Photo uploaded to Flickr by Snap Man

I am looking through my poetry books for poems of Incarnation (as I think about Advent’s soon appearance). Tonight I was reading through Mary Oliver’s poems, when I landed on this little treasure and wanted to share it with someone. Hope you enjoy.

In Praise of Craziness, of a Certain Kind

On cold evenings
my grandmother,
with ownership of half her mind–
the other half having flown back to Bohemia–

spread newspapers over the porch floor
so, she said, the garden ants could crawl beneath,
as under a blanket, and keep warm,

and what shall I wish for, for myself,
but, being so struck by the lightning of years,
to be like her with what is left, that loving.

by Mary Oliver (from New and Selected Poems, Volume 2)

Flickr photo by stuant63

There are times in life when troubles surround us, stresses choke us, problems overwhelm us. There are times when we simply cannot see the way ahead, and each day feels like a struggle to survive.

The cry of Psalm 56 is the cry of God’s people facing immanent destruction. Will God forsake us in the hour of our deepest need? Will his silence continue even while the wolves devour us? Will He abandon us to the fire?

David articulates the desperation of God’s people in the midst of the terrors that hound us by day and night. And in his cry, we discover the possibility of trust that clings to God even as the flames rise around us.

David is running for his life.

The wolves are baying for blood. Terror on all sides. Death looms. God is silent.

In response to the peril of Achish’s bloodthirsty court, David writes a psalm celebrating the unshakeable faithfulness of the Lord. But first, it might be helpful to back up and understand how David found himself in the lap of enemy dogs ready to devour him.

David is king of Israel. Or at the least the “King elect.” The house of King Saul has been judged and found wanting. Samuel strips the kingdom from Saul and pronounces it’s inevitable demise. Under the guidance of God’s Spirit, Samuel anoints a new king: the unlikely son of Jesse.

David comes in the from the fields to go out in service of Israel. Samuel calls this shepherd-poet to serve the people and the land as King. But there is a slight catch. He will learn kingship from the house of Saul. He will become a true king in service of the king that is in rebellion to YHWH.

At first, he soothes Saul’s torments. His healing songs drive Saul’s terrors out of doors. But then another terror. From the land of Gath comes yet another raid by one of Israel’s enemies, the Philistines. Surrounded by warring tribes, this period in Israel’s history is intertwined with the threat of Philistines, Moabites, Edomites, Amalekites, and Ammonites.

Goliath, the leading warrior of the Philistines, threatens Israel and mocks Israel’s God. Saul the forsaken one has no power, no authority, no wisdom on how to fight this baying wolf.

Cowering in his tent with the rest of Israel, Saul is paralyzed in terror. David steps in for Saul and acts as the true king of Israel. He mocks the mocker of God’s people and assaults this beast in the name of YHWH of the Angels Armies. Cutting off Goliath’s head with his own sword, David delivers Israel.

The shepherd-poet turned warrior continues pursuing the Philistines. Even as David threatens the enemies of Israel, King Saul begins to believe that David threatens him. Fearing for the power of his house, he turns into a wolf and starts seeking David’s blood.

David is running for his life.

Israel hounds him, chases him, seeks to destroy him. The chosen king and deliverer of Israel is running for his life from the Saul and armies of the land. In their bloodthirsty pursuit, they chase him into Nod.

Ahimelech feeds David holy bread and gives him the captured sword of Goliath. David keeps running. Saul’s wolves catch up to Ahimelech, slaughtering him and the city of Nod, including priests, women, children and animals.

The wolves are still baying for David’s blood.

Driven from the land of promise into the arms of the enemy. He runs to the camp of the Philistines in city of Gath before King Achish. But Gath is no refuge for David. The generals are baying for his blood.

No matter where he turns, David is surrounded by wolves. Wolves from his people and wolves from his enemies. He is encircled, and there is no where to turn. He turns his faces, twists his limbs, drools on himself and plays the fool. In the face of his enemies, David humiliates himself.

Yet even as he is outwardly wasting away, David is inwardly crying out to God. After Achish sends away this madman, David will write,

Be gracious to me, O God, for man nips at my heals, tramples on me, seeks to swallow me;
all day long an attacker oppresses me;
my enemies trample on me all day long,
for many attack me proudly. (Psalm 56:1)

The wolves are baying for blood. Terror on all sides. Death looms. God is silent.

In the grace of God, David has stepped into the position of Israel. Just as the nation is surrounded by tribes seeking to swallow the land and the people, David is surrounded by enemies seeking to swallow and destroy him.

Even as David is crying out to God, he is acknowledging his fear.

When I am afraid,
I put my trust in you.
In God, whose word I praise,
in God I trust; I shall not be afraid.
What can flesh do to me?  (vs. 3-4)

He is afraid. He is trusting. Terror surrounds him. He is out of control. The deliverer has been delivered into the hands of the enemy. He is helpless. He is battling fear and trusting God at the same time.

Outwardly he is powerless, humiliated as a drooling fool. Inwardly, he is crying out to YHWH of the Angel Armies. Stripped of power, assaulted by terror, he can only rest in the purposes of God, rejoice in the word of God. In this place of pressure, of pain, of fear, YHWH is shaping a king. A king that trusts the absolute faithfulness of God’s Word even in the face of absolute terror.

Just as the Father is shaping and training David in the midst of living, he is shaping and training us in the midst. Those who trust in the Lord are not abandoned even though the wolves may consume them. We may never stand before an enemy king. We may never run for our lives as the king and his army seeks to kill us. But we may know the fear of being surrounded by problems, struggles, crisis.

We may know the flames of suffering, the pain of living, the anguish of sorrow. In the mystery of His grace our fears, terrors, and doubts cannot consume His faithful love. The terror of Saul and the terror of Achish may be the places where our Father trains us and shapes into His image.

Outwardly we may waste away. Outwardly we may know the terror of emotions. But inwardly we also rest in the objective faithfulness of a Savior who is absolutely trustworthy. In Jesus we are not alone.

In Jesus, God enters into the pain and terror of life. Like David, this deliverer was delivered into the hands of the enemy. The leaders of Israel delivered him into the court of the Pontius Pilate. Like David, they were baying for his blood. Like David he was not abandoned.

Jesus was consumed. Humiliated. Beaten. Hung. Killed. And yet he was not abandoned. The Spirit of God raised Him from the dead. In his resurrection life, we encounter the Living One. He conquered the Evil One. He overcame the curse of death. He lives and lives and lives.

Even as we stand in the midst of terror, fear, pain, suffering and overwhelming circumstances, we are standing in the midst of the Living One, the Loving One, the Lord of Heaven and Earth.

We are not forsaken. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. Not even death.

So we may fear, doubt and struggle. Yet we can still rest in His absolute, unshakable faithfulness. Whether we live or die, we live or die in Him.

And in his faithful love, He is ever transforming us into the image of His love.

1    Be gracious to me, O God, for man tramples on me;
all day long an attacker oppresses me;
2    my enemies trample on me all day long,
for many attack me proudly.
3    When I am afraid,
I put my trust in you.
4    In God, whose word I praise,
in God I trust; I shall not be afraid.
What can flesh do to me?
5    All day long they injure my cause;
all their thoughts are against me for evil.
6    They stir up strife, they lurk;
they watch my steps,
as they have waited for my life.
7    For their crime will they escape?
In wrath cast down the peoples, O God!
8    You have kept count of my tossings;
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your book?
9    Then my enemies will turn back
in the day when I call.
This I know, that God is for me.
10    In God, whose word I praise,
in the Lord, whose word I praise,
11    in God I trust; I shall not be afraid.
What can man do to me?
12    I must perform my vows to you, O God;
I will render thank offerings to you.
13    For you have delivered my soul from death,
yes, my feet from falling,
that I may walk before God
in the light of life.  (Psalm 56; ESV)

Calvin Fairbanks

Today as I was reading Richard Wurmbrand he mentioned the exploits of the Calvin Fairbanks. This Methodist minister spent 17 years in prison for helping free slaves in nineteenth century America. His paid a dear price for living out his faith on behalf of those suffering around him, and is credited with freeing 47 slaves. I honor the memory of such a great American hero. Here is an excerpt on Calvin’s life from Wikipedia:

Born in Pike, in what is now Wyoming County, New York, Fairbank grew up in an intensely religious family environment. Listening to the stories told by two escaped slaves whom he met at a Methodist quarterly meeting, he became strongly anti-slavery. He began his career freeing slaves in 1837 when, piloting a lumber raft down the Ohio River, he ferried a slave across the river to free territory. Soon he was delivering runaway slaves to the Quaker abolitionist Levi Coffin for transportation on the Underground Railroad to northern U.S. cities or to Canada.

The Methodist Episcopal Church licensed Fairbank to preach in 1840 and fully ordained him in 1842. Hoping to improve his education, he enrolled in 1844 in the “preparatory division” of Oberlin Collegiate Institute, now Oberlin College, a center of anti-slavery sentiment. Responding to an appeal to rescue the wife and children of an escaped slave named Gilson Berry, Fairbank left Oberlin for Lexington, Kentucky, where he made contact with Delia Webster, a teacher from Vermont who was to help with the rescue. Berry’s wife failed to meet Fairbank as planned, so he and Webster set their sights on freeing Lewis Hayden and his family.

Fairbank and Webster successfully delivered Hayden, his wife Harriet and Harriet’s son Joseph to freedom in Ohio, then returned to Kentucky where they were identified and arrested for assisting the runaway slaves. Webster was tried in December 1844 and sentenced to two years in the state penitentiary, but served less than two months of her sentence. Fairbank was tried in 1845 and received a 15-year term, five years for each of the slaves he helped free. He was pardoned in 1849 when a grateful Lewis Hayden raised the money to pay off Hayden’s former master.

In 1851, Fairbank helped a slave named Tamar escape from Kentucky to Indiana. On November 9, with the connivance of the sheriff of Clark County, Indiana and Indiana Governor Joseph A. Wright, marshals from Kentucky abducted Fairbank and took him back to their state for trial. In 1852, he was again sentenced to 15 years in the state penitentiary, where he was singled out as a target for exceptionally harsh treatment that included flogging and overwork. Finally, in 1864, three years into the Civil War, he was pardoned by Acting Governor Richard T. Jacob, who had long advocated Fairbank’s release.

Once free, Fairbank married Mandana Tileston, to whom he had become engaged during his brief period of freedom in 1851. Known as “Dana,” she moved from Williamsburg, Massachusetts, to Oxford, Ohio, in order to visit Fairbank in prison as often as possible and to press the case for his pardon with the Governor of Kentucky. Their only child, Calvin Cornelius Fairbank, was born in 1868.

The conditions of Fairbank’s life in prison broke his health. Although he held jobs with missionary and benevolent societies, he was not able to support his family. At one point he and his wife tried to earn a living operating a bakery in the utopian community of Florence, Massachusetts. Mandana Fairbank died of tuberculosis in 1876 and the couple’s son was raised by her sister and brother-in-law. Fairbank remarried in 1879, but little is known of his second wife, Adeline Winegar.

Fairbank’s memoirs were published in 1890 under the title Rev. Calvin Fairbank During Slavery Times: How He “Fought the Good Fight” to Prepare “the Way.” Unhappily, this effort earned him little money. He died in near-poverty in Angelica, New York, and is buried there in the Until the Day Dawn Cemetery. He is generally credited with helping free 47 slaves.

A Big Hug (flickr photo by jen_maiser)

Richard Wurmbrand writes,

Jesus saves not only from sin, but also from the solitude that oppresses so many. You will enter close communion with the saints of all ages, the angels, and more: you will walk continually in the companionship of the Lord Himself. You will also find loving brethren and sisters in the faith.

Wurmbrand highlights an aspect of the gospel that is sometimes overlooked. Salvation is so often considered in terms of afterlife and heaven vs hell that we lost sight of the promise of relationship. While the culture continues clamoring for diversity, the Christian faith affirms genuine diversity by confessing faith in the Triune God who is particular and universal at the same time.

In Christ, the barriers to genuine relationships of reciprocal love are demolished. In the cross, the Jew and the Gentile become one new man. This is not simply two groups becoming one but all particularities, all diversities, and possible distinctions that might divide: male and female, rich and poor, black and white. The distinctions of race, culture, gender, and class block true mutuality in human relations. We see this in Romeo and Juliet, the political theatre of every age, and even the Hatfields and McCoys.

One barrier that we rarely consider is the historic barrier (which Wurmbrand addressed). One age is often in contention with another age. The present judges the past with unsympathetic and anachronistic arguments, while failing to actually listen to those who we now consider less advanced than us.

In the Cross, relations across time and space are united. Now we love in and through the cross of Christ. This mutuality is not based on my own will or advanced ethical state of being but on the redeeming action of the creator in the midst of His creation. As Rene Girard has explored in his thoughts on scapegoating throughout history, God in Christ becomes the other, the scapegoat for all our human striving.

By trusting in the scapegoat, I am freed from the prison of my own superiority or inferiority. I am freed to love one who is unlike me, who disagrees with me. And as Wurmbrand writes, I am bound in familial relation with others in Christ who span the ages. I am part of an extended family that even as we learn how to love one another, we are learning how to love all of creation.

Do we fail? Of course. The church has never lived up to the call or promise of true reciprocal love in Christ. But because we have failed in the past and still fail in the present, we do not abandon the call, the hope, the standard in Christ. Rather, we press on toward the mark of our high calling in Christ. May we rest in His love and move in His love and act in His love as a people embraced by the great Father who has embraced His family by His Spirit and is transforming us in His love.

flickr photo by nirats

This psalm of ascent seems to be a cry of repentance and longing for restoration from a people in exile. So as I thought about the Jewish diaspora, I wrote this little story.

Judith awakes in a cold sweat. “Where am I?”

The touch of the bed, the smell of the room, and the dim outlines of furniture. It all seems alien. “This is not my father’s house.”

As the cloudy thoughts of sleep fade, she realizes yet again, “This is not my father’s house.”

The house is quiet. No servants stirring. Her husband traveling with his regiment. She is alone.

Walking out to her courtyard, Judith will take up watch for Jerusalem.

1 Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!
2 O Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive
to the voice of my pleas for mercy!

Even as she cries out on behalf on her people, Judith cannot avoid crying out from the pain of her own grief.

“Don’t forsake us Lord. Your people sink down into the depths of Sheol. We are dying. We long for Messiah. Hear us Lord!”

A chorus of exiled voices rise up in the night air, “Hear us Lord!” Jews living in towns across the empire, continue crying, waiting, looking and longing for the restoration of God’s people.

Even as Judith cries out on behalf of her people, her mind keeps returning home.

3 If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
O Lord, who could stand?
4 But with you there is forgiveness,
that you may be feared.

Judith has been dead to her people for many years. Can a dead man live?

In the passion of her youth, she fell in love with a Roman soldier and gave all that she could give. As it turned out, she gave more than she even knew. In her family’s eye, she was no longer a Jew. Judith died. As did the child in her womb.

The journey to Rome was simply too difficult for her frail condition and the baby died en route. Her new husband gave her everything she wanted, but he could not give her another child. Her womb was dead.

Tonight in the stillness of the hour, she remembers. The bittersweet scent of the candles as her mother welcomed the Shabbot. The piercing blast of the shofar during Rosh Hashannah. And the holy hush on the “Day of Atonement.”

Atonement.

Even as she remembers, Judith longs that the Lord will not forget her. Can the Lord hear her in this exile of her own making? Will He listen as she cries out from Sheol. Or is she forever cut off? Cut off from family, from homeland, from yesterday.

She aches for atonement.

And so she waits for the lovingkindess of the Lord.

5I wait for the LORD, my soul waits,
and in his word I hope;
6my soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen for the morning,
more than watchmen for the morning.

“Come Goel. Come Redeemer Kinsman. Look with favor on your forsaken child.” She dreams and longs for the restoration of her people, the restoration of her soul. As she prays, she remembers her husband telling stories about a Jew being held captive in the city. Apparently, he is meeting with Jews and Gentiles alike. He has stories. Fantastic stories of a the Lord dwelling in the midst his people. Amazing stories of redemption and love and forgiveness.

It may all be nonsense. And yet, what if? Maybe she will talk to this strange Jew as well. Judith rises and looks to the east for the coming of the dawn.

7O Israel, hope in the LORD!
For with the LORD there is steadfast love,
and with him is plentiful redemption.
8And he will redeem Israel
from all his iniquities.

photo by Pensiero (via flickr)

Ezra and Nehemiah tell the story of repatriating the land of Palestine. This is a long, hard story of opposition against the people of God through political intrigue, threats and acts of terror. With this background in mind, I wrote a mini story on Psalm 129 about a people resisting enemy assaults while they remember the faithfulness of YHWH through a long history of attacks from enemies.

‘Much have they afflicted me from my youth up’, let Israel now say;
‘Much have they afflicted me from my youth up; but they have not prevailed against me.
The plowers plowed upon my back; they made long their furrows.
HaShem is righteous; He hath cut asunder the cords of the wicked.’
Let them be ashamed and turned backward, all they that hate Zion.
Let them be as the grass upon the housetops, which withereth afore it springeth up;
Wherewith the reaper filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth sheaves his bosom.
Neither do they that go by say: ‘The blessing of HaShem be upon you; we bless you in the name of HaShem.’

We had been sleeping in our clothes day after day after day. Everyone was tired. Some days I wondered if we’d ever see the end. Some days I was sure that every ounce of strength had been poured out and nothing was left. And yet, we kept building.

Every morning we marched to the wall like a little army. All through the day and even into the night, we’d hear shouts from outside the city. Mocking us. Threatening us. Haunting us.

Some nights I wake up certain that someone was standing over me ready to cut my throat. But nothing. The night hung with dread. When the dawn came, I’d rejoin the work and soon start singing yet again.

Music. Ah yes, music. Now that seemed to give me strength. No matter how tired, how fearful, I felt, the music soon stirred a new boldness, a new energy, a new resistance. We would build this wall and nothing, no one would stop us.

We sang,

‘Much have they afflicted me from my youth up’,

and again,

‘Much have they afflicted me from my youth up;

This refrain would be repeated again and again as it circled the wall. Soon all the people were joined in one voice,

‘Much have they afflicted me from my youth up;

It built up louder and louder and louder until finally one of the Levites burst forth,

“but they have not prevailed against me.”

and again,

“but they have not prevailed against me.”
“but they have not prevailed against me.”

louder,

“but they have not prevailed against me.”

And we joined in one voice, we felt clothed in the power of the song. Like a grand drama, we lived out the story of our fathers and their fathers in the song.

During Pesach, Shalmai, the old Levite in our midst, reminded us to say that, “HaShem delivered me from Egypt.” Not just my father’s fathers, Not just my father, but I was broken under the yoke of Pharaoh. I burned in the hot sun of Egypt. I cried out for deliverance, and HaShem heard me. Every year, our clan reenacted the whole Exodus along with all the clans of Israel. Every where we danced Miriam’s dance, and laughed until we were intoxicated with joy. HaShem heard our cry, HaShem remembered.

Those memories burned in my mind as we continued singing,

“The plowers plowed upon my back; they made long their furrows.”
HaShem is righteous; He hath cut asunder the cords of the wicked.’

The joy in singing of HaShem’s faithfulness almost interrupted work as whoops and hollers went up, and we all felt the dance in our feet. But we kept working, emboldened in the face of those who sought to stop us, who sought to kill us. HaShem was faithful. And in His might, we mocked our mockers.

Let them be ashamed and turned backward, all they that hate Zion.
Let them be as the grass upon the housetops, which withereth afore it springeth up;
Wherewith the reaper filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth sheaves his bosom.
Neither do they that go by say: ‘The blessing of HaShem be upon you; we bless you in the name of HaShem.’

This simple song of resistance connected all of us to one another and to HaShem. We couldn’t see Him and Hist angel armies. Our mockers didn’t leave us but continued to threaten. Our aching bodies still throbbed, and we longed for fresh clothes and deep sleep. But through the song we kept going. We kept singing, kept rejoicing, and kept building.

The days blur together now, and it seems like a lifetime ago. But I’ll always remember that final day. For 52 days, we toiled. We poured out our lives, our tears, our hopes into that wall. For 52 days, we sang, we cried, we hoped to make it one more day.

Sometimes it seemed like the end would never come. But it did.

One day a shout went forth and Nehemiah circled the city, visiting every gate, and every clan. As he rode into our camp, we cried aloud together, “It is finished!”

The walls of Jerusalem restored. HaShem protected us. The voices of death, and hopelessness and mocked fell away. We stood and sang and danced with all our heart before the faithful Father of us all.

photo by z_everson on flickr

1 Psalm Of David When he was in the desert of Judah
God, you are my God, I pine for you;
my heart thirsts for you, my body longs for you,
as a land parched, dreary and waterless.
2 Thus I have gazed on you in the sanctuary,
seeing your power and your glory. Psalm 63:1-2 (New Jerusalem Bible)

The other day as I read Psalm 63, I was deeply moved by the first two verses (see above). When I tried to express what moved me, I wrote the following essay. Hopefully it makes sense and will bless someone.

Exiled in the wilderness, the psalmist gives voice to a wilderness deeper than the barren landscape. As he cries out to God, he gives voice to the ache and longing of people across the ages.

I have known the wilderness. Not the wilderness of desert living, or the wilderness of suffering under war, poverty or totalitarian rule. But I have known the wilderness of a dry soul, aching for something, someone.

When I was just four-years-old, I remember sitting amidst the toys and trappings of my Bozo-encircled room wondering, “Why do I exist?” In the stillness of the night or the quietness of the day, the longing for something or someone penetrated my heart even then. Looking through the fairy tale books, I longed to jumped inside the pictures and enter their world.

This longing opened the world around me as though everything was pointing beyond itself to something or someone. The soil in our backyard hid treasures just out of sight. The basement in our house pressed right up against other realities, powers, beings. In my childlike mind, the world seemed to open in two directions.

A thin veil stood between me and a world of light as well as a world of darkness. At times, everything around me seemed ready to burst forth in song at any moment. At other times and places, everything seemed pressing up against a terrifying void. This darkness threatened to disintegrate everything and everyone.

The hell I feared was not of fire but of isolation, disintegration, and absolute loneliness. In this world, hell would be waking up to no one. Consciousness without any relationship.

I could not survive by staring down into the abyss, so I searched for the light places, the holy places, the sanctuary. And like the psalmist, I’ve seen God’s glory and might in these thin places. I’ve found refuge and peace and joy within the wells of faith.

Like the sparrow who builds a nest, I found my nest in the faith of my fathers. I make no great claims to have disputed and disproved competing truth claims of world systems, religions, and ideologies. When facing the darkness, I’ve done what most children would do, I went home. Home to the faith of my fathers.

Wrestling with the claims of Christianity, I encountered the Who who kept calling, provoking, striking my heart. In the heart of Christian faith, I met Love in Person. So I write and speak and think from the position of one who keeps coming home to rest in Christ.

From this place of rest, I join the psalmist who prays,

“Whom have I in heaven but you Lord, and to be near you, I desire nothing on earth.” Psalm 73:25

This short sentence has become something of a “breath prayer” for much of my life. Sometimes this prayer stood between me and the darkness. At first, this prayer was most likely a prayer of escape the struggles of this world.

Over time, I discovered something hidden deeper within the prayer. It is a prayer of relation that is not escaping earth by going to heaven. Rather, it is a prayer for relationship in the midst of the injustices, struggles and questions of this earth. The psalmist desires nothing of an earth where the Lord is absent, where humans are cut off from one another, where our own selfish cravings drive us further and further into isolation, destruction, and corruption.

The psalmist cries out not to be abandoned. He is not abandoned. The Father loves His creation. The Father loves His rebellious children who run from the light of His love. The same Lord who created the world in relationship, redeems the world in relationship.  The Father reconciles the world in and through the Son by the power of His Spirit. He enters into the breach of relationship between God and humanity. He brings all the anguish and suffering and disaster of this breach within Himself.

This restoration is about glorifying the entire cosmos in a relation of love. It is this relation, the mystery of this love revealed in Father, Son and Spirit, calling me into love, into relation, into life.

It seems now that the walk between darkness and light has been a walk between love and rejection of love. On the one hand, the Father has caught me up in a dance of love between Him and all His people. On the other hand, I am tempted to rejected this love, this dance.

In of our world of broken humans, rejecting love becomes so easy for all of us. We can be offended by almost every person we meet during the day. Real pain and real grief from the present combines with old offenses stretching back into relationships and even into childhood. We haunted by the ghosts of our past.
To escape, we may reject love, escape relation and plunge into a waterless wilderness of self-absorption, self-preservation, and self-consciousness. Life becomes heartless and lonely and hellish.

Into the Gehenna of our own creation, the Lord comes. He finds us on the refuse heap of corrupting self-imposed exile and adopts us into the family of God.

He leads us into sanctuary, into a thin place where heaven penetrates earth. We discover this holy place is a place of meeting, a place of relationship, a place of meeting. He is dancing a dance of love. In Him, we hear a song that is singing through all His creation.

Some days, I hear this anthem of love wherever I go. When I show up at the coffee shop, He’s already there loving the people in line, at the counter, sitting at the tables.

Might I join Him?
Might I follow Him into loving those who offend me, who disagree with me, who compete with me?
Might I join Him in loving the Mary Magdelene and others who are cast out and put down by the world around?
Might I also love those in power like the Pharisees?
Jesus is free to love those above and below, those oppressed and those who oppress. He freely embraces friends who will prove unfaithful, unreliable, and undependable.

He even embraces Judas. After a night of seeking the Father about who to appoint as disciples, Jesus welcomed Judas into this community of love. Even though He knew Judas would ultimately betray Him, He loved him, He welcomed him, He served him.

He loves and loves and loves and continues loving from the cross. This love is not momentary: I love you today, but tomorrow I may cut you off. This love is eternal: it crosses ages; it penetrates the good times and the bad times. While looking upon those who are killing Him, He prays for their forgiveness.

His dance of love is a dance on the edge of heaven and earth where light streams through into all people and places. Even the darkness. Especially the darkness.

In this dance, my steps are faltering and failing. I often choose anger over kindness and jealousy over graciousness. Even when I resist and reject His love, He continues calling, embracing, transforming.

He reminds me that I’ve really been adopted into the family of God. I’ve really been embraced by a Father who can turn every wilderness into a fruitful valley. I can really rest in His love. He is completely trustworthy.

Even when I face the darkness of suffering and death, He is still present. In Christ, I let go of pains, of sorrows, of hurts. I can rest. I can dance. By His grace, I am learning to live in the wonder that is bursting through everyone and every thing.

So I join the psalmist this day in crying out for sanctuary in the midst of the wilderness. Lord, I long for Your unfailing love, let me dance with you, in you, before you.

Writing from his prison cell to a people in a small, nowhere town, Paul proclaims the absolute Lordship of King Jesus over Colassae, the Roman empire, and the entire cosmos. Beholding King Jesus does not require mystical vision. Rather, a vision of His rule and power is unveiled whenever the gospel is proclaimed. The “word of truth” goes forth in the power of the Holy Spirit and produces the fruit of hope, faith and love.

In the mystery of God’s love, His people are “caught up” into the communion of love between Father, Son and Spirit.

1 Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, and Timothy our brother,
2 To the saints and faithful brothers in Christ at Colossae:
Grace to you and peace from God our Father.

Paul uses a common convention when introducing his letter, and yet he infuses it with Trinitarian meaning. His initial greeting can be viewed in four distinct clauses:

1. Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God
2. and Timothy our brother
3. To the saints and faithful brothers in Christ at Colossae
4. Grace to you and peace from God our Father.

The letter with a greeting that is from Paul (who is speaking and through Christ) to the community in Christ at Colossae. This communication is part of the flow of the Triune life of the Father, Son and Spirit. Paul is speaking by the will of the Father in Christ through the power of the Spirit to the a people who are in Christ by the power of the Spirit according to the will of the Father. When the body functions, it is functioning in and through Christ by the Spirit according to the will of the Father. We as the people of God, participate in the life of God when we gather, communicate, and share the gifts of the Spirit. We are living, breathing, and acting in Christ, by the Spirit and according the will and purposes of the Father.

1. Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God
Paul begins most of his letters by acknowledging that he is an “apostle.” He is addressing the people from a position of authority. Yet this authority does not reside in Paul, but resides in Christ Jesus.

It might be helpful to see a little background on the term apostle. Paul appears to combine a Hebrew word and a Greek word in his use of the word “apostle.”

The Greek word “apostolos” can mean messenger, sent one or ambassador. Its ancient origins appear to have referred to sending out a fleet on a military expedition. Over time, the meaning became applied more generally to a variety of naval enterprises. Eventually the word extends beyond fighting to exploring and colonizing.

The Hebrew word “saliah” also means messenger. It indicates the legal authority a messenger carries on behalf of a person or a community. Paul brings this idea of “legal authority to deliver a message” into the idea of being “sent on a colonizing expedition.”

His authority comes from the Triune community (by the will of the Father, in the Son, and through the power of the Spirit). But Paul first receives his outward commission from the church at Antioch. In Acts chapter 11, we read that the church at Jerusalem hears about the believers in Antioch and “sends out” Barnabas to investigate. Barnabas confirms the work and calls upon Saul (Paul) in Tarsus, asking him to join them.

Barnabas and Paul serve the community in Antioch for a year. Then the prophet Agabus informs the congregation that a famine is coming to Judea. The church at Antioch sends out Paul and Barnabas to raise money for the brothers and sisters at Judea from the other emerging congregations. This “sending out” becomes Paul’s first missionary journey.

He sent out from a body of people on a specific assignment. Much like the Hebrew messenger. Yet, His calling to be an apostle of Christ Jesus has come from the Father. Even as Paul is sent out from the human community, he is sent out from the Triune community.

As he proclaims the “gospel,” the “good news” of King Jesus and his universal rule, Paul establishes colonies of heaven whom he refers to as ekklesia or “called out community.” We call these colonies, the “church.”

Paul, the “apostle” writes as a man on mission. As an authorized representative of the Triune community, he is launching missions into the enemy country while he is imprisoned in enemy territory.

Here is a picture of God’s ironic kingdom. Paul the prisoner writes under the authority of a Palestinian Jew who died at the hands of the Roman Empire from some trivial incident. He is writing to some small, has-been town. And he is writing as one who is in the midst of setting up a colony of King Jesus in the midst of this crumbling kingdom (Roman Empire).

As it turns out, the kingdom did crumble and fade. And colonies of King Jesus continue spreading from town to town and nation to nation.

And Timothy our brother
Paul writes in relationship. Just imagine Paul and Timothy discussing the churches together, praying for the churches and even weeping over the struggles of the churches. In the midst, they may talk about insights or guidance from the Spirit and decide to write down these ideas. This makes the whole engagement from a relationship (Father, Son, Spirit) through a relationship (Paul and Timothy) to a relationship (the Colossian community).

3. To the saints and faithful brothers in Christ at Colossae
Paul writes to a particular community of brothers and sisters in Christ who live in Colossae. Compared with Rome or Corinth or even Ephesus, Colossae seems like a strange place for Paul to write. He didn’t actually plant the church, and the small town seems insignificant beside its neighbors Laodicea and Hierapolis. JB Lightfoot writes, “Without doubt Colossæ was the least important church to which any epistle of St Paul is addressed.”

Yet, this letter speaks out from that one small town to people across many towns and places throughout history. In this short address, we see a pattern of particularity and universality. When God the Son enters history, He enters at a specific place and time. He is born into a family of the house of David. The man Jesus of Nazareth is and always will be a Jew. Yet He is fully God. Living and acting and interceding on behalf of all races and classes men and women.

God acts in the particular. He acts in the small. The mundane. And often the obscure. Yet these actions ripple outward impacting all things. The life and challenges of a few Christians in a little city on the far side of the Roman empire had and has cosmic significance. In Christ, we begin to discover that every little details matters. Matter matters.

And specifically related to people. We matter. Our little communities. Our little families. Our squabbles and love feasts all matter. Christ dwells in the midst of His people by His Spirit. He works in the midst of our small communities and His great transformative work continues to ripple out, impacting all the world.

Paul writes to the saints and the faithful. Why the distinction? The saints is a Jewish references, focused on the Israel as the “holy ones” or the people set apart as a priestly nation. Paul uses this reference for the brothers and sisters in Christ (Jew and Gentile). He is including the Gentiles in the people of God, those set apart to reveal the kingdom of God.

At the same time, he is reminding, exhorting them to hold stedfast. What are they holding to? A set of morals? A set of beliefs? Based on the exhortations in this letter, I might suggest that they are being exhorted to rest in Christ alone. Hold stedfast to the simplicity of the gospel. Abide in Christ. Love one another.

Don’t be misled by promises of greater power and significance that go beyond the simple rest of the work of Christ Jesus. The temptation in Galatians, Corinthians and other places is to add our own additional set of methods, assurances, observances that may be rooted in racial distinctions or cultic distinctions (calendar observances, etc). While these emphasis are not necessarily bad things, our identity is in Christ alone. The simplicity of that profound work of Grace in us can be clouded by our tendency toward turning good things, ideas and practices into idolatries that become the focal point of our trust for identity, salvation, etc. Hold fast to Christ and Christ alone!

4. Grace to you and peace from God our Father.
Paul offers a blessing from the Father. But we must remember the grace is not some power outside of the person of Jesus Christ. And when Paul blesses Colossae with Grace and Peace, he is exhorting and blessing in and through Jesus by the power of the Spirit. The gift is an outpouring of God’s love in and through the community.

James Dunn reminds me that peace is a Jewish greeting. Speaking to the Gentile and Jewish community who trust in Jesus, Paul offers the traditional Jewish greeting of “shalom.” Yet again, Paul reinforces through speech the ingrafting of Gentiles into the chosen people of God through Christ Jesus. Shalom is a blessing of harmony, prosperity, inward and outward peace that points in some way to the eschaton, the true peace that will finally be realized in the unveiling of Jesus Christ to all the cosmos.

Even as we read these words, we can rejoice that in Christ Jesus we’ve been adopted into the family of God and look forward expectantly to the day when the fullness of Christ will be revealed in all and through all.

Shavuot picture uploaded by yanec

Blessed is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in his ways!

Huran joins his voice to the hearty throng of men belting out this song as they walk on pilgrimage. The explosive joy of these worshiping Hebrews seems to shake the ground beneath their dancing feet.

Today is Shavuot. And these hearty pilgrims burst out with rejoicing in this feast of thanksgiving, of harvest, of celebration for the abundant blessings from the Lord. Today the people gather and offer praise and thanks for the great and wondrous gift of Torah.

Shavuot is the first fruits festival celebrated seven weeks after Passover. On this holy day, the Hebrews bring their first fruits to the Temple in Jerusalem rejoicing in the trustworthiness of the Lord.

But today Jerusalem sits empty. No festival. No shouting. No singing.

Huran and the pilgrims are not in Jerusalem. They celebrate as captives in the land of Babylon. They rejoice in the place of their forsakenness.

When they first entered the land, the suffering was too great, too painful. As they begin to grasp the loss of land and name and culture, they crumbled under the grief and devastation. They hung up their harps and could no longer sing, but only weep by the rivers of Babylon.

Over time, the words of Ezekiel and Isaiah taught them expectation and hope in the midst of struggle. They learned to find joy in their longing for the day of the Lord. They learned to sing songs of praise in the land of the forsaken.

So today they rejoice in the promise of returning.  They dream of Jerusalem.

Huran sings with the celebrating throng, and he also dreams of Jerusalem. He longs to return home. He longs to worship at the rebuilt Temple. He longs to see the end of the great exile.

You shall eat the fruit of the labor of your hands;
you shall be blessed, and it shall be well with you.
Your wife will be like a fruitful vine
within your house;
your children will be like olive shoots
around your table.

Huran serves the Lord in the rhythms of planting and harvesting. He is a simple farmer who works the ground, who cultivates the land, who serves his family and community.

He is not a Levite; he is not a diplomat; he is not a royal son. In fact, he’s not a Hebrew at all.

Huran is not only an exile, he’s an alien. Alien to this land, alien to his people and alien to Jerusalem.

Born in the great city of Sidon, Huran came from a wealthy Phoenician family. When Nebuchadnezzar conquered Phoenicia, he was captured and eventually ended up in Babylon.

When he first encountered the Hebrews, he fell in love with their stories. The great lawgiver Moses, the warrior king David, the wise Solomon. The more he heard, the more he felt like these people were his own family. Their stories rooted inside his heart and bloomed in his imagination, his speech, his worship.

Visions of a restored Jerusalem filled his mind, and he longed, ached to go home to the home where he had never been. He was a wild vine that longed to be grafted into the vineyard of HaShem. His interest led to his obedience and submission to the way of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

Today Huran walks alongside the Hebrew men as a brother. He joins them walking to the synagogue to read from Torah, meditate upon God’s commands, and worship the Holy One who dwells in unapproachable light.

He lives as an adopted son, a vine grafted to the vine of God. As the people around him sing, he sings:

Behold, thus shall the man be blessed
who fears the Lord.
The Lord bless you from Zion!

The people burst forth in song and dance, repeating this refrain,
The Lord bless you from Zion!

And as they sing, they form a circle turning and facing one another while singing again and again:

The Lord bless you from Zion!
The Lord bless you from Zion!
The Lord bless you from Zion!

Huran laughs and claps and rests in the goodness of the Lord.

May you see the prosperity of Jerusalem
all the days of your life!
May you see your children’s children!
Peace be upon Israel!

In these simple, faithful words of worship, he hears the simple, faithfulness of HaShem. As an exile and as an alien, Huran takes comfort in the absolute, unswerving faithfulness of the Lord. His simple life, his family, his dreams are all resting in the Word of Hashem. So Huran lives in the fear of God, in the trust of the God of Israel.

He has no Hebrew heritage, but studying Torah and singing the songs of the people of God, he has learned the way of the Lord. In his small, hidden acts of loving faithfulness in work and in family life, he has been granted the privilege to participate in the grand story that encircles all stories: the story of God’s love poured on and in the people living in darkness. By God’s grace, his life brings glory to the God above all glory.

So he sings. He dreams. And he draws joy from the promise that HaShem will bring His people home to Jerusalem.

Picture by E>mar

I love stories. From ballads to books to movies and more, I love stories. Dinner time in my family’s house often centered around the stories of my father and his adventures in the FBI. Early on, I developed the habit of listening intently. While I love to talk, I love to listen as well. I never know what I might discover in the person across from me. Sometimes I fail to listen and I regret it. But those times when I hear, when I really hear and encounter another person: those times are rich and full of wonder.

Stories are grand. Stories are magical. Stories make me feel. They make me laugh and cry and experience the world. Sometimes they make me angry or sad. Stories tap something deep inside me that is often inexplicable. They move me.

And yet, stories can sometimes feel manipulative. I don’t like when I watch a movie and I feel like the filmmaker has underlined his main idea with a bright red marker. Suddenly the story is interrupted with his “message.” I have endured some interesting films even when the “moral” was slapping me in the face. Sometimes Christians can exercise the worst at this form of storytelling. We want to make sure everyone “gets it.”

So our stories and our movies and our personal “testimonies” focus on emphasizing, exaggerating the point. (And politicians run a pretty close second to us Christians in the “use” of stories.) Oddly, when the story becomes a vehicle, it loses a bit of the wonder. It may seem contrived. It may offend. It may come across as a bit hollow.

Years ago, I remember a politician using the story of his son to make a political point. The story came across as flat and the point a bit overbearing. The press let him know through their reports that the use of a deeply painful and personal story dehumanized him a bit as a leader.

And yet, it’s not necessarily bad to make a point with a story or to convey truth through a story. Storytelling plays a central role in Jesus’ pattern of ministry. I believe His stories, and oddly enough, I believe He is still speaking to me (us) in the stories. So you might call me a believer or a Christian. I believe that in His stories and speaking, there is an objective encounter with truth that goes beyond “idea” and is more directly related to “person.” At one point, Jesus says that it is the Spirit who draws people to Him.

He speaks and the Spirit of God is moving and through Him to open the eyes of the listening to hear the person standing in front of them. In other words, the objective truth is the person of Jesus (Word made Flesh). Thus He is speaking and embodying His story at the same time. Some people want to argue with him, but some actually adore Him.

With this in mind, I might suggest that a story is the gift of myself to another. Yes, there may be ideas or thoughts or insight that can be helpful, but the objective reality is one person standing in front of another person. When I hear a story, I am going out to encounter the person (as Martin Buber would say), I am not trying to take their story into myself, so I can experience it. For if that is all I do, I’ve reduced that person to some objective extension of myself and my own experience. But I might actual listen to the person. I might actually face the objective reality behind the story. I might actually encounter their “spirit” (the fullness of the person so to speak). And Buber went so far as to say that when I face the “thou” (person) before me, I might just face the “Eternal Person.” And when I encounter the person, I am changed.

This helps me to think about telling and listening to stories (whether in writing or in person or film or song or whatever). I may use a story to illustrate a point, but I must remember that I am speaking to real persons, I am encountering another person in my words. I give them the story as a gift of myself, and I hear their stories as a gift of their selves. It might help me to face people and listen to them (and not just their ideas).

I haven’t worked out all the implications of this in relation to preaching, politics, etc. And maybe I’ll write more as I think more about it. But for now I’ll pause with the idea that the truth I am getting to in story is person. And as a believer, I will add (alongside Martin Buber) that in all encounters there is freedom for another Person to address me and encounter me with the reality of His Unending Life.