Easter People in a Good Friday World…

Growing up in a liturgical church setting, Lent was a somber time of contemplation.  Ashes crossed foreheads.  The hymn selection on the old pipe organ only included minor, dissonant sounding chords.  Black cloth draped the altar.  Items were given up.  I remember hearing many of my friends complaining about unsingable melodies and the number of services they attended during Holy Week.  While I kept my mouth shut about how I really felt, Good Friday, was actually one of my favorite days of the year.

For a long time, saying so made me feel a little bit guilty and morbid.  Sure I loved watching the sunrise through stained glass windows on Easter and hearing Lutheran voices belting out “He is risen indeed” with more emotion and joy than you’d hear the congregation use all year long.  But what I found equally, if not more, compelling was the quiet reverence and aching sorrow that echoed as each station of the cross was described.  The realness of my sin exposed.  The penalty willingly endured and paid for by Immanuel–God with us.  Even from a young age, I realized that Easter only came through Good Friday.  Both equally necessary for redemption to occur.

Some say that the crucifixion is too violent for children, that we should water down the message.  My experience would argue the opposite.  So would Russell Moore:

Our children need to hear the Gospel. They need to see Jesus. That means they need to see both sides of skull place. That’s graphic, sure. It’s confusing, of course. And not just for kids. But it is the only message that saves. It’s the only message that prepares one for salvation. It is, as Paul says, that which is “of first importance,” the message he received from Jesus Himself (1 Cor 15:3-4).

The death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus is the Gospel. That’s the first word. If we cannot speak of that, we would be better off not speaking of Jesus at all, rather than presenting another Christ, one who meditates but does not mediate, who counsels but is not crucified, who is accessible but not triumphant over sin and death.

The apostle Paul told us the word of the cross would be folly to those who are perishing (1 Cor 1:18). He didn’t warn us that it would sometimes also be folly to those who are publishing. No matter. It is still the power of God.

This Easter, preach the Gospel… to the senior citizens, to the middle-aged, to the young adults, to the teenagers, to the seekers, to the hardened unbelievers, to the whole world. And, yes, preach the Gospel to the preschoolers.

Even and especially the youngest among us need Good Friday just as they need Easter.

A few years ago, I ran across an article where Anne Lamott quotes Barbara Johnson saying, “We are Easter people living in a Good Friday world.”  It took me a few reads to connect the dots, but once I did it helped me process why even amidst sorrow and angst I felt like maybe in ways I understood Good Friday even more than I did Easter.  We live in the constant tension of the already, but not yet.  We live in a world that’s broken, still under the curse despite the empty tomb.  We live in between the comings of Christ where family members get sick, friends experience tragedy, and sin–both our own and of others–taints even the best things in this life.  As Tullian Tchividjian writes in Jesus + Nothing = Everything,

“Peter tells us: Set your hope fully on the grace that will be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ (1 Peter 1:13)…How easy it is to lose sight of the benefits that we have in Christ as we go through life’s trials.  It’s easy to do because of the not-yetness of our promised blessings, the full experience of our freedom and peace…But our fullness of hope allows us now to have full and confident expectation of all that is coming to us in the end.  for the Christian, the best is yet to come.“

As you celebrate Easter this year, don’t forget to contemplate not just Good Friday but the future grace that will be brought fully to us when Christ returns.  Don’t shy away from sharing this truth with the littlest among us.  We are all Easter people in a Good Friday world–the best is yet to come.

Let me learn by paradox…

I don’t think it’s an accident that the most beautiful things of this earth aren’t typically so in the predictable sense.  The things that move us the most quite often involve a contrast of some type, an element of surprise.

Wildflowers creeping along a crowded highway.

The intricate wrinkles on my grandmother’s hands.

A quilt created entirely from scraps that sits on my bed.

Weeds left uncared for.  Signs of aging and decay.  Leftovers that otherwise had no use.  Symptoms of the curse redeemed.  Beauty rooted in what doesn’t seem to make sense.

Why is my heart captured by such things?  Perhaps because this contrast is merely an echo of something greater.  Perhaps because the face of beauty itself is described in this way.

…he had no form or majesty that we should look at him,
    and no beauty that we should desire him.
He was despised and rejected by men;
    a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;
and as one from whom men hide their faces
    he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Surely he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his wounds we are healed.
-Isaiah 53:2-5-

With wounds we are healed.  Grace at its very core is a paradox.  Something so costly, so undeserved, is given freely.  A gruesome, torturous method of execution becomes the central icon for redemption.  A story I’ve heard since I was a little girl continues to contain an element of mystery.  My faith, my hope, and my peace secured, only because the righteous died for the unrighteous.  Darkness and light, bondage and freedom juxtaposed.  And all this was for our salvation.

Lord, high and holy, meek and lowly,
Thou hast brought me to the valley of vision,
where I live in the depths but see Thee in the heights;
hemmed in by mountains of sin I behold Thy glory.
Let me learn by paradox
that the way down is the way up,
that to be low is to be high,
that the broken heart is the healed heart,
that the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit,
that the repenting soul is the victorious soul,
that to have nothing is to possess all,
that to bear the cross is to wear the crown,
that to give is to receive,
that the valley is the place of vision.
Lord, in the daytime stars can be seen from deepest wells,
and the deeper the wells the brighter Thy stars shine;
Let me find Thy light in my darkness,
Thy life in my death,
Thy joy in my sorrow,
Thy grace in my sin,
Thy riches in my poverty,
Thy glory in my valley.
-The Valley of Vision, A Puritain Prayer-

Something Smaller than Jesus

“On this particular issue, in this particular part of my life, I’m looking to something or someone smaller than Jesus to be for me what only Jesus can be…Ideally, our best starting point is a recognition of this fact: whatever deficiency lies at the deepest root of our restlessness–no matter how big or small, whether it’s life-gripping or comparatively trivial–the missing component is something very specific that Christ has already secured for restless sinners like you and me.”

-Tullian Tchividjian, Jesus + Nothing = Everything

To wait in his place, and go at his pace…

“The opposite of impatience is not a glib denial of loss.  It’s a deepening, ripening, peaceful willingness to wait for God in the unplanned place of obedience, and to walk with God at the unplanned pace of obedience–to wait in his place, and go at his pace.  And the key is faith in future grace…Patience is the capacity to “wait and to endure” without murmuring and disillusionment.”

-John Piper, Future Grace-

On Being a Sister…

In some ways, being a sibling is one of the most natural relationships of all.  For better or worse, it’s not something you choose.  Unbeknownst to you, they are either placed in your lap or you are placed into theirs.  Regardless of your present or future, your past is often greatly defined and shaped by them…which means at least some of those first two things are as well.

In some ways, being someone’s sibling is one of the most complicated relationships of all.  Not every trait is defined by shared environment and genetic make up.  As a result, not every relationship is as easy as you might like it to be.  Most fail to match our pre-concieved notions of what brothers and sisters “should be.”  Shortcomings are amplified by this pressure to mirror the ideal.  When we don’t always line up, there is a temptation to carry and/or shift blame rather than merely embrace and love what is and who is.

I ran across this picture the other day and was immediately drawn not just to what was in it, but the greater story it tells.  As you may have guessed, the curly-headed book-worm in the left hand corner is yours truly.  The red-faced bundle of joy screaming in the center is my middle brother Matthew.  Obviously, I have no recollection of this 1987 Kodak moment, yet it captures one of the greatest lessons I’ve ever learned from the person I shared not just this image with but the greater part of the last 25 years.

The picture above probably reflects how both Matthew and I still feel about all things connected to reading.  Many of my most contented moments involve being engrossed with a pile of books.  While I’m sure something else was going on with Matty in that moment, part of me wonders if his cries are begging me to “stop” ruining a perfectly beautiful summer day outside with something like reading.  Our differences don’t end there.  I’ve always been a more serious introvert, completely guilty of “paralysis by analysis.”  He’s always been a fun-loving extrovert whose spontaneity I’ve envied.  I played it safe, he took risks.  I’m tender hearted, he lets things roll off of him much easier.  I was the realist, he was the dreamer.  I was a perfectionistic people pleaser who rarely got in trouble.  He laughed at my mom and forced her to chase him around the house during frequent discipline episodes…while I stood back and worried enough for the both of us. (For the record, he’ll probably live longer too.)  I loved school, he didn’t (sans lunch and recess.)  I’m helpless when it comes to anything related to building or mechanics.  His life’s work is based off of a natural ability to thrive in those settings.  If he said, “black” I probably said, “white.”  With only a two year age difference, we’ve butted heads more than a few times.  There have been moments where I’ve struggled to understand him.  He’s, no doubt, had similar moments where he’s struggled to understand me.  Doing life with someone who sees the world in a way much different than you do is not easy.  It can be frustrating.  It can be exhausting.  It can lead to arguments, tears, tension, and more.  Yes, it can lead to more which is what my brother has taught and continues to teach me.

What I’ve learned from Matthew is simply this.  I don’t just want and I don’t just need people in my life who look and act and sound and think and feel everything just like me.  I need people who stretch me.  I need people who ask me hard questions, not just with the words they speak but with the choices they make, with the way they live their lives.  I need people in my life who are honest not just about the places we intersect, but the places we don’t.  He might have said, “black” and I might have said, “white” growing up, but some issues aren’t, well, black or white.  Some things aren’t good or bad, right or wrong, better or worse.  Some things are just different.  Different can be messy and complicated, but different can also be beautiful and what makes life worth living.  What I’ve learned is that I need Matthew in my life, not just because it’s the brother/sister “default,” but because sometimes in spite of and more often because of our differences, my soul is enriched.

We share parents, inside jokes, and so many memories.  We share genetic composition and we share many of the same values.  Over time, I think we’ve also learned to share a mutual respect and affection for the ways we’re alike, but also for the ways we differ.

In some ways, our stories and our lives are more complicated than ever.  We don’t live in the same town or even the same type of community, let alone the same house.  He works an early morning/late night job, is married, and has a sweet baby on the way.  My life and schedule are filled to the brim in somewhat different ways.  The intricacies of our jobs don’t really lend themselves to elaborately detailed conversations about either welding or children’s ministry.  But I love the man that red-faced infant has grown into.  Every year I know him, I’m even more proud, even more grateful that for some mysterious reason I’ll never quite understand, I get to be his sister.  My life gets to intersect with his even when our passions and paths don’t always.  Knowing him, loving him, and growing up with him has been and continues to be a gift, a joy, and an honor.  I need Matthew in my life even more today, than I did back then.

Happy birthday, little brother.

Learning vs. Learned

There are some verbs that should probably always remain in the progressive tense for me.  Learn is one of them.  I’m discovering that the most dangerous place for me to live is the point where I feel like I have something figured out.  The month of February was a good reminder to my soul of this very fact.  If there was an emotion on any part of the spectrum, I probably felt it.  If there ever was a time of one step forward two steps back kind of faith, the last 29 days were it.  Truth be told, it wasn’t always pretty.  In the interest of brevity and time here are a couple things I’m learning through it.

1.   I would much rather feel old and loved, than young and well…unloved.
For whatever reason, the whole idea of my age changing numbers sort of threw me for a loop more than it ever has.  Multiple circumstances sort of awakened insecurities that were hiding below the surface.  I heard statements from well meaning people that agitated old wounds.  I started feeling sorry for myself, comparing, and dwelling on the list of ways my life was “lacking” what I anticipated my life looking like at this stage.  Entitlement, jealousy, self-condemnation, shame, self-pity threatened to steal joy.
It is true that my life doesn’t look the way I thought it would at 27.  It is also true that I’m grateful it doesn’t in so many ways for so many reasons.  Those 26 years are part of a story.  A story that’s not about me.  A story that I for reasons not understood get to be just a tiny supporting character in.  A story that I’m not the author of (thank goodness.)  I don’t know what the 27th will hold and it’s a good thing I don’t.  I can’t give a year (or two or three) back.  Nor do I want to.

So I can be bitter.  I can be resentful.  I can dwell and wallow.  But when I do, I reap what all of these things grow.  Pain, decay, destruction, and death.

The last month has given me a glimpse of my how fickle my unbelieving heart can be.  Yet, He’s given more grace.  Grace to see the ugliness and extent of my sin.  Grace in tangible forms–mostly through people and friendships I know that I don’t deserve.   Grace to dry tears, to give beauty for ashes, a garment of praise for heaviness.  Tender reminders that if there is one thing I’m not, it’s abandoned.

2.  One of the greatest gifts you can give someone is to just be real.
My default mode during times when I’m struggling is to use and say phrases like, “I’m fine.”  For whatever reason I’ve always had this fear that if people really knew me, they would turn and run the other way.  In the last week, I’ve been a lot more honest with a few people than I typically would have been.  Several of these relationships have a little bit of a “mentoring” type feel to them.  I’m older than several of these people and always felt like in order for my voice to be credible, I needed to have things figured out…or at least give off that impression.

The thing is, several conversations happened when my heart felt a little too raw to hide.  So I told the truth.  About what I was struggling to believe and what this process looked like for me.  The fruit of those conversations has been beautiful and redemptive.  I’m learning that when you’re honest about broken and tender places in your heart, it gives people permission to be honest about those same spots in theirs.  When you’re honest about who you are, it gives people permission to be honest about who they really are too.  What people need, even in mentoring relationships, isn’t perfection, but vulnerability about imperfections.

“All along, let us remember, we are not asked to understand, but simply to obey…and when the chill of loneliness shivered through me, like a warm love-clasp came the long-loved lines–And only Heaven is better than to walk with Christ at midnight, over moonless seas–all the better the opportunity for proving Him to be indeed the El Shaddai,the God who is Enough.”
-Amy Carmichael-

Grateful…

For February 26, 1985.

For beauty in simplicity
and small town America roots.
For parents who love not just who I was
but who I was created to be.
Who willingly let me go
become this person
with encouragement, care, sacrifice,
and so much grace.

For cards, letters, and Facebook wall posts.
Phone calls from brothers
and “sisters” alike.
For flower petals and makeshift cards
singing children, sunshine, and afternoon naps.
For tender words of affirmation,
dinner conversations
lingering longer than a meal.

For sweet friendships
and those who love
even what is unloveable
about me.
For faithfulness
and mercies that are new every morning.

For surviving.
For thriving.
For a year filled with a double portion
of laughter and tears alike.

For the miraculous.
For the mundane.
For the times He said, “yes.”
For the times He said, “no.”

For loneliness and longing.
Disequalibrium and discomfort.
For the growth that only happens
through each of those things.

For tender good-byes and gently closing doors.
Clarity and direction,
fresh starts and new adventures.
For perfect love that casts out fear;
Past memories
fueling faith in future grace.

For yesterday.
For today.
For a hope and a future.

For February 26, 2012.

To: The Giver of Every Good and Perfect Gift
From: A Grateful Heart

Thank you.

Even when you are old, I will be the same.  Even when your hair has turned gray, I will take care of you.  I made you and will take care of you.  I will carry you and save you.
~Isaiah 46:3~