midway between heaven and earth: a sermon from psalm 8

If you’ve never been to Utah before, here is my shameless plug that you should come visit.  Seriously.  Northern Utah, southern Utah—it doesn’t matter.  You either get incredible mountains or gorgeous red rock canyons.  It’s all beautiful.  See for yourselves:

Lake Blanche in the Wasatch Mountains

Angel's Landing in Zion National Park

This is our second time living in Salt Lake City; and while I miss Washington and everyone in it so much, it’s always a treat to be less than 20 minutes from 4 different ski resorts and 30+ different hiking trails.  And it’s in that context that when I was invited to preach at First Presbyterian Church in Logan, I chose Psalm 8 as the text for the sermon.  I’ve edited it a bit (writing and speaking have their differences), but here was the Word for the day…
 

*****

 
If you were to take a Bible and flip it open right down the middle, odds are that you would probably land yourself in the book of Psalms.  This book is a wide collection of poems, songs, histories, and laments that the people of Israel used in their worship.  It is basically the prayer book of Judeo-Christian tradition.
 
There are several different forms of psalms in this book, but one of the most predominant (along with prayers for help) are hymns of praise.  And the first of these praise hymns that we find in the book is Psalm 8 (also called a creation hymn), which goes a little something like this:
 
¹ O Lord, our Sovereign,
              how majestic is your name in all the earth!
 
You have set your glory above the heavens.
²             Out of the mouths of babes and infants
you have founded a bulwark because of your foes,
              to silence the enemy and the avenger.
 
³ When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
              the moon and the stars that you have established;
⁴ what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
              mortals that you care for them?
 
⁵ Yet you have made them a little lower than God,
              and crowned them with glory and honor.
⁶ You have given them dominion over the works of your hands;
              you have put all things under their feet,
⁷ all sheep and oxen,
              and also the beasts of the field,
⁸ the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea,
              whatever passes along the paths of the seas.
 
⁹ O Lord, our Sovereign,
              how majestic is your name in all the earth!
 
When we look at this psalm, there are two important poetic features we should take into account to start.  Why?  Well, because I’m a nerd who finds the technical literary aspects of Scripture fascinating (and this is my blog so I can call attention to whatever I want 😉).
 
But more importantly, it’s because understanding some of the elements of Hebrew poetry in the Psalms can give us not only a deeper appreciation for how beautiful they are, but also insight into what the psalmist was trying to convey in the poem itself.  And that can help us interpret the significance and meaning of the psalm for our time and place.  
 
So, poetic device #1: the inclusio. 
 
Psalm 8 starts with an emphatic shout-out of praise to God:
              “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”
 
And (you may have noticed) this is the same way the psalm ends.  Verse 9 repeats:
              “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”
 
This repetition is a handy device in Hebrew poetry called an inclusio.  What it means is that the first and last verses “include” or “bookend” the rest of the text.  So the whole poem begins and ends—and contains—praise for the majesty of God “in all the earth.”
 
Notice the psalm doesn’t just say “in all of Israel.”  It says, “in all the earth.”  This stakes the claim that Yahweh (who is called “the God of Israel”) isn’t just the God of one nation, but the God of all the nations.  He isn’t just one God among many that deserves praise, but the only God—the Creator God, the Lord, the one who rules over everything that has been made from “above the heavens” to “whatever passes along the paths of the seas.”  Look out the window at whatever landscape surrounds you.  The God who created that is the God we’re praising in this psalm.   
 
Here in Salt Lake City, I can see the Wasatch Mountain range right outside my door.  Just two weeks ago, I was on top of Grandeur Peak with a 360-degree view in every direction.  We miss that beauty most of the time—take it for granted, even—but the ways in which creation echoes the majesty of God is exactly what the psalmist is calling attention to in this psalm.  It’s so important that he (or she) says it twice, at both the beginning and end of the song: “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!” 
 

View of Mt. Olympus & Salt Lake City from Grandeur Peak

In between this inclusio, there are many other themes that the psalm highlights…

There’s the creation language of “heavens and earth” that reminds us of Genesis 1 and 2.
There’s the royal language of “Sovereign” and “majesty” that establishes God’s rule over the earth.
There’s the role of humans in having dominion over that earth and the works of God’s hands.
 
But without looking at the poetry of the psalm, we could miss another important clue into what the focus of the psalm is in the midst of these themes.  Which brings us to…
 
Poetic device #2: the chiasm. 
 
A “chiasm” is a second form of repetition in Hebrew poetry that’s used for clarification and emphasis in a text.  The term is based on the Greek letter “chi,” which looks like an X.  And what it means is that somewhere in the text there is a central “inversion point” where we can read what’s been written in the text thus far… then somewhere in the middle it hits that central point… and then the text begins to reflect (or repeat) itself backwards with the same concepts as before but in opposite order… until what you’re left with is a mirror image of the beginning.  The two halves are symmetrical—and it draws attention to what’s going on in the center (almost like an hourglass). 

When we look at this form in Psalm 8, take a look at what we find directly in the center:
 
V. 1: The majesty of God (“O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”)

Vv. 2-3:  Elements of God’s creation (“the mouths of babes and infants… the moon and stars.”)

Vv. 4-5:  The glory of humans (“What are human beings… a little lower than God.”)

Vv. 6-8:  Elements of God’s creation (“the beasts of the field… the birds of the air.”)

V. 9: The majesty of God (“O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”)
 
It’s us.  We find us. 
 
In the midst of the magnitude of God’s glory and all of creation, the psalmist points us directly inward and begs the question:  Who are we? 
 
Who are we, God, that you would think of us, much less care about us?  
“What are human beings that you are mindful of them?”
 
Truthfully, humans are like tiny specks of dirt in the middle of the vast and wild universe.  We have very breakable bodies, and an almost insignificant lifespan in the context of history.  And, if we’re honest, we’re a little bit of a mess at least some (if not most) of the time.  There is plenty of reason for us to have no more value than any other living thing God created.
 
And yet… we stand at the very center of God’s creation, having been made “just a little lower than God, and crowned… with glory and honor.”  Midway between heaven and earth.  A little lower than God and with all creation under our feet.
 
We start and end this psalm by giving glory to God, and yet what we find is that, for some unfathomable reason, God has given it back to us.  One of the reasons I love this psalm so much is that it strikes at the core of our human identity—our relationship with God and the rest of the world.
 
So, what does that mean then?  What does it mean for how we’re intended to be in the world?
What does it look like to “have dominion” over the works of God’s hands?
How do we recognize each other as having been crowned with God’s glory and honor… especially if we’re different from one another, or don’t agree with what the other believes? 
 
If there is one thing that this psalm reminds us, it’s that God is Sovereign over all of creation, but that he has also set us in the center of it and that what we do with that unique position matters.  
 
The problem with being the broken human beings that we are is that we’ve had a tendency to take this glorified role and abuse it.  Our “dominion” has turned into control and exploitation rather than the love and care and stewardship that it was intended to be.  We see this in our relationships—in the ways humans constantly fight with one another.  And we see this in the way we’ve mistreated the rest of creation and we are now finding ourselves in an environmental climate crisis.  We clearly have not lived up to the honor and dignity that this role assumes.
 
Sometimes I just want to throw my hands up and say, “I don’t know, God… I don’t know how we can make such a mess of things.  I read this psalm of praise and I’m baffled by it.  Remind me again… What are human beings that you are mindful of them?” 
 
You and I may not feel powerful, but this psalm reminds us that we are in the midst of the praise of God (in the middle of the inclusio) and at the center of creation (the crossroads of the chiasm).  We have been gifted a ridiculous amount of power for good and evil in this world… but how do we stand in that holy place in the way that God intended?
 
In verses 5 and 6, the psalm says:

“YOU have made humans a little lower than God,

and crowned them with glory and honor. 

YOU have given them dominion over the works of your hands;

YOU have put all things under their feet.”

 
What this tells us is that before we can even consider the work that is ours to do in the world, we have to consider the One who gave us that work in the first place. 
 
Before we can stand in right relationship to one another and the rest of creation, we have to stand in right relationship with our Creator.   
 
He is the one who has crowned us with glory and honor and calls us “Beloved.”
 
If we don’t know where we stand with God…what our identity is as his Beloved… and what our worth truly is in his eyes, we will abuse the rest of creation trying to define that worth for ourselves.  If we try to determine our identity from anything less than God, our concern becomes how those people and things serve our need, and not the other way around. 
 
But, as this psalm says, when we recognize that our identity and glory comes from God, we can humbly receive it.  We can stand in this place that’s midway between heaven and earth, and we can reflect that glory and honor out into the rest of the world and say, “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”   

Amen to that.  

Photo credits:  Lake Blanche (here) and Angel's Landing (here)

lessons i learned in cpe: #3. it's okay to acknowledge pain

       My CPE (i.e., chaplaincy) unit at St. Mark’s Hospital ended a month ago.  It’s amazing how much time has already flown by.  That said, I’m pretty sure these “lessons” I learned in the process will stay with me for the rest of my life.  Some of them are harder than others, and they may resonate with you or not—it’s okay either way. 
 
For previous posts, please see:

Lessons I Learned in CPE:  #1. Everyone Has a Story 

Lessons I Learned in CPE:  #2. Everyone Deserves to Tell Their Story

 
Here is my lesson #3…
 
It’s okay to acknowledge pain.
 
Physical pain.  Emotional pain.  Psychological and relational and spiritual pain.  Even cultural and historical pain.  They exist and they matter.
 
If I pricked you with a needle, you’d feel it—and it wouldn’t be pleasant.  That’s because you’re a human being in a surprisingly resilient, but also squishy and mortal body.  And you can’t always control what happens to that body. 
 
The same is true with your mind and emotions.  Sure, you have the power to respond to the thoughts and feelings that crop up in day-to-day life, but you can’t always control when and how those thoughts and feelings arise in the first place.  They just do.  And many of life’s experiences are painful.  Some of them are even traumatic. 
 
“Trauma” is the Greek word for “wound.”  It refers to physical injury to the body, but can also be used to describe other types of woundedness.  For example, verbal abuse from a parent can cause psychological trauma to a child.  Or rejection by one’s religious community can amount to spiritual trauma for a person of faith.  We may think of “trauma” as a too strong a word for most circumstances (I certainly did before this experience), but it happens to apply to a lot of situations, and rightly so.  Traumatic experiences, big or small, have the ability to embed themselves in our lives in ways that can affect us years down the road.  If you can remember a painful comment someone said about you fifteen years ago, that remark was traumatic.  It stayed with you.  And it deserves to be acknowledged and healed.

Let me be clear:  if I could flip a magic “off” switch and never again experience pain, I would.  Who wouldn’t?  But we can’t.  We might try—and, in fact, I think most of the time we do try—but I don’t think it’s helpful in the long run.  In fact, I’m convinced that denying our pain and pretending everything is fine is inevitably damaging, for at least three reasons:
 
First, it doesn’t actually reflect true human experience.  Everyone feels pain, period.  Denying it robs us of the opportunity to connect with this facet of our shared humanity.  Our particular pain is unique, but the experience of pain is universal… and it may as well be something that brings us together.
 
Second, we often use coping mechanisms to numb our pain, and the effects of those strategies eventually wear off.  You finish all seven seasons of the show you’ve been binge-watching.  You hit the bottom of the ice-cream container.  You can only give 110 percent at work for so long before you run out of steam.  Even the “good” distractions (like compulsive exercise or volunteering) have their limits, and the more sinister ones can lead to serious addiction and behavioral health struggles.  I became even more aware in CPE that my strongest coping mechanisms have historically been self-criticism and perfectionism.  Like I said: it’s a universal struggle and we all have our weaknesses.  But they’re no real substitute for addressing pain head on.
 
Third, as Franciscan priest and author Richard Rohr has masterfully observed, “If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it—usually to those closest to us.” [1]  This can be a hard truth to swallow.  We like to think of pain as something we can conquer or deal with by ourselves without having it affect others… but unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that.  
 
We wouldn’t tell someone with cancer to ignore the doctors, avoid chemo, and figure out how to resolve it on their own.  It would only get worse.  An illness needs to be diagnosed and treated for healing to happen.  The same is true for other forms of pain: if they aren’t acknowledged and transformed, they can fester.  Suppressed pain has the potential to lead to fear, mistrust, exhaustion, isolation, and aggression.  Despite our best intentions (including “not wanting to burden” other people), these are not a recipe for healthy relationships.  Instead, we end up unintentionally transferring that pain to the people around us—including our spouses and family members, our co-workers and neighbors, our friends, and our children. 
 
Even grief over loved ones is not something we just “get over.”  I visited with patients who shed tears talking about family members who passed away decades ago.  It isn’t because they were weak; it’s because those losses were traumatic, and they didn’t often feel permission to talk about them.   
 
I’m not suggesting that acknowledging pain makes it go away.  But hiding it will make it linger, and can even let it grow.  Alternatively, bringing it out of the shadows can invite our pain into a space of compassion and restoration.  We don’t have to “go it alone” or “sweep it under the rug.” (We all know those were never great solutions to start.) 
 
This lesson left me with two lingering questions:  Can I see whatever pain I might be holding on to?  And what would it take for me to bring it to light?  

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[1] Transforming Pain — A Daily Meditation by Fr. Richard Rohr (cac.org) 

lessons i learned in cpe: #2. everyone deserves to tell their story

This is the second “installment” in a series of reflections, or lessons, from my experience in hospital chaplaincy.  For the intro post, please see Lessons I Learned In CPE:  #1. Everyone Has a Story, which leads to lesson #2…
 
Everyone deserves to tell their story.
 
Before CPE even started, two of the long-essay questions on the application had me reflecting on my own story—both spiritually and in life in general.  In keeping with Lesson #1, it’s amazing how much there is to tell when you begin sharing about your life.  The sad part is that most people rarely get that opportunity (at least not in a very real and vulnerable way). 
 
In a time of social media showcasing, we often like to put on our happiest and most successful faces, both online and in person.  When’s the last time someone asked, “How’s it going?” and you felt the courage (or the gnawing compulsion) to admit, “This week’s been really shitty.”?  For many of us, it doesn’t happen all that often. 
 
It’s easier, and far less threatening, to pretend to have everything together and stick to surface-level conversations.  But not everything is flowers and rainbows, and it likely hasn’t been in the past either.  Even if you’ve mustered the strength to look at and work through some of the hard parts of your story, we’re all still shaped—for better or worse—by what’s happened to us and the choices we’ve made.  Context always matters. 
 
The truth is, though, that being able to tell someone about how you’re really feeling, or open up about the tough parts of your past, or process through something that you’ve been struggling with is incredibly healing.  A former mentor once said, “it’s like taking out the trash”—you get to physically release it from your body.  And even if the problem isn’t solved, you often feel better after. 
 
The caveat to this is that people aren’t always kind in response.  Not everyone will be trustworthy with your vulnerability.  Most people still need to earn the right to hear your story.  I was amazed at what people were willing to tell me (a complete stranger) as I sat with them in a hospital room.  Maybe it was because I wasn’t in a position to judge or try to “fix” them, just to hold space for their stories as they told them (case in point:  I once had a woman share with me for an hour and a half, and I hardly had to say a word).  Or maybe they had a lack of others willing to listen compassionately in their actual lives (not that people didn’t care, but perhaps they assumed they already knew, or didn’t have the time, or had trouble hearing without judgment).  There’s no way to know for sure, but still… food for thought.
 
In any case, my point of encouragement to you:  consider your own story and how it’s shaped you, practice sharing it with others (it is truly a gift), and learn to love yourself as the protagonist.  No interesting hero is perfect, and neither will you be, but it’s still your story and you deserve to tell it. 
 
And also:  be the type of person who is willing to listen to someone else’s story.  You don’t have to judge or fix… just listen.  The depth of their experience could astound you, and more importantly, you have no idea what it could mean to them.

lessons i learned in cpe: #1. everyone has a story

“Clinical Pastoral Education” (i.e., “CPE”) is a fancy name for a formal internship as a hospital chaplain.  It involves 100 hours of educational training—including group learning, written reflections, and one-on-one supervision—and 300 hours of clinical training on-site at a hospital with patients and staff. 
 
In my PC(USA) denomination, it’s a required program for any pastor hoping to be ordained as a Minister of the Word and Sacrament.  Why?  Because part of a pastor’s job is to offer spiritual care and support to church members who are experiencing crisis, whether that’s illness, the passing of a loved one, marital difficulties, job stress, loss of a home, parenting struggles, spiritual turmoil—you name it.  And that kind of care is hard.  Harder than you might think. 

St. Mark's Hospital (photo credit here)

I started my CPE program in January and finished at the end of April.  Most of my clinical hours involved either knocking on patients’ doors and offering to visit, or responding to traumas and hospital deaths in my overnight on-call shifts.  In those four short months, I encountered so much pain, suffering, and grief, and many resilient human beings.  And alongside all of that came an incredible amount of personal growth. 

 
In the spirit of reflection (which we newbie interns so often practiced in our small group), I thought I’d share some of the lessons I learned in this CPE process.  And because this could turn into a massively long post all-in-one, I decided to split them up over the next couple of weeks.  I hope that whether you’re in pain yourself, or in a position to support someone who is, you find some of these lessons as meaningful as I did, starting with…
 
Everyone has a story.
 
People enter the hospital from all walks of life:
Behind door #1 could be a white, middle-age, upper-class, Latter Day Saint woman who was just diagnosed with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. 
Behind door #2 could be a Polynesian, evangelical, 40-year-old man with pneumonia. 
Behind door #3 could be a mixed-race, gay, 20-something who’s “spiritual, but not religious,” and is detoxing from a heroin overdose… or a teenage girl who just tried to commit suicide… or a 63-year-old former vet who’s experiencing homelessness… or a mom of three with terminal cancer.
 
Some of these people have supportive families, and some don’t.  Some have great medical insurance, and some don’t.  Some grew up in abusive families.  Some have lost their kids or grandkids, or a spouse, or a sister, or a parent.  Some pray to Jesus, and some pray to Allah.  Some are conservative, some are liberal, and some are sick of politics altogether.  Some have traveled the world, and some had just enough money to buy a bus ticket from Alabama looking for work in a pandemic.
 
Before you walk in a room, you just don’t know.  And if I saw these same people on the street, I wouldn’t have a clue.  But if there’s one thing I learned from CPE, it’s that everyone has a story.  Every random person you see in your daily life—from your next-door-neighbor to the woman bagging your groceries—has had some unbelievable things happen to them, and they still had the courage to get out of bed in the morning. 

This applies to you, too.  You are more complex than anyone else knows.  There are moments in your life that have been wonderful, and others that have sucked abysmally.  Congratulate yourself (and someone else) every so often.  The paths that wander through life are hard, and each of us is walking our own as best we can, one step at a time. 

birds and bells

I sat in bed this morning with my journal to have some quiet time with Jesus.  This has become a healthy habit for me over the last several years—something a mentor of mine recently likened to “taking out the garbage,” or letting the emotional clutter escape the body into prayer on a page.  That image works for me.  And I’ve had plenty of clutter lately to think about, like nearing the end of my CPE internship at the hospital… writing my final evaluation… prepping to teach an upcoming Sunday School class… planning a trip to Washington soon to see my family for the first time in nearly a year… among many other, smaller things.
 
As I opened the blank pages, I had a random song stuck in my head—one from a movie I watched days ago that wasn’t exactly conducive to quiet, reflective moments (it’s always the worst ones that get stuck on a loop).  I grabbed my phone off my nightstand and found the Peaceful Hideaway playlist on Spotify to quiet the mental clamor.  That oughta help.
 
Slow piano tunes mixed with birdsong began to play softly.  I lifted my pen, creased the journal pages open, and flipped my devotional book to the scripture for today.   
 
It took me a second to realize that I was now hearing bird chirping not just from the phone to my left, but also through the window to my right.  I reached over to pause the music and peaked through the cracked blinds.  Sure enough, several tiny birds sat on top of the bushes outside, chattering up a storm.  Birds from further away chattered back.  I hadn’t noticed at all until now.
 
Then bells rang in the distance.  I have no idea which nearby church they echoed from.  I glanced at the clock—it was 9 AM—and I listened to the bells.  I couldn’t believe I’d never heard them before.  Why hadn’t I heard them before?
 
I looked down at the text in front of me.  “…with minds alert and fully sober…”
 
There it was.  Heavy on the clutter, missing the alert. 
Pretty simple, actually:  I didn’t hear because I wasn’t listening.  I was distracted.
 
We’ve lived in this apartment now for eight months, and I’ve never once heard those bells.  Apparently, I’ve had other things on my mind.  The TV has provided background noise.  My brain has routinely glazed over looking at my phone screen.  In and out of these walls, life runs along in a perpetual state of diversion and thinking about “the next thing.”  Presence and paying attention are oft-neglected virtues.

I took three deep breaths while the bells faded out and the birds chirped on.  Those simple sounds were good for my soul.  How many other unassuming, yet God-given moments was I missing on a daily basis?  I live in a spacious world, but regularly only occupy the portion of it that exists between my ears—and that area gets cramped quickly.   

 
I copied the words into my journal: “with minds alert and fully sober.”  At 32 years old, I hope I have a lot more life to live… but heaven help me, the time goes by fast, and I rarely inhabit the moment I’m actually in.  I’m more anxious than alert, more distracted than engaged.  The future comes sooner than expected and the past gets blurry. 
 
There’s no way to change the time that has already come and gone.  But perhaps a prayer for today will suffice:  God, help me to see, hear, feel, and appreciate the abundant gifts you offer—the birds, the bells, and everything else—rather than miss those little moments of grace simply because I'm too distracted to pay attention.

the passion of christ: a sermon for good friday

The story that we remember each year on Good Friday is the story of Christ’s death—the transition in Holy Week from the celebration of Palm Sunday and the intimacy of Maundy Thursday to the abandonment and suffering of God on the Cross on Good Friday.

It is a familiar story, but one that should never become so familiar that we’re incapable of being moved by it again… and again…and again.  So, this year, consider again the story of Christ for us and for you, from the Gospel of Mark, chapter 15, verses 16-39 after Pilate has just given Jesus over to be crucified: 
 
The Soldiers Mock Jesus
¹⁶ Then the soldiers led him into the courtyard of the palace (that is, the governor’s headquarters); and they called together the whole cohort. ¹⁷ And they clothed him in a purple cloak; and after twisting some thorns into a crown, they put it on him. ¹⁸ And they began saluting him, “Hail, King of the Jews!” ¹⁹ They struck his head with a reed, spat upon him, and knelt down in homage to him. ²⁰ After mocking him, they stripped him of the purple cloak and put his own clothes on him. Then they led him out to crucify him.

The Crucifixion of Jesus
²¹ They compelled a passer-by, who was coming in from the country, to carry his cross; it was Simon of Cyrene, the father of Alexander and Rufus. ²² Then they brought Jesus to the place called Golgotha (which means the place of a skull). ²³ And they offered him wine mixed with myrrh; but he did not take it. ²⁴ And they crucified him, and divided his clothes among them, casting lots to decide what each should take.

²⁵ It was nine o’clock in the morning when they crucified him. ²⁶ The inscription of the charge against him read, “The King of the Jews.” ²⁷ And with him they crucified two bandits, one on his right and one on his left. ²⁹ Those who passed by derided him, shaking their heads and saying, “Aha! You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, ³⁰ save yourself, and come down from the cross!” ³¹ In the same way the chief priests, along with the scribes, were also mocking him among themselves and saying, “He saved others; he cannot save himself. ³² Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe.” Those who were crucified with him also taunted him.

The Death of Jesus
³³ When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. ³⁴ At three o’clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” ³⁵ When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, “Listen, he is calling for Elijah.” ³⁶ And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.” ³⁷ Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last.  ³⁸ And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. ³⁹ Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was God’s Son!”
 

*****

 
In our Presbyterian church tradition, when someone is going through the process to become an ordained pastor, one of the requirements that we have is for that person to do a unit of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE)—which, in most cases, is a very intensive internship as a hospital chaplain to learn and practice and offer pastoral care to those who are experiencing pain and crisis.  I am currently in that ordination process, and so I’ve been a part of the CPE internship at St. Mark’s Hospital in Salt Lake City for the past several months. 
 
Throughout the week as I’m there at the hospital, I spend most of my time in the rooms with patients and their families, listening to people’s stories and processing through fears and grief and things that are related not just to what’s happening to them medically, but often deep-seeded traumas and memories that come up for people when they’re in this vulnerable space.  I’ve also spent a lot of time family members whose loved ones have been brought to the Emergency Room, or have been put on a ventilator, or have passed away.  I have encountered so much real, human pain and suffering and loss in the past few months—more than I’ve encountered in my entire life.
 
But something I’ve noticed in a lot of cases of hearing people’s stories—even while they’re lying on a bed in a hospital gown with IVs hooked up and machines beeping in the background—is that many people end their stories by saying, “It’ll be okay… I’ve just gotta make it through.”  One woman who had just been diagnosed with cancer told me, “I’ll just stay positive, and things will be alright in the end.”
 
This shocks me a little, but I also get it.  The desire to stay positive and focus on the good makes sense.  We wonder: are we going to be lost in our pain if we don’t cling to hope?
 
Experiencing and sitting with pain is uncomfortable and scary.  Humans don’t like pain.  We have a very natural desire to move away from it—to minimize the suffering, or smooth it away, or to tell ourselves that it doesn’t matter because God is good and everything will be alright in the end.  That’s the story of Resurrection Sunday, right?  We know that in the end, suffering and death are conquered, and everything returns to the light, so all we have to do is make it through. We just take the steps… with our chins up… and keep pushing forward.
 
It makes me wonder if that’s what Simon of Cyrene was telling himself as he carried Jesus’ cross to the hill at Golgotha: “I’ve just gotta make it through.”
 
This has probably served us well in the past.  To be able to weather the storms with resilience and hope has likely gotten us through some hard times. To be able to stand where we are now on the other side of Holy Week, and to see the glorious end to this story of Jesus’ death is a powerful thing.  We know that Easter follows Good Friday.  We know that resurrection comes after death.  And that because of that we hold hope and call this day “good.”
 
But what if there was no Resurrection Sunday?
What if we were those first followers and all we had was the story of Jesus’ death?
Would we still call this day “good”?
 
Sometimes, despite our best intentions, Good Friday—and not Resurrection Sunday—is where we land.  Sometimes the pain is so great, that regardless of what we know and believe, we are overwhelmed by it.  We are caught in the suffering, and hope feels naive… or impossible.
 
My second night at the hospital, I sat with a man who lost his wife of 30 years.  His sisters were there and told me he was a man of great faith.  But his wife had a heart attack, and she didn’t make it.  He held her hand at the side of the bed… and kept calling her name.  He asked me, “What am I gonna do without her?”
 
That is pain that belongs on Good Friday.  That is when we truly know the meaning of Jesus’ words: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
 
When we see the story of Jesus’ death through the lens of the resurrection, we can easily glaze over the suffering of the crucifixion.  We know there are just three days... and we’ll make it through.  But the entire story is laced with suffering…
 
They put a crown of thorns on Jesus’ head.
They struck him and spat on him.
They beat him so badly he couldn’t walk under the weight of his cross.
They mocked and taunted him.
Then they crucified him, driving nails into his body to hold him to a cross… an act that Cicero called, the “most cruel and horrifying punishment” reserved for slaves, criminals, and anyone the Roman empire wanted to not only kill, but publicly shame as they put them to death.  And it was meant for torture.  They would beat someone before nailing them on a cross, but they wouldn’t sever any major arteries… so the one who was hung would suffer pain, but would die slowly from exhaustion, or suffocation, or a heart failure.
For six hours, Jesus hung on the cross in pain.   
 
This is why we call this story “the passion of Christ”: Passion comes from the Latin word for suffering.  

Yes, Jesus was raised from the dead.  Yes, he was resurrected and glorified.  But first, he suffered... and suffered terribly.
 
Even in the midst of this, we see people trying to take away Jesus’ pain, or get him to take it away himself.  At some point, someone offers him wine mixed with myrrh, which was a first-century narcotic meant to deaden pain, but Jesus doesn’t take it.  Then there are soldiers and people passing by and the priests and scribes who taunt him to take himself down from the cross—to bypass the suffering—but he doesn’t do it.  And some others even assume Jesus calls out for Elijah to come take him away, because they can’t imagine him dying on a cross—a death that Paul called “a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles” because it was written in Scripture that “anyone hung on a tree is under God’s curse.”  Still, he stays.  And he laments, as a righteous man who is made to suffer.  “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?”—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—is the first line of Psalm 22.  It’s a psalm of lament to God.
 
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?

O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer;

and by night, but find no rest…

 
I am a worm, and not human;

scorned by others and despised by the people.

All who see me mock at me;

they make mouths at me, they shake their heads;

‘Commit your cause to the Lord; let him deliver—

let him rescue the one in whom he delights!’…

 
I am poured out like water,
              and all my bones are out of joint;
My heart is like wax;
              it is melted within my breast…
My hands and feet have shriveled;

I can count all my bones.

They stare and gloat over me;
They divide my clothing among themselves,
              for my clothing they cast lots.”
 
Jesus claims this lament for himself.  He is the righteous one who suffers unjustly.  And by the end, the Psalm reminds us that redemption will follow:
 
“All you who fear the Lord, praise him!
All you offspring of Jacob, glorify him…
For he did not despise or abhor
              the affliction of the afflicted;
he did not hide his face from me,
              but heard when I cried to him…
 
To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down;
              before him shall bow all who go down to the dust,
              and I shall live for him.”
 
Jesus is not unaware, even in this moment of his death, that God will be glorified in the end.  But that doesn’t mean he skips the suffering.  Even knowing that there’s light at the end of the tunnel—that God will redeem even the worst of human brokenness and evil—doesn’t take away the pain. 
 
For some unknown reason, it was in this moment, when Jesus cried out and then died on the cross that the Roman centurion who stood before him said, “Truly, this man was God’s son!”  This is the Savior God sent to us. 
 
Take a minute and find that moment in your own life… that dark night of the soul... that feeling of forsakenness…
Maybe it was losing someone you loved—a parent, a child, a spouse, a friend.
Maybe you were the one in the hospital gown being told by a doctor that your body wasn’t working like it’s supposed to.
Maybe it was finding out you lost a job, or lost a home. 
Maybe it was battling the temptation of an addiction.
Maybe it was a moment of loneliness or emptiness in this last year when you were cut off from loved ones because of a deadly disease.
Maybe it was simply a moment of overwhelm and desperation in the otherwise “ordinariness” of life.
 
It’s okay to sit in the space of that pain.  

And I’d like to propose that even this—this moment of deepest despair—can be called good.  
 
We know that Christ, on Good Friday, suffered for us so that we could be saved from our sin and be made right with God. But Christ, on Good Friday, also suffered with us.  And in crying out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” he gives us permission to feel our pain… to name it, to lament it with our entire being, and to know that even in the worst of it, he is Emmanuel—God with us. 
 
Maybe we don’t always have to just “make it through.”  Sometimes we can just be right where we are… in the midst of terrible suffering.
 
And even if we never got to Resurrection Sunday, we would still have a God hanging next to us on our cross who could say to us in that darkness, “I am right here with you.  I know your pain.  I have been mocked.  I have been beaten.  I have felt utterly forsaken.  And I went through all of it just so that I could be here, in this moment with you, to tell you that you are not alone.  You will never be alone.”
 
Thanks be to God.
 

*****

 
*If you would like to watch the live service that was streamed on Facebook, you can find it HERE.

top 10 reads of 2020

Third year in a row of Top 10 Reads—it’s officially a tradition!  After the general dumpster fire that was 2020, it’s nice to have an uplifting list of good books to look back on. 
 
I studied for two of my PC(USA) ordination exams and took a C.S. Lewis class this year, so prepare to see that reflected below.  I also found some great novels and interesting autobiographical reads, so if you’re into those, these are a few I’d highly recommend! 
 
Happy New Year, and here’s to finding more good books in 2021!
 
1.  Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life, by Barbara Kingsolver
 

“It’s hard to reduce our modern complex of food choices to unifying principles, but this is one that generally works:  eating home-cooked meals from whole, in-season ingredients obtained from the most local source available is eating well, in every sense.  Good for the habitat, good for the body.”
 
I love Barbara Kingsolver’s novels (The Poisonwood Bible is one I hope to revisit sometime soon), but it was fun to read something from her actual life as well.  This is a “food memoir” of sorts—an account of her family’s experiment in eating only home-grown or locally sourced food for an entire year.  She shares personal stories about growing and raising food, data-driven commentary on American food culture, and helpful information on supporting local agriculture.  It’s not just for “foodies,” but anyone interested in healthier, more compassionate eating.  And it includes seasonal recipes… you’re welcome 😉

 
2.  I’m Fine and Neither Are You, by Camille Pagán
 

“I loved my husband.  I loved my kids.  I mostly liked my life.  But I was so damn tired.”
 
Camile Pagán has become my go-to author for quick, witty, and eerily relatable stories.  This is a simultaneously heartbreaking and hilarious novel about a woman named Penelope who realizes that her life is taking place around her while she somehow feels barely in control of it.  In her words, change is “a privilege reserved for people whose families didn’t rely on them for food, shelter, and health insurance.”  Sound familiar? But when an unexpected loss rocks her “normal” world, Penelope decides to reevaluate her marriage, her job choices, and who it is that she ultimately wants to be.   

  
 
3.  The Name of the Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss
 

“My name is Kvothe… I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings.  I burned down the town of Trebon.  I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life.  I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in.  I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day.  I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep.  You may have heard of me.”
 
This one’s for all my fantasy nerd friends (or anyone who wants a great introduction).  Think of it as Lord of the Rings meets Game of Thrones—world-building, intrigue, and magical storytelling at its finest.  It’s the wayward tale of a mysterious hero named Kvothe, told in his own words.  This book and its sequel, The Wise Man’s Fear, are part of the Kingkiller Chronicles trilogy (the third of which is still in the works, so it may be wiser to hold off if you can’t handle the wait!).  They’re decently long, but so compelling that I flew through them both in a matter of weeks.  What can I say?  I’m a sucker for magic and marvel.
 
4.  Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, by Lori Gottlieb
 

“No matter how open we as a society are about formerly private matters, the stigma around our emotional struggles remains formidable.”
 
Lori Gottlieb is a therapist.  And she’s funny.
 
This book is what we get when the therapist realizes she needs a therapist—a select combination of client stories, personal confession, psychology lessons, and candid humor.  She normalizes the struggle of merely being human and writes about understanding and accepting oneself while attempting that monumental (and often miserably comical) task of changing oneself for the better.       

 
5.  This We Believe: Eight Truths Presbyterians Affirm, by Stephen W. Plunkett
 

“…I am reminded that God calls me not to be successful, but to be faithful.”
 
Out of all the books I read in studying for my Reformed Theology ordination exam, this one came to the top of my list.  It is a concise, accessible, and informative summary of the basic tenets of the Reformed faith—the branch of Christianity built upon the teachings of John Calvin (a 16^th century contemporary of Martin Luther during the Protestant Reformation).  The book begins with a broad overview of Scripture, and then lays out eight core beliefs that Reformed theology teaches.  If you belong to or have ever been curious about the Presbyterian tradition, or wonder what buzzwords like “sovereignty,” “election,” “total depravity,” and “sanctification” mean, this is a phenomenal read.  It was very encouraging and made me grateful to have been called to ministry in the Presbyterian church.  

 
6.  Rewilding the Way: Break Free to Follow an Untamed God, by Todd Wynward
 

“We’ve become like domestic house pets, tamed by the twin masters of nonstop technology and comfy consumerism.  How we who follow the Way of Jesus choose to act right now—in this “watershed moment” of history—matters more than ever.”
 
As you can probably tell by the quote above, Todd Wynward doesn’t mince words when diagnosing the state of the church in the midst of American culture.  As someone who practices what he preaches, Wynward urges the followers of Jesus to embrace the way of the wilderness:  accumulating less, stewarding more, and daring to follow the Holy Spirit into uncomfortable, but transformative, spaces.  This is what the people of God—the citizens of a different Kingdom—have always done.  Rewilding the Way is part Bible study, part environmental guidebook.  I highly recommend it for anyone jaded by the broken Western promise of the “good life,” and who may be passionate about reviving the faith communities and ecological habitats in which they live. 
 
7.  The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis
 

“She immediately stepped into the wardrobe and got in among the coats… A moment later she found that she was standing in the middle of a wood at night-time with snow under her feet…”
 
I put The Lord of the Rings trilogy in my “Top 10 of the 2010s” list, but the Narnia books belong in the same vein.  Not only were Lewis and Tolkien professors together at Oxford, they were also very good friends—based largely on their shared Christian faith and love of mythology.  They wrote the kind of stories they loved to read and brought new worlds and creatures to life for the rest of us. 
 
This was the third time I’ve read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  The language is a bit dated, but the marvel of the Pevensie kids going to Narnia to defeat the White Witch was just as good as ever… and I have more appreciation for Lewis’ theological imagination now than I did as a kid.  Not to mention the fact that Mr. Beaver’s line about Aslan is one of my favorites of all time: “Who said anything about safe?  ’Course he isn’t safe.  But he’s good.  He’s the King, I tell you.”    
 
8.  Mere Christianity, by C.S. Lewis
 

“If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”
 
In addition to his creative fiction, Lewis gained a reputation in his time (and since) as a profound Christian apologist.  Mere Christianity is a collection of his World War II radio broadcasts, which attempted to convey the logic of faith to a wide, war-torn British audience.  It’s an approachable Christian primer for anyone who values reason, the pursuit of truth, and discussions of faith and morality.  His assumption of universal truth may chafe a bit against current postmodern worldviews, but it’s a thoughtful text to engage with regardless.  The whole book is good, but “Book 4” (on the Trinity) was my favorite.

 
9.  Resonate: Present Visual Stories that Transform Audiences, by Nancy Duarte
 

“Ideas are not really alive if they are confined to only one person’s mind.”
 
If you’re in a position of having to craft presentations, public speeches, or even sermons, this is a great resource!  Nancy Duarte has made a living out of analyzing remarkable presentations (like MLK’s “I Have a Dream” speech or Steve Jobs’ iPhone rollout, for example) and helping others who want to change the world with their ideas create similar experiences for their listeners.  She advocates for adding narrative and emotion back into our speeches, compelling the audience to take your great vision for the future and make it real.  The book is full of good advice and tips for finding your main point, narrowing content, creating interesting contrast, and honing your message so that it will resonate and create lasting change. 

 
10.  Winter Garden, by Kristin Hannah
 

“Her name is Vera, and she is a poor peasant girl, a nobody.  She lives in a magical realm called the Snow Kingdom, but her beloved world is dying…”
 
Two young girls in modern day Washington state have grown up estranged from their Russian mother, whose cold demeanor would only warm when she told them fairy tales in the dark.  After a traumatic event that forces the three of them to interact with one another again as adults, the fairy tale continues to unfold…
 
This was the last book I finished this year (a fantastic recommendation from my mother-in-law) and I’m happy to have gotten to include Kristin Hannah in yet another Top 10 Reads list.  Similar to The Nightingale, she weaves historical events—in this case Stalin’s “Reign of Terror” and the 900-Day Siege of Leningrad—into a fiction about strong women and family relationships.  I stayed up until 2 AM two nights in a row to finish it.  So good… and the end will have you wonderfully shocked.

"Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are." -Mason Cooley