God of the One

We talk frequently about how God will gather His people from the far corners of the earth and bring them together. We talk about how diverse heaven is going to be, how there will be persons there from every age, race, gender, ethnicity, time, and place, and more. We talk about what it means to be among those gathered in His name. 

What we don't talk about is how He does this. 

I think it's easy, when we talk about the gathering of the nations, to imagine this great, grand sweeping hand that glides across all eternity and sweeps the faithful under its wing, like a hen. Just like Jesus said. That in one fell swoop, all things are simply drawn together, like a great big holy inhale - Kirby-style. (That's a Nintendo reference. I couldn't help myself.) 

But that's not it. 

We are the people of God, yes, but we are also persons of God, and if there's one thing we know, it's that He loves each and every one of us individually. For who we are. As a special being created uniquely in His image, living a unique existence, living a unique story, telling a unique part of His glory. 

And in fact, though we hear Jesus say that He longs to sweep God's people under His wing like a hen, He also says something else that ought to reshape how we think about that glorious day when we all go home. 

He says - two will be out in the field; one will be taken and the other will be left. There will be two women; one will be taken and the other will be left. In other words, when the final breath of eternity sweeps through our finite time, God will still be choosing - one by one - who is gathered up.

Isaiah confirms the same thing - God gathers His people one by one. (27:12)

See, with God, you never become faceless. You never become nameless. You never become just a number. Even when you are numbered among the faithful, you're more than a number. You're always a name. You're always a face. You're always a story. You're always a glory. 

You are chosen, called, and loved by God as an individual being. As part of the whole, yes, but as a whole unit in and of yourself. And there is no story of God that is ever going to make you anything less than that. 

In fact, that was part of the problem with the census in the Old Testament. The census turned the people of God into a number - a number of the army, instead of a coalition of persons of God, men created in His very image. I think that's what God was so angry about with David. David had this whole nation of the persons of God and he got distracted by wanting a census - by wanting to know nothing more than how many of them there were. By wanting - and by putting overemphasis on - the numbers. 

God doesn't have numbers. As many as the sands on the seashore or the stars in the sky, He has names. Faces. Stories. Hearts. 

He has me. 

He has you. 

And that's just the way He wants it. 

God of Sadness

We are a people who are quick to label pathologies these days, especially when it comes to mental health. It seems we want everyone to admit to struggling with anxiety or depression or trauma or whatever the buzzword of the day is, and we've lost our ability to recognize that these things are not always pathologies; sometimes, they are just a product of living a full life. 

A week or so ago, my anxiety was really high. It was simply because I had one day off work and had packed it full of important things that I had to do, back to back to back to back. I had a lot riding on the outcome of these obligations, and I was not able to schedule myself time throughout that day to breathe. So of course, it's only natural that I would experience some measure of anxiety over the course of that day. That does not make me a person with an anxiety disorder; it makes me a person living a human experience with finite resources and able to recognize the impact that has on my overall well-being. 

About the same time, I saw a post on Facebook that told the story of a couple of little boys. One little boy was sad, and the other little boy came to comfort him and said, "It's okay to be sad sometimes. Sad stands for 'secretly a dinosaur,' then let out a roar and a laugh." But for us adults, the minute we shed a tear or express that we are sad, someone wants to come along and label it depression. Label it, and then medicate it. As soon as you say you're sad, someone will step up to say that they make medications for that. And if you object and say that it's okay to be sad sometimes, that same person will usually tell you that there's no shame in using the medications, as though shame were your primary reason for not wanting to medicate. 

The truth is, sadness, too, is part of a full human experience. It doesn't have to be labeled all the time, and it certainly doesn't always have to be medicated. 

Listen, I am not saying that labels, diagnoses, medications, and mental health care are bad. Please do not misunderstand me. What I am saying is that we are so quick to make pathologies out of anything that isn't "happy," and that's simply not the reality of our human experience. 

We are broken beings living in a fallen world. Bad stuff happens. Grief happens. Death is a reality here. Sickness, pain, abandonment, abuse. All of it. This place, this life, is broken. We're supposed to be sad about that. We're supposed to feel the weight of that. Trauma is supposed to be heavy. Anxiety is most definitely real. We know, in the depths of our soul, that this isn't the way it's supposed to be, and if we know that truth, then the reality that we face ought to leave us broken in some ways itself. 

The folks in the Old Testament used to tear out their hair and throw sackcloth on themselves in grief. Nobody told them to stop that. Nobody told them to find better ways to manage their stress. Nobody labeled them as pathologically sad. Nobody offered them medication. Everyone respected that they were clearly experiencing a heavy season of the brokenness of this fallen life and gave them the sacred space to deal with it. 

Isaiah goes further and says that God even wants us to feel this way sometimes. (22:12) God wants us to be sad sometimes.

It means we're paying attention. 

It means we know that things are not as they are supposed to be. It means we're able to comprehend that something's wrong. It means we have our hearts set on better things, on things that aren't like this. It means we get the contrast between God's idea and where our own ideas have brought us. Sadness is part of a faithful life. Anxiety is part of a faithful life. Letting brokenness burden us is part of a faithful life. 

It means we understand the promises and goodness of God. The heart of Him who never wanted it to be this way, who made it all good and then "very good" and then wept as He stood at the edge of death and the things that break us. 

If Jesus wept, why shouldn't we? 

Cry your tears. Have them all. Tremble with anxiety. Pace back and forth. Weep. Mourn. Wrestle. Tear your hair out. Dress in sackcloth if you want to. These are all holy things. They are not pathologies to be medicated or treated or labeled or swept under the rug. They are not shame. They are the marks of a faithful life that is paying attention and that isn't afraid to face this broken world head-on and let living in it be a real, full, fully human experience. 

God is Watching

I don't spend a lot of time worrying about who is watching me. In fact, I spend most of my life thinking that no one really notices what I'm doing, and I am certain that no one ever recognizes me. Because I personally have a condition called prosopagnosia (facial blindness), I don't recognize others right away, so I am prone to believe that most folks don't recognize me, either. 

Imagine my surprise, then, when someone says they saw me doing something. Anything. 

One recent day, I went to work and had two persons from two different departments approach me over the course of the day and tell me they had seen me walking my dog that morning. A few days later, someone came up and asked me if I lived on a certain street; he'd driven by and seen me standing out with a shovel, obviously doing some kind of work around that address. (Actually, that was a favor I was doing for a neighbor, but it was still weird.) A few years ago, the local newspaper had a big picture of me on the front page, and an acquaintance from down the street and one of the cashiers at Walmart stopped me to tell me they recognized me and read the whole story because they knew who I was...and learned more from that story. Just recently, two neighbors came out to comment on how well I had done with home improvement projects I've recently completed - neither of which I thought were actually witnessed by anyone. Nobody was outside while I was working. 

But still, someone - a few someones - have been watching, apparently.

As Christians, we always have this idea in the back of our minds - or we should - that we do what we're doing for the Lord. That God is watching us all the time and that we never know who else might be. That we live our witness in quiet moments, unbeknownst to us that anyone is paying attention to our example. It's why we're always trying to be faithful, no matter the circumstances. 

I have often said, pray as though anyone watching might think you're drunk, citing the example of Hannah from 1 Samuel, who didn't know that anyone was watching her prayer. 

The Gospels tell us not to worry about who might be watching, but to just do what we do because it is pleasing to God. 

But the truth is...we live in a world that's watching more than we know. We live in a world that sees us even when we don't think anyone is looking. 

And we have a God who is always watching. Isaiah tells us He's watching quietly, from the place where He lives. (18:4)

It really makes me think. It makes me think about what my life reflects if it were God who came up and said He saw me walking my dog. Standing around with my shovel. Telling my story on the front page of the paper. Working on a few simple projects. 

Praying. 

What would my life say if God was the one listening to it speak? (He is.) What is my witness that God sees from His windows? What is my life saying in the moments when I forget that anyone might be watching, when I forget that God is watching? 

He sees it all. 

Am I living a life worth watching? 

Charlie

The first time I met Charlie, he was belting out "Happy Birthday" to someone in the church - in the church. And I remember thinking to myself that I hoped no one ever told that guy when my birthday was. 

But it didn't take long for me to actually meet Charlie, who was an elder and, I assumed, had been an elder approximately forever. He was an absolute staple in the church, and his hallmark was greeting absolutely everyone. 

Every Sunday, I would walk in the church doors, and there would be Charlie. He'd wrap me in a strong-armed side hug, say a cheery "Good morning," and tell me it was better because I was there. Then, he'd go off and strong-arm side hug someone else with a cheery "Good morning" and tell them it was better because they were there. 

These were not just words to Charlie; he was genuinely happy to see you and genuinely believed the church experience was better with you in it. 

He would stand in the back of the church, always on duty at the door so that no one could sneak in without one of his signature greetings, and he'd belt out whatever song it was we were singing. You could hear Charlie all the way across the auditorium. His joy in the Lord was simply infectious. 

In fact, when I eventually became separated from that church after decades of worship, Charlie was one of the first persons I missed. I would find myself looking around sometimes, just in the middle of nowhere, and thinking how long it had been since I had been greeted with joy. Since I had been strong-armed into a side hug and told in no uncertain terms that things were better because I was there. 

It still makes me sad.

The truth is that life has taken its toll on Charlie. Just like all of us. The changes that come with life in a broken world are tough, and in the last few years that I knew him, Charlie was quieter. He would sit in the congregation a lot more than I had ever known him to. Sometimes, the door would just stand there all by itself, looking almost empty without Charlie stationed permanently in front of it. 

But he never missed his chance to say good morning to anyone. Never. 

Charlie lives close - really close, especially in today's terms - and he drives down the street quite often while I'm walking my dog. He always slows down, blocking traffic sometimes in both directions, to honk his horn, roll down his window, and shout "Good morning" to me. Every time. Then, he tells me where he's off to, what lonely, shut-in, or sick person he's on his way to see. 

Always someone who needs to be greeted with joy. 

I've learned a lot from Charlie. I've learned to step out and say "Good morning." To make sure everyone, at some point in their life, gets greeted with joy. Pure joy. Infectious joy. To remind others that it's better because they're here. Because...it is. I understand what Charlie was saying. My life is more blessed because you're in it, and that's the truth. The chorus sounds better with your voice singing with it. The work is done better with your hands contributing. The joy is contagious because when you smile, someone else smiles back and suddenly, the whole room is gleaming. 

Hey, I even remember an absolute ton of birthdays right off hand. 

That's Charlie. 

So if you need to hear it today, if you aren't sure, let me be the first to tell you - Good morning. It's better because you're here. 

A Heart Torn

Yesterday, I said that maybe some of the other disciples simply followed when Peter decided to go fishing again, having established their lives as followers for three years. It would be easy to just follow someone new, especially with the same group of guys you've been following with for so long. 

And maybe it didn't even strike you when I said that - that Peter decided to go fishing. Maybe that seemed like the most natural thing in the world to you. 

But it struck me. 

Why did it seem so easy for me to believe that Peter would be the one with the plan? That Peter would be the one leading the way back into the old life? That Peter would be the one with the idea to go fishing? 

It does seem natural. It seems like a perfect fit. We know that Peter was often the first to speak, often impetuously. We have tons of examples of him just saying whatever was on his mind. We could probably even make an argument that maybe Peter had a little bit of ADHD and was the kind of guy who couldn't just sit still and do nothing. He had to be doing something. So he decides to go fishing. 

But I think it's more than that. I think there's something in our hearts that draws us to Peter as the catalyst, something that goes a little more under our radar, but strikes right into the core of our being. 

Remember that the last time we see Peter before he's stripping his tunic and jumping off the boat to swim to shore, he's sitting in a courtyard around a fire, denying that he even knows Jesus. He looks up and sees Jesus make eye contact with him, and he knows - he's betrayed the Teacher he just called the Son of God. The last moment Peter has in what was supposed to be his new life...is a moment of failure. 

Now, Jesus is dead, the tomb is empty, a couple of sightings have been made, but we haven't gotten any inclination yet that Jesus has spoken directly to Peter, that they've had the reconciliation that Peter needs. 

The story must go on, the Good News must be proclaimed, more disciples must be made, but how is Peter supposed to believe that he's the one to do it? 

He's a betrayer. 

So if there's anyone on Easter Monday who doesn't believe his life can or should be or might be any different, it's got to be Peter. If there's anyone who is ready to go back to what he knows, to what he's good at, to a place that makes sense, it's Peter. If there's a disciple that is more likely than any other to suggest that they go fishing, it's Peter. 

There's something comforting about being where you're competent. 

Especially if you can't get that look on Jesus's face out of your mind. 

And maybe that's your story, too. Maybe that's what makes Easter Monday so hard for you. Maybe that's why it's so easy to want to embrace the story of Jesus, but so hard to actually do it. Because you feel like a screw-up. Because you feel like all that hope, all that promise, all that good news..it couldn't be for you. Not someone like you. Not a mess-up like you. 

Not a betrayer. 

But you know what? If that's you, then keep reading Peter's story. 

Because the minute he realized it was Jesus on the shore, he threw off everything and jumped in, going as fast as he could to get to the Teacher, who was busy grilling up the very fish that Peter, in all his competence and seeming confidence as a fisherman, couldn't catch. 

And that's a good story, too.  

Something New

We've just passed the resurrection, just passed Easter, and we seem to have let out a collective sigh. All the energies we spent getting to this big day, this big moment, and now, we get to just go back to our lives. Get back to the way things were. Rest a little, maybe. 

Yesterday, we talked about how quickly after the resurrection we found the disciples fishing. Our logic tells us that at the very least, we can assume that Peter, Andrew, James, and John were out there casting their nets into the sea - a testimony to what it's like to just go back to what we know. How easy it is to return to our old patterns. How comforting that can be when we aren't sure what comes next. 

But the Bible doesn't tell us that Peter, Andrew, James, and John were out fishing; the Bible tells us that the disciples were out fishing.

And that introduces a whole new set of ideas with it. 

How many disciples were on that boat? And why? 

It could be that they had truly become a band of brothers, so used to being with one another that it only seemed natural to continue to hang out. There have been seasons in my life that I have tried to hang onto through social connections, long after I probably should have. We get comfortable with folks, so we stick near them. 

Maybe they just couldn't go back to what they had known. Maybe being with Jesus had changed them. Those who weren't fishermen could have come to learn the trade. Simon was a zealot, someone highly invested in a violent revolution, but maybe seeing the way that Jesus lived and died had changed his heart and he wasn't interested in waging war any more. So what else is he gonna do? These other guys can teach him to fish, and that seems like a decent living. 

Matthew was a tax collector when Jesus called him. Maybe he didn't want to go back to the tax booth. Maybe the Romans wouldn't have him. Maybe the Jews wouldn't let him. So what's he supposed to do to make a living? Fishing seems like a good trade. Folks love to eat fish. Seems like stable work. So maybe Matthew is out on the boat, learning a (another) new life. 

Jesus saw Nathaniel sitting under a tree, pondering life and not really doing much with his own. Maybe he can't go back to doing nothing. Maybe he needs something new. Maybe Jesus was the catalyst he needed to, as we'd say today, grow up and start "adulting." Fishing could be a great career move for him. Maybe he's out on the boat, fishing with the others. 

Maybe...maybe these guys had gotten so used to following someone around that when Jesus was gone, they were just looking for someone else to follow. Maybe one day, Peter was like, "You know what? I think I'm going fishing," and ten other guys who had been following for three years were like, "Cool. Sounds great. Let's go fishing." Because they had reimagined themselves for so long as followers that what else were they going to do now? They were just going to follow whoever had a plan. 

The Bible tells us the disciples were out fishing. A good question for us to ask is - what does that mean? How many of them were out there? 

Because in them, we may find ourselves. We may see our Easter Monday out on that boat somewhere, somehow, in some capacity. And if it wasn't just Peter, Andrew, James, and John going back to what they knew, then what does that mean for those of us who aren't ready to just go back, either? 

What can we learn about ourselves if not all of the disciples on that boat were former fishermen? 

Gone Fishing

So what do you do with your life on Easter Monday? We spend so much time building up to the resurrection, but what is life like when the grave is empty?

Remember that not long after the actual resurrection, we see the disciples. At first, they are hiding in the Upper Room, trying to figure out what to do with themselves. Jesus appears to them there. But soon after that, we see them again - some of them are walking home down a long road; some of them are fishing. 

The Bible tells us that the disciples were fishing. It doesn't tell us which disciples were fishing or how many of them there were. Naturally, we assume that at the very least, Peter and Andrew, James and John were fishing. They were fishermen when Jesus called them, so it only makes sense that if the disciples were returning to their former lives, going back to the status quo, to the way things were, then these four disciples are very likely to be the ones out fishing. 

And isn't that just like us? 

How many of us, on Easter Monday morning, simply went back to work? Back to school? Back to mowing the yard and washing the dishes and running the errands and chasing the kids and walking the dog and scooping the kitty litter and just back to the life that we've always lived, the life we know best, the routine that is still etched somewhere in our veins somehow? 

I think this highlights just how little we understand about the resurrection, how little we can understand about the resurrection. It's something. Maybe it's everything. But we can't really fathom what we're supposed to do with it. 

Back in the Gospels, as the story seems to be ending, we know that it was just beginning, but the disciples couldn't have understood that. They couldn't have known where the story was going to take them next. They didn't know how to live and love and do ministry and spread the Good News without Jesus leading them. 

How do you just keep putting on the same show when the headliner is noticeably absent? The crowds were never pressed into the streets to see Andrew; they came to see Jesus. No one stood at the side of the road and cried out to Simon the Zealot; they cried out to Jesus. When someone was sick or dying or dead, messengers were sent for Jesus of Nazareth, not Nathaniel, who was called from under a tree. 

In fact, we have to mention that there was a time when Jesus sent out His disciples to do His work in the region, and it didn't go stunningly well. Most famously, there was a father with a child with a demon, and he brought his child to the disciples, but they "couldn't drive the demon out." Jesus had to do it.

The disciples probably vividly remembered that moment - and probably dozens of others like it that we don't know about - when it suddenly seemed that the rest of the story was up to them. 

Welp...that was a good run. No way this thing keeps going if it's up to us. 

...Time to go fishing. 

And so, bam! The greatest, most miraculous event in the history of the world, the fulfillment of a promise hundreds of years in the making, a new promise for an eternity to come, and Peter, Andrew, James, and John are back on a boat, casting their old nets into the old waters living their old lives the way they always had. 

Sound familiar? 

Breathe Easy

It's over, so now what?

Every year, we as Christians spend a lot of time building up to Easter. We pretty much start all the way back at Christmas - oooh, Jesus is born! He is born to die. Then, we have Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday and enter a period of Lent, when we are supposed to be preparing our hearts and minds but really, we're just thinking about whatever it is we've decide to do or not do (or not eat) for 40 days. Then comes Holy Week. 

There's something to do every day this week, but we tend to center ourselves around Maundy Thursday (the Last Supper), Good Friday (oh no! Our Lord has been crucified), Good Friday night (It is finished), silent Saturday, and then, finally, Easter Sunday (oh, good. The grave is empty. Hallelujah!). 

Easter Sunday is pretty much our Super Bowl. It's the day that we invite our friends and loved ones to come to church with us. It's when we get to really show them the cool thing that happens when the tomb is empty. It's the day we get to declare our faith...and hopefully get others to declare theirs. Easter is our outreach. It's our gamechanger. It's our victory - not just because of the empty tomb, but because of the full pews. 

Easter is it. 

But Easter is over. It's Monday again. 

So now what? 

There's something in our souls that wants to breathe easier today. That wants to just take a big, deep breath of relief. Because the tomb is empty and our eternity is secure, yes, but also because, whew, what a whirlwind the Christian calendar has been for what seems like such a long time. We want to come to rest in just being in Jesus. We want our lives to simply reflect Him. We want things to be the way they are supposed to be. 

But do we really have a plan to live post-resurrection? 

This Easter thing we do, we put so much into it. We pray harder. Fast longer. Discipline ourselves more intensely. Then, somehow, we expect that life just settles in and that it's just good. That it just becomes routine. That we don't have to try as hard any more; our life is forever changed. 

Are we living like it's changed? 

The disciples were hiding in the Upper Room, unsure of what to do with themselves. They didn't know what came next for them. They weren't sure how to live the next day. Are we any better off? 

The question I want to think about this week is whether your Monday looks different because of Easter Sunday or if we really do lose it all just that fast - all the wonder, all the discipline, all the excitement, all the faith. We have always talked a lot about what we do with ourselves on silent Saturday, but that's the question for Good Friday. 

The true question of Easter is what do you do with yourself on Easter Monday? 

The Encouragers

Three times in the past week, persons have made it a point to go out of their way to compliment me on something I have done well. 

The first time was at work, when one of the doctors came out to my workstation and said, "I don't think I've ever told you this, but you do just a fantastic job up here. Just fantastic." To be honest with you, I almost cried. 

A few days later, a different doctor came on staff for the week and pulled me into a meeting, saying, "You're just who we need. Get in here." After we discussed the status of our patients for the day, someone started to write down the list we'd just formed, and I recalled it straight from memory. The doctor just looked at me and said, "And that's why we have you." The implication, of course, that I was doing something good. That I was exactly the asset he knew I would be. 

Then, on my day off, my neighbor was pulling into his driveway early in the morning while I was starting out to walk the dog, and he stopped and waited for me. As I got closer, he rolled his window down and said, "Hey, I just wanted to tell you that you did an amazing job on that fence." (A few weeks ago, I spent several days digging new fence posts and re-setting the fence between us, which had started to fall over pretty significantly due to age and weather.) I thanked him, and he repeated his compliment, so I thanked him again. 

The thing is...I haven't really gone out of my way in any of these areas. I'm just doing my thing, doing what I would do on any given day. This isn't "above and beyond;" it's "day-to-day." And so often in our day-to-day, it's easy for us to start to feel invisible. We show up. We do our job. We do the work. We clean up. We go home. We set the alarm, and we do it all again. And it's easy to just say...this is what we do. It's nothing special. 

But then, there are the encouragers. There are the folks who see you when you feel most invisible. When the things you're doing seem like just the things to do and nothing special. When you're just grinding out one more day, one more thing, one more task, one more duty. 

There's something special about someone who takes the time to step up and tell you they see you. Tell you they notice you. Tell you that you're doing a good job. 

It does something good to the heart. 

This week, I've been reminded to be an encourager. To notice folks. To take the time to step up and say something. To tell them they're doing a good job. To let them know that I see them, even in the moments when they probably feel most invisible. When they're just doing their thing. When they don't think anyone notices. 

This week, I've been reminded to be a noticer. 

It's important. 

(Just ask Barnabas.)  

God Gathers

There are a lot of buzzwords in our culture today around "diversity." Actually, if we're being honest, "diversity" itself has become a buzzword. Sometimes, we mean it in the purest sense of the word, to reflect the coming together of things that are not alike in some meaningful ways, but whose differences create something beautiful when put together. 

Sometimes, we mean it in a less-than-pure way, such as when we identify something as "diverse" that is actually just different. I have heard persons refer to that "diverse church down the street" when what they really mean is that it's a Black church. It's not diverse; it doesn't hold within itself things that are beautifully different; it is singularly Black and therefore just different from the white church to which they belong. 

It's challenging to talk about because everyone seems to be on a bit of a trigger when we try to talk about what diversity does and doesn't mean. Some of us are afraid of stepping on toes. Some of us are afraid of offending. Some of us are afraid of being offended. Some of us are afraid of looking like some kind of bigot that we aren't. 

None of these things have ever scared me. 

The first thing we have to realize that is that even though we talk about diversity primarily as a race issue, most likely because that is something that is plain to see, true diversity is not just about race. Diversity is everything that makes us beautifully different from one another in meaningful ways that cultivate a richer experience for all of us when we come together.

Diversity is race, yes. But it is also sex. It is also economic status. It is also employment status. It is also political affiliation. It is also denominational affiliation. It is also personal experience and the background that each of us has. It is rich, poor, smart, dumb, literate, illiterate, those who can dance, those who can't dance, those who love being outdoors, those who are allergic to the sun, introverts, extroverts, white collar, blue collar, Black, white, brown, western, eastern, southern (shout out to my southern folk), those who love math, those who have to take their socks off to count to 20. It's all of us in exactly the unique forms that we have. 

I have always said that every human being I meet is a person created in the image of God and therefore has something to teach me about who God is and how He loves me. I have something to learn from literally everyone I ever meet. And I learn those things best when they are contrasted in differences - when I can learn from them things that I would never understand in my own flesh if they weren't generous enough to share it with me. 

I will never know what it's like to be male. I will never know what it's like to be another race. I will never know what it's like to not like math. I will never know what it's like to be an extrovert. I will never know what it's like to not have rhythm. I will never know what it's like for the outdoors to love me back (ugh, allergies). There are bounds around my flesh that limit the things I can understand in this world, and I am dependent on God's other persons to teach me. To show me. To set an example so that I can expand my understanding, even if I never get to experience these things first hand. 

That's why I love that the Bible constantly tells us that God is drawing us all together from all over His creation, that He gathers His people from everywhere. (Isaiah 11:12) That the lines between us aren't really what we think they are. That in Him, our beautiful diversity reveals His glory in all the ways that I always dream that it will. 

There's something special about being drawn together in God, being gathered together across all the lines we have created for ourselves...for whatever reason we think it's been important to do that. There's something about erasing those lines and turning them into learning curves instead, and I think that's why God is always reminding us that we are all - today and tomorrow and forever - drawn together in Him. 

It's beautiful. 

God's Pen

One of the major criticisms of the Bible today is that it was written by men...and not by the men that we think wrote it. There is a large collection of so-called scholars who will tell you that Isaiah was written by three different authors, that Paul didn't write all the letters that we attribute to him, and on and on and on to make you rethink how you read your Bible. To these scholars, these questions of authorship are a problem.

A big problem. 

They've even developed an entire field around it, which they call a science, but it's not really a science. The idea of "historical-textual criticism" is actually just academia's attempt to make the reference point for the Bible men and not God. In other words, they start with the premise that the Bible is a book written by men and therefore, it should be interpreted by culture and by men and that we should always be looking through our human lens at it to discover that, in fact, men have created God in their own image and not the other way around. 

Honestly, it's boring and exhausting and far from the attempt they claim it is to be "faithful" to the text. 

Faithfulness to the text is taking God at His Word. And for the truly faithful - for those who believe the God of the Bible - it's actually not that big of a stretch and not that big of a problem to understand that yes, God did in fact use men to write the Bible. 

The prophet Isaiah tells us plainly: God uses an ordinary pen. (8:1)

God has always used an ordinary pen. God has always told His story through humans. And how could He do any differently? 

God's story is a story of love. And love requires an object of affection. For God, that object of affection is us. His relational nature requires relating to us, through us, with us. From the very beginning, we are the thing that made God's "good" creation "very good." Made in His image, there's something about us that reveals something about Him. 

Using us, then, to write His story helps us connect to who He is. It helps us to see more of the God who created us, when we see His image reflected through the pages of the sacred text in our own broken, messed-up, complicated, finite ways. We understand God better when we understand Him through our language, but He sneaks just enough of His language in that He changes our vocabulary and teaches us a new way to talk. 

Tell me: how am I supposed to know that God loves me, that God's nature is love, if David, the murderer, Thomas, the doubter, Peter, the audacious, Jeremiah, the tortured, Jonah, the bitter, and so many others do not tell me how God loved them? How am I supposed to understand God's story in me if they have not shared, in their own experience, God's story in them? 

It doesn't bother me if Isaiah was written by the prophet or by three other guys pretending to be him or by some mixture of both. I don't care if Paul actually wrote all the letters that we think he did. I don't care if "in the beginning" were the first words written or if they came thousands of years later after the exile. Those things only matter to so-called "scholars" who think they know more than thousands of generations of faith have passed down to us. 

For the faithful, we know that God has always used an ordinary pen...and that finding that pen isn't the true quest of our faith. The true quest of our faith is finding the God who writes with it, the God who writes with us, the God who has something to say through our lives because He's the God who has always revealed Himself with, through, and to human beings made in His image.

God is Right and Fair

What is the glory of the Lord? What is His holiness?

When we think of glory, we often think of splendor. We often think of beauty. We think about the way that the stars shine in the darkest of nights, that the sky is painted a beautiful palette of pinks and blues and oranges and reds, that the flowers bloom, that the birds sing, that the created world reflects the incredible imagination and goodness of our God. When we think of holiness, we think of perfection, of perfect judgment, of sinlessness, of something...untouchable. 

These ideas have extended to our own faith, where we have come to believe that the glory of the Christian is their adornment - the cross necklace, the T-shirt with the catchy phrase, the elegant Scripture displayed in cursive above the fireplace, the bumper sticker on the car. When we think of holiness, we think of rule-following, of keeping the commandments, of moral judgment (and, unfortunately, of condemnation of anything outside of our understanding). 

But while there is certainly a measure of truth to these definitions - while we can say that God's glory is reflected in His creation and His holiness in His commands - the Bible tells us that that's not entirely true. It is true, but it is not sufficient to capture the essence of what glory and holiness really mean. 

For this, we must turn to Isaiah, where the prophet helps us to understand a deeper, more complete truth. 

God's glory, Isaiah says (5:16), is in judging fairly. His holiness is in doing right. 

In other words, God's glory and holiness are relational. They have to do with His dealing with His creation. They have to do with the way He loves us. 

Judging and righteousness are acts of love. Discerning is an act of love. God's glory is shown nowhere greater, not even in the most beautiful sunset, than when His judgment is fair. His holiness is shown not in keeping the rules, but in doing the right thing. 

Subtle differences? Perhaps, but maybe not. 

Remember, this is the same thing that the Bible tells us about our faith. We think we can be called Christians just by wearing the right clothes, carrying our Bible around, putting the bumper sticker on our car, calling ourselves a member of a certain church, following the rules, condemning those who don't, passing moral judgment on the world. 

But the Bible tells us plainly that's not it. It tells us in no uncertain terms that the world will know we are Christians...by our love. By our relationships. By the way we deal with the rest of creation and with our Creator. 

Just as God's glory is relational, so our reflection of it is also relational. Just as we know God is God by His love, so the world will know us the same way. 

Love is the center of it all. 

Always has been; always will be. 

God Speaks

Whether you believe in the claims behind climate change or not, one of the things that the intense emphasis on our impact on the planet has done is train us to listen to the natural world when it speaks. It has taught us to pay attention to vanishing species, diminishing habitats, manmade pollution, and more. It has trained us to recognize signs of distress around us in ways that are important. 

What we have failed to recognize is how much we have needed this reminder, as persons of a certain generation. See, in times before us, humans were much more connected to the land. Just a few generations ago, it seemed most folks had a family farm. We are all just a few generations removed from those who lived off the land - the farmers who could tell a storm was coming just by the way the wind blew or who knew the right time for planting just by grabbing a handful of soil or saw the livestock coming into heat by the tiniest changes in their behavior, well before it was time to put the mates together. Our very recent ancestors, like so many generations before them, were very much in tune with the earth. 

But we, in our very indoor lifestyles in big cities with disappearing natural spaces (or artificially-recreated ones), with pictures of the world at our fingertips but unable to identify what the dirt smells like, are very much removed from the natural world. We don't know our planet as intimately as our ancestors always have. 

So we don't always hear it when it speaks. 

That's why the reminders that the climate change debate have brought us are so important. 

The natural world has so much to tell us about God. It is a vital connection to our Creator, as created beings ourselves. The Bible tells us all kinds of things about how the natural world reveals to us the God that we worship, from flowers clothed in splendor and beauty to red skies at night to the ways that the wind blows through the mountains and the waters flow from the streams. To the ways that the birds sing and the wolves howl and the ostriches flap their wings with joy. 

The Bible tells us that if men were to be silent, the rocks themselves would cry out with the Lord's glory. And, indeed, we have to wonder, with all of the distractions that we have today, would we even hear them? 

The Bible also tells us, though, that the natural world is listening. 

In the very beginning of Isaiah, the prophet notes that the heavens and the earth are listening, that they hear, that the Lord is speaking and at least most of the creation is paying attention, even if men aren't. Even if we aren't. 

That's why learning to listen to the creation is so crucial for us. Because the creation hears what we don't, and it can be our connection to hearing the Lord again. Anew. Afresh. To learning how to listen once more. 

This isn't a post about climate change. This isn't meant to jump into the debate. But it's meant to highlight what a gift it can be to us that we have this refrain echoing through our culture right now. 

Because it reminds us to listen to a creation that hears when the Lord speaks. 

Perhaps, then, we can hear, too. 

Ann

I never felt like I was supposed to be there. 

It was exactly where I was supposed to be; that was the job. But I always felt like an intruder in a secret space, and no matter how many days I spent behind the library, it felt like at any minute, some adult was going to come walking in and ask me what I was doing there. 

I was in elementary school, and I had the privilege of being a "library helper." At the time, I believed it was meant to be a boredom buster; I was a highly gifted student who breezed through all my work and simply wasn't challenged at my grade level, but at the time, there was concern for the social life of children who skipped grades. They thought it was best to keep me with my peers. So they let me go to the library while everyone else was working on the things I had already known for a few years. 

Looking back, I wonder if part of it wasn't that they understood I also needed a social break. I needed something to throw myself into, my own little world, something to busy me when I felt in the depths of my soul like I could not be still. Not much was known about these fidgety kinds of personalities back then, but maybe they sensed it. 

My job as a library helper had me reshelving the books that had been returned, but mostly, I dusted the shelves. I dusted and straightened the shelves in the library itself, and I dusted and straightened the shelves in the back, where extra materials and things were kept. Where there were supplies for other fun things. Where teachers wandered in and out occasionally. 

It seemed like a cave of a back room because most of it extended in one direction from the door, but it probably was not as big as it felt when I was so small. It was full of things for the adults to use, and adults frequently came in and out. And here I was, a child - and always on the small side, at that. Quiet. Going through every shelf. 

I felt like a trespasser. Like at any moment, someone was going to tell me that I didn't belong there. 

But to Ann, the librarian, it was the most natural place in the world for me to be. 

She left me to it. She told me what needed to be done and simply trusted that I was doing it. She never hovered over me. She never spied on me. She never snuck in to check that I wasn't up to no good. She completely trusted me in her secret space, and when she did come by, it was to tell me what a nice job I was doing or to offer me a sweet treat of some sort. She never batted an eye at seeing small me in her big space. I always relaxed a little when I realized that the footsteps that I heard were hers. (I was such an uptight kid that I never relaxed completely, but her presence brought me comfort and reassurance.) 

As much as I felt like I didn't belong in the back, the library itself - and Ann - were a sacred space for me. I remember so fondly my days dusting shelves. (And the days she'd call me over for story time with the younger grades.) 

We live in a world that likes to draw lines. Everybody seems to have them. Everybody seems to know what the lines are in their own life. Everyone has this sense of where they're supposed to be and where they're not supposed to be. We all have these places where we feel like a trespasser, where we're sure that at any moment, someone is going to come in and tell us that we're not supposed to be there. 

I want to be an Ann. I want to be someone who not only invites others into secret spaces but welcomes them there. Someone who acts like it's the most natural thing in the world for them to be there. Someone who comes not to hover, but to encourage. To bring a sweet treat and a breath of refreshing air. Someone whose footsteps, when the world feels like it's walking on eggshells, bring comfort and a sense of relief. 

I want to be someone who, when others look back at the spaces we've shared, they remember them with fondness. 

Yes, I want to be an Ann. 

*And she had a fantastic sense of style that I only wish I could pull off.  

God Desires

My friends poked a little fun at me this week because I bought a shirt. It turns out, everyone loves the purchase; it looks good on me, it's fun, it's a good style. No one thinks I shouldn't have bought the shirt; everyone thinks I should have bought the shirt sooner. 

See, I confessed to my friends that I've been looking at this shirt for a year. Yup. A year. Always drawn to it, always liking it, trying to convince myself to buy it. 

I've looked at this shirt, liked it, thought about it, seen it again, noticed something new, thought about that, watched for a sale, looked it up online, waited, thought, considered, dreamed.... 

To be honest, I've always shopped this way, although not necessarily to that extreme. If I'm in the market for something, or if something catches my eye, I let it just sit for awhile. I do the research. I crunch the numbers. I figure out the benefits vs. the cost. I come back and look at it again. I wonder if it's really what I want or not. I wonder if I really need it or not. I wonder if it will do for me, on all levels, what I actually think it will do for me. 

In a sense, when there is something in this world that I want - or that I'm thinking about wanting - I become obsessed with it. It takes up a lot of my mental space. 

The same is true when we enter into a new relationship with anyone or anything, right? Get a new boyfriend or girlfriend, and you become obsessed. They dominate your thoughts. You're constantly doing the math in your head. You can't stop thinking about all of the little details. All you want in the world is to take the next step, to be closer, to have that thing you're dreaming about - that relationship, that item, whatever. 

(This is also, by the way, how addictions are formed, so be careful. I mean, obviously.) 

But did you know that this is also how God thinks about us? 

Song of Solomon says that God, our lover, desires only us. (7:10) 

We're what He thinks about. We're what He dreams about. He's always doing the math in His head. He's always thinking about the details. He's always planning the next opportunity we're going to have together. He's always noticing the little things. He's always trying to tease His way into the next thing. Cheering our successes; encouraging our opportunities; mourning our failures. Wondering, waiting, watching, dreaming, desiring. 

You, my friend, live front and center in God's mind. You're all He can think about. You're all He dreams about. 

You are all He desires. 

Isn't it cool to think about how much God thinks about us? 

God of the Garden

In the beginning, God created...a garden. A beautiful garden with all the best that the world has to offer. He filled it with fruit and creatures and goodness, and then, He created man. But He did not just create man (and woman), He came to walk with them in His garden in the cool of the day. 

With real footsteps. The kind you could hear as the grasses rustled beneath His feet. 

We all know the story - then there was the serpent, then there was the fruit, then there was the curse, and now, there were the angels with their flaming, swinging swords, guarding the way to the garden so that we couldn't get back in and condemn ourselves to even worse. 

But the Lord our God, He never stopped loving us. He never stopped wanting to walk with us. 

From here, we usually jump to Jesus. The Son of God who put on flesh and came to walk with us once more. Or we jump to Revelation, when the angels guarding the way are removed and the whole creation is restored and the tree of life produces 12 kinds of fruit and nourishes everything. 

But between the curse and the Cross, there is another story about our God. Our God who wants to walk with us. Our God who hasn't forgotten the way He created things, the way they were supposed to be. 

Our Lover. 

Of course, we are talking about the Song of Solomon. That weird little book that seems a little too erotic to belong in the Bible. That one that makes us a little uncomfortable, as it seems that we are peeking in the window at a place that should have had its curtains closed. That book that has for years been interpreted through a lens of sexual innuendo (and for good reason). 

But what if it's not just sexual innuendo? What if it's also spiritual innuendo? 

After all, it is part of God's word to us. We are supposed to come to understand something about our Lover from this poem of love. 

And if there's one thing I think we ought to pay attention to, it's this: 

Our Lover has gone down to His garden. (6:2)

Our God, the Creator of gardens. Our God, who once walked with us. Our God, who longs to walk with us again. Our God, who loves us so deeply. Our God has gone down to His garden, to the place where it all started, to the place where it was all very good. He has gone down to His garden, and He is calling to us to join Him. 

Friends, do not forget Eden. Do not forget the created order. Do not forget the beautiful way. Do not forget the very good. 

For the Lord our God, our Lover, has gone down to that very garden, and He is waiting for us there. 

God the King

Have you ever been in a house that had rooms that were off-limits? 

I don't know if this was just the culture of the time, but I remember this very powerfully from my childhood. 

I remember that we had to walk through my great-grandma's bedroom to get to the bathroom, but we were told not to linger and not to touch anything, and we never went into the back rooms. I remember at my grandmother's house, we were always told to stay in the front room and never go down into any of the bedrooms. I remember the concept of a "formal living room," a room that many families had and that was full of furniture, but that no one ever actually used.

I remember what it was like to go to my friend's house and to watch them just walk through the whole place like they lived there, like there was nothing off-limits. 

We didn't have any such rooms in our own house; we were a family that required all of our space. But I also remember that rooms were to be used for what they were to be used for and nothing else. It was such a big surprise - and it felt like a big treat - when my mom would spread a spare bed sheet out on the floor in front of the fireplace in the living room and invite us to a "picnic." 

Yes, really. 

I don't know if this is still a thing or not, if families still have boundaries as to which parts of their houses are open and which are closed. I don't know if every generation in every place can relate to this or if it was specific to the kinds of places that I grew up. 

I know that the concept of this that hurt me the most as a kid didn't actually take place in a house; it took place in a church. I've told this story before, but it is such a core memory for me, especially as relates to my relationship with God. But I remember when my preschool teachers took us on a tour of the Lutheran church in which we were spending our young years - a whole group of 3-year-olds. They took us to the sanctuary, the most beautiful room in the entire building, so beautiful that it didn't even look like it belonged inside the same set of bricks as the rest of it, and they made us all stand at the door. They blocked the doorway with their big, grown-up arms, shushed us down as we jockeyed to see around each other, and said, "We don't go in there. That room is holy." 

That'll form a memory. 

But then, we have this God who says He is going to prepare a place for us. And not just a place, but a house. And not just a house, but a mansion. He tells us that we will come into His presence, and we're told that our King lives in a Palace. A Temple, really, but a palace. And we saw how He put up a curtain to separate us from Him, but then He tore that thing straight in two. 

And all these memories that I have of these forbidden places come creeping back in. 

What good is Heaven if you can't actually live there? 

The good news is...you can. Heaven isn't like these places the world has roped off. Heaven isn't like these formal living rooms we never use. Heaven isn't like tiptoeing through the hallways, trying not to touch, trying not to disturb, wondering if you're supposed to be here or not. 

Song of Solomon (1:4) says the King takes us into His rooms. Not just lets us in. Not just gives us the freedom to wander. Not just doesn't block them off. No, the King takes us in there. Takes us on a tour. Shows us where everything is. Invites us inside. Lets us live in His spaces. 

Our spaces. 

That concept is so cool for a kid like me. 

God of Mystery

There is a lot in this world that we both know and at the same time, do not understand. That we cannot understand. In some cases, we can watch it, as through a window, but we still cannot understand what is happening. 

Take, for example, the growth of a plant. We know that we put a seed into the ground, it busts open, it sprouts, it pushes through the soil above it, and it becomes a plant. We can plant the seed in a glass box, even right up against the edge, put a time-lapse camera on it, and watch it. But at the very best, all we can do is describe what we are seeing; we cannot explain how it actually works. 

Yet we can all say - we all must say - that the seed is becoming the plant. 

The same is true with the child in the womb. Our technologies have come a long way, and we even have ultrasound now that can show you in 3-D what your growing baby looks like. We can see the heartbeat. We can watch the features start to form. We can measure the girth and weight of the momma and make assumptions about what that means about the baby in the womb. We have even become able to fertilize eggs in test tubes in laboratories and keep them in incubators. And yet, we can't explain how it actually happens. We can watch it, but we can't explain it. 

Yet we all know that a baby is growing in the womb. 

And we can watch the wind blow. We can see it move the leaves of the trees. We can feel its refreshing breeze against our faces. We can feel it shift from one direction to another. We can track jet streams and cold fronts and warm fronts and weather systems. And yet, not a single one of us has ever gone to the place where the wind starts. We don't know how it happens. We can't explain it. 

Yet, we must say that it is certainly the wind. 

Ecclesiastes tells us this is the relationship that we have with God. What He does in the world is plain - we can see it, just as we can see the plant sprouting, the baby forming, the wind moving - but we cannot explain it. We cannot understand it. 

Our God is both plain and mysterious at the very same time. He is known and unknown. He is knowable, but there are things we can only witness and not explain. Things we can see, but not understand. Things that seem so obvious, but ask us how they are done, and we would only be able to shrug our shoulders. 

Should that trouble us? It should not. 

For we are not troubled by not knowing how the plant grows; it does not keep us from planting seeds. We are not troubled by not knowing how the baby grows; it does not keep us from desiring offspring. We are not troubled by not knowing how the wind blows; it does not keep us from flying a kite.

Therefore, let us not be troubled by not knowing how God does the wondrous things that He does; let it not keep us from trusting in Him. 

April

It was my first day. I was walking into a job I knew nothing about, in a place I had never been, to equipment I had never seen, and as I stood at the back door to the kitchen, at least someone had left the door open. I was going to be able to walk right in instead of standing there knocking like a newbie. 

I saw the ovens, the coolers, the walk-in freezer. A row of lockers. A bunch of stuff I didn't recognize. I heard all the noise, the banging pans, the shuffling of boxes. 

I could turn around right now and walk out and nobody would even know it, I thought to myself, overwhelmed. I could quit before I even started. I could leave and say I got lost or something and maybe try again later or tomorrow, if I wanted to. If I didn't want to, I could just make a clean break. No harm, no foul. 

Then, a woman popped around the corner and with great excitement shouted, "Oh! You must be the new one!" 

What a welcome. 

"The new one." 

Her name was April. She was in charge of the salad bar. She would become one of my best friends. 

And she's the only reason I didn't walk out. I mean, how could I, now that I'd been spotted? 

That job was one of the most fun seasons of my life. It sounds dumb for someone who had just graduated with her Master's degree, but I really enjoyed my season in food service. It suited me. It stretched me. It exposed me to things I had never known before. It gave me new skills. It created new opportunities. It completely changed the experience that I had during the pandemic, when I suddenly became "essential." That job was such a blessing to me in a season when it seemed so strange that it would be. 

It was my doorway to my next thing, and the one after that, and suddenly, somehow, the place I am now. Really. Being in the schools put me into the classroom, which introduced me to a later new friend, who introduced me to her mother, who opened the doors for me in health care, where I am now thriving (and where I always wanted to be anyway). 

All of that was made possible by April, who spotted me in a vulnerable moment and greeted me with joy and ushered me into a place that seemed so overwhelming at first but quickly became a place I absolutely loved. 

It reminds me to notice persons. To step out and say something. To greet them and bring them in. To help them take that first step in a moment when they're thinking to themselves how easy it would be to just turn around and walk away. 

I can be really introverted. I can be really shy. I can be really insecure. But I think often of that first day, my first day, and the way that April came running to me with such excitement and how much that one moment changed for me. How much it made possible. How good it all turned out - in that season and the next one and the next one. And I think that maybe I ought to get over myself a little bit and step out and just say hi. 

Oh! You must be the new one. 

Come on in; let me show you around. I, for one, am glad you're here.  

Prostitutes and Mothers

There's a story in the Bible, in 1 Kings, that you're probably familiar with. It's the story of two women with two babies. One of the babies dies, and the women are left fighting over the living baby. They find themselves in front of King Solomon, who determines who the child's actual mother is and returns the living child to her. The story is meant to demonstrate Solomon's wisdom. 

And it does. 

But it also demonstrates something else. 

Every time I have heard this story preached, I have heard about these women. About these mothers. When I think about this story, I think about these women. These mothers. Two mothers of two babies, one who unfortunately died. A wicked mother, even, perhaps, who is willing to cut a living baby in two, but mothers nonetheless. 

Then, I read the story again. 

At the very beginning of the story, the Bible tells us that "once, there were two prostitutes." Yup. You read that right. These two mothers are introduced to us first as two prostitutes. 

You would think this would stick out to us. You would think we would remember this. You would think, as obsessed as we are in our culture with sexuality and sex, in general (and as judgmental as Christians tend to be on the subject), the fact that these women were prostitutes would always be part of the story. 

But it's not. 

Because the emphasis of the story is Solomon's wisdom, and we wouldn't want to take anything away from that. So they become mothers. 

But do you see how easy that was? 

We, who tend to be so judgmental about sex and about prostitutes, especially, choose to identify these women as mothers, and we seem to have forgotten entirely that they were prostitutes. It's not an important part of the story when we tell it. It's a detail that just...faded away. 

This is an important reminder for us, for those of us who are tempted to make judgments about other persons based on things we think we understand. What if we identified those we are tempted to judge as something else? What if they were more than our stereotypes? What if we could push aside the words that seem to carry so much weight and see them as something else? 

What if we saw every prostitute as a mother? Every gay man as a brother? Every drug addict as a sister? 

We are, after all, the family of God, aren't we?

You forgot they were prostitutes. Admit it. You did. 

What else could you forget about people? 

Faith

Here's where all this talk about my blind dog comes back to meet us: at the simple matter of faith. 

See, I am noticing how hard it is for my newly-blind friend to navigate the world using senses that she's apparently never paid much attention to, and I've reflected from time to time on how well my own senses pick up in an emergency. But the thing that I really think about is how my faith works in moments when I need it, but am not sure how to find it. 

We all have those moments. Those times when everything we seem to know is called into question, when the darkness settles in thick for a season, when something seems to almost choke us out. Everything that we thought we knew isn't working, and we need to rely on something else to get us through. 

We have prayed the prayers, read the verses, sung the songs, even lifted our weary hands into the air in worship, and nothing seems to be connecting us to the source of strength that we really need right now. Try as we might, the practices of our faith are failing us. 

This is where the substance of our faith has to come in. 

This is where all those disciplines we've invested ourselves in come to help us. 

This is where our auto-pilot has to kick in and carry us through. 

This is where so many of us fall. 

It really is. This is where so many persons who have thought they were faithful have fallen because their faith has failed them. They have no auto-pilot. They just kind of went along with things, floating in the streams of life, trusting that if they ever needed it, these currents would carry them. 

But all of a sudden, the waters shifted and now, life has them swimming upstream, but there's no muscle memory for their faith. They haven't exercised it, so it doesn't know how to push back. All it knows how to do is be carried along and suddenly, being carried along just isn't good enough. 

There is a way that keeps believing even when it doesn't seem possible. There is a way of deep knowing in the depths of your soul that can't be shaken, even when none of the things you've depended on are working. 

We read the Bible so that it gets down in our bones. We sing the songs so that they get woven into our hearts. We pray the prayers so that we know what the voices sound like - ours and His. And then, on the days when the Bible seems boring or stupid, the songs seem trite or annoying, the prayers seem worthless, the postures just aren't working, there's something deep down in the fabric of our being that still knows...still knows even in a season when it can't be reminded...and that faith - that faith - is what carries us through. 

That's what I really think about as I watch my blind girl try to navigate her world in new ways. 

If everything you think your faith is came crashing down tomorrow - if you lost your church, grew weary of your Bible, were annoyed by the repetitive choruses of worship songs, forgot your voice, didn't recognize God's, or could barely lift your weary hands, would the faith that you have established as the background, as the foundation, as the structure of your very life have a way to carry you through? 

Would you still be able to believe if you found yourself in a season when you couldn't connect? 

If not, what would you need to start doing differently, today, right now, to start establishing that kind of faith in your life? 

Because I promise you - those seasons are coming. They come for all of us. 

Are we ready? 

All Your Senses

When we talk about having different ways to experience the world and whether or not we're paying attention, one of the examples I always think of right away is the smart phone. 

I was a late adopter to the smart phone, only getting one in 2015 after becoming stranded on a deserted highway in another state and unable to access any resources that would help me to find my way home. It seemed prudent, then, to finally upgrade to a device that also carries the internet (and that doesn't require counting minutes on my plan). 

Honestly, I'm not a fan. 

One of the complaints that I have about my smart phone is that in case of emergency, it's absolutely no help at all. Maybe I just don't know how to use it as adeptly as kids these days, but give me my old flip phone, and I can get help. 

Picture it: you're in a car accident and your smart phone lands just out of reach. You can feel it, but you can't see it. How are you going to call 911? 

Maybe you know how to voice activate your phone or whatever. I don't. But give me my old flip phone, and I only need to feel it. My fingers can feel where the buttons are, and I can dial 911 without ever seeing my phone. Same thing if it's in my pocket. If I'm out walking around somewhere and sense danger, I don't have to pull a flip phone out of my pocket or give any audio clues that I'm seeking help to get it; I can just stick my fingers in my pocket and dial the numbers. Bam. Done. 

This blows the minds of some of the younger folk. The same folk who are amazed that I can type without looking at the keyboard. But the truth is that it's just a product of paying attention. It's a product of knowing where my fingers are and what happens when they move this or that way. It's a product of understanding what a keypad feels like. 

Keypad > Touchscreen any time, every time. 

But you give today's kid an actual phone, and they don't know how to use it. Their entire world is visual, with a little bit of audio mixed in. They don't have to use their sense of touch the way that my generation had to, so in case of emergency, they don't have that built-in back-up system that knows where they are in the world and how to navigate. They've never had to pay attention to it. It was my part of my daily existence. 

This is what I'm talking about. I'm talking about knowing what your world feels like. What it smells like. What it tastes like. What it sounds like. Not just what it looks like. 

In case of emergency, in case of failure, could you navigate the world in a non-dominant way? Have you been paying enough attention to know where you are if all of your visual cues were taken away? 

This isn't just about our physical senses. This is also a faith question. We'll get to that tomorrow.