wilderness spirituality: a sermon for advent (in a time of covid)

It’s Advent season again—though if I’m honest, it hardly feels like it.  This year has been so different with COVID, and the holidays don’t feel the same at all.  I miss hugging my family, and seeing my friends, and singing in church while we light candles.  Giving those things up is hard. 

In light of that, the lectionary text from Isaiah 40:1-11 (which you can and should read here) felt incredibly timely.  I’ve edited the sermon I was invited to give last weekend, and I hope the Word brings you comfort and strength. 

If you’d like to watch the worship service, including the full sermon, you can find it on Facebook HERE.

*****

Hundred years before this text in Isaiah was written, God’s people had their own kingdom: the kingdom of Israel.  It started with King Saul, and then passed to King David, who was called the “man after God’s own heart.” And God made a covenant with David that he would establish his house and his kingdom forever.  When he died, he passed the throne to his son, Solomon.  Under Solomon’s leadership, the Temple was built, the army grew, and the nation became wealthy and powerful. 

This was the height of Israel’s glory, and was a time of comfort and security.
That is the beginning of this story.
 
It has some similarities to our story, don’t you think?  Not in every way, of course.  We don’t follow the Mosaic law or have a king, but we (in the U.S.) do live in a nation that has, over time, built up great wealth and power.  Especially if you compare us with the rest of the developing world, we are very well off.  Most of us have immediate access to the things we need and want:

If we’re thirsty, we can turn on our tap and get water.

If we’re hungry, we can drive to the grocery store and get food.

If we’re cold, we can adjust our thermostats.

If we’re sick, we can see a doctor and get medicine.

If we want to worship, we can come to church.

If we’re bored, we can turn on our TVs.

If we don’t know something, we can ask Google.

And even if you don’t have these things, if nothing else you’ve found a way to access a computer or smartphone, or you wouldn’t be reading this blog right now. 
Being in a position of comfort and security and having our needs met is our “normal.”  
This is the beginning of our story.
 
Now, we know that these stories have an end, too, right?  All stories have an end.  And the end is good.

The people of Israel and Judah—God’s people in this Bible story—were promised that the rule of David’s descendants would be established forever.  And we know that centuries later, a “son of David” was born in a stable in Bethlehem to a woman named Mary and a man named Joseph.  They named him Emmanuel—which means “God with us”—and he was called the King of the Jews.  He fulfilled the covenant that God had made with King David. 
This is the end of the first Advent.  It is a good end to the story.
 
Our story has a good ending, too.  We haven’t gotten to the end yet, but we already know what it is.  The good news of Jesus’ birth wasn’t only meant to be good news just for the Jews, but for everyone.  He introduced God’s kingdom to the whole world, and we get to be part of the Church because of it.  After his death and resurrection, he promised that he will one day return—we call this the “Second Coming of Christ”—and when that happens, the Kingdom will be complete. 
That is the end of the second Advent.  It is a good end to the story. 
 
But as we all know, you can’t get to the end of a story without going through the middle.  
The middle usually kicks off with a conflict or complication—an inciting incident.  In the Star Wars story, this is when Luke Skywalker finds out his aunt and uncle have been killed and that Leia needs help.  Or in Lord of the Rings, when Frodo realizes he has the One Ring and he can’t stay in the Shire.
Something changes.  All is no longer well. 
 
Back in the days when Solomon was king, God said to him,

“If you walk before me, as David your father walked, with integrity of heart and uprightness… then I will establish your royal throne over Israel forever.”

But he also warned him,
              “If you turn aside from following me… then I will cut Israel off from the land.” (1 Kings 9)
 
Unfortunately, that is exactly what happened. 
Long story short, Solomon’s heart was turned from God… the nation split into two kingdoms—called Israel and Judah—which were both ruled by a succession of good and bad kings over many years… the prophets showed up (like Obi Wan Kenobi or Gandalf, we might say) to warn the kings to change their ways, and the kings didn’t listen… so God allowed Assyria and Babylon (neighboring kingdoms) to conquer Israel and Judah and send them into exile. 
 
They were forced into the wilderness with no more kings, no more temple where they could hope to meet God, no more wealth and security… so that what they needed to hear were the words of Isaiah many years later:

“Comfort, O comfort my people…

Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her

That she has served her term, that her penalty is paid.”

This is the middle of the story. 
 
Again, it has some faint echoes of our own story, doesn’t it? 
In this year of COVID especially, we’ve been disrupted from our “normal.”  Despite the great wealth and excess that we’re used to living in, people have lost jobs, we’ve seen family members and friends get sick or pass away, and a lot has been sacrificed. 
There has been a communal shift from comfort to discomfort, from security to anxiety.
This is a “wilderness experience” for us.  The middle of a story is always full of them. 
 
So let’s talk about the wilderness. 
When we say the word “wilderness,” what images or experiences or feelings come to mind?  
 
Some of us might have a little chill of excitement that goes up our spine when we hear it.  Maybe we’re picturing a beautiful, rugged place full of fresh air. 

 
Or some of us might be like my friend, Amanda’s, five-year-old daughter, Ava, who went out on a hike this summer in Eastern Washington—in this gorgeous landscape full of evergreen trees—and told her mom, “I don’t like nature…it has bugs!”  
 
Maybe it’s a little bit of both.  There’s part of me that longs for the wilderness, to be away from everything.  We used to go on camping trips when I was younger in the Cascade mountains in Washington (where I grew up), and I loved going hiking.  I would always take my little journal with me in my backpack next to my water bottle, and when we found a river (with the big rocks next to them like jungle gyms), I would scurry up the rocks and get out my journal and soak it all in.  Sometimes that’s where it felt like I met God, even as a kid.
I think it’s why we hear some people say, “nature is my church.”
Just this summer, my nephew, Josh, said out on a hike: “When I’m in nature I feel like I’m free.”
There is a freedom and a grounded-ness in nature… and I still get that sense of excitement in my gut every time I go into wild spaces.
 
But sometimes my head kicks in too and I know the wilderness is a dangerous place. 
What if we get lost?  
What if there are wild animals?
What if we run out of water?
Being in the wilderness can be exciting, but it also comes with risk. Our desire for comfort and security often hits a point where it starts kicking back in.  Especially when we don’t expect ourselves to be there, the wilderness can be a deeply uncomfortable and even terrifying place.      
 
But God’s people are no strangers to being in the wilderness.  There is a pattern all throughout Scripture of God calling, leading, or forcing his people into these spaces and this discomfort:

• God called Abraham out of Haran and into the desert, promising to lead him to a land that he would show him.  Talk about ambiguous! But still, Abraham went... (Genesis 12)
• Later, God called Moses through the burning bush in the wilderness to confront Pharaoh, and then used him to call the Hebrews out of Egypt and into the Promised Land—by way of forty years in the desert, which is where they received the Law that set them apart as God’s people (Exodus)
• David hid in the wilderness while he was being chased by King Saul (1 Samuel)
• The prophet Elijah fled to the wilderness to escape Queen Jezebel, and then he met God as a still, small voice in the wind on the mountain (1 Kings 19)
• The people of Israel and Judah were exiled for seventy years before they were allowed to come back to Jerusalem (Isaiah)
• John the Baptist lived in the wilderness of Judea by the Jordan river where he called people out to repent and be baptized (Matthew 3:1-6, Mark 1:4, Luke 3:2-3)
• Even Jesus was called by the Holy Spirit into the wilderness for forty days to be tempted after his baptism (Mark 1:12, Luke 4:1)
• And, Paul went out into the wilderness of Arabia for three years before starting his ministry (Galatians 1:15-17)

In the NRSV Bible translation, the term “wilderness” appears 278 times.  That’s more often than we see the word “faith” (and it doesn’t even include the times the same term is translated “desert”).  The story of the people of God is deeply embedded in the wilderness.  Why?
 
Because this is where transformation takes place.  

This is the journey that is necessary to get from the beginning of the story to the end. 
Our “wilderness experience” may not be out in nature, but it’s wilderness all the same.  The “normal” is disrupted and the hero sets out on a dangerous, but redemptive path. 
As the saying goes, “God loves you just as you are, but he doesn’t intend for you to stay that way.”  

There is a refining process that happens when we step out of our comfort zone and learn to trust God in ways that we may never have had to before. 
 
A couple years ago, my husband, Matt’s, aunt and uncle gave us a book called Rewilding the Way: Break Free to Follow an Untamed God, by Todd Wynward.  In this book, he identifies three things God’s people often find when they enter the wilderness:
 

1) An experience of limits. 
 
There’s a form of fasting involved when we go out into the wilderness because we no longer have access to the comfort and security that we’re used to.  When we get into wild spaces and away from our “normal” there are things we’re forced to do without.
  
What are you having to do without right now in this COVID wilderness season? 
What has been the hardest to sacrifice?
What have we learned that we may not really need, and what has it taught us to value?
 
2) An experience of Sabbath. 
 
Sabbath is time set aside for rest and communion with God where we take a break from all our work and anxiety and fear, and we trust that everything is in God’s control. 
Wynward writes that, “Time in the wild gives us an enforced holy rest, exposing our restlessness.”
 
When have you felt restless in this season?
How might God be allowing you or inviting you to rest or trust him?
 
3) An experience of identity formation.   
When we get pulled out of our own “kingdoms” and our sense of control, and into a wilderness experience, it becomes easy to realize how small and fragile we really are. 
We recognize the truth in what Isaiah says—that we are like grass, that we can wither and fade so easily when the breath of God blows upon us. 
We realize that life is fleeting and there is so much we are not actually in control of. 
 
But does God want us to wither and blow away?  Is that the point in all this? 
I don’t think so.  I think God invites us to realize how small we are so that we can appreciate and embrace how big he is. 
Getting out into the wilderness and away from all our distractions is where we are finally freed up to encounter and lean into a wild and powerful God.
 
This is not often a pleasant experience.  The wilderness is uncomfortable. 
The Israelites who were with Moses were so frustrated with the desert that they wanted to go back to slavery in Egypt to escape it.  The people of Judah felt abandoned in the exile because they had lost most of their identity as a nation.  We’ve likely spent most of this year echoing the psalms that David wrote in the wilderness when he said, “How long, O Lord?”  This feels painful and we don’t like it!
 
But God says, “Comfort, O comfort my people… do not fear.” 
 
If we look, we just might see the bush burning in the distance. 
If we listen, we just might hear the sound of the still, small voice that spoke to Elijah in the mountain. 

The wilderness where we experience limits and Sabbath is where God often chooses to make his presence known and to change us in the process.
 
If part of this Isaiah text sounded familiar to you at all, it’s because it shows up again later in the story.  It’s how the gospels identify John the Baptist when he preaches near the Jordan river—as the voice in the wilderness who prepares the way of the Lord. 
But notice what John does here…
He calls people out of Jerusalem, away from their place of comfort, and into the wilderness of Judea.  And that is where he says, “Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.”
Repent and embrace your new identity as people of a kingdom far greater than you could ever construct for yourselves. 

Photo credit here

If you’ve ever seen the movie, The Hobbit, there’s a scene where Bilbo Baggins is sitting with Gandalf the wizard trying to decide whether or not to set out on this dangerous quest with this odd group of dwarves. 

Gandalf tells him a story and then says, “You’ll have a tale or two of your own to tell when you come back.” 
Bilbo then asks him, “Can you promise that I will come back?” 
And Gandalf says, “No.  And if you do… you will not be the same.”
 

I think this is the secret John the Baptist knew when he called people out into Judea, and what God knew would happen to the Israelites when he sent them into exile—that they would not be the same.  There’s a point in the beginning of every story when something changes, when trials in the wilderness need to be experienced before we reach the story’s end.  So even when the journey seems long and vulnerable, take comfort, for there God says, “the glory of the Lord shall be revealed.”
 
Where might God be meeting and changing you in this uncharted territory?  What is God doing in this wilderness?  Look and listen for it… because His is the road we walk as we find our way home.

imitators of god: a sermon on faith & politics

I gave this sermon on November 1, 2020 – the Sunday before the presidential election.  Our home church (Mount Olympus Presbyterian in Salt Lake City) was doing a series on Faith and Politics and I had the privilege of closing it out.  The text came from the Apostle Paul in Ephesians 4:29-5:2. We are now post-election, but I hope the thoughts and ideas continue to remain meaningful as we engage in politics in the future!

The transcript has been edited a bit to make a better blog, but if you’d like to watch the video of the sermon in its entirety, the whole service was recorded live and can be accessed HERE via Facebook 😊 Enjoy!

*****

Some people question whether or not the church should engage in conversations about politics.  It seems a bit risky given our culture’s well-ingrained separation of church and state.  But as one wise pastor pointed out: if we can talk about something “out there” (in the world), we should talk about it “in here” (in the church)— and that includes our “secular” politics. 

Previously in this sermon series, it had been pointed out that:

(a)    Jesus was a political figure, and 

(b)    There is a difference between being “political” (engaging in societal discourse) and being “partisan” (being biased toward one group/cause or another) 

AND that no one political party or country can identify itself as the Kingdom of God.  Jesus will not be co-opted into our factions!

So the question becomes:  What does it mean as members of the Body of Christ—as citizens of the Kingdom of God—to engage faithfully in politics and political conversations today without getting sucked into the mire of it all, and how do we do that?

In Ephesians 4:29-5:2, Paul is writing to a community of believers who are struggling with division, and he offers some solid guiding principles on doing life together that I think can very much inform our discussion of Faith and Politics.  He writes:   

²⁹ Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up, as there is need, so that your words may give grace to those who hear. ³⁰ And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with which you were marked with a seal for the day of redemption. ³¹ Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together with all malice, ³² and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you. 5 ¹ Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, ² and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.

Paul actually starts this section of his letter a little further ahead by saying that, as followers of Christ, we have been taught to “put away [our] former way of life” and to “clothe [ourselves] with a new self… according to the likeness of God.”

And part of that process, he says, is by learning to control how we speak.  In verse 25, he writes,

“putting away all falsehood, let all of us speak the truth to our neighbors, for we are members of one another,” 

and then in verse 29, 

“Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up.” 

The Greek word used here that we translate “evil” is the same word that in other places describes something rotten—something that is corrosive, that breaks down, that decays.  This is speech that is hurtful.  So not only, he says, are we supposed to speak what is true, we are also supposed to speak what is loving and kind.     

I think it’s safe to say that our political discourse currently is struggling with both of these things.  

In the first place, we seem to have a war going on over what is truthful and what is not.  We’ve been bombarded with the phrase “fake news,” we have presidential debates that now require constant fact-checking, and there are endless memes and articles online and on social media that are meant to inflame one side or another get disseminated without any critical research to see whether those claims are founded or not. 

I’m not going to spend time trying to tell you what is factual and what isn’t.  But I will say that this is a caution for us to be careful and critical about what we accept as truth, and what sources we use to help us make political decisions, and especially about we quote or “repost” or share with other people. 

But it’s also not just about speaking what is true.  It’s about speaking what is kind.  It’s about what builds someone up rather than breaking them down, and our words giving grace to those who hear us. 

John Calvin wrote about this in his Institutes of the Christian Religion.  He said:

“We delight in a certain poisoned sweetness experienced in ferreting out and in disclosing the evils of others.  And let us not think it an adequate excuse if in many instances we are not lying.  For [God] who does not allow a brother’s name to be sullied by falsehood also wishes it to be kept unblemished as far as truth permits.”

Just because something we might say about someone else is true, that does not make it kind.  This is difficult, right?  Because if we are trying to live out Kingdom values in the world and trying to promote the kind of kindness and love that Christ showed us in our own communities, when someone is lying or deeply betraying those values, we want to call it out.  We want to name evil when we see it.

So is Paul saying we just let that go?  Not necessarily.  Jesus called out the Pharisees for the religious hypocrisy they were practicing in his time. 

But he also never failed to see them as human beings.  He met with them, he taught them, and he died for them as much as for us.  He continued to show love even as he spoke truth to power, which means that every time we speak politically—whether it’s a post on social media or a comment to our spouse in our living room—we need to ask ourselves what kind of language we’re using. 

Is what I’m saying meant to break you down? 

Am I saying this because I’m scared, or angry, or feeling threatened?

OR do I still recognize you as a human being that Christ died for? 

Am I still able to see the beloved image of God in you?

Paul says we’re meant to put away the things that break down unity.  But in verse 31, he also says to cut out “bitterness, wrath, anger, wrangling, slander, and malice.”

Here’s what those things mean:

• Bitterness: “A character trait that nurses a grudge, nurtures resentment, and refuses reconciliation.”
• Wrath: “To be given to fits of rage when one does not get one’s own way.”
• Anger: “That vice which makes us quick to lose our temper at any little offense.”
• Wrangling: “The readiness to shout down an opponent rather than listen to the reasons given by another, and to shout louder when one’s own argument is weaker.”
• Slander: “To curse or insult one another."
• Malice (or “wickedness”):  a general term, used here almost like “so forth,” to summarize all of these and more.

It’s easy to see these things characterizing America’s political discourse.  And it’s painful to say, but the Church has often been complicit in this.  I have been complicit in this.

This is the mire that it’s difficult not to get sucked into. 

This is the divisiveness that grieves the Holy Spirit of God. 

This is what we are to “put away” in the name of Christ.  

It may (especially in election seasons) be a daily battle… but this is the clothing of the old self and not the new self.  

So what are we supposed to “put on” in their place?  Kindness, tenderheartedness, and forgiveness: 

• Kindness:  Not just brief gestures of politeness, but the posture that God himself takes in giving without expecting things in return.  It initiates love toward others and practices love for our neighbors in the same way we love ourselves. 
• Tenderheartedness:  another word for “compassion”—to suffer with others; the posture of Jesus toward the sick, or the Good Samaritan toward the Jew on the road, that sees the needs of others as much as we see our own.  It affects whose well-being we think about as we cast our votes, whose voices we listen to over others, and who we choose to give grace to even though we disagree with them.
• Forgiveness:  the posture of Christ on the cross, of letting go of others’ sins or their “trespasses against us” for the sake of right relationship.  It frees up the space in our hearts where bitterness would otherwise reside and fester, and helps us see the other person as someone Christ died for and who is beloved by God despite our differences with them.

*Important note: needing to show compassion and forgiveness assumes that there is suffering and sin.  It assumes that the world and the people in it are broken, and that failure is a part of everyday life.  This is not a set of rose-colored glasses that expects us to be morally perfect for our own sake.

Practicing kindness and compassion and forgiveness is about being able to find unity in the midst of our brokenness.

Paul sums all of this up by saying we are to be “imitators of God” and live in love, as Christ loved us… imitators of God being built up together into the “full stature of Christ.” 

We are not God. 

In fact, my husband Matt loves the joke: “What’s the difference between you and God? God never thinks he’s you.” :P 

But we imitate God.

We forgive because we’ve been forgiven in Christ. 

We love because Christ first loved us. 

That includes the people we may see as our political enemies, and those we disagree with.

Now, imagine yourself as a small child sitting at the kitchen table. 

You are fully aware that you’re little.  Your feet don’t even hit the floor yet, which means you have a long way to go before you grow up.  But you sit there watching your parent, who’s making you breakfast.  This parent is unfailingly wise and kind, and takes care of you when you’re hurt, forgives you when you’re wrong, and teaches you how to play nice with other kids. 

You don’t know how to do all those things yet.  You lose your temper.  You get mad when your brother gets a bigger bowl of cereal, or when your sister says she wants to be the boss of the game you’ll play later.  Sometimes you think it's okay to be mean to them if they’ve been mean to you first. 

But you trust your parent, and you know that they want to teach you to be like them—to be wise and kind and loving, and able to do all the things a grown-up can do.  So after breakfast, you sneak off and play dress-up in their clothes.  You imitate them. 

You take off your dirty jacket and your mud-covered shoes, and you put on your mom’s heels, or your dad’s tie and you pretend.  You may put on way too much makeup in all the wrong places, or go stand in front of the bathroom mirror and smother your chin in shaving cream, even though at this age, there’s absolutely no point.  But you go through the motions.  You pretend and you practice and you learn… and sometimes you even see them peeking in and smiling at you. 

Photo Credit:  Shutterstock

We are like little children trying to imitate God.  We are small and impetuous, and we don’t do all the right things, but we dress up and we pretend.  And the more we pretend, the more we grow.  We will never actually reach adulthood in this life, but we love our Father, so we try.  We’ve seen what it looks like to wear kindness and compassion and forgiveness like Christ did, and we have been given full access to his closet to try things on.

C.S. Lewis points out in his book, Mere Christianity, that

“very often the only way to get a quality in reality is to start behaving as if you had it already,” 

which is why he also wrote:

“Do not waste time bothering whether you ‘love’ your neighbor; act as if you did.  As soon as we do this we find one of the greatest secrets.  When you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love them… whenever we do good to another self, just because it is a self, made (like us) by God… we shall have learned to love it a little more or, at least, to dislike it less.”

limitless grace: a sermon from matthew 18

I’ll be playing some catch-up this week, posting a few sermons I’ve gotten to preach in the last few months—which has been an absolute joy!  All of them will be edited down from full sermon to blog post, but hopefully the points will hold ;)

This one I preached in September to a small church of lovely people in Richfield, Utah.  The text was Matthew 18:21-35, which I (highly) suggest you read here.    

*****

In chapter 18, Matthew tells the story of Jesus having a conversation with his disciples about what the Kingdom of Heaven is like, and more specifically about what it means to be in relationship with other believers.  When Peter asks the question, “How many times should I forgive someone who keeps sinning against me, Jesus?  Up to seven times?” I don’t think he got the answer he was expecting.  Peter thought he was being generous.  Jesus tells him he doesn’t get it. 

“Not just seven times, but seventy-seven times.  The number isn’t what matters.  Your capacity to forgive must be limitless.  And not only that, but the consequences of not forgiving are pretty severe.”

The parable Jesus then tells—the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant—is one that I’ve struggled with a lot, not only because forgiveness is hard, but because it seems to end with a God who is ready to give us up to torture if we fail.  I don’t happen to have anyone who owes me money like the wicked servant did (that I know of), but there are people that I have struggled to forgive.  I start to ask…

Aren’t I owed an apology before I forgive someone?
Is it fair to let someone off the hook who has hurt me so many times? 
And what if I can’t do it?  What if I fail?
Will God cast me aside if I don’t have it within me to forgive?

I think the bad news is that, by ourselves, we can’t forgive.  We will always fail. 

In the Reformed tradition, we call our situation “total depravity.”  It means that without God, there is nothing in us that is not mired in sin.  It means that out of our own capacity, there is no way we can forgive as many times as is necessary—if even at all.  It is part of our own debt that we are broken and fallible human beings.   And Jesus points out exactly that in this parable.

The wicked slave owed the king 10,000 talents.  A gold talent was the most valuable coin in the Roman empire.  If a laborer or slave worked for an entire day, they would only make a coin called a denarius.  A gold talent was worth 6,000 denarii.  That means it would take that slave more than 15 years to make the equivalent of one gold talent.  And this slave owed the king 10,000 of them!  It’s more than he could make in thousands of lifetimes.  It is an unpayable debt.   It would have cost him his life.

We are in a situation where no matter how hard we work, no matter how many times we try to forgive, it will never be enough to pay off what we owe to God.

Thankfully, the parable comes with some good news first.  It doesn’t start with the king condemning the wicked slave for not showing mercy.  It starts with the king taking pity on his slave and forgiving those lifetimes worth of debt.  The good news—the news, Jesus says, that the entire Kingdom of Heaven is built on—is that God acted first.  God looked at the magnitude of our sin… our total depravity… and in the face of limitless debt, God showed us limitless grace. 

As Jesus is sitting here talking with his disciples, they don’t yet understand what that will cost… but we do.  To forgive us that debt, and to make it possible for us to have restored relationships with God and other people, Jesus paid that price with his own life.  It is a free gift of grace. That’s why when the king condemns the unforgiving slave he says, “Should you not have had mercy on your fellow slave as I had mercy on you?”  It is only in the fact that we are already forgiven that we are able to forgive others. 

Paul knows this, too, when he’s writing to the church in Ephesus.  He says:

“Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with which you were marked with a seal for the day of redemption. Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you.” (4:30-32)

And again, in Colossians (3:13):

“Bear with one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other; just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.” 

God doesn’t expect that we can do it alone—in fact, he knows that we can’t; that’s why he stepped in to make it possible.  In dying on the cross, Jesus became both the model and the means by which we are able to forgive. 

You must forgive your brother and sister from your heart, Jesus says—sincerely and completely.  This isn’t what I want to do.  But if Jesus paid my debt… he paid theirs too.  Who am I to hold onto it? 

That doesn’t make it easy.  The pain that other people cause us is still very real.  But it’s still only a few hundred denarii in the face of ten thousand talents.  It’s worth letting go so Christ can heal us and make us whole. 

I don’t know who’s on your list to forgive.  I don’t know if the ink is fresh, or if it’s been dry for a long time.  Maybe this parable feels like a comfort, or maybe it feels like a warning.  But at the end of the day, if we choose to hold on to someone else’s debt to us, we exclude ourselves from the kingdom of heaven… because in the kingdom of heaven, there are no debts.  They’ve all been paid.  It is marked only by limitless grace.  Thank you, God, for that. 

how I'm like my dog: I worry and I want things

This is our dog, Lucy.

Isn’t she adorable?  She’s a Chihuahua-mix that we rescued in 2018.  And this is what she does when she wants her belly rubbed… which is most of the time.  When we start and then stop, she paws at the air for more. She lets Matt and I hold her in our arms like a baby.  She loves to give kisses and smile and curl up between us on the bed.  And consequently, I think she’s the softest, sweetest puppy there is.  

Lucy also has severe anxieties.  We’ve taken her to trainers and vets, and she’s making slow improvements, but she still experiences “fear aggression” around new people and other dogs.  A strange knock on the door sends her into a frenzied panic – Who is it?!  What do you want?!  Why are you here?!  Worry!  Fear!  Self-preservation!  She barks and we silently (or not so silently) swear… and then spend several minutes trying to calm her down.  This part is maddening.

I am truly amazed at the range of love and frustration I can feel for this tiny creature on any given day.  

I actually talked about Lucy’s anxiety once in a sermon I gave in grad school.  It was on Psalm 46:10, where God says, “Be still, and know that I am God!”  I wondered if the desperate desire I have for Lucy to settle down and trust that I have things under control and that she will be fine is how God feels about me on a regular basis.  And the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that that’s true.  Turns out I might be just like my dog. 

I’m a lot more needy and helpless than I like to admit.  I crave security and belonging.  I want to be hugged and loved and taken care of.  And especially in this season—both communally, as we’re in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, and personally, as Matt and I are in limbo looking for jobs—I worry a lot about what’s coming next and what our future holds.  I want to sit patiently in God’s lap, and I also panic at the absence of so many answers.

Obviously, there are some major issues with the metaphor here: 

1. I know my “belovedness” to God is far deeper and more unconditional than anything I could feel for a dog (even a cute one),
2. I’d like to think my big concerns are more aligned with living a Christ-centered life than just panicking at whoever walks in the front door, and
3. I don’t believe that God ever wants to secretly drop-kick me across the room like a fuzzy football when I’m throwing a fit.    

But case in point:  we’ve been living in Ellensburg for a year now.  We moved into my parents’ house after we sold our condo in Seattle and wrapped up most of our classes at Fuller and SPU.  We planned on staying for six months and building a tiny house.  Long story short, God had other plans for us.  No tiny house yet, no kids yet, and no jobs yet.  And through it all, I am like Lucy:  simultaneously relishing this safe, restful space and frantic to ward off all major fears and future concerns.

I worry about wasting time and where we’ll move and when we’ll have kids. 

I worry about getting sick and paying bills and how long it’ll be before I can start my chaplaincy internship and be eligible for ordination. 

I want peace of mind and stability, but also novelty and meaning. 

It all feels messy and disorganized and out of my control. 

Ironically (providentially?), I just read Matthew 6 the other morning where Jesus tells the crowds:  “Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? … Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring enough worries of its own.  Today’s trouble is enough for today.”  It’s a hard pill to swallow, and I pray for it to be true in my life.

This isn’t a post where I wrap up with simple answers, though.  I do believe that sanctification in Christ means moving toward greater trust and assurance, but I still feel a daily oscillation between “the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding” (Phil. 4:7) and “How long, O Lord!?” (Ps. 13:1). 

I don't know what's coming next, or when.  I hate having to sit in what feels like liminal space.  But if there's anything this season has taught me, it's that sometimes life's lemons come at you quicker than a frightened Chihuahua off the living room couch and you just can't predict what comes next.  Maybe for now it's enough to look at myself like I do at Lucy:  with a small shake of the head, but a whole lot of love and grace, realizing that I've got a long way to go but I'm well taken care of and somehow... it'll all be okay in the end.  (And if it's not okay, it's not the end.)

a decade in print: top 10 from the 2010s

As I was finishing up my “Top 10 Reads of 2019” post, Matt suggested that I should do a favorites list from the whole decade—just for fun, of course (he knows me so well).

Typically, one might expect it would be difficult to even remember all the books they’ve read in the last 10 years… but being the type of person who loves both reading and keeping lists of things, I started writing down—in both chronological and alphabetical order—all the books I’d ever finished starting in 2009!  A bit embarrassing actually, but the nerd in me secretly relishes having this gargantuan list of books to look back on (exactly 270 of them, to be precise).

Long story short, these are some of my favorite reads of all time.  Please enjoy!

1.  The Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling

“Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”

I read these when I was a kid and over again as an adult… still just as good.  They probably don’t need a lot of intro or explanation other than to say that while the movies are phenomenal, the books are still reams better.  Read them if you haven’t yet!  They’re quick and delightful and will make you want a real life grown-up wand and an invisibility cloak to match.  Also, if it seems like cheating to pick a whole series for a Top 10 list… well, too bad, it’s my list and you can make your own ;)

2.  The Lord of the Rings trilogy, by J.R.R. Tolkien

“…all we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

For similar reasons, I couldn’t not put these on the list.  LOTR will be one of my favorite book and movie series of all time for as long as I live.  I’m a huge fantasy geek and I think Tolkien was brilliant (The Hobbit is wonderful as well).  Again, these are great to read even if you’ve seen the movies.  Thoughtful, entertaining, imaginative… sometimes going on an epic other-worldly adventure is just what you need after a few days in the real world, amiright?

3.  The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho

“Remember that wherever your heart is, there you will find your treasure.”

I’ve read The Alchemist three times, and each time I’ve like it better than the last.  It’s about a shepherd boy from Andalusia, Spain who goes in search of a great treasure he believes lies buried near the Pyramids in Egypt.  Throughout his journey he encounters remarkable friends and ideas that point him in a direction he least expects.  Though not a Christian novel, Coehlo utilizes Biblical concepts and undertones that give an incredible depth to the story.  It scratches at the meanings of life hidden under the surface of our everyday experience.    

4.  The Story of God, the Story of Us, by Sean Gladding

“Life is hard.  We know that.  And that is why we must tell each other the Story, and keep telling it, to do exactly what God has continually told us to do:  remember… remember… remember.”

I know few people who have read the Bible the entire way through (though I would recommend that, too, if you have a chance!).  But in this book, Sean Gladding reminds us of the way Biblical stories used to be told—over a campfire or around a table, where family and friends share their shared heritage with one another.  He tells the over-arching story of the Bible from the eyes of those who lived it, whether in the Babylonian exile or in small house churches in the Roman Empire.  It is a well-written, highly accessible narrative of the whole story:  the story of God and of the people who continue to encounter Him.    

5.  The Ragamuffin Gospel, by Brennan Manning

“My deepest awareness of myself is that I am deeply loved by Jesus Christ and I have done nothing to earn it or deserve it.”

This is one of those books that came at just the right time in my life.  Brennan Manning, a recovering alcoholic and former Franciscan priest, writes in a way that brims with vulnerability and grace.  He shares his experiences and reflections on what he sees as the true gospel of Jesus:  that God is not in the business of tallying our successes and failures, but is constantly reaching out with “furious love” to all of us struggling “ragamuffins” who continue to need his help despite our best efforts.

6.  The Me I Want to Be, by John Ortberg

“The main measure of your devotion to God is not your devotional life. It is simply your life.”

This book found me shortly after college, as I was just starting in ministry and learning what it means to be an adult out on my own.  I read it with a beloved mentor of mine, and it helped me process who I am rather than who I felt I was supposed to be.  Turns out it’s pretty scary and vulnerable to shed the façade of being a “good Christian” in favor of surrendering ourselves to the One who makes us fully human.  I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but Ortberg gives his readers plenty of insight into God’s love and encouragement to keep trying. 

7.  The Great Divorce, by C.S. Lewis

“There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, in the end, ‘Thy will be done.’  All that are in Hell, choose it.  Without that self-choice there could be no Hell.  No soul that seriously and constantly desires joy will ever miss it.  Those who seek find.  To those who knock it is opened.”

This book is C.S. Lewis’s fictional story of a man who travels on a bus from Hell to Heaven, and discovers their distinction in the process.  In characteristic Lewis style, it is a clever and theologically weighty narrative that portrays Hell as “locked from the inside” by those who wish to keep themselves separated from God and others, while those in Heaven encounter what is really real—the fullness of joy and light and becoming.  The characters are sharp, the imagery is beautiful, and the implications are meant to be wrestled with for a long time. 

8.  Why Marriages Succeed or Fail: and How You Can Make Yours Last, by John Gottman

“If there is one lesson I have learned from my years of research it is that a lasting marriage results from a couple’s ability to resolve the conflicts that are inevitable in any relationship.”

Matt and I read this book in our second year of marriage, and we’ve recommended it to many, many other couples since.  It’s been the most helpful and rewarding of all the books on marriage that we’ve read thus far—primarily because it deals with how couples engage in conflict.  Gottman, who has done 20+ years of research on marital intimacy and longevity, helps his readers identify their “conflict style”—from avoidant to validating to volatile—noting that any of these can be healthy so long as the couple maintains a 5:1 ratio of positive to negative interactions.  He also explains the behaviors and assumptions that can lead to disaster over time.  Well worth the read even if you’ve been married for years, and especially if you’ve just tied the knot!     

9.  The Nightingale, by Kristin Hannah   

“Men tell stories… women get on with it.  For us it was a shadow war.  There were no parades for us when it was over, no medals or mentions in history books.  We did what we had to during the war, and when it was over, we picked up the pieces and started our lives over.”

This one is a repeat from my “Top 10” of 2018 (posted here), so I won’t go into much more detail.  Suffice it to say the story has left a lasting impression on me, and I’m grateful to have been given a glimpse (albeit a historically fictional one) into the bravery and commitment of women in World War II and the lessons they learned.  Still a page-turner and an all-time favorite.

10.  East of Eden, by John Steinbeck

“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.”

I read Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men back in high school, but hadn’t picked up this classic until a few years ago when it was chosen by our book club.  Consequently, I highly suggest finding a friend or two to read it with because getting to talk about the character complexity and story arc with other people brought out so much more from the book than I would have experienced on my own.  The plot is essentially a modern, multi-generational exploration of the Cain and Abel story from Genesis set in California in the mid-1900s, and it is fascinating.  I underlined in the book, wrote notes and questions in the margins, and loved getting to mull over its intricate themes. 

 

Just making this list made me want to go re-read several of these books all over again.  They’ve stayed on my shelf for that very reason.  If you manage to read (or have already read) any of them, I’d love to hear your thoughts!  And, as always, other recommendations from your own “favorites list” are more than welcome.  Happy reading!

"The more that you read, the more things you will know.  The more that you learn, the more places you'll go."  -Dr. Seuss