"Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is--his good, pleasing, and perfect will." -Romans 12:2
"I tried to forget you, but the memories got stuck and now they're on display." -Jesse Ruben, "Lack of Armor"
I've been soaking up a lot of scripture lately. Now, that doesn't sound like a remarkable expression or leap of faith. I mean, after all, I'm a youth pastor. I'm supposed to read the Bible. But I haven't been reading it. No, lately I've been basking in it.
And it. is. messing. with. me. It's not letting me sit still. It's not letting me remain the same. As I jump in, it's spitting me out differently. And I don't like it. I'd rather remain as I am. It's more comfortable that way.
You see, I'd rather spend time with the people who agree with me. I'd rather unfriend people who don't align with the way I see God or the world or politics or music (seriously, Beiber Fever or we're through). I'd rather him kick the rich, snobby, self-righteous people to the curb. I'd rather expel those who don't see injustice and hatred where it exists. But then I read Paul write that I ought to live at peace with all so long as it depends on me. But then I see Jesus not just spending time with the homeless and those with less, but he has dinner with the religious experts and the tax collectors (who were screwing the poor and disadvantaged Jewish people). Even his own disciples were disappointed with this. But Jesus knew they were family too.
You see, I'd rather cast out the people who disappoint me and hurt the people I love. I'd rather point out their flaws to feel more secure about myself. But Jesus calls us to forgive those who hurt us seventy-seven times(!!). But Jesus sees a crowd ready to stone the woman found in adultery. So he begins to draw in the sand beneath him, because he knows that wrath and anger are directed by people just as guilty. Jesus knew that judging others is rooted in our desperate attempt to deflect attention from our own pain, anger, and sin, instead of exposing our hearts.
You see, I'd rather have Jesus fix all of the political conflicts and problems in our world. I'd rather God take the throne and let justice and peace reign. But in the face of Roman occupation, God didn't expel the soldiers and rulers. God entered into the struggle as a powerless baby. And Jesus didn't overthrow Pilate, he threw himself into transforming the lives and hearts of those living under the oppression of foreign rule. Because Jesus knew power is most faithfully manifest not in dictating the terms to others, but in restraining itself for the benefit of building up those around it.
You see, there are days I'd rather pull up to a highway exit and not meet the glance of the panhandler on the corner because of the way it can make me feel. But then I read that God created all people in God's image, and I need to meet that woman's glance because I see myself reflected in it. Then I read that Jesus fought through crowds to find the blind, smelly man at the back who the crowd had avoided all day. Because Jesus knew that no one was outside the group.
You see, I'd rather be passive and believe that Jesus was the lamb and the prince of peace and all about forgiveness. I'd rather remain silent and not cause a stir. But then I read a story of Jesus turning over tables and kicking out those creditors who were taking advantage of poor folks who couldn't afford their animals for sacrifice. Then I read about Jesus yelling at Peter, "Get behind me Satan." But Jesus knew that sometimes jolts are needed on behalf of God's kingdom.
You see, I'd rather look to God and say, "Father, I'm giving enough. Look, I'm giving TEN PERCENT of my paycheck. BEFORE TAX!" And then I read a story of an interaction between Jesus and a rich young man. The young man has done everything right, so Jesus offers him one last expectation: give away everything you own. What? Why? He's done enough. But Jesus knew that if we were willing to let go of our security in our stuff, we'd finally be free to live.
You see, when I read the Bible, Jesus and God rarely do what I want them to do. They rarely meet my expectations.
So take this as a warning. Open your Bible with caution, because it may in fact wreck your life. It may spit you out different and change you. It may mess you up and shift your mind and transform relationships. It may break open a heart long turned to stone. It may trouble your schedule and your checkbook (who even uses checkbooks anymore?!).
But with that word of caution, may we dive in. May we bask, because that transformation is the good news. May we jump in, because we know the splash changes those in its radius. May we leave changed, discomforted, and unfinished. May our hearts expand beyond the limits we set for them now.
forever unfinished...
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Monday, August 7, 2017
Star of the Show...
"But now, after knowing God (or rather, being known by God), how can you turn back again to the weak and worthless world system? Do you want to be slaves to it again?" -Galatians 4:9
"If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it. Anything you to, do it. Want to change the world? There's nothing to it." -Pure Imagination, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
As a youth minister, I spend a lot of time at middle school band concerts and high school football games. It's one of my favorite things about my job: getting to go out and see my kids doing what they love. But in all the years of doing that, I had never been to a dance recital. That was until a few weeks ago, when a number of our students were all in a performance together. I figured to myself, "What a chance to see a bunch all at once?"
Well, I wasn't totally prepared for the experience. If you are a dance parent, you know what I'm talking about: the shiny outfits, the two-minute dances, the back-to-back-to-back performances, the sometimes mistakes. It was an awesome thing to take in.
Now, I want to be clear: my kids were great. It was so awesome watching them do their things. But they were not my favorite dancers that morning.
Nope, that distinction belongs to a girl who couldn't have been older than about 6 or 7 (maybe). She was one of three girls in her particular sequence, and as you can imagine, with kiddos that young, it was mostly a disaster in a thousand directions. The teacher was upfront helping feed the girls their moves to keep them going the right way, and for the most part, the other two girls did their part.
My favorite, though? She had some bigger stuff in mind! The second the music started, it become clear she had a different rhythm in her feet. If you've ever seen Little Miss Sunshine, that's a pretty good picture. She twirled and jumped and bounced and threw her hands in every direction. The other two girls might have performed their choreography more correctly, but this girl had more fun than every other dancer combined.
And what made it better? Every single person in the audience found themselves clapping, laughing, giggling, and otherwise enjoying the disastrous joy on the stage. This girl didn't do a single thing she'd been taught, and yet she stole the show. Her teachers had one thing in mind. She had another!
Sometimes we live life a lot like the other 98% of the performers that day. And there's nothing wrong with that (for the most part). We live by the rules we've been given and try to do the very best job we can within those confines.
But I'm becoming more and more convinced that people who follow Jesus ought to break out of the rat race and get our Little Miss Sunshine on a little more often. We ought to play by a different set of rules with different criteria for success.
The apostle Paul helped set up a church in a city called Galatia. At first, they were all-in about the things he had taught them about Jesus and resurrection and grace. It was exciting. There was real life transformation. But once Paul left to keep setting up other churches in other parts of the Roman world, other people started filling the leadership void. And they tried pulling the people in the church in Galatia back towards the status quo. They were falling back into the old ways and the old expectations the world had for them. They'd lost what had made them stand out.
This happens all the time today. I'm convinced the power of the gospel is found in the ways that it butts up against what everyone expects, even the people who felt the most religious. Jesus was too busy doing things that nobody expected to be worried about "fitting in." But like the Galatians, for all of us, myself most of all, it all gets wrapped up in being "respectable" and "reasonable." We don't want to be too out there, too different.
But Christians ought to stand out. We shouldn't look like everyone else. There ought to be a disconnect somewhere deep in our soul that says we're not at home in the world of competition and conflict. There ought to be a dissonance between the rhythms of busyness and isolation and the dream of connection and shalom. Our lives ought to reflect that disconnect.
And I'm not talking about standing out for eating a little more responsibly or giving up a vice for 40 days. I mean the kind of love that does expect anything in return. I mean the kind of generosity that is extravagant without expecting a kickback favor. I mean forgiveness that doesn't know conditions. I mean fighting for humanity when all around you are fighting for their tribe. I mean tearing down barriers when only bridges will do. I mean seeing the impossible and willing to die so that it might become possible.
The world needs more people willing to dance to a different beat and offer a different way. We need people who are willing to try new ways and sing a new song. We all need a reminder that life can be better!
May we let go of our dire need to fit in. May we let go of the temptation to be reasonable and respectable on account of faith. May we fight the urge to find our spot in the rat race and churn the hamster wheel. May we find a new way, a song placed in the pit of our soul by the one who breathed it into our lungs. May we dance a new dance, offering the world a new way.
forever unfinished...
"If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it. Anything you to, do it. Want to change the world? There's nothing to it." -Pure Imagination, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
As a youth minister, I spend a lot of time at middle school band concerts and high school football games. It's one of my favorite things about my job: getting to go out and see my kids doing what they love. But in all the years of doing that, I had never been to a dance recital. That was until a few weeks ago, when a number of our students were all in a performance together. I figured to myself, "What a chance to see a bunch all at once?"
Well, I wasn't totally prepared for the experience. If you are a dance parent, you know what I'm talking about: the shiny outfits, the two-minute dances, the back-to-back-to-back performances, the sometimes mistakes. It was an awesome thing to take in.
Now, I want to be clear: my kids were great. It was so awesome watching them do their things. But they were not my favorite dancers that morning.
Nope, that distinction belongs to a girl who couldn't have been older than about 6 or 7 (maybe). She was one of three girls in her particular sequence, and as you can imagine, with kiddos that young, it was mostly a disaster in a thousand directions. The teacher was upfront helping feed the girls their moves to keep them going the right way, and for the most part, the other two girls did their part.
My favorite, though? She had some bigger stuff in mind! The second the music started, it become clear she had a different rhythm in her feet. If you've ever seen Little Miss Sunshine, that's a pretty good picture. She twirled and jumped and bounced and threw her hands in every direction. The other two girls might have performed their choreography more correctly, but this girl had more fun than every other dancer combined.
And what made it better? Every single person in the audience found themselves clapping, laughing, giggling, and otherwise enjoying the disastrous joy on the stage. This girl didn't do a single thing she'd been taught, and yet she stole the show. Her teachers had one thing in mind. She had another!
Sometimes we live life a lot like the other 98% of the performers that day. And there's nothing wrong with that (for the most part). We live by the rules we've been given and try to do the very best job we can within those confines.
But I'm becoming more and more convinced that people who follow Jesus ought to break out of the rat race and get our Little Miss Sunshine on a little more often. We ought to play by a different set of rules with different criteria for success.
The apostle Paul helped set up a church in a city called Galatia. At first, they were all-in about the things he had taught them about Jesus and resurrection and grace. It was exciting. There was real life transformation. But once Paul left to keep setting up other churches in other parts of the Roman world, other people started filling the leadership void. And they tried pulling the people in the church in Galatia back towards the status quo. They were falling back into the old ways and the old expectations the world had for them. They'd lost what had made them stand out.
This happens all the time today. I'm convinced the power of the gospel is found in the ways that it butts up against what everyone expects, even the people who felt the most religious. Jesus was too busy doing things that nobody expected to be worried about "fitting in." But like the Galatians, for all of us, myself most of all, it all gets wrapped up in being "respectable" and "reasonable." We don't want to be too out there, too different.
But Christians ought to stand out. We shouldn't look like everyone else. There ought to be a disconnect somewhere deep in our soul that says we're not at home in the world of competition and conflict. There ought to be a dissonance between the rhythms of busyness and isolation and the dream of connection and shalom. Our lives ought to reflect that disconnect.
And I'm not talking about standing out for eating a little more responsibly or giving up a vice for 40 days. I mean the kind of love that does expect anything in return. I mean the kind of generosity that is extravagant without expecting a kickback favor. I mean forgiveness that doesn't know conditions. I mean fighting for humanity when all around you are fighting for their tribe. I mean tearing down barriers when only bridges will do. I mean seeing the impossible and willing to die so that it might become possible.
The world needs more people willing to dance to a different beat and offer a different way. We need people who are willing to try new ways and sing a new song. We all need a reminder that life can be better!
May we let go of our dire need to fit in. May we let go of the temptation to be reasonable and respectable on account of faith. May we fight the urge to find our spot in the rat race and churn the hamster wheel. May we find a new way, a song placed in the pit of our soul by the one who breathed it into our lungs. May we dance a new dance, offering the world a new way.
forever unfinished...
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
66204...
"I'm a saint's heart in a sinner's skin. I feel them in their wrestling. I know the Spirit and the Devil's touch. I just never know which one's gonna win." -"Saint's Heart in a Sinner's Skin," Sean McConnell
"Be strong and courageous and do the work. Don't be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my god, is with you. God will not fail you nor forsake you until all of the work for the temple of the Lord is complete." -1 Chronicles 28:20
A few months ago I was in the Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem. I've written about how powerful the experience was. I've never been to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., but I can't imagine it being any more life-changing or perception-altering than walking through the halls of Yad Vashem.
The final room of the museum was a circular room with a walkway through the middle of it. The room had a simple name: the Hall of Names. Along the walls of the room, 20 feet below the walkway and 20 feet above on all sides, were folders filled with files. These files were filled with the names of Holocaust victims, people whose lives and deaths had been reduced to mere numbers and statistics.
The premise of the room was fairly straight-forward. No one is merely a statistic. No one is simply a "what." We are all a "who."
All of this inspired me to do a little researching when I got home a few days later. I went to the official Auschwitz prisoner database and I searched a simple, one-word entry: "Martin."
In seconds, I was face-to-face with files on hundreds of prisoners who shared my name. In one camp.
I'm not sure why, but one entry caught my eye. His name was Martin Braun, although he was also listed in certain prisoner block listings as Martin Israel. He was born in 1895 in Remetea, Romania. He died in Auschwitz.
In Auschwitz, he wasn't Martin, of course. There, in prison, with tens of thousands of other prisoners and victims, he was simply 66204. He was merely a number, one of an immeasurable list of those whose dignity and humanity was stripped and abandoned.
In the days since I searched through that database, I've started writing 66204 on my wrist. It reminds me that at any time, I could the least of these. It reminds me that we are never a what. It reminds me that we are God's cherished creation.
But I was also starkly struck by the possibility that while I could've been a victim, I likewise could've been one of those on the other side of camp. It didn't take long to discover that Hitler's private secretary was also a man named Martin. Imagine that, hundreds of victims at one camp that share my name, and likely hundreds of perpetrators of unimaginable evil as well.
We all hold the capacity within us to do unspeakable violence. We all also hold the capacity to do immeasurable good, to remind people of their belovedness and irreplaceableness. It is a humbling realization to look through history to see the ways that people have been both victims and evildoers.
Just above the 66204 on my wrist, I write two words in Hebrew: hazak we'emas. Translated in English, these words a fairly straight-forward: "be strong and courageous." They are found numerous times in scripture. I've been writing them much longer than I've been writing Mr. Braun's prison number.
But taken together, they've on an entirely different meaning. They've become something of a mission statement to my life: be strong and courageous for those who have no name.
You see, I've started to think that when we aren't actively practicing love and reconciliation and justice and shalom, the kinds of things Jesus invites us to, we're tempted to drift towards their opposite. When we aren't living life seeking to see our neighbors as sister and brother, it is tempting to see them as enemies or worse.
And this doesn't just mean our friends or the people who are nice to us. It means everyone. A few years ago, I tried a little experiment. I sat outside the Fort Worth Central Library for a couple of hours on a cold January day. I didn't choose the location by accident. It's a spot where lots of individuals without homes spend their time. So, for a few hours, I wanted to see what that felt like.
It was horrible. People weren't mean. They didn't snicker or say hurtful things. They just avoided me. They passed on the other side of the sidewalk. Only 5% even looked my way. More often than not, passers by did everything in their power to avoid contact. For just a moment, I wasn't a person. I was a nuisance. I was an eyesore. I was a "thing" to be avoided.
There are plenty of people in my orbit that I treat that way. It hurts me to acknowledge that. There are people I'd rather just avoid or skip by. People who pain me and I just want to beat. People who annoy me and I see only as a hinderance. People whose presence I'd rather just skip. People like 66204, Mr. Martin Braun.
But that's not the scandal of grace. The audacity of God is that we are all family, made in the same image, breathing the same air, and loved with the same reckless abandon. And I've found without any reservation that when I dive into that story, when I move towards seeing God's reflection in my neighbors, my experience of life is a thousand times richer. All of our experiences of life are a thousand times richer. When we see our neighbors by name, with smiles and gifts, we are making the world into kind of world God intended.
So may we fight the urge to see each other as adversaries and enemies. May we fight the urge to think ourselves better than our brothers and our sisters. May we recognize in ourselves the capacity for pain and grace, and may we always choose grace. And above all, may we always be strong and courageous for those who have no name.
forever unfinished...
"Be strong and courageous and do the work. Don't be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my god, is with you. God will not fail you nor forsake you until all of the work for the temple of the Lord is complete." -1 Chronicles 28:20
A few months ago I was in the Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem. I've written about how powerful the experience was. I've never been to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., but I can't imagine it being any more life-changing or perception-altering than walking through the halls of Yad Vashem.
The final room of the museum was a circular room with a walkway through the middle of it. The room had a simple name: the Hall of Names. Along the walls of the room, 20 feet below the walkway and 20 feet above on all sides, were folders filled with files. These files were filled with the names of Holocaust victims, people whose lives and deaths had been reduced to mere numbers and statistics.
The premise of the room was fairly straight-forward. No one is merely a statistic. No one is simply a "what." We are all a "who."
All of this inspired me to do a little researching when I got home a few days later. I went to the official Auschwitz prisoner database and I searched a simple, one-word entry: "Martin."
In seconds, I was face-to-face with files on hundreds of prisoners who shared my name. In one camp.
I'm not sure why, but one entry caught my eye. His name was Martin Braun, although he was also listed in certain prisoner block listings as Martin Israel. He was born in 1895 in Remetea, Romania. He died in Auschwitz.
In Auschwitz, he wasn't Martin, of course. There, in prison, with tens of thousands of other prisoners and victims, he was simply 66204. He was merely a number, one of an immeasurable list of those whose dignity and humanity was stripped and abandoned.
In the days since I searched through that database, I've started writing 66204 on my wrist. It reminds me that at any time, I could the least of these. It reminds me that we are never a what. It reminds me that we are God's cherished creation.
But I was also starkly struck by the possibility that while I could've been a victim, I likewise could've been one of those on the other side of camp. It didn't take long to discover that Hitler's private secretary was also a man named Martin. Imagine that, hundreds of victims at one camp that share my name, and likely hundreds of perpetrators of unimaginable evil as well.
We all hold the capacity within us to do unspeakable violence. We all also hold the capacity to do immeasurable good, to remind people of their belovedness and irreplaceableness. It is a humbling realization to look through history to see the ways that people have been both victims and evildoers.
Just above the 66204 on my wrist, I write two words in Hebrew: hazak we'emas. Translated in English, these words a fairly straight-forward: "be strong and courageous." They are found numerous times in scripture. I've been writing them much longer than I've been writing Mr. Braun's prison number.
But taken together, they've on an entirely different meaning. They've become something of a mission statement to my life: be strong and courageous for those who have no name.
You see, I've started to think that when we aren't actively practicing love and reconciliation and justice and shalom, the kinds of things Jesus invites us to, we're tempted to drift towards their opposite. When we aren't living life seeking to see our neighbors as sister and brother, it is tempting to see them as enemies or worse.
And this doesn't just mean our friends or the people who are nice to us. It means everyone. A few years ago, I tried a little experiment. I sat outside the Fort Worth Central Library for a couple of hours on a cold January day. I didn't choose the location by accident. It's a spot where lots of individuals without homes spend their time. So, for a few hours, I wanted to see what that felt like.
It was horrible. People weren't mean. They didn't snicker or say hurtful things. They just avoided me. They passed on the other side of the sidewalk. Only 5% even looked my way. More often than not, passers by did everything in their power to avoid contact. For just a moment, I wasn't a person. I was a nuisance. I was an eyesore. I was a "thing" to be avoided.
There are plenty of people in my orbit that I treat that way. It hurts me to acknowledge that. There are people I'd rather just avoid or skip by. People who pain me and I just want to beat. People who annoy me and I see only as a hinderance. People whose presence I'd rather just skip. People like 66204, Mr. Martin Braun.
But that's not the scandal of grace. The audacity of God is that we are all family, made in the same image, breathing the same air, and loved with the same reckless abandon. And I've found without any reservation that when I dive into that story, when I move towards seeing God's reflection in my neighbors, my experience of life is a thousand times richer. All of our experiences of life are a thousand times richer. When we see our neighbors by name, with smiles and gifts, we are making the world into kind of world God intended.
So may we fight the urge to see each other as adversaries and enemies. May we fight the urge to think ourselves better than our brothers and our sisters. May we recognize in ourselves the capacity for pain and grace, and may we always choose grace. And above all, may we always be strong and courageous for those who have no name.
forever unfinished...
Friday, April 28, 2017
Shovels and Swords...
"How we can help our world is by stop being mean to other people espisaly black people. We should start respecting others and wacthing what we do." -Dominque, 4th grader, note left at Civil Rights exhibit at Missouri History Museum
"They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not take up sword against nation, nor shall they learn war anymore." -Micah 4:3
A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to head across the Atlantic to spend a week in Israel experiencing the Holy Land. The experience was irreplaceable and life-changing. I'm sure over the course of the next few weeks/months/years I will have more reflections from the trip.
On our last day in Israel we spent two hours at Yad Vashem, the national Holocaust museum just outside Jerusalem. To say that it was a profound and moving experience would never do justice to the feelings I experienced walking through its halls.
Two moments on this tour will forever be seared on my soul in a different way, two reminders that we each have a story to tell and that some get left unfinished.
Halfway through the exhibit there was a display beneath my feet. Under a layer of plexiglass, lit by a dim glow, was a layer of shoes left behind from extermination rooms in concentration camps. I sat, silent for 10 minutes, on a bench set just to the side of the display. There were no words. The shoes were bare and worn, remnants of a people who'd been given less than the essentials at the end of their life. There were the shoes of children and the boots of laborers. They each told a story. And they'd all ended in a room where their owners had become more victims of what came to be known as the "final solution."
A few hundred feet later, after the last stages of the holocaust and the downfall of Nazi power were chronicled, I came to the final room in this museum: the Hall of Names. Surrounding the central walkway was a circular wall with shelves filled with countless boxes holding even more folders. In each folder was the name of a victim of the Nazi extermination. Every victim that had been made to feel like a "that" instead of "whom" had been left named. Although their stories had been cut short, chapters left unwritten, their names had been retained.
It was in this room that my legs failed. I fell to my knees under the weight, unable to communicate in any other language than the tears sprinkling down my cheeks. My legs couldn't carry the profound despair my heart had grasped. And I cried.
Things aren't right in the world. It doesn't take anything more than a cursory glance to realize this is the truth. There is pain, and too often we are the cause of that hurt. But that isn't a new or radical conclusion. The prophets of the Old Testament knew this too, and they knew that God had made the world with something far better in mind.
The prophet Micah was acutely aware of this. But he was also aware that as we had been capable of bringing pain and destruction, we were just as capable of remaking the world in the kinds of ways God made it in the beginning.
Micah imagined a world where the people drew close to the God who set the world in motion, and in response, they would "beat their swords into iron plows and their spears into pruning tools. Nation will not take up sword against nation."
I love this picture. Not because it meant no more war, but because it goes even further. Instead of simply throwing away the instruments of death, they would repurpose them. Instead of using iron to destroy, they beat them into shovels to re-create the world they'd destroyed. They would start fresh by re-making the world right where God had started, in a garden. Perhaps the work of peace is not simply the end of violence, but the work of grace.
But it's what Micah wrote next that has most captured my heart. "They will no longer learn how to make war." They won't learn how to make war, as if the capacity to cause pain is a learned behavior.
The word Micah uses here is the world yilmedun, meaning "to learn." It comes from the root lamad, from which we get "to train," "to instruct," "teacher," "instructor."
The power of this language didn't settle in me until I walked through that museum in Israel. I watched videos of Hitler's Youth rallies and the way the Nazi's systematically taught people to hate and isolate. And I saw the stories of those who were most hurt by that learning.
But as people of God, we have a different lesson to pass along. If we are the kind of people who worship the God who set the world in a harmony of shalom, then we can't pass on the lessons of violence. Our lessons must be those of metalworking, teaching those in our radius the art of repurposing the tools of war into the tools of grace. We have to be gardeners who invite our neighbors to pick up a shovel to till the ground for a future that looks more like the kingdom God imagined in the beginning.
May we be those kinds of people. May God bend our hearts away from violence and towards shalom. May we learn the art of seeing our family resemblance in our neighbors. May we teach a new kind of lesson. Because in the end, we're left to wrestle with the question Micah posed to Israel: which will we pass on, the swords or the shovels?
forever unfinished...
"They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not take up sword against nation, nor shall they learn war anymore." -Micah 4:3
A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to head across the Atlantic to spend a week in Israel experiencing the Holy Land. The experience was irreplaceable and life-changing. I'm sure over the course of the next few weeks/months/years I will have more reflections from the trip.
On our last day in Israel we spent two hours at Yad Vashem, the national Holocaust museum just outside Jerusalem. To say that it was a profound and moving experience would never do justice to the feelings I experienced walking through its halls.
Two moments on this tour will forever be seared on my soul in a different way, two reminders that we each have a story to tell and that some get left unfinished.
Halfway through the exhibit there was a display beneath my feet. Under a layer of plexiglass, lit by a dim glow, was a layer of shoes left behind from extermination rooms in concentration camps. I sat, silent for 10 minutes, on a bench set just to the side of the display. There were no words. The shoes were bare and worn, remnants of a people who'd been given less than the essentials at the end of their life. There were the shoes of children and the boots of laborers. They each told a story. And they'd all ended in a room where their owners had become more victims of what came to be known as the "final solution."
A few hundred feet later, after the last stages of the holocaust and the downfall of Nazi power were chronicled, I came to the final room in this museum: the Hall of Names. Surrounding the central walkway was a circular wall with shelves filled with countless boxes holding even more folders. In each folder was the name of a victim of the Nazi extermination. Every victim that had been made to feel like a "that" instead of "whom" had been left named. Although their stories had been cut short, chapters left unwritten, their names had been retained.
It was in this room that my legs failed. I fell to my knees under the weight, unable to communicate in any other language than the tears sprinkling down my cheeks. My legs couldn't carry the profound despair my heart had grasped. And I cried.
Things aren't right in the world. It doesn't take anything more than a cursory glance to realize this is the truth. There is pain, and too often we are the cause of that hurt. But that isn't a new or radical conclusion. The prophets of the Old Testament knew this too, and they knew that God had made the world with something far better in mind.
The prophet Micah was acutely aware of this. But he was also aware that as we had been capable of bringing pain and destruction, we were just as capable of remaking the world in the kinds of ways God made it in the beginning.
Micah imagined a world where the people drew close to the God who set the world in motion, and in response, they would "beat their swords into iron plows and their spears into pruning tools. Nation will not take up sword against nation."
I love this picture. Not because it meant no more war, but because it goes even further. Instead of simply throwing away the instruments of death, they would repurpose them. Instead of using iron to destroy, they beat them into shovels to re-create the world they'd destroyed. They would start fresh by re-making the world right where God had started, in a garden. Perhaps the work of peace is not simply the end of violence, but the work of grace.
But it's what Micah wrote next that has most captured my heart. "They will no longer learn how to make war." They won't learn how to make war, as if the capacity to cause pain is a learned behavior.
The word Micah uses here is the world yilmedun, meaning "to learn." It comes from the root lamad, from which we get "to train," "to instruct," "teacher," "instructor."
The power of this language didn't settle in me until I walked through that museum in Israel. I watched videos of Hitler's Youth rallies and the way the Nazi's systematically taught people to hate and isolate. And I saw the stories of those who were most hurt by that learning.
But as people of God, we have a different lesson to pass along. If we are the kind of people who worship the God who set the world in a harmony of shalom, then we can't pass on the lessons of violence. Our lessons must be those of metalworking, teaching those in our radius the art of repurposing the tools of war into the tools of grace. We have to be gardeners who invite our neighbors to pick up a shovel to till the ground for a future that looks more like the kingdom God imagined in the beginning.
May we be those kinds of people. May God bend our hearts away from violence and towards shalom. May we learn the art of seeing our family resemblance in our neighbors. May we teach a new kind of lesson. Because in the end, we're left to wrestle with the question Micah posed to Israel: which will we pass on, the swords or the shovels?
forever unfinished...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)