Say WHAT?!?!?

 “If your enemy is hungry, feed him;
   if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.
In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.”

--Romans 12:20, cf Proverbs 25:21-22

This verse has always bugged me. Think about it: The first part tells us, in essence, to love our enemies and those who trouble us, and the last part sounds like somehow, this niceness becomes a vengeful, angry act. And-- I admit it-- that part felt kinda good sometimes. (Or am I the only person who never understood these juxtaposed thoughts?)  

This morning I finally got it. The explanation that made it all make sense, snapped it into focus.

In ancient times and ancient cultures, fire was a very necessary part of everyday life, for cooking, for light and warmth. So it was important to be sure your fire burned strong and bright. 

But sometimes, in a very literal sense, your fire would just go out. And that is when you hope you have a neighbor willing to share his (or her) fire with you.

So you would take the container you had for such purpose, balance it atop your head (because this is how many containers were carried "back then"), and you would set out for your neighbor's tent. In a culture that pastured many flocks or plowed large fields, it might be a bit of a walk.

And when you got there, a good neighbor would give you enough coals for a decent fire, assuming that some would survive the walk back to your own tent.

But a generous neighbor would heap that container full of live coals, increasing the likelihood that you would have enough "live" fire remaining to set your home fires ablaze again.

So there it is. God is instructing us not to just (just) give food and water to a neighbor in need. 

God is also expecting us to offer food and water to those who-- well, maybe they just get on our nerves in one way or another.

And on top of that, so to speak, God is expecting us to extend a generosity of spirit that leads us to heap live, burning coals atop the head of someone we would not call "friend," and to do so joyfully, realizing that our own fires might go out someday.

This is love as God intends: that the warmth we extend to those in our family be carried generously and joyously into the lives and homes of all who are in need.

And we don't even need to wait to be asked. 

Whose hearth is a bit chilly tonight? How might you reach out and rekindle the flame of God's love?

Little things

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” --Matthew 19:14


I have been thinking about children lately. Jesus had a special place under his wing-- just for them.

Four years ago, I was really wrestling with a Call to ministry. I had my spiritual fingers stuck hard in my spiritual ears, was making all kinds of lalalalalalalala noises, trying soooo hard to drown God out, to convince God he had the wrong chick.


God was not convinced.


One warm afternoon, after I got particularly vocal with God, hurling epithets across the waters of Lake Erie like so many stones for skipping, God responded. 


"There will always be children in your life, Child."


Heidi was not convinced. That was four years ago.


Guess what.


The children I used to teach, "littlies" four and five years old, have been turning up in my life, bigger and better than ever.


A young man on the high school football team (yes, high school) whom I had not seen since he was four, spotted me across a crowded parade field. "I REMEMBER YOU-- YOU WERE MY PRESCHOOL TEACHER!" Delivered with a big grin and a wave. Seriously? You remember me???


Giving blood, the phlebotomist looks so familiar. Finally, she says, "Why do I feel like I know you?" Turns out I had her son when he was four-- and now he is ten. 


Day in, day out, we go about our business in this world. Some days, it is all we can do, it seems, to get out alive. Some days teaching, the turkeys were definitely winning.


Some days. 

But other days, days when the sun shone especially warmly, when the juice seemed to have extra giggles in it-- those days made it all worthwhile.


Someone once said something to the effect that the only things that have ever changed the world-- are little things. Things in the ordinariness of our lives that changed the world around us.


Point being: you never, ever know.


You never, ever know when a child will remember that you were willing to spend extra time, just listening. Learning his language, a language of laughter and love.


You never, ever know when that extra smile-- the one you didn't need-- given to a tired mother at the end of a long day would be just what the doctor ordered.


You never, ever know when, or who, or how. 

God left us here, charged with being the hands and feet of Jesus until he returns. 

Hands that hold. 

Feet that move. 

Eyes that smile. 

Ears that listen patiently, even when the words come slowly.

Lips willing to speak words of love, not condemnation.


There will always be children in my life. God just never mentioned how old they would be. Children of God, of any age, any size. 


Yup. We are all children of the Creator. We are all God's favorite little things.


Be blessed. Be blessing.

Idou!

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge.
There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard.
Their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world.

 --Psalm 19:1-4                                                      

                

My absolute favorite word in Koine Greek: Idou! (Behold!) 

Idou! Behold, the glory of the Lord! 

The seasons are changing, and the beauty of creation is hard to ignore. This time of year is my favorite. I am writing from Ohio, where the leaves are beginning to color and the air is taking on a definite chill; halfway around the world spring is on its way, with its own glorious colors and renewal of life. A year ago, I  left Ohio in the fall, only to arrive in Australia with the very early touches of spring. Amazing!

Look around you, it's everywhere! Behold the glory, the inimitable beauty and limitless imagination of our God.

The sun, brushing aside its cloudy blankets of grey and sleepily peeking through, offering shafts of silver at the altar of a new day.  

This time of year, it is easy to look "up there" and perceive God's presence in the heavens.

But idou! God is also in here, his presence is around us in the everyday.

Behold, the waterfall giggle of a child, laughing in the language of love.

Behold, the elderly couple, still deeply in love as they walk, hand-in-hand, treasuring their time together.

Behold, the sights and smells of the everyday, declaring that God is right here, dwelling among us.

Wonder on top of wonder.

The God who numbered the stars, called them each by name, also calls each of us by name, knows our every need, our every dream-- and has a plan for each of our lives that goes beyond all that!

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? 

Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? 

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. 

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8)

Behold, the amazing love of the Almighty. Idou-- grace beyond bounds, poured out on each of us, just because. Just because our heavenly Father loves us-- and is especially fond of you.

  

           

Jesus doesn't care.

“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’" --Matthew 22:36-39

We have become a nation (a world?) of personal religions. George Barna jokingly (I hope) observed that soon, among 310 million people, there will be 310 million religions.

We disagree with one another; we break off and form a new sect. So much simpler than listening and loving through it all.

We argue over so many things, from the color of the carpet to who belongs up front preaching. But Jesus doesn't care.

Jesus doesn't care if we sprinkle our babies or dunk our adults. He is not concerned with once forward, twice back-- none of that matters. What matters to Jesus is a heart of flesh, not of stone. What matters is the creation of a new heart filled with love-- first for God, then played out in love for one another.

Jesus doesn't care if we worship God with traditional music and full organ, or if we worship God with guitar and drum set. (Timbrel and dance might even work [Psalm 150].) Jesus doesn't care. 

But Jesus does care that we worship and praise God with our whole lives, that we be willing to dance like David in the streets, in utter abandon as we are overcome by the realization of how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ (Ephesians 3:18).

Jesus doesn't care if we gather in a 19th-century cathedral or the cafeteria of an elementary school. He does care that we gather, and that we gather with earnest hearts, not simply to check off the attendance box. Worship, like life, involves more than simply showing up.

We cannot and should not attempt to do this thing called life-- let alone a Christian life-- by ourselves. It won't work.

Jesus doesn't care if we live in a fine manse or a humble cottage. He wants to live in our hearts.

Jesus cares for the hungry, for empty stomachs and parched spirits. 

He cares for the broken, the poor, the wounded. 

He cares for the downtrodden, for those cast aside by a world that does not care. He cares for the widows, for the orphans, for those who have lost hope. To them, he offers a new hope. A fresh promise.

And when he returned to the Father, Jesus charged us to do the same, until he returns.

Jesus does not care how beautifully we can quote Scripture, how elegantly we can pray. 

Jesus cares how we live out the teachings of Scripture, especially the "red-letter" parts (all of them).  

Jesus hears our prayers, spoken and unspoken. He listens to our hearts. 

And he cares deeply for each one of us. He desires nothing less than our restoration, because he wants you (yes, you) to spend all of eternity with him. He wants you (yes, you!) to enjoy a love that is unequaled by anything in this world, a love for who you were created to be by the Almighty (who certainly knew what he was doing!).

And whether we believe that eternal place is "out there" or "right here" matters not at all to Jesus. 
  
Jesus does not care about things that seem so important to us. Not paychecks, not fast cars or perfect hair days.

And if one of us needs to change what we care about? 

I am thinking-- it isn't Jesus. 

The F-Word (Forgiveness)

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times." --Matthew 18:21-22

Here's what I think as we approach the tenth anniversary of the September 11th tragedy. (I know you didn't ask, and you may disagree, but this is still my blog):

September 11, 2001, was a terrible tragedy. I remember (don't we all remember exactly where we were, what we were doing?) I was in a classroom filled with four-year-olds. I had taken something to the office and while I was there, heard the news on the radio. I remember wanting to throw up. 

And I remember asking if it was true. 

And I remember thinking, I need to go back to class and act as if nothing is wrong. Four-year-olds do not need to know.  Not from us. Not when we knew so little, anyway.

We had a student teacher with us. Her response  was memorable, as well: "Oh, no! There was a Krispy Kreme in that building! No more doughnuts!"

I remember one little boy outside at recess, older, maybe nine or ten, standing atop the climbing bars, arms outstretched, shouting, "Come on, terrorists-- come and hit me!" Again, urge to vomit.

Our response as a nation and as the world, in those early hours and days, was amazing. As the French put it: "Now, we are all Americans." I had an email from a friend in Colombia, a nation fraught with its own problems, wanting to be sure we were safe. Offering prayers and love.

Every heart was broken, every soul wept with grief and pain. We all flocked back to church, prayed as one for the return of peace. We prayed for justice. In this land that had never known such tragedy, suddenly the very bedrock of our existence seemed shaken.

Then came the rhetoric. And then came the war, ten years of it. And what, really, has been accomplished? Trillions of dollars in debt, more innocent lives lost. 

We will never forget. That was/ has been the rallying cry. But how about this: We shall always remember.

We shall always remember those who raced in to help: the firefighters, police and medical personnel.

We shall always remember the brave passengers who sent their own plane into the ground, so other lives might be saved.

We shall always remember the photographs, walls of faces, and the people searching for their loved one's name on a list, just to know. Just to gain closure, to know whether to weep or to rejoice. 

We shall always remember the voices. The love. The goodbyes never spoken-- and the goodbyes never to be forgotten.

But what of forgiveness? Have we forgiven?  Can we, this weekend, even in the face of renewed threats-- we knew they would come-- can we set aside our differences? Can we worship God and not country? 

We are not used to being vulnerable. And we tend not to be comfy with that. 

Fear and anger eat away hope and promise, corroding our peace, causing us to see with suspicion and distrust.

(Yet Christ taught us the need for humility. It is a lesson I, for one, am still learning. Reluctantly at times.)

Forgiving is not the same as forgetting. It is not erasing the faces of terror from our minds-- but it is learning to let go of the pain and the anger and the desire for revenge. 

It is not allowing the one who has hurt you to continue to follow you, pester you, bring out the ugly in you. 

It is not building a wall around our nation, fortifying her borders to keep "them" out so something like this never happens again. (Won't work. Never has. All a wall does is keep me in.)

It is not seeing a face of terror lurking behind every hijab.  

Forgiveness is allowing the love of Christ to remain in your life, even after you have risen from your knees, dusted off and walked out the door of your house of worship and back into your Monday through Friday world. 

http://www.facebook.com/911walks

One way to remember. One way to forgive. One way to make a small difference, which is infinitely better than no difference at all. One way to get to know someone who might be different from you, but still loves her husband, still plays with his child-- still bleeds when cut, still weeps in mourning.

One small step for each person. One giant leap for all of humankind.  

Community

The rabble with them began to crave other food, and again the Israelites started wailing and said, “If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish we ate in Egypt at no cost—also the cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions and garlic. But now we have lost our appetite; we never see anything but this manna!”  --Number 11:4-6

I have been thinking a lot today about how we live (or do not live) in community. Such a simple word. Basic parts broken down mean, simply, "with (or in) unity." How do we manage to make it so hard?

Geese in migration instinctively know to trade off who is in charge. No elections, no bloody coups. When the one at the front gets tired, another steps up. Simple as that. And meanwhile, all that honking from the peanut gallery? It may sound like heckling to us, but to the geese out in front, it sounds more like the cheering that goes up when Ohio State scores over Michigan.

Watch any pair of primates in the zoo. They lovingly groom one another, reaching the spot r-i-i-i-g-h-t >there< where it's so hard to reach. No big deal, it seems. It's just what they do. Part of being in community. Living together. Caring for one another.

And of course, there are the elephants. We watched the female elephants, five of them, move from one enclosure to another at our zoo. The humans started the movement, but the alpha elephant, if that is what she would be called, takes over.

The five all trot into the area, and they circle up-- bum to bum, trunks high in the air. The alpha trumpets, fills the air with the sound, and the five look around, making sure this new space is safe.

The keeper tells us that if there were a baby elephant in the herd, it would be safe in the center of the circle, and every female in the herd would look out for it as if it were her own.

Ad when the alpha determines that all is well, she calls again, and the trunks come down, the tension in the air lifts and each elephant goes about her business, eating, drinking-- whatever.

Looking out for Number One? Not in that herd. 

Those Israelites didn't realize how good they had it. They were safe, freed from the hard labor of their days as slaves to the Egyptians-- and all they could do was whine about the menu. "Manna-- again?" (Anyone besides me hear their mother reminding them that there are starving children in Biafra [or Somalia or Cleveland] who would be thrilled to have that manna, young lady? She was right, you know.)

It seems no matter how well off we are, it is never good enough. Always, we are seeking greener pastures. And if that greener pasture is someone else's yard-- stinks for them, because it won't be their yard for long.

Oh, I know I am a hopeless idealist here, that there is plenty of violence and dysfunction in nature. But somehow, overall, it just seems like those God left us in charge of, gave us dominion over, could teach us so much about life if we just stopped and watched.

Weeds.

“When an evil spirit comes out of a man, it goes through arid places seeking rest and does not find it. Then it says, ‘I will return to the house I left.’ When it arrives, it finds the house unoccupied, swept clean and put in order. Then it goes and takes with it seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they go in and live there. And the final condition of that man is worse than the first."--Matthew 12:43-45a


My garden and I do not have a good relationship. Maybe this is because it isn't really my garden. My sweetie was the gardener; I applauded the flowers and put up the produce. 

Now it's all mine.


My "method," it seems, is to walk past it, day after day, notice as the vines begin to choke the butterfly bush and boldly extend its tendrils across the front steps to the other side. I curse those vines under my breath and vow to, "Deal with you later, Bucko!"


And off I go. And while I am gone, the weeds titter and giggle behind their thorny leaves, plotting their next attack.


Tuesday last, my daughter and I donned our leather gloves and went at it. We were on the offensive, grabbing armful after armful of vines and weeds, thistles and mint. (Hey, at least you smell better after yanking out lemon balm!)


A flock of goldfinches flew overhead, tweeting and chirping, reminding us how much they love the cone flowers, and please don't yank those!


Swallowtails and monarchs thanked us for freeing up the butterfly bushes.


And when we finished, five large bags of yard waste later, it looked pretty darned nice, especially after a couple hours when the plants had a chance to realize what had happened. Free at last! Free at last! 


Yeah, that was Tuesday. Give it a week, and I will again be glancing at the creeping intruders, cursing not so quietly under my breath, waiting for that first freeze of winter. 


What I really need to do is set aside regular time for gardening, time to be quiet, sit amidst the plants and gently, carefully-- deliberately keep the weeds in check. My helter skelter approach cannot possibly get them all, and my procrastination only allows those unpleasant things to make themselves at home.


So it is with our spiritual health, I believe. Jesus warns us about cleaning house but failing to maintain it afterward. Just as weeds keep returning to my garden whenever my back is turned, so, too, can unwelcome thoughts and old bad habits return if we do not make a conscious effort to keep our spiritual house in order.


How's the prayer life? Do you make time to just sit alone with God, cultivating that which brings God pleasure? Do you make time to worship God-- alone and in community? (Lemme tell you, weeding was much more fun with my daughter. . . .)


I really dislike gardening. That probably will not change. And sometimes-- tending my spiritual garden (my "soul patch"?) can seem equally tedious. But if I am intent on keeping down the underbrush, avoiding prickle bushes in my walk, I need to keep at it. Every day. Because going at it with a machete ; ) doesn't really have the lasting effect a little day-to-day nurturing and pruning does.