"A long time ago, there was a very real man named Jesus, who was also really God, but for many years, he lived on this earth with people like you and me, and was a real live person like you and me... except that unlike you and me, he never, ever did anything bad or wrong. All of his life, he was kind and good and caring and faithful and obedient. But there were people who didn't like him and they wanted to kill him."
I'm telling the Easter story to a group of children, some of whom have heard it many times before and others of whom have never heard it at all.
"Have you ever had a friend or someone who said they loved you, but then they did something that hurt you or made you sad?" Most of the heads nod. "Jesus had friends like that, too. One of them, Judas, wanted to get some money, so he went and told the men who wanted to kill Jesus exactly where they could find him. Jesus knows what it's like to have friends who turn their back on you and hurt you.
"Or has anyone ever made fun of you?" More nodding. "Before the people went to have Jesus killed, they mocked him and teased him because he said he was the King. And even though he really was the King, they thought it was ridiculous, so they made him wear a pretend robe and put a crown--only it was made of thorns--on his head and made him march in front of all the townspeople. Jesus knows what it's like to have people laugh at you, even when you're not doing anything wrong."
One little boy, very concerned, pipes up. "But is Jesus dead now?"
"Hold on," I say. "We're not done with the story... So the soldiers took Jesus and they put him up on a cross. Do you know what a cross is?"
The kids who have heard this story before all say, "Yes." Among the kids who haven't, there is some confusion until I describe it a little and one of them says, "Is that like in Pirates of the Caribbean where those guys are hanging in the background?"
Um, possibly. I have yet to be able to sit through that film. But on I go to describe what happens next. The kids who are familiar with Good Friday don't bat an eye. But I am becoming acutely aware, as I briefly and without great detail reference the nails, the spear, the blood, the agony, that this story is hitting the new kids differently. I am beginning to realize just how horrid this story is. There is no G rating on the Easter narrative. When Jesus finally dies, a girl says, "Do I have to keep listening? This story is scary. And sad." Yes, dear, yes it is.
I have heard the story of Easter countless times. I have told it over and over again. But it's not often that I've been so aware of the darkness of the cross. Rarely have I really felt the confusion over this act of violence against God, against a good man, against a man who understands our deepest griefs and carries our sorrows. And never before have I felt such joyful relief as I arrive at the part of the story when I get to tell the kids that the tomb was EMPTY. That this man who died for our sins though he was sinless, this man who really and truly sympathizes with our pain and weakness, is no longer dead. He was dead, but he is not dead now. He is very much alive and his righteousness is very much ours who believe in His name!
Year after year, month after month, day after day, we reference the cross and the empty tomb. We hear it in sermons, we read it in books, we tell it amongst ourselves. And it can become stale. We can be like the kids who've heard this one a thousand times. Oh yes, Easter. When we celebrate how Jesus died on the cross and rose again. Wait. What?!
I don't want to lose the childlike view of the agonizing old rugged cross, nor the childlike wonder at the resurrection. I want more opportunities to see the story of Easter through the lens of a person who has never heard such a story before, through a child who sees the darkness of it and can't help but jump for joy at the ending (which is really a new beginning). And while I can't ever hear it again for the first time in reality, maybe my own ears can hear it in a fresh way if I keep telling it to those who haven't yet heard.
Monday, May 05, 2014
Monday, April 28, 2014
Light and Momentary
A couple nights ago, we had a conversation with another couple we hadn't seen for a while. As we were trying to place exactly how long it had been since we'd last seen them, she said, "I'm pretty sure your husband had broken his leg or something and was in a full cast." Ah, okay. It was about a year ago.
Wow! It was only a year ago! To be honest, it seems like far longer than a year ago that Nathan was essentially bound to a bed, hopped up on painkillers, and I was struggling to keep up with my normal tasks while taking care of many of the duties that Nathan would usually be doing. Less than a year ago that we spent a summer being able only to go to the tiny local park because the beautiful lakeshore park only a few blocks away was a little too far for Nathan to walk on his crutches. Seven months ago that he was hobbling around with a cane and I was starting to hope that life might return to normal. No time at all in the grand scheme of things, really. And yet now that we're out of that trial by half a year, it seems like a lifetime ago, a dream of something I once felt so keenly. A light and momentary trouble.
Sometimes it's funny to me how quickly we forget and move on after a major life adjustment, after a trial that in the moment seemed so profound, so impossible, so limiting. Fearful afternoons in the hospital with a feverish child after a seizure. Miscarriages that were heart-breaking and the resulting anxiety of wondering if I'd be able to carry another baby again. A job loss that put us in very difficult financial position for a little while. Praying fervently for family members and friends fighting cancer (some of whom are no longer with us; others are essentially back to normal life). And yet now, they are a distant memory, file drawers in the back of my mental library that I pull out from time to time and reflect on from the safety of the future.
It's not unlike childbirth. In the moment of it, when the pain feels like it is ripping you apart from the inside out and you wonder how you can possibly go on another five minutes, let alone hours, it seems like an eternal unbearable weight. If you don't actually scream "I don't want to have this baby!" like my mother did with one of us, you probably at least THINK it. Childbirth is intensely unpleasant and painful. But the moment that baby is out, the moment the hardest pain is in the past (even while contractions continue and the afterbirth is yet to arrive), your eyes and heart are so taken up with that beautiful baby in your arms, and the miracle of it all, that you can only think about joy. Almost as soon as it is over, the pangs of childbirth become a dull memory, so much so that the next time you go through it, it may actually surprise you a little with its intensity. What for the moment seemed painful and unpleasant is covered over in the joy of the beautiful fruit it produced.
Granted, there are trials and sufferings far more intense and longterm than what we've experienced, but the ending will be the same. When the trials finally come to an end and the devastating effects of them are merely stuff of earth that we see through a dim mirror in the face of heavenly glory, even the worst of our sorrows will seem but light and momentary.
If I could only really remember in the midst of a trial just how far away and long ago it will one day seem to me, if I could only hold on to the hope of an eternal weight of glory held up in store for those who suffer now for the sake of Christ, would I bear up with greater joy? Would I suffer in a way that would bring glory to the God who bears us up and makes beauty out of ashes? Would I be willing to suffer MORE so that many who don't now know the hope of eternal life would have the opportunity to know it?
Maybe you're waiting for something. Maybe you're stuck in a winter that won't go away. But our hope is not just in the end of waiting and the coming of spring. We have the hope that even the worst of our current afflictions will one day look light and momentary, and our eternal future will be weighty with glory. How will we suffer in light of this hope?
"So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal." (2 Corinthians 4:16-18)
Wow! It was only a year ago! To be honest, it seems like far longer than a year ago that Nathan was essentially bound to a bed, hopped up on painkillers, and I was struggling to keep up with my normal tasks while taking care of many of the duties that Nathan would usually be doing. Less than a year ago that we spent a summer being able only to go to the tiny local park because the beautiful lakeshore park only a few blocks away was a little too far for Nathan to walk on his crutches. Seven months ago that he was hobbling around with a cane and I was starting to hope that life might return to normal. No time at all in the grand scheme of things, really. And yet now that we're out of that trial by half a year, it seems like a lifetime ago, a dream of something I once felt so keenly. A light and momentary trouble.
Sometimes it's funny to me how quickly we forget and move on after a major life adjustment, after a trial that in the moment seemed so profound, so impossible, so limiting. Fearful afternoons in the hospital with a feverish child after a seizure. Miscarriages that were heart-breaking and the resulting anxiety of wondering if I'd be able to carry another baby again. A job loss that put us in very difficult financial position for a little while. Praying fervently for family members and friends fighting cancer (some of whom are no longer with us; others are essentially back to normal life). And yet now, they are a distant memory, file drawers in the back of my mental library that I pull out from time to time and reflect on from the safety of the future.
It's not unlike childbirth. In the moment of it, when the pain feels like it is ripping you apart from the inside out and you wonder how you can possibly go on another five minutes, let alone hours, it seems like an eternal unbearable weight. If you don't actually scream "I don't want to have this baby!" like my mother did with one of us, you probably at least THINK it. Childbirth is intensely unpleasant and painful. But the moment that baby is out, the moment the hardest pain is in the past (even while contractions continue and the afterbirth is yet to arrive), your eyes and heart are so taken up with that beautiful baby in your arms, and the miracle of it all, that you can only think about joy. Almost as soon as it is over, the pangs of childbirth become a dull memory, so much so that the next time you go through it, it may actually surprise you a little with its intensity. What for the moment seemed painful and unpleasant is covered over in the joy of the beautiful fruit it produced.
Granted, there are trials and sufferings far more intense and longterm than what we've experienced, but the ending will be the same. When the trials finally come to an end and the devastating effects of them are merely stuff of earth that we see through a dim mirror in the face of heavenly glory, even the worst of our sorrows will seem but light and momentary.
If I could only really remember in the midst of a trial just how far away and long ago it will one day seem to me, if I could only hold on to the hope of an eternal weight of glory held up in store for those who suffer now for the sake of Christ, would I bear up with greater joy? Would I suffer in a way that would bring glory to the God who bears us up and makes beauty out of ashes? Would I be willing to suffer MORE so that many who don't now know the hope of eternal life would have the opportunity to know it?
Maybe you're waiting for something. Maybe you're stuck in a winter that won't go away. But our hope is not just in the end of waiting and the coming of spring. We have the hope that even the worst of our current afflictions will one day look light and momentary, and our eternal future will be weighty with glory. How will we suffer in light of this hope?
"So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal." (2 Corinthians 4:16-18)
Monday, April 21, 2014
Spring Does Come
It's been a pretty brutal winter. From the ice storm at Christmas that left a good bit of the city in the dark for days to the unusual cold this year to the frostquakes to the fact that winter just hasn't seemed to want to go away, most of us are more than a little ready to see spring. I don't normally mind the cold and snow, but there comes a point every year--generally around the end of February--when I start to wish it away. And with a harder winter, these longings are all the greater.
Now we're in that period of time when winter and spring are battling it out. I haven't decided whether winter is harder in January or in that season when spring seems like it could start tomorrow but there's no way to tell. One day it seems like spring is winning, and the next day, there's snow on the ground and ice hanging off the balcony again. The keys are constantly changing hands between the pockets of the winter coat and the spring jacket. And there is a lot of MUD out there. Even Easter was late this year. But if you look closely, you'll notice that the grass gets a little greener every day. Each time I'm outside, there are a few more buds on the trees. Even when our hope for spring gets crushed a little by another cold snap, we can be sure that it will eventually come, even if we have to wait for June. Spring has yet to completely fail us.
Every year--and this one especially--the slight undertone of green in that dry, brown grass reminds me that despite the hardships, isolation, storminess, death and bleak grayness of winter, spring is coming. Hope is not dead. It's an old analogy, but I am thankful each year for the ending of winter because it is an annual reminder that God is still able to create new life where there was death, to restore to youth and vitality that which was old and barren, to refresh and remake what looks dry and incapable of bringing forth life.
Now we're in that period of time when winter and spring are battling it out. I haven't decided whether winter is harder in January or in that season when spring seems like it could start tomorrow but there's no way to tell. One day it seems like spring is winning, and the next day, there's snow on the ground and ice hanging off the balcony again. The keys are constantly changing hands between the pockets of the winter coat and the spring jacket. And there is a lot of MUD out there. Even Easter was late this year. But if you look closely, you'll notice that the grass gets a little greener every day. Each time I'm outside, there are a few more buds on the trees. Even when our hope for spring gets crushed a little by another cold snap, we can be sure that it will eventually come, even if we have to wait for June. Spring has yet to completely fail us.
Every year--and this one especially--the slight undertone of green in that dry, brown grass reminds me that despite the hardships, isolation, storminess, death and bleak grayness of winter, spring is coming. Hope is not dead. It's an old analogy, but I am thankful each year for the ending of winter because it is an annual reminder that God is still able to create new life where there was death, to restore to youth and vitality that which was old and barren, to refresh and remake what looks dry and incapable of bringing forth life.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Wait For It...
"Are we there yet?" "How much longer?" "We've been on this road for HOURS!" I think I heard these lines more times than I could count last week as we traveled down to Louisville and back. Our kids don't like to sit in the car and wait. They have no appreciation for the joys of the journey. They just want to get to the destination.
But even people who get as much satisfaction out of the drive as they do reaching the final stop aren't necessarily good at waiting when it comes to life. And life is FULL of waiting. I was reminded of this as I talked to some old friends last week, some of whom started their schooling for ministry at the same time we did and who are just now getting a ministry position, others of whom started a long time ago and are still waiting for a place to go. We had to wait what seemed like a long time to us, and even now that we're "there", there are still plenty of things we're waiting on. If you live long enough on this earth (i.e., more than a few minutes) there will be things to wait for. And you'll quickly realize that many of the things we wait for are not things we have control over. If we did, we probably wouldn't be waiting, because waiting is hard. Often when we have to wait for something we get impatient. We may attempt to take matters into our own hands and find a shortcut (experience teaches that this is not usually a good idea). It's why the Bible has to remind us over and over again to wait on The Lord, wait for The Lord, calm and quiet our souls and WAIT.
In a season of waiting for things we desire, things we believe God desires but is not yet giving us, and things that seem good but may not be ours to have in this life, Isaiah 40-41 is an excellent passage to meditate on. I've been soaking in it for a few weeks now, and every time I read it, different phrases or verses jump out at me, giving me new hope, new joy, new reasons to keep waiting. In these chapters, we are told several things about God that inform our waiting. Here are seven of them (there are more, but I don't have time to write a book):
But even people who get as much satisfaction out of the drive as they do reaching the final stop aren't necessarily good at waiting when it comes to life. And life is FULL of waiting. I was reminded of this as I talked to some old friends last week, some of whom started their schooling for ministry at the same time we did and who are just now getting a ministry position, others of whom started a long time ago and are still waiting for a place to go. We had to wait what seemed like a long time to us, and even now that we're "there", there are still plenty of things we're waiting on. If you live long enough on this earth (i.e., more than a few minutes) there will be things to wait for. And you'll quickly realize that many of the things we wait for are not things we have control over. If we did, we probably wouldn't be waiting, because waiting is hard. Often when we have to wait for something we get impatient. We may attempt to take matters into our own hands and find a shortcut (experience teaches that this is not usually a good idea). It's why the Bible has to remind us over and over again to wait on The Lord, wait for The Lord, calm and quiet our souls and WAIT.
In a season of waiting for things we desire, things we believe God desires but is not yet giving us, and things that seem good but may not be ours to have in this life, Isaiah 40-41 is an excellent passage to meditate on. I've been soaking in it for a few weeks now, and every time I read it, different phrases or verses jump out at me, giving me new hope, new joy, new reasons to keep waiting. In these chapters, we are told several things about God that inform our waiting. Here are seven of them (there are more, but I don't have time to write a book):
Monday, April 07, 2014
Seeing God's Glory in the Small Steps
We're off for the week, spending time down in Louisville, Kentucky with Nathan's brother and family, and reconnecting with many friends from the four years we lived here, as well as friends we've made on visits since our move back to Toronto, and a few friends FROM Toronto who are here for the same conference we're down for. Louisville is a place where we get to pick up where we left off with several people (Don't you love friends like that?). And it's also a place where we've already heard several times the question we'll hear several more times over the course of the week: How are things going with the church plant?
Depending on who asks it, that question can come with varying amounts of external pressure: everything from the person you know is really hoping to hear about hundreds gathered and many new Christians to the really good friends who would still support you if you told them it had totally failed (it hasn't), and all the people somewhere in between. But regardless of where the asker falls on that continuum, WE feel the desire to be able to talk of great revival and piles of visible fruit. WE want to feel we've accomplished something, that this endeavor is the best thing out there, that we deserve the full support of everyone who asks. And when we don't have an endless supply of stories about how we see God working, it's easy to want to exaggerate, to leave out the unpleasant bits and discouragements, to convince ourselves that things are far better than the reality. I've felt this temptation many times already this week!
Depending on who asks it, that question can come with varying amounts of external pressure: everything from the person you know is really hoping to hear about hundreds gathered and many new Christians to the really good friends who would still support you if you told them it had totally failed (it hasn't), and all the people somewhere in between. But regardless of where the asker falls on that continuum, WE feel the desire to be able to talk of great revival and piles of visible fruit. WE want to feel we've accomplished something, that this endeavor is the best thing out there, that we deserve the full support of everyone who asks. And when we don't have an endless supply of stories about how we see God working, it's easy to want to exaggerate, to leave out the unpleasant bits and discouragements, to convince ourselves that things are far better than the reality. I've felt this temptation many times already this week!
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