"It's too late to turn back now. You're in too deep. You've accomplished to much. You can't stop now. You're in this for the long haul."
That's what our professor told us today.
We Jubilee Fellows have done too much to give up now. We've been given too much to refuse the gifts and opportunities. We've experienced too much. We have gone too far to turn back; the only way is forward.
This is both intimidating and encouraging.
This is a little scary--I'm in this, I can't leave, I can't stop leading and working in and with the church. My gifts are known and now I am expected--and encouraged--to use them. It's not scary in that I won't like it or that it's not my "calling" or that it's not something I should do. It's intimidating because I ask myself: Who am I to lead? Who am I that people look up to me and respect me and ask my opinions and listen to me and ask me to listen? Who am I? I'm not that great. I'm just an ordinary college student. Right? Maybe. But Coop said it well: "It is extraordinary how extraordinary God makes ordinary people." hmm.
And these words are encouraging. They affirm something in me, something I have done, something I do. They say that I am important and my work is important--and it is worth it to continue. I need to continue because I have things to say, to contribute, to give. And they must be said, they must be contributed, they must be given. And, perhaps, only I can do so. And that feels a bit haughty and it could go to my head, but it won't. I'm kept in check.
Coop told our small group today: "When you were commissioned, the congregation laid hands on you. In doing so, we said: We believe in these people. We will follow them. We will stand behind them." Basically, they said: these are my people and I believe in them and believe that they are great and that they have something to say, and they won't always say it perfectly, but it will be okay. We are for them and we stand behind them. And when that many people stand behind me, follow me, believe in me, I have no choice but to continue. It is too late for me to turn back.
But that doesn't mean that we all need to become pastors. Not all of us need to go to seminary and be ordained. Our professor earnestly told us that he would be lying if he said that he didn't want all of us to significant leaders and/or pastors in our churches. We should be. We know more and have experienced more and done more than we think. We are capable of more than we think. But he pointed out that he did not just say that he wanted us to be pastors. And then he gave examples. He looked at me and said, "You came into this year sure that you were going to seminary and now you are sure that you're not. And that is okay. You will bring reconciliation in your work as a counselor/therapist and you're work will be important and you can/will still have an important role in the church. You can/will still be a leader in the church without being a pastor." This meant so much.
Then he continued, "After all, that's what your calling is: to bring about reconciliation. We Christians get it a little wrong when we say that we don't know what our calling is. We do. We are called to reconcile. We don't/may not know what form this calling will take. We Reformed folk like to say: We all have the same function, just different forms."
So there we have it. There's no turning back. I'm not turning back. I'm moving forward in bringing about reconciliation, in whatever form that may take.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
"the mourners are aching visionaries"
"What is suffering? When something prized or loved is ripped away or never granted--work, someone loved, recognition of one's dignity, life without physical pain--that is suffering. Or rather, that's when suffering happens. What it is, I do not know. For many days I had been reflecting on it. Then suddenly, as I watched the flicker of orange-pink evening lights on almost still water, the thought overwhelmed me: I understand nothing of it. Of pain, yes: cut fingers, broken bones. Of sorrow and suffering, nothing at all. Suffering is a mystery as deep as any in our existence. It is not of course a mystery whose reality some doubt. Suffering keeps its face hid from each while making itself known to all. We are one in suffering. Some are wealthy, some bright; some athletic, some admired. But we all suffer. For we all prize and love; and in this present existence of ours, prizing and loving yield suffering. Love in our world is suffering love. Some do not suffer much, though, for they do not love much. Suffering is for the loving....In commanding us to love, God invites us to suffer." --Nick Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son
This week I read Nick Wolterstorff's book, Lament for a Son. What a profound book, so honest and raw. So many sections spoke to me, and still are, so I'm not going to be able to process them all tonight.
Like many good books do, this one brought up more questions than it gave answers. Perhaps the questions are more important than the answers, or even more helpful.
"'Blessed are those who mourn.' What can it mean? One can understand why Jesus hails those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, why he hails the merciful, why he hails the pure in heart, why he hails the peacemakers, why he hails those who endure under persecution. These are qualities of character which belong to the life of the kingdom. But why does he hail the mourners of the world? Why cheer tears? It must be that mourning is also a quality of character that belongs to the life of his realm. Who then are the mourners? The mourners are those who have caught a glimpse of God’s new day, who ache with all their being for that day’s coming, and who break out into tears when confronted with its absence. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm of peace there is no one blind and who ache whenever they see someone unseeing. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one hungry and who ache whenever they see someone starving. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one falsely accused and who ache whenever they see someone imprisoned unjustly. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one who fails to see God and who ache whenever they see someone unbelieving. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one who suffers oppression and who ache whenever they see someone beat down. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one without dignity and who ache whenever they see someone treated with indignity. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm of peace there is neither death nor tears and who ache whenever they see someone crying tears over death. The mourners are aching visionaries. Such people Jesus blesses; he hails them, he praises them, he salutes them. And he gives them the promise that the new day for whose absence they ache will come. They will be comforted. The Stoics of antiquity said: Be calm. Disengage yourself. Neither laugh nor weep. Jesus says: Be open to the wounds of the world. Mourn humanity’s weeping, be wounded by humanity’s wounds, be in agony over humanity’s agony. But do so in the good cheer that a day of peace is coming." --Wolterstorff
Blessed are those who mourn.... I've always liked that beatitude, but I never realized how different is is from the others. I never realized that mourning is part of God's kingdom. When I think of mourning, I think of women covered in heavy, black dresses, wailing as they follow a casket to a cemetery. This view is a little bit different, a little less dramatic. This is mourning that I do. This is the mourning that I feel when I think about Honduras and my time there. If this is what mourning is, I am one who mourns. And yet, that is not all I do. My identity is deeper than that. I can find joy in those same places and situations. That lament does not exclude other feelings, even though it may feel like it does. I'm learning that I tend to try to get rid of negative emotions and feelings. I try to take away any reason for lament. I try to overcome instead of coping. Perhaps, that isn't as it should be.
"The mourners are aching visionaries." That resonates in my soul so deeply. That is who I want to be. Perhaps, that is who I am, to an extent. Mourners see how things should be while seeing what should not be. Mourners have hope for a future when everything screams that it has no hope.
"And I know now about helplessness—of what to do when there is nothing to do. I have learned coping. We live in a time and place where, over and over, when confronted with something unpleasant we pursue not coping but overcoming. Often we succeed. Most of humanity has not enjoyed and does not enjoy such luxury. Death shatters our illusion that we can make do without coping. When we have overcome absence with phone calls, winglessness with airplanes, summer heat with air-conditioning—when we have overcome all these and much more besides, then there will abide two things with which we must cope: the evil in our hearts and death. There are those who vainly think that some technology will even enable us to overcome the former. Everyone knows that there is no technology for overcoming death. Death is left for God’s overcoming." --Wolterstorff
I think that Wolterstorff is learning to believe that lament and joy can coexist. This is the definition of bittersweet. It is hard to live this way. I don't want to live like that, because it hurts. It is painful. It feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. But maybe it's better this way. Maybe it is better to feel a jumble of emotions rather than just one, because I am formed and refined this way. It's harder, but it's more worthwhile. When I take the long road to process something, rather than a quick fix, the wound heals better; it's more than just a band aid. And although I feel like something of a sad soul, this slow and painful processing leads to learning rather than guilt. And in this process, I'm not solely morose. I will still laugh. I will still be awed. Life will be bittersweet.
Finally, Nick says: "'By his wounds we are healed.' In the wounds of Christ is humanity's healing. Do our wounds also heal? This gaping wound in my chest--does it heal? What before I did not see, I now see; what before I did not feel, I now feel. But this raw bleeding cavity which needs no much healing, does it heal while waiting for healing? We are the body of Christ on earth. Does that mean that some of our wounds are his wounds, and that some of our wounds heal? Is our suffering ever redemptive? I suppose the blood of the martyrs sometimes was. It was an instrument of God's peace. But my suffering over my son, which I did not choose and would never choose: does that bring peace? How? To whom? Is there something more to say than that death is the mortal enemy of peace? Can suffering over death--not living at peace with death but suffering in the face of death--bring peace?"
Those are my questions. And I think--I hope--the answer is that our wounds do heal. I wouldn't be who I am without my sufferings. Would I be able to help people in the ways that I do without being shaped by those sufferings? I don't think so. And so when I ask why something happened or is happening, perhaps there will be an answer someday. Maybe there won't be a reason, but I can hope in the redemption of my suffering.
This week I read Nick Wolterstorff's book, Lament for a Son. What a profound book, so honest and raw. So many sections spoke to me, and still are, so I'm not going to be able to process them all tonight.
Like many good books do, this one brought up more questions than it gave answers. Perhaps the questions are more important than the answers, or even more helpful.
"'Blessed are those who mourn.' What can it mean? One can understand why Jesus hails those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, why he hails the merciful, why he hails the pure in heart, why he hails the peacemakers, why he hails those who endure under persecution. These are qualities of character which belong to the life of the kingdom. But why does he hail the mourners of the world? Why cheer tears? It must be that mourning is also a quality of character that belongs to the life of his realm. Who then are the mourners? The mourners are those who have caught a glimpse of God’s new day, who ache with all their being for that day’s coming, and who break out into tears when confronted with its absence. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm of peace there is no one blind and who ache whenever they see someone unseeing. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one hungry and who ache whenever they see someone starving. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one falsely accused and who ache whenever they see someone imprisoned unjustly. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one who fails to see God and who ache whenever they see someone unbelieving. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one who suffers oppression and who ache whenever they see someone beat down. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one without dignity and who ache whenever they see someone treated with indignity. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm of peace there is neither death nor tears and who ache whenever they see someone crying tears over death. The mourners are aching visionaries. Such people Jesus blesses; he hails them, he praises them, he salutes them. And he gives them the promise that the new day for whose absence they ache will come. They will be comforted. The Stoics of antiquity said: Be calm. Disengage yourself. Neither laugh nor weep. Jesus says: Be open to the wounds of the world. Mourn humanity’s weeping, be wounded by humanity’s wounds, be in agony over humanity’s agony. But do so in the good cheer that a day of peace is coming." --Wolterstorff
Blessed are those who mourn.... I've always liked that beatitude, but I never realized how different is is from the others. I never realized that mourning is part of God's kingdom. When I think of mourning, I think of women covered in heavy, black dresses, wailing as they follow a casket to a cemetery. This view is a little bit different, a little less dramatic. This is mourning that I do. This is the mourning that I feel when I think about Honduras and my time there. If this is what mourning is, I am one who mourns. And yet, that is not all I do. My identity is deeper than that. I can find joy in those same places and situations. That lament does not exclude other feelings, even though it may feel like it does. I'm learning that I tend to try to get rid of negative emotions and feelings. I try to take away any reason for lament. I try to overcome instead of coping. Perhaps, that isn't as it should be.
"The mourners are aching visionaries." That resonates in my soul so deeply. That is who I want to be. Perhaps, that is who I am, to an extent. Mourners see how things should be while seeing what should not be. Mourners have hope for a future when everything screams that it has no hope.
"And I know now about helplessness—of what to do when there is nothing to do. I have learned coping. We live in a time and place where, over and over, when confronted with something unpleasant we pursue not coping but overcoming. Often we succeed. Most of humanity has not enjoyed and does not enjoy such luxury. Death shatters our illusion that we can make do without coping. When we have overcome absence with phone calls, winglessness with airplanes, summer heat with air-conditioning—when we have overcome all these and much more besides, then there will abide two things with which we must cope: the evil in our hearts and death. There are those who vainly think that some technology will even enable us to overcome the former. Everyone knows that there is no technology for overcoming death. Death is left for God’s overcoming." --Wolterstorff
I think that Wolterstorff is learning to believe that lament and joy can coexist. This is the definition of bittersweet. It is hard to live this way. I don't want to live like that, because it hurts. It is painful. It feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. But maybe it's better this way. Maybe it is better to feel a jumble of emotions rather than just one, because I am formed and refined this way. It's harder, but it's more worthwhile. When I take the long road to process something, rather than a quick fix, the wound heals better; it's more than just a band aid. And although I feel like something of a sad soul, this slow and painful processing leads to learning rather than guilt. And in this process, I'm not solely morose. I will still laugh. I will still be awed. Life will be bittersweet.
Finally, Nick says: "'By his wounds we are healed.' In the wounds of Christ is humanity's healing. Do our wounds also heal? This gaping wound in my chest--does it heal? What before I did not see, I now see; what before I did not feel, I now feel. But this raw bleeding cavity which needs no much healing, does it heal while waiting for healing? We are the body of Christ on earth. Does that mean that some of our wounds are his wounds, and that some of our wounds heal? Is our suffering ever redemptive? I suppose the blood of the martyrs sometimes was. It was an instrument of God's peace. But my suffering over my son, which I did not choose and would never choose: does that bring peace? How? To whom? Is there something more to say than that death is the mortal enemy of peace? Can suffering over death--not living at peace with death but suffering in the face of death--bring peace?"
Those are my questions. And I think--I hope--the answer is that our wounds do heal. I wouldn't be who I am without my sufferings. Would I be able to help people in the ways that I do without being shaped by those sufferings? I don't think so. And so when I ask why something happened or is happening, perhaps there will be an answer someday. Maybe there won't be a reason, but I can hope in the redemption of my suffering.
Friday, August 3, 2012
you.make.me.new..you.are.making.me.new.
"beautiful things"--gungor
All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new
I have heard this song hundreds of times. I have always liked it, but it was never one of my favorite songs by Gungor. It seemed so cliche. It seemed like something I already knew.
This week at Arts Camp, I heard this song at least twice every day. At first I was just surprised that they were using a Gungor song as a "congregational" song. Then it got stuck in my head. Seriously. It has been repeating nonstop for the last 6 days. I can't stop humming or singing it, even when I'm at the store or teaching at camp or anywhere. It has become like a promise we find in the prophets... It's like a promise that we have been waiting to be kept for so long. More than being like one of those promises, it is a promise, put into the lyrics of a song, but God's promise, nonetheless. and this week, I have been clinging to this promise with all that I am. I need it to be kept. I need God to be faithful again. And he will be. I know that.
--you.make.me.new. you.are.making.me.new--
These two lines and the verses are what I have been clinging to most tightly. They have become my hope. At camp this week, I learned that in sign language, there is one sign for "hope" that really means "hope" as in "I hope I can have ice cream today or I hope I can go on vacation" and there is another sign that means "hope" as in hoping for something that we know will happen. It's the difference between the subjunctive tense (hoping for something that may not happen) and the indicative tense (hoping/waiting for something we know to be true or to be coming). It's this second hope that we use to talk about hoping for Jesus' second coming. It's with this second hope that I am waiting for God to keep this promise to make me new.
All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new
I have heard this song hundreds of times. I have always liked it, but it was never one of my favorite songs by Gungor. It seemed so cliche. It seemed like something I already knew.
This week at Arts Camp, I heard this song at least twice every day. At first I was just surprised that they were using a Gungor song as a "congregational" song. Then it got stuck in my head. Seriously. It has been repeating nonstop for the last 6 days. I can't stop humming or singing it, even when I'm at the store or teaching at camp or anywhere. It has become like a promise we find in the prophets... It's like a promise that we have been waiting to be kept for so long. More than being like one of those promises, it is a promise, put into the lyrics of a song, but God's promise, nonetheless. and this week, I have been clinging to this promise with all that I am. I need it to be kept. I need God to be faithful again. And he will be. I know that.
--you.make.me.new. you.are.making.me.new--
These two lines and the verses are what I have been clinging to most tightly. They have become my hope. At camp this week, I learned that in sign language, there is one sign for "hope" that really means "hope" as in "I hope I can have ice cream today or I hope I can go on vacation" and there is another sign that means "hope" as in hoping for something that we know will happen. It's the difference between the subjunctive tense (hoping for something that may not happen) and the indicative tense (hoping/waiting for something we know to be true or to be coming). It's this second hope that we use to talk about hoping for Jesus' second coming. It's with this second hope that I am waiting for God to keep this promise to make me new.
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