Pancakes and Pandemics: What the L[am]ent?!

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

Jesus' dying words on the cross in Mark and Matthew (Mark, and Mark: extended cut) are perennially poignant on Good Friday. Perhaps, this year they are more important than they ever have been in our lifetime--for us as individuals living in a world in crisis, and as the church, reeling as the humans we are, while simultaneously struggling to both envision and enact a Christlike response to a literal pandemic.

When we read these dying words of Jesus as 21st century Christians, it is tempting to draw the conclusion that Jesus believed that he had been betrayed, even abandoned by his Father to die. This is an entirely valid interpretation, but I believe that we stop short of the heart of the matter by leaving it at that. These dying words of Jesus are not a random response of profound human anguish, but are a quotation of the opening of Psalm 22, one of many psalms of lament in the Psalter. Anecdotally (and I'm sure academically, somewhere), I've heard that witnesses' to Jesus' death would have heard him praying these words, and, being commonly devout, would have known what came next in the ancient prayer. The hearers would have understood the pattern of orientation, disorientation, and reorientation toward God inherent in (nearly) every lament. They would have known "but I am a worm, and not human; scorned by others, and despised by the people" (v. 6) and "yet it was you who took me from the womb; you kept me safe on my mother's breast" (v. 9) and even "to him indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him" (v. 29). By losing the context, we lose the lament-dance. We lose the affirmation of the presence of God in Jesus', and indeed in our own suffering.

As the human race, imprinted with the image and fingerprints of our Creator, we find ourselves in a season where we ought to be lamenting. Thousands have died, millions are grieving, billions are living in fear and dread of what might happen and how the world will change as a result of Covid-19. As the church, the living Body of Christ who has tasted and seen and known the goodness of the Lord, we ought to be leading the way through lament. Lament, I would argue, is the vehicle by which we are granted assurance of God's presence in the midst of suffering. Lament affirms the full range of human experience. Humans negate human experience by offering platitudes or comparisons that provide little (if any) comfort, no validation, and cause the sufferer to recoil from connection, human or divine. Church, we need to do better, and the "better" that we can do is modelling vulnerability ourselves, and making space for people to be vulnerable before God with their pain, fears, and failures. God will draw near to these people, just as he draws near to us--that's his job, and he does it well, Amen?

Only God could take the pain and disorientation of Good Friday and have it lead to the glorious bliss of Easter morning. Let's bring all of our ugly and confusing feelings to God, press in, and see what he does within and around us.

Pancakes, Donkeys, and Penitence: What the Lent?!

Lent is kind of great--it starts with pancakes and ends with chocolate. Close to the end there's a bit with a donkey and some tropical foliage. It's rad. If I were Rodgers or Hammerstein, I'd probably rewrite My Favourite Things to include these things of Lent. I freaking loved this season as a kid--before things got serious.

And then somewhere, the pancakes and donkeys lose their lustre, and Lent becomes about physical self-denial than whimsy and indulgence. Life can't always be viewed through the rose-coloured glasses of childhood. Jesus was tempted and tortured. He did suffer, and die before Easter, at the very hands of those to whom he had come to save.

Normally, I'm one to press in to my pain. I might be a firm-ish believer in the old "no pain, no gain" adage. I often enjoy a good spiritual self-flagellation, when it brings me to an awareness of my own depravity, and God's unbelievable grace, mercy, and love.

But not this year. My life is too good this year. My circumstances are objectively better than they ever have been, and I don't want to interrupt my happy little bubble for a season of penitence. I feel emotionally, relationally, and spiritually fulfilled in ways that I never could have imagined from the depths of panic and depression which I know all too well. I still have a hard time believing that God can really be as good as I have seen him to be recently. In the back of my mind, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. How long can things be good before they're ruined, either by a frail and fallen humanity, or a God who doesn't really care as much as we'd hoped?

Of course, the following passage comes to mind:

7 “Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. 8 For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. 9 Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for bread, will give a stone? 10 Or if the child asks for a fish, will give a snake? 11 If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him!" -Matt. 7:7-11

Recently, my posture has generally been one which is closed to God's intervention. I can't shake the idea that God's holding up another shoe--it's going to drop. I don't want to know about it, or think about it, or imagine what it could look like. Lent reminds us of a God who allows suffering--suffering of others, and of himself. I want to believe that I've had my life's allotment of suffering. I'd rather live my happily ever after, my way.

And yet, I've tasted and seen God's goodness. My faith first came alive out of a place of suffering, when I finally came to the end of my own resources, discovering that they weren't as infinite as I'd thought. I don't know the answers. He does. What looked the most awful in the Easter story only primed us for the best thing ever.

As unnatural as it feels, and as much as I don't want to, I'll keep pressing. The one who knows my fears knows what I need.

Dinosaur Sneakers and the "Suzuki Cult": How I Became a Children's Pastor

About a year ago, I was trying to kill some time, wandering around the mall, when I noticed these epic Converse high tops decked out with dinosaurs in bold primary colours. I could totally pull them off in my bold, ironic way. These shoes were obviously for children. Sometimes I can fit into the upper end of children's shoe sizes. However, a quick google search told me that this particular style had not been manufactured up to my size. I bemoaned this to my roommate when I got home, and her reply was, "are you sure you're not supposed to be a children's pastor?"

Hold that thought.

I like kids. I like hanging out and goofing around with them, talking to them, finding out how they see the world. But I'm an introvert. I need alone time. I don't have a loud yelling or screaming voice. I'm definitely not the stereotypical super-extroverted, high-energy ball of sunshine with a car full of pool noodles and beach balls that is somehow also the church person responsible for the faith formation of young people. (Nothing against these people, they're freaking rock stars for being all of these things).

In my post-graduation job search, I had not even considered children's ministry because I didn’t think I fit the stereotype. Yet, through the whole process, my prayer was that God would open the right door--not necessarily the one I thought to be the best. I've now got wet ink on an offer for a family and children's ministry position--and feel a wonderful peace about it.

So, how did that go down?

My seminary degree was in spiritual formation, which chiefly concerns the question: how do we become like Christ? How do we know him? How do we follow him? How do we hear the voice of God? How do we understand his work? How do we do his will? Unknowable quantities of ink have been spilled by academics and laypeople alike, grappling with these questions.

Much of my childhood and adolescence was spent within what I now sometimes affectionately refer to as the "Suzuki cult." Shin'ichi Suzuki was a Japanese music educator of the 20th century who developed a method of music education whereby the child is extensively exposed to and surrounded by music before they learn to play their instrument. This exposure begins from a very young age (I won't quantify it because I know there are different schools of thought here), with instrumental instruction beginning at a slightly older age (I was once told by a hardcore Suzuki teacher that I 'missed the boat' by starting violin lessons at the age of 6). I could probably come close to writing a dissertation on Suzuki philosophy, but I will not do so here.

During my undergrad I took some Suzuki teacher training courses which enabled me to critically reflect upon the impact that this methodology had had upon my life and worldview. Also at this time, I became a Christian, after being raised going to church, but not really espousing organized religion. I took a year off after graduation to intentionally grow in faith--and teach violin.

I was called to seminary for reasons that were beyond my understanding at the time. Part of the objective of these studies, personally, was to discover what God was doing in my life. How on earth were all this Suzuki training, a science degree in kinesiology, and all of the other things and eccentricities and experiences that have made me me supposed to come together for God's purposes?

I learned about playing Bach as a spiritual practice--something I'd done long before I intended to connect to God. I discovered how ancient Suzuki's principles were. The shema is an ancient Hebrew song, and also a set of instructions for God's people. Teach your children about your faith. Show it to them lived out in your life. Tell them the stories of how God has been alive and active in the lives of others, so they might begin to recognize the tracing of his finger in their own lives. Help your children to understand that God's story permeates every aspect of their existence, and equip them to follow his lead.

Children's ministry hardly has the reputation of being the ultimate destination for seminary's best and brightest graduates. Actually, it has sometimes been the place where the most precarious volunteers are positioned, sadly justified by a mindset which says "they're only children." Children's ministry isn't sexy--it's not always where everybody jumps in to serve. It's unfortunately often been seen as an afterthought of "glorified babysitting" while the real stuff happens for the adults in the sanctuary.

Kids are people, too.

God desires relationship with all of his children--including those that are actually children. How do we help them develop that intrinsic desire to get to know their Shepherd, and who He has called them to be as His image-bearers? How do we create opportunities for growing in a lived understanding of the Kingdom of God, for those to whom it belongs?

Children's ministry is also a crazy amount of fun. It requires intellectual elasticity and creativity and vitality and enthusiasm. It demands a sensitivity to the developing person, the world they need to navigate, and the Author of the map. In working with children, one is never just working with the individual child, but with families, communities, and systems in all of their intricacies and balances and rhythms. The potential for influence is enormous, the stakes are high, and I pray that I will never feel that I have to shoulder this burden alone.

Children's ministry, for some strange and wonderful reason, is where God is calling me to serve for this season. I'm praying the Prayer of Abandonment every day (often more than once), ready to give of myself, and also to receive--from kids, adults, and God. What a freaking gift. Amen.

(And, when Converse starts making dinosaur high tops up to youth size 5 to accommodate my tiny-but-not-that-tiny feet, I'll be the children's pastor wearing dinosaur shoes).

Beauty.

Yesterday on my way to work I got on the bus, and there was this middle-aged man sitting at the front of the bus who looked noticeably disheveled. He seemed out of place amidst the executive-(looking)types with their neatly pressed clothes and carefully-crafted appearance, commuting to another mundane day at the office. This man had two large bags with him, which seemed to contain many, if not all, of his worldly possessions. No one sat beside him. He had a noticeable tic, which caused him to make abrupt movements. I was honestly a little bit on edge, along with many others on the bus, as we glanced away, trying in vain not to bring attention to him.

A couple of stops later, a large handful of mostly more executive-looking types boarded the bus. The man in the front seat put out his hand for high fives from each of these new passengers. Some humoured him, to his delight, and others pretended not to notice. The last person to get on was a teenage boy of about 16, who gave a high five which turned into a fist bump, then a handshake. The boy then stepped over one of the man's bags, and sat in the empty seat next to him. A look of pure joy took over the man's face.

The man unzipped one of his bags and pulled out a newspaper, giving it to the boy. The boy smiled, and began reading the headlines as the man closed his bag. Then the man took the newspaper from the boy, placed it on the boy's shoulder, and rested his head there. The man tenderly clasped the boy's hands in his and began kissing them. The two held each other in innocent, pure affection.

My brain couldn't process what I was seeing. What beauty! What love of one human to another! These gentlemen were of different ages, races, and socioeconomic statuses, yet those barriers were broken through a simple act of selflessness. My eyes filled with tears and I was thankful that the brightness allowed for me to keep my sunglasses on. I glanced up at the other passengers around me, and many of them were sporting similar welled eyes and tear-stained faces.

The bus pulled into the station, and the man and the boy exchanged another high-five-fist-bump-handshake thing with enormous and bright smiles before going their separate ways. They had ridden that bus together for less than 10 minutes, yet likely changed the entire day's outlook both for themselves, and all those around them during that time.

What might it look like if we spread love like butter (or guac or hummus or whatever)? What kind of impact might that have upon this society and city where people seem to have no time to give to anyone or anything more?

Break Through.

It's been approximately forever since I've blogged about anything. Nine months is totally forever, according to people I know who have had babies. Truth is, this school year was hard. I was stretched in directions I didn't know existed. Relationships endured trials which would culminate in their refinement or severance, though neither party knew which one at the outset. The struggle against the thorn-in-the-flesh of panic attacks continued. Questions about the future persisted--Why am I getting this degree? What do I plan to do vocationally? How am I ever going to pay down all this student debt? Am I ever going to be able to afford to live anywhere? Can I even get into a sufficiently lucrative career to support myself? Where are my physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual supports going to come from in the future?

Blah blah blah. Noise noise noise.

Beneath all of these questions and self-doubts was this undercurrent of something like, "God has a plan. Trust him. This is all going to work out better than you could have imagined." Truthfully, I'm not sure how I would have made it through this year without that mantra persisting like a bagpipe drone against the tumultuous, dissonant recesses of my anxiety-stricken mind which immediately jump to the worst case scenario as the only possible outcome, and also the one that I somehow deserve.

But I've noticed my mind changing over the past year. It's quicker and more natural than it once was to grab onto the promises of God as truth, and to peacefully and patiently wait on the outcome which he has foreknown from the very foundations of the world, expecting to be surprised by joy.

I just came back from this Celtic Christianity tour to Ireland and the UK (talk about being financially responsible). This was another situation where I wasn't sure how the logistics were going to work out, but felt like God was saying, "Go. Trust me." Basically every logistical hiccup that could have occurred along the journey, did--and, would you believe it, they all worked out. The Lord has taught me little object lessons about his providence like this before, and how his will always prevails… Like that time I actually finished my undergraduate degree while battling a mental illness that wouldn't let me sit still for more than 20 minutes in a lecture hall without having a panic attack, if I even made it to the campus at all (or maybe that speaks more to my tenacity, or just plain craziness…)

With that in mind, I arrived in Ireland, eagerly anticipating the discovery of what God was going to show me. I'd read about the Celts' emphasis on the care of creation, which had found a special place in my heart as a kind of closet Bohemian-hippie-flower-child-wannabe. Over the first couple of days, I read about the Celtic love of nature and wholeness, juxtaposed to the greed, insecurity, and short-sightedness of their Western European contemporaries, who were chopping down forests to build massive cathedrals as an act of worship to the God whose creation they were destroying. Of course, the Celts also built monasteries and cathedrals, and probably decimated a few forests and fields in the process, which was an interesting thing to think about.

Ferns! Inside!

Shortly after arriving on the island of Iona, after a long day of plane, bus, and ferry trips, and a couple of violent panic attacks, I went to walk off the adrenaline hangover, and ended up in the abbey. What struck me immediately were the ferns and flowers growing through random locations on the interior stone walls of the chapel. After snapping a couple of photos, because tourism, I stopped to contemplate this occurrence. One of my lesser-known hobbies is looking at pictures of abandoned buildings. The thought came to my mind that if this type of picture were to show up on one of the urban explorer pages that I follow on social media, then the top comment might be something like "I love it when the earth reclaims what is rightfully hers". People like me are kind of obsessed with trying to find order amid chaos. Greenery overtaking a manmade structure, abandoned or not, is seen as the natural order of things being restored. There's something fulfilling and enigmatic and wonderful about it. 

Different island, different structure, same story. 

Yet, the situation becomes all the more complex and holistic and appreciable when I can consider, as a Christian, who the creator and ruler of nature is. The irony of a structure which was built as a house of worship to the Creator God being overrun, and eventually physically destroyed, by that which the Creator God has made is absolutely delicious! As we continued to travel around the island, and other locations, I noticed this more and more--in old monastic ruins, and crumbling stone walls, life was bursting forth. The symbolism is incredibly rich. God will break through any structure or circumstance which we place between ourselves and him, even if it is constructed with the purest of intentions. There is nothing we can do to stop it. His will will be accomplished. 

On one hand, thank God that there is nothing on earth or in heaven that can separate us from his love. Praise the One who cares more deeply for each of us than anyone on earth, and whose purpose for our lives will always prevail. On another hand, that level of vulnerability and surrender of control is absolutely frightening. I can either prune away the weeds which disturb my stone-faced appearance of put-togetherness, or I can acknowledge them as God-given gifts which remind me of both who I am, and whose I am, and which reassure me that my God, my Father in heaven who is perpetually with me, who neither slumbers nor sleeps, who created the universe and is restoring all things, is doing a new thing in me which he will see through to completion.

So, while the panic over the uncertainties within the peripheral details of my earthly life continues to rear its ugly head at unexpected moments, I remember He in whom I abide, He in whom my hope and security rests, and He whose purposes cannot be thwarted by anything. His light overcomes all darkness.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Five Years.

I like getting sentimental sometimes. I also like marking anniversaries of big changes and other important dates to remember their significance, and reflect on the growth that has occurred since then, or through those trials.

Five years ago this week, I had my first panic attack. Sometimes I feel like I tell this story tirelessly, and that maybe I sound like one of those annoying social media activists or internet social justice warriors. That's never been my intent.

Before anxiety, my ego was enormous. I was the smartest, most well-rounded person to ever grace the face of the planet, and I implicitly pushed that agenda on nearly everyone I met. I was obsessed with making a first impression of omniscience and unparalleled experience to potential new friends, professors, strangers, and people I knew I didn't like. Those things are what makes a person cool (read: massively insecure), right? In my mind, I had to be the best at everything to give myself a chance at being noticed or liked.

Then I learned what it's like to have your body go into overdrive for no reason, without warning, for hours at a time. Your brain says stop while your body says go and the messages get so lost in the confusion and mistranslation that the only response that makes sense to bring back some semblance of control is to hit yourself until your legs are purple, or bite your fingers until you draw blood, and you cry the whole time, not because it hurts, but because you don't know how to make it stop, or how things got so bad, or if life will ever be different, or if it's even worth it to go on living.

Living that life broke me in ways I could never imagine, and wouldn't have known how to have planned for. Living that life showed me that it is impossible, and unethical, for me to judge a person by what I perceive from their outward persona. Living that life taught me about people who yearn for and deserve justice, who scream out for it, yet are silenced by the murmurs of the loudest voices of Western society who determine what is most important to all of us: business, productivity, bureaucracy, capitalism, government, the rat race…

Living that life allowed me to see what true, pure, unconditional love looks like, and where it comes from. It incited me getting the help I need to heal broken and distorted images of what I thought I needed to be in order to be loved, accepted, and heard.

The vast brokenness of this world never ceases to leave me completely baffled (and if you spend much time around me, you've likely heard me let out an "ugh, humans!" or two in frustration). We fall victim to the brokenness of ourselves and others all the time. There is a restorer, a healer, a comforter, a redeemer, who is working on our behalf to make us whole, only because he loves us too much to leave us alone in our mess.

What does that restoration look like? For me, it's been finding joy in the simple things of life--getting together to laugh and chat and be vulnerable with friends; sipping an Americano in a crowded café, or listening to music on the subway as I feel calm, warm, and safe in the arms of Jesus while watching the world go bustling by; feeling like I can be my real, true self in conversations without having to project a certain image in order to be accepted by myself and others; drinking in the beauty of the seasons, and marveling at how God has intricately and intentionally created all that is, and foreknown how they will all interact and come together.

There is freedom in knowing that we are not meant to achieve wholeness on this earth, and that it is not our responsibility to orchestrate our own restoration plan for ourselves or others.

We just have to be.

When Jesus was baptized, before he began his ministry, his Father called him his beloved Son, in whom he was well pleased. Through him, we have access to the title of beloved children of God as well.

We need only be.

The last five years have been unspeakably difficult. They've also been typified by unparalleled growth and reward. Beauty rises from ashes. We are still approaching the day when there will be no more death, mourning, crying or pain, but in the meantime, there is joy to be found in the visible progress of the restoration that is taking place. For this, I am thankful. 

The Kingdom of Dog... uhh, God.

I often feel like I'm sitting on the fence of the Kingdom of God, not knowing if I want in or out. As I was walking to work one morning last week, I was thinking about this, and was reminded of dogs (but I think about dogs a lot too, so that's no surprise). 

I remember seeing a funny t-shirt in a catalogue as a kid that depicted a to-do list for the day:

-let dog in

-let dog out

-let dog in

-let dog out

-let dog in

-let dog out

Ad nausaeum…

Dog goes out to pee, then comes back in, then sees squirrel outside, then hears you unwrapping cheese, then hears the neighbour's dog barking, then smells you starting to make dinner, then has to go out and chase the letter carrier, then needs to come in and be enough of a suck to get a treat from you as recompense for scaring away the bad guy…

Dogs think they know what they want in the moment, and to a certain extent, we do too.

I want to be in a relationship with a God who loves me unconditionally, but find myself yo-yo-ing back and forth between that state of being and another one that makes me want to get as far away as possible because I know that I can't conquer my own human nature which says that I deserve utter desolation, hopelessness, and loneliness.

The good news is that through Christ, that brokenness is overcome. God isn't some irate dog owner who lets us bark and whine outside the door of his house because he's frustrated, or lazy, or preoccupied. Even though we willingly left that house on a whim to chase after some transient and fleeting thing, and realized it wasn't as good as the paradise we had inside the warm shelter of the house, and maybe even got sprayed by a skunk or something to boot, just as another reminder of our vulnerability, he will never make us wait longer than it takes us to realize where we really want to be. He's good, and shows a deeper unconditional love for us, and joy in our decision to choose him even than any dog as their owner comes home from a long day at the office, or a few weeks' vacation.

Sometimes it takes a bit of wandering around alone outside before I realize it, but I want that. I think as humans we yearn for that sense of belonging and love. We just need to remember that it's there.