"Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. " -No Man Is An Island, John Donne
"And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his lungs the breath of life; and man became a living being." -Genesis 2:7
I am daily thankful for parents who chose to name me Martin. Why? Because my dad, a white man, grew up in Alabama in the 1960's and wanted to name his son after his hero, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. And I've spent most of my adult life trying to live up to that legacy.
And I'd like to tell you about my brothers and sisters Dr. King introduced me to.
Some of them are rioting. Some are protesting. Some are remaining in their homes for safety. Some are policing. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some are white. Some are black. Some live in Baltimore. Some life in Nepal. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some have lots of money. Some have none. Some have nice homes. Some have no homes. Some have nice cars. Some have no cars. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some are men. Some are women. Some are straight. Some are gay. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some have ten thousand things to say and every outlet to be heard. Some have ten thousand things to say and have spent their entire lives feeling the weight of having no voice. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some have access to private schools and college education. Some languish in underfunded public schools with teachers stretched too thin. Some dropped out of school as soon as they could. Some work hard. Some have given up. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some are progressives. Some are conservatives. Some watch Fox News. Some watch CNN. Some want peace. Some want violence. Some want justice. Some want chaos. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some agree with me. Some disagree with me. Some love me. Some hate me. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some feel the burden of oppression. Some feel the freedom of opportunity. Some are living the dream. Some haven't been able to dream for years. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some praise America for its opportunities. Some lament America for its empty promises. Some espouse the power of personal choice. And some feel as though they've never had a choice. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some fight for love. Some fight for hate. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some are angry. Some are joyful. Some are optimistic. Some are cynical. Some are hopeful. Some are hopeless. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some are Christians. Some are Muslims. Some are atheists. Some are Buddhists. Some are Jews. Some aren't sure. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some see the future and the possibilities it holds. Some see the future and fear the failures that seem inevitable. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some have scored 36 on the ACT. Some can't read the newspaper. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some are Bloods. Some are Crips. Some are cops. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some have parents who were with them at every turn, surrounding them in love. Some never knew their parents and raised themselves. Some have one parent who struggled every day simply to feed their children as they grew up themselves. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some are "thugs." Some are "sluts." Some are "saints." Some are "bigots." Some are "nerds." Some are "criminals." But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
Some speak English. Some speak Spanish. Some speak Mandarin. Some speak Arabic. Some can't speak at all. But they are my brothers and they are my sisters.
You are my brother. You are my sister. The breath that God breathed into me to fill my lungs with life is the same breath God breathed into yours. The hands that hold you close are the same hands that hold me close. The love God pours out on you is the same love God pours out on me. The God who forgives your transgressions is the same God who forgives mine. The God who mourns with my pain and hears my cries is the same God who mourns with your pain and hears your cries.
I see race. I see gender. I see sexuality. I see age. I am not blind.
We are different, you and I. But when we learn to see one another as brothers and sisters, when we recognize that the pain of our neighbors is our pain, when we recognize that the image of God reflected in me is the same image reflected in my neighbor is the time that we can begin to move forward. We must begin to recognize that "they" are the same as "us." That's when we can begin to paint a new family portrait.
I'm not there yet. The limits of love are still too vast for me to comprehend, and my cup is still too small for its limitless bounds. But love is not something we can do alone. Love, by its nature, requires people together. It can't be done alone. I beg forgiveness for the ways in which I draw the lines of love too small and the boundaries of grace too thin. I beg forgiveness for the ways I fail to recognize my brothers and my sisters as family. I beg forgiveness for the times I've failed to fight for my brother and the times I've failed to fight for my sister.
May we learn to recognize our brothers and sisters as that. May we learn to see past the labels and titles we stick on people. May we learn to hear the yearnings for justice and peace and love from our brothers and sisters who have felt muted at every turn. May we learn to see through the immediate to the deeper realities our world faces. May we learn to feel our brother's pain and our sister's pain as our own and may our souls yearn for every one of our family to know life and life to the fullest. May we join hands with all of our brothers and sisters to help usher in the fullness of God's kingdom in the world. May we get our hands dirty in the sweat of that work. And may we learn to hear God's voice in the depths of our souls, silent as it may be, in the fire and in the screams and in the groans of our brothers and sisters.
forever unfinished...
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Sunday, April 19, 2015
A.A. (and How I Learned to Ask for Help)...
"Moses' father-in-law said to him, 'What you are doing is not good. You will surely wear yourself out, both you and these people with you. For the task is too heave for you; you cannot do it alone."
-Exodus 18:17-18
"You breathed infinity into my world and time was lost up in a cloud and in a whirl" -Missy Higgins, They Weren't There
I'm a pretty independent person. Asking for help is about as exciting to me as trying to pick a golf ball out of a jar full of scorpions. You get the idea. I'd much rather fail doing it my way than have someone else show me an easier way. I suppose I get this from my dad, Mr. Stubborn Pride himself.
I went to my first open Alcoholics Anonymous meeting last week. It was an eye opening experience, and one I won't soon forget. Before many of you ask, no, I am not an alcoholic. I've never been drunk in my life. But I did have to attend a meeting for my pastoral care class this semester in an effort to get a better glimpse of how to offer support for someone in the midst of addiction.
My experience was transformative to say the least. If you've never been to an AA meeting, everyone introduces themselves as such, "Hi, I'm (insert first name here). I'm an alcoholic." And then everyone else in the room says, "Hi, so and so."
The meeting I went to was very simple. I walked in just as it started and sat in the corner trying to be lost in the wallpaper. They read the rules and principles of AA and recognized sobriety checkpoints. And then someone read a short devotion about self-pity, and everyone in the room shared a reflection after introducing themselves. And all the while, they claimed their battles and their struggles and pulled one another up.
These men and women needed help. That's why they were there. They're fighting a battle every day and every day they need somebody else to walk that battle with them. But I couldn't help but think, while I was sitting there in the corner, how painful it must be the first time each of them had to acknowledge that struggle.
"I'm so and so, and I'm an alcoholic."
Admitting that struggle sounds so much like defeat in my ears. Admitting that I'm in pain or hurting or that everything's not right is hard. Maybe it feels that way for everyone. But these men and women around the circle had come to a very important realization. If they were going to get better, they had to admit their struggles and failures and admit their pain.
But in the midst of that, they were surrounded by a room of others who had made that very same admission. They were surrounded by a room full of people who had been where they were and wanted to see them get better. Even as someone who wasn't an addict, when I noted that I was a first-time attendee, three different men came up to me afterwards to let me know they wished I'd come back.
It's amazing what can happen when everyone starts from the same place, admitting that they have limitations and brokenness and imperfections. When we all start at that place, we don't have to hold up masks or prepare a face for others to see, because we're all in that place. We all need help. Sometimes asking for it is the hardest part.
It's been a really hard semester for me. My classes at Brite, while no more than the course load I've managed any other semester, have felt like a never-ending mountain of reading and writing, a pit from which I couldn't climb out. Work at the church has been chaotic with different people in and out for different reasons. I hadn't been able to sleep through a full night in months. I've spent the whole time training for a marathon, a training that was extended by a month and a half because the first race was cancelled due to ice. In Texas! And on top of training, I spent Lent fasting from sunrise to sunset every day except Sunday (an incredibly fruitful discipline, but one not recommended for marathon training.)
And about mid-way through February, my body finally started to crack. I was exhausted and couldn't muster the energy to do much of anything. I'd get home and head straight to the couch and want to fall asleep. My teenagers and coworkers at the church were getting a shell of a youth minister. I was trying my best to keep up with school work, but as much time as I invested, it was barely more effort than a glance. I'd push phone calls to voicemail because the idea of answering seemed too much. I couldn't even muster the energy to spend time with an amazing girl because all I could imagine was trying to rest and regain some energy and life.
It was like I was sleepwalking through the day, like I was watching the time pass slowly, very aware that I wasn't engaged, but unable to do anything about it. My conversations were shallow. I couldn't find time for the people I love the most. Every fiber of my body was exhausted and I couldn't get interested in anything.
So I did something I've never been able to bring myself to do. I went to see a counselor. Because I needed help. "Help me." The two words I hate saying more than any others. When I got to the waiting room of the TCU Counseling Center there were other people waiting. Imagine that, I wasn't alone!
So we talked, the counselor and I. And everything didn't get instantly better. I asked her if I had depression, because at least that would have given me a word to describe what was going on. But she didn't have any medical diagnosis for me, unless "extreme overwhelmed busyness" is in the medical dictionary now. But it was the first hint that I was able to recognize that I needed some help. That things weren't the way they were supposed to be. And she listened to me share it. She carried it with me for a little while.
It's a lot like the story of Moses and his father-in-law Jethro. The Isrealites had just been set free from slavery in Egypt and had passed through a parted sea. They'd arrived at the mountain of God and had set up camp, waiting for direction on where to go next. But as people sometimes do when they have to wait for the next thing, they started to get a little whiny. While they wondered in the desert, disputes and fights came up among the people. That'll tend to happen when people have to wait together for a long while.
So Moses was put in charge of judging between all of the disputes. ALL of them. After all, he was the one who had brought down all the plagues and led them out of Egypt. If anyone was qualified, wasn't it him?
But when Jethro arrived to see the camp and his son-in-law, he didn't see a strong leader ordering others from authority. He saw a man beat down by the weight of expectations placed all around him. Everything was expected of him. Every responsibility was his. He was worn down and worn thin. He wasn't going to last much longer.
So Jethro gives it to him straight. "You need help! The big things? Sure, you need to take care of those. But everything else? Find other capable leaders to help you. You can't do it all alone." Wise words.
Earlier this week, something happened that made me realize that things had gotten too far out of whack. Something happened that made me see that the most important things in my life were getting lost in the exhaustion. I'd been trying for months to explain to myself what this numbness was that I was feeling, and I still couldn't put words to it. But I knew I had to wake up. And earlier this week I had my Jethro experience.
I wasn't myself. It's not that people weren't getting "the best Martin." They were barely getting any Martin at all. So I decided to push myself into doing the things that I love, the things that give me life. I found friends to grab lunch with after class. I found another friend to grab dinner with. I found someone else to throw a frisbee with. I apologized for the ways I'd let so much get out of balance before asking for help and the ways that it had affected others, particularly those closest to me. I got out in the sun and let it wash over me. As my friend Will says, "Sometimes we have to hit rock bottom so we can have something to bounce back up from."
What I learned sitting in that A.A. meeting was that we all need help. What makes A.A. so successful is that asking for help is the price of admission. No one is fooling anyone else, because if you are, you're in the wrong place. I wish I was better at asking for help and admitting the places in my own life where I need others. I wish I was that brave. And hopefully one day I will be.
So may you be like Moses and learn to ask for help. And may you find a Jethro in your life to tell you when you need a hand before you get too far gone. If you're battling an addiction or a mental health struggle, know you're not alone and there are people around who will walk with you. Know that we've all got our own struggles. Know that we all need help in our unique ways. And may you know that just as God did not forget Moses and the Israelites in their journey through the desert, God will not forget you. Sometimes all we need to do is ask for a little helping hand.
forever unfinished...
-Exodus 18:17-18
"You breathed infinity into my world and time was lost up in a cloud and in a whirl" -Missy Higgins, They Weren't There
I'm a pretty independent person. Asking for help is about as exciting to me as trying to pick a golf ball out of a jar full of scorpions. You get the idea. I'd much rather fail doing it my way than have someone else show me an easier way. I suppose I get this from my dad, Mr. Stubborn Pride himself.
I went to my first open Alcoholics Anonymous meeting last week. It was an eye opening experience, and one I won't soon forget. Before many of you ask, no, I am not an alcoholic. I've never been drunk in my life. But I did have to attend a meeting for my pastoral care class this semester in an effort to get a better glimpse of how to offer support for someone in the midst of addiction.
My experience was transformative to say the least. If you've never been to an AA meeting, everyone introduces themselves as such, "Hi, I'm (insert first name here). I'm an alcoholic." And then everyone else in the room says, "Hi, so and so."
The meeting I went to was very simple. I walked in just as it started and sat in the corner trying to be lost in the wallpaper. They read the rules and principles of AA and recognized sobriety checkpoints. And then someone read a short devotion about self-pity, and everyone in the room shared a reflection after introducing themselves. And all the while, they claimed their battles and their struggles and pulled one another up.
These men and women needed help. That's why they were there. They're fighting a battle every day and every day they need somebody else to walk that battle with them. But I couldn't help but think, while I was sitting there in the corner, how painful it must be the first time each of them had to acknowledge that struggle.
"I'm so and so, and I'm an alcoholic."
Admitting that struggle sounds so much like defeat in my ears. Admitting that I'm in pain or hurting or that everything's not right is hard. Maybe it feels that way for everyone. But these men and women around the circle had come to a very important realization. If they were going to get better, they had to admit their struggles and failures and admit their pain.
But in the midst of that, they were surrounded by a room of others who had made that very same admission. They were surrounded by a room full of people who had been where they were and wanted to see them get better. Even as someone who wasn't an addict, when I noted that I was a first-time attendee, three different men came up to me afterwards to let me know they wished I'd come back.
It's amazing what can happen when everyone starts from the same place, admitting that they have limitations and brokenness and imperfections. When we all start at that place, we don't have to hold up masks or prepare a face for others to see, because we're all in that place. We all need help. Sometimes asking for it is the hardest part.
It's been a really hard semester for me. My classes at Brite, while no more than the course load I've managed any other semester, have felt like a never-ending mountain of reading and writing, a pit from which I couldn't climb out. Work at the church has been chaotic with different people in and out for different reasons. I hadn't been able to sleep through a full night in months. I've spent the whole time training for a marathon, a training that was extended by a month and a half because the first race was cancelled due to ice. In Texas! And on top of training, I spent Lent fasting from sunrise to sunset every day except Sunday (an incredibly fruitful discipline, but one not recommended for marathon training.)
And about mid-way through February, my body finally started to crack. I was exhausted and couldn't muster the energy to do much of anything. I'd get home and head straight to the couch and want to fall asleep. My teenagers and coworkers at the church were getting a shell of a youth minister. I was trying my best to keep up with school work, but as much time as I invested, it was barely more effort than a glance. I'd push phone calls to voicemail because the idea of answering seemed too much. I couldn't even muster the energy to spend time with an amazing girl because all I could imagine was trying to rest and regain some energy and life.
It was like I was sleepwalking through the day, like I was watching the time pass slowly, very aware that I wasn't engaged, but unable to do anything about it. My conversations were shallow. I couldn't find time for the people I love the most. Every fiber of my body was exhausted and I couldn't get interested in anything.
So I did something I've never been able to bring myself to do. I went to see a counselor. Because I needed help. "Help me." The two words I hate saying more than any others. When I got to the waiting room of the TCU Counseling Center there were other people waiting. Imagine that, I wasn't alone!
So we talked, the counselor and I. And everything didn't get instantly better. I asked her if I had depression, because at least that would have given me a word to describe what was going on. But she didn't have any medical diagnosis for me, unless "extreme overwhelmed busyness" is in the medical dictionary now. But it was the first hint that I was able to recognize that I needed some help. That things weren't the way they were supposed to be. And she listened to me share it. She carried it with me for a little while.
It's a lot like the story of Moses and his father-in-law Jethro. The Isrealites had just been set free from slavery in Egypt and had passed through a parted sea. They'd arrived at the mountain of God and had set up camp, waiting for direction on where to go next. But as people sometimes do when they have to wait for the next thing, they started to get a little whiny. While they wondered in the desert, disputes and fights came up among the people. That'll tend to happen when people have to wait together for a long while.
So Moses was put in charge of judging between all of the disputes. ALL of them. After all, he was the one who had brought down all the plagues and led them out of Egypt. If anyone was qualified, wasn't it him?
But when Jethro arrived to see the camp and his son-in-law, he didn't see a strong leader ordering others from authority. He saw a man beat down by the weight of expectations placed all around him. Everything was expected of him. Every responsibility was his. He was worn down and worn thin. He wasn't going to last much longer.
So Jethro gives it to him straight. "You need help! The big things? Sure, you need to take care of those. But everything else? Find other capable leaders to help you. You can't do it all alone." Wise words.
Earlier this week, something happened that made me realize that things had gotten too far out of whack. Something happened that made me see that the most important things in my life were getting lost in the exhaustion. I'd been trying for months to explain to myself what this numbness was that I was feeling, and I still couldn't put words to it. But I knew I had to wake up. And earlier this week I had my Jethro experience.
I wasn't myself. It's not that people weren't getting "the best Martin." They were barely getting any Martin at all. So I decided to push myself into doing the things that I love, the things that give me life. I found friends to grab lunch with after class. I found another friend to grab dinner with. I found someone else to throw a frisbee with. I apologized for the ways I'd let so much get out of balance before asking for help and the ways that it had affected others, particularly those closest to me. I got out in the sun and let it wash over me. As my friend Will says, "Sometimes we have to hit rock bottom so we can have something to bounce back up from."
What I learned sitting in that A.A. meeting was that we all need help. What makes A.A. so successful is that asking for help is the price of admission. No one is fooling anyone else, because if you are, you're in the wrong place. I wish I was better at asking for help and admitting the places in my own life where I need others. I wish I was that brave. And hopefully one day I will be.
So may you be like Moses and learn to ask for help. And may you find a Jethro in your life to tell you when you need a hand before you get too far gone. If you're battling an addiction or a mental health struggle, know you're not alone and there are people around who will walk with you. Know that we've all got our own struggles. Know that we all need help in our unique ways. And may you know that just as God did not forget Moses and the Israelites in their journey through the desert, God will not forget you. Sometimes all we need to do is ask for a little helping hand.
forever unfinished...
Friday, April 17, 2015
High Dives...
"You squeeze my hand. I know you're nervous. But I will be waiting, ready for you, to let go." -Andrew Allen, Let Go
"Because that's what people do. They leap, and hope to God they can fly. Because otherwise, we just drop like a rock, wondering the whole way down, 'Why in the hell did I jump?'"- Hitch, Hitch
"Come, follow me..." -Mark 1:17
When I was a youngin growing up in Santa Rosa, I attended YMCA summer camps. Every week we'd go to the Ridgeway community pool. The first day of every session of camp we'd all have to go to the medium-depth pool and take a swimming test to make sure we didn't get in a pool that we would drown in. I'm sure you've seen these tests. If a kid can't swim at all, he or she has to stay in the pool where water doesn't come above the head.
However, if a kid was a swimming ace, he or she could go all the way to the pool with the diving boards. There were two regular diving boards. And then there was a high dive. And you better believe I passed my swimming test with flying colors so I'd be able to jump off the high dive.
I had images in my head of the greatest jump the world had ever seen. I had no fear. After all, I was the kid who would take his bike down the steps and climbed to the top of the monkey bars. And I was going to get to the top of that high dive and do the greatest double flip in the history of double flips.
So, with my newly attached bracelet indicating that I had permission to take on the big pool, I strode with chest puffed out to the line for the high dive. I was one of the only people in line, so it didn't take long at all to get to where I was the next person in line.
And then the moment arrived: it was time for me to scale that ladder and become the talk of the pool.
I stepped up on the first step and thought, "Everyone must be looking at me climb this thing. They must know that I'm about to do the most impressive thing they've ever seen." I was a regular eight-year-old Evel Knievel.
But then I hit the fifth step and that puffed out chest began to regain its sunken in shape. At the seventh step panic began to set in. I was twice as high as I was tall, and there was still one or two more steps before I reached the board. Regardless, I pushed on and reached the top. My moment had arrived.
Except, once I reached the summit, I'd become terrified. It was SO much higher from the top of the board than it was down at the bottom. I couldn't jump from that high. I certainly couldn't do a double flip. So many things could go wrong. What if I landed on my head? Or on my back and felt the loudest SPLAT of agony the pool had ever known?
I was panicked. But a new problem emerged. The next kid who wanted to jump had started scaling the stairs and was just waiting for me to jump. I couldn't go back! I couldn't quit! It was time for someone to prepare the body bag and tell Mom I loved her.
So I did the one thing I could. I ran. From one end of the board to the other. And when I reached the end of the board I just leapt. There was no hop to get a little spring under me. There was no tucking my head in to make sure I rotated as much as I needed. I just leapt. As far and as quickly as I could so that I couldn't think about it.
I think that's kind of how love works.
There's a stage where you're waiting to climb the steps and you're full of giddiness at the world of possibilities. There's going to be a double flip and everything is exciting. And then you step onto the ladder and those dreams start to feel real. The rush is almost too much. You want to get to the top of the steps as fast as you can.
And then something happens. You realize how high you've gotten and the full extent of the situation begins to take hold. Oh, the rush is still there. There's still an exhilaration. But it's no longer safe. You're up on a platform where anything could happen. And that's a scary proposition.
And then there's a moment of decision. You could turn around, slowly walk down the steps and decide that the jump is just too big. And there's nothing wrong with that! Sometimes the wisest decision is to walk away from something that we realize isn't right or is too big for us.
But maybe, just maybe, we decide to jump! And it's as scary as you could imagine. And there's a rush of exhilaration that can't be matched. And the double flip you had imagined spinning to the awe of everyone watching turns into a sloppy, uncoordinated fall. And maybe you're going to land with a smack on your belly. But you know, in that moment, that you'd rather risk that thud and utter disaster than not jump at all.
I recently told the first person in my life that I thought they were the person I wanted to marry. Talk about a plunge off of the high dive! That's like... TERRIFYING! And... EXHILARATING! And it's risky! It's the kind of thing that takes the floatees and the parachutes off. It's a moment where you leap from the board unsure whether you'll land with absolute celebration or utter agony.
But you know that you have to leap, because even the thought of landing with a splat is more appealing than walking away from that possibility that it might be great, climbing down the stairs never taking the plunge, letting fear get in the way of what might be the greatest story of your life!
That girl and I recently broke up. And, as you might expect, it felt like a bellyflop from 20 feet. And yet, that's the risk of love. At some point, it can't stay safe. At some point, you realize you have to give up the safety of the diving board for the uncertainty of the drop. You have to jump two feet in and hope for the best, even with the possibility of abject failure.
I think God loves like this! God's love seems like the ultimate kind of high-dive-enthusiast love. Like a father who lets his younger son run off with his inheritance just hoping one day he'll come back. God's love for us is risky, and God seems to get rejected all the time.
Judges is one of my favorite books of the bible because it's just a story of God's people constantly falling away and worshipping others, only to come crawling back to have God forgive them. And God does! Every time! Even at the risk that they will leave again down the road. That's a God who isn't afraid to bellyflop over and over again to show us love.
Later, in one of Jesus' parables, he describes God as the Good Shepherd, the shepherd who would leave 99 sheep behind to go find the one that got lost. That's SO impractical! That makes NO sense! But that is irrational love. That's a God who would jump off a high dive!
And I can't help but think about the stories of people who left everything to follow where God was leading. I'm sure when Moses started heading back to Egypt with a staff and a promise he was fairly exhilarated and definitely scared (he'd just seen a bush on fire that wasn't burning and heard the voice of God!!), but I wonder, as he got closer and closer to Pharaoh's palace, if he ever thought about turning back. If he ever thought about climbing down the steps and just heading home.
Or the disciples. There must have been something incredibly exciting about being fishermen who were suddenly asked to follow a rabbi. They dropped their nets and followed immediately. But at some point, they must've asked themselves, "What have we gotten ourselves into?! People want us dead!" And yet, that is the risk of love, and they transformed the world.
Love is a risky thing. It is full of highs and lows and ups and downs and celebrations and heartbreaks. But it can't be safe. At some point, for love to take root, it has to let go of the platform underneath it's feet and trust the fall without any guarantee that the landing will be a smooth one.
So may you learn to jump and not climb down. May you learn to risk the chance that love could lead you places you never meant to go. May that love fill you with hope and exhilaration and joy and the dreams of a double flip or the greatest cannonball the world's ever seen. And may you know that you are surrounded by the love of a God who is taking the plunge every day, risking rejection over and over to draw us into the fullness of our belovedness. And if we bellyflop, know that God will still be there clapping when we come back up to the surface.
forever unfinished...
"Because that's what people do. They leap, and hope to God they can fly. Because otherwise, we just drop like a rock, wondering the whole way down, 'Why in the hell did I jump?'"- Hitch, Hitch
"Come, follow me..." -Mark 1:17
When I was a youngin growing up in Santa Rosa, I attended YMCA summer camps. Every week we'd go to the Ridgeway community pool. The first day of every session of camp we'd all have to go to the medium-depth pool and take a swimming test to make sure we didn't get in a pool that we would drown in. I'm sure you've seen these tests. If a kid can't swim at all, he or she has to stay in the pool where water doesn't come above the head.
However, if a kid was a swimming ace, he or she could go all the way to the pool with the diving boards. There were two regular diving boards. And then there was a high dive. And you better believe I passed my swimming test with flying colors so I'd be able to jump off the high dive.
I had images in my head of the greatest jump the world had ever seen. I had no fear. After all, I was the kid who would take his bike down the steps and climbed to the top of the monkey bars. And I was going to get to the top of that high dive and do the greatest double flip in the history of double flips.
So, with my newly attached bracelet indicating that I had permission to take on the big pool, I strode with chest puffed out to the line for the high dive. I was one of the only people in line, so it didn't take long at all to get to where I was the next person in line.
And then the moment arrived: it was time for me to scale that ladder and become the talk of the pool.
I stepped up on the first step and thought, "Everyone must be looking at me climb this thing. They must know that I'm about to do the most impressive thing they've ever seen." I was a regular eight-year-old Evel Knievel.
But then I hit the fifth step and that puffed out chest began to regain its sunken in shape. At the seventh step panic began to set in. I was twice as high as I was tall, and there was still one or two more steps before I reached the board. Regardless, I pushed on and reached the top. My moment had arrived.
Except, once I reached the summit, I'd become terrified. It was SO much higher from the top of the board than it was down at the bottom. I couldn't jump from that high. I certainly couldn't do a double flip. So many things could go wrong. What if I landed on my head? Or on my back and felt the loudest SPLAT of agony the pool had ever known?
I was panicked. But a new problem emerged. The next kid who wanted to jump had started scaling the stairs and was just waiting for me to jump. I couldn't go back! I couldn't quit! It was time for someone to prepare the body bag and tell Mom I loved her.
So I did the one thing I could. I ran. From one end of the board to the other. And when I reached the end of the board I just leapt. There was no hop to get a little spring under me. There was no tucking my head in to make sure I rotated as much as I needed. I just leapt. As far and as quickly as I could so that I couldn't think about it.
I think that's kind of how love works.
There's a stage where you're waiting to climb the steps and you're full of giddiness at the world of possibilities. There's going to be a double flip and everything is exciting. And then you step onto the ladder and those dreams start to feel real. The rush is almost too much. You want to get to the top of the steps as fast as you can.
And then something happens. You realize how high you've gotten and the full extent of the situation begins to take hold. Oh, the rush is still there. There's still an exhilaration. But it's no longer safe. You're up on a platform where anything could happen. And that's a scary proposition.
And then there's a moment of decision. You could turn around, slowly walk down the steps and decide that the jump is just too big. And there's nothing wrong with that! Sometimes the wisest decision is to walk away from something that we realize isn't right or is too big for us.
But maybe, just maybe, we decide to jump! And it's as scary as you could imagine. And there's a rush of exhilaration that can't be matched. And the double flip you had imagined spinning to the awe of everyone watching turns into a sloppy, uncoordinated fall. And maybe you're going to land with a smack on your belly. But you know, in that moment, that you'd rather risk that thud and utter disaster than not jump at all.
I recently told the first person in my life that I thought they were the person I wanted to marry. Talk about a plunge off of the high dive! That's like... TERRIFYING! And... EXHILARATING! And it's risky! It's the kind of thing that takes the floatees and the parachutes off. It's a moment where you leap from the board unsure whether you'll land with absolute celebration or utter agony.
But you know that you have to leap, because even the thought of landing with a splat is more appealing than walking away from that possibility that it might be great, climbing down the stairs never taking the plunge, letting fear get in the way of what might be the greatest story of your life!
That girl and I recently broke up. And, as you might expect, it felt like a bellyflop from 20 feet. And yet, that's the risk of love. At some point, it can't stay safe. At some point, you realize you have to give up the safety of the diving board for the uncertainty of the drop. You have to jump two feet in and hope for the best, even with the possibility of abject failure.
I think God loves like this! God's love seems like the ultimate kind of high-dive-enthusiast love. Like a father who lets his younger son run off with his inheritance just hoping one day he'll come back. God's love for us is risky, and God seems to get rejected all the time.
Judges is one of my favorite books of the bible because it's just a story of God's people constantly falling away and worshipping others, only to come crawling back to have God forgive them. And God does! Every time! Even at the risk that they will leave again down the road. That's a God who isn't afraid to bellyflop over and over again to show us love.
Later, in one of Jesus' parables, he describes God as the Good Shepherd, the shepherd who would leave 99 sheep behind to go find the one that got lost. That's SO impractical! That makes NO sense! But that is irrational love. That's a God who would jump off a high dive!
And I can't help but think about the stories of people who left everything to follow where God was leading. I'm sure when Moses started heading back to Egypt with a staff and a promise he was fairly exhilarated and definitely scared (he'd just seen a bush on fire that wasn't burning and heard the voice of God!!), but I wonder, as he got closer and closer to Pharaoh's palace, if he ever thought about turning back. If he ever thought about climbing down the steps and just heading home.
Or the disciples. There must have been something incredibly exciting about being fishermen who were suddenly asked to follow a rabbi. They dropped their nets and followed immediately. But at some point, they must've asked themselves, "What have we gotten ourselves into?! People want us dead!" And yet, that is the risk of love, and they transformed the world.
Love is a risky thing. It is full of highs and lows and ups and downs and celebrations and heartbreaks. But it can't be safe. At some point, for love to take root, it has to let go of the platform underneath it's feet and trust the fall without any guarantee that the landing will be a smooth one.
So may you learn to jump and not climb down. May you learn to risk the chance that love could lead you places you never meant to go. May that love fill you with hope and exhilaration and joy and the dreams of a double flip or the greatest cannonball the world's ever seen. And may you know that you are surrounded by the love of a God who is taking the plunge every day, risking rejection over and over to draw us into the fullness of our belovedness. And if we bellyflop, know that God will still be there clapping when we come back up to the surface.
forever unfinished...
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Texas?!?!...
"Now the Lord said to Abram, 'Go from your country and your kindred and your father's house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great so that you will be a blessing...' So Abram went" -Genesis 12:1-4
"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." -The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
Big decisions are tough. Especially when you're choosing between good options.
When I realized that my time had come to leave Greenville and Berea Friendship UMC, the little church that raised me in youth ministry, I made a deal with God (disclaimer: don't do that. You'll ALWAYS lose.) But I bargained with God, and I said that I would go wherever God sent me. I'd go to Washington. I'd go to South Dakota. I'd go to Maine. Heck, I'd go to Malaysia. I'd go ANYWHERE.
Except Texas!
I gave God 99.98% of the map to work with as long as he didn't send me to Texas. Oklahoma? Great! Louisiana? Wonderful! Mississippi? Wouldn't be thrilled, but I'll take it. I just didn't want to go to Texas.
Why? There's no good reason I suppose. I just got a vibe that said, Martin+Lone Star State=Two Cans of Refried Beans in a small tent on a hot night (i.e. not good.)
So I started looking for new places. I said, "God, I know my time here in Greenville is up, so let me know where the next step should be and I'll go there." And the answer became Washington, D.C. and I was ecstatic. I was offered admission and full-tuition to Wesley Theological Seminary to study youth ministry while getting to actually work in a church with teenagers. In a city I loved. It was perfect.
Then one night as I was telling a small group of neighborhood guys I met with about D.C., one of the guys asked me if I'd been praying about it. "Well," I thought, "I made a bargain with God a while back, and this seems perfect." But no, once the acceptance had come through, I'd never stopped to ask if this was the right thing, the place on the map where I was supposed to go. So that night I went out to the golf course at Furman and found a green with an open view of the night sky, and I started praying. "God," I said, "this situation in Washington sounds perfect, and I'm pretty positive it has to be the right spot. But if for some reason it's not, let me know and we'll keep looking."
I never should have done that.
The next day around noon, I got a letter from the director of admission at Wesley that said something to the effect of "we'd still love to have you, but your scholarship is not going to be the same because the youth ministry program had to be put on hold because some things fell through." I was floored! This had been the answer. The plan was set. But God had other things in mind.
Later that day, I got an e-mail from an old friend in Nashville telling me about a youth ministry job in Fort Worth, Texas. TEXAS!! He didn't know what my plans were, but he thought it'd be a great fit for me and that I should pursue it.
Well, needless to say, the tables had turned. The great plan to go to Washington and be the world's greatest youth minister were frozen. And the one place on the map I had promised I'd never let God move me? Well, I called the church. And within two weeks I was in Fort Worth for an interview. And a week later I'd taken the job. The job in Texas.
God's made lots of promises through history. But rarely, if ever, has God done what those who were following expected. The Jews were looking for a king to end the reign of Rome over their land. And God sent a carpenter. The Israelite army, facing a giant in Goliath, needed a strong warrior to stand up to him. And God sent a boy with a sling and a rock. Moses planned to live out his days herding sheep. And God sent him back to face Pharaoh and the whole of Egypt with nothing but a staff and a promise.
As a young man, I'm sure that Abram expected not much more from life than to live on his family's land and inherit what his father would leave him while he tended the sheep and take care of the crops. That's a pretty normal, reasonable, everyday expectation. But God had other ideas. So God called out to Abram and told him to leave his land and his father's house and everything he knew behind and to go to where God was leading him. Where was that exactly? God didn't say! HA! But God did say, "I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing."
God wasn't just leading Abram on a wild goose chase with no purpose. God was sending Abram to go be a blessing to everyone he met. And God was going to bless him in every step of his journey. That's not to say the road would be easy, but when Abram relented, he became the father of God's chosen people.
And I'm sure Jonah was content to stay wherever he was in Israel. In fact, I know he was. When God told Jonah to go to Ninevah to cry out against it, Jonah was so overwhelmed and so scared that he ran and got on a boat going 180 degrees in the opposite direction. But God's not through with him, so he throws up a great storm and Jonah ends up in the belly of a large fish. And in the belly of that fish Jonah realizes that even there, God has not forgotten him.
So he's released. And he goes to Ninevah and cries out. And the people change their ways. And Jonah is beside himself! If this was what was going to happen, then why didn't God just go ahead and do it without him? But that wasn't the point. God had a big plan and wanted Jonah to be a part of it! God didn't need Jonah. But Jonah needed God.
I feel like Jonah a lot. I don't always want to go where God is leading. And sometimes I don't. I run just like Jonah. Because, when I imagine it, I can see the story of my future. I can project where I'll be and who I'll be with and what I'll be doing. That's the stuff that dreams are made of right. I mean, we grow up thinking about who we're going to marry and what our job is going to be and where we're going to live (I'm still holding out for a space colony on the moon before I die.)
The problem is, throughout scripture, God over and over again takes on the job of re-writing people's futures. Abram left his home and went off to a promised land he'd never even seen. Jonah ended up in the belly of a whale and traveling to Ninevah. The disciples, simple fishermen, dropped their nets to follow a rabbi they'd only just met.
When we invite God to point our direction, we've got to recognize that the direction God chooses is likely not going to be the place he had imagined or hoped. It's probably not going to be the dream that we had imagined. It probably won't be comfortable at first. And our futures, those cherished aspirations and hopes we hold so dear, might get re-oriented.
But, I have to tell you I've never regretted letting God disrupt my plans for something much bigger than even my imagination could ever come up with. I've found tremendous friends and a deep sense of community. I've gotten to work with great people and the greatest collection of teenagers and families you could ever ask for. I'm two years into my master's degree in divinity. And all of it in Texas.
So may you leave your future unwritten and offer God the pen. May we begin ever so slightly to lose control of our destinies and open ourselves to new possibilities we've never even conceived of. May we, just like Abram, hear the promise in God's gentle whisper reminding us that the story is yet unfinished, and the chapters yet unwritten, but that the promise remains, "I will make of you a blessing so that you may be a blessing to all you meet." And may we everyday embrace that promise and experience its hope.
forever unfinished...
"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." -The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
Big decisions are tough. Especially when you're choosing between good options.
When I realized that my time had come to leave Greenville and Berea Friendship UMC, the little church that raised me in youth ministry, I made a deal with God (disclaimer: don't do that. You'll ALWAYS lose.) But I bargained with God, and I said that I would go wherever God sent me. I'd go to Washington. I'd go to South Dakota. I'd go to Maine. Heck, I'd go to Malaysia. I'd go ANYWHERE.
Except Texas!
I gave God 99.98% of the map to work with as long as he didn't send me to Texas. Oklahoma? Great! Louisiana? Wonderful! Mississippi? Wouldn't be thrilled, but I'll take it. I just didn't want to go to Texas.
Why? There's no good reason I suppose. I just got a vibe that said, Martin+Lone Star State=Two Cans of Refried Beans in a small tent on a hot night (i.e. not good.)
So I started looking for new places. I said, "God, I know my time here in Greenville is up, so let me know where the next step should be and I'll go there." And the answer became Washington, D.C. and I was ecstatic. I was offered admission and full-tuition to Wesley Theological Seminary to study youth ministry while getting to actually work in a church with teenagers. In a city I loved. It was perfect.
Then one night as I was telling a small group of neighborhood guys I met with about D.C., one of the guys asked me if I'd been praying about it. "Well," I thought, "I made a bargain with God a while back, and this seems perfect." But no, once the acceptance had come through, I'd never stopped to ask if this was the right thing, the place on the map where I was supposed to go. So that night I went out to the golf course at Furman and found a green with an open view of the night sky, and I started praying. "God," I said, "this situation in Washington sounds perfect, and I'm pretty positive it has to be the right spot. But if for some reason it's not, let me know and we'll keep looking."
I never should have done that.
The next day around noon, I got a letter from the director of admission at Wesley that said something to the effect of "we'd still love to have you, but your scholarship is not going to be the same because the youth ministry program had to be put on hold because some things fell through." I was floored! This had been the answer. The plan was set. But God had other things in mind.
Later that day, I got an e-mail from an old friend in Nashville telling me about a youth ministry job in Fort Worth, Texas. TEXAS!! He didn't know what my plans were, but he thought it'd be a great fit for me and that I should pursue it.
Well, needless to say, the tables had turned. The great plan to go to Washington and be the world's greatest youth minister were frozen. And the one place on the map I had promised I'd never let God move me? Well, I called the church. And within two weeks I was in Fort Worth for an interview. And a week later I'd taken the job. The job in Texas.
God's made lots of promises through history. But rarely, if ever, has God done what those who were following expected. The Jews were looking for a king to end the reign of Rome over their land. And God sent a carpenter. The Israelite army, facing a giant in Goliath, needed a strong warrior to stand up to him. And God sent a boy with a sling and a rock. Moses planned to live out his days herding sheep. And God sent him back to face Pharaoh and the whole of Egypt with nothing but a staff and a promise.
As a young man, I'm sure that Abram expected not much more from life than to live on his family's land and inherit what his father would leave him while he tended the sheep and take care of the crops. That's a pretty normal, reasonable, everyday expectation. But God had other ideas. So God called out to Abram and told him to leave his land and his father's house and everything he knew behind and to go to where God was leading him. Where was that exactly? God didn't say! HA! But God did say, "I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing."
God wasn't just leading Abram on a wild goose chase with no purpose. God was sending Abram to go be a blessing to everyone he met. And God was going to bless him in every step of his journey. That's not to say the road would be easy, but when Abram relented, he became the father of God's chosen people.
And I'm sure Jonah was content to stay wherever he was in Israel. In fact, I know he was. When God told Jonah to go to Ninevah to cry out against it, Jonah was so overwhelmed and so scared that he ran and got on a boat going 180 degrees in the opposite direction. But God's not through with him, so he throws up a great storm and Jonah ends up in the belly of a large fish. And in the belly of that fish Jonah realizes that even there, God has not forgotten him.
So he's released. And he goes to Ninevah and cries out. And the people change their ways. And Jonah is beside himself! If this was what was going to happen, then why didn't God just go ahead and do it without him? But that wasn't the point. God had a big plan and wanted Jonah to be a part of it! God didn't need Jonah. But Jonah needed God.
I feel like Jonah a lot. I don't always want to go where God is leading. And sometimes I don't. I run just like Jonah. Because, when I imagine it, I can see the story of my future. I can project where I'll be and who I'll be with and what I'll be doing. That's the stuff that dreams are made of right. I mean, we grow up thinking about who we're going to marry and what our job is going to be and where we're going to live (I'm still holding out for a space colony on the moon before I die.)
The problem is, throughout scripture, God over and over again takes on the job of re-writing people's futures. Abram left his home and went off to a promised land he'd never even seen. Jonah ended up in the belly of a whale and traveling to Ninevah. The disciples, simple fishermen, dropped their nets to follow a rabbi they'd only just met.
When we invite God to point our direction, we've got to recognize that the direction God chooses is likely not going to be the place he had imagined or hoped. It's probably not going to be the dream that we had imagined. It probably won't be comfortable at first. And our futures, those cherished aspirations and hopes we hold so dear, might get re-oriented.
But, I have to tell you I've never regretted letting God disrupt my plans for something much bigger than even my imagination could ever come up with. I've found tremendous friends and a deep sense of community. I've gotten to work with great people and the greatest collection of teenagers and families you could ever ask for. I'm two years into my master's degree in divinity. And all of it in Texas.
So may you leave your future unwritten and offer God the pen. May we begin ever so slightly to lose control of our destinies and open ourselves to new possibilities we've never even conceived of. May we, just like Abram, hear the promise in God's gentle whisper reminding us that the story is yet unfinished, and the chapters yet unwritten, but that the promise remains, "I will make of you a blessing so that you may be a blessing to all you meet." And may we everyday embrace that promise and experience its hope.
forever unfinished...
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Sammy...
"So much of me is made from what I've learned from you. You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart." -Wicked
"So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you." -John 16:22
I love the book Atonement. All the 26-year-old grandma jokes aside, I had to read it my freshman year at Furman and was instantly drawn in. I couldn't put it down. I wanted to know what was going to happen to Cee and Robbie and Briony and I wanted to know as fast as I could.
But the reason that book was so good to me and not just another book I read through and then discarded was the ending. It made me think and it made me question and it brought all of the rest of the story together in a crazy way that I didn't expect. I think about that because I just finished re-watching the movie version of the book. When it gets to the end and Briony is being interviewed the movie brings me to tears.
Maybe your favorite book isn't Atonement. Maybe you've never seen the movie. But I would bet that you've seen a movie whose ending just seemed perfect. Maybe it's Forrest Gump talking to Jenny's grave after she's died and he's getting ready to put Forrest Jr. on the school bus. Or maybe it's the end of Titanic when Rose lets Jack go (yeah, yeah, we all know he had plenty of space on top of the board.)
There are lots of movies that have great endings, the kinds of endings that you want to re-watch over and over again. But here's the thing about great endings. They only matter if the end of the story follows a great story to get there. The end is only special if the chapters before it have drawn you in on your way to the finale. If you just skip ahead to the ending, it loses that thing that makes it so special.
Today my favorite dog in the whole, wide world turned SEVENTEEN years old! SEVENTEEN! That's like a BILLION years old in doggie years!
Today is also the day that Mom and Dad made the decision that her health and mobility has finally reached the point where she can't enjoy her life anymore. She can't even stand up on her own at this point. So Friday Samantha's going to make her last visit to the vet in her wonderful, puppy dog life. And then she's going to play in that big dog park in the sky.
This sweet dog has been the dog I grew up with. I can't remember very much of my life that Sam wasn't around for. I remember when she came home the first time and we played out in the backyard. I remember her being there when I got home from school after we moved to Tennessee and didn't have many friends. And when I would come home from Furman or Texas, the first family member I wanted to see wasn't Mom or Dad. I wanted a big hug from my puppy!
She chased more invisible squirrels in the backyard than any dog in history, and I'm sure she even caught a couple of them at some point. When she met new people, she'd bark ferociously to scare them off, but if that didn't work, she'd usually pee on the floor in fear (not much of a guard dog in her blood.) Her favorite pastime was ripping the squeaker out of new toys she'd get for Christmas, which was usually accomplished by 11:00 am on December 25th. She lived for treats until her very last days, and I'm convinced that's what kept her alive all these years.
For all those reasons and a thousand more, the news that Sam's whimsical and wonderful life is going to come to a comfortable end on Friday is hard. It's tragic in fact. When I go home in a month for a wedding, Sam won't be there to lick my face or give me a hug.
But like great movies, the ending tells you if it's been a story worth hearing. And Sam's certainly has been that. That I'm overcome with sadness at the end of her life means that it's been a really great one. It's a sign that the memories we've made together are worthwhile, and that her life was one well-lived.
These are the kinds of stories that God is constantly telling in our lives. It's the story of Jesus on Easter. Easter Sunday is a celebration! It's a day to celebrate that death does not have the final word and that in the face of grief and tragedy, the ending of the story hasn't been told until God gets the final word in. Love wins. Shalom wins. The story isn't done until God's made things the way they were intended to be.
That's why Easter has to come after Good Friday, why the resurrection has to come after the crucifixion. Jesus didn't just die. He came back! And the story of resurrection is powerful. But it's only powerful because Jesus' life and death was so incredible. He lived a life of sacrificial love and re-imagining the limits of who is in and who is out. He challenged authority and offered the left behind hope in the face of despair. And in the end he was killed because the Kingdom he proclaimed was too radical, it was too different. The love he imagined was too beautiful for others to comprehend.
Easter Sunday is a celebration of a hope that came in the midst of utter darkness. The disciples had been deserted by their rabbi and must've thought, "What have we wasted our last three years doing? I thought Jesus was supposed to win in the end?" The Kingdom Jesus had proclaimed had lost. But then it didn't. The story wasn't over, there was another chapter. That's why we celebrate all of Holy Week. Easter is the beautiful and miraculous end of a story and life that was well-lived, even in the deep pain that preceded it.
There are chapters in our lives that can be harder than we think we can bear. We are going to face struggles and tragedies and pain that seem like it won't ever go away. We face seasons of darkness that are so overwhelming there seems like there is no end in sight and that hope has completely abandoned us. There are moments when we suffer loss that we think irreplaceable and loneliness that cannot be filled.
The story of Easter is that the darkness doesn't win, the despair doesn't conquer, the grief cannot be the last word. The story of Easter is that the story isn't over, that God is still working and that love and hope and peace will one day have the final say. And that kind of hope can be risky. If the story's not over, it's easy to think that the rest of the chapters will be just like the ones we're facing. The scars and fears and pain of life are real. They are the patchwork of our life that tell our story. But know that the ending of the story is still being written, and that God is writing a beautiful ending, even in the face of insurmountable pain.
Then there are times when the end of things that are special can be incredibly hard. We grieve the finishing of things that were great once, begging for one more day or one more memory. We find ourselves asking, "Why couldn't we get just one more chance to say goodbye?" or "Why didn't we appreciate even more the time we had?" The ending of these stories are only powerful because the preceding chapters were so wonderful.
As Dr. Seuss once wrote, "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." This was the pain the disciples must have felt. The despair they must have felt at the crucifixion of their leader must have left them alone and abandoned. But only because the life they'd followed was one worth following. We only grieve things that were worth grieving. We only feel sad at the end of stories that were worth telling.
As we approach Easter, may you know that your story is not over and that God is still writing a beautiful ending. As we learn to live into God's story, the chapters are not guaranteed to be painless or without suffering, but they are promised to participate in the great finale God is unfolding. If you are drowning in pain, know that the story isn't finished and there is hope at the end of the tunnel. And if you're feeling the weight of the end of something great, know that's a sign that what was was something worth celebrating.
forever unfinished...
"So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you." -John 16:22
I love the book Atonement. All the 26-year-old grandma jokes aside, I had to read it my freshman year at Furman and was instantly drawn in. I couldn't put it down. I wanted to know what was going to happen to Cee and Robbie and Briony and I wanted to know as fast as I could.
But the reason that book was so good to me and not just another book I read through and then discarded was the ending. It made me think and it made me question and it brought all of the rest of the story together in a crazy way that I didn't expect. I think about that because I just finished re-watching the movie version of the book. When it gets to the end and Briony is being interviewed the movie brings me to tears.
Maybe your favorite book isn't Atonement. Maybe you've never seen the movie. But I would bet that you've seen a movie whose ending just seemed perfect. Maybe it's Forrest Gump talking to Jenny's grave after she's died and he's getting ready to put Forrest Jr. on the school bus. Or maybe it's the end of Titanic when Rose lets Jack go (yeah, yeah, we all know he had plenty of space on top of the board.)
There are lots of movies that have great endings, the kinds of endings that you want to re-watch over and over again. But here's the thing about great endings. They only matter if the end of the story follows a great story to get there. The end is only special if the chapters before it have drawn you in on your way to the finale. If you just skip ahead to the ending, it loses that thing that makes it so special.
Today my favorite dog in the whole, wide world turned SEVENTEEN years old! SEVENTEEN! That's like a BILLION years old in doggie years!
Today is also the day that Mom and Dad made the decision that her health and mobility has finally reached the point where she can't enjoy her life anymore. She can't even stand up on her own at this point. So Friday Samantha's going to make her last visit to the vet in her wonderful, puppy dog life. And then she's going to play in that big dog park in the sky.
This sweet dog has been the dog I grew up with. I can't remember very much of my life that Sam wasn't around for. I remember when she came home the first time and we played out in the backyard. I remember her being there when I got home from school after we moved to Tennessee and didn't have many friends. And when I would come home from Furman or Texas, the first family member I wanted to see wasn't Mom or Dad. I wanted a big hug from my puppy!
She chased more invisible squirrels in the backyard than any dog in history, and I'm sure she even caught a couple of them at some point. When she met new people, she'd bark ferociously to scare them off, but if that didn't work, she'd usually pee on the floor in fear (not much of a guard dog in her blood.) Her favorite pastime was ripping the squeaker out of new toys she'd get for Christmas, which was usually accomplished by 11:00 am on December 25th. She lived for treats until her very last days, and I'm convinced that's what kept her alive all these years.
For all those reasons and a thousand more, the news that Sam's whimsical and wonderful life is going to come to a comfortable end on Friday is hard. It's tragic in fact. When I go home in a month for a wedding, Sam won't be there to lick my face or give me a hug.
But like great movies, the ending tells you if it's been a story worth hearing. And Sam's certainly has been that. That I'm overcome with sadness at the end of her life means that it's been a really great one. It's a sign that the memories we've made together are worthwhile, and that her life was one well-lived.
These are the kinds of stories that God is constantly telling in our lives. It's the story of Jesus on Easter. Easter Sunday is a celebration! It's a day to celebrate that death does not have the final word and that in the face of grief and tragedy, the ending of the story hasn't been told until God gets the final word in. Love wins. Shalom wins. The story isn't done until God's made things the way they were intended to be.
That's why Easter has to come after Good Friday, why the resurrection has to come after the crucifixion. Jesus didn't just die. He came back! And the story of resurrection is powerful. But it's only powerful because Jesus' life and death was so incredible. He lived a life of sacrificial love and re-imagining the limits of who is in and who is out. He challenged authority and offered the left behind hope in the face of despair. And in the end he was killed because the Kingdom he proclaimed was too radical, it was too different. The love he imagined was too beautiful for others to comprehend.
Easter Sunday is a celebration of a hope that came in the midst of utter darkness. The disciples had been deserted by their rabbi and must've thought, "What have we wasted our last three years doing? I thought Jesus was supposed to win in the end?" The Kingdom Jesus had proclaimed had lost. But then it didn't. The story wasn't over, there was another chapter. That's why we celebrate all of Holy Week. Easter is the beautiful and miraculous end of a story and life that was well-lived, even in the deep pain that preceded it.
There are chapters in our lives that can be harder than we think we can bear. We are going to face struggles and tragedies and pain that seem like it won't ever go away. We face seasons of darkness that are so overwhelming there seems like there is no end in sight and that hope has completely abandoned us. There are moments when we suffer loss that we think irreplaceable and loneliness that cannot be filled.
The story of Easter is that the darkness doesn't win, the despair doesn't conquer, the grief cannot be the last word. The story of Easter is that the story isn't over, that God is still working and that love and hope and peace will one day have the final say. And that kind of hope can be risky. If the story's not over, it's easy to think that the rest of the chapters will be just like the ones we're facing. The scars and fears and pain of life are real. They are the patchwork of our life that tell our story. But know that the ending of the story is still being written, and that God is writing a beautiful ending, even in the face of insurmountable pain.
Then there are times when the end of things that are special can be incredibly hard. We grieve the finishing of things that were great once, begging for one more day or one more memory. We find ourselves asking, "Why couldn't we get just one more chance to say goodbye?" or "Why didn't we appreciate even more the time we had?" The ending of these stories are only powerful because the preceding chapters were so wonderful.
As Dr. Seuss once wrote, "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." This was the pain the disciples must have felt. The despair they must have felt at the crucifixion of their leader must have left them alone and abandoned. But only because the life they'd followed was one worth following. We only grieve things that were worth grieving. We only feel sad at the end of stories that were worth telling.
As we approach Easter, may you know that your story is not over and that God is still writing a beautiful ending. As we learn to live into God's story, the chapters are not guaranteed to be painless or without suffering, but they are promised to participate in the great finale God is unfolding. If you are drowning in pain, know that the story isn't finished and there is hope at the end of the tunnel. And if you're feeling the weight of the end of something great, know that's a sign that what was was something worth celebrating.
forever unfinished...
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