides.  This seems counter-intuitive, but it's the only way Aiden will ever have a chance to put into effect what I'm trying to show him.  If my hands are always there applying pressure on his mouth, he never gets the opportunity to figure things out for himself.

Sometimes when I take the pressure away, he'll fall apart and we'll have to go back to square one.  Other times, he'll keep the bend we've been working to achieve, and it's magic.  Those are the moments you live for in riding.

{{So too, I have observed, in parenting.}}

How will your middle or high school student ever have a chance to put into practice all you've taught her if you never allow her the freedom to test her wings?  When you take away the pressure for a moment or two, she may very well fall apart.  But this is an opportunity for you to help her regroup, process what she could do differently, and for you to impart more valuable training that she'll need later on, once she's flown the coup. 

But those moments when you give a little and and she softens?  Those moments when she soars in the freedom you've allowed her?  Those will be the moments when you know she'll be okay someday, out there in the wide world,  

moments when you sit up, relax, and enjoy the ride.

On the High Holy Days, Hebrew Liturgy, and Studying for the Competency Exam

If Greek is math, Hebrew is poetry.

Greek is logical, systematic, and linear.  I am therefore a sub-par Greek student.

Fluid and full of nuance, Hebrew connects us to ancient roots and calls us to worship.  I am remembering how much I love Hebrew.

I took my final exam for first semester Greek last week and immediately dusted off my Hebrew books to begin studying for the competency exam in January.  Maybe it wasn't the best planning to try to relearn two semesters of Hebrew in four months while working full time and taking three other classes at Conwell.  But as my dad likes to say, I do nothing easy.

In perfect timing, as I was just beginning to review the Hebrew alphabet after a four-year hiatus, my former student Abby, now a college girl in New York, contacted me about the observation of the High Holy days and Messianic Judaism.

"Didn't you use to go to a Messianic synagogue and how can we celebrate Yom Kippur?" she wanted to know.  So off we went to West Haven last Saturday morning to sing the liturgies and proclaim with Jewish believers that Jesus has indeed made the final atonement for our sin.

Singing in Hebrew, I learned during my college-girl days in Richmond, is the best way to learn the language.  Slowly as we recited the blessings from Yom Kippur siddur (prayer book), I found the old words and rhythms coming back to me.

Blessed are You, L-rd our G‑d and G‑d of our fathers, G‑d of Abraham, G‑d of Isaac and G‑d of Jacob, the great, mighty and awesome G‑d, exalted G‑d, who bestows bountiful kindness, who creates all things, who remembers the piety of the Patriarchs, and who, in love, brings a redeemer to their children's children, for the sake of His Name.

The Hebrew prayers are always reminding us of this God who promises a Redeemer, and in Messianic worship we rejoice that he has come in the Person of Jesus. 

Appropriately, it is the writer of the Book of Hebrews who tells us about this connection between the Jewish observance of Yom Kippur and our great once-and-for-all Redeemer:

But only the high priest entered the inner room, and that only once a year, and never without blood, which he offered for himself and for the sins the people had committed in ignorance...But when Christ came as high priest of the good things that are now already here, he went through the greater and more perfect tabernacle that is not made with human hands, that is to say, is not a part of this creation. He did not enter by means of the blood of goats and calves; but he entered the Most Holy Place once for all by his own blood, thus obtaining eternal redemption. (Hebrews 9:7, 11-12).

Reciting the blessings and praises of the holiest days in the Jewish calendar calls our attention to the reality of a risen Savior, who has "done away with sin by the sacrifice of himself" (Hebrews 9:26).

As I do, I am thankful for this poetic native tongue of the people of God, preserved for us that we might praise Him more.

Nassau 2013: On learning to fight for the kids we love

 One of my students has started compiling stories and pictures from his teammates with the intention of putting together an anthology of our experiences in Nassau.  I love encouraging students to write, and I'm so proud of this year's team.  Here's my first stab at something to include in the anthology:

Mismatched sandals she calls slippers flop on rough terrain strewn with broken glass as she trails behind the bigger kids. Year after year, I watch them grow.

One who used to be our constant shadow, now elusive as he runs with a tougher crowd--bigger boys who trade in school for the shelter of the neighborhood gang. I see him only briefly, his once-sparkling eyes now hollow and lost. He hardly looks at me, hardly smiles that had-me-at-hello grin. Who will protect him, this darling boy who used to be protector of the little ones?

His younger brother smiles wide as ever, reminding me of the first PB&J we ever shared, the one he thanked God for in a beautiful 8-year-old prayer I wish I could remember by heart. He still greets me at the door with a shout and a toothless grin. He comes and goes more now, but still wants to play, still wants to talk. I ask him if he is studying hard, choosing good friends. "Yes ma'am," he says, meeting my eye. He tells me of his dream to go to the States. When we part ways at the end of the week, he hugs me long and hard, and I wonder how long he'll be little-boy enough to shamelessly hug the white woman who brings all her friends.

Another, the goofball of the family, looks at me with dancing eyes that promise mischief. He wears stolen sunglasses and a bandana tied like Bo peep's bonnet, making us all laugh. He answers to no one, not even to me, but looks out for the littler kids. He lies about having already had a snack and shares with a hungry neighbor. He runs ahead of the group and grins when I call him, weaving back and forth to keep an eye on us.

Their neighborhood friend has moved out of her family's plywood shanty and into one of the richer looking houses across the street. Some of the girls take me there reluctantly, saying she never comes out to play anymore. They tell me she lives with Ms. Rose because her momma kicked her out for being sassy. Ms. Rose beats her, they say. When she joins us one afternoon, she gives me her usual pout until I talk her down and tell her I've missed her and that we are going to have the best day. Finally a smile, and I cringe, thinking how they try to squelch her spirit. She is hard-as-nails to protect what they have tried to take from her. Later she comes climbing up the ladder to find me on the roof. I sternly tell her to get down, that I will find her in a few minutes. If only I had known it would be the only day we'd have all week, I'd have sprinted down and snuggled her so tight and never let go. The next day, Ms. Rose refuses to let her come and my heart is in my throat and I am imagining what is happening in that drug-lord house with its drawn blinds and all its secrets.

Her sister/cousin/friend--I only know they used to live in the same white shack--asks me about Connecticut, wants to know "is it fun there?" I laugh and tell her Connecticut is boring, that I love the Bahamas best. She says cable TV would make it fun here. I tell her I don't have cable either, and she stares at me in disbelief. "Connecticut is boring," she repeats, even and convinced. "I can come with you?" The next day, her voice on the other end of the phone shatters my foundation, leaves me reeling. I nearly double over as she tells me her momma has said she can come home to live with me. I stand there for what seems like forever, not speaking, evaluating my life and everything else I know, trying to think of an answer that will explain to a 12-year-old what I don't understand myself: why I have to leave her here. why life isn't fair. why some people live in shacks and others live in mansions. Gritting my teeth I tell her I can't take her with me. Promises to visit next year that used to seem adequate fall desperately short now.

The little one looks up wide-eyed--eyes that already have seen too much. She is obeying more than five days ago. We have made progress with this barely two-year-old wonder who was all backtalk and curse words and running out in the street at the beginning of the week and all smiles and snuggles and "yes ma'ams" at its close. The light in her is so bright, this half-pint fierce and full of daring. I wonder who she will become. Childhood slips away too quickly here; the others have taught me there's not much time.

Nassau 2013: On foiled plans and the God who works for our good

To say this week got off to a slow start would be an understatement.  On Monday, Pastor Joseph was stuck in Haiti (typical), the lay leaders we trained in April to run VBS were not able to get to the church, the supplies we needed to begin roof repair didn't turn up, and we had a bit of a snafu with another group about how to merge our ministry in the same neighborhood.

Basically, all of my plans were foiled. So trusting that God had some different ones, we set off for Carmichael Church on Tuesday for our second day of work.

My students planned a VBS lesson to use if the Haitian leaders didn't show again (they didn't), and we reworked our plan with the mission team that came to serve at Anna's house, a neighborhood where my students and I are also deeply invested. The day was going more smoothly as our roofing supplies arrived, and I was able to put our two male leaders, Codi and Andy, on the roof with three of my trusted roofing pros, students from last year's team Neil, Steve, and Adam.  They began ripping up rotten plywood on the roof and were treading carefully on the rafters below.

At 2:00 p.m., Andy fell through the roof.

Time stood still as two students on the ground ran to tell me to come. When I arrived in the bathroom where Andy had fallen, Codi was already there and Steve had sprinted to get the first aid kit from my backpack. Our friends Lauren and Nate from Mission Discovery rushed to our site and Nate and I headed with Andy to the ER.

I'm writing this as we're back in the hospital today after some harrowing complications with the injury and the care he received initially. {{Parents, take heart knowing that your students are safe and enjoying a great team debrief day we had planned for them! I popped in while Andy was in surgery and we had a sweet time of prayer on the beach.}}

Amazingly, until this morning, Andy had been up and walking around, joining us at Carmichael to play the drums and give the Haitian kids lessons.  

The whole experience has reminded me of a story about another guy who came down through a roof.

Jesus was teaching from a private home, and the place was so packed with people who wanted to hear from the wise Teacher that no one else could even squeeze through the door. Four friends wanted to bring their paralyzed friend to Jesus, trusting that the Teacher would heal him. In desperation, they removed the shingles and lowered him through the roof.  In his account, Mark records that upon seeing the faith of these men, Jesus told the paralytic that his sins were forgiven. After saying this, Jesus discerned that the scribes were questioning his authority in their hearts. 

So he asked them, "Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, 'your sins are forgiven,' or to say 'Rise, take up your bed, and walk?' But that you may know the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins'--he said to the paralytic--'I say to you, rise, pick up your mat, and go home.'" (Mark 2:9-11).

To the amazement of the crowds and the praise of God, the paralytic did just that.

When I asked Andy just a couple weeks ago to join us on the Nassau trip, I told him that was looking for a second male leader who could help me to focus the team on being sensitive to what God was doing throughout the trip. As it has turned out, that has indeed been Andy's most crucial role within the team, not least of all through his fall. While we were at the ER Tuesday night, our team and the two others were praying strong prayers for his recovery back at camp. He returned to camp that night to an entourage of our students and shouts of praise. And he rejoined us on the worksite on Thursday and Friday to the amazement of us all. Just like the paralytic, Andy's trip through the roof and his accompanying healing has been such that we "we're all amazed and glorified God saying, 'We never saw anything like this!'" (Mark 2:12).

A few days before our departure to Nassau, a friend and past leader of this trip said to me, "Remember that these kids need more than a lesson in social justice. You need to introduce them to a Person." Through the ups and downs of this week, and especially through Andy's bold faith, I believe each of my eighteen students have encountered Jesus in new ways.  Like the four men who were willing to do whatever it took to get their friend in front of Jesus, Andy's fall has gotten us all in front of Jesus.  The healing we have seen in points to the reality of a risen Christ who has authority to forgive their sin and who calls them to greater courage. 

There are many more stories from this week that I'm excited to share. But as I sit with my friend in recovery--waiting for his very brave and gracious wife to arrive--I'm just grateful for the God who uses the most surprising and in some cases, even the most terrifying events to bring us face to face with Him.

My Last Night on Greenwood Ave

It's hard to believe the time has come to leave this sweet little nest that has been my home for nearly four years!  How I've loved decorating and entertaining and trying new recipes and writing and resting and ministering here.

I'm remembering my first official night in my first grown-up home.  I had only lived in Connecticut for six weeks, but a houseful of single girls gathered to raise a glass of wine and some prayers as we sat in a circle in my bare living room.  {Many of those women have moved away since, but still remain my close friends.}   We christened this little home, asking God to bless and use it.

When I think of all the late nights with good friends, the college girls' dinners, and the high school Bible studies that have happened here since, I'm blown away.  What a good gift.

I'm sooo excited to move in with my friends the Dorsches for a fun summer with their three girls!   But as I was flying home from Seattle a couple of weeks ago, I suddenly felt a sense of fretfulness and panic about leaving this place that I have loved so much.  I opened my Bible and started reading some Psalms, when my eyes settled on Psalm 23:6:

Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

The house of the LORD.  Bethel!  (To be specific, it's not the exact Hebrew word used here...but it's hard to miss the similarity.) When I first set foot in Connecticut to interview for my job at Walnut Hill, I knew that I wanted to live in this quaint New England town because of its Hebrew name.

But my truest, most perfect Home is not here on Greenwood Avenue; it is hidden in Christ--Beth'el,  the house of God.  My home here is just a shadow, and the town of Bethel a reminder that goodness and love will follow me no matter where I go. 

Just a few minutes later, on that same Seattle flight, I read this in a book for my pastoral counseling class:

In wilderness, there can be no illusion of a permanent home...When we see through God's eyes, we will not pretend that the tent we live in today can approximate the mansion in which we are destined to live.

Michael Mangis, from Care for the Soul 

Once again, it seems, God is asking me to follow the Cloud of His presence, to pick up and move without knowing what is to come next.  It's kind of scary to pack up all your belongings and put them in storage, not knowing where your next home will be.  But this is life as we trust in God's timing and plan.  Wherever the Cloud settled, the Israelites encamped (Numbers 9:17). 

Love Greater than Peanut Butter

Coming home from Nassau always feels a bit dizzying...and this time is no exception.  I'm also returning from my first-ever-soon-to-be-repeated trip to Haiti, which adds another layer of experience to debrief.

There really aren't words to describe the emotions of tonight.  Horror at some of the things I have just seen.  Immense joy as I think about the kids in Nassau and how blessed I am to call them friends.  Tremendous pride in my students, who wisely and bravely navigate cross-cultural relationships to share the love of Christ in the face of injustice.  My heart is swelling.  I am so thankful.

There were many highlights over the past ten days:

Playing with kids at the orphanages in Haiti and meeting the people who care for them.

Hiking up a hill to a little makeshift church where nearly 100 people have come to know Jesus since the earthquake, and hearing the pastor say that the Voodoo temples in the area have mostly disappeared.

Greeting my little friends in Nassau and hearing them read their nursery rhymes or tell me about school.

Watching my student, Will, fulfill the dream of his year-long senior project to plant a vegetable garden at Carmichael Church that will feed hungry kids in the neighborhood.

Dancing and giggling into the night with a group of middle school girls and women my own age at the church {{pure joy!}}. 

Spending a lazy Saturday playing with the neighborhood kids.

Taking peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and popsicles to our friends at Anna's house.

 

Tonight, I settle back into the old rhythms.  Take Aiden molasses cookies and feel the spring breeze on my back as I ride.  Get a manicure to remove the grime of the past ten days from under my fingernails.  Order takeout.  Cozy up on my plush sofa and call my parents.

But as I slide easily into my comfy life with all its little luxuries, the children I met in Haiti will still have to climb a half mile or more up hill with the day's water.  And as Will wisely remarked today, our friend Ronell is still sitting on the same dank stoop in the hot Bahamian sun.  The precious kids I love still don't have a clean spot to lay their heads.

And the same old question haunts me:  

what must change in my life to make a difference in theirs? 

It is one thing to travel to these places and offer love, encouragement, a PB&J.  But it's another to effect lasting change.  I want to do that.  To make a difference that counts.  And as I lie between my soft, organic cotton sheets writing this, I confess that change--real change--feels far off. How can it be near when I'm so comfy-cozy-not-lacking-anything?  These are the questions with which I wrestle, without exception, each time I return from the little Haitian slum on Carmichael Road.

Sister Mona at the Good Shepherd Orphanage in Carfour, Haiti says that presence is the most important thing we can give.  "When you come with your smiles and play with our children," the articulate orphanage director quips, "we know that we are no longer forsaken." 

And so it is with my Jesus, who had dirt under his fingernails.  He stopped to spend time with the down-and-out, the brokenhearted, and the outcast.  He invited children to come sit on his lap.  He offered some loaves and fish.  Even he, our Good Teacher and the Healer of the whole world did not solve the problems of poverty and hunger and injustice in a day.  He just moved on into the neighborhood (John 1:14) and visited a while. 

They know Him best, these little friends of mine with not much in their tummies.  And spending time with them, I come to know Him better, too.

The God Who Stoops Low

On Wednesday I was writing discussion questions for our area WHY Groups on the Beatitudes.  I hoped to draw the distinction between our world's view of success and what Jesus says about what it means to be blessed.  In a way only Jesus can, he radically redefines our ideas of blessedness: if you are poor, if you mourn, if you are meek, hungry, merciful, pure in heart, peacemaking, or persecuted--you will be blessed (Matthew 5:3-10).

Lutheran pastor/teacher Brian Stoffregen's comments are helpful in understanding the Greek word for "blessed," makarios:

"The old Rabbi said, "In olden days there were men who saw the face of God."
"Why don't they any more?" a young student asked.
"Because, nowadays no one stoops so low," he replied.

"Who wants to be a lowly person? Who wants to be stooped down? Most of us spend a good part of our lives trying to pull ourselves up. We want to walk tall in society. But, according to this rabbi, it is the lowly – those stooped low – who see the face of God. According to Jesus in the Beatitudes, it is the lowly – those stooped low – who are blessed by God. This runs counter to the normal uses of that word for blessed, makarios."

Later that afternoon, I went to WestConn to hear a speaker from a New Haven-based NGO called Love146 that combats the child sex slave trade.  The organization is closely linked to IJM, but its focus is more narrow.

Love146 COO Jim Ehrmen expertly communicated the problem to an audience for whom the issue was relatively new.  "The market value of a slave in 1850 was $40,000 with inflation," he said.  "And pardon my crassness, but when you have a machine at that value, you take care of it."  Then he shared the shocking reality; a child sex slave in today's economy is worth roughly $90.  And so millions of children around the world are being trafficked and used as commodities that may be discarded when they are no longer useful to their owners.

"You wanna know what's fueling sex trafficking right now," Jim asked the crowd.  "Children who don't have a rudder, who don't have a home, who don't have a sense of well-being."  

In the face of such devastating information, I'm thankful that we serve a God who has stooped low for us, making himself nothing (Philippians 2) and taking on the suffering of the world.

I continue to wrestle with this question of how I am to join Him in this stooping low, this identifying with the suffering of the poor, the mourning, the hungry, the persecuted.  

This morning, I'm departing for Haiti--a part of the world that some have called "Fourth World," simply because the living conditions there are so far beyond anything else in the underdeveloped world (i.e. Third World).  I am thankful for this opportunity to meet those who have seen the face of God.  May we be a people who take hold of the same blessing.

Our Rescuer

Tonight is Maundy Thursday, when we remember the events of the night Jesus was betrayed into the hands of the crowds.  (The chief priests and elders were cowards and would not come for him themselves.)

As I thought today about the coming Easter weekend, I found myself craving liturgy and solemn observance--and even anonymity.  {When you work at a church, sometimes you long to be an anonymous worshiper.} And so I went to a Maundy Thursday service tonight at Christ the King Lutheran Church in Newtown, where the pastor is a Gordon-Conwell graduate and the former pastor of my close friends on the North Shore.

It is a solemn night, and all the collects are all solemn.  We recite the confession together, declaring: "we have sinned in thought, word, and deed, and we cannot free ourselves from our sinful condition." And I am weeping already, kneeling on the pew kneelers and remembering that I need rescuing.

We take communion and remember that Jesus prepared this meal for his disciples so that they would have assurance of his grace and his presence with them.  Even after his crucifixion.  Even after everything had changed.

But this meal is not just any meal--it is inextricably linked to the Passover, which is taking place this very week.

Fittingly, I talked with students this past Sunday about Moses and the first Passover.

{{I outline the curriculum and even write the material for our 9:00 a.m. small groups, but this timing had not been intentional--at least not on my part.}}

As I prepared last week to speak to students about Moses and the burning bush (before they split up to discuss the story in their groups), the verses that stood out to me were Exodus 3:7-8:

The Lord said, “I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers, and I am concerned about their suffering.  So I have come down to rescue them from the hand of the Egyptians and to bring them up out of that land into a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey.

"Can't you just imagine it?" I asked my sophomore girls after we had split up from the larger group.  "God looks down on you and on me, and He says, I have indeed seen the misery of my people...I am concerned about their suffering.  So I have come down to rescue them! and He sends Jesus.  Our Rescuer.

Paul puts it this way in Titus 3:3-5:

At one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another.  But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy.

Like the Israelites, we too have been enslaved.  Our passions and pleasures have held us captive to sin.  Our Enemy has kept us in bondage.  But God has indeed seen our misery, has been concerned about our suffering.  And He himself has come down to rescue us.

In the first Passover meal, God rescued His people from the hand of their oppressors.  In this Passover, He has rescued us from ours.