I remember his first Christmas, trying to get him to go to sleep, rocking him back and forth to the rhythm of Jack Johnson while we watched the NORAD Santa Tracker fly over the base in Iraq where his Dada was.

I remember when he was small enough I could scoop him up and fly him around like an airplane. I remember his baptism, the words and the water spilling over him, the catch in my throat and the tears welling up threatening to overflow out of sheer rejoicing for the grace and favor poured upon on my brother’s child. I remember the first time he was taller than me, the first time he drove me in a car, and the first time, not so long ago, that I realized he had gone and grown up into a young man without my realizing it. Just two Christmases ago, he asked me a question about the Church calendar and it struck me with both pride and fear that he had actually been listening and knew I was someone to whom he could ask that kind of a question.

It is hard when you see one another only on occasion - a birthday here, a holiday there. One time he is building Star Wars legos and the next, he’s building his college resume. I came to realize that the only thing I could really offer him was my presence. I tried to simply be present as often as the four-hour drive would allow. A track meet, a soccer game, or just because. Both my nephews have always held a special place in my heart as I believe most women who are aunts would say about their nieces and nephews. The love you have for your sibling pours over first, if you are fortunate as I am, to their chosen spouse. And from there, instead of decreasing, it grows and expands as the family grows, one child at a time. Families gather around children, Their innocence and helplessness call for it. They call for friends who are like family and family who are friends. I look at my nephews, now both in their teens, and see the years of love poured into them by their parents, their grandparents, their friends, their pastors and teachers - love often poured out just in the act of being present. Since I have been single their whole lives, I tried to fill the role of fun aunt, fun uncle, and cousin all rolled into one. But I have realized that what I remember most vividly from my own childhood, growing up with an abundance of aunts, uncles, and cousins, isn’t how cool or fun they were but that they were. My Uncle Dan was always there, always present, and he always saw me, even when I was quietly observing in a corner or outside on the porch. I don’t remember very much of what he ever said to me. But I remember his presence. And I feel his absence still.

This weekend, when I saw my nephew, I told him some words. Something about being sure he finds a church, he studies, he makes friends. But that is not what I hope he remembers, not really. Perhaps the words will pop into his head at some point. But what I really hope he recalls as he faces a lonely night far from home is what I recalled my first night in my college dorm staring at the cinder block walls illuminated by low florescent lighting. And that is those who are present still with him, in him, those who lift him up in prayer even at that very moment. Because that is how we know we are loved - the real, abiding presence. That is how we all know we are loved - His presence, God in the midst of us, in us, around us, through us. God with us.

May God go with you and be present to you, my nephew, and to you, my friends!

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5:45 AM at DFW airport, we all funnel into the security checkpoint line in relative silence, a few audible grumbles about the 15 minute predicted wait time, eyeing each other with vague suspicion like 3rd graders making sure no one’s trying to cut in line. Just a couple people behind me, I hear a man with a slightly American-ized English accent break the silence and ask an innocent question to his neighbor, “excuse me, is this the right terminal for Frontier?” Thankfully, his neighbor is kind, looks at his boarding pass and confirms, yes, it is the correct terminal. And more, they are on the same flight. I see him smile and tell the other man to just stick with him. “Were you at the match?” he asks. And then, like a splash of color spilling across a dismal black and white film, the man right behind me joins in with them and a three-way conversation about the England-Croatia match erupts complete with sighs and exclamations about this play or that play. The tension eases and seems to sweep through our whole pocket of the security line, light smiles breaking across previously grim faces.

It started with the match but as we inched our way forward towards the front of the line, they moved on to where they were from, what they did for work, who their home club was, what their families were doing, where they were going next. In less than 10 minutes standing in line, these guys had gone from complete strangers to a level of conversation many people rarely accomplish even at social events. At their parting, one mentioned that he had purchased $500 of Texas BBQ (well done, sir) that he was taking in a refrigerated bag to the next match and invited the other two to join him. Perhaps it was the offer of a shared meal but it was at that moment I realized, Jesus is a football fan.

When Jesus called his disciples, he met them where they were - the fishing boat, the tax booth, under the fig tree. He saw them, engaged with them, and shared meals with them. He lived his time on earth with eyes both open in all places, and fixed on his one goal, not thinking “none of these people in line matter. I just need to get to where I’m going as fast as I can. Then I’ll do the real work.” The road from one place to another, sweeping up his children in his mission along the way, this was the real work.

I’m not naive enough to think that every world cup interaction is as genuinely hospitable and life-giving as the one I witnessed. If one of those gentlemen had been an opposing fan, the story likely would’ve been different. Nevertheless, it is undeniably remarkable that strangers from across the world can rally that quickly around something outside of themselves. It opens doors to hospitality and further relationship that would otherwise be tightly closed. It caused me to ask of myself, “what might I be walking past?” “What day-to-day interactions and shared experiences are open invitations to see and know someone?”

Whether my fellow travelers ever see each other again, I will likely never know. I’d like to think so. But what I do know is that their brief, incredibly ordinary interaction with one another caused me to look outside myself and see a little bit of light, a little bit of Jesus present. It started with a question and ended with an invitation to a meal. May all of our conversations this day and always be seasoned with such life-preserving salt.

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And Peter answered him, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.”

The disciple Peter has something of a reputation for rushing headlong into everything, for good or for ill - jumping off boats to get to shore faster, offering to build a house for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah on the mountaintop, promising to keep Jesus from death, the first to confess Jesus “the Christ, the Son of the Living God” and the first to deny him around a warm fire on a cold night. He is zealous in everything. And here in Matthew 14, he again finds himself speaking perhaps before he thinks. You can see the wheels turning in his clever mind, “I’ll come up with a test for this apparition to prove himself.” And then the moment of shock.

He said, “Come.”

I wonder if Peter expected to be called out on the water. Maybe he thought Jesus would tell him to stay put and offer to come to him? “Don’t bother, Peter, I’ll just walk the rest of the way and get in your boat.” But no, just a simple, “Come.”

As he crawled over the edge of the boat and put first one foot then another down on the wet, cold, foaming waters, even zealous Peter’s heart must have skipped a beat. But we aren’t told any of that. We aren’t told about the other disciples looking on in terror and awe at what they imagined would be their friend’s watery death. We are told very matter-of-factly…

So Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water and came to Jesus.

He got out, walked, and came. At a single word from the Lord, Peter, “the rock,” glided step by step across the surface of the storm-tossed water as if it were glass. We aren’t given an interior monolog from Peter because it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters. Nothing matters but that Jesus commanded and Peter obeyed. Nothing else matters until Peter is distracted.

But when he saw the wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, “Lord, save me.”

Peter suddenly remembers his own natural abilities and at the very same moment realizes that they are woefully inadequate for his current situation. Never mind that the God of the Universe, Creator of the wind and waves, whom he now stands face to face with, has just buoyed him up across the waters. Never mind the thousands of people who were just fed to satisfaction with a few morsels of bread. Peter was a fisherman. His domain was the boat. He could control the boat. But this, what was he to do when the winds beat against him standing on nothing but water? And he sinks.

Jesus immediately reached out his hand and took hold of him, saying to him, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?”

Only out here in the open waters, away from the apparent safety of the boat will Peter cry out for help. Only out here beyond every possible machination of human ability. And Jesus hears. Jesus always hears. And he always takes hold.

I often find myself afraid to ask for what Peter asked - “command me to come to you” - not because I don’t want more than anything to be near Jesus, but because I know he will ask me to get out of my boat.

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The very first time I ever participated in a Maundy Thursday footwashing service was 12 years ago at an Episcopal church near my home where, at the time, I knew no one. I was in the midst of a difficult season of life and I often just wanted to go to church services and sit in the back unnoticed, just to be there. The first part of the service was beautiful, familiar, soothing, and then came the time for the footwashing. They read out the invitation… “Fellow servants of our Lord Jesus Christ: On the night before his death, Jesus set an example for his disciples by washing their feet, an act of humble service…” and I quickly realized as people began to stir around me and take off their shoes that my tendency to give into peer pressure was going to win out against my desire to sit unnoticed.

I started preparing to go forward, taking off my shoes and socks, internally beating myself up for wearing socks and the least practical shoes for removing and putting back on with semi-damp feet, as well as for not thinking to do my nails first. There was literally not a spiritual thought in my mind as I glanced around me trying to make sure I was doing everything right. I got in line with everyone else. It was a slow-moving process and my pulse had calmed down slightly as I listened to the choir and the gentle clinking of pitchers and bowls up front. Then, before I knew it, it was my turn. I looked up and the old man in front of me had just sat down in one of the chairs, clearly familiar with what he was doing, the cuffs of his pants slightly rolled up. I came over and knelt down to wash his feet. Having never washed anyone’s feet before, I’m not certain what the average size of the human foot is, but I am sure that this kindly gentleman’s feet far surpassed it. His foot wouldn’t even fit in the bowl in which we were supposed to do the washing. My mind worked quickly trying to figure out a plan - wash one foot at a time? Wet the towel and just dab? and where is the soap if I’m supposed to wash? what is protocol for this? I ended up clumsily pouring a little water, patting it all over to get both feet damp, and then trying to spot dry so as to not get the towel wet in the basin. Finally, I decided that’s the best I can do and looked up at the man who gave me a beaming smile as he got up from the chair.

Then, he motioned for me to sit. I sat down in the chair and tried to roll up the cuffs of my skinny jeans (another poor clothing decision). He moved slowly and deliberately, pouring a little water from the silver pitcher into the bottom of the basin. He gently took one foot in his hands and then the other, scooping water from the basin over each foot. Then drying each one. As he looked up at me, he had tears in his eyes that had begun to run down his cheeks. I got up from the chair and we embraced without saying a word.

I went back to my seat, now with tears in my own eyes. I wasn’t crying, he wasn’t crying, because our feet were now clean. That wasn’t the point. We were crying because in this tiny act that makes us both look somewhat silly and ridiculous, we are invited to participate in and taste ever so slightly a piece of our Lord’s humiliation.

And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. - Philippians 2:8

We were crying because in that moment, we were both imagining our Lord doing this selfless act to us and being able to do it to him. We were crying because this kind of love our Lord shows to us his people, his church, his bride, is so great it is almost too much for us to bear.

I sat through the rest of the service, my mind no longer occupied with its previous, painful self-awareness. I knelt in prayer as the sanctuary was stripped of every decoration and symbol of Christ, and continued there as the lights were extinguished and it grew dark. Gradually people began to file out a few at a time. I got up slowly and walked out of the silent shadows of the sanctuary, opened the door to the courtyard and was struck by the sound of voices happily chattering and the brightness of the last light of day as it slowly, imperceptibly slipped into the evening. I looked around to see if I could find the man but didn’t see him anywhere.

Last Christmas Eve around 10:30 PM, I found myself scurrying inside a magnificently arched wooden church door out of the crisp, cool December night air. My mother and I quietly made our way down the transept to seats a few rows back in the center. We sat down and I started flipping through the service bulletin as I always do, looking at formatting and font choices. We were a little early so I watched as the acolytes struggled to get the last two candles on the altar lit, disappeared to the sacristy, and returned with what I suspect was a refill of oil in their candlelighter (Success!). Then, the first low note of the organ prelude sounded and my body shook with the sound of it reverberating around the stone walls. I closed my eyes and let the notes soak into my weary body, each swell and diminuendo tugging at my heartstrings in the dead of night.

Finally, the service began and the entering processional passed us as the congregation joined the full voices of the choir and the organ in the ever-so-familiar words of “O Come, all Ye Faithful.” And then the tears started to well up and something caught in my throat. It wasn’t sadness or happiness but a deep, deep “all-is-rightness” that I believe could be labeled as joy. Joy on Christmas Eve! Who would’ve thought it possible!

I would say it was the fact that it was approaching 11PM and this was my second church service that day, or that I was still recovering from the El Fenix enchilada dinner from a few hours previous, or that I was bleary-eyed from the cloud of incense that hung thick in the air. I would say that, but that wouldn’t explain why the same thing happened in the middle of June at a perfectly average worship service, sans incense, in the middle of a familiar litany of prayers, or a few weeks later during a rousing rendition of Amazing Grace following the Confession of Sin. It wouldn’t explain why it happened in seminary the first time I read Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite (just call him Denys) extolling the utter incomprehensibility of his Maker in lyrical prose that are nothing short of his own litany of prayer to the infinite, eternal, unchangeable God of the Universe.

What does explain all those things is simply worship.

I didn’t grow up in a liturgical church. I had an incredible, solid foundation of biblical teaching, but just not liturgical. Some time in college I started picking up books on the liturgy of the church, the theology of worship, the church year, anything and everything on the subject. I was fascinated by it. And it wasn’t a passing fancy. I wasn’t just transfixed by the “smells and bells” and, in fact, was somewhat wary of them and the pomp and procession that went along with it all. Wasn’t it all just fake? Wasn’t it a bunch of man-made contrivances that distracted from what we were really there to do? Enter my curiosity because… what, in fact, were we really there to do?

We are gathered together to simply worship.

It is all that we in our finitude can bring. And it is enough because it is what we were made to do. We are worshipping beings preparing for an eternity of jubilant, ecstatic participation in the worship of the angels and the delight of our Heavenly Father.

While worship is an “all-the-time” calling for Christians, the sheer wonder of what that means to be invited to worship a God so big and yet so personal hits home in particular at Christmas. The wildness of angels and dreams and virgin births and foreign kings and dirty shepherds all converging around a baby is enough to send your head spinning if you dwell on it. The strange, unfathomable, simultaneous big-ness and tiny-ness of God in a helpless, human baby.

Worship at Christmas, when emotions are often raw and resting on the surface, all the business of the world is threatening to whirl us off our feet, Christmas offers us a reset, a reminder of who we are and what we were made for. It reminds us Who we were made for. So, come, let us adore him this night and for all nights.

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“Who knows, indeed, but that a great deal even of the inanimate creation is raised in the redeemed souls who have, during this life, taken its beauty into themselves? That may be the way in which the ‘new heaven and the new earth’ are formed.” - C.S. Lewis

When I first went to meet the dog that would become my constant companion for four years, I wasn’t sure if it would be a good fit. Just a month before, I’d had to say goodbye to my very first dog who was part of my life for 13 years and I didn’t want another dog. I wanted her. But I had read the brief description of this one and he seemed worth a second look. I came into the office of the rescue and they brought out this long, squat, short-legged, long-tailed, black-as-velvet mixed breed who was missing all his front teeth. He smiled at me (yes, truly, IYKYK). I just melted in his big brown eyes. There was zero shyness in this pup. I sat down on the floor with him and he came up and sniffed my face and gave me just one excited lick. The visit probably lasted less than 30 minutes. I signed all the paperwork and had to go back out to my car to get a collar and leash. I was so unsure if I’d be taking him that I hadn’t even brought it in with me. As I walked out to the car, I turned back around and he was standing at the window, shuffling back and forth excitedly on his front feet. He stayed there the whole time I was going to the car and back again. When I opened the door, he greeted me as if I’d been gone for a month. I got him into the car to start the drive home and he curled up contentedly on a blue blanket that I had in the seat and went to sleep.

This incredible pup, who would quickly be named Linus for his gentle, laid-back, blanket-loving spirit, wanted nothing more than to be where I was. If I went outside, he wanted to be outside. If I was on the couch watching TV, he would be on the couch watching TV. If I was studying, he would sit in the big chair next to the desk, his head propped up on the chair arm, and just watch me until he fell asleep.

I remember one day when I came home from running errands, not more than an hour away from the house, and he greeted me like I had just been abroad for six months. It struck me with particular conviction that this borderline obsession my dog has with me is exactly how I am supposed to hunger and thirst for the presence of my Heavenly Father. I am made to long for him, to rest in his presence, to follow where he leads. Just as my dog can only truly enjoy and live fully into his dog-ness when he is in good and right relationship with his master, so I am only ever truly human when I am in good and right relationship with God.

Today is, appropriately, the Feast Day of St. Francis of Assisi on the Church Calendar. St. Francis is popularly associated with the blessing of pets and little Disney-like birds twittering around him. But the legend of St. Francis is quite a bit different. Francis was ministering near the town of Gubbio which, at the time, was being terrorized by a savage wolf. Legend has it that the wolf was half starved and driven mad by fear of the people in the town. Francis went out into the wild and confronted the wolf, commanding it in the name of God to cease terrorizing the people of Gubbio. The wolf submitted to Francis. The townspeople began feeding the wolf in exchange for its protection. In this story of the wolf of Gubbio, Francis restores a broken and dis-ordered piece of creation. This is dogs can do. They remind us of the right ordering of things, the faithfulness, loyalty, and obedience of creature to master and the constant love and provision of master to creature.

The preeminent primatologist, Jane Goodall passed away this week. In the many beautiful and poignant clips of her that have been shared, there is one in particular in which she speaks of her love of dogs:

Like Dr. Goodall, I am also not keen to imagine a world without dogs in it (or a lot of other creatures for that matter!). I think on these things whenever I lose an animal with whom I have experienced even a taste of this restored order of creation. In his sermon, The General Deliverance, John Wesley speaks on the passage from Romans 8 in which Paul says “all creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God.” In regards to what we can know of future things, Wesley, and C.S. Lewis after him in The Problem of Pain, points out quite simply that we know so very little even of our present age:

If it be objected to all this, (as very probably it will,) “But of what use will those creatures be in that future state” I answer this by another question, “What use are they of now?" If there be (as has commonly been supposed) eight thousand species of insects, who is able to inform us of what use seven thousand of them are? If there are four thousand species of fishes, who can tell us of what use are more than three thousand of them? If there are six hundred sorts of birds, who can tell of what use five hundred of those species are? If there be four hundred sorts of beasts, to what use do three hundred of them serve? Consider this; consider how little we know of even the present designs of God; and then you will not wonder that we know still less of what he designs to do in the new heavens and the new earth.

I take comfort in this thought and also am reminded to marvel at the vastness of God’s creation and the infinite depth of what I do not and cannot know.

To end on a lighter note, the following song so beautifully and winsomely captures all of that dog-ness that each of us loves so much about our own dogs. I cannot but imagine that, as Lewis believed, everything that is good and true and beautiful that we love about “dog-ness” will be present in a new heaven and new earth.

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I was standing in the bookstore during free time between speaker sessions at a retreat at Laity Lodge in the Texas Hill Country. I scanned up and down the shelves for whatever caught my eye. At the time, the bookstore was a tight room with three walls lined with books and the fourth wall a large window looking out on the porch. I had already grabbed a couple of books to explore. I can’t remember now, 11 years later, what they were, but I can tell you for certain that they were selected based on their potential to grow my knowledge and/or to be able to say I’d read them. Then, I heard the door open behind me and I turned around to see our retreat speaker there, none other than the incredible, world-renown author and theologian J.I. Packer.

Immediately, I felt my palms begin to sweat and my mind race trying to think of what to say in conversation with this great man. Naturally, given that we were surrounded by books, we started with that. I anxiously showed him the titles I’d already chosen and asked if he had any recommendations, hoping for some hard-hitting theological gem. He went over to one of the shelves and, after looking for a moment, took down a title and handed it to me. It was The Busman’s Honeymoon by Dorothy Sayers from her Lord Peter Whimsy series. A murder mystery novel. His eyes twinkled as he gave me a glowing review of that little book, and suddenly, all the anxiety I’d been feeling about what to say to him vanished. His delight in the most mundane of things, sheer enjoyment in reading this book just because it was a good book, in no way diminished his theological brilliance in my eyes. If anything, it increased it. Here was a man for whom the increase of knowledge of the Lord meant an increase in delight in the world around him.

Packer said countless deep and poignant things in his talks that weekend. I still have the notes. But the memories I took away were far more mundane and beautiful - that moment in the bookstore, his laughter at lunch where the table conversation turned to each of our ordinary lives, his obvious delight in just being in that place with the creation surrounding him. These are the things I remember.

What J.I Packer embodied for me was, so appropriately, the very subject of his most well-known book, Knowing God. And it is what I longed for that weekend and seek after still. Not simply to know about God, but to know God. Packer only lived a few more years after that retreat, passing in 2020, increasing in the knowledge of his God until he was brought home.

I am a bit late in writing this reflection as it’s been over five years since Packer’s passing (when these things normally come out). But it seems as though in a world such as ours, it is never the wrong time to be reminded of the deep and abiding joy that comes from knowing God. And it is never the wrong time to be reminded that even the greatest minds get swept up in a well-crafted British mystery novel from time to time, lest they begin to take themselves too seriously.

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Sunflowers, which happen to be my favorite, are one of several flowers classified as heliotropic (or phototropic) - they orient themselves towards wherever the sun is. The sunflower does this through the bud phase of its life, turning from east to west each day with the movement of the sun, until finally, when it fully opens, the blooms all permanently face east. If these flowers - sunflowers, daisies, buttercups, poppies, dandelions - didn’t follow the light of the sun, they would not absorb the light that they need to thrive and grow properly. They would, most certainly, die without their faces to the sun.

There are no accidents in God’s creation.

Every year, on or around my birthday, I ask myself, “Is my face turned towards the sun?” Having lived on the earth one more year, where am I now facing? What direction am I walking? Am I seeking more light?

Often, the answer is, “no.” I’ve gradually and sometimes imperceptibly moved off course, chasing after that which appears as light but boasts no life-giving properties. And so, there is opportunity to reorient. Heliotropic flowers will grow towards strong artificial light if kept indoors, but the moment they are put outside, they will begin to track the sun. It’s what they were made to do. It’s what I was made to do.

You and I, friend, were made to seek the face of God.

It is hard work because there are infinite sources of artificial light, good gifts given from God that quickly warp into ultimate ends in and of themselves. So we find ourselves in a pattern of continual turning and returning.

There is a familiar hymn from the 1920’s that captures this beautifully:

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus
Look full in His wonderful face
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace”

As the hymn states, the “things of earth” grow dim in the light of Jesus’ face, like a lightbulb held up in comparison to the sun.

The rhythms God built into the world give us a pattern to follow. As humans, we love to follow a pattern, whether we realize it or not. From birth to death, our life is patterned, a series of rhythms of days, weeks, months, and years. And one of those patterns is meant to be a continual turning to the face of God until, finally, in a new heaven and a new earth, we are permanently fixed in “the light of his glory and grace” for all eternity.

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Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God. Why, even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not; you are of more value than many sparrows. - Luke 12:6-7

Yesterday evening, I came home from my church’s prayer service for the Hill Country flooding and there was a single solitary sparrow sitting in front of my door. That not being normal sparrow behavior, I took a closer look. It was alive, breathing, but not moving very well. Its feathers were all ruffled so the soft downy ones underneath were visible. It didn’t even flinch when I drew near to it. And then, I swear that bird looked me straight in the eye. If birds could do puppy-dog eyes, he nailed it. Immediately I made up my mind to save it. I very carefully stepped around it and went inside to google wildlife rescues. The closest one that was still open and that accepted birds was a good hour north of where I live. And just to illustrate how determined I was to save that tiny sparrow, I considered it. I stepped outside again to check on it and realized instantly that in those few minutes of me scurrying around trying to strategize and plan, it had died. And I burst into tears which continued for much longer than I would have expected for a dead sparrow. But it wasn’t just a dead sparrow.

All day long (and the day before as well) I had, like most people I know, been reading endless news reports, checking weather radars, checking Instagram, praying, texting for updates and checking in with those I knew in the path of the crushing wall of water that swept away centuries-old structures and countless lives in an instant. I was saturated with the feeling of utter helplessness in the face of so much loss.

The bird though… surely I can save a bird. Maybe it was sent as a sign, a minuscule instance of redemption in a series of dark days. But no, my helplessness extended even to the bird. I had not shed a tear all day but watching that quiet, slow passage from life to death was just enough to crack me open entirely.

As I sat there afterwards thinking all the thoughts and feeling all the feels, I remembered Jesus’ words: “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God. Why, even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not; you are of more value than many sparrows.”

There is no piece in all of creation too small or too large for God. He knew when that sparrow fell as surely as he knew each day of the lives of each person swept away in the flood waters and each person still waiting to be rescued. That is how big our God is. Jesus’ command in Luke is not “weep not” or “do not be sad” or “do not cry out to God.” His command is “fear not.” Fear not because God is so much bigger than you can ever fathom and yet so much closer to you than you will ever realize. Fear not because he has already overcome death. Fear not because he sees you in your grief and in your helplessness. Fear not because he loves you.

As a last note, on the feeling of helplessness so achingly common in us in this day and age. We have the capability today of watching every horrifying second of footage from a crisis, getting updates from every corner of the globe whenever we want them. It has the capacity to very quickly paralyze us. I listened to a sermon today from a friend on the lectionary gospel passage from Luke 10 in which Jesus sends out the 72 to the towns and villages. Jesus does not tell these 72 to visit as many houses as possible, to keep a tally of how many converts they get or how helpful they are. He tells them when they get to a city, find a house and stay. Just stay. Stay and speak peace. Speak Christ’s peace in whatever house you are in. I cannot save the world. I cannot save the flood victims. I can’t even save the sparrow on my doorstep. But I can stay. I can stay and speak peace to all those in the house where I find myself.

Peace to you this night, my friends. Peace to those in the eye of the storm, both physically (as I listen to yet more rain pounding on my windows), and spiritually as we watch and wait and weep with those who weep.

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“The liturgical calendar as a whole exists in large part to remind us that Christ has sanctified all of time, bringing us and the whole of our experience into the orbit of resurrection. What we deem ordinary, God has transformed into the extraordinary by his divine grace.”
– Laurence Hull Stookey, Calendar: Christ’s Time for the Church

This week, the church calendar brought us to “Ordinary Time.” Ordinary Time doesn’t get a lot of publicity. You never hear someone say they only go to church during Ordinary Time or that they can’t wait for Ordinary Time to arrive. There’s no décor section at Hobby Lobby for Ordinary Time. It doesn’t have the nostalgia, sentimentality, or deep contemplative focus that’s come to be connected with Advent and Christmas (another post on that later). Nor does it possess the exuberance of Easter. It slips in two times a year—right after the Day of Epiphany and now, right after the Day of Pentecost—ushering in an extended period of time that we don’t really know what to do with. And it is long. Ordinary Time comprises over half of the year (about six months between Pentecost and Advent). Because it is so long, it often ends up getting subsumed by all the other calendars in our lives: summer vacation, the beginning of school, sports schedules, academic schedules, doctors’ appointments, Halloween, Thanksgiving. In other words, life.

Ordinary Time is all about life. Its color is green—for life and growth. It follows on the heels of the gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, given to direct and sustain Christians in their life in Christ. But, I repeat, Ordinary Time is long. Sustaining spiritual practices for the four weeks of Advent is hard, but doable. Many of us are even willing to commit to disciplines for the six weeks of Lent. But six months of Ordinary Time… it feels impossible.

But this, my friends, is where we are formed. It is in our extraordinarily ordinary lives that the Spirit unmakes and remakes, tears down and rebuilds, empties and fills—day after day, week after week, month after month—so that when we are tested, tempted, and tried, the response of faith is just what comes naturally. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Because while God does indeed make the ordinary things—like you and me—extraordinary, he also makes the extraordinary things—like being able to speak truth in love under trial—ordinary.

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I’ve written before about my remarkably unremarkable efforts at Pilates. My dear friend, the instructor of my class, regularly reminds us that heart health stress tests measure your body’s ability to recover. After strenuous activity, how long does it take your heart rate to return to normal? But the thing about your ability to recover is that it doesn’t just happen. You train and exercise and discipline your body so that when the strenuous activity does come, it knows how to respond and recover.

Ordinary Time is the training season, when hearts, souls, and minds are strengthened day by day in the midst of all manner of ordinary temptations and distractions.

“For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.”
– Hebrews 12:11

Finally, Ordinary Time is a reminder that God has redeemed all of time, and that every ordinary moment is being woven into a plan that is larger and deeper and wider than any we can draw up ourselves. Ordinary Time shows us that our lives as we see them are the back of the tapestry, where every crisscrossed thread matters, and we need only follow the weaver’s hand.

(Poem from Corrie Ten Boom)

My life is but a weaving

Between my God and me.

I cannot choose the colors

He weaveth steadily.

Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow;

And I in foolish pride

Forget He sees the upper

And I the underside.

Not ’til the loom is silent

And the shuttles cease to fly

Will God unroll the canvas

And reveal the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful

In the weaver’s skillful hand

As the threads of gold and silver

In the pattern He has planned.

He knows, He loves, He cares;

Nothing this truth can dim.

He gives the very best to those

Who leave the choice to Him.

“But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life. Who is sufficient for these things?” - 2 Corinthians 2:14-16

It’s been about a year since I decided to turn my baking hobby into a small bakery business. I have learned countless things since then - the right equipment makes all the difference, farmer’s markets are way more work than they seem, you can never have too many spatulas in your kitchen because you will use them all, and the smell of fresh baked bread in your home, while incredibly comforting, is not in the least bit satiating.

Part of the appeal - in fact, the majority of the appeal - of the aroma of fresh baked bread is that you know it means soon you will get to bite into a piece of still-warm, soft, slightly sweet, melt-in-your-mouth bread covered with just enough butter to make you drool. But the aroma of a loaf of bread you will never eat is a miserable thing, only made slightly better by the knowledge that you are giving someone else the heavenly sensation of biting into pure bliss. Aromas are not satisfying. They are not edible. Simply put, aromas are symbols and signs, signals to our senses to get ready because that thing for which we’ve been longing is about to arrive. They do not put our hunger to rest; they awaken it.

You, Christian, are an aroma. I am an aroma. Specifically, we are the aroma of Christ. We are the thing that reaches the nose of the world and awakens a (sometimes distant) hunger in the human heart, leading it to the source.

You, Christian, are not the bread. I am not the bread. We know who is the Bread. We know the Feast to which we are invited and to which we lead others just by being the symbol, the sign, the smell that wafts in the right direction.

An aroma does not have to do anything particularly special to be an aroma. It just has to smell like Bread.

It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for he gives to his beloved sleep. -Psalm 127:2

Over the past few months I’ve made it an evening practice to sit still on the front porch, sometimes for just a few minutes, at sunset. Those few minutes a day have been unbelievably transformative. Sometimes, if it’s overcast, you can’t even see the sun setting, just a general darkening of the sky. But you can always hear the world winding down - the bird’s song tapers off, the crickets take over the melody. The people who are out walk slower, speaking in gentle tones, a light laugh. And then you begin to notice the lights coming on one by one in house after house as the humans retreat from the dark…

Winding Down 

Humans are the only ones,
in all the vast creation,
who feel the need to always push
the boundaries of the day.

You’d think we’d catch on
when the sun falls out of view,
the birds, one by one, drop out
of the last evening chorus.
The dandelions fold in on themselves,
closed for the night.

But we toil on in darkness,
our work lit only by
the flickering light
of our own inventions,
hands grasping tight
to one more hour, one more minute,
one more chance to prove
that time belongs to me
not I to it.

I have a passion for beautiful church linens - historic patterns, rich, vibrant colors, and exquisite craftsmanship. It seems so fitting that the King’s Table would be covered by such a thing - only the best. And yet, one Sunday a year, my heart aches as I spread one of the these table covers across the cold concrete floor of the church for the express purpose of people walking across it, trampling it underfoot. It is Palm Sunday, the day that all the children await with eager anticipation as they get to wave branches around and make a little bit of chaos for once in an otherwise adult-ordered world. The royal purple cloth lies helpless in the middle of the aisle as church-goers, adult and child alike, walk over it without a second thought. And I remember how I myself so often grow irritated with my King for being “underfoot,” for getting in the way when I had other plans…

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“Jesus, I am resting, resting
in the joy of what thou art;
I am finding out the greatness
of thy loving heart.
Thou hast bid me gaze upon thee,
as thy beauty fills my soul,
for by thy transforming power,
thou hast made me whole.”

- Jean Sophia Pigott (1876)

About two years ago, I had the absolute joy of doing an adult thing and buying my first home. Compared to stories I’ve heard, my home search process was incredibly smooth with only one minor setback. I fell in love with the first home I saw. It was, in my estimation, perfection. A perfect cottage-like entrance. Window boxes and planters on the railing out front. A shared courtyard area with roses vining up trellises. Beautiful floors, custom light fixtures, stainless steel appliances. I was sold. We put in an offer and, miraculously, it was accepted!

And then the home was inspected. And my Realtor had to call me with the regrettable news that the home, at only a few years old, had some pretty serious foundation problems that would likely have to be fixed soon. My heart sank about as fast as the ground was sinking beneath that house. I contemplated going forward with it because it had all seemed so easy and perfect. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Thankfully, after much prayer and wise counsel, we withdrew the offer the day before Easter Sunday, 2023. I resigned myself to the idea of having to stay in my 400 square foot apartment for another year. And two days later, on Monday, we found the house I’ve called home for the last two years.

I go back to this story in my mind a lot. It taught me a myriad of things, not the least of which is the value of having someone you know and love and trust walk you through the mountain of steps and paperwork involved in buying a house. It taught me how easy it is to be swept up in the facade, the idea of a thing. I was willing to risk a faulty foundation because that home fit the picture I had in my mind. And it also taught me faithful perseverance, distinguishing between contentment and complacency. As I unfortunately have a tendency to do, I was ready to throw in the towel after house #1. The internal dialog went something like this: “I was wrong. I need to stay put. How crazy to think this was a good idea? I should be grateful. I should be content.” Side note: Anyone who’s ever been house hunting knows that house #1 being “the one” is a unicorn scenario. Even reality TV makes house hunters look at three homes. But I balk at uncertainty, assuming that if the first thing doesn’t work out, I was wrong for even trying.

I used to think this was humility, seeking contentment. But, the more I experience it, the more I realize it’s the opposite. It’s pride, self-sufficiency, and an unwillingness to let God be God and trust that, as The Sound of Music reminds us, “when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.” I can be content without being complacent.

This is why all through Scripture, over and over again, God’s people are told to “seek his face, seek his presence continually.” To “draw near to God and he will draw near to you.” The line between being complacent and content is a hairline, one which I can only discern if the only thing I’m seeking is God’s face, God’s presence, God’s will.

“People need to be reminded more often than they need to be instructed.”

- Samuel Johnson (via C.S. Lewis)

My 12 lb. dog stole and devoured a full size Cadbury cream egg this week, the only evidence left behind being a few shreds of foil wrapper. I’ve had three dogs in my adult life and this particular one has an inexplicable attraction (a.k.a addiction) to chocolate and coffee. Chocolate covered espresso beans, whole bars of dark chocolate, sips of my latte when he thinks I’m not looking, and now, his piece de resistance, a chocolate cream filled candy egg half the size of his scruffy head. While he seems to have a decidedly un-canine tolerance for these things, they definitely leave him in quite the digestive upset for a few hours to a few days after. Yet, he soldiers on - climbing on chairs and tables in pursuit of that which always, for a few minutes pleasure, leaves him in hours of misery and could even, unbeknownst to him, kill him.

But the thing is, I love him. When I first spot the remains of his latest escapades, my reaction is not anger at him, it’s fear for him and sadness that he’s going to feel really bad for awhile.

It gives me great comfort and peace to know this is how my Heavenly Father sees me when I insist on striving after that which will never lead to life. We all have that thing - or more than one thing - alcohol, food, work, achievement, a child’s achievement, leisure, comfort, money.

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The Season of Lent gives us opportunity to step back from our vices and to see them as God sees them - as leading only to death. The things we prize crumble in our grasp and take us with them. But it also gives us a reminder of how God sees us in Christ, with the grace-filled, compassionate gaze of a Father who wills only good for his children. And we need reminding at every possible opportunity. Because the evil one is, as they say in the recovery community, cunning, baffling, and powerful. He can use the very same guilt and remorse we feel to make us doubt the goodness of God and our eternal inheritance in Christ.

This season, my friend, be renewed in your hope, be reminded of who God is through his Word, through speaking to him and listening to him in prayer. He loves you infinitely more than I love my “truffle-hunting” dog and pours out grace upon grace on you that you might have power through his Spirit to seek his face and those things which lead to life.

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“Twenty Questions”

If it had been me, casting

My nets in the sea that day,

The same as every day before,

I think I would’ve asked

For more information.

Before I leapt out of the boat

And down the dusty road,

Away from decades of solid

Trade and tradition.

Didn’t their mothers ever

Teach them not to follow strangers?

They never asked what

They’d be doing, where they’d be going.

They never asked when

They’d be back, how they’d survive, or why?

But maybe they didn’t need to know,

All answers but one.

The one that mattered, bearing the weight

Of all the others.

The one that had already been answered,

“Who?” Who is this stranger? Brother? Friend?

Maybe they were down at the river that day,

they saw the skies torn in two.

Maybe they heard the soul-shaking voice

From the heart of the Father.

And all the other questions

Buzzing around like gnats,

Melted away as the water drops

Glistened on the skin of the very face of God.

A few years ago, I was introduced to the weird and wonderful world that is group exercise classes - specifically Pilates with a hint of Yoga and a dash of medieval torture. Never in my life have I heard my bones crack with such vigor and frequency. Muscles were awakened that had lain dormant for most of my life, dragged kicking and screaming into the light, forced to learn to pull their weight. But of all the stretching and strength building and balance work we’ve done, the thing that continues to irk me the most about my crackly body is that I cannot lie flat on my back. I remember the first time I was laying on a mat on the floor and realized that my shoulders were a good three inches from the ground and no matter how hard I tried, I could not get them to lay flat. When I pushed them down it felt as if the muscles across my chest might split in two; they were wound so tightly, drawing everything inward.

I’m much more comfortable in child’s pose, or at least my version of it, where everything is tucked in, turned in, directed in. Inward feels safe. Inward feels familiar. Inward feels right.

After a while, it became clear that my entire life is moving from one inward facing posture to another, and thus the very vocal preference my muscles have for turning inward. I realize the irony of this as I sit at my computer this evening (trying not to hunch over) after having sat at my computer all day with only a few brief pauses to crouch over my steering wheel in the car or scroll mindlessly through my phone with head down at what should be an uncomfortable angle.

It would be easy to blame technology for this perpetual navel-gazing posture to which so many have fallen victim; and much has been said about that. But the tendency of humans to turn inward did not begin with the advent of the iPhone. To turn inward is also a protective mechanism, protecting our vital organs. Anyone who has ever boxed knows to keep your elbows tucked in to guard your ribcage, keep your head low to keep it from getting knocked off. To hunch down and make yourself small and compact means you’re more likely to survive. Opening up is dangerous. But allowing yourself to remain in an inward facing posture is also dangerous - it deforms us, causing aches and pains that can spread throughout the body.

Which brings me to my title… Incurvatus in se. To be curved in on oneself - a misshapen soul. It is a theological term traced back to Augustine, as well as the works of Martin Luther and Karl Barth. Much like my own physical frame, the human soul is curved in on itself, unable to lift its eyes to its Creator and caught in a perpetual cycle of self-gazing. The soul, also like the body, doesn’t just suddenly realize this and stop curving in on itself. It has to be re-formed through regular, soul-stretching practices. It’s gaze has to be continually drawn upward into the very shape of the one in whose image it was made. Our bodies weren’t made to be turned always inward. They were made to look up and out at creation, to open our arms wide in welcome embrace to one another and to stretch ourselves up to fill the space God has given us. Our souls weren’t made to curve inward. They were made to turn outward, reflecting the image of God to the rest of the world.

The process of stretching the soul is often even more painful than stretching the body, especially after a long period of inattentiveness. And unlike with the body, our souls are most often stretched by forces outside of ourselves. Have you ever woken up and said, “I think I’m going to do something today to reshape my soul.” No, these things come at us in the form of trials, illnesses, deep sorrows - things which force us outward to God and to others because we lack the capacity in and of ourselves to face them. This is why those rare people who have deeply ingrained practices that turn their soul outward seem to absorb these trials with a grace and beauty the rest of us struggle to grasp. They’re already facing in the right direction. Their soul is already being formed in the image of its Maker. It’s the same reason that person next to you in Pilates who has been coming to class every day for years isn’t immobilized after a workout. They’ve already been preparing their body for this.

Lent is coming up this week. And while there is no wrong time to adopt habits that turn us to God, the historic Church has provided us with seasons such as this in which we can do it together, like a group exercise class. Not only can we hold one another accountable, but we can see the glory of God, the very light of Christ begin to radiate more fully through the gradual re-forming and enlarging of our souls this season.