A Testing of Vows

More than four years ago, after a series of classes, discussions, debates, and prayer, I stood up, alongside brothers and sisters, and made five promises; or, better stated, took five vows. The first three are essentially vows of personal faith and piety. The fourth is about support and service. On the whole, these have been easy. But the fifth one; that fifth vow is hard. It pushes back and challenges me to a life that is more than the one I am seeking.

Do you submit yourself to the governance and discipline of the church and promise to study its purity and peace?

First of all, I do not “submit” very well. So right off the bat, this one is tough to swallow. Then, inherent in this vow is the promise (or at least looming prospect) of discipline:  unsurprisingly, not a favorite of mine. And we end with a study of purity and peace. The “study” part is fine, but I’m a firestorm. I doubt very much that anyone has ever described me as peaceful.

This is more than I want.

What I want is rebellion and to go my own way. I want to be the loudest and last voice yelling for my cause. I want to pick and choose and be the arbiter of whatever sort of ‘justice’ suits me today.

But settling for my desires betrays a lack of imagination.

I have been called to a life bigger than the one I know. And I have been called there alongside brothers and sisters who watched me promise to “study the church’s purity and peace.” And it is these men and women, these voices, who listen to my tyranny, then show me a better way. One that is more than I could ever dare to ask or imagine.

Super Powers

The story of my life could in many ways be told by the people, places and events that have formed me. My hometown, my parents, my twin sister, my church – these tell the stories of my childhood. Moving further down the line, friends from college, the campus itself, the fellows program, roommates that I’ve had and cities I have lived in have gently or forcibly molded me into the person that I am now. Sometimes in life, we are formed unwittingly. Years later, we look back on an event or a relationship and can trace its impact on us. Occasionally, the gravity of something hits us before it actually arrives. But sometimes very rarely, we are allowed to feel the significance of a moment as it is happening and we are taken aback, even as we experience it.

I wish that we could choose these moments. That they would all be magical, other worldly encounters where we were all on our best behavior and everyone spoke with a British accent [British accents always clue me into magic.] But that’s not what this story is about. This story is about the ugly weight of conviction. I never like being convicted because it means that I’m in the wrong and am no longer confident that the wrong was actually right. It’s all very unbecoming.

It was October 10, 2012. Some of you will know that that was also the anniversary of my birth. As some point during this auspicious day, my friend Sam posted on my Facebook wall. [Here is where it would be nice to throw in some British fauns or a friendly owl to deliver this message. But nope – it’ll have to be Facebook.] His words were simple and, because Sam sees me only one weekend a year when I’m on relatively good behavior, I imagine he thought them to be true.

He wrote, “Thank you for using your energy and pizazz for good, not evil.” Because I have been well trained in the language of superheroes, I immediately translated this to “…using your powers for good, not evil.” I smiled. Then, I was terrified. Before this rogue happy birthday message, I would not have told you that I had powers, much less the types of powers I associated with being used for good or evil like superhuman strength or controlling the weather. But Sam seemed to think I had power. [You should know that Sam seems to be the sort of person who would know about these things. He’ll grow up and be like Dumbledore or Obi Wan or Gandalf – speaking the words that alert you to the power/magic/force that perhaps you were too afraid to hope was real.]

But behind Sam’s cheerful message was a different reality. If I did indeed have powers, I was using them to intimidate and manipulate and come out on top. I was in a battle with a coworker less about who was correct, but more about who would win. Words, argument, and eyes of steel were my weapons of choice. But Sam’s confidence in my character, his willingness to speak a different reality into my life stopped me in my tracks. This was one of those weighty, defining moments. The power in me had been named, and it had been called “good.” Conviction had entered and settled into my heart.

It has been nearly five months since Sam spoke [typed] that truth into my heart, and I wish that I could report that only words of life have come from my lips, or that selfless acts rule over selfish desires. But what has happened is a new awareness; the knowledge that I am not a passive observer in the lives of those around me, but that I can use my powers for good [or, for evil] in their lives.

This reminder is now written on my mirror – the first thing I see when I get out of bed, and the last thing I see before I leave the house. And when I leave, I go in the power of the Holy Spirit, to use my powers, to use His powers for the good of the one who made me.

Loving kindness

John 1:1 – In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

“God is the Word and created us to be people of His Word and people of words.” -Clay Clarkson

There has been a shortage of kind words in my world. Not a drought, just a shortage.  Sarcasm, hurt feelings, and a weariness of soul all too often push kindness down and replace it with sharp, biting retorts.

But scripture tells us to love kindness. It commands us, as God’s chosen ones, to put on kindness [Col 3:12]. It lists a growing spirit of kindness as one of the ways that we can identify the work of the Holy Spirit in us. And more than that, one of the words God uses to describe His own character – Hesed – is frequently translated “loving kindness.” Sally-Lloyd Jones translates this as “God’s Never Stopping, Never Giving Up, Unbreaking, Always and Forever Love.”

Most days, my words don’t seem to emulate a never giving up, always and forever love. Most days, they’re incredible self-seeking, manipulative and weighed down by whatever else is running through my mind that day.

Scripture talks about the need to bridle your tongue, and compares unrighteous speech to a spark that lights off a whole fire.

I’ve seen that in my own world. One careless word sets off a rage that was never meant to be unleashed.

In my own heart, I want to be an advocate for thoughtful, kind speech. For words that try to account for the perspective of those to whom I am speaking. For honesty for the sake of community rather than honesty for the sake of self.

This will almost necessarily involve a swallowing of pride. I will have to rehearse different conversations in my head that don’t end with the best zinger I could come up with. I will need to look for the best in people and actually treat others as I want to be treated.

If I am to be a people of the Word and of words, then I need to zealously guard that privilege. So I will seek to love kindness.

Creative Writing

My Lenten discipline was meant to be writing. To hear the scratch on the paper and to know that I was living into my identity as one who is made in the image of God.

In the beginning – the real beginning, the one that set time dancing and planets spinning – into that beginning, God created. What He created was grand and vast, intricate and wildly imaginative. But setting that aside, or perhaps lumping it together, here’s what remains: God created.

Then, out of all this creation, all the goodness of His perfect imagination, He created people. And He gave us the biggest blessing of them all – He made us to image Him.

And in that moment, in that blessing, He made me a creator. He gave me the gift of creating.

And so, this season of Lent, I set out to image God by creating. To put words on the page that built up into sentences and spoke of the goodness of the Lord. My hope was that the darkness of this world might be pushed back a little.

I’m not so vain as to believe that huge evils like war or human trafficking would be stalled by my discipline, but rather that writing might shine some light on my own darkness. That by writing, I could sort out my own sinful heart; strengthen my resolve in Christ; repent of jealous pride.

Yet rather than pushing back the darkness, I allowed myself to get buried in it. The first week of Lent featured an extraordinary busyness. I wish that I could have emulated Martin Luther who is quoted as saying, “I have so much to do that I shall spend the first three hours in prayer.” But instead, I raced around frantically, feeling overly needed and highly indispensable, which only lead to deeper pride and more darkness.

Sigh.

Lent is a season for repentance. For being reminded that I am dust, and to dust I will return. But that God loves me anyway.

And so, I begin again.

Much of this process will stay buried in my notebooks, but I need some accountability, so bits and pieces will show up here. Thank you for joining me during this season as I shine some light on the dark places and seek to “…walk as children of light.”

Pathetic Fallacy

I remember very little from my high school English classes. I could probably come up with an incomplete list of our summer reading assignments, and write a paragraph summarizing Catch-22, Crime and Punishment, or The Awakening, but that would only betray how much I’ve forgotten. But stored deep in the recesses of my mind is a memory of one small discussion of a minor literary device: pathetic fallacy. Though this type of personification can be applied in a variety of ways, my fickle memory only held on to one – the use of weather to display or parallel a character’s internal or emotional state.

The day is dreary, filled with a thick fog that won’t seem to lift. Where sunlight manages to break through, all it can muster the strength to do is illuminate the low, dark clouds crawling across the sky. Yet it all seems right.

Yesterday, a dear man won his battle with Alzheimer’s, left his broken body behind, and is now rejoicing, whole again, at his Savior’s side. But his gain is our loss. His death left a family behind to wrestle with far more questions than we have answers. That they should wake up today and discover a world still moving when theirs has crashed to a halt only adds to the indignity and insult of death in a fallen world.

But when the sky is dark and the clouds are thick, it is easier to believe that all is not as it should be; that the world is mourning with you. And indeed, it is easier for me to remember their pain; to remember that I am now bound up in their story by the strength of Christ’s blood that has made them my family. And so I mourn with those who mourn, grateful that we serve a God who was not content to leave us in our pain, but who dwelt among us and understands the injustice of the sun’s warmth on a tear-stained cheek.

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

Rev 21:1-5a

Amen and amen. Come Lord Jesus.

The Song of Advent

It arrives each year unbidden, slowly moving toward me, nearly imperceptible until its final descent. But then, the monotonous rhythm of the ordinary every day is interrupted with a new sound. It is the song of Advent, awakening in me the longing, the desire, the anticipation that Christ is coming.

For generations and across centuries, the people of God waited. From the very beginning, Adam and Eve longed for the One who would crush the serpent’s head, returning them to the life they no longer had access to. The Israelites made bricks day after day until it was all that they knew, wondering if God had forgotten them, but yet clinging to the hope of the promises made to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Knowing that they were God’s chosen people, and waiting for God to again bless those who blessed them and curse those who cursed them. All through the prophets, the promises grew louder; One was coming who would bind up the brokenhearted and proclaim liberty to the captives. All through history, every story whispered the name of the One who is coming. The familiar carols recount the scene:

“Long lay the world in sin and error, pining till He appeared”

“O come, o come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel”

“O come, Desire of Nations, bind all peoples in one heart and mind. Bid envy, strife, and quarrels cease, and fill the world with heaven’s peace.”

The songs continue:

“A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices; for yonder breaks a new and glorious mourn.”

“Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel has come to thee O Israel!”

Advent lets me join in both parts of this story. I know the truth – that the promises were true; that Christ has come! That He stood up in the temple and proclaimed freedom to the captive. That He has crushed the serpent’s head and again made a way for mankind to walk with God, just as Adam and Eve longed for. But the promises are still being delivered. Peace on Earth is now a possibility but is not yet a reality. The brokenhearted can now be comforted and healed, but all do not yet experience that. The reality of the promises is here, but it is not yet finally fulfilled.

And so in Advent, we look back to see the work that has been accomplished and we remember the promises that are yet to come. As my friend Sam says, “we focus on the longing we feel for the true New World, when the dwelling place of God will be with man…and we will be home again on earth.” And so we wait, together with our family, our friends, and the Church as the weary world longs to once again rejoice.

“The not yet will be worth it,” Advent whispers in the dark.

So let its song fill you.

Much Thanks

Since moving to DC more than 5 years ago, I have accepted that for the foreseeable future my life will be less settled than I would prefer. Over the last 5 years, I have moved four times and lived with six different groups of people. Rather than relocating closer to each other, my friends have continued to move father away. My previously stable church is going through a season of transition and my once-present roommates have added full-time coursework to their already full-time jobs. In the midst of this unrest, I have started a new job with a steep learning curve.

But on this National Day of Thanksgiving, I have returned to a place of constants. The traffic patterns, the landscape, the laughter and faces are all familiar and comforting. There is much to be thankful for in DC. Other days will tell of my enviable commute and the compassion of my roommates. But today is a day to be thankful for family – that great, unwavering constant.

Today, I pray that you would be with those who love you; that you would be full, and joyous, and thankful.

May your table be graced with lovely women and good men. May you drink well enough to drown the envy of youth in the satisfaction of maturity…May we all sit long enough for reserve to give way to ribaldry and for gallantry to grow upon us. May there be singing at our table before the night is done, and old, broad jokes to fling at the stars and tell them we are men…

The road to heaven does not run from the world, but through it…It is a place for men, not ghosts – for the risen gorgeousness of the New Earth and for the glorious earthiness of the True Jerusalem.

Eat well then. Between our love and His priesthood, He makes all things new. Our last Home will be home indeed.”

- The Supper of the Lamb, Robert Capon