January: failure and grace

January always seems to surprise me with how overwhelming it is. Even this year, when I did a lot to order things well, I still felt like I got hit by a truck (or a bakfiets as Matthijs and I often say, since it'd be less likely to do serious damage and yet cause a lot of pain). The following list should give you an idea of why I thought that, for once, this January would be easier:

• I had a great, relaxing vacation, thanks to friends and family (especially my Dutch in-laws). We also had a few days back at home before 'regular' life started, and I could even work a few half days before starting back.
• Matthijs's work is much less intense than his PhD program was - and it feels like we've mostly recovered from the stress connected to that.
• I didn't have to plan/outline studies for the next 8 weeks of Campus Edge since we were continuing with our study on Isaiah. On top of that, I have a great intern working for me who leads studies a lot (and is very passionate about Isaiah). 
• The little is getting to an age where she is more independent and can play on her own sometimes. 

But this past week it finally dawned on me what part of January hadn't changed. Every year in January I approach the year with extra hopes and plans and expectations about all the things I'm going to get done. I think the expectations were even higher this year because of how much my life had felt ordered (and I felt well-rested). 

And then I failed. Perhaps because the biggest expectation was how diligently I was going to be working on my dissertation to finally finish it. But working on it has been hard (which shouldn't have surprised me, since it has taken this long already). And so January has been coloured by disappointment in myself. Again.

Fortunately, January isn't only about disappointment. With each failed attempt (and each successful attempt) to work hard on my dissertation (and work and life stuff), I'm reminded of the truths that I have been learning this past year. Failure is not the end of the story but the beginning. My failures (and my successes) are opportunities to experience God's grace and the reassurance that my value is not dependent on how good (or productive) I am. 

Slaughter of the Innocents - December 28 (and January 11)

In many liturgical traditions, on the fourth day of Christmas the church remembers the innocents slaughtered in Bethlehem as Herod tries to kill the king that the magi came and visited (Matthew 2:13-23). As Christmas is a time of joy, it is disconcerting to have this story of great suffering break into the celebration.

Yet, there is also something good about reading this story so close to Christmas, as Esau McCaulley, the author of a recent New York Times article points out:

"The church calendar calls Christians and others to remember that we live in a world in which political leaders are willing to sacrifice the lives of the innocent on the altar of power. We are forced to recall that this is a world with families on the run, where the weeping of mothers is often not enough to win mercy for their children. More than anything, the story of the innocents calls upon us to consider the moral cost of the perpetual battle for power in which the poor tend to have the highest casualty rate.

But how can such a bloody and sad tale do anything other than add to our despair? The Christmas story must be told in the context of suffering and death because that’s the only way the story makes any sense. Where else can one speak about Christmas other than in a world in which racism, sexism, classism, materialism and the devaluation of human life are commonplace? People are hurting, and the epicenter of that hurt, according to the Feast of the Holy Innocents, remains the focus of God’s concern."

Christmas is a time of joy and hope only when it recognizes the suffering of people today - and our desperate need for Christ's coming to change everything.

Besides the encouraging and challenging words that the article brings, the presence of the article itself in the New York Times also gives me hope. How can I not be encouraged when a major newspaper, read by so many people who are unfamiliar with Christianity, carries an article like this (and that on Advent) that clearly presents the real hope of Christ to a hurting world?


For further reflections on the story, see the Empire Remixed blog, of which the following is a quote:

"You see, just as the Christ child in the manger
becomes cheap sentimentality apart from
the refugee family running for their lives,
so also is the refugee child
reduced to unfair escapism
if divorced from the bodies strewn all around
Bethlehem after the Holy Family flees."

It takes a village

There is a well-known phrase that it takes a village to raise a child. The phrase suggests that a child needs multiple people around them in order to grow up well. But it's not just my child who needs a village: I, her parent, also need one.

When people ask me how I feel about being a parent, my response is positive: I enjoy being a mom to our little. And then I qualify my response: I enjoy it because I have people who help us out, and I'm not sure I would enjoy it as much if I didn't regularly have so much 'time off' from active parenting. I'm deeply thankful that the people at both her previous day care and her current one care for her and want what is best for her. And the little thoroughly enjoys going there. Matthijs and I have a wonderful friend who regularly watches the little most Monday evenings when I have to work. And I have friends and family who help me process what it means to be a parent: the exhaustion, the confusion, the frustrations, as well as the joys. And last, but not least, Matthijs and I share the responsibilities of parenting. And we share a trust that God is with us as we raise this small person that has been gifted to us.

Because the burden of looking after and raising the little is shared, I feel like I'm more able to delight in her presence when I am with her. Sometimes there is a struggle of how I can love her well while also taking time to do other things that I love and help others - but the struggle has been less overwhelming because of the wonderful village we have to help with the little.

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.