Tonight, we celebrate one of the darkest nights of the year.
A young girl turns up pregnant, claiming that it's the mystery of God (would you believe such an outrageous story from your own daughter?). Disgraced, her soon-to-be husband has to be convinced by an angel that she speaks the truth and that he should not leave her.
They travel to Bethelehem in order to register for a census. A census meant taxes, taxes that were shouldered by the poor. As the story continues, Luke doesn't tell us what he assumes we already know: pregnant out of wedlock, Mary is a glowing symbol of shame, and there is simply no room for her or her shameful husband in the guest-room of more honorable family members.
And to us, a child was born...given...
It wasn't the obvious favorites of God -- the priests, the wealthy, the rulers of this world -- who were made privy to this Beauty and Mystery. Shepherds, perpetually unclean simply because of their vocation (and thereby displeasing in the eyes of the Lord and his favorites), left their flocks to pay homage to the Lamb of God (a Johannine term, yes, but one that reaches beyond itself into the rest of the New Testament). Astrologers, those who sit in darkness in order to scout the divine, arrive in Jerusalem, the city on a hill, to congratulate Herod on the birth of his son (because a prince is born in the palace of his father, the king). Herod, ever-fearful of any threat to his own power, celebrates through a vicious slaughter of the innocent.
A far cry from the sanitized pageantry that we read into the story.
The story of Christmas is a dark story. It's about the omniscient gaze of those who know what it is that a young girl has done. It's about the poor getting poorer. It's about a puppet king doing anything he can to preserve his power. It's about darkness, despair, and hopelessness.
And yet...
In the midst of this unconquerable evil, God arrives. The divine response to all of this darkness is a helpless baby, an idea so absurd and so beautiful that I can't help but be drawn to it -- because who sends a child to do the toilsome work of a God?
If Christmas is "about" anything, it's not about hope. It's not about light. It's not about peace. It's about hope in the midst of hopelessness, a light that can only be seen because it shines in the midst of the darkness, and peace in the midst of a seemingly insurmountable chaos.
"There has been born for you a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord..."
I need this Advent, this Immanuel, this "God With Us." Because I have no other light to follow in the midst of this years-long night. I have no other hope that can tear out the hopelessness that sometimes seems to take root in my soul.
"Where is he who has been born King of the Jews?" He's out there, somewhere in the darkness. Go. Find him.
Merry Christmas.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Crucify Him
My former philosophy professor, drawing from Karl Barth, once quipped that Jesus is the question to all our answers.
Too many Christians have answers, yet few ask questions. As far as the religious establishment was concerned, Jesus was crucified because he threatened their cherished systems -- systems that were built upon centuries of good answers.
Sometimes, Jesus is a real problem for the people of God.
Too many Christians have answers, yet few ask questions. As far as the religious establishment was concerned, Jesus was crucified because he threatened their cherished systems -- systems that were built upon centuries of good answers.
Sometimes, Jesus is a real problem for the people of God.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
I'm a Very Lucky Girl (Only God Can Save Us Now)
Music seldom overwhelms me the way it used to. Maybe I'm too busy to appreciate good art, maybe there's so little good art to be found. Maybe I can't even recognize good art when I stumble across it. Maybe, and most likely, the past several years have taken their toll, leaving me cold and calloused, unable to give in to the siren songs that would seek to drag my apathy to the depths.
That changed on December 3, 2007. Jessica and I were trolling through Barnes and Noble because a bookstore is a great place to go when you're out on a date. We came across Over the Rhine's The Trumpet Child and, having heard nothing but good things about them from our friends Chris and Elissa, decided to give them a chance.
We fell in love. Between Karin's husky voice and Linford's leaning into the keys, we couldn't help but allow ourselves to be caught up in the magic of it all. One song, one verse in particular stuck out:
"This oyster is my world -- my oyster's got a pearl.
This ain't no dress rehearsal, I'm a very lucky girl.
I'm on a roll."
Jessica immediately thought of Judy. "Darryl, this song has 'Mama' written all over it!" And even though we were out on the town for some always-appreciated "us" time, Jessica simply had to call her mama, something that only spoke to the depths of their relationship. No, this was no contest between a husband and a mother. Far from it -- their's was a love that transcended the boundaries typical to most mothers and daughters. The sparks of friendship and laughter that forever flew between them were some of the surest signs of the Divine, and I was always thankful to be graced with such good company.
Jessica told Judy that she couldn't wait for her to hear what we had just heard. And, of course, like any good friend who thought only of the one she loved, Judy told her she couldn't wait to hear them. Unfortunately, sadly, bitterly, Judy would never hear the song that carried her to her daughter's thoughts. She went into the hospital the very next day and died a few weeks later just before Christmas.
Since then, it's been Over the Rhine who has given us, especially Jessica, a chance. Their music has softened the painful memories that tear at our hearts, allowing us to drink from a well of healing.
At last night's show, Karin told us a story about her own mother. After having served forty years as a nurse, after caring so selflessly for others, after countless midnight vigils at the sides of those who simply needed to know the comfort of another human being in the same room, she suffered a debilitating stroke and ended up in a nursing home. A different struggle entirely than what Jessica has faced, but just as real and no less painful, I'm sure.
Jessica, of course, fell in love with Over the Rhine, particularly Karin, all the more. Here was a traveling companion who had also been waylaid by highwaymen, a bruised soul that had experienced, yet still needed, comfort and healing. Somewhere in the middle of a crowded bar in downtown Kansas City, Jessica found something of a kindred heart.
As Karin continued her story, she told us about a woman in the nursing home who was growing frailer with each passing day. After walking into the woman's room as she had done countless times before, Karin approached the ghost of a body that laid beneath the sheets and asked her how the day was going. The brief answer she received was haunting and beautiful, ringing of an ancient and timeless truth: "Only God can save us now."
In an instant, a wave of heartache, joy, memory, and bittersweet relief washed over us. Judy is gone, life is a relentless deluge of frustration and regret, and there seems to be no end to the holy darkness that has decided to take up residence on our doorstep. In the midst of it all, though, we were reminded from a road-weary troubadour of a hope and a love that lies beyond ourselves yet is ever so near to us. Through ribbons of cigarette smoke, over the din of the crowd and the tinkling of glasses, God seemed to find us, reminding us that we are not forgotten.
I really am a very lucky girl. I'm on a roll.
That changed on December 3, 2007. Jessica and I were trolling through Barnes and Noble because a bookstore is a great place to go when you're out on a date. We came across Over the Rhine's The Trumpet Child and, having heard nothing but good things about them from our friends Chris and Elissa, decided to give them a chance.
We fell in love. Between Karin's husky voice and Linford's leaning into the keys, we couldn't help but allow ourselves to be caught up in the magic of it all. One song, one verse in particular stuck out:
"This oyster is my world -- my oyster's got a pearl.
This ain't no dress rehearsal, I'm a very lucky girl.
I'm on a roll."
Jessica immediately thought of Judy. "Darryl, this song has 'Mama' written all over it!" And even though we were out on the town for some always-appreciated "us" time, Jessica simply had to call her mama, something that only spoke to the depths of their relationship. No, this was no contest between a husband and a mother. Far from it -- their's was a love that transcended the boundaries typical to most mothers and daughters. The sparks of friendship and laughter that forever flew between them were some of the surest signs of the Divine, and I was always thankful to be graced with such good company.
Jessica told Judy that she couldn't wait for her to hear what we had just heard. And, of course, like any good friend who thought only of the one she loved, Judy told her she couldn't wait to hear them. Unfortunately, sadly, bitterly, Judy would never hear the song that carried her to her daughter's thoughts. She went into the hospital the very next day and died a few weeks later just before Christmas.
Since then, it's been Over the Rhine who has given us, especially Jessica, a chance. Their music has softened the painful memories that tear at our hearts, allowing us to drink from a well of healing.
At last night's show, Karin told us a story about her own mother. After having served forty years as a nurse, after caring so selflessly for others, after countless midnight vigils at the sides of those who simply needed to know the comfort of another human being in the same room, she suffered a debilitating stroke and ended up in a nursing home. A different struggle entirely than what Jessica has faced, but just as real and no less painful, I'm sure.
Jessica, of course, fell in love with Over the Rhine, particularly Karin, all the more. Here was a traveling companion who had also been waylaid by highwaymen, a bruised soul that had experienced, yet still needed, comfort and healing. Somewhere in the middle of a crowded bar in downtown Kansas City, Jessica found something of a kindred heart.
As Karin continued her story, she told us about a woman in the nursing home who was growing frailer with each passing day. After walking into the woman's room as she had done countless times before, Karin approached the ghost of a body that laid beneath the sheets and asked her how the day was going. The brief answer she received was haunting and beautiful, ringing of an ancient and timeless truth: "Only God can save us now."
In an instant, a wave of heartache, joy, memory, and bittersweet relief washed over us. Judy is gone, life is a relentless deluge of frustration and regret, and there seems to be no end to the holy darkness that has decided to take up residence on our doorstep. In the midst of it all, though, we were reminded from a road-weary troubadour of a hope and a love that lies beyond ourselves yet is ever so near to us. Through ribbons of cigarette smoke, over the din of the crowd and the tinkling of glasses, God seemed to find us, reminding us that we are not forgotten.
I really am a very lucky girl. I'm on a roll.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Christian and the Con Man
Two men went up into the church to pray, one a Christian, and the other a con man.
One sat in the pew, tears streaming down his face, unable to find words fit enough for a meager prayer. Had he been able to pray, he was quite certain that God would want nothing to do with a man like him...
The other, however, knelt at the altar and began to pray to himself: "God, I thank you for your goodness -- for my family, my home, my job. Where else but from you could such blessings come? Thank you for a church where others have experienced this kindness, as well. Your blessing is evident to all.
"I also thank you for sparing me from whatever has befallen this man. Thank you for rewarding my faithfulness with peace and safety."
And with that, he went over to the brokenhearted man to show him the error of his ways so that he, too, might come to experience the blessing of God.
One sat in the pew, tears streaming down his face, unable to find words fit enough for a meager prayer. Had he been able to pray, he was quite certain that God would want nothing to do with a man like him...
The other, however, knelt at the altar and began to pray to himself: "God, I thank you for your goodness -- for my family, my home, my job. Where else but from you could such blessings come? Thank you for a church where others have experienced this kindness, as well. Your blessing is evident to all.
"I also thank you for sparing me from whatever has befallen this man. Thank you for rewarding my faithfulness with peace and safety."
And with that, he went over to the brokenhearted man to show him the error of his ways so that he, too, might come to experience the blessing of God.
Friday, February 19, 2010
A Grief Observed
In his book A Christianity Worth Believing, Doug Pagitt responds to the claim he's heard for years, namely that feelings and circumstances should occupy no place of honor in the life of a disciple of Jesus simply because they are transitory and cannot be trusted to partially or fully convey anything that has to do with the God we follow: "What is the point of a Christianity that doesn't involve our circumstances? The Bible is full of stories that are about faith lived out in particular circumstances. I got into Christianity because I wanted it to interfere with my circumstances. They have everything to do with faith."
When Judy died, Jessica bore the brunt of the gracious litany that demanded she not fall prey to the the tsunami of despair and hopelessness that rushed onto the shores of her heart as she "dealt with" the death of her mother. Time and again she was admonished to trust God, to hold out hope for a better tomorrow. As I listened to all of this, I was struck by the sheer audacity of it all: who are these people to deny my wife's tears? Who are they to think that they will not have to deal with her grief if they can get her to do the same? How can they possibly think that there is a single scrap of good theology in adopting a stoic stance and acting as if denying God-given emotions is a hallmark of spiritual maturity?
Jessica defied all of these expectations not for the sake of playing the rebel but for the sake of reality and for the sake of healing. I've watched her dive into the chasms of her own sadness and read the grief of her heart like they were lines of poetry written by the finger of God himself. I've listened to her question the care of God, doubt the well-meaning but seriously misplaced words and intentions of his people. I've seen her embrace the onslaught of her grief only to come out with more doubts, more fears, more questions, and more burdens.
And more faith. In the middle of all of this, she has come through with a vision of God who cuts and comforts, a God who wounds and heals, a God who shares the darkness and confusion of our sorrow.
Paul said to grieve, but not without hope. While his words to the Thessalonians are as timeless now as they were two millenia ago, it is the last half of that verse that many gravitate towards: have hope. Absolutely. The resurrection of Jesus means that my wife's tears will one day be wiped away as her resurrected body stands beside those of her Saviour and her mother. Oh, my wife has hope.
But, until that day, she will also carry on with the first half of Paul's admonition: she will grieve. How can she not? How can she deny the gaping hole, the mother-shaped absence in her heart? How can Jessica not miss her best friend, the one whose very blood flows through her veins, whose voice rings out in her laugh, and whose motherly love lives on as Jessica cares for our five-year-old son?
Jessica's life has not changed. Her circumstances surrounding the loss of her mother have not changed, and they never will on this side of the veil. But they have embraced wholeheartedly the gospel of loneliness, hurt, and despair. Yes, the gospel is full of those things. Or do you only see a smiling face when you look at the cross?
When Judy died, Jessica bore the brunt of the gracious litany that demanded she not fall prey to the the tsunami of despair and hopelessness that rushed onto the shores of her heart as she "dealt with" the death of her mother. Time and again she was admonished to trust God, to hold out hope for a better tomorrow. As I listened to all of this, I was struck by the sheer audacity of it all: who are these people to deny my wife's tears? Who are they to think that they will not have to deal with her grief if they can get her to do the same? How can they possibly think that there is a single scrap of good theology in adopting a stoic stance and acting as if denying God-given emotions is a hallmark of spiritual maturity?
Jessica defied all of these expectations not for the sake of playing the rebel but for the sake of reality and for the sake of healing. I've watched her dive into the chasms of her own sadness and read the grief of her heart like they were lines of poetry written by the finger of God himself. I've listened to her question the care of God, doubt the well-meaning but seriously misplaced words and intentions of his people. I've seen her embrace the onslaught of her grief only to come out with more doubts, more fears, more questions, and more burdens.
And more faith. In the middle of all of this, she has come through with a vision of God who cuts and comforts, a God who wounds and heals, a God who shares the darkness and confusion of our sorrow.
Paul said to grieve, but not without hope. While his words to the Thessalonians are as timeless now as they were two millenia ago, it is the last half of that verse that many gravitate towards: have hope. Absolutely. The resurrection of Jesus means that my wife's tears will one day be wiped away as her resurrected body stands beside those of her Saviour and her mother. Oh, my wife has hope.
But, until that day, she will also carry on with the first half of Paul's admonition: she will grieve. How can she not? How can she deny the gaping hole, the mother-shaped absence in her heart? How can Jessica not miss her best friend, the one whose very blood flows through her veins, whose voice rings out in her laugh, and whose motherly love lives on as Jessica cares for our five-year-old son?
Jessica's life has not changed. Her circumstances surrounding the loss of her mother have not changed, and they never will on this side of the veil. But they have embraced wholeheartedly the gospel of loneliness, hurt, and despair. Yes, the gospel is full of those things. Or do you only see a smiling face when you look at the cross?
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