Jesus wept, so why can’t we?

“Jesus wept.”

The shortest passage in the bible, John 11:35.

Jesus wept because he heard of the death of Lazarus, a man he knew and loved, a friend who was like family.

Jesus wept out of love and grief, not out of doubt.

Jesus wept because it is the human response to loss and sadness.

Jesus wept because it is what anyone with a heart does when that heart is damaged or broken by news that is not welcome.

Jesus wept but the world didn’t stop. No one judged him. No one left him.

Jesus wept and no one questioned if he was fit to lead or fit to serve.

Jesus wept in front of his followers, in a public place for all to see, and no one turned away, no one tried to hide him, no one tried to quiet him.

Jesus wept without shame or embarrassment because weeping is as much a part of human life as laughter.

Jesus wept because tears are prayers of thanksgiving in the depths of sorrow. Each tear is praise for a life lived that now is gone, gratitude for a gift given that is no more but we loved while we had it; a gift so great that the absence of it pains us to our very core.

Jesus wept because we celebrate life not only with smiles and joy but also with heartbreak and sorrow.

Jesus wept because he loved and to love is to risk it all for the sake of the other. To love is to know your heart will swell and break because that’s how God created each and every one of us.

Jesus wept because the pain of love is as rewarding and important as the elation of ecstasy.

Jesus wept for himself and his friends but not out of selfishness or doubt. We can mourn loss in the same moment we have deep and abiding faith that death doesn’t have the last word.

Jesus wept because faith isn’t about 24/7 smiles and praise but about steadfastness in the face of loss and pain.

Jesus wept because he could, in a full embrace of his humanity and capacity for life, love, suffering, loss, joy, elation, friendship.

Jesus wept because he should, because that’s what we do when someone we love leaves us, sometimes even when we know it’s temporary.

Jesus wept, showing us yet another stone in the path that paves the way of life, the way of the cross, the way of faith, the way that is discipleship and dedication to following him.

Jesus wept, so why can’t we? Why don’t we? Are we less human? Do we feel love and loss any less? Do we think ourselves better or stronger than the almighty? Are we so ashamed and embarrassed by our tears whereas God himself cried openly and with abandon?

Jesus wept. And so do we, can we, should we.

Thanksgiving and the Radical Suffering of Christ

“Let’s go around and name one thing we are thankful for from the last year.”

We all look around the Thanksgiving table, wondering who will be brave enough to go first. Hopefully, it’s someone across from you. That means you have the time it takes seven or eight people to talk before you have to say something.

This is a Thanksgiving tradition in our family and I’m sure in other families around the country. I look forward to hearing what people remember from the year that has passed and what they hold dear. Some years, the exercise is easy; we can think of too many moments of gratitude to share. Other years it’s more difficult as we think of hard times, lost loved ones, or difficult days.

To be sure, it is a valuable exercise and is part of the purpose of our national holiday. Thanksgiving is set aside as a day for giving thanks, not presents. For celebrating the bounty of God’s blessings and the company of friends and family. It is one of my favorite holidays, not only because the food is amazing but because the purpose is simply to be with one another in gratitude. I hope this year brings you too many memories of gratefulness to number.

But it’s also possible this will be a year for you when you struggle to name just one person, one event for which to give thanks. We are human and suffering is a part of the rhythm of life. Perhaps this year brings one more empty chair at your table from the loss of a loved one, perhaps by death but perhaps by a broken relationship.

Too often we emphasize the risen Christ, the one reigning on high, liberated from the cross. In fairly typical fashion, Christ the King Sunday falls the Sunday after Thanksgiving and we look to the coming of the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven while also celebrating the ways the kingdom is already realized in the kingship of the risen Christ. It’s a Sunday about triumph and glory.

But we must remember the glory and triumph were preceded by the suffering and darkness of Good Friday. There can be no resurrection or ascension without betrayal and crucifixion. That, too, is something for which to be grateful this Thanksgiving. At the heart of the Gospel is Christ’s willingness to bear the pain common to all of humanity. We must never forget the radical and subversive action of the cross, on which Jesus of Nazareth hung in the very public act of humility that was the ultimate show if his power.

Why is this radical suffering so important? Because through it Christ defeated death and won for us liberation from all that would bind us. But also because it means we have a God who suffers as we suffer, who willingly enters into our pain and darkness. We are never alone, even in the deepest abyss, because Jesus is there with us.

I won’t say that all suffering brings transformation and revelation. Another habit we have is saying, “There must be a reason for this,” meaning that God makes us undergo the pain to teach us some valuable lesson or another. But to do so is a gross rationalization. We live in a sinful world and some of our pain is caused by another’s brokenness, not because there is some grand plan. Similarly, our souls inhabit human bodies and those bodies fail us, not as punishment but simply because of biology.

The message we first carry with us is not that there must be a grand reason for our suffering. The primary message of the cross is that we have a God who loves us so deeply, so completely, that God inhabits the depths of our suffering with us. We are never abandoned, even as we find ourselves taking up our own crosses.

Prayers and thanksgivings for you all, my friends. As the season of gratitude falls upon us, I pray you find quiet spaces to tuck away into, spaces where you can plumb the depths of your experiences and rest both in and from your suffering. This year, I lift you all to God in my prayers of thanksgiving, grateful for the love and light you share with the world.

Enzymes and Hospitality

I confess: I’m a small science nerd. I’m not one to read books about the subject but I do love watching biological processes at work and taking note of the way the laws of physics govern our world.

My love and fascination for enzymes, especially, has not faded. Enzymes are catalysts that expedite chemical reactions. When atoms combine to form new molecules, often enzymes are the workhorses making that it happen. The enzymes are not a part of the new molecule, but they bring the elements together and make them happier. Nature provides a facilitator to move things along and bring things together that otherwise may not have bumped up against each other.

Enzymes create an active site for two substrates to connect. The enzyme brings these substrates together until they can meld into a new product. The new product releases from the enzyme, allowing the enzyme to reset its active site and prepare for new substrates. Isn’t that beautiful?

When we engage in the ministry of hospitality, we do the work of an enzyme. We set a table, dress up our lawn, arrange plates and napkins, and prepare food. We make ready our active site. Then our guests, our substrates, arrive. Some of the guests know each other and share a bond already but others will be meeting for the first time. They will introduce themselves, get to know each other, and form a new bond. By the time they leave, these substrates are in relationship with one another and we, the hosts and catalysts, can clean and reset the active site for another meeting.

Case in point: Recently we had a group of people to our house to celebrate our son’s birthday and mark Oktoberfest. There were people from four different parts of our lives in attendance. Once all of our guests had arrived and dinner was served, I walked around to watch and listen. On the deck, a family new to the area visited with school families and church members, learning why we all love Rabun Gap and Saint James. On the lawn, the parent of a kindergartener visited with a fifth-grade teacher. The parent called me over and said, “My new BFF!” wrapping her arm around the teacher. “We had the same nickname growing up! We’re just finding out what else we have in common.”

Yesterday, I happened to be on Facebook and saw a friend of ours of fifteen years comment on the post of another friend of twenty-two years. The two people live in different parts of the country and would not know each other were it not for our wedding thirteen years ago. Now, they are friends.

Enzymatic activity at work.

I feel the same way about being a priest, especially around the altar. So much of my job is connecting people so that ministry can grow out of their new relationship, organically and dynamically. I hear someone shares an interest that matches another person’s resources and my job is to bring them together to talk and see if a new product might result from our efforts. Similarly, I set the table on Sunday morning for the congregation to gather around and be fed by God. The action of gathering at the altar creates a new product: the body of Christ. I’m not the host, simply the catalyst. And I love this work.

I sometimes hear people either degrade themselves or one another around the art of hospitality. Some people say they couldn’t host people to their houses because they aren’t perfect and can’t create the “perfect” environment. Similarly, people will criticize someone for hosting parties because they want to “show off” their fashionable houses and perfect abilities to pull off a gathering.

These thoughts are wrong and, in the process, we are discouraging one another from performing one of the most fundamental ministries there is. Welcoming each other through acts of hospitality is a primary ministry that gives birth to many more. I don’t delight in having people into my home because I get to show it off. To the contrary, I don’t make extra efforts to have everything looking perfect or even tidy. I simply love seeing people meet, laugh, connect, eat well, and leave happier than when they came and with new bonds and relationships.

In an age of isolation and alienation, could we not do with some more enzymes? Do we not need more catalysts for bringing people together rather than fewer? To that end, I encourage you, brothers and sisters, to consider the ministry of hospitality. Consider creating active sites where new products might be formed. We hunger for connection and relationship, renewal and purpose. This does not happen if we do not first get people together. Won’t you partner with me, then, in some enzymatic activity?

Holiday Imperfection

I shared this on social media on October 30 and got lots of giggles, so I thought I'd share it here. Enjoy!

Typical and expected wording for social media post:

Yay! 48 monster pops made and cooling for the kids’ Halloween parties tomorrow!

Now for the realness:

1. I bought the rice crispy treats pre-made and we just decorated them.

2. I was reminded why I am a cook and not a pastry chef or candy maker. I HATE working with candy and candy melts.

3. I was also reminded why I generally kick everyone out of my kitchen when I’m cooking. This is the “Prayerful Kitchen” because cooking is a prayerful and meditative process of me. That said, God blessed me with three hyper-verbal children. Do you know how meditative cooking is with a 10-year-old talking the entire time? It’s not. Not in the slightest. I had to tell her that if she kept talking incessantly, I would have to kick her out if my kitchen.

As you look at all the perfect holiday pictures from now through New Years, remember most of them have a back story. You’re not seeing the temper tantrums, the relatives who aren’t on speaking terms, the burnt cake, the dropped turkey, and you certainly aren’t hearing the constant thread of curse words pouring through most everyone’s heads.

Friends, you got this. You don’t have to “do all the things.” Do what feeds you. Do what excites you. Do what fulfills you and your people. Don’t try to do it perfectly and don’t pretend that you did it perfectly.

Sending everyone love and light as we hop on the holiday train!

Fog and the Mountain

The fog crawls up the mountain

Digging its tendrils deep between the trees

Hugging their leaves and licking their branches

As the fog reaches the mountain’s pinnacle

Wind rips it away from its lover

Never to meet again

The fog dissipates in feathers and wisps

Into tears of contentment

Satisfied by its one great union

Confusing King

A new king comes to power and immediately abolishes the old taxation system. The subjects wait with great anxiety to hear what will replace the system they have known. Past kings have demanded the subjects pay different percentages of their income and harvests every year. The people of the kingdom know punishment certainly awaits anyone who fails to comply with the king’s orders. Not knowing the expectations of the new king causes great consternation and gnashing of teeth across the kingdom.

The traditional day of taxation arrives but the new king still has not announced his demands. The people line up outside the castle with goods representing the ten percent tax rate required by the previous ruler. They wait and wait for the gates to open and the king to step forward, but nothing happens. After a full day of standing in line, the people become restless and even more worried. Finally, the king looks down from a balcony on the side of the castle and repeats his announcement that the old taxation system has been abolished. The people stay where they stand, waiting to hear how the king likely will increase the former rate and what day they will be expected to render such taxes. Instead, the king waves and tells them all to go home and back to their fields before he turns and goes back into the castle.

Over the next several months, the king walks through the fields and visits his subjects in their homes. No king has ever done such a thing. Kings don’t spend time with their subjects and certainly do not visit them in their fields where they work. The people assume the king spends time among them to see for himself how much they harvest or how much they make. Maybe the king does not trust his subjects to give him the full tax amount demanded. If he walks among them, he will have a better sense how much his people will owe him so as to guard against the subjects not giving their full amount.

The king’s presence among them makes them nervous and resentful, so they begin to inquire about the king’s desires and purpose in visiting with them in their fields. The king simply says that he likes to see their hard work and how they find fulfillment in the work they do. He wants to know their families and understand how he might better serve them as their ruler. He cares about his subjects and wants to provide for them the best way he possibly can.

Out of utter confusion and frustration, the subjects continue to fill the void of demands and expectations by coming up with their own. They tell one another stories of terrible punishment that is to come if they do not pay the king tremendous tributes of money and harvest yields. A rumor goes around that the king is building a massive dungeon under the castle where subjects will be thrown for decades if they fail to pay 40, 50, 60, even 90% of their harvest to him.

Once again, the subjects line up outside the castle on their customary tax day, this time with even greater offerings for payment. They grumble and complain that the king would demand so much of them, even their full livelihood. They fuss as they wait for the king to appear to take their taxes or throw them in the dungeon for failure of payment. The citizens begin looking at one another, comparing their offerings with others, worried they might not have brought enough because their neighbor seems to have brought twice what they have. They worry and argue among themselves.

Once again, the king comes out on the balcony, reminds them of his previous announcement, and tries to send them home. But many of his subjects stay where they stand. The next morning, he finds several of them have chained themselves to the walls of the castle. Some among them have told the rest that the king is angry because they did not bring enough on tax day and that is why he sent them away. These leaders have convinced people that the king soon will come to enslave them for their failures and the only way to gain favor and some forgiveness is by chaining themselves before the king does. He will favor them for realizing their wretchedness and locking themselves up.

The king comes out, breaks the chains, and sends them home once again.

The following year, on tax day, the people show up at the doors of the castle. This time, some have brought 1%, some 6%, others as much as 50% of their year’s earnings. No one is grumbling and no one is judging their offering against their neighbor’s. The king steps out on the balcony to ask why they have come since they no longer are bound to any tax system. The people tell him they have not brought taxes, but offerings of thanksgiving. They have come to understand the king. The day after he walks in their fields with them, he has supplies sent specific to the needs he has witnessed among them. If a farmer has a broken fence, he sends other farmers to help with fresh fencing supplies. If a family has lost their livelihood because their milk cow was killed by a wolf, he sends another milk cow. The people have come to show their gratitude for the king’s faithfulness to them, not because they have to, but because they want to. Life now is infinitely better than it ever has been before and they want the king to understand how thankful they are for his generosity, care, and kindness.

The king does not judge their gifts, assessing if they are adequate. Instead, he accepts their offerings, saying each one is enough. Before he brings the goods into the castle storerooms, he has his subjects consider who in the kingdom might have need of their offerings. If they know someone who needs what they have, he tells them to first take their offering to their neighbor, then bring it to him. What remains, the king stores and uses when he sees a subject in need.

I imagine this to be God’s experience in watching humanity. Patiently, God watches as we try to twist and redefine grace, unable to accept it as unbounded and infinite. We expect a certain economy, one that demands tit for tat based on bartering and exchange. We try to make God live by human rules of commerce by telling ourselves and one another that we must earn God’s grace and love or that we have received it and now are indebted to God to a crushing degree.

God wants a response from our heart of gratitude and love. We keep trying to make our offering compulsory. We cannot believe God would love us unconditionally and pour her grace upon us with abundance. We make new rules and spread misconceptions because we cannot accept such an immense gift. Meanwhile, God waits and watches, wanting us not on our knees but with arms open, ready and willing to return even a small fraction of the love she already has given.

To live in such love and grace is true freedom. Were God to require specific offerings or demand certain acts of contrition, then we would bound in chains. The minute something is compulsory is the minute we lose our freedom. But a gift, an offering, an act of love can only be given if it comes voluntarily and from the heart out of a pure desire to show appreciation.

The day we allow ourselves one another freedom, the day we all bring our offerings out of unbounded thanksgiving and love, is the day the kingdom of God will be made real.

On Bumper Cars and Spiders

I watch as the red car with lightning bolts heads straight for the yellow car painted with the words “crash!” and “pow!” The drivers look devilishly at one another, pushing their little cars as fast as they will go, straight for one another. The drivers burst into laughter as the thick rubber bumpers around their cars make contact and jolt the cars apart. Only space exists between the cars where, for a split second, they became one mass of metal and rubber.  The drivers, still laughing, turn their attention to other cars and other drivers. A socially-acceptable maniacal obsession overtakes them as they plunge themselves once again into the fray.

We place a high premium on rugged individualism in the United States. We prize gumption and exalt people who seem to conquer life all by themselves. We crave stories of survivors who have managed to escape the worst of situations with little more than their bare hands. I chalk it up to the pride we have in our history of carving a great nation out of a wild and untamed land. I, too, want to know that I could take care of myself if placed in a truly arduous situation. It’s the reason I like to learn new skills.

Our hyper-focus on the individual leads us past the desired sense of self-sufficiency and into the realm of alienation and isolation. In our minds, we become too accustomed to thinking of ourselves as autonomous. We draw thick lines around ourselves imagining that these lines will guard us. We pretend these lines will serve as bumpers, allowing us to bounce off other people unscathed and safe. They will protect us from being tainted by the wrong ideals and impurities of those with whom we come in contact.

Despite what our shared culture delusion would have us believe, we do not simply bounce off one another to find emptiness between us as it was before we met. There are no lines. There are no bumpers. We reinforce this delusion by lauding people whom we perceive as having “thick skin.” We marvel at individuals who seem to bounce off of the worst of life with nary a scratch, not a tear shed or a scar to show for it. These types have been successful at drawing an impenetrable line around themselves and we admire their strength.

But we are not bumper cars. We are spiders. We leave a trail of webbing behind us that never breaks. It may fade, but is never severed. Our lives touch another’s and we lay down a pinpoint, a marker that we have been there and our silken web moves forward from that place. We do not bounce off of one another. We touch and part, not to find empty space, but two threads, one from us and one from the other. Forever our lives will be connected, no matter how tenuously. We may bear scars from the contact or we may be strengthened by it. We also may never remember it but we are forever changed because of it.

People who rode on the same plane as you; the clerk in the gas station; your third grade teacher; the girl in college you eyed in your history class but never spoke to; the child in the store who looked at you for comfort when he had lost his mother; you now have a thread connecting your life to theirs. We may try to break these threads or pretend they do not exist, but the Spirit created them and our power is nothing compared to hers. The threads may fade but they never disappear completely, try as we might to erase them.

Moses laments about the complaining of his people in the eleventh chapter of Numbers. He is tired of hearing them speak of their enslavement in Egypt as if it was infinitely better than their wandering in the dessert. Moses cries to God, “Why have you treated your servant so badly? Why have I not found favor in your sight, that you lay the burden of all this people on me? Did I conceive all this people? Did I give birth to them, that you should say to me, ‘Carry them in your bosom, as a nurse carries a sucking child,’ to the land that you promised on oath to their ancestors?”

Dear, faithful Moses. We have heard your argument before. We hear it everyday: “I’m not their parent. Why should I have to take care of them? I don’t have any kids, why should I pay for their education? Where is that child’s parents to teach them better? Parents today are failing their children. If I were their parent, you better believe they wouldn’t act like that. At the very least our teachers should be doing a better job so kids today aren’t running wild and aren’t so disrespectful.”

Moses, you did not carry the Israelites in your womb. You will never know the honor and pain of carrying and bearing a child. That blessing belongs to Zipporah and Miriam. But you are their father, nonetheless, because you draw breath. You are responsible to them because you are a spider, Moses, and your life will forever be connected to theirs, as they are responsible for you. The Spirit blessed you with life and charged you to care for all of creation, the same as she created and charged every person who has life.

My friends, the bumpers are myths. As surely as you read these words, you and I are connected. No space lies between us, just as no space lies between you and anyone else who might read this. Our world is covered in silken webs. We may not see them, but they are there and they call out to you. “Do not forget me,” cries the memory of a grandparent. “Care for me,” cries the line to the lonely and hurting. We hear, “be blessed and loved,” in the vibrations sent over the connection to a most beloved friend.

May we strive not to forget who we are. May we tend our threads and care for and be cared for by those at the other end. May we be more intentional how and why we place our pinpoints, the newest connection, for in doing so we change one another’s lives.