Ravens

As we drove up to our old place on Lake Superior, we were greeted by a large raven who had taken dominion over the doorway. Having found something to eat, he wasn’t yielding the ground without coaxing. Tenacious old bird.

And then, this morning, I read these amazing words of Jesus, “Fear not, little flock, for it is the Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom” (Luke 12:32). I’ve always envisioned a rather pastoral scene, with sweetly grazing lambs and a kind, vigilant shepherd. But this morning I looked back at the chapter, only to discover that the only “flock” in sight was a company of ravens (12:24). They are scavengers—they don’t sow or reap or place their seed on deposit to collect interest. And, as my sister points out, they are really loud and obnoxious—endowed with a similar tone of voice to mothers in our less “pastoral” moments.

So apparently the Father’s good pleasure doesn’t simply extend to relaxed, trusting herds of sheep, but to anxiety-prone coveys of ravens. And he not only claims them, but comforts them: what else would be the point of Jesus telling them to “fear not,” if they weren’t afraid?

I am so much more naturally like a raven than a lamb. Whether the goal is food and clothes, the activities I want on a short vacation or the long-term behavior of significant others, I am far more prone to grab and grasp than to release and wait. “Let it be to me according to your word” once came swiftly to the lips of an in-graced maid. May it continue to fight its way to the top of my more raven-prone soul. Apparently the Father delights to give the kingdom to those of us with a propensity to grasp even after we recognize that the truly great things can only be received as gift.

Deceitful Sharks

My new friend’s email soared across an ocean, “We were really hurt, and, years later, I’m still trying to find the way forward.” A former student sat across from me on my couch, “I’m getting married and I long for the ability to a create a loving space for others. I’ve been afraid that I will, instead, repeat the patterns of my childhood. An old friend rattled her iced tea glass and said, “I’m aware that this experience was devastating and could distort my soul.” And a beloved neighbor’s voice came across the other end of the phone, “I’m trying to work with integrity, but I’m swimming with sharks.”

All of these conversations occurred in the last day, and I find myself reflecting on the relationship of fear and deceit. "Blessed is the one...in whose spirit is no deceit"(Psalm 32:2). I have generally thought of deceit as a deliberate hiding from God and others. But there is another kind: deceit that is generated by fear. We’re not naïve anymore—what “could” happen is no longer theoretical, and our strong temptation is to allow our fear of the past repeating itself to create deceitful lies about ourselves…and more importantly…about the healing, protective love of our God.

When the sharks are swimming, open-mouthed, around us, the instinct to survive is an exceedingly important one. But not all waters are infested with sharks, and the challenge is to face their shadows when they are no longer snapping. This is the hard soul work: to unfold our painful stories truthfully, including the naming of our very real fears. As long as they lay festering within, they have the power to deceive us with lies and distort our responses to God and others.

In calmer waters we can, like the invisible woman kneeling at Jesus’ feet, narrate our story to our Lord (most helpfully in the presence of others who now carry his life). As it was for the woman who was not hidden (Luke 8:47), the Lord's compassionate power both heals the places we know, and the places that lie hidden from us. For the saddest possibility in life is not that we will go through turbulent times, but that we would yield to them the deceitful power of shaping our responses to the future.

Yes, there are sharks. But there are also dolphins. I want to be free to know the difference when I get back in the water.

Tattooed

I got on the plane after another gloriously intense session of the Institute for Worship Studies.  IPod and book in hand, I sat down next to a strong, muscular guy in his early 30’s.  His earbuds were dangling from the collar of his t-shirt.  Thought: This is going to be a quiet ride.  Reality: It was a voyage on the high seas.

We began with the normal chit-chat.  Where are you going? Home? Business?  What do you do?  “I teach.” What?

Realizing that he was talking to someone who was “religious,” he leaned back, looked at me with a rather cynical eye, and said, “So you believe there is a God? Why?”

The wind that filled my sails at the moment sang out: “I need someone greater than me to worship.”

With the slightest grin, he shifted the direction of boat: “You can worship me.”

And with an emerging awareness that, despite all odds, I was talking to a potential friend, I took the tiller back and said, “Nope.  You have as many problems as I do.”

The boat was launched into the deep and we had one of the swiftest and (at least to my mind) most fascinating rides I have had in quite some time.

He quickly went on to tell me that he had just wanted to know what I would say.  He had been raised going to the Baptist church once or twice a month, he believed in God and in Jesus, and went to church when he wanted to, and his kids went fairly frequently.  He’d been to a lot of churches over the years, told me about the church with the cappuccino machine that kept flowing until five minutes before the preacher’s sermon, and expressed a preference for the music of his childhood over new songs. 

We found a lot of common ground.  He learned his trade on the job.  So, in many ways, have I.   Our conversation bounced from military vehicles to self-publishing to family (What ARE you giving your husband for Father’s Day?) and circled round again to issues of faith.

But the moment of commonality that will long stay with me was when, in this voyage of so many delightful turns, he said, “I actually have a tattoo of Jesus.  Want to see?”  Sure.  He lifted his t-shirt, and the entire left side of his chest was covered with a tattoo of Jesus’ face framed with a crown of thorns.  

I didn’t see that wave coming.

I carry Jesus, too. It’s just that he has emblazoned himself on the inside, rather than the outside, of my heart.  But after this conversation I find myself wondering how many other unlikely new friends are carrying Jesus along on their journeys in ways that would surprise me. 

So here’s to an exhilarating ride home.  To a new friend that I would never have met unless thrown together in the cabin of an airplane for a couple of hours.  Fare forward, fellow traveler. Jesus has a permanent grip on you.

And here’s to one more reminder that Mary’s “Do whatever he tells you,” has the potential of some very interesting rebounds. 

One Facet at Time

Today I had two encounters about speaking the truth in love.  In both conversations the parties were wrestling with the burden of carrying biblical wisdom that others were not yet ready to hear.  What is the good of wisdom if it is not immediately transferable?

We read Jesus’ brief parable: “Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like a master of a house, who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.” (Mt 13:52) But Jesus is not referring to a divine yard sale where everything one has received is immediately placed on display.  He is, rather, offering us a picture of a multi-faceted jewel in which one facet at a time is offered for the sake of others.  Some truths we have carried a long time.  Other insights we received yesterday. The longer we dwell with “Lady Wisdom” the more we realize that not ever good thing can be set on the table at the same time. 

One can carry the core of a real truth, but learning when to speak that truth may be almost as important as the truth itself.  True words out of season can overwhelm and even inoculate against that same word spoken in season. "When" is as much a feature of wisdom as "what."

We are made to carry a whole treasure, not a single facet. But a single facet, like “speak the truth in love” is often enough for the moment. The whole jewel is no less beautiful because it is hidden.  Nor, ultimately, is it any less “useful.” Loving others enough to wait for the right season to speak has a way of keeping the whole treasure well polished and ready to be revealed in the right setting.

Of Soil and Prayer

As the refugee got on the plane, he paused at the base of the stairs and scooped up a bit of his native soil in a small container and carefully placed it in his pocket. This image from The Kite Runner was still resting in my mind this morning as I read Romans 8.  Jesus is at the right hand of the Father interceding for us (34).  The Spirit helps us in our weakness, and intercedes for us according to the will of God. (26,27)  

I find myself this morning musing on my aching attachment to my native soil—family, friends, church, country, world.  Jesus actually claimed our earth—with all of its loveliness and brokenness—as his native soil and has carried it with the love and commitment of the ultimate patriot into the presence of his Father.  He did not merely scoop up a handful of our earth and set it on a shelf.  His life is inextricably bound to the soil of our earthy lives. He is one of us.  He is for us.  Our soil is constantly tended by him as he intercedes for us. 

At the same time, the Spirit knows heaven’s soil so well that he can catch up our distressed earth and fill it again with the nutrients of heaven.  The Spirit’s filling is gift: it has nothing to do with us having the right words or the clearest perspective on any given day.  “For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words” (Romans 8:26).

And so the refugee is not alone.  We all encounter times when we are weak, distressed, groaning and have no words we can speak to God with confidence.  Yet there is one who has carried our dusty lives right to the throne of our Father.  And there is another who is constantly sent from the Father and the Son to fill our dusty earth with heaven’s wholeness. 

I have never been pressed to place a container of my native soil in my pocket, although the image is a powerful one.  Far more important is the truth that the ultimate soil of earth advocates for us at the right hand of the Father, and the grace-filled soil of heaven permeates our nutrient-drained hearts.