Three weeks ago, I was given a tremendous honor. I was asked to write a song for my friend Ruby Ann Jones Fulbright in honor of her life, work, and retirement from WMU NC. Most people call Ruby, Ruby Fulbright. But I call her Ruby Ann Jones Fulbright because I stumbled upon her full name when trying to write her bio for an event and I thought that her full name was lovely—and a more accurate representation of who she is.
To say that I was nervous about writing the song is an understatement. How do you summarize someone’s life and influence when it has been so rich and deep? How do you put into song emotions that are far beyond words? Yet I prayed for the freedom to write. And I wrote. And I probably wasn’t the safest driver in the world as I jotted down lyrics on a bank envelope because it was the only thing I had to write on in the rental that I was driving the night the song was birthed.
The creative process is beyond me. It is alive, organic, moving, and something that amazes me every time I experience it. I experienced it on birthing night when I began to put a piano part with the lyrics and the lyrics began to rearrange themselves for a better song. I experienced it when I went home and was told that I had to stop playing the piano at 1:30 in the morning and that what I was playing sounded like, “When I Survey The Wondrous Cross” and I realized I needed to change it to something else. I experienced it with a friend as she worked to design a canvas on which to give Ruby the words. I experienced it over the weekend when I asked my friends Allison and Jen if they wanted to sing harmony with me and a harmony part emerged that made the song so much richer than it had been just two hours before the song’s debut. The creative process is very much a spiritual process. And it’s so very beautiful and alive. And it’s so very…well…God.
I didn’t see Ruby Ann as we sang her song, but I heard that she was touched. I’m so very grateful. And humbled. And amazed…at our friendship…and our lives…and the journeying process that brought them together.
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“Ruby Ann”
2012
Your courage started young when you played underneath the sun
With your three brothers right behind
Following close
How could you have known then that those cliffs that you were jumping
Would reappear upon your journey
Later on
But when the time came you knew what to do
Take a leap of faith and trust God to
Guide you safely to the other side
On truth you stood, on God alone as guide
In your daily life you became mother, leader, wife
And it was easy to get lost
And forget yourself
Cause the world, it pulls you thin, demands your work and time and then
Leaves you to wonder if it all
Matters in the end
But oh you believe in me
When the world was dark your light helped me to see
The love of Christ and God’s will just to be
Oh you matter to me
How quickly years have passed and now the moment’s come at last
When you must do the hardest thing
You’ve ever done
Release your hopes and dreams, walk away from unstitched seams
Onto a future path that leads
To the unknown
But you will never walk alone
‘Cause love surrounds you like the love you’ve shown
The prayers, the grace, the hope, the peace, the quest for integrity
Are all coming back to set you free
Oh I believe in you
You’ve shined a light in darkness and guided us to
Hear God’s voice and stand upon God’s truth
Oh you matter to me
Yes, Ruby Ann, you matter...
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
To Love Another Person
Like a typical teenager, I was angst filled when I found out that my youth group was going to see Les Miserables instead of Phantom of the Opera on Broadway. I didn’t want to see Les Mis; I wanted to see Phantom. Unlike many teenagers, however, I was on the edge of my seat as the lights came up for intermission that night. I didn’t understand a lot of the story line at that moment, but I understood the power of music and emotion…and both had swelled to a high peak during, “One Day More.”
Since that night in 1992, I have seen Les Miserables four more times—one of those times being last night in Greenville—and I’d love to see it again in coming years. I think it’s obvious that my teenage angst was misplaced. I’ve seen Phantom twice in the past couple of decades, and, well, I don’t really like it. But I digress…
While my coworker, Sandra, and I shared a nice meal at a downtown restaurant before the show, I said, “I’m going to cry. I don’t know when or at what point in the show I’ll be moved to tears. But I will cry. I’m a crier.”
And a crier I am…only…I didn’t cry when other people cried last night. Instead, I cried for Javert.
Extremely basic partial plot summary, no love story included: Jean Valjean served 27 years in prison for stealing a loaf of bread for his sister’s starving child. Upon his release, a priest granted him mercy and “bought his soul for God.” Valjean breaks “parole” to give himself and his “adopted” daughter a chance at life and becomes known as a fine, upstanding citizen and leader. Javert is a policeman who is set on justice. To him, the law is life and he seeks to enforce it at all costs. As his quest for justice—his desire to do what’s right in the eyes of God—comes face to face with Valjean’s life of mercy, Javert’s life begins to crumble…
I’ve been thinking a lot about scripture this week—about how Christians often tend to reduce understanding of scripture to one of moralistic standards and absolute proofs. But scripture is so much more than that. It is God’s word. It is alive, active, and powerful. It is always changing yet somehow staying the same. Scripture is God’s story of redemption in this world.
When we focus only on the moral elements of God’s story, then we tend to become a legalistic people. Our quest for holiness tends to become one of “Thou shalt nots” instead of one of “Thou shalts” (unless it is thou shalt attend church every time the doors open, wear only certain things, and listen only to Christian music). We tend to become so focused on the law that we miss the greater picture of relationship and love.
When Jesus declared the greatest commandment, he said that it was to love God with heart, soul, mind, and strength AND to love neighbor as self. When he spoke of the sheep and the goats, he didn’t say that the sheep would sit on his right because of following a moralistic, legalistic code. He said that they would take their inheritance in the Kingdom of God because they fed the hungry, gave drink to the thirsty, welcomed the stranger, clothed the naked, cared for the sick, and visited those in prison.
Jean Valjean was a rescued sheep. Javert was a crippled lamb. Jean Valjean lived a life of service to others, spreading hope in a broken world despite his “criminal” past. Javert lived a life of serving the law and instilling fear despite being a man of unwavering moral principle. Both desired to be in God’s service—to do God’s work. As Valjean loved another person and saw the face of God, Javert sank into darkness, unable to accept grace.
So I cried for Javert last night. I cried for the Javert in me and for all of the Javerts in this world who want so desperately to be “holy” and to do what’s “right” that we limit ourselves from experiencing the full depth—and divine messiness—of the Kingdom of God. I cried for the crisis of belief—for the moments of brokenness when life becomes a question and faith becomes silent. I cried for those, like Javert, who feel that they have nowhere to turn when everything they’ve believed comes unraveled.
“Don’t give up,” I wanted to say. “God is there in the grace. God has always been there in grace. You’ve done your best. You’ve fought for justice. You’ve done what you knew to do. God is proud of you. God loves you. But God wants you to understand a different way. God wants you to know that you can live alongside mercy.”
I don’t know what will make me cry the next time I see Les Miserables. The tears come at different points each time I see the show, depending on the circumstances in my life. It’s kind of like scripture, I suppose—Holy Spirit speaking through the story, to the parts of me that are ready to hear, challenging me to let go of my angst…teenage or not.
Since that night in 1992, I have seen Les Miserables four more times—one of those times being last night in Greenville—and I’d love to see it again in coming years. I think it’s obvious that my teenage angst was misplaced. I’ve seen Phantom twice in the past couple of decades, and, well, I don’t really like it. But I digress…
While my coworker, Sandra, and I shared a nice meal at a downtown restaurant before the show, I said, “I’m going to cry. I don’t know when or at what point in the show I’ll be moved to tears. But I will cry. I’m a crier.”
And a crier I am…only…I didn’t cry when other people cried last night. Instead, I cried for Javert.
Extremely basic partial plot summary, no love story included: Jean Valjean served 27 years in prison for stealing a loaf of bread for his sister’s starving child. Upon his release, a priest granted him mercy and “bought his soul for God.” Valjean breaks “parole” to give himself and his “adopted” daughter a chance at life and becomes known as a fine, upstanding citizen and leader. Javert is a policeman who is set on justice. To him, the law is life and he seeks to enforce it at all costs. As his quest for justice—his desire to do what’s right in the eyes of God—comes face to face with Valjean’s life of mercy, Javert’s life begins to crumble…
I’ve been thinking a lot about scripture this week—about how Christians often tend to reduce understanding of scripture to one of moralistic standards and absolute proofs. But scripture is so much more than that. It is God’s word. It is alive, active, and powerful. It is always changing yet somehow staying the same. Scripture is God’s story of redemption in this world.
When we focus only on the moral elements of God’s story, then we tend to become a legalistic people. Our quest for holiness tends to become one of “Thou shalt nots” instead of one of “Thou shalts” (unless it is thou shalt attend church every time the doors open, wear only certain things, and listen only to Christian music). We tend to become so focused on the law that we miss the greater picture of relationship and love.
When Jesus declared the greatest commandment, he said that it was to love God with heart, soul, mind, and strength AND to love neighbor as self. When he spoke of the sheep and the goats, he didn’t say that the sheep would sit on his right because of following a moralistic, legalistic code. He said that they would take their inheritance in the Kingdom of God because they fed the hungry, gave drink to the thirsty, welcomed the stranger, clothed the naked, cared for the sick, and visited those in prison.
Jean Valjean was a rescued sheep. Javert was a crippled lamb. Jean Valjean lived a life of service to others, spreading hope in a broken world despite his “criminal” past. Javert lived a life of serving the law and instilling fear despite being a man of unwavering moral principle. Both desired to be in God’s service—to do God’s work. As Valjean loved another person and saw the face of God, Javert sank into darkness, unable to accept grace.
So I cried for Javert last night. I cried for the Javert in me and for all of the Javerts in this world who want so desperately to be “holy” and to do what’s “right” that we limit ourselves from experiencing the full depth—and divine messiness—of the Kingdom of God. I cried for the crisis of belief—for the moments of brokenness when life becomes a question and faith becomes silent. I cried for those, like Javert, who feel that they have nowhere to turn when everything they’ve believed comes unraveled.
“Don’t give up,” I wanted to say. “God is there in the grace. God has always been there in grace. You’ve done your best. You’ve fought for justice. You’ve done what you knew to do. God is proud of you. God loves you. But God wants you to understand a different way. God wants you to know that you can live alongside mercy.”
I don’t know what will make me cry the next time I see Les Miserables. The tears come at different points each time I see the show, depending on the circumstances in my life. It’s kind of like scripture, I suppose—Holy Spirit speaking through the story, to the parts of me that are ready to hear, challenging me to let go of my angst…teenage or not.
Monday, April 16, 2012
The Only Constant
A little over a month ago, I tried to get out of my car at the exact same moment she was trying to unlock. In that one short second, something inside my door snapped and made it impossible for me to let myself out of Gigi the White Ant without rolling down the window and releasing the door from the outside. Thankfully I COULD let myself out from the outside or else I’d have been pulling a Dukes of Hazard…which I imagine isn’t proper protocol for WMU.
A little over a year and a half ago (give or take a few months because I don’t really remember when it started), I started renting cars for work when renting was more cost effective than driving my own car. Since that time, I’ve driven quite a few cars—some brand new, some high end luxury cars that I could never afford, some that I really didn’t like, and some that stink (like today’s Camry that smells like smoke)—and I’ve become cordial acquaintances with Doc the Car Delivery Man, Isaiah the Assistant Manager, Julio the Manager, Jessica the Trainee, Mike the Assistant Manager, and Mike the Trainee.
I took my car to the Toyota place for an oil change and fluids check on Friday. Jerry the Service Assistant (whom I work with each time I go to the Toyota place) said that they would need to keep GiGi the White Ant overnight to fix the door so that they wouldn’t have to take it apart twice if they needed to order a part. Since I needed Gigi the White Ant over the weekend so that I could go to Blowing Rock and find that Toms had adopted my font for one of their ad campaigns (see Facebook picture from Saturday), I decided to leave her at the Toyota place tonight because I needed to rent for work anyway.
Today when I went into Enterprise, I spoke to Mike the Assistant Manager and Mike the Trainee, met Corrina the Management Trainee, and saw John The Bald District Manager. Doc the Delivery Man was out on a delivery. Isaiah the Assistant Manager has long been gone to another branch. Julio the Manager recently left for another company. And Jessica the Trainee moved to another branch to work in car sales today. Corrina the Management Trainee will likely be at our branch for 90 days. We’ll probably become cordial acquaintances, too, and then she’ll move on. I’m not sure about the Mikes. I’ll try not to get too attached, though, because I’m sure they’ll leave too.
As a salesman talked to John the Bald District Manager, he asked about Julio. The salesman didn’t know that Julio the Manager was gone. When John the Bald District Manager told the salesman that Julio the Manager had left for another company, the salesman responded with, “The only constant in life is change.”
I agree. Especially at Enterprise.
I’m hoping really hard that when Jason the New Manager comes from Irmo in May (I heard John the Bald District Manager say this to the salesman and I confirmed its truth with Corrina the Management Trainee who said that Jason the New Manager was really good and really organized) he’ll stay for longer than a few months. But again, I’ll try not to get too attached…
Because the only constant in life is change…
And I’m looking forward to GiGi the White Ant’s broken door handle being changed to one that works.
A little over a year and a half ago (give or take a few months because I don’t really remember when it started), I started renting cars for work when renting was more cost effective than driving my own car. Since that time, I’ve driven quite a few cars—some brand new, some high end luxury cars that I could never afford, some that I really didn’t like, and some that stink (like today’s Camry that smells like smoke)—and I’ve become cordial acquaintances with Doc the Car Delivery Man, Isaiah the Assistant Manager, Julio the Manager, Jessica the Trainee, Mike the Assistant Manager, and Mike the Trainee.
I took my car to the Toyota place for an oil change and fluids check on Friday. Jerry the Service Assistant (whom I work with each time I go to the Toyota place) said that they would need to keep GiGi the White Ant overnight to fix the door so that they wouldn’t have to take it apart twice if they needed to order a part. Since I needed Gigi the White Ant over the weekend so that I could go to Blowing Rock and find that Toms had adopted my font for one of their ad campaigns (see Facebook picture from Saturday), I decided to leave her at the Toyota place tonight because I needed to rent for work anyway.
Today when I went into Enterprise, I spoke to Mike the Assistant Manager and Mike the Trainee, met Corrina the Management Trainee, and saw John The Bald District Manager. Doc the Delivery Man was out on a delivery. Isaiah the Assistant Manager has long been gone to another branch. Julio the Manager recently left for another company. And Jessica the Trainee moved to another branch to work in car sales today. Corrina the Management Trainee will likely be at our branch for 90 days. We’ll probably become cordial acquaintances, too, and then she’ll move on. I’m not sure about the Mikes. I’ll try not to get too attached, though, because I’m sure they’ll leave too.
As a salesman talked to John the Bald District Manager, he asked about Julio. The salesman didn’t know that Julio the Manager was gone. When John the Bald District Manager told the salesman that Julio the Manager had left for another company, the salesman responded with, “The only constant in life is change.”
I agree. Especially at Enterprise.
I’m hoping really hard that when Jason the New Manager comes from Irmo in May (I heard John the Bald District Manager say this to the salesman and I confirmed its truth with Corrina the Management Trainee who said that Jason the New Manager was really good and really organized) he’ll stay for longer than a few months. But again, I’ll try not to get too attached…
Because the only constant in life is change…
And I’m looking forward to GiGi the White Ant’s broken door handle being changed to one that works.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Sometimes
Sometimes I want to cut on the lights in my office, but unless it’s stormy out or I’m here past dark then there’s really no need because of natural light. So I don’t. I haven’t since the Caring for Creation Conference a month ago. I figure that my sitting in natural light is one very simple way of reducing demand for electricity and standing in solidarity with those affected by mountain top removal.
Sometimes I want to go through the drive-thru at Chick-Fil-A and get food and a drink. I like Chick-Fil-A. I have for years. So I go. But I feel guilty receiving a Styrofoam cup and lots of packaging and not cutting of my car and walking inside to get my food.
Sometimes I want to use the dishwasher instead of hand-washing my dishes. So I do.
Sometimes I want to use the Styrofoam cups provided by a church or work place even though I know that I have a reusable cup in the car. But I don’t. I walk to my car and get my cup even if it’s not the cleanest in the world.
Sometimes I want to take a long, hot shower. So I do. But I try to justify by it by not taking a shower every night (don’t gasp—I really don’t get that dirty sitting at my desk every day). Ideally, I would not shower every night AND not take long showers when I do.
Sometimes I want to stop shaving my legs because of the amount of life-time trash produced by razors. But I don’t. Contrary to how it might seem, I actually enjoy the feeling of clean shaven legs and sometimes do care what people think when they see my unshaved legs.
Sometimes I want to adjust the heat or air in my apartment. But I don’t. I leave it at 68 in the winter and 72 in the summer…and I haven’t cut on the air yet.
Sometimes I want to call the National Trafficking Hotline when I drive by spas, gentlemen’s clubs, or truck stops where I have a hunch that trafficking victims are being held. But I don’t. I have no idea why. It’s a free, anonymous phone call.
Sometimes I want to roll down my window and talk with the homeless man or woman standing at a stop light or pick up a hitch-hiker from the side of the road. But I don’t. Stereotypes and horror stories have done their jobs of exploiting my fear and selfishing my kindness.
Sometimes I want to buy Hershey’s chocolate. But I don’t. Usually. Okay. So I do when/if it’s a gift and I haven’t planned ahead and located a Fair Trade alternative. Sorry Boss.
Sometimes I want to take a road trip to see friends and family members. So I do. Even though I know that I am using gas and contributing to carbon emissions. One day, I will get a hybrid.
Sometimes I want to speak up when persons or people groups are being bullied by religious or political organizations. But I don’t. Not often. I’m such a people pleaser that I don’t want to make anyone mad or risk a reprimand if my personal beliefs don’t align with organizational ones.
Sometimes I want to talk to my nephews about bullying and pornography. But I don’t. I don’t want to risk tempting them with the latter…although I know that they’ve most likely already been exposed because of the internet and the soft-porn in advertisements and on apps and that an addiction could have already began. It makes me sick to think about it.
Sometimes I want to sequester my niece (and nephews, too, actually) and make sure no one ever touches her inappropriately or manipulates or sweet-talks her into doing things she doesn’t want to do—cheating, drugs, sex, alcohol, illegal behavior, bullying. But I don’t. I know they can’t live in isolation.
Sometimes I want to watch movies or TV for hours and get lost in comedies and dramas beyond myself, even when they include violence, language, questionable morality and suck away time that could be used for something productive. So I do. I lay on my couch and escape.
Sometimes I want to write my political leaders and share with them my convictions. But I don’t. The political process intimidates me and makes me feel like my vote doesn’t matter…though I know that it does.
Sometimes I want Starbucks. So I go.
Sometimes I want to feel like I’m saving money in a fast, convenient way. So I do. Or least pretend that I do since I know that cheap food and clothing and other items are either subsidized, shipped, or produced with slave labor.
Sometimes I want to buy things for people even when they don’t need them because I love people and show my love through gifts. So I do. Even when I know that my item purchasing will raise demand for manmade products that will eventually fill a land fill.
Sometimes I want to forget everything I’ve learned about human exploitation and live my life as I lived it before. But I don’t. I can’t.
Sometimes I want to succeed. But I fail. But I keep trying. And sometimes I find myself at peace with the fact that sometimes trying is what matters.
Sometimes I want to go through the drive-thru at Chick-Fil-A and get food and a drink. I like Chick-Fil-A. I have for years. So I go. But I feel guilty receiving a Styrofoam cup and lots of packaging and not cutting of my car and walking inside to get my food.
Sometimes I want to use the dishwasher instead of hand-washing my dishes. So I do.
Sometimes I want to use the Styrofoam cups provided by a church or work place even though I know that I have a reusable cup in the car. But I don’t. I walk to my car and get my cup even if it’s not the cleanest in the world.
Sometimes I want to take a long, hot shower. So I do. But I try to justify by it by not taking a shower every night (don’t gasp—I really don’t get that dirty sitting at my desk every day). Ideally, I would not shower every night AND not take long showers when I do.
Sometimes I want to stop shaving my legs because of the amount of life-time trash produced by razors. But I don’t. Contrary to how it might seem, I actually enjoy the feeling of clean shaven legs and sometimes do care what people think when they see my unshaved legs.
Sometimes I want to adjust the heat or air in my apartment. But I don’t. I leave it at 68 in the winter and 72 in the summer…and I haven’t cut on the air yet.
Sometimes I want to call the National Trafficking Hotline when I drive by spas, gentlemen’s clubs, or truck stops where I have a hunch that trafficking victims are being held. But I don’t. I have no idea why. It’s a free, anonymous phone call.
Sometimes I want to roll down my window and talk with the homeless man or woman standing at a stop light or pick up a hitch-hiker from the side of the road. But I don’t. Stereotypes and horror stories have done their jobs of exploiting my fear and selfishing my kindness.
Sometimes I want to buy Hershey’s chocolate. But I don’t. Usually. Okay. So I do when/if it’s a gift and I haven’t planned ahead and located a Fair Trade alternative. Sorry Boss.
Sometimes I want to take a road trip to see friends and family members. So I do. Even though I know that I am using gas and contributing to carbon emissions. One day, I will get a hybrid.
Sometimes I want to speak up when persons or people groups are being bullied by religious or political organizations. But I don’t. Not often. I’m such a people pleaser that I don’t want to make anyone mad or risk a reprimand if my personal beliefs don’t align with organizational ones.
Sometimes I want to talk to my nephews about bullying and pornography. But I don’t. I don’t want to risk tempting them with the latter…although I know that they’ve most likely already been exposed because of the internet and the soft-porn in advertisements and on apps and that an addiction could have already began. It makes me sick to think about it.
Sometimes I want to sequester my niece (and nephews, too, actually) and make sure no one ever touches her inappropriately or manipulates or sweet-talks her into doing things she doesn’t want to do—cheating, drugs, sex, alcohol, illegal behavior, bullying. But I don’t. I know they can’t live in isolation.
Sometimes I want to watch movies or TV for hours and get lost in comedies and dramas beyond myself, even when they include violence, language, questionable morality and suck away time that could be used for something productive. So I do. I lay on my couch and escape.
Sometimes I want to write my political leaders and share with them my convictions. But I don’t. The political process intimidates me and makes me feel like my vote doesn’t matter…though I know that it does.
Sometimes I want Starbucks. So I go.
Sometimes I want to feel like I’m saving money in a fast, convenient way. So I do. Or least pretend that I do since I know that cheap food and clothing and other items are either subsidized, shipped, or produced with slave labor.
Sometimes I want to buy things for people even when they don’t need them because I love people and show my love through gifts. So I do. Even when I know that my item purchasing will raise demand for manmade products that will eventually fill a land fill.
Sometimes I want to forget everything I’ve learned about human exploitation and live my life as I lived it before. But I don’t. I can’t.
Sometimes I want to succeed. But I fail. But I keep trying. And sometimes I find myself at peace with the fact that sometimes trying is what matters.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Sunday Is Here
I had the privilege of sitting beside Griffin and behind Amelia at church yesterday. Spread over two pews, Dad, Dana, Finley, Mom (when she wasn’t at the piano), Griffin, Amelia, and I attended Easter services together at Antioch Baptist Church. I loved seeing Amelia’s beautiful smile extending from her pretty little dress and helping Griffin stand on the pew beside me so that he could follow along with the hymns. I loved seeing them walk confidently down the aisle to the children’s sermon and triumphantly back to their seats with Easter bunnies of candy and children’s worship packets.
Griffin didn’t use his worship packet, though. He made sure he knew where his bunny was at all times, but he didn’t choose to color during the sermon. Instead, he sat and listened. And when we got to a part in the sermon when the pastor shared some of the events of Jesus’ life on Good Friday and said, “It’s Friday…” and we were supposed to respond with, “But Sunday is coming,” Griffin said it with everyone else—over and over again...until he whispered to me, “Dee. Why do we keep saying Sunday is coming?”
As best as I could in a whisper in the middle of a momentarily interactive sermon, I explained that on Good Friday Jesus was killed but that on Sunday he came back. That on Friday, a whole bunch of bad things happened but on Sunday a bunch of good things happened.
Griffin said, “So today is Friday?”
I thought, “That is what we keep hearing and sort of saying.”
I said, “No, baby. Today is Sunday. Today we’re celebrating that Jesus is alive. Sunday is already here.”
A moment later, Griffin said, “Dee. Are talking about Jesus or God or both?”
I thought, “That’s a heavy weight question that people spend their lives trying to understand.”
I said, “Both. Jesus is God’s son.” I chose not to mention the Holy Spirit and/or the Trinity for the time being. After all, Griffin is only six…and this conversation did happen during worship.
Last night at supper, as all twelve of my family members were somehow comfortably crammed around the table, Griffin responded to a question of what we were all doing tomorrow by saying, “Today is Friday, isn’t it?”
Understanding his confusion, I said, “No, baby. It’s Sunday. Remember? We were saying it was Friday because of the bad things that happened to Jesus on Friday, but Sunday is already here. It’s today.”
Because dinner conversation continued while I was reminding Griffin that it was Sunday, we quickly moved on and didn’t return to the subject… but it obviously stuck with me.
Maundy Thursday. Good Friday. Lent. They are dark times on the Christian calendar. They are full of surrender and sacrifice and culminate in what I imagine to be a time of heavy stillness and numb shock—a time of having no idea where to go or to whom to turn and of wondering how the world could go on. 2000 years later, because of what we know happened on Sunday, those dark times—and all dark times—are weathered by the reality of hope, the belief in redemption, the pardon of forgiveness, and the living presence of a life-giving God.
But yesterday wasn’t Friday. Yesterday wasn’t dark. Yesterday was Sunday. Yesterday was Resurrection Day. Yesterday was Christ alive.
Yesterday was, “Friday was Friday. Dark. Ugly. Full of betrayal. Hopeless. Awful. Terrible. But today is not Friday. Today is Sunday. Sunday is here! What was dead is now alive! What was dark is now light! It’s Sunday. Resurrection Day! Now let’s celebrate. True life is here!”
Yesterday wasn’t, “It’s Friday but Sunday is Coming.” Yesterday was, “Friday was Friday. But Sunday is here!”
Had we said, “But Sunday is here,” over and over again, I imagine that Griffin would have said, “Dee, why do we keep saying ‘But Sunday is here?’” I probably still would have had to whisper the meaning of Friday and Sunday and Griffin still might have asked about Jesus and God…but…I don’t know…I think the message of “Sunday is here” is different than that of “Sunday is coming”…and I think it’s always good not to confuse a kindergartener about his days of the week .
Griffin didn’t use his worship packet, though. He made sure he knew where his bunny was at all times, but he didn’t choose to color during the sermon. Instead, he sat and listened. And when we got to a part in the sermon when the pastor shared some of the events of Jesus’ life on Good Friday and said, “It’s Friday…” and we were supposed to respond with, “But Sunday is coming,” Griffin said it with everyone else—over and over again...until he whispered to me, “Dee. Why do we keep saying Sunday is coming?”
As best as I could in a whisper in the middle of a momentarily interactive sermon, I explained that on Good Friday Jesus was killed but that on Sunday he came back. That on Friday, a whole bunch of bad things happened but on Sunday a bunch of good things happened.
Griffin said, “So today is Friday?”
I thought, “That is what we keep hearing and sort of saying.”
I said, “No, baby. Today is Sunday. Today we’re celebrating that Jesus is alive. Sunday is already here.”
A moment later, Griffin said, “Dee. Are talking about Jesus or God or both?”
I thought, “That’s a heavy weight question that people spend their lives trying to understand.”
I said, “Both. Jesus is God’s son.” I chose not to mention the Holy Spirit and/or the Trinity for the time being. After all, Griffin is only six…and this conversation did happen during worship.
Last night at supper, as all twelve of my family members were somehow comfortably crammed around the table, Griffin responded to a question of what we were all doing tomorrow by saying, “Today is Friday, isn’t it?”
Understanding his confusion, I said, “No, baby. It’s Sunday. Remember? We were saying it was Friday because of the bad things that happened to Jesus on Friday, but Sunday is already here. It’s today.”
Because dinner conversation continued while I was reminding Griffin that it was Sunday, we quickly moved on and didn’t return to the subject… but it obviously stuck with me.
Maundy Thursday. Good Friday. Lent. They are dark times on the Christian calendar. They are full of surrender and sacrifice and culminate in what I imagine to be a time of heavy stillness and numb shock—a time of having no idea where to go or to whom to turn and of wondering how the world could go on. 2000 years later, because of what we know happened on Sunday, those dark times—and all dark times—are weathered by the reality of hope, the belief in redemption, the pardon of forgiveness, and the living presence of a life-giving God.
But yesterday wasn’t Friday. Yesterday wasn’t dark. Yesterday was Sunday. Yesterday was Resurrection Day. Yesterday was Christ alive.
Yesterday was, “Friday was Friday. Dark. Ugly. Full of betrayal. Hopeless. Awful. Terrible. But today is not Friday. Today is Sunday. Sunday is here! What was dead is now alive! What was dark is now light! It’s Sunday. Resurrection Day! Now let’s celebrate. True life is here!”
Yesterday wasn’t, “It’s Friday but Sunday is Coming.” Yesterday was, “Friday was Friday. But Sunday is here!”
Had we said, “But Sunday is here,” over and over again, I imagine that Griffin would have said, “Dee, why do we keep saying ‘But Sunday is here?’” I probably still would have had to whisper the meaning of Friday and Sunday and Griffin still might have asked about Jesus and God…but…I don’t know…I think the message of “Sunday is here” is different than that of “Sunday is coming”…and I think it’s always good not to confuse a kindergartener about his days of the week .
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Broken Gardens
This morning on Facebook, I asked the question: If you could go back in time to be with Jesus on this Thursday of Holy Week, would you rather be with him when he washed feet, served "the last supper," sang a hymn before going to the garden, or prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane?
While I don’t usually publically answer my own questions—I always answer them in my head as I type them—I want to answer this one aloud.
Even though I think that having Jesus wash my feet would have made me cry and thus washed, also, my face; that sharing the Seder meal with Jesus for the last time would have been lovely and powerful and symbolic; that hearing Jesus’ singing voice would have been super-duper neat; and that if I were given an opportunity to witness any of those events then I certainly wouldn’t turn it down…if I had to choose, then I would choose to be with Jesus while he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane—not because I want to be a disciple hero and stay awake when the others go to sleep—but because I find his struggle in the garden so raw and real and passionate that it is one of the beautiful, gut-wrenching images of my life.
Earlier this morning, I received an e-mail from a dear friend. She shared with me a bit about her family and how they have influenced her life. I’d heard a bit of her story once before. We’d watched a film together on a retreat and the film hooked something deep inside her and made her weep. I vividly recall those tears and I vividly remembering my respect for her strengthening tenfold. In that moment of raw brokenness, I saw a depth of humanity that I’d not seen in her before. And when that happens to me, my respect and care for a person sky-rockets because I know just how genuine they are. I know that they feel their emotions and aren’t afraid of the ups and downs of life’s journey…and those ups and downs can be so frequent and so extreme.
Jesus was the son of God. It’s easy for us to focus on his divinity and forget his humanity. It’s easy to forget that Jesus got tired and hungry and weary and angry and needed both time with friends and time alone. It’s easy to forget that Jesus once wore diapers and had to be potty trained (or something like that). It’s easy to forget that Jesus laughed and hummed and followed customs and used manners. But Jesus was fully divine AND fully divine. And Jesus actually seemed to like his life in this world.
In Matthew 26, we read that Jesus prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.” I don’t know about you, but I hear anguish in that prayer. I hear Jesus not wanting to be arrested, beaten, and hung on a cross. I hear Jesus not wanting to leave his disciples and friends and mother. I hear it even more in John 17 when Jesus prays for his disciples…and for us. I hear this struggle…and this deep, deep love.
Just as I already respected my friend before she wept that night, I already respected Jesus and his life without this plea of anguish. But this plea—this prayer—this hope against hope—this moment of desperation—this raw cry of brokenness that ends with ultimate surrender…it makes my respect for Christ so much deeper because it helps me see the honest courage with which he faced his human life’s journey. It helps me know that I can face my journey with that same honest courage, too.
To see Jesus tired and spent. To watch him cry a weary cry. To see him surrounded by signs of life in the garden. To hear his voice praying aloud to God…that is where I would want to meet him…fully divine…fully human…and fully the man I adore.
While I don’t usually publically answer my own questions—I always answer them in my head as I type them—I want to answer this one aloud.
Even though I think that having Jesus wash my feet would have made me cry and thus washed, also, my face; that sharing the Seder meal with Jesus for the last time would have been lovely and powerful and symbolic; that hearing Jesus’ singing voice would have been super-duper neat; and that if I were given an opportunity to witness any of those events then I certainly wouldn’t turn it down…if I had to choose, then I would choose to be with Jesus while he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane—not because I want to be a disciple hero and stay awake when the others go to sleep—but because I find his struggle in the garden so raw and real and passionate that it is one of the beautiful, gut-wrenching images of my life.
Earlier this morning, I received an e-mail from a dear friend. She shared with me a bit about her family and how they have influenced her life. I’d heard a bit of her story once before. We’d watched a film together on a retreat and the film hooked something deep inside her and made her weep. I vividly recall those tears and I vividly remembering my respect for her strengthening tenfold. In that moment of raw brokenness, I saw a depth of humanity that I’d not seen in her before. And when that happens to me, my respect and care for a person sky-rockets because I know just how genuine they are. I know that they feel their emotions and aren’t afraid of the ups and downs of life’s journey…and those ups and downs can be so frequent and so extreme.
Jesus was the son of God. It’s easy for us to focus on his divinity and forget his humanity. It’s easy to forget that Jesus got tired and hungry and weary and angry and needed both time with friends and time alone. It’s easy to forget that Jesus once wore diapers and had to be potty trained (or something like that). It’s easy to forget that Jesus laughed and hummed and followed customs and used manners. But Jesus was fully divine AND fully divine. And Jesus actually seemed to like his life in this world.
In Matthew 26, we read that Jesus prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.” I don’t know about you, but I hear anguish in that prayer. I hear Jesus not wanting to be arrested, beaten, and hung on a cross. I hear Jesus not wanting to leave his disciples and friends and mother. I hear it even more in John 17 when Jesus prays for his disciples…and for us. I hear this struggle…and this deep, deep love.
Just as I already respected my friend before she wept that night, I already respected Jesus and his life without this plea of anguish. But this plea—this prayer—this hope against hope—this moment of desperation—this raw cry of brokenness that ends with ultimate surrender…it makes my respect for Christ so much deeper because it helps me see the honest courage with which he faced his human life’s journey. It helps me know that I can face my journey with that same honest courage, too.
To see Jesus tired and spent. To watch him cry a weary cry. To see him surrounded by signs of life in the garden. To hear his voice praying aloud to God…that is where I would want to meet him…fully divine…fully human…and fully the man I adore.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
On This Tuesday of Holy Week
I’ve quietly been pondering Holy Week today. It’s been the underlying thought of my hours…Christ’s journey to the cross…how one week could move so quickly from shouts of praise to shouts of hate. Without meaning for them to do so, my thoughts came into view as I opened a window to my soul while writing an e-mail yesterday. I want to share part of that message now because it’s part of my own journey to the cross:
…I like to stay informed on what's in culture and try to find points of redemption and truth wherever I can. Sometimes this reality drives me crazy because the two sides of every issue are always fighting so hard against one another.
I think that the issue of bullying is tough. Much of the really good material on bullying has been produced by groups that Southern Baptists don’t often associate with. I've wanted to use some of the material simply because it's good material--it has nothing to do with controversial issues the surface but everything to do with respecting differences and treating people with dignity and respect--but I haven't been able to use it because of associations that some would question and hold in contempt. While we, as Christians, don’t want to get labeled as bullies, we often do...and I think it's because of the tension between right/wrong, good/bad, being in this world but not of it, speaking truth while respecting differences, sharing faith and following Christ and knowing when to leave things to God...
It's sometimes hard to know how to be true to one belief system while not damning others and standing in a judgmental place of condemnation in the process (which I don't think Jesus wanted)--especially when issues of life/death, heaven/hell, saved/unsaved come into the picture--and especially when things are extreme and polarized...with violence running rampant and individualism/consumerism/feel-goodism/entitlementism (yes I realize I'm making up words) being the norm of the day.
I think maybe this is why I try to stay informed on what's out there...to try to find common ground and weed out God's truth and grace in the middle. In counseling the other day, my counselor really upset me. She said some really hard, really difficult things and I left her office very angry and very hurt. After many years of work learning not to absolutely hate myself and think myself a horrible, terrible individual by virtue of just being alive (we're all depraved sinners, right?—isn’t that what we’re taught?—that we’re worthy of nothing save for Christ?—that we’re really horrible people without Christ’s blood?), I didn't shut down, turn the pain inward, or allow it come outward in a self-harming way. Instead, I simply prayed, "God, help me to hear what it is you want me to hear in this. Help me to hear your truth, your words, and to take from this session and these feelings what you alone would have me to take." Over the past few days, I've let her words pass through my mind and sit on my heart occasionally, praying for God's wisdom and discernment each time it’s happened, and I've been able to weed out the anger and ickiness and lies and land in a place of relative peace--even though what I had to name and accept was not easy or what I'd originally believed.
I write all of that because...well...I don't know really. Maybe because every day is this journey in seeing where God is working and what God is teaching...even when it's different than what I expect--which is a lot. It's taking in all of the information and expectations and stereotypes and negativity that are thrown my way and trying to find points of goodness and redemption and love...which is where I believe Jesus was going on his journey through life that led to the cross.
…I like to stay informed on what's in culture and try to find points of redemption and truth wherever I can. Sometimes this reality drives me crazy because the two sides of every issue are always fighting so hard against one another.
I think that the issue of bullying is tough. Much of the really good material on bullying has been produced by groups that Southern Baptists don’t often associate with. I've wanted to use some of the material simply because it's good material--it has nothing to do with controversial issues the surface but everything to do with respecting differences and treating people with dignity and respect--but I haven't been able to use it because of associations that some would question and hold in contempt. While we, as Christians, don’t want to get labeled as bullies, we often do...and I think it's because of the tension between right/wrong, good/bad, being in this world but not of it, speaking truth while respecting differences, sharing faith and following Christ and knowing when to leave things to God...
It's sometimes hard to know how to be true to one belief system while not damning others and standing in a judgmental place of condemnation in the process (which I don't think Jesus wanted)--especially when issues of life/death, heaven/hell, saved/unsaved come into the picture--and especially when things are extreme and polarized...with violence running rampant and individualism/consumerism/feel-goodism/entitlementism (yes I realize I'm making up words) being the norm of the day.
I think maybe this is why I try to stay informed on what's out there...to try to find common ground and weed out God's truth and grace in the middle. In counseling the other day, my counselor really upset me. She said some really hard, really difficult things and I left her office very angry and very hurt. After many years of work learning not to absolutely hate myself and think myself a horrible, terrible individual by virtue of just being alive (we're all depraved sinners, right?—isn’t that what we’re taught?—that we’re worthy of nothing save for Christ?—that we’re really horrible people without Christ’s blood?), I didn't shut down, turn the pain inward, or allow it come outward in a self-harming way. Instead, I simply prayed, "God, help me to hear what it is you want me to hear in this. Help me to hear your truth, your words, and to take from this session and these feelings what you alone would have me to take." Over the past few days, I've let her words pass through my mind and sit on my heart occasionally, praying for God's wisdom and discernment each time it’s happened, and I've been able to weed out the anger and ickiness and lies and land in a place of relative peace--even though what I had to name and accept was not easy or what I'd originally believed.
I write all of that because...well...I don't know really. Maybe because every day is this journey in seeing where God is working and what God is teaching...even when it's different than what I expect--which is a lot. It's taking in all of the information and expectations and stereotypes and negativity that are thrown my way and trying to find points of goodness and redemption and love...which is where I believe Jesus was going on his journey through life that led to the cross.
What Do You Think?
I first met her when she was in her mother’s womb. My most vivid memory of her was when she pushed on her mom’s bladder during Church History class one night and forced out the statestion, “Pregnant woman here. May we please have a break?” A break we had so that her mom could pull herself out of her cushioned chair and waddle down the hall.
Her mom’s waddling again these days. Pregnant with a boy this time. And while we don’t have the pleasure of sitting through Church History together for this pregnancy, we do have the pleasure of seeing each other quite often and spending time with that little girl at the State Fair and the zoo and the pedicure place and the Farmer’s Market.
The last time we saw each other, my dear friend Christina, waddler though she be, mentioned that her awesome daughter Kara wanted a “real Bible”—one with “the full story of Moses.” She said they’d been having a lot of great conversations and that Kara was asking a lot of good questions. We discussed this topic a bit more and then moved to other conversation—like we always do—but the seed of Bible buying had been planted in my mind…and it sprouted yesterday on my day off.
After bringing some delicious little treats to my office staff (brown sugar topped, bacon wrapped, Ritz cracker sandwiches with crème cheese in the middle), I went to the zoo to see the bears. After seeing the bears, I went to run some errands. While running errands, I thought to myself, “Self—you should go buy Kara a Bible.” So I bought Kara a Bible, and I smiled. I had her name engraved on the front. I said a prayer of thanksgiving that I could hear her mom saying her full name in reprimand and prayer of hope that I spelled her name right. And then I delivered the Bible to Kara’s house. Kara wasn’t home, so I left the Bible with her waddling mom. I didn’t get to see Kara’s reaction to the somewhat random gift. Her mom made it even more special by insisting that I sign the front page and then gift-bagging the Bible for me.
Later last night, I sent Christina a text asking how Kara liked the Bible. The response that I got was so simply beautiful that tears filled my eyes. I received the picture at the bottom of this note, and the text simply said, “What do you think? :-)”
What do I think? I think that this image is one of the most sacred images I have ever seen…and I think that I am extremely blessed to have had the honor and privilege of giving Kara her first “real Bible.” Who knows…maybe she’ll carry it to Church History class one day.
*Note: I wrote this post on 3.29. Christina had her baby boy on 4.1. He is beautiful...and she is no longer waddling!*
May There Be Peace Within Your Soul
Today, may there be peace within your soul.
May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you be content with yourself just the way you are but may you always strive to grow deeper in wisdom and knowledge.
May you remember the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself, God, and others.
May you use the gifts you have received to bless others and may you pass on the love that has been given to you.
Today, may you let truth settle into your bones and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise, and love.
Today, may there be peace within your soul.
Today, may there be peace within your soul.
Amen.
May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you be content with yourself just the way you are but may you always strive to grow deeper in wisdom and knowledge.
May you remember the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself, God, and others.
May you use the gifts you have received to bless others and may you pass on the love that has been given to you.
Today, may you let truth settle into your bones and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise, and love.
Today, may there be peace within your soul.
Today, may there be peace within your soul.
Amen.
A Little Peaceful Moment
A couple of weeks ago, I went to a conference called, "Caring For Creation." The conference was wonderful, but it left me feeling as if I need to go live on a self-sufficient compound. Since the conference, I've done my best to stay focused on the very real world in which I live. As such, I haven't let myself fully process everything I heard. But I will share this:
On the Friday afternoon of the conference, as part of one of my workshops, I went outside and sat on a grassy hill overlooking Lake Junaluska. While lake levels were very low because of cleaning and dam maintenance, the moment was still very beautiful.
As I sat there, trying to be fully present in my surroundings, I saw two red birds, two blue birds, and one brown bird sitting in a nearby tree. Shortly after spotting the brown bird, I noticed that he/she was singing a pattern that was then repeated by another bird in another tree. The two birds continued their exchange for at least ten minutes, and it was fascinating to hear how every slight change was noticed. I hear birds singing all the time, but I’d never paid close attention to the songs or echoes or communication therein.
Later that night, I returned to that same spot. I wondered where the birds were sleeping. I watched the water blow in the wind and felt God’s spirit touching my face. I cried for just how badly we’ve messed up God’s creation. And I walked back to my room with one little poem in my head:
I heard two birds speak today.
Rhythmic echoes back and forth,
Call and response,
Till one flew away.
The end.
On the Friday afternoon of the conference, as part of one of my workshops, I went outside and sat on a grassy hill overlooking Lake Junaluska. While lake levels were very low because of cleaning and dam maintenance, the moment was still very beautiful.
As I sat there, trying to be fully present in my surroundings, I saw two red birds, two blue birds, and one brown bird sitting in a nearby tree. Shortly after spotting the brown bird, I noticed that he/she was singing a pattern that was then repeated by another bird in another tree. The two birds continued their exchange for at least ten minutes, and it was fascinating to hear how every slight change was noticed. I hear birds singing all the time, but I’d never paid close attention to the songs or echoes or communication therein.
Later that night, I returned to that same spot. I wondered where the birds were sleeping. I watched the water blow in the wind and felt God’s spirit touching my face. I cried for just how badly we’ve messed up God’s creation. And I walked back to my room with one little poem in my head:
I heard two birds speak today.
Rhythmic echoes back and forth,
Call and response,
Till one flew away.
The end.
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