Advent: Face the Darkness

As the days continue to get shorter and the busy-ness related to Christmas continues, I invite you to ponder these words about Advent:

"To practice Advent is to lean into an almost cosmic ache: our deep, wordless desire for things to be made right and the incompleteness we find in the meantime. We dwell in a world still racked with conflict, violence, suffering, darkness. Advent holds space for our grief, and it reminds us that all of us, in one way or another, are not only wounded by the evil in the world but are also wielders of it, contributing our own moments of unkindness or impatience or selfishness."- Tish Harrison Warren

As we enter this last week of Advent, I encourage you to read the whole article if you haven't already done so.

Being a pastor means showing up

The other day a student mentioned that I could borrow his sign for the climate change strike the next day. Because I was going to it, right?

My response was very non-committal. It's the end of the year and there's a ton of things that need doing. I didn't have time in the middle of a Friday afternoon to stand outside with a sign in front of the capitol building.

Except that I'd mentioned in our Bible studies that protests like this are one of the few ways that I, who is not a citizen of this country, can participate in speaking up about areas in which the choices of those in power have negatively affected those who are marginalized. So, if I really believe protests are a part of how I live out my life and seek justice, then I need to follow through: after all, if I'm not willing to inconvenience myself then it's hard to claim that something truly matters to me.

And so, I sent back a message. "I'll be there - and yes, I would love a sign. Thanks for asking and challenging me to come." Because being a pastor means not only showing up and joining others as they participate in new things (like protests) but also being willing to follow through on what I've said.

Reflections on Ezekiel 47

As part of our chapel series at Campus Edge on Hope for all creation, I gave the following short reflection on Ezekiel 47:1-12.

While I have grown to love the book of Ezekiel, I often find it strange. And this passage, despite the beautiful image of life-giving water that it presents, is no exception. It is filled with odd repetitions and details. Why does it matter to us, the readers, which directions the water is coming from? Why are we given measurements?

Going back a few chapters in Ezekiel, there are more measurements. Measurements of doors and walls and rooms and instructions for priests. These chapters look like building instructions for a temple, and many people over the centuries have interpreted it that way. If we build the temple, then Christ will return – and the vision presented here of the water that gives life – will finally come true. It’s one interpretation of Ezekiel 43, which says that these words are written so that people might be ashamed and turn to God, and then they must follow these instructions. And God will dwell among them. And who of us doesn’t want God to dwell among us?

I find something deeply appealing in the idea that maybe – if we just follow this formula or these instructions – then everything will be the way it should be. The water of life, as depicted in this passage, will overflow: "the fruit will be for food, and their leaves for healing.”

Except experience and history have taught us that God cannot be contained or controlled. I – we - cannot do enough to make and ensure God will come to dwell among us. Any effort we might make to build the temple pictured here actually can't work: the text doesn’t give building materials, the dimensions are too large to fit on the temple mound, and probably most noticeable, it’s lacking a roof. The temple isn’t meant to be built. It isn't meant to be one more thing to do; instead it’s a vision of what already is. It’s a vision that is calling us to turn to God, to turn away from our own efforts to control God – or even try to control and run the world around us. The temple is a vision of God’s presence and another reiteration of God’s repeated refrain throughout Ezekiel – I will be your God and you will be my people. I will dwell among you.

God will dwell among us because that’s what God does. God dwells among us. Genesis 1 tells the story of creation but many scholars recognize that the language is more than just a description of the world coming into being. It is a description of a world that has been formed as a temple: God’s temple where God dwells. Since creation, God has dwelt among us, inviting us to see God through the beauty and power and wonder that creation instills in us.

Throughout the Old Testament, God’s presence was shown to the Israelites through the temple in their midst, but God’s presence was hardly contained to the temple. And this vision of a new temple here in Ezekiel makes that even more clear: no roof, after all, could hold God’s presence when God’s presence is throughout all of creation.

Because God’s presence is not always obvious, despite the beauty of creation, God came among us in the form of Jesus, and today God is present with us in the Holy Spirit. And we can take great comfort that it is not on the basis of our own efforts that God dwells among us, but simply because that is who God is. It is part of how God formed creation. And since then we have been given many gracious reminders of God's presence: a vision of life to its fullness, full of the water of life.


Text cross-posted on the blog from my work

Leaning into 'delighting'

One of the greatest gifts of Sabbath for me is delight. I feel like in Sabbath I'm given space and time to delight - as well as hope and joy so that my soul leans towards delighting instead of annoyance. As I practice delighting on Sabbath, I'm hoping that this will help me learn to 'delight' (or at least appreciate) the normal parts of my life in ordinary (i.e., non-Sabbath) time. I feel like so much of my life is focused on the 'I have to do this and get this done' instead of the wonder of getting to do this and being a part of that.' Even in my work of being a pastor I lean more often towards 'have to' than 'get to,' despite the fact that my work includes the honour of walking alongside people in their faith journeys (what could be more delightful and wonder-filled than that?).

In order to practice delight and Sabbath on a more daily basis, I've been trying to start my work day a bit differently. The beginning is usually getting ready, breakfast, and nudging Lydia so we can drop her off at day care. I'm trying to do that more patiently, recognizing that I do have time to dawdle with her (and this morning she helped me fold laundry, which is definitely worth her arriving later at daycare). Yet, after all the moving pieces involved in getting the little to day care and being faced with needing to figure out what most needs doing for the day, I often feel overwhelmed. Instead of trying to tell myself to get over my feelings (which, even on good days, is only moderately successful), I'm trying to give them space and allow myself to start the day more gently. And so I've been spending 30-45 minutes each day listening to a Bible text or a podcast while often playing simple computer games. It's a combination of allowing myself to do something 'fun' while also receiving words of hope and encouragement that can then give me strength as I go about the rest of the day. After experimenting with this for the last week or two, I have felt that I am more able to approach the rest of the day with delight in the work that I get to do instead of seeing it primarily as things that need to be checked off a list.

The gift of Sabbath

I'm deeply thankful for Sabbath. I see it is a gift, especially of perspective. It challenges our understanding of time, seeing "time not as an enemy to subdue, but as a friend to savor.” (Mary Ann McKibben Dana, Sabbath in the Suburbs). Furthermore, it challenges how we think about ourselves. We are not as important or as invincible as we sometimes think: the world will continue quite fine without our efforts. As much as God can use us to do good, God is certainly able to do good without us. It also challenges whatever guilt we might have picked up in terms of how undeserving we might be of rest:

“Even if you don’t observe Sabbath, a shift in perception is helpful. It doesn’t ever all get done. We need to train our vision. We see failure when we should see alternatives. Better to focus on the good and important things we did do instead of berating ourselves for falling short of an ideal.” McKibben Dana, Sabbath in the Suburbs, 105.

I originally received the gift of Sabbath from my parents and then grew to love it even more as I moved out of the house and continued to be refreshed by a weekly day of Sabbath. While I was Seminary - and even my first years in Amsterdam - it remained a gift but got more complicated, as Sabbath could often be lonely when most everyone I knew was busy with other things. And now, Sabbath has become complicated in a different way - as sometimes I need to work on Sunday and taking care of a little is not always restful (although it does often involve delight when I give myself over simply to being with her - and can share the responsibility with Matthijs). Yet, the gift of Sabbath has not changed, nor has my appreciation for it.

I continue to delight in the gift of Sabbath, yet it also requires discernment to know how best to receive this gift in different places and at different phases in my life. I am currently learning the good in practicing practice Sabbath not only on Sunday, but also in small doses throughout the week. So I've been trying to take time to journal or read a good book or by commuting regularly by bike and using that time to think and pray. Even re-instituting a date night with Matthijs is part of trying to practice Sabbath, as I want to be more intentional in delighting in spending time with him. So is learning to wait patiently for the little, so that I might better delight in her presence in our life.

Some helpful quotes and books to keep pondering Sabbath:

• “What happens when we stop working and controlling nature? When we don’t operate machines or pick flowers? . . . When we cease interfering in the world we are acknowledging that it is God’s world.” Lauren F. Winner, Mudhouse Sabbath, 6-7.
• “Sabbath puts the focus on God and God’s gracious invitation to rest from one’s work.” Mary Ann McKibben Dana, Sabbath in the Suburbs, 22.
• A quote from Sabbath in the Suburbs (89): “It’s not so much how busy you are, but why you are busy. The bee is praised. The mosquito is swatted.” Mary O’Connor.
• A helpful book to read: Dorothy C. Bass, Receiving the Day: Christian Practices for Opening the Gift of Time (2001)

A variation of this is crossposted at the Campus Edge blog (where I blog for work).

Patience and Presence

As I expect is true of most toddlers, our little seems to be inherently good at dawdling. It often feels like one either has to wait a significant amount of time or push and prod before she'll get things done. I find my 'pushing and prodding' self not always the most pleasant person to be around, so I lean towards waiting patiently. After all, it's not like a two-year-old really has that much that she needs to be on time for, so why can't we do things slowly? The challenge, though, is that I find it hard to wait patiently. I find it easy to waste time on my own but find it hard to be patient when it feels like someone else - even if she's being cute about it - is wasting my time.

MaryAnn McKibben Dana in her book, Sabbath in the Suburbs, has challenged me to continue to practice waiting. While there may be days and reasons for me to hurry the little one along, there is something good in saying yes to going at the little's tempo. It helps me see time differently: less as something to be conquered and more as something to be savored. McKibben Dana specifically talks about her own experience of saying yes to her children as part of practicing Sabbath:

"The experience is simultaneously tiring and gratifying. . . But the kids’ joy at being heard and responded to is contagious, and rather than take advantage of our agreeableness, they are more agreeable in return. Once a week we can ‘yes-and’ our children. Rather than be confused by this seeming lack of consistency, they get that Sabbath is a different kind of day with different rules and rhythms. Saying yes on Sabbath means that they accept our no’s on other days more easily. Sabbath also becomes a laboratory for the rest of the week, as we realize that we could probably say yes more than we do.” McKibben-Dana, Sabbath in the Suburbs, 95.

Most of all, I want to learn to wait patiently for the little as a practice of being present with her. Perhaps sometimes this means waiting with a book in hand or writing in my journal, or even tidying up, as a way of taking into account my own inherent desire to be productive, while still being present with her. Other times, it will involve paying more attention to her, delighting in who she is and being more fully available to her. Perhaps ordinary time will involve more of the former and Sabbath will hopefully be more of the latter, but, most of all, I want to practice "showing up and making myself available. . . I seek to be present with my kids, not because every moment will feel holy and blessed but because holy and blessed moments don’t happen unless I am present.” McKibben-Dane, Sabbath in the Suburbs, 39.

God in unexpected places

Ethan Vanderleek, a Christian Reformed campus minister in British Columbia, recently wrote an article in Christian Courier about how God shows up in unexpected places. In the article he describes working together with another faith group in order to serve others - and how God, not surprisingly, is present in that action.

He closes the article by speaking about one of the things that is fundamental to my understanding of campus ministry from a (Christian) Reformed perspective. My calling as a campus pastor is not to bring God to the university. Instead, God is already present there. I simply have the task (and joy!) of highlighting how God is at work. Or as Ethan puts it:

"Since God in his goodness is at work in quiet and persistent ways, we ourselves should be willing to see God’s faithfulness at work in unfamiliar places – not in the places where we normally look. We should be willing to confess that we don’t always know where to look for God. We didn’t know to look for God in the suffering man on the cross, nor do we look for God often enough in the poor and lonely people of the world, nor perhaps in faith communities which seem so different from our own. But if goodness is an often shrouded and hidden thing, as the crucified Christ helps us to see, then these strange places are perhaps precisely where we ought to look for God and for goodness."

I'd rather not be known as nice

When I was in Seminary, a professor asked us to describe God. When someone said that God was nice, the professor almost lost it. God was a lot of things, but NOT nice.

I'd probably not go that far, but I would prefer not to be known as nice. I do want to be gracious and kind, a non-anxious presence, and generally pleasant to be around - but I'd still rather not be known primarily as being nice. For me, 'niceness' is too close to making other people comfortable, not speaking up for others (including oneself), and even not living or following God passionately.

A recent Christianity Today article explains well how niceness can be problematic. Sharon Hodde Miller notes that

"“Niceness” is a form of superficial kindness that’s used as a means to a selfish end. . . . My devotion to it has won me a lot of acceptance and praise, but it has also inhibited my courage, fed my self-righteousness, encouraged my inauthenticity, and produced in me a flimsy sweetness that easily gives way to disdain."

She goes on further to point out how this superficial kindness that we consider to be 'niceness' is antithetical to what it means to be a Christian:

"I cannot follow Jesus and be nice. Not equally. Because following Jesus means following someone who spoke hard and confusing truths, who was honest with his disciples—even when it hurt—who condemned the hypocrisy of the Pharisees and turned over tables in the temple."

I pray that I might not be tempted by my own tendencies towards niceness built of a desire to be loved and appreciated by others, as well as fitting in with those around me. Instead, I pray that my dislike for the word might push me to have courage to be full of truth, while still acting and speaking with grace.

The injustice of silencing women

At The Resistance Prays, Rev. Posey Krakowsky illustrates well how Scripture continues to speak to us today. Sadly enough, the Scripture speaks into the brokenness of the world then and now: it is disturbing how real the story of Tamar is today. Not only is she sexually assaulted, but many, including those who ought to love her, do not listen to her voice, do not come to her aid, and do not act for justice on her behalf. 

Krakowsky notes how the story

"shows us the layers upon layers of enabling behavior by other men that result in the systemic violation of girls and women. Jonadab helps Amnon plan the rape. David sends Tamar to her brother without asking any questions about why Amnon wanted so badly to eat food “from her hand.” The story tells us that there were many servants nearby — Amnon sends them out so that he may be alone with Tamar. None of them question these actions. Tamar speaks boldly to defend herself from his attack: none of the servants, who surely were still within earshot, come to her defense. Later, after the rape, Amnon’s male servant throws Tamar out, barring the door to her. Her father, King David, never speaks of the rape, nor does he defend his daughter. His concern is only for his two sons. Even Absalom, her full brother who avenges her by murdering Amnon, silences Tamar. He does so that he may seek justice behind the scenes, proving that he is well aware of the systemic injustice enacted on women which makes it impossible for Tamar to seek justice out in the open."

 Krakowsky highlights that such injustice continues to happen too often today, citing especially the #metoo movement.

How can the story of Tamar, and so many other texts in the Bible, especially God's words about hating injustice and the wicked, challenge us to act when such injustices occur?

Acknowledging ugliness in the Bible - Tamar, Amnon, and David

I deeply appreciated Christianity Today's recent article asking whether we can finally break the silence around Tamar.

Jen Wilkin makes the following point about the story in 2 Samuel 13:

"Amnon, one of David’s sons, violates his own sister and then casts her aside. When her brother Absalom learns what Amnon has done, he tells her, “Has Amnon your brother been with you? Be quiet for now, my sister. He is your brother; do not take this thing to heart.” Absalom’s shushing and dismissing are certainly vile, but it is David’s reaction that stuns: “When King David heard all this, he was furious” (vv. 20–21). 

Furious. That’s it. No public denouncement of Amnon, no vindication of Tamar. No justice, no words of comfort or kindness for his daughter, just impotent, mute anger. David is silent. He takes no action against Amnon, opening the door for Absalom to have his brother murdered in revenge. And Tamar is left desolate."

She argues that David's own sin (with Bathsheba) and guilt prevent him from acting appropriately. We, the readers need to acknowledge not only that David's response was deeply inadequate - an anger that goes nowhere, but that we, as God's people, are called to respond very differently: with justice and compassion. Justice to punish those who have sinned and compassion to not abandon those who have been hurt.

Talking about the things that matter

At the recent Christian Reformed Campus ministry association conference we talked about a lot of hard things: racism, abuse of power, and sexuality (and all in one day!). It hadn't really occurred to me that people might perceive this as strange until one person asked me why we were focusing on all these things and another wondered if we'd planned in a drink at the end of the day (pub locations were indeed made public).

The hard conversations were framed by worship and by sharing with each other about how we [campus ministers and students] were doing. That, I hope, helped place the conversations in the right perspective, even as I believe that the conversations were still hard and could potentially have caused people distress and anxiety. I hope and pray that people are still positively working through what we talked about. After all, we have these conversations together because we all need to see how faith relates to all areas of our lives, including and especially the hard things.


Furthermore, I believe these are areas "where a lot of pain and distress has happened and continues to happen,” and so “I’d like to do all I can to be equipped to know best how to bring the hope of Christ to those [who] are hurting.”

cross-posted on the Campus Edge blog

More Jesus

For many years I attended churches that celebrated the Lord's Supper every Sunday, and I looked forward to this very tangible reminder of Christ's presence with us. I miss this at my current church, and so I often try to find a way to attend a (liturgical) church and participate in communion.

More often than not, the little is with me/us for these services. Thankfully, most of the churches welcome and enjoy her presence - and she seems to enjoy their attention to her.

Because the little is also part of the body of Christ, many churches will allow her to participate in communion. And I gladly encourage her to participate, which has perhaps led to challenges for Matthijs, as she's no longer content with receiving only a blessing. But her participation in communion seems good and fitting: I want her to know and experience Jesus and this is one tangible way to do so, even if she doesn't fully understand what is going on. At the same time, her presence helps me experience Christ more fully: awhile ago, she asked for 'more' after getting some communion bread, and while it was mildly disruptive, it made me pray that all of us would echo her words: more, please, more Jesus.

Easter and Church

Growing up, I wanted to attend an Easter sunrise service. But the church I was part of never held such a service, and so my desire to celebrate the joy and wonder of Christ's resurrection at dawn went unfulfilled for years. That changed somewhat in Seminary when a friend and I experienced the wonder (and length) of an Eastern Orthodox Easter Vigil: it started around 10:30 p.m. and ended at 4 a.m. I also started regularly visiting St. Gregory's Abbey and discovered there the goodness of the Palm Sunday liturgy, especially hearing the Passion story anew (and also learned to appreciate being immersed in the Psalms before dawn).

And then I moved to Amsterdam, and I became a part of a community that not only held an Easter sunrise service, but held multiple services as part of the three days of Easter. In the three days of Easter, I'd participate in footwashing and the last supper, strip the chapel of everything and change the liturgical colours, hold vigil for Christ's death, hear the Passion story again and again, sit in stillness by the cross and grave, and remember Christ's death. Each time of gathering would end without a blessing, as a tangible reminder that something was deeply wrong. When Easter morning came, I would have come to a place where I was ready to celebrate Christ's resurrection, including sharing in a delicious breakfast afterwards. For three days, I was focused primarily on Christ's death and resurrection, and it was good. I miss that.

Since moving to Lansing, we've done our best to celebrate Easter well, but it has been different - and often less focused than back in Amsterdam. Since having a child, it feels like that focus has decreased even more - the little is currently more interested in running around than in hearing or remembering. Yet, I'm also thankful for the time in Amsterdam and what it showed me: first, that the Easter Vigil (something I never even knew existed as a child) is really the church service of the year (and I wouldn't miss it). Second, that there are many ways to remember and celebrate, and that being able to share the joy of Easter with family (or friends) is also one of those good ways. 

A little perspective

While life has gotten easier in the last months (e.g., the green card process seems to be going well, Matthijs' comprehensive exams are over and his program has become less demanding, and Lydia has continued to be healthy and cheerful, growing in independence and stubbornness), I think Matthijs and I are still carrying with us some of the stress of the previous harder months (alongside of the usual stress of wanting to do well in our jobs and in parenting our child). It's thus hard not to feel a bit overwhelmed at times.

And so, when I found out late last night that day care would be closed today because of illness, I couldn't help but wonder how we would manage. More accurately, my first thought was that I wasn't up for handling this.  

But this morning, we split up the day, and Matthijs cancelled some things that were less relevant, so he could do childcare for the most of the morning, so I could go to a meeting. And later this afternoon, a friend is looking after Lydia. And, so I, got a bit of the afternoon with Lydia. 

And in that early afternoon, while Lydia and I got to be outside in the almost spring weather, I remembered again how her presence often helps me find perspective. Because when we need to, Matthijs and I can and do adjust to make extra space for her. And when I am with her, I am reminded that sometimes all of our plans and responsibilities aren't as important as we sometimes think they are.

And last of all, when I am with her, I am filled with joy: because how could I not be filled with joy after seeing how happy she was when she could play in the sandbox for the first time this season, even if it was really still too cold?