"He's Been Showin' Out Again!"

On Monday, Will sent me flowers.  For no reason.  Again.  I was left speechless (Yes, for those who know me, he is currently the only person who can have this rare effect on me.), but once I regained my words I called him and showed (what I hope was) the appropriate amount of gratitude for his ongoing thoughtfulness and kindness towards me.  So, I hope that he won't mind my using his gift to me to make a greater point.

I discovered these surprise flowers on Monday afternoon as I was just returning to my office after visiting one of our schools to see a very deserving faculty member receive an award funded by the Foundation (please make your gift today).  It had been one of those "THIS is why I do what I do" moments at work and as the day was winding down I didn't think it could get much better. Until I walked in the front door of the Board of Education and one of my colleagues greeted me with "Girl! I have GOT to meet this beau of yours!"  I found this to be a strange greeting, as I had not been discussing Will with her recently...or ever. She must have seen my confused face because she continued with "He's been showin' out again!"  I laughed and asked her what she meant ("showin' out" seems to be a term w/ which I am not familiar but perhaps means "showing off"), and she just smiled and said "oh I just put a little something from him in your office.  I keep seeing these things he's doing for you and I need to meet him!" I then rounded the corner into my office and found my surprise.

In the days since receiving the flowers almost every female employee in the building has come by to comment on them or ask about them.  This has allowed me to talk about Will, brag on him a little bit, and have all the ladies in the office be excited about him.  Which has been fun, but also thought-provoking and a bit convicting.

My initial colleague's response has been ringing in my head all week.  "He's been showin' out again!"  "I need to meet him!"  These are words she is speaking about my boyfriend.  Based on things she can tangibly see him doing in my life.  For some reason it made me start to wonder what she, or anyone else I encounter, would say about my God?

Would they be able to look at my life and say "Man! God's been showin' out again!  I can visibly see His work in your life!  I need to meet him!"  What are the "flowers" in my life that people can see and that cause them to inquire more about the giver of these good gifts?  Do I treat people differently because of the way God lavishes His love upon me?  Is my countenance different as I recall all the ways God has "showed out" in my life?  Some days, maybe.  But many days, not.

God's given me many gifts and all of them have been for no reason, or undeserved by me.  But do I proudly display them in my life, like a bouquet of flowers on my desk, so that people will have no choice but to ask me about them?  I hope that increasingly my answer to that is "yes."    

Caiaphas and Me

Yesterday I saw “Son of God,” the newest Gospel movie, produced by Mark Burnett and Roma Downey.  I know there is much discussion of its merit as an accurate depiction of the Gospel of John being had by the Church and Christians, and while that can be healthy to a point, I’d rather not get into that in this post.

What I would like to discuss, or rather share, is my experience while watching it.  As with each time I hear the Gospel or stories of Jesus I found myself easily identifying with each of the characters surrounding Jesus.  The film did an excellent job facilitating this by the way it showed each character holistically.  I am Peter who talks a big game but so easily denies Jesus when it’s inconvenient to own Him. I am Thomas who needs everything laid out in front of me before I can truly believe and trust Him.  I am even Judas who, after I betray Jesus (and we all betray Jesus), turns to despair rather than to the hope I have in Him to save me from myself.  This time, however, I saw myself in a new character: Caiaphas, the High Priest.

I suppose I’ve always viewed Caiaphas as pure evil.  Threatened by Jesus’ following, he wanted to get rid of him.  And that is certainly part of it.  But this film showed another side to Caiaphas.  As the High Priest he was obsessed with following the Law, obeying God at all costs, and protecting his people and his faith.  He was a Jewish leader living under Roman rule struggling to keep his people together and he just KNEW that if he followed the law meticulously and removed all distractions that God would bless him and his people, preserve them, and deliver them through this captivity. Yet this obsession and devotion to the law (spurred on by fear) caused him to miss what was right in front of him.  It blinded him to the fulfillment of the law.  The rescue from the law.  The answer to his prayers and the prayers of his people for so many years.  In short, Caiaphas was so busy worrying about what he should do and must do as High Priest to get it all right that he missed the Great High Priest who had come to set all to right.

I saw this movie with my boyfriend.  That feels like a weird detail to put in the post, but it’s relevant to my later point, so go with it.  Anyways, as we sat down and the movie began I made a conscious decision, as I had 7 years earlier with “Passion of the Christ,” that I wasn't going to close my eyes or turn away from any of the hard parts of the film.  There are so few times (perhaps once a year on Good Friday) that I let myself really think about and dwell on the physical pain and agony Jesus endured on my behalf that I wanted to allow myself to feel all of it as I watched.  So, I did.  And as the scenes unfolded and I watched my Lord tortured and beaten on my behalf, I found myself having two very normal human reactions:  I cried, and needing comfort and just a human touch, I reached for the hand of the person watching with me. 

But even as I did this my mind began racing towards how I was supposed to act while watching this scene.  There I was watching Jesus being killed on a huge screen.  Being reminded of His sacrifice for me and all I’m thinking is “Is it okay to hold hands during this part? Should I be watching this alone, in the zone with God so that I can just focus on myself and all my sin?  Should I even allow myself to be comforted right now? And by this person I’m dating?”  On and on went my thoughts.  All the while on and on went Jesus’ torture on screen.  For me.  He’s dying, and I’m sitting there asking “am I watching Him die for me in the right way?  Am I doing what I’m supposed to do while I’m watching Him die?” You see where I’m going with this, perhaps.  These seem like silly questions when voiced aloud. 

But, I am Caiaphas.  Even as I watch the very actions that make God’s grace possible for me, I am so focused on “doing it right” or “getting it right” that I lose track of the very grace for which Jesus died.  I am so focused on experiencing God “correctly” that I totally check out of the main point—His grace.  And that IS the main point isn't it?  That hard as we try, we just cannot do it.  We cannot get it together.  We cannot earn it.  This is the message of Lent and it is the message of the Gospel as a whole.

I remember watching the “Passion of the Christ” in college and thinking in my head “I’m so sorry, Lord.  I’m so sorry. I made you have to go through this. It was my sins.”  I remember having those thoughts lead me to conviction and almost despair over what I did to my Lord and how I would improve.  As if my sinning less could have kept Jesus from the cross.   I was Caiaphas, and I still am.  Only now, 7 years later, though I find myself still convicted and saying “I’m sorry"; still mourning my sin, something has changed  There's been a paradigm shift.  No longer is it “oh if only I could do this right.”  It is now “I can’t do it right. So, Jesus, I need you to go through this and to rise again for me.  Because I can’t do it.”  And that is the most humbling part.  It had to be that way.  He had to die, because even at our best, even with good intentions, we are sinful.  It had to be Him so that it wouldn’t be us.  Amen. 

The Paradox of Ash Wednesday...and Beer

Yesterday was the beginning of Lent 2014.  As has happened every Ash Wednesday for the past several years, I opened a Henri Nouwen Lenten devotional sent to me from a dear friend three states away.  The Ash Wednesday devotional was on gratitude and the fact that we are indeed God's "beloved."  It didn't seem very Ash Wednesday-ish to me.  I was kind of hoping to be reminded of my sinful nature and innate depravity.

However, as I read on, it began to make sense.  Nouwen's point was that knowledge of who we are and who God is creates a spirit of gratitude within us that grows the more we reflect on the Truth of these two identities. I have two identities.  I am a sinner who can offer nothing to God that he doesn't already have and deserves nothing from Him.  However I am also His beloved whom He has saved and called His own.  Despite my sin, I am His now and am washed clean, not because of anything I did, but because of what Jesus did on the cross.  We'll get back to this.

Tuesday night (Mardi Gras, I suppose), I had dinner with three people for whom I care very much.  It was one of those meals that fulfilled me both culinarily (Thai food!) and spiritually.  We talked, laughed, ate, drank, and told stories to and on one another.  At this meal, one friend ordered a particularly interesting drink.  A "black and blue."  This, I learned, is a Guinness poured on top of a Blue Moon.  Like a "black and tan" but with a bit more contrast.  As we waited for our drinks we had a perfect view of the bar and watched the bartender try (and fail) at making this drink at least 5 times before bringing out a sad version of my friend's order.  Apparently, the Blue Moon is supposed to be poured into the glass first, then the Guinness on top.  When done correctly the two should fill the glass but not mix, creating a light half and a dark half of the glass.  But, alas, this was not to be for my friend that evening.  His glass looked like a pint of off-colored Guinness with some sand at the bottom.

As I read and prayed through Nouwen's devotion yesterday, I thought of my friend's ill-fated "black and blue."  The paradox of Ash Wednesday is much like my friend's drink.  I am sinful.  And yet I am beloved.  I would like to keep the "light half" and the "dark half" separate.  I would like them not to mix and run into each other and affect one another.  I'd like to keep the good from the bad and the bad, well...away.  But that's not how it works.  My identity and my relationship with the Lord look a lot more like the drink my friend received than what he ordered.  My sinful nature always comes crashing into my identity as God's beloved, lying to me, telling me I'm less than I am, tempting me with things far less satisfying than Jesus.  And God's love for me fights back and often overtakes my sinful nature, if not completely this side of heaven, then as closely as possible.  He uses relationships, the beauty of creation, art, music, literature, and so many other things to remind me of the Truth of who I am and who He is.  And though it is often-times messy, I can indeed sense a spirit of gratitude for not only the gifts He gives now, but also for the foretaste of what is to come.

"At Least My Heart Was Open"

During my early twenties I was lucky enough to live with my best friend.  We walked through the ups and downs of the start of post-grad life together, and I learned a lot from her.  One of the main things I remember was that any time I had disappointment or heartbreak, be it relational, vocational, personal, or spiritual, she would pray for me.  And one of her primary prayers would be that my heart would stay open.  "Anne," she would say, "I'm going to pray that God would heal your wounds, but that your heart would not close or become calloused.  That it would remain open."

I remember thinking that was a nice sentiment, but not necessary.  Practical prayers like "God, please help Anne find a job" or "God, please let that guy who just dumped Anne gain 100 lbs unexpectedly" seemed more appropriate.  I didn't need prayers to keep my heart open.  I wasn't some hard-hearted bitch who shut down every time she was hurt.  Or so I thought.  But as I continued to live life, I found her prayer to be a little more important.  With each blow life dealt, I found it to be a bit more of a struggle to continue to put myself out there to new people, opportunities, and places without holding back.  It was easier to close off parts of my heart to prevent further injury.

After one particularly tough heartbreak, I remember telling my friend "hey, please keep praying that my heart remains open."  I had come to the end of myself.  I was ready to close off and self-protect but remembered a quote from C.S. Lewis that I had always found to be true:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

And I realized that the only way to prevent this was desperate and sincere prayer.  I didn't have the power to to keep myself open.  Only God could do that.  So I joined my friend in praying this for me.  And it worked.

I hadn't thought about this concept in a while because my heart hasn't been broken in some time.  But recently I heard a song with which I quickly became obsessed.  Foy Vance sings "I tried to do what I felt was right. And I know I f*cked it up sometimes. But at least my heart was open."  I have not been able to get this refrain out of my head, especially that last line: "At least my heart was open."  It has become somewhat of a mantra of thanksgiving and encouragement as I remember past heartbreaks and disappointments yet examine where I am now.  I was vulnerable and let someone know me, and that person disappointed me, but  "At least my heart was open."  I tried for something I really wanted yet didn't get it, but "At least my heart was open."  I put myself out there in a way that was uncomfortable and didn't see any good from it, but "At least my heart was open."

So now, as I'm in a season of waiting and having to take risks and be vulnerable, I am thankful for this song and the reminder of the prayer my friend taught me to pray years ago.  I am thankful God has answered that prayer and continues to do so and that by His grace I can continue to say "At least my heart was open."

Grace and the National Championship

As I write this I have that feeling I get where my cheeks ache because I'm trying so hard to hold back tears.

The Auburn football team, and consequently my family, is going to the National Championship in Pasadena.  It's confirmed.  Official.  We have flights, hotels, and now game tickets.  And while I am OVER THE MOON about Auburn's miraculous season, the cause for my restrained tears is much bigger than football.

Only three full days have passed between the time Auburn found out they were going to the big game and today--the day I found out my family is for sure going.  During that time, my mom and dad have lost sleep and a good bit of money trying to secure the arrangements for our trip.  I have done NOTHING to contribute to this effort.  I have racked my brain for contacts, connections, and inside tracks to championship tickets.  And yet nothing came to mind.  And before I could start sending desperate emails to anyone I've ever known who has anything to do with the Los Angeles area, the NCAA, or Vizio (which is all of 2 people), it was done.  They had everything under control.  We're going!

And it's killing me.  Because I didn't help. This is what I do.  I connect people.  I reach out to people.  I network.  I'm not ashamed to ask for favors because I enjoy doing them in return.  I am good at buying event tickets.  I'm savvy with social media.  I should have been able to help in SOME way!  I'm almost 30 years old.  I'm an adult with a good job.  Surely I could have found something, bought something, ANYTHING.  But no.  I am simply left receiving.

And then the tears come, because I know this is so much bigger than this game.  This is grace.  Right?  Being given something I do not deserve and have not earned.  And I have been receiving this kind of grace from my parents my entire life.  Not cheap grace.  Not "giving into every desire and honoring my tantrums" kind of grace.  But the kind of grace that says "I love you. You are my child. I want to give you good gifts.  I can give you things you cannot give yourself."  As a child this was easy to receive.  As an adult, it's been more difficult.

The segue way here is fairly obvious.  This is what Jesus offers me too.  So often I want to do something or prove to him that I can help and pull my own weight in our "partnership."  But then he brings me back to the manger. And then the cross. And then the empty tomb.  And I am reminded that this is NOT a partnership. This is Him giving everything and me giving nothing.  Him emptying Himself fully and me receiving.  This is grace.

Thoughts on Advent

I love the Liturgical Calendar and the rhythm it brings to the year.  In years past I have reveled in Lent--a season that gives us the freedom to acknowledge and reflect upon our sinfulness and brokenness before God.  And while some people find Lent to be depressing, I find it to be cathartic and almost easier than, say, Advent.  In Lent we are allowed and encouraged to mourn this fallen world in which we live and the condition in which we find humanity.  In Advent, we are asked to wait with hope.  And, if we're honest, isn't it often easier to mourn than to wait with hope?

But this year, I need an Advent.  I need to exercise the discipline of waiting with hope.  Yes, I said discipline.  While, for children, Advent is a time of cookies and parties and carols and unjaded anticipation, as we become adults it becomes a discipline.  Once we have experienced what it means to wait for something we desperately desire--that promotion, the engagement ring, that acceptance letter, the clean bill of health--we realize what a discipline it truly is to continue to wait with hope.  

In Romans 8, Paul tells us that "we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience."*   Hoping in what we do not see and waiting for it with patience is what is asked of us as we wait.  And as we wait, we can take heart in knowing what Paul tells the Corinthians, that in Jesus "it is always yes!" **

Not always "yes" to our earthly desires, but "yes" to that for which we ultimately wait and hope:

YES! God has come to us in the form of his Son, Jesus!

YES! He lived, died, and rose again to rescue us from ourselves!

YES! He will come again and perfectly reconcile us to Himself!

In Jesus, it is indeed always "yes!"

Amen.

*Romans 8: 23-25

**2 Corinthians 1:19

Cold and Warmth

It's raining here. And it's getting cold.  Like 50 degrees and rainy.  Is there anything worse?  Maybe 40 degrees and rainy. Because once you get into the 30 degrees range there's a possibility of snow, and that becomes somewhat magical.  But this kind of weather is not magical.  It has me all angsty and nostalgic.  I'm listening to The Counting Crows and writing.

This time every year when we turn the corner to the weather officially being "cold" I flashback to this time of the year when I was 22-25 in Washington, DC.  We were angsty on an entirely different level.  And I'm not sure there was much nostalgia.  It was very simple, really.  We'd lived through DC's swamp of a summer, then fallen for the trap of its crisp autumn days.  The kind of days that contained magnificent colors where we had enjoyed the warmth of a pullover coupled with the smell of the last remaining hint of sunscreen in our moisturizer.

And then one day we would turn that corner into winter and DC would laugh at us for falling in love with her all over again as her temperatures plummeted and her wind burned our cheeks .

It was COLD.  And we hated it.  But we hated it together.  And we would walk through the streets (all 4 southerners, 2 mid-westerners, and 1 yankee thrown in for good measure), grumbling and griping about how cold it was, yet not realizing how we were taking for granted the fact that we were all there freezing together.
We would leave work, cuss the wind, run for the Metro, cuss the Metro for being delayed and then cuss the wind AGAIN because a Metro platform is a wind-tunnel all its own.  What we hoped would be relief once aboard the train was the blast of hot air that smelled as if someone had burned his garbage and piped it through the Metro heating system.  So we would cuss again and grumble some more.

But in the midst of all this cussing and grumbling was the re-telling of the day's stories.  "Which crazy constituent called?  Did that cute guy from Kennedy's office walk by today?  How were the students?  Did they behave?  Beth, what exactly do you DO at your job?"  And once we arrived at our destination--usually a certain Mexican restaurant that served one $8 pomegranate margarita that packed the punch of two--those conversations would continue and evolve. "Your ex-boyfriend from home emailed?  What does HE want? That guy you've gone out with once or twice...you're really starting to like him?  What in THE WORLD are we going to wear to this 90's party this weekend?  If I get ONE more lecture about the way I'm leading my small group..."

And we would eat and drink and be warmed from the burn of the tequila, the spice of the Mexican food, and the glow each of us radiated as we sat and exhaled amongst friends who were family.  Then just as we would reach our peak of warmth, it would be time to be thrown back outside.  But this time it wasn't so cold.  Oh the temperature had continued to drop, but we weren't bothered by it.  Blame it on the tequila or blame it on the conversation, but after times around that table the wind didn't seem so violent. The Metro was quieter after rush hour had subsided. And I remember one distinct night of having the train all to ourselves and dancing through the various cars.

Eventually, we would arrive at our respective homes, dotted along 3 different Orange Line stops, fall into bed tucked under layers of blankets, and know that in a few hours we'd have to start the next cold day, but that for now we were warm beyond comprehension.