I went to a place of brokenness. I met the wounded, grumpy and dissillusioned. I met those who were in a quasi state of recovery. Cancer had been healed, grief wasn't as keen and forgiveness had been wrestled. Somewhere in this mess, a transformation occurred. Joy. Hope. Anticipation. Worship.
Worship is when are so focused on God, we cannot remember who we are. Corporate worship cannot happen until we open our hearts and become unified with one another in our weakness. That's harder than it looks, and something so beautiful and fulfilling when it does. May we continue the work and blessing of living in unity.
Monday, October 01, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
The power of choice
An oppressed people. A people who are tired. They are taxed beyond reasonable measures, beaten for slight infractions, held in check by remote leaders. They are ill. Some are blind, some bleed, some are just heartbroken. There is rioting. Their days are spent in a struggle for basic necessities. The people, speak to God's deliverance but spend their days deciding who among them is worthy for such mercy. It is a bleak and broken world.
It's an old song. Moses, David, Jeremiah, Job. Simon the Zealot: they all heard it. We hear it. It is the song of misery and despair. Our ears and hearts ring with exhaustion.
In both Jesus's day and contemporary rural parts of the world, it was and is common to use a yoke to carry burdens. A yoke, or beam, placed across the shoulders allows the weight to evenly distribute through our bodies. A heavier load becomes possible, theoretically allowing for more work to be accomplished.
What if though, the tasks one chooses to elevate, are the very things that weigh down and oppress? What if the weight threatens to wear not just a path, but a trench?
We each hear the call of things that demand our attention; our jobs, our families, our community. Environmental and political activists lobby for our hearts and dollars. Then there's church: Sunday school, service, choir, bake sales, altar guilds, day of service. the list continues. Each of these, in itself, is a fine thing. The problem is that we each have a finite bucket. We see these noble and fine tasks, and we do long to better ourselves.
We are collectors, and thus, we collect. We see the paths and we want to walk them all. Even with a yoke, even with a schedule, even with a budget, the yoke can become unbearable. Exhaustion!
There is good news! Jesus invites us to swap, our yoke for his. Our collar and bucket for His. That's a hard thing though. We know our load, but what exactly is His?
Matthew 11:29 says His yoke is light. He is gentle and meek. Matthew 22:36-40 says that all Jesus asks is that we love the Lord our God with our hearts, souls and minds and love our neighbor as ourselves. Micah 6:8 says we are "To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with our God." Everything else? Perhaps we have, unnecessarily chosen a heavier load. Jesus said, Come and accept His yoke.
It is an old song. The people of Jesus's time knew it: In and out of enslavement; Constantly waiting for a Messiah. They structured their lives to distract and ease the day to day suffering. They Invented rules to pretend that they, themselves, were in control of the Kingdom of God. They fought amongst themselves and resented their leaders.
On this day, Jesus met his people, those who had risked so much. He met the curious and the critical. He met the scholars that envisioned an orderly life, full of goodness that earned God's deliverance. He met those who looked for answers.
They looked to the sacrificial life and radical promise of John the Baptist. They looked to the revolutionaries, prepared to use violence to usher in justice. Jesus spoke to a hungry people.
For so long, the people had carried a load, from which, they could not free themselves. They began their journey with empty buckets, but had added so many tasks, they were beaten, exhausted. They had taken up causes that had grown heavy. Their paths became ruts. They wrestled seemingly unbeatable demons. They established rules and rituals meant to guide them into glory.
They were young, old and everything in between. They carried a burden that threatened to eat them alive, when all they had ever wanted to do was get by and maybe get a little ahead.
Jesus knew. He knew how we humans would fill our buckets. We are collectors: Things, projects, tasks, people.
We wear our to do lists, our obligations, our pride as a scarf, jacket, mantle, and yes, a yoke. We mean for them to enrich our lives and to bring us structure. We mean for them to win us favor. We mean to better ourselves, perhaps even to God's glory.
The people of Jesus's time did not know the way out of their lives. Their lives, their struggles were so out of balance. They imagined something better, just around the bend and mostly of their own making. We are not so different.
Hope rests in a Messiah, a Redeemer. One who sees, hears, embraces and delivers. Jesus was and is the Redeemer. He bade them and us, Come. We can exchange, we can redeem: our oppression, our tired, heavy yoke for His.
Through Jesus, God offers an eternal promise. His Son, His Ambassador, Jesus invites us to come. He will give us rest. His yoke will be light.
Jesus knew.
It is not our strength or merit that wins the match. It is His Grace, His leading, His yoke that carries burdens
On this day, we remember, receive and celebrate the gift of the Messiah.
Buckets hold so much. Too much.
If the bucket we carry scarcely resembles the God given bucket we received when we began the journey, we can trade it in.
If we have embraced tasks and obligations that drag us down, not with a glorious end, but in perpetual distraction from God's true liberation, Jesus says lay it down.
In John 14:27, Jesus promises peace for those who would choose Him. He knows the struggle to have and be all.
Our God has seen our hearts, heard our cries and carries our burdens. He is our Creator, our Power, and our Redeemer. All we have to do is trade our yoke for his. Thanks be to an everlasting and gracious God.
It's an old song. Moses, David, Jeremiah, Job. Simon the Zealot: they all heard it. We hear it. It is the song of misery and despair. Our ears and hearts ring with exhaustion.
In both Jesus's day and contemporary rural parts of the world, it was and is common to use a yoke to carry burdens. A yoke, or beam, placed across the shoulders allows the weight to evenly distribute through our bodies. A heavier load becomes possible, theoretically allowing for more work to be accomplished.
What if though, the tasks one chooses to elevate, are the very things that weigh down and oppress? What if the weight threatens to wear not just a path, but a trench?
We each hear the call of things that demand our attention; our jobs, our families, our community. Environmental and political activists lobby for our hearts and dollars. Then there's church: Sunday school, service, choir, bake sales, altar guilds, day of service. the list continues. Each of these, in itself, is a fine thing. The problem is that we each have a finite bucket. We see these noble and fine tasks, and we do long to better ourselves.
We are collectors, and thus, we collect. We see the paths and we want to walk them all. Even with a yoke, even with a schedule, even with a budget, the yoke can become unbearable. Exhaustion!
There is good news! Jesus invites us to swap, our yoke for his. Our collar and bucket for His. That's a hard thing though. We know our load, but what exactly is His?
Matthew 11:29 says His yoke is light. He is gentle and meek. Matthew 22:36-40 says that all Jesus asks is that we love the Lord our God with our hearts, souls and minds and love our neighbor as ourselves. Micah 6:8 says we are "To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with our God." Everything else? Perhaps we have, unnecessarily chosen a heavier load. Jesus said, Come and accept His yoke.
It is an old song. The people of Jesus's time knew it: In and out of enslavement; Constantly waiting for a Messiah. They structured their lives to distract and ease the day to day suffering. They Invented rules to pretend that they, themselves, were in control of the Kingdom of God. They fought amongst themselves and resented their leaders.
On this day, Jesus met his people, those who had risked so much. He met the curious and the critical. He met the scholars that envisioned an orderly life, full of goodness that earned God's deliverance. He met those who looked for answers.
They looked to the sacrificial life and radical promise of John the Baptist. They looked to the revolutionaries, prepared to use violence to usher in justice. Jesus spoke to a hungry people.
For so long, the people had carried a load, from which, they could not free themselves. They began their journey with empty buckets, but had added so many tasks, they were beaten, exhausted. They had taken up causes that had grown heavy. Their paths became ruts. They wrestled seemingly unbeatable demons. They established rules and rituals meant to guide them into glory.
They were young, old and everything in between. They carried a burden that threatened to eat them alive, when all they had ever wanted to do was get by and maybe get a little ahead.
Jesus knew. He knew how we humans would fill our buckets. We are collectors: Things, projects, tasks, people.
We wear our to do lists, our obligations, our pride as a scarf, jacket, mantle, and yes, a yoke. We mean for them to enrich our lives and to bring us structure. We mean for them to win us favor. We mean to better ourselves, perhaps even to God's glory.
The people of Jesus's time did not know the way out of their lives. Their lives, their struggles were so out of balance. They imagined something better, just around the bend and mostly of their own making. We are not so different.
Hope rests in a Messiah, a Redeemer. One who sees, hears, embraces and delivers. Jesus was and is the Redeemer. He bade them and us, Come. We can exchange, we can redeem: our oppression, our tired, heavy yoke for His.
Through Jesus, God offers an eternal promise. His Son, His Ambassador, Jesus invites us to come. He will give us rest. His yoke will be light.
Jesus knew.
It is not our strength or merit that wins the match. It is His Grace, His leading, His yoke that carries burdens
On this day, we remember, receive and celebrate the gift of the Messiah.
Buckets hold so much. Too much.
If the bucket we carry scarcely resembles the God given bucket we received when we began the journey, we can trade it in.
If we have embraced tasks and obligations that drag us down, not with a glorious end, but in perpetual distraction from God's true liberation, Jesus says lay it down.
In John 14:27, Jesus promises peace for those who would choose Him. He knows the struggle to have and be all.
Our God has seen our hearts, heard our cries and carries our burdens. He is our Creator, our Power, and our Redeemer. All we have to do is trade our yoke for his. Thanks be to an everlasting and gracious God.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Part update/part procrastination
It's harder to keep my mouth shut on political hoopla than I care to admit. *sigh*
On the plus side, I can think of at least a dozen things to be thankful for or that keep me busy right now.
Fun things: planning trips, classes and tours for local families
Spanish bingo with the kidlets and drop in neighbors
Surprising people
Snoring dogs
Birthdays
Actually having band aids on hand
Last run of okra
Washing machines
Sales on cereal
Flowers
Best friends
Indoor, heated pools
On the plus side, I can think of at least a dozen things to be thankful for or that keep me busy right now.
Fun things: planning trips, classes and tours for local families
Spanish bingo with the kidlets and drop in neighbors
Surprising people
Snoring dogs
Birthdays
Actually having band aids on hand
Last run of okra
Washing machines
Sales on cereal
Flowers
Best friends
Indoor, heated pools
Monday, August 20, 2012
Taking chances
A dog sleeps beside me. I met her last week. As it turns out, she snores. Mightily. Until, this morning, she also possessed 4 cancerous tumors. There is no rational part of me that thinks bringing a tumor laden canine home from an out of state shelter was the right thing to do. Here she is anyway.
So far, we've inadvertently violated all of the Dr's orders for limited activity. She refuses to lie quietly. She clamored up the stairs when she thought I wasn't coming back fast enough. She jumped off the couch when I carried her to lay beside DS.
"Crate her," the cheery vet tech suggested as I settled the bill. Confidently nodding, I exited. Naively, I overestimated her desire to rest quietly. In under 5 minutes, her lower jaw was stuck in the door. Need I tell you that restriction isn't even listed on the post op?
This morning, I went back for sedatives. A friend has suggested perhaps I might make better use of them than the dog.
No idea what this will bring forth. Things being how they so often are, this was the dog my DD swore was the dog for her while I rooted for a tiny, smidge of a thing. She's barely walked her upon our arrival. Instead, it is I who swoons for a beagle.
Who knew?
So far, we've inadvertently violated all of the Dr's orders for limited activity. She refuses to lie quietly. She clamored up the stairs when she thought I wasn't coming back fast enough. She jumped off the couch when I carried her to lay beside DS.
"Crate her," the cheery vet tech suggested as I settled the bill. Confidently nodding, I exited. Naively, I overestimated her desire to rest quietly. In under 5 minutes, her lower jaw was stuck in the door. Need I tell you that restriction isn't even listed on the post op?
This morning, I went back for sedatives. A friend has suggested perhaps I might make better use of them than the dog.
No idea what this will bring forth. Things being how they so often are, this was the dog my DD swore was the dog for her while I rooted for a tiny, smidge of a thing. She's barely walked her upon our arrival. Instead, it is I who swoons for a beagle.
Who knew?
Optimism
What a difference a few days makes. The gift of friendship. Sunlight on the grass. Health. Sleep. And just like that, I am ready to begin a new week. Sort of.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
On days like this
Some days, I love being a homeschool family. We are discovering, learning, or creating. There are great books that nourish, museums that excite, people that illuminate.
Today, is not one of those days. Today is a day to buckle down after some lighter days and tackle the hard stuff. In our world, that means writing, workbooks and the like. I've tried doing a little each day. I've tried every day as a tough day. I've tried alternating. It seems on this day, that we are determined to struggle. There has to be a better way. My youngest wrestles with his writing. He is convinced the world is out to get him. My eldest keeps at it, but is constantly distracted.
. I would love to take off and go to a museum or park, but feel doing so would not ensure better work later. I hate setting the fence line. At this moment, I am nothing more than a reluctant homeschooler. I do not play golf. I imagine I would like to for several reasons. Among them, the strange desire to repeatedly work at a task that I may never get. Go figure.
Today, is not one of those days. Today is a day to buckle down after some lighter days and tackle the hard stuff. In our world, that means writing, workbooks and the like. I've tried doing a little each day. I've tried every day as a tough day. I've tried alternating. It seems on this day, that we are determined to struggle. There has to be a better way. My youngest wrestles with his writing. He is convinced the world is out to get him. My eldest keeps at it, but is constantly distracted.
. I would love to take off and go to a museum or park, but feel doing so would not ensure better work later. I hate setting the fence line. At this moment, I am nothing more than a reluctant homeschooler. I do not play golf. I imagine I would like to for several reasons. Among them, the strange desire to repeatedly work at a task that I may never get. Go figure.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Travel musings
I'm heading home soon. Despite continued efforts to define The moment of my trip, I fail. Travel changes me. Upon my return, I will be expected to fall into my old life without a nod to the mantle I have worn and the ideas I have embraced. Not for the first time, I wonder how can this be.
Sweat has poured from my body while I sat at a Woolworth's lunch counter while strangers invaded my personal space, their polite selves temporarily suspended and their hidden aggressions given reign as we explored historic sit ins. To say I was uncomfortable, even in the secure, pristine Smithsonian does not speak well of my fortitude. I could not help but wonder if the persons of color next to me felt it was deserved payback or that I was unworthy to sit next to them. I could not help but be relieved when the last person's dismissal was silent. I struggled to find my voice when we were urged to join the moderator in a final freedom song. After all, who am I to ask for freedom? I have no struggle.
I have walked in the valley of Harper's Ferry and traced the footsteps of John Brown. The muggy heat hugged my body whilst I sat on banks near the river. I wondered at a town, chosen with care by General Washington himself, and nearly beaten by floods, violence and poverty. The beauty of a resilient people once again humbles me. May I be such a person. May the children I am privileged to escort into adulthood be inspired by the dignity of that place and those people.
To have turned a corner and unexpectedly encountered the plane that dropped a bomb that annihilated much of a city? The Enola Gay shining with an innocence I cannot understand. I am, again humbled by my human arrogance. How quick I am to dismiss another. How soon I forget the struggles of another. Convenience and self preservation demands that I push my philosophical self aside and keep moving. Still, it resurfaces. Conflict, unmitigated circumstances, collateral damage, necessary evil. Aloof words that deny emotion and reality. I worry at our use of drones and wonder if anyone else wonders too.
Sunlight bathes Henry Hill at Manassas. Evidence of deer and a wind that whispers into my ears mock the true story. Or maybe, they are the real story. Our human pettiness is just a wicked side theme. Children who cannot see the need of enslavement, political expediency and expendable youth guide me. Their confidence reassures me that maybe, just maybe we can get this right in the next generation. In their world, there is enough. Is there enough in mine?
We have walked the paths of Fort McHenry, the reserved adult in me attempts to silence the Star Spangled Banner. It escapes anyway. A flag raises and all my previous doubts and sorrows fall away. My child asks if every country has strict rules for flag handling. I think to myself how many wars might be averted in we could all remember that each person holds something sacred. Can we really restore all of creation to the image of it's Creator? What would we all need to give up in order that each may worship as they see fit, love as they are able and give more than they take? Are we brave an/or foolish enough? Perhaps good enough is just about right.
And then, when I thought I had felt every emotion. When it seemed there was no unchanged part of me, I spent an hour talking to a new and unexpected friend. Our day to day lives vary greatly. His 61 years and years of building do not wear the same patterns on the ground as my somewhat bewildered and often reluctant homeschooling adventure. Yet, we now share membership in the same grief club. I listened much and talked some while he mellowed into this next part of his journey, not unlike easing into very cold water that must be entered. His world has stopped. Yet the world is marching. He is gasping for time, space and yes, air. Prospective clients have no desire to wait. I tell him that grace is all we humans really have to give one another. I tell him I have a funny gift for him. I rummage through many bags and piles in the car to find a small tray I recently painted. I dismissively tell him it's what I do. I paint things. Later, he leaves clutching it. I think to myself how often people tell me I should stay home and help build community. I am irresponsible and wasteful to leave so frequently. I am impractical. And maybe so. Then there is this: a knowledge so deep that I cannot change my desire to meet and know the world. I would trade all sorts of things to walk beside a man who has finally, lost his everything. I am imperfect, foolish, and optimistic, and I know the world is my community.
And when I return to Georgia, it will be to my community as well. I will struggle to put aside the breathless moments so that I can carry out my real and useful tasks. But a part of me will still be standing near the Shenandoah River or beneath the Enola Gay. I will still be singing a Freedom song with people from many nations. I will still be dreaming of a restored, connected and joyous world. Please, don't disillusion me.
Sweat has poured from my body while I sat at a Woolworth's lunch counter while strangers invaded my personal space, their polite selves temporarily suspended and their hidden aggressions given reign as we explored historic sit ins. To say I was uncomfortable, even in the secure, pristine Smithsonian does not speak well of my fortitude. I could not help but wonder if the persons of color next to me felt it was deserved payback or that I was unworthy to sit next to them. I could not help but be relieved when the last person's dismissal was silent. I struggled to find my voice when we were urged to join the moderator in a final freedom song. After all, who am I to ask for freedom? I have no struggle.
I have walked in the valley of Harper's Ferry and traced the footsteps of John Brown. The muggy heat hugged my body whilst I sat on banks near the river. I wondered at a town, chosen with care by General Washington himself, and nearly beaten by floods, violence and poverty. The beauty of a resilient people once again humbles me. May I be such a person. May the children I am privileged to escort into adulthood be inspired by the dignity of that place and those people.
To have turned a corner and unexpectedly encountered the plane that dropped a bomb that annihilated much of a city? The Enola Gay shining with an innocence I cannot understand. I am, again humbled by my human arrogance. How quick I am to dismiss another. How soon I forget the struggles of another. Convenience and self preservation demands that I push my philosophical self aside and keep moving. Still, it resurfaces. Conflict, unmitigated circumstances, collateral damage, necessary evil. Aloof words that deny emotion and reality. I worry at our use of drones and wonder if anyone else wonders too.
Sunlight bathes Henry Hill at Manassas. Evidence of deer and a wind that whispers into my ears mock the true story. Or maybe, they are the real story. Our human pettiness is just a wicked side theme. Children who cannot see the need of enslavement, political expediency and expendable youth guide me. Their confidence reassures me that maybe, just maybe we can get this right in the next generation. In their world, there is enough. Is there enough in mine?
We have walked the paths of Fort McHenry, the reserved adult in me attempts to silence the Star Spangled Banner. It escapes anyway. A flag raises and all my previous doubts and sorrows fall away. My child asks if every country has strict rules for flag handling. I think to myself how many wars might be averted in we could all remember that each person holds something sacred. Can we really restore all of creation to the image of it's Creator? What would we all need to give up in order that each may worship as they see fit, love as they are able and give more than they take? Are we brave an/or foolish enough? Perhaps good enough is just about right.
And then, when I thought I had felt every emotion. When it seemed there was no unchanged part of me, I spent an hour talking to a new and unexpected friend. Our day to day lives vary greatly. His 61 years and years of building do not wear the same patterns on the ground as my somewhat bewildered and often reluctant homeschooling adventure. Yet, we now share membership in the same grief club. I listened much and talked some while he mellowed into this next part of his journey, not unlike easing into very cold water that must be entered. His world has stopped. Yet the world is marching. He is gasping for time, space and yes, air. Prospective clients have no desire to wait. I tell him that grace is all we humans really have to give one another. I tell him I have a funny gift for him. I rummage through many bags and piles in the car to find a small tray I recently painted. I dismissively tell him it's what I do. I paint things. Later, he leaves clutching it. I think to myself how often people tell me I should stay home and help build community. I am irresponsible and wasteful to leave so frequently. I am impractical. And maybe so. Then there is this: a knowledge so deep that I cannot change my desire to meet and know the world. I would trade all sorts of things to walk beside a man who has finally, lost his everything. I am imperfect, foolish, and optimistic, and I know the world is my community.
And when I return to Georgia, it will be to my community as well. I will struggle to put aside the breathless moments so that I can carry out my real and useful tasks. But a part of me will still be standing near the Shenandoah River or beneath the Enola Gay. I will still be singing a Freedom song with people from many nations. I will still be dreaming of a restored, connected and joyous world. Please, don't disillusion me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)