Recycling

I like the hymn, “Take my life and let it be.”  I like the original arrangement, and I like some of the newer arrangements.  But mostly, I like the text.  I like that it asks a lot of us as followers, and gives us an opportunity to recognize how often we don’t offer all of those specific things to God.  But today, it struck me that this idea of us offering ourselves to God isn’t an original thought humanity had on its own.  Jesus said it first.  And, uniquely, Jesus says it to both God and us.  
“Father, not my will, but yours be done.”  
          “This is my body, given for you.”  
                    “I am the bread of life.  
                    Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, 
                    and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”  

One of my favorite (newer) arrangements of this hymn has added a chorus that says, 

“Here am I, all of me.  Take my life, it’s all for thee.”  

In the song, the direction of the dialogue is from me/us to God.  Today, I was reminded yet again that I can only say that to God because Jesus said it first.  Because Jesus was willing to offer his very life to God for the purpose of reconciling humanity to God, I am able to take Jesus’ very life as my own.  And it is out of that life that I live and am able to give anything at all, much less my entire existence.  

Talk about recycling. 

Mystery

Something floating to the surface of my consciousness this past week or so has been an awareness that how I understand suffering is totally wrong.  If you asked me a million different times if I think suffering is the result of God punishing people in specific ways for specific wrong, I would say no every time.

And yet.

And yet I look for ways to avoid suffering, as if by doing the right things I can somehow skip out.  And I look for ways to help others avoid suffering.  There are times when I literally try to bargain with God on behalf of others, offering him myself in their place.  Which sounds selfless, but is really masking a small view of God's sovereignty.  Yes, I believe that God is compassionate, and that he hurts with us and for us.  But I also believe that he works in ways I don't yet understand, and it is in my arrogance that I assume to forego suffering is what's best for the Kingdom.  In Eugene Peterson's book The Invitation, which I think I could describe as a commentary-of-sorts, I recently read about Job.  Peterson writes that Job comes to the conclusion that suffering is a mystery and God is God.  If you asked me a million different times if I agree with that statement, I would say yes every time.

And yet.

And yet I don't live like that.  The five pages I read about the book of Job have been rolling around in my head and heart all weekend, and slowly but surely, the picture is coming into focus.  Something about that bothered me, and I couldn't quite place my finger on it, until I realized that while I intellectually agree with that conclusion, I balk at actually living it out.

And yet.

And yet I have hope that God can continue the process of transforming my mind, moving me to a place where I can live with the mystery, and live in the mystery, and meet others in the mystery.  I would have said several months ago that two of my deepest desires are to see God's kingdom come and to spare people pain.  But as Earl Smooter says in the classic chick flick Sweet Home Alabama, "You can't ride two horses with one ass, sugarbean."  I'm realizing that I can't always make both of those desires come true, and as painful as it may be, I want to pick God's kingdom come every time, and trust that He'll continue to grow my view of Him to make room for all that mystery and that He'll continue to sustain us in the midst of suffering.

Before There Was Pinterest

I just want to say that before there was Pinterest, there was my mom.

Before Real Simple ever wrote a "new uses for old things" column, my mom had put an over-the-door shoe rack in the hall closet for mittens and hats, and in my bathroom for all my hair supplies.

Before home organization had become a thing warranting entire cable channels worth of programming, my mom had split our pantry into two organization units- one for food, the other for us.  We each had a bin that held hanging files- one for school, one for sports, one for youth group, etc.  She even had one for scholarships in my bin, where she started keeping track of my accomplishments and making notes for applications. She started that file when I was 12.

Some might call that a bit too much.  And some days I'll agree with you.  But in this season where I'm going through my parents' home, sorting and cleaning, I'm also learning the art of treasuring.  I'm discovering who my mom is through the way she kept her home- what was important to her, what was not.  Just like with anybody, some of the revelations are hard, but many of them are showing me the aspects of my mom that I want to emulate.

So today, I'm honoring her creativity and her desire to keep her home beautiful and functional.  She was and is inspirational in these areas, and she's done it all without Pinterest.  Way to go, Mom.  I hope to be like you in that respect, but I'll probably have to cheat at some point, which leaves me thankful I didn't grow up before there was Pinterest.

Blessing

"Is- is he a man?" asked Lucy.
"Aslan a man!" said Mr. Beaver sternly.  "Certainly not.  I tell you he is the King of the wood and the son of the great Emperor-beyond-the-Sea.  Don't you know who is the King of the Beasts?  Aslan is a lion- the Lion, the great Lion."
"Ooh!" said Susan, "I'd thought he was man.  Is he- quite safe?  I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion."
"That you will, dearie, and no mistake," said Mrs. Beaver; "if there's anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they're either braver than most or else just silly."
"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.
"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver; "don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you?  Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe.  But he's good.  He's the King, I tell you."

I have heard/read/watched this excerpt, from "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" by C.S. Lewis, perhaps a million and two times.  And, not unlike many of Lewis' works, it never fails to give me chills.    For me, Lewis often has a way of saying things that resonates truth deep within me without making it too easy to guess what that truth is.  Or maybe another way to say that, a more honest way to say that, is that Lewis calls me on stuff which is hard to face because of the foundational nature of those issues in my faith.  For instance, in this passage, Lewis reminds me what it looks like to have a high view of God.  If I'm honest, I act as though I believe (or perhaps my actions betray my belief) that God is a safe God.  I act as though I can convince him to do something through argument or ardor, which is to believe that I can manipulate him.  Which is to believe that anything he does is dependent on anything outside himself.  At a surface level, the Bible seems full of cause-and-effect relationships.  People do something, God responds.  And yes, I believe that God is compassionate and does indeed respond to his people.  But as I'm learning to read the Bible, and as I learn to read my life, I'm finding that his response has nothing to do with who we are as his people, and everything to do with who he is as God.

Today, I went to pray for a friend.  And as I prayed, I tried to convince God why he should bless this person.  While this was happening, I was in the car and the radio was playing a song that included the text of the Beatitudes, which includes a pretty good laundry list of people who are blessed.  The meek, the poor in spirit, the peacemakers, the persecuted.  As I listened, I realized that none of these states are blessed because of an inherent quality present in all those who are meek, or poor, or persecuted.  They are blessed because God has said he blesses them.  In the same way, all I can say is "God, in your mercy, bless my friend." That's it.  It's all about who God is, and what his nature demands, not about who I am as the asker, or who my friend is as the potential blessed one.  

And that brings us back to dear Susan and Lucy and the Beavers.  I too had thought God was just man, and I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a God that I cannot manipulate, whose affection I cannot earn, and for whose favor I cannot compete.  That kind of God isn't safe at all.  But's he's good.  He's the King, I tell you.

Extended Family

Most Wednesday nights, a community of people who all live my general area from my church gather for dinner and an evening of catching up and reflecting and looking forward- just life.  No agenda, no plan.  Just good food and the sacred act of setting aside time to be present with people.  The beauty of this group being determined by location, not "age and stage" or interest or ministry area is that we are quite the mix of people.  Much like extended family.

I didn't choose the family I was born into, and while I can choose to what degree I maintain relationships with cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents, the reality is that we're related.  I feel it when I see all those people at a funeral or a wedding- the strange sense of knowing them, even though I see most of them less than once a year.  In the same way, I didn't choose the community of Christians around me.  I can determine to what degree I invest in those relationships, but the reality is that we are related.  Sometimes, it's fun that I didn't get to choose my church family.  Other days it's difficult, just like learning to get along with my brother was when he was 10 and I was 13, or just like figuring out how to walk the lines between family members who don't always see eye to eye.  But some days, it's plain old beautiful.  Tonight felt more like a family gathering than anything else, but minus the guilt trips or passive aggression or inability to communicate.  Tonight, some people brought lots of food, others grabbed something quick from the store on the way over.  Some people set a beautiful buffet table, others did the dishes (without being asked).  Some told stories, some just listened.  The baby was passed around.  Thought-provoking (and silly) questions were asked and answered.  People floated in and out of conversations.  Entire boxes of girl scout cookies were eaten.  We mocked and allowed ourselves to be mocked.  We shared hopes and dreams, and asked things of each other and God.

And at the end of the night, we all picked ourselves up, said our goodbyes, and headed home.  In the car, I told my friend Lacey that something felt different about community group tonight.  She agreed, but we couldn't quite label it.  I'm still not sure what made tonight different, but as I was thinking back on the evening, I began to realize what a treat it is to be a part of an extended family.  Of course there were awkward moments, and of course we step on each others' toes, but on the whole, we're learning to live together in ways that my real extended family can only dream of, and that credit can only be given to the Holy Spirit.

Presence.  Awareness.  Gratitude.  Presence.

Without a Doubt

Tonight, while enjoying dinner with a houseful of people I only sort of knew, the question of "what do you do?" came up.

I work at Starbucks.  Sometimes I run.  On special occasions I compulsively straighten my parents' house and possessions.

Later, while catching up more honestly with the only person there I would say I knew well, the question of "are you glad you moved home?" made its way to the conversation.

Without a doubt.

A year ago, I could not have seen what my day held today.  By most standards, today was an ordinary day, but the wide-reaching activities of making coffee and comforting coworkers and building relationships and letting the dog out and trying to solve some issues surrounding poverty in a community close to my heart and making new friends and enjoying the weather....all of that was filling, not only in the sense of my schedule, but in the sense of me.  If I could have found a way to express all of that in response to the "what do you do?" question, I would have.  But you don't fit all that into a day by sleeping in, and my brain was simply too tired to form that thought into some sort of coherent sentence.  In fact, it still is.  My point, however, is that although I could not have seen the myriad ways that small activities and events would fill my life so completely, I'm sure this is where I'm supposed to be.

Without a doubt.

Why the Alien Robots Will Never Win

Garlic parmesan vinaigrette.  Kalamata olives.  Feta cheese.  Summer sausage.  Fresh cucumber.  Adorably formal bow-tie pasta.

Melted monterey jack cheese, smothered over a thin, grilled chicken breast, set gently on a small toasted bun, so slight in diameter it can barely contain all of the goodness.

This is why the alien robots will never win.  As long as cooking and eating are art forms, we have nothing to worry about.  Food, and really, I mean our need for food, reminds us that we are human.  That we cannot be sustained by anything less than something of actual caloric value.  Sure, people have found ways to put caloric value into bland, tasteless, utilitarian formats.  But what they can't do is take away our physical reaction to good food.  Even in my current state of work-sleep-eat-whatever-won't-give-me-heartburn-and-can-fit-in-an-ikea-tupperware, I know what good food is.  I can still taste the spaghetti I had in Florence last May, the croissants I ate in Paris, my mom's homemade ice cream from the summer I was 10.  All of those food memories are stored up in me.  And even for those who don't have wonderful food memories, they generally hop on the bandwagon when they first taste something the rest of us know to be fantastic.  Someone I went to college with once said by way of a before-meal prayer, "Jesus is God's love made visible.  Food is God's love made edible."  As long as this strangely sacred act of eating is around, I think we're safe from invading alien robots.  Of course, we have the freedom to abuse our eating privileges, and we do so all the time, sometimes to the point of making it difficult to distinguish us from those intergalactic invaders.  But an alien robot will never sit up a little straighter at the scent of sauteed garlic.  Their mouths will never water at the sight of a good, strong cheese.  Chocolate cake has no moral value to them.  This is what distinguishes us from the mindless, robotic versions of ourselves that our work schedules and desire to consume so often make us:  the ability to taste and see the goodness of our God in the world around us.  As long as we can keep eating (and I mean really eating- not just calorie consuming),  I think we'll be safe from even ourselves.