​Lately I've been confronted with broken things. A broken door. A broken clock. A broken coffee mug that shattered on the trip from the dishwasher to the cabinet. 
 
The door stiill opens and closes, it only needs a new handle. The mug was a goner, but not an heirloom. But I can't quite escape the feeling that I'm in the vortex of some invisible wind that is swirling wildly around me. And breaking things apart...
 
"Things fall apart," Irish poet Yeats wrote, "the centre cannot hold." I feel his pain, but I challenge his conclusion. I believe the center can hold, and does. The center holds because The Beautiful Son is at the center of everything, holding all things together: "For by Him all things were created, both in the heavens and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities--all things have been created by Him and for Him. And He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together." (Colossians 1:16-17, NASB)
 
Circumstances at the edges are perilous, yes. Things are broken. They crash and fall and shatter. But the center is strong. The center holds. Or better, it is held.
 
The challenge is to celebrate the mending, not mourn the pieces. To be thankful for the repairs, and not lament (at least not for long) the breaking. The challenge is to believe--even before things are put right--that rightness is near and possible...that it will come. Broken things will be mended: one day even our own hearts' cracks and fault lines will be made flawlessly whole again , and stronger for it.
 
Because my God loves broken things. Even me. He redeems broken things! We are mosaics in Christ!
 
"And although you were formerly alienated and hostile in mind, engaged in evil deeds, yet He has now reconciled you in His fleshly body through death, in order to present you before Him holy and blameless and beyond reproach--" (Colossians 1:21-22, NASB)

It was supposed to be a simple meal.  A meal that was to remind everyone of the Passover.  God had saved the Jews and they were to remember it all. They were to remember how death had passed over their doors and did not touch their sons.  Death did not come to them as they followed Moses into the parted waters.  God had taken care of them.  

But this time it was different.  He took the bread and he said, "Take, eat; this is my body." And he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, saying "Drink of it , all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins" (Matthew 26: 26-28).

What were they thinking as they sat around that table?  Did they just take Jesus at his word?  Did they understand the incredible gift of hospitality that had just taken place?

In Luke, we read, "Do this in remembrance of me" (22: 19).  He has transformed and yet kept the essence of the Passover.  God had saved the Jews just as Christ was about to save the world through the power of the cross.  A holy, insistent, pursuing God who continues to invite us to the table to remember.  To. Remember. Him.

The Lord's table is the place where we remember and relish in our relationship with Christ.  We remember his atonement.  We give thanks for our redemption and we look forward to the final feast in the kingdom of heaven.

He restores our dignity.  The marks and marr of life become a palatable clay in God's hands.  He has created a space.  He has opened a space and made room for more of Him.  

"And he took it, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them" Luke 22:19

He took the bread, gave thanks, and then broke it, giving it to others.  He broke it and then gave it.

There is a breaking and a giving.  In it, there is a miracle that He wants us to repeat.  We are to thank Him for this gift of life. It is often a broken life that we are to share with others.  In the sharing, we are healed, becoming whole.

As we share our shattered places with other broken people, we are nearest to the broken heart of God.

Somehow...the miracle happens in the thanking, the breaking, and the giving.  There is a miracle of communion, oneness, abundance that comes.

The simple elements, the bread and the wine, have become sacred.  They invite us in to more of him.  Enjoy the meal.  Savor it.  Share the bread. Spread the joy of God's invitation to more of Him.  

Grace

It's that prayer you say at meals.
It's what you extend to the guy who cut you off in traffic.
It's a name for a daughter.

Grace

It's the arm around your shoulder at the graveside.
It's the soft eyes of your friend's favorite nurse at the cancer ward.
It's the weight of his arms across your waist when you decide it's never good to go to bed angry.

Grace

It's birthday cake with buttercream frosting.
It's the light from the candles.
It's the present you always wanted but never thought to ask.

Grace

It's the so much to your not enough.
It's the shine to your lackluster.
It's the double portion to your humble meal.

Grace

Sandpaper that rubs you wrong
while rubbing you better,
Like how an old dresser becomes art.

Grace

Broken, rusted parts of people
Are made new,
Like how an antique tractor shines.

Grace

It's not a rule,
Guilt or a formula,
Or rabbit in the hat trickery.

It's not a spreadsheet,
Or a scorecard,
Or abracadabra.

It's not crossing
your fingers in hope
Or wagging your finger in faces.

Grace

The language of angels,
Silent night in the dark sanctuary,
Head under the baptismal waters...

Can you feel it?
It's on you...
This light on your face...

Sword-sharp word of God,
Edge of the wedding gown,
Your reflection in the communion wine.

Grace

A broken hallelujah,
True North when everything has gone South,
God's stubborn love.

It pursues, finds, forgives, and binds
But not with chains.
God's stubborn love.

It's the gift of God's son forfeiting Heaven for you,
Not to condemn the world but to save us all.
God's stubborn love.

Grace

The first breath,
The last breath,
And every breath in between.

The miraculous,
the mundane,
The More.

It's extravagant,
It exceeds,
It avalanches you.

Grace

It's the Gift.
See how it Saves.
Beauty and glory.

Grab it.
Extend it.
Invite the world to....

Grace

Ash Wednesday. Crosses on the forehead.  These are reminders for us.  We are ash.  It's a reminder from Genesis 3:19, "Dust you are, and unto dust you shall return."

Once again, Ann Voskamp expresses the frustration and fruition of Lent in the shortest summary ever.

"I can't seem to follow through in giving up for Lent. Which makes me want to just give up Lent.  Which makes me question who I am following.  Which may precisely be the point of Lent."

We know what Lent is.  It's preparing the heart for Easter.  It is similar to Jesus being in the desert for 40 days.  It is also similar to the Israelites wandering for 40 years.  We do it so we might come to face to face with our enemy.  We sacrifice so that we might become more like Christ in his sacrifice.  

Lent teaches us how depraved we are.  We are ashes.  We are dust.  We are incapable in the flesh.  I am incapable in the flesh.  I can't keep the law. I need HIM.  

This is a tough journey that leads to joy. You are supposed to give up something.  Forfeit something.  Forfeiting becomes formation. I give up.  I forfeit.  I fast.  I forget.  I fall.  I fail.  I am ash. I am dust. 

Lent.  The word itself comes from Middle English, lente, for the season of spring.  A rebirth.  A new beginning.   Herein lies the beauty.  I am supposed to fail.  The deeper I fall into the pit of my own depravity, the deeper I will drink from the fountain of joy.  

Everything we experience from Ash Wednesday up through Easter is a reminder of how great the Gift really is. Reconciliation for the world here and now.  

Enlightenment, transformation, and salvation are gifts we will experience as we move through this season.  

Can you feel the Gift start to move through you?  Grace and peace filling your space...

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith - and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God - not by works, so that no one can boast.
-Ephesians 2:8,9

To say that His birth was opposed is to touch the limits of mortal language.  The mighty one has been hated since the pride of the bright one led many away.  Your world war comes close, but even then, believe me, you have no idea.

We sang that night as we had never sung before.  Those shepherds believed they were the primary audience.  True, they were important — the Mighty One has always favored the lowly.  But there was much going on that night.  The other reason we sang in the fields was to hallow the ground where Rachel would weep over her sons.  There the graves would be dug, the graves for the little boys of Bethlehem. 

Herod’s rage soon stripped dozens of firstborns from the breasts of their mothers.  Those so fresh from heaven, so quickly silenced.  Slaughtered like animals.  So much blood.

The town had no room for Mary, and Herod’s heart had no room for another king.  He would not share his glory.

Although we do not exist in time, there are moments when the affairs of earth are hard to endure.  Even Angels desire vengeance. 

“Vengeance is Mine,” declared the Mighty One.  “Justice is coming.  I need you to sing.”

And so we sang. What the shepherds heard as an anthem the innocents would hear as a lullaby.  We sang as we had never sang before. A song to bring Him safely into the world, a song to guide them safely from it, and a song to help Mary endure it:

Glory to God in the heavenly heights,                             
Fly, fly to the breast of the Father,                                     
This wrong will be righted,     
Jesus is here,                      
Peace to all men and women on earth                               
who please Him.                   
Rest, rest in the arms of the Father,                                  
His fury remembers,                
His love holds you dear.   

Many do not sing of this horror at Christmas.  That is understandable; it was an unspeakable deed.  But I remind you that His birth was opposed.  You have no idea.

(This version of the Christmas Story has been adapted from Touching Wonder: Recapturing the Awe of Christmas by John Blasé)

This story brings out Joseph's humanity...

Do you know who reminds me of me these days?  It’s old Job, the faithful, the sufferer. He lived according to the will of the Almighty, yet all was taken away.  I, also, have lived by the commandments.  No one had forced me; it was my decision.

Before that dream, I had other dreams.  Those dreams were without angels.  They were dreams of Mary and children.

In the days after Mary confirmed what I had been told, I thought of the lines from Job’s drama: “Curse God and die.”  If you do not be lieve there were moments when that invitation was tempting, then you make me out to be something I am not. I am just a man.  A carpenter.

But curse the mighty one? I would not, for I‘d had that dream. A carpenter works with what he can see and feel: a corner angle and the heft of wood.  But here, I was chasing a dream.  The afternoon of my life looked nothing like the morning.

So, on to Bethlehem it was.  We had known the census was coming, but the timing was horrible.  While we were there, Mary had gone into labor.  It was time. In that moment my dreams of always being able to provide for my family were snatched away.  I could not find a decent place for her to deliver this child.  Voices of shame raged against me.  “You are just a carpenter Joseph.  Who are you to accompany the only Son of God?  He is not even your son.  Why are you walking away from all you’ve built just because of a dream?”

“No room.”

“We have no room.”

“Look, son. I see your need.  There is room in my stable and that’s all I can offer.  Take it.  You should have made better plans.”

I am dismayed at how that night is remembered.  It was not a production, a staged affair.  That is blasphemous.  It was a birth.  I was scared.  She was scared.   I had witnessed cattle being born, but never a child.  There were no bright lights, no animals moving on cue, no singing. 

He came as all come, bathed in the lifeblood of His mother.  His conception was divine, but his birth was of the earth. 

The dream I chased had my back against a stable wall, my fiancé asleep in blood-red hay, skittish animals as onlookers, and my hands filled with a son not my own.


Adapted from Touching Wonder: Recapturing the Awe of Christmas by John Blasé.

Heaven.  I thought about it as I waited for students to come for their tutorial sessions this afternoon.  It was a combination of the students' faces and the rather large bird's nest nestled in some tree branches that made me think of it. 

I imagine my grandmother as one of the faces of heaven.  I can see her in my mind's eye.  Her bright eyes and lovely smile.  She is covered in light.  For some reason she is offering me something to eat ... her cookies or her famous chicken and rice.

Why don't we talk about heaven more often?  Maybe it's because we are too busy talking about the ills of this world.  The traffic, increasing costs of living, natural disasters, complaints about your job, concerns about family. We should talk about these things, but some time focused upwards, contemplating heaven, could make some of these burdens down here on earth easier to bear. 

Stay with me for a little while with this.  Feel the November wind, a little chilly.  And then let your soul find the warmer place ...

Heaven.

It came down last week.  Heaven touched earth.  I felt it.  The load I was carrying got lighter.  I felt a little stronger and the weight of life was gone.  I had energy.  I enjoyed interactions with students and colleagues.  I laughed a lot at home with my children.  I was able to love and be loved.  Life was a pleasure.

Then that ugly thing called sin crept in.  I didn't repent immediately.  In fact, I got angry.  I knew I was pushing God away but I did it anyway.

Heaven came down again and touched me.  The weight of sin lifted as I lifted my hands to heaven and expressed myself to God.  It's amazing how much God loves us and pursues us.

Heaven is for real.  I can almost feel its breath on my face as I write these words.  

Upstairs, in heaven, sin will be a memory.  Pain will be gone.  Envy won't exist.  Hurts and worries will be a thing of the past.  Our earthly hearts that have begged to be seen, loved, known will know that our souls have stretched towards toward our forever-inheritance.

I like to imagine putting my hand to the heart of Jesus and feeling the rhythm.  His breath on my back and shoulders.  

I imagine physical things as well.  Laying in a hammock.  Running barefoot in the snow feeling fully alive.  Spinning through fields of Queen Anne's lace.  Swimming in a river of warm, clear water.  Riding on the back of the Lion.  Feeding a giraffe.  Painting my house purple.  Not looking the door.  Walking on water, through sand, and no one complaining about dirty feet in the throne room.

Every good thing we want is fulfilled in an actual place where our souls' feet stand, in the presence of the King. 

Heaven.

Think about it.  Reach for it.  Know it is real.  Heaven.

Time exists in circles now.  Busy morning routines, getting children out the door before 8:15 in the morning, 9:00 am classes, lunch rituals of prayer, food, recording thankful moments, collecting children at the end of the work day, preparing meals, smiles and misbehavior around the dinner table with 3 boys, cleaning up after meals, bedtime routines, storytime, prayer, sleep, stillness.  And then I get up and do it all again.  These circles are beginning to spin.  

It's been a while since I posted.  One of the reasons is that I can feel the Lord prompting me to write on beauty.  Not just physical beauty but internal beauty.  It's a huge topic, and this has been a challenge. To reflect on beauty and what it means from a Christian perspective, is to be faced with ugliness and sin.  I have been struggling with my own ugliness, my sin.

On beauty.  God doesn't leave us in our darkness, our failure, our ruins, our ugliness.  Confessions of needing Him as Lord and Savior changes us to something else.  Our darkness becomes light and we become a part of that light.  Our failures become something that is used for His success.  Our ruins become glorious as we call on Him.  Our ugliness becomes something beautiful.  

Physically beautiful people, beautiful things these are candy for the eyes.  These people and things have their place and they bring momentary pleasure.  Christ's beauty is not a momentary pleasure.

Christ's beauty is to face our own ugliness, our sin, and redeem it.  As we face our ugliness, Christ faces us with other uglies.  Injustice is all around us.  As we learn to face the ugliness of injustice, we learn to see as Christ sees.  We must look more deeply at something that by the world's standards is ugly and slowly discover that it is gem.  We see beauty as we learn service to others.  Beauty is found in the giving to others.

Christ teaches us sacrificial love.  He sacrificed himself for us. What defines beauty?  The nails on the cross defines beauty.  The broken ways of Christ define beauty.  

This verse is a passage that generates a lot of sermons and discussions around Easter.  Mary, distraught with grief over Christ’s death, is unable to recognize Him.  She sees Him, but doesn't recognize Him fully. 

First, she recognizes him as a servant.  Perhaps he was simply dressed, in a white tunic, scanty, old and worn.  The cloth may have been colored from the sweat of his body, tight fitting, short, as if it is a hand’s breath below the knee, looking thread-bare. He probably looked like a servant. There is something miraculous here to think about.  He had done the greatest labor and the hardest work there is.  

Secondly, she recognized him as the gardener.  He was the one who takes care of the garden, caring for fragile, new life in spring.  He digs and sweats, turning soil over and over.  He waters at the proper time.  He continues in his work, eventually making sweet streams to run, and fine plenteous fruit to grow.

 He was a servant in the garden on that day Mary saw him.  He was also a gardener.  By his labor—his passion, death, descent into Hades, resurrection and ascension—Christ reveals himself as the Master Gardener who gardens our humanity and returns us to health and newness of life.

“Mary!” Jesus said.  She turned to him and cried out, “Rabboni!” (which is Hebrew for “Teacher”).                       
-John 20:16                 

Christ was recognized as a servant and a gardener, and then he revealed himself to Mary.  Christ is the ultimate servant.  He placed himself on a cross as a living sacrifice to all who would call on his name.  His life, death, resurrection, and ascension show his unbounding love for a lost humanity, transplanting us to a new garden where health and new life is embraced.  He is the Master Gardener.