Great Expectations

Reflections on Isaiah 40:28-31

Have you not known?  Have you not heard?  The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.  He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless.

Margaret cares for her four grandchildren, three boys and a girl, ranging in age from 8 to 16.  She lives not far outside Zambia’s capital city of Lusaka, but her village is a world apart from that modern city. 

Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted

Me & Margaret in front of her new house.

I visited Margaret in the summer of 2005.  World Vision had built for Margaret a three-room brick house to replace the mud and thatch hut she shared with the children.  We were there to see the work that World Vision had done with the money raised by youth groups such as the one from my church.  We were also there to see how HIV/AIDS has taken the lives of so many young parents, leaving grandparents, such as Margaret to raise children left as orphans.  We saw as well how many young children have fallen victims to this disease as it is passed from mother to child.  It was a sobering and powerful trip on many levels … a true mix of tragedy and great joy.  Margaret was so pleased with her new home.  She invited us in and showed us around.  We saw not only the new house, but also the old one-room hut that had been their home for so many years.  You could see a lot of sky through the gaps in the thatched roof.  I wondered what it must have been like to weather the rainy season in such a hut.

We also saw a silo type structure for storing corn grown in the summer months, but that was not all we saw.  Just to the right of the new house was a miniature hut on stilts made from tree trunks.  It was thatched on top too, but without gaps.  It was well cared for in a way that the other mud and thatched structures were not.  Maybe it was new or maybe it was special, but what was it for?  It was raised an inch or two above my head.  Perhaps it stored food of interest to local African wildlife, like the way we have to protect our food from bears and raccoons and other critters when we camp.  Still something didn’t add up.  I had to know what it was for.  I asked our Zambian translator to ask Margaret.  I was not prepared for what I heard.

… but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength,

The hut was certainly special.  She had made it to welcome doves that might be on their way to somewhere else, but might also like to rest and take shelter for a time.  Doves, she continued, symbolized the Holy Spirit, the power of God in the world and she wanted God to know that she expected the Spirit and welcome its presence.  She was ready to receive whatever God sent her way.  She had great faith that God was good and that God wanted good for her and her grandchildren.  Even in the face of all that they had suffered, God had provided for her and she, in this unusual way, wanted to provide something in return.  She was ready for God and she expected the Spirit to come.

they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.

While I was there, Margaret had a visitor.

I think of Margaret often and wonder how my expectations of God compare to hers.  Have I created a life of welcome for the Spirit to have its way with me?  Have I trusted fully in the goodness of God, even when my circumstances seem to the contrary?  Certainly, I have not suffered as Margaret has suffered, nor have I had to trust as Margaret has trusted.  In so many ways our lives are apples and oranges.  In my comfortable first-world life, I have yet to fall exhausted and I have yet to fully mount up with wings like eagles, but thanks to Margaret, I know that it is possible and for that I thank God!

The Music of God

Reflections on John 3:1-9 

If you want to see a miracle watch the video below.  I bumped into it on facebook and I was truly moved.  In the church we throw around words like transformation and rebirth and even phrases like born again, but what do they mean and what do they really look like?  This clip, from the Alive Inside Documentary Project sponsored by Music and Memory, details the awakening of Henry, an elderly nursing home resident.  Years of seizures have sucked the life out of Henry and left him curled up and wheelchair bound, depressed and at times incoherent and unresponsive.  But when headphones are placed over his ears and plugged into an iPod loaded with music from his younger years, Henry comes back to life.  The proof is in the video.  Transformation, rebirth, awakening, this is what it looks like.  

“Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

Jesus spoke to Nicodemus about a rebirth, an awakening of the human soul necessary for life in the kingdom of God.  Don’t mistake the kingdom of God for some eternal heaven in the clouds.  Jesus was far more earthly minded than that.  Jesus spoke often of a kingdom of God that was being ushered into a flesh and blood, here and now world that couldn’t be seen with the naked eye, but was real nonetheless.  He spoke of a kingdom with no borders or boundaries, limited only by our refusal to recognize it.  A kingdom ruled by love, divine love and characterized by peace and joy, generosity and grace.  A kingdom that is our divine right, our divine call, but which we can’t embrace without an awakening, for who can embrace what they cannot see? 

Jesus answered, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, “You must be born from above.”

Henry’s body kept him alive.  His heart beat and his lungs took in air, but seizures robbed him of the person he was created to be.  He was alive, but there was little to no life in him.  Perhaps that is what Jesus saw in us, in humanity.  We are alive, but there is little to no life in us, for we have made our home in a kingdom with borders, ruled by fear and characterized by greed and selfishness, prejudice and hatred.  A kingdom that is the very human consequence of a broken humanity seized by a one-dimensional blindness which confuses the tangible and the real.      

The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.’

Who will wake us up?  Who will breath life back into us?  Who will open the eyes of our souls to a greater truth?  Jesus is clear.  It is the work of the Holy Spirit to transform, to awaken, to breath new life into us.  The Holy Spirit is the music of God.  It was the power of music that brought Henry back to himself, back the person he was, the person he was meant to be.  The songs of his youth animated him.  They engaged him physically and mentally.  They lit him up and connected him to others.  Dr. Oliver Sacks, world-renown neuroscientist and author, has been quoted as saying; “music brings back the feeling of life when nothing else can.”  The Holy Spirit does the very same thing for us spiritually.  The Holy Spirit breaths life into curled up, bound, depressed, incoherent and unresponsive human beings.  It restores us to the people we are created to be.  It connects us to one another and to God.  It helps us to see the bigger picture, the greater truths.  It animates us, calling us into action, inspiring generosity and grace. It transforms us in an instant and over a lifetime, in big ways and small as we give ourselves over to the power of the wind.  

Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can these things be?’

I am with Nicodemus on this one.  I do not know how the Spirit does it, just as I do not understand how music does what it does.  Music moves me emotionally and often physically, even without my consent, I find my foot tapping or my head bobbing to the left and to the right.  Music winds me up.  Music calms me down.  Music inspires me, speaks for me, makes me laugh and makes me cry.  In short, it lights me up.  And just like music, the Holy Spirit, the wind of God, the power of God, lights me up too.  It is the agent of epiphanies, the source of inspiration, the impetus of good works.  I am the person I was created to be when the Holy Spirit has its way with me.  

That is what we mean when we throw around the words transformation, rebirth and born again. 

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Music and Memory is a non-profit organization that brings personalized music into the lives of the elderly or infirm through digital music technology vastly improving quality of life.  

To learn more visit ... http://www.musicandmemory.org/index.html

Inner Princess

Reflections on Luke 12:12-21, 2 Corinthians 9:6 & Robert Frost’s Mending Wall

Someone in the crowd said to Jesus, ‘Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.’

My youngest niece is a real pip.  When she was five-years-old the whole world revolved around her and she was not shy about it.  Once, at a family gathering, I reminded her that I was not only her aunt, but also her godmother, which she interpreted to mean fairy godmother and immediately sought to make a wish: “I would like to be a princess.”  Not wanting to disappoint her, I replied, “It is done.”  And so we spent most of our week together poolside, where my niece ruled her kingdom … the shallow end.  She was not yet confident in the water, and so she proclaimed the shallow end her area, her kingdom.  As princess and sovereign she granted, and occasionally denied, the rest of the family access to her kingdom, stretching out her arms in a wide sweep to define its borders.  That sort of behavior in a five-year-old is oddly endearing for a day or two, but as the week stretched on, I saw how it wore on her mom and her older sister and the rest of us … her royal subjects. 

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall …

Photo from BBPC Appalachia Service Project Trip 2011

or a border or a boundary when it seeks to keep us out.  And yet it is in our broken and very human nature to build walls, to claim borders and to set boundaries to separate what is mine from what is yours.  

Then Jesus told them a parable:  ‘The land of a rich man produced abundantly.  And he thought to himself, “What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?”  Then he said, “I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods.  And I will say to my soul, Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.”

We all have a little five year-old princess or prince inside who longs to build walls, to claim borders, to set boundaries around what belongs to us.  There is a little something in each of us that longs to stretch our arms in every direction and say, “This is mine!  My time.  My vacation.  My space.  My talent.  My opportunity.  My energy.  My relationship. My money.  Mine.”  That little inner princess or prince is self-centered and stingy, wanting to close fists around what she thinks belongs to her, what she thinks she in entitled to.  Sometimes, even adults let their inner princess get the better of them, drawing boundaries and building walls like the rich man in Jesus’ story.  He thought bigger barns meant a better retirement, but who can relax, who can eat, drink, and be merry with their fists clenched?

But God said to him, “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”

Of course you can’t take it with you.  It doesn’t matter how tight you hold on, how big your barns or how high your walls.  All the worry and the security put in place to guard what has been gathered means nothing in the face of death. 

So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich towards God.

It is what you give away that you get to keep.  You reap what you sow.  If you give nothing, you get nothing.  If you build walls, claim borders or set boundaries, nothing gets out, but also nothing comes in.  If instead we are generous towards others, generous towards God, generous with our time and our energy, our resources, our talents, then in ways we cannot even begin to imagine, we reap what we sow.  Rarely do we reap tangibles, nothing that can be stored in barns or behind walls, but a reaping of great value nevertheless, sometimes even eternal in nature.

The one who sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and the one who sows bountifully will also reap bountifully.

The best moments poolside with my family, were the moments when my niece curbed her inner princess and welcomed us in to share fun and laughter in the shallow end, when her kingdom became our playground.  We splashed and played and giggled together, all of us.  Those memories and the relationships built upon them cannot be stored or kept secure behind a fence, but they we will last and even grow ... of that I am sure.  

Defining Moments: A Casserole Epiphany

Reflections on Isaiah 43:1, 4 & Psalm 139

Mary was the fourth of five children and often felt invisible.  Sara was the baby, five years younger than Mary.  Sara was doted on.  Everything she did was “darling.”   Charles was the eldest and heir to the family business.  Jane was mother’s favorite, although mother often said that she didn’t have favorites.  Still, it was obvious to everyone, Jane included, that she was it.  Michael, the third child, was more comfortable in his skin then any child had a right to be.  He played to the tune of his very own drummer, always engaged, rarely flustered.  Mary was just eleven months younger than Michael, but they could not have been more different.  Michael was brave.  Mary was timid.  Michael moved forward in the world, always exploring.  Mary held back, unsure.  Michael exuded confidence.  Mary had none.

But now says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you.

The eldest four use to play hide and seek with the neighborhood kids after school.  More times than Mary would like to remember, she was not only never found, she was never sought.  The sun would set and the kids would all have gone home for supper and Mary would still be hiding behind a tree or a shed, waiting to be found or for her name to be called.  It wasn’t that the others were mean or playing a cruel childish trick, Mary was just so quiet that you could easily forget she was there or just as easily fail to notice that she was not there.  The end result was always the same.

I have called you by name, you are mine.

There were plenty of more important moments in Mary’s life, but hide and seek as a child became for her a defining moment.  It was who she had come to believe she was, someone who was neither lost nor found.  Someone easily overlooked.  Someone often forgotten.  It is funny what memories stick and what ones fade to nothing.  And it is sobering to realize how what sticks has the power to shape us for better or for worse.

O Lord, you have searched me and known me.

Mary did not seem the better or the worse for her memories of hide and seek.  Her life was ordinary and safe, like white toast with butter.  Nothing risked meant nothing lost, but also almost nothing gained.  Mary faded easily into the background at work and at home.  Her colleagues moved quickly by her, up the corporate ladder, making names for themselves along the way.  Her husband lived comfortably in a world that centered around him, his needs, his interests, his friends.  Mary created that world for him and he loved her for that.  Her children, now teenagers, took her for granted, as teenagers are apt to do, expecting from her meals, laundry and cash without accountability.  She never raised her voice, because she had yet to find it.

Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.

One day all that came to an end.  It was silly looking back on it, but it was her watershed disguised as a casserole.  Mary was active in her church’s women’s guild.  Quarterly the guild hosted church suppers.  In theory, they were offered in an effort to draw the whole church family together, to foster fellowship and reinforce the ties that bind all hearts in one accord.  But in reality they were showcases for the fanciest dish and most creative table settings.  Mary always did her duty by these suppers.  She made casseroles and stayed out of the fray … until one night in September.  On that evening, Marsha and Naomi were throwing verbal jabs disguised as compliments in the kitchen as they compared dishes.  Marsha had brought her brown sugar sweet potatoes, topped with miniature marshmallows, lightly browned and served in a speckled blue ceramic dish that had once belonged to her mother.  Naomi brought the very same sweet potato dish, but served in a clear Pyrex dish, nestled in a woven wicker basket with leather handles.  Someone had not checked the sign-up sheet, but who?  This was a huge faux pas and it was clear that the fallout would not be pretty.  Mary, a witness to this crime, quietly dropped off her chicken broccoli and rice casserole and quickly disappeared into the dining hall.  She had yet to rise in the ranks.  She was only welcome to make dishes, not to organize them on serving tables.  That task had to be awarded.

You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.

After the grace was said and guests were invited to the buffet spread, Mary noticed that everything was set as it always was with two exceptions.  First of course, there were two sweet potato dishes, served side by side, where there should have only been one, and her casserole was missing.  It wasn’t on the table.  It wasn’t on any table.  On any other night she would have stuffed her disappointment, unwilling to stand up for herself, but that night something snapped.  For reasons only God knows, a switch was thrown and the gates that seemed to have rusted shut over the course of a lifetime of perceived insignificance, burst open.  Out came anger and indignation aimed in all directions.  Perhaps for the first time in her life she walked with her head up, her shoulders back and her chest out.  Pushing past Naomi and Marsha in the kitchen, she grabbed her casserole and brushed back by them straight to the serving tables.  She plopped her casserole on the main table, making extra room, by dumping both sweet potato casseroles, dishes and all, in the garbage.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Wonderful are your works; I know that full well.

In that moment, Mary became visible ... to all.  For the first time she was certain of her own worth.   In that moment she was both found and noticed.  In that defining moment, she understood what she had been told since childhood …

… you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.

***Writer’s Note:  Okay, so this is a little tongue and cheek and yet so often the big moments, the epiphanies, the defining moments, come is the midst of the ordinary or even the ridiculous.  And hey, God can find us in the midst of the best and even the worst that church has to offer. 

Angel Unaware ... A True Story

Reflections on Hebrews 13:2 and Amazing Grace

One summer about twenty years ago, Kimberly Borin rode cross-country with fifteen others from Seattle to Atlantic City.  It was a fundraising effort for the American Lung Association.  Her group traveled on average eighty miles a day and made the trip in seven weeks.

On one of those eighty-mile days, Kimberly had fallen behind.  That was unusual for her.  She liked to be out ahead of the pack.  But on that particular day, for some reason, she had chosen to take her time, to slow her pace and enjoy the getting there.  She was traveling through the hills of Idaho, up and down and up and down, truly in the middle of nowhere.  That’s when it happened, or more accurately stopped happening.  Having descended down a fairly steep hill and just beginning to make the ascent up another, her pedals stopped pedaling.  They simply refused to engage.  In a valley between tall hills, Kimberly looked her bike over.  At first she couldn’t find anything wrong.  It all looked as it should, until she noticed the absence of a very small screw missing from her derailleur.

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers …

Having passed a small town at the top of the previous hill, Kimberly walked, bike in hand, up the steep incline and found at the top of that hill, in the center of town, an auto body shop.  The shop owner took one look at the derailleur and told Kimberly that he didn’t have a screw that small.  He suggested that she might find one at the sewing machine shop around the corner.  As they talked, Kimberly explained her mission, how she was riding cross-country with a group raising funds for the American Lung Association and added, as an afterthought, that she was from New Jersey.

As if to make sure he had heard her correctly, the shop owner repeated, “You are from New Jersey?!”  Without waiting for confirmation, he continued, “wait until I tell Fred!”  The owner then walked Kimberly across the street and around the corner to the sewing machine shop.  Having explained her situation, Kimberly was invited inside to search through boxes and boxes of assorted sewing machine parts.  Meanwhile the auto body shop owner left to find Fred.  It took quite awhile, but Kimberly did find a screw small enough to fit the derailleur.  Once the screw was in place and the bike was in working order, she returned to the auto body shop where her team’s van was to pick her up and return her to the group.  As she rounded the corner between shops, a group of locals greeted her as if she was a celebrity.  Word of her presence spread quickly.  “Wait until you meet Fred!” they said to her.

It was beginning to feel a little unsetting.  Here she was a stranger, traveling alone in an unknown town with no backup if things got out of hand, and it was beginning to feel like things were getting out of hand.  At the auto body shop, she waited anxiously for the team van to arrive.  As she waited an old, rusted pickup truck pulled into the shop.  An older man, maybe sixty or so got out with two bags of garden vegetables in his arms.  It was Fred.  He approached Kimberly, put down his bags, and gave her an uninvited hug.  “I am so glad to see you,” he said.  “You are like an angel to me.”

… for by doing that some have entertained angels …

Kimberly was taken aback.  Something was happening here and she was a big part of it, but she didn’t know what it was. 

It seemed like a silly question at this point, but Fred asked her where she was from.  She was sure by now that the whole town knew she was from New Jersey, but it seemed important to repeat it.  She replied, “Flemington, New Jersey.”  At the mention of Flemington, Fred’s gaze turned from expectant and hopeful to amazement and awe.  Tears began to form freely.

“I am from Flemington too!” he replied.  Whatever was happening between them, it was getting bigger.  They actually knew people in common.  And as they talked about their hometown, Fred’s story began to unfold.  He had left New Jersey in the late 70’s because he had done something he was not proud of, something he was ashamed of.  He didn’t say what, but it was clear he didn’t choose to leave.  He felt he had to leave.  He had to find a find place far from New Jersey, where no one would find him and where he could start over.  This was that place, an Idaho town, in the middle of nowhere, population 300.  He had been there ever since.  Over the course of his exile, Fred had been praying for a sign of forgiveness, an assurance that forgiveness was possible for him.  He had asked God to send someone from his hometown, from Flemington, New Jersey.  He had asked God what seemed perhaps not impossible, but certainly highly unlikely.  And here was the answer to his prayer standing right in front of him. 

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.

Kimberly was a stranger in a strange town, on her way to somewhere else.  Nevertheless, she was also the bearer of grace, through no intention of her own, but clearly by the intention of God and the work of the Holy Spirit.  We cannot manufacture epiphanies for one another, but sometimes we deliver them nonetheless.  Sometimes we are angels unaware.  And sometimes a stranger is the answer to our prayers.

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Writer's note:  I was able to reconnect with Kimberly as a result of this blog.  She granted me permission to use her real name and to encourage you all to visit her blogs and website: 

 http://theencouragingworks.blogspot.com/

 http://seeingbeautifully.blogspot.com/

 http://www.theencouragingworks.com/ 

"A Man Named Fred" will be published in a book by SQuire Rushnell and Louise DuArt.  Their book is called, GODWINK LETTERS: A Devotional and will be published by Howard Books/Simon & Schuster in the fall of 2012. 

Wiggle Room

Reflections on  Matthew 16:13-23, 1 Corinthians 13:12 and Isaiah 43:19

I use to pride myself on being a light and efficient packer. I was meticulous about folding and organizing, so as to maximize what could be packed in a small amount of space. I could afford to spend time on folding and arranging, because I didn’t have children, or pets, or other obligations for whom I had to pack. At that time, I packed in a traditional suitcase with sturdy sides and a molded, slightly curved top. There was little to no wiggle room, a finite amount of space for all my essentials and that is how I liked it. I would not have preferred a soft-sided duffel over the solid framework of a suitcase. My belongings felt protected in my suitcase … protected from the outside elements, from careless airline employees, from the wind and the rain of the tarmac. Protected also from damage within, from wrinkles and disorganization. You can’t protect your clothing from wrinkles in a duffel bag. Neatness and organization are virtually impossible ... too much wiggle room.

Image: geishaboy50

Life is a lot like packing. We want everything to fit neatly in rectangular boxes, in a finite space that feels secure and safe.  Whether we are packing clothing or organizing our thoughts on life and faith, most of us prefer solid boundaries … toiletries, undergarments, shirts, pants … black and white, right and wrong, good and evil. Life is just easier that way. There is safety and certainty in solid boundaries and who doesn’t long for that?

“But who do you say that I am?”

Peter was certain of his answer when Jesus pulled the disciples aside and asked them that question. Without hesitation he proclaimed, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”  And he was right. Jesus said that that insight came straight from God. That's a suitcase you want to pack your faith in, solid, clear boundaries, no wiggle room, or so Peter thought. In Peter’s mind, he knew exactly what was packed within the framework of “messiah.” He was certain of what that title meant and where it would take Jesus and those who followed him. So when Jesus started going on and on about going to Jerusalem where he would suffer and die and on the third day be raised, Peter rebuked him. Peter REBUKED Jesus. There was no room in Peter’s messianic luggage for the suffering and death of the messiah. That did not fit within the clear boundaries of his hard-sided suitcase.

“ … you are setting your mind not on divine things, but on human things.”

Peter went from hero to zero in a matter of several verses and Jesus called him on it. He said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan!” (I hope never to hear that from Jesus, but who knows.) It seems that Peter, while receiving one truth from God, took that truth and imposed his own solid and safe boundaries around it, leaving no wiggle room for God to work, no room for mystery or surprise, no room for things to get a little messy. And that is a very human thing to do, imposing safety and certainly where none is provided.

"For now we see in a mirror dimly ..."

Today we live in a world that has been created out of the fear and uncertainty that was born from the events of 9/11 and resulted in a world at war against terrorism abroad and at home, as well as a huge economic meltdown right in our own backyard. We don’t feel safe and little seems certain. In such a world how do human beings tend to respond? We respond by shoring up our boundaries, not just our geographical ones, but intellectual ones, pulling tight our framework, boxing in our thoughts, creating certainty were there is none. We draw lines between right and wrong and us and them. We create a false sense of certainty, a false sense of security with opinions that we have packaged as truth. It doesn’t really matter if you fall on the right or the left, both sides are so sure they are right (that they are correct) that they can’t hear each other. So tight are our boundaries that there is no wiggle room for conversation, for dialogue, for new possibilities. All that is left is animosity and finger pointing. 

This is not a new phenomenon and it isn’t just political. It is what we humans do when fear and uncertainty get the better of us. We are just as likely to impose false boundaries around our faith, as we are our politics. Why does God allow bad things to happen? Why another flood, an earthquake, continued economic hardship, why? It must be God’s judgment on what we are doing or allowing. God is trying to get our attention. We need a reason that will make our circumstances make sense. We need a box to store what we see happening around us, so that it will seems less scary and we will feel, in some small way, empowered to do something about it or at the very least to explain it. Out of fear, Christians are digging in their heals on marriage and issues of sexuality, on the person of Jesus Christ and the authority of scripture. The same way Christians of the past had dug in their heels around slavery and the role of women, on issues of the person of Jesus Christ and the authority of scripture (some debates are timeless).

We have always longed for safety and certainty. And it has always been true that faith, just like life, is neither safe nor certain.

Faith is the opposite of fear. Fear draws boundaries and refuses conversation. Faith has soft-sides and wiggle room which fosters dialogue. Fear closes us off. Faith opens us up. Fear manufactures answers when none are given. Faith learns to operate in the midst of ambiguity and mystery. Faith takes risks.  Fear takes none. Faith says, “yes” to God, without inflicting our will on God. Faith holds what God has given us in a duffel bag, not a hard-shell case.

"I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth.  Do you not perceive it?"

With reluctance, I have traded in my sturdy, plastic suitcase with the rounded top, for a discounted, canvas duffel bag with someone else’s initials on it.  I am cautiously risking uncertainly and surprise and even a little wardrobe chaos. I am learning to leave a little wiggle room for God to work. 

Picking Up The Pieces

Reflections on Ecclesiastes 3:1-11, Matthew 19:26 and Patsy Cline

I fall to pieces …

           

Terri’s life was beginning to feel like a country western song.  While that certainly wasn’t her taste in music, it was the music she was raised on, with a father who yodeled to bluegrass and a mother who loved The Grand Ole Opry.   Of late, the radio in her head kept repeating Patsy Cline’s, I Fall to Pieces ... just the chorus, as if there was a skip in that old record.  It was no wonder really.  In the fall of her forty-second year, the business that she had started with her husband failed and they declared bankruptcy.  It wasn’t long after that that his drinking, which had always been a problem, became abusive.  In May, Terri had left her husband and moved in with her parents.  As if that wasn't enough, within a month, Sammy, her twelve-year-old Jack Russell terrier, had to be put down after a sudden series of seizures.  In between jobs, in the midst of a divorce and having lost her most loyal companion, Terri’s life had indeed fallen to pieces.      

The First Lisburn Presbyterian Church had fallen to pieces too, in an instant.  The year was 1981 and Northern Ireland’s troubles were well established and flashes of violence were not uncommon.  On a Wednesday evening in August, as local shops were closing, a car, that had been parked on Market Street, just around the corner from the church, blew up.  In that instant, shops and offices and the church were devastated.  Of greatest concern to the members of the Presbyterian congregation was the lost of seventeen stained glass windows, some shattered and in pieces and some left twisted in unimaginable formations of lead and glass.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

The writer of Ecclesiastes understood life’s propensity for ups and downs.  There is a time and season for everything: the good, the bad and the indifferent.  There is a time for success and a time for bankruptcy.  There is a time for love and a time for marriage and even a time for the divorce, cutting your loses and demanding better for yourself.  There is a time to enjoy the unconditional love of a canine companion and a time to say goodbye.  There are times for love and times for loss.  There are times for independence and leaving your parents’ home and occasionally times to return.  There are times when you have it all together and times when it all falls to pieces.  Life is just that way.  And although it seems at times meaningless and haphazard, there is something more, a thread that weaves hope in and through the broken pieces.

God has made all things beautiful for its time.

The members of the First Lisburn Presbyterian Church couldn’t bear to toss the pieces of broken stained glass in a dumpster as if they were trash.  Even before a plan was hatched, the pieces were gathered, because what was broken was still highly valued.  It wasn’t long before the way forward became clear:  these colored shards of glass, once beautiful could be beautiful again and this time more profound in their beauty.  Soon a new stained glass window was commissioned, a window to be made from the broken pieces.  In 1987 the new window, entitled The Resurrection Window, was dedicated with the following inscription:

The Resurrection Window

“This window is a memorial of the bomb-blast of 5^th August, 1981 and the subsequent restoration of our church and halls.  It is a tribute to our neighbours in shops and offices and their will to overcome disaster.  It is an echo of the motto of this town: EX IGNE RESURGAM (I will arise from fire.)  It is a witness to our faith in Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Terri too had broken bits of her life to contend with, her heart and her dreams had taken a hit.  They were in fact shattered, but she was not willing to throw them away either.  Her heart and her dreams were still of great value and so she picked up the pieces and kept them safe until the times and the seasons began to change.  And change they did. 

…with God, all things are possible.

God indeed can make beauty out of broken glass and broken people.  In God’s time, seasons change and beauty is crafted out of pain and even loss.  I don’t know how God does it, but I have seen it again and again.  Broken hearts and broken dreams pieced together by a loving and purposeful hand. The result is never what is expected, but always beyond what one could imagine.  However, God can’t heal what we toss away, only what we gather up.  Sometimes all that separates one season from the next is the picking up of broken pieces. 

Bluebonnets

Reflections on Luke 24:8-11

Having found the tomb empty and being told that Jesus had risen, the women share their epiphany with the other disciples:

... returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and all the rest.  Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles.  But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.

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In the spring every region has its particular beauty.  I am from the northeast and we glory in the tulips and the hyacinth and then the forsythia, the rhododendron and the azalea.  And that is not even to mention the flowering trees, the dogwoods and the cherry trees.  We are spoiled in the northeast.  There is so much color to our spring.  In other parts of the country spring comes less auspiciously. 

I was in Austin, Texas in April of 2010.  I was attending a conference with friends, two of whom are Texas natives.  I wasn’t expecting much from Texas in April.  What kind of spring could Texas possible have?  I confess, I came with prejudice in my heart.  Texas and I are not on good terms.  I have yet to forgive the state for the disaster that was my sixth grade year.  (That is another story)  So suffice it to say, I was not expecting much from my visit to Austin.  However, I had been told, more than once, that Texas bluebonnets were a sight to see. 

I flew into San Antonio, where my friend, Katheryn, pastors a church.  She picked me up at the airport and we traveled together by minivan to Austin, north on Highway 35.  We had a lot of catching up to do.  There was talk of the glory days of seminary and of course crazy church stuff, friends we had in common and enemies too.  Pastors so rarely get the chance to vent, it was a shame we didn’t have farther to travel.  There was so much to say.  In the middle of one long tale, out of nowhere, Katheryn gasped.  Literally G A S P E D.  I was looking out the passenger side window, away from Katheryn, lost in thought, focused on the trials and tribulations of church service, when Katheryn unexpectedly took in a whole lot of air.  My heart nearly jumped out of my chest.  I was sure that I was no more than a second or two from meeting Jesus face to face and I didn’t want that to happen while I was telling tales out of school.  I snapped my head to the left, in Katheryn’s direction.  She was pointing to her left, out the driver’s side window.  “BLUEBONNETS!” she exclaimed.

Are you kidding me?!  It took a moment before I could make the transition from impending death to wildflowers.  It took more than a moment for my heart rate to drop back to near normal.  In the mean time, before I could respond, I saw them.  Little specks of blue scattered in and among the tall grass on the median strip that separated the northbound and southbound lanes.  Little flowers, not in mass, not bunched together in a blaze of glory, but scattered randomly, haphazardly, maybe two-dozen peaking out in a sea of tall grass.

All I could say was, “oh,” with a tone of relief, rather than awe.  While it was certainly better than death on a Texas highway, and it obviously meant something to Katheryn, to be honest, it was underwhelming.  I have to say, the build up was better than the reality.  I expected a sea of blue outlined in grass, not a sea of grass with specks of blue.  I expected a wildflower patch like you see on the highways in the southeast where dense, purposeful swatches of color are framed by highway on-ramps and exits. 

That is the nature of an epiphany.  It is as individual as our taste in wildflowers.  The Holy Spirit opens one person to a truth, a revelation, through a walk in the woods or the words of a song or a happenstance at work, any of which on any other day or for any other person might convey nothing out of the ordinary and even if that walk or song or happenstance is shared with another, one might have an enormous God-moment, while the other remains unaware and untouched.  Katheryn’s reaction to the beauty she saw in the bluebonnets drew from her a physical and audible reaction, a gasp, as if to say, "If you saw what I just saw, surely you would gasp too."  But I did see what she saw and I was not moved in the same way or even moved at all. 

There is a truth in that simple scenario that speaks to our desire to force our epiphanies on others.  We believe that if we can lead someone to the place of our own revelation, if we can point to what we saw or heard, put words to what we felt or what we had, in a holy moment, come to understand, then others will see or hear or feel or understand it too.  If I was moved, you will be too.  We want to share our epiphanies and we think we can make it happen.  But an epiphany is a work of the Holy Spirit, not a human creation.  It finds us when the time is just right.  It finds us in God’s time.  We cannot manufacture or control it.  It happens to us, not because of us and subsequently we can not make it happen for others. 

We can’t force the Spirit’s hand, just as the Spirit chooses not to force our will.  The Holy Spirit woos individual hearts and minds toward holy truths at God’s pace, a timing synched to our own individual personalities and circumstances.  It may take a lifetime for some to see the beauty of God’s creation on the median of a Texas highway, while others seem ready to oooooh and ahhhhhh at birth.  This, should we grasp it, gives us cause to be patient with those who cannot share our epiphanies, who fail to be impressed with what moves us to the core.  The Holy Spirit isn’t finished with them yet, just as the Spirit isn’t finished with us.  Epiphanies come when we are not looking, not expecting.  They take us by surprise.  They make us gasp.  If a co-worker, acquaintance, family member or beloved friend, cannot share the enormity of your revelation or inspiration, it doesn’t mean that they never will, only that this time is your time not theirs.  This epiphany is for you, a gift from the God who loves you, who knows you, who created you.  Their time will come and perhaps already has with a different message, another insight, something you can’t quite see yet, but perhaps someday you will. 

Our epiphanies are individual affairs.  The truth is, you can lead a person to bluebonnets, but you can’t make them gasp!

Katheryn sent me this picture just the other day.

Apparently a rainy winter has made for a spectacular spring in Texas this year. 

Had I seen this, I may have GASPED!

Easter ... Dreams Lost and Found

Reflections on Luke 24:5

Carrie and John had talked about having children from their first date.  It seemed presumptuous then, but quickly it was clear theirs was a lifetime romance.  They were married within a year and started trying to create the family they had dreamed of right away.  Within six months, Carrie was pregnant and shopping for baby paraphernalia on her lunch hour and John was busy making ready a nursery.  The miscarriage came as a shock.  It just never occurred to Carrie that things would not go as planned.  But her doctor told her it was not uncommon to miscarry a first pregnancy in the first trimester.  So they tried again right away.  Four more pregnancies and four more miscarriages.  The door to the nursery was kept closed and Carrie no longer shopped on her lunch hour.  It was clear that something was wrong.  Still, it felt like a death when her obstetrician sat them down together and told them they would never be able to carry a baby to term.  A dream, their dream, their vision for their future was laid to rest in a doctor’s file. 

Mike dreamed of a career in business, one that would start as soon as he received his college degree, but in the fall of his junior year, his father was severely injured in a tractor accident and he was needed at home to work the family farm.  His dream died and was buried in a cornfield. 

Terri loved to dance.  She often said she lived to dance.  Her childhood was a blur of classes and recitals.  Her parents insisted she attend college, so she picked one with an excellent, extra-curricular dance program and majored in dance and minored in her studies.  Her dream was to dance at Lincoln Center.  Upon graduation she went straight to New York City.  It turned out that her dreams were bigger than her ability.  Audition after audition ended in bitter disappointment.  After two years, she buried her dreams in a city dumpster along with her lucky ballet slippers and headed for home.          

Paula simply dreamed of growing old with Jack, her husband of 19 years.  She loved him more than she thought possible, but it wasn’t enough for him.  Her dream died in family court, the Honorable Judge Raymond Walters presiding over a divorce decree that freed Jack to marry Emily, his co-worker and mistress of nearly three years.  Paula’s dream was laid to rest in the home she was forced to sell in an effort to split their assets.

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Jesus wasn’t the only thing sealed behind a large stone, laid to rest in a dark tomb.  With him were buried the hopes and the dreams of all those who had left behind hometowns, jobs, even families to follow the itinerant rabbi who spoke of the coming of the kingdom of God.  Those who followed Jesus had dreams about how Jesus would make the world, their world, better.  Some dreamed of a land freed from Roman rule.  Others dreamed of justice.  Some simply dreamed of enough ... enough food, enough shelter, enough cash to be secure.  Some thought, that with the coming of the kingdom of God, the end must surely be drawing near.  They dreamed of being found on the right side of God’s certain judgment.  Maybe some just dreamed of God, drawn to Jesus because he made them feel close to the divine.  Maybe some were thrill seekers or the chronically curious, regardless, each person had a dream, a vision of how life would be for them, for Jesus, for the world, as they followed him into Jerusalem.  And each of them watched their dreams die with Jesus on that Roman cross just outside the city.  Those dreams where buried with Jesus, as surely dead and he was.

And then came Easter morning.  According to Luke’s gospel, the women, who had followed Jesus’ body to the tomb on Good Friday, whose hopes and dreams had also died with him, having observed he Sabbath, returned with spices to anoint his body.  What they found was the stone rolled away and the tomb empty.  The body was gone.  In its place, two men, perhaps angels, tell them:

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?  He is not here, but has risen.”

Photo by Jaime Owens

It would be an understatement to say that they didn’t see that coming and neither did the other disciples, who received the news from the women as an “idle tale.”  Yet the truth, God’s truth, a truth beyond all hope or expectation, won out in the end.  The one who had escaped the tomb appeared to them again and again over the course of forty days.  And with him, was born, in the hearts of those who followed Jesus, new dreams, bigger dreams, dreams that they could never have dreamed on their own.

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Sometimes we have to let what is meant to die, die, so that what is meant to live, can live.  What was laid to rest in that tomb was not what emerged.  The resurrected Lord was glorified; the same, yet changed.  He appeared and disappeared at will.  At times he was recognizable, with the marks of his suffering plain to see, but at other times he appeared incognito, revealed only in the breaking of the bread.  And what of those dreams that were buried with him?  They too had been transformed, changed.  The disciples could never have dreamed of how the world, their world, would change after Jesus’ death.  They didn’t see the resurrection coming … and neither do we. 

Our dreams die too.  Things don’t always go as expected.  Life doesn’t unfold as planned.  But letting die what must die, leaves room for resurrection and with resurrection comes new dreams, divinely inspired dreams that will surely carry us beyond what we could ever imagine on our own.

That is how the kingdom comes.  Dreams lost.  Dreams found.  The world, our world ... changed.  Resurrection!

Good Friday ... A World Without God

Reflections on Mark 15:34

It did not begin with the absence of God.  It began with good news of God’s kingdom come near.  Good news for the poor and the blind and the sick and the weak.  It began with light and life and God was not absent.  But in this last moment, as the story appears to be coming to an end, the light goes out and the miracles cease, no power is left, there is only a cry … a cry so painful that it is hard to hear for what it is.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

In this last moment, God was absent.  Jesus was abandoned.  Through Jesus there had been miracles for the sick, the lame and the blind.  There was power to calm the sea and to heal the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years.  There were words to confound the self-righteous and feed the down trodden, but on this day there were no miracles for Jesus.  There was no power to escape this end or ease his suffering.  There were no words to make sense of it.  No words for those who mocked.  No words for those who grieved.  No words to make it all better.  There was only a cry, a cry of abandonment.  My God, my God … why?

There is something very human about wanting to know why.  We are cause and effect people with the intellectual capacity for reason.  And so we push beyond the bounds of our immediate circumstances and we look back and we look forward and we wrestle with the why, so that we can make sense of it all.   That’s all we want really.   We want everything to make sense.

In that moment, Jesus wanted his pain, his suffering, his torment to make sense.  And we want that too.  Why God, would you turn your back on an innocent man, a man whose life was given in the service of you?  Why would you be so fully present in Jesus, only to abandon him in that last hour?  It is not how I would have done it, if the script were mine to write, but of course that is silly.  It is neither my script to write, nor yours and so we sit uncomfortably at the foot of the cross wanting to know why.

I have no answer for that question.  The why of God’s abandonment is left to dangle before us like a moldy carrot on a stick, one that we would like to do away with and be done with it.  I do not know why.  I only know the affect that the anguish of that moment caused on those gathered around the cross and those who through out the centuries have dared to take a long hard look.

Matthew says that the light that had dawned with Jesus arrival had gone out.  He writes that darkness fell over the whole land and with Jesus’ cry the earth shook and rocks split as if the whole created order felt in that moment the absence of God.  It was as if the rejection of Jesus was the rejection of God.  And in that moment we were given a glimpse of a world without God in it.  A world where miracles cease and words fail and humankind is left to grope alone in the darkness and how great is that darkness. 

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I remember as a young child when things weren’t going my way.  I would fantasize about running away.  I would pack a small bag and leave.  I would be free to do as I wanted.  Free to play when I wanted and eat what I wanted.  I would just go.  I must have dangled that carrot out in front of my mother a time or two too many, because one day my mother had had it.  “If things are that bad” she said, “so bad that you feel you need to leave, then I will spare you the trouble.  I will go.”  And she did go.  She packed up a small bag and walked out the front door.  She got in her car and she left.  And I got a little taste of life without my mother in it.  Before you bring my mother up on charges of neglect, my father was home at the time, but that was of little consolation.  I was devastated.  I experienced a rush of emptiness that took my little breath away.  I dissolved on the spot and was inconsolable. 

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The affect of God’s absence, God’s abandonment of Jesus, in that moment was so palpable that all of creation felt the loss.  The weight of that loss came crashing on all those around.  So great was the terror of that moment that the Roman centurion was heard to say, “Truly this was God’s son.”  As if to realize what they had done.  As if to realize what they had lost.

No doubt, I realized what I had done as a child.  My father was on the phone to my mother within minutes.  She was at the neighbor’s waiting for the signal to return.

This last moment, this last cry from the cross was, thank God, not the end of the story either, but to embrace the end of the story, to find the true wonder and joy in Easter morning, you have to sit in the darkness of Good Friday in a world without God in it. 

It did not begin with the absence of God and it will not end with the absence of God.  But in that dark moment, when God was absent, the whole world changed. 

Time-Out

Reflections on 1 Corinthians 7:14-25 & John 6:31

I knew that if I could just get out of the car I would be free.  It was an unusually warm February morning, almost fifty degrees.  The sun danced on the waters of the Delaware River just a stones throw from the parked car. Leafless trees and a blanket of week-old snow, marked only by the restless wanderings of squirrels and deer, made the invitation to come almost tangible.  There is something about bare winter trees, all bark and branches, unencumbered by summer’s leafy greens, which exposes a truth that is both shameful and beautiful.  These are the days postcards are made of, I thought to myself.  And still I sat, buckled in, keys in the ignition, windows up and doors locked. 

I do not understand my own actions.

 For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.

1 Corinthians 7:15

I had come with the intention to walk, just to walk.  I had come to shake loose the cobwebs that had grown thick around my once active imagination.  I had come seeking inspiration … motivation.  I had come to take a first step toward something bigger than the laundry list of daily chores that had occupied so much of the past several months.  It is amazing how fast you can lose yourself in the details of day to day living.  Picking up this and that, keeping three children in clean clothes and erasing fingerprints and toothpaste splatters from bathroom mirrors.  It is a dangerous endeavor to pay too much mind to the details.  Details can be the undoing of creative promise, a convenient distraction, an excuse to hide behind when fear gets the better of us.  Like so many leaves on a tree hiding the brokenness and the beauty that lies beneath, petty details hang like scales before the eyes of those who have forgotten their dreams.

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Jesus had big dreams … kingdom-of-God-sized dreams.  Big dreams require lots of work and Jesus was no slacker.  He logged a lot of miles in those sandals, traveling from town to town, healing and teaching and gathering those who longed to share his dream.  Everywhere he went he drew a crowd and soon word of his coming preceded him and crowds formed in anticipation of his arrival.  There was no end to the people who wanted and needed something from him; a dying child, a leprous man, a bleeding woman, the blind, the accused, the cheaters, the religious leaders.  There was so much to do on any given day that twenty-four hours just wasn’t enough.  And still Jesus found time to get away, time to put the to-do list on hold and take a walk around the lake or a hike up a mountain to pray, to think, dream, to find a little inspiration … a renewed sense of motivation.  He gave himself permission to walk away for a short time and he taught his disciples to do the same.  I could be mistaken, but I think those little time-outs provided fuel for the dream.  They helped keep the dream alive and in focus.       

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I had almost forgotten my dreams.  Had I forgotten them altogether, I suppose I wouldn’t have been sitting in a parked car facing the banks of the Delaware.  I almost didn’t come at all.  There were so many pressing reasons to stay home.  I had several years’ worth of medical bills to file.  The kitchen floor needed to be mopped.  It always needs to be mopped.  The basement was a disaster.  It has never been otherwise.  The doors to the bedrooms needed to be scrubbed.  Why hadn’t I seen that before?  And when was I going to get around to painting the molding around the new front door … the one that was installed almost a year ago?  I am, it seems, passive aggressive toward my own best interests, subconsciously manufacturing reasons to delay doing the things I most want to get done, so that the anxiety that results renders me unable to get my lazy rear in gear.  It is a cycle of subversion that spirals faster and deeper, until I am dissatisfied with everything and everyone with of course, only myself to blame.  I am aware enough to know that I am, at times, my own worst enemy and that is enough for me to compound guilt with a twinge of self-loathing.

For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.

1 Corinthians 7:19

The upside is that this is only me at my worst.  There is another side to my slightly complicated self and that was the side that I was hoping to rediscover along the river’s edge.  I just needed to get out of the car.  I had driven fifteen miles from my home with every intention of getting out of the car.  I was dressed for success … sweatpants, sweatshirt, sneakers and my favorite fleece vest with an inside pocket for my iPod, which was charged and ready to go.  There was some forethought here and that was encouraging.  So, even I was surprised when I pulled in the parking lot and found my body at odds with my plan.  Why was it so hard to get out of the car?

Wretched one that I am!  Who will rescue me from this locked car?

1 Corinthians 7:24 (sort of)

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The disciples had been busy, very busy.  Jesus had sent them out in pairs to preach and cast out demons and heal the sick.  There was no end to the people who wanted and needed something from them.  When they returned and submitted their reports to Jesus they were spent, but the work was not done.  That is when …

Jesus said to the disciples, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest awhile.”  For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure …

Mark 6:31

   

There was a Time ...

Reflections on Mark 10:13-16

Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it. 

There was a time when I could go to the moon or sail an angry sea or hide from the bad guys all from the inside of a cardboard box.  There was a time when a blanket was all I needed to be a super hero or to build a fort.  There was a time when the whole neighborhood would gather around the back of my house, to the spot in the corner of the driveway, where new gravel was delivered.  All we needed were a few Hot Wheels cars, some Tonka trucks and a garden trowel to build an entire city in one day.  There was a time when my friends and I spent hours and hours in the woods tracking Mr. Brown, the neighborhood nemesis, who hated children and carried a shotgun.  There was a time when I delivered the Gettysburg Address, balancing precariously on the arms of a fire hydrant in my front yard, because President Lincoln’s train was delayed.  There was a time when my best friend and I went on dates with the Mickey Dolenz and Davy Jones riding on the backs of our bikes (remember the Monkees?).  Davy always rode with me.  There was a time when anything was possible.

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People were bringing little children to Jesus in order that he might touch them and the disciples spoke sternly to them. 

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There was a time when cardboard boxes were for throwing away and blankets were just for keeping warm.  There was a time when the only hot wheels I was interested in where the four wheels of my mother’s gold, Buick Skylark.  There was a time when my biggest nemesis stalked the hallways of my junior high school, armed with words that could really wound.  There was a time when delivering a speech in class made me so self-conscious that I would tremble and stammer and break out in a cold sweat.  There was a time when those I wanted to date, didn’t want to date me and those who wanted to date me, I had no interest in.  There was a time when all the pretend of earlier days seemed silly and strangely shameful. 

Childhood was for play.  Adolescence was to be survived.  And then adulthood came crashing down.  Imagination, long ago replaced by reality, was now but a wistful dream.  Adulthood is the time when cardboard boxes store mementos of my childhood in a dark and damp basement.  It is a time when curling up under my own blanket at the end of long day is the closest thing to free.  It is a time when the reality of owning and maintaining a car or home or anything for that matter is a weighty responsibility.  It is a time when finding my voice and the courage to use it is mandatory.  It is a time when accepting and embracing me, the good, the bad and the various degrees of ugly, is a pre-requisite for relating to anyone; friend, family or foe.  It is a time when how life is takes center stage over how life could be.  It is a time when possibility seems limited.   

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But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them,

“Let the little children come to me; do not stop them;

for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.

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Something is lost and something gained when we leave childhood for our grown up lives.  I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t go back to age 5 or 8 or 13 or even 30.  But there is something we know as children that we forget as adults when we trade imagination for maturity.  There is something about imagination that unlocks the kingdom of God in a way that reason cannot.  Henry Ward Beecher once wrote, “The soul without imagination is what an observatory would be without a telescope.”  The kingdom that Jesus ushered in cannot be seen with reason.  Our adult eyes are far more attuned to all that is wrong and broken in the world, but the eyes of imagination, the eyes of children, look beyond what we see.  They see hope when we impossibility.  They see potential in those we have learned to judge.  They see magic and wonder where doubt has clouded our vision.  With God, we are told that all things are possible and so too with children.  Imagination makes it so.

In the apostle Paul’s first letter to the church in Corinth he wrote, “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.”   That, I think, is a shame. 

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“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”  And Jesus took them up in his arms, laid his hands upon them, and blessed them.