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?

Advent: longing

It has been a season for me of reflecting on the challenge of being female: about the power of women in ministry and sexism, about women's anger, abuse (especially at Michigan State), and about what leadership looks like. The reflections have brought with them my own anger at how hard it is to be female today, especially when one goes against expectations.

And so I long for a time and a world where women's gifts are valued and used and when women aren't blamed for abuse (or seen primarily as victims or sinners). Yet, as much as Advent is about longing for the world to be better, Christmas is about remembering how with Christ's coming the world is already better (and one day Christ will come back and everything will be fully right).

The longing is articulated well in recent articles that I read: Longing for All things to be made right and Rahab the Survivor.

Heather Walker Peterson in Longing for All Things highlights how through their Jesse tree, she is seeing the ancestors of Jesus in a new light. She is reminded of how Abram lies "to the Egyptian pharaoh about his wife Sarai being his sister. He was protecting his own skin but not the skin of Sarai, who was a hair’s breadth away from sexual relations with the Pharaoh. Our daughters, seven and nine, although not in complete understanding, are offended. And so am I. How had I lost the grievousness of Abram’s sin in my familiarity with the story?" In reading the story of Ruth and Boaz, she hears again "Boaz telling his male workers to keep their hands off Ruth while she was picking up the leftover grain. I’m glad for Boaz’s integrity, but I wish that the people of God who worked for him didn’t have to be told. Things are not all right."

Jennifer Lucking, in Rahab the Survivor, highlights the strength found in this ancestor of Jesus, while lamenting that her strength and desire to follow God faithfully are often left out when we talk about her:

Most of the Advent stories I’ve read about Rahab go something like this: “Rahab was a prostitute! Rahab was a liar! A harlot! But even someone as shameful and bad as Rahab is in Jesus’s lineage.”And I understand this type of storytelling: we are meant to recognize that despite our own sinfulness, despite the wrongs we do, we are redeemable and we are loved by God. Other articles I read about the women listed in the lineage of Jesus included words like sordid and notorious.. . Today I am choosing to see the resilience of Rahab the Survivor. She was proactive and went to the spies with a plan (see Joshua 2:8, 15-16). Rahab was confident and bold as she proclaimed what she knew (Joshua 2:9-11). She advocated not just for herself, but for her family (Joshua 2:12-13). She was faithful to what God was doing in her life. She is Rahab the strong. Rahab the leader.

As much as the articles point to a longing for the world to be better, they also remind me that through Christ women have been seen and given voices. And we, as Christians, have the ability to use the power of our words to tell a different story: a story that highlights that Jesus comes from a line of women of strength and perseverance who dared to risk everything for God and who cared deeply about justice.

Advent: hope

Several months ago, the Banner published an article about infertility that spoke to me, as it describes well the messiness of infertility and the messiness of hope.

They describe the challenge of not knowing, as well as the difficulties of hoping when one is continually disappointed but each month brings with it the possibility of new life:

"Every month we go through the repeated cycle of hope, then fear and disappointment. . . At times it seems easier to stop hoping than to live with the heartache of repeated disappointment. But it’s hard to know how to mourn when you don’t have definitive answers."

The author also speaks of how unhelpful many people's comments are. They "reveal an unwillingness to sit in ashes with us. This incapacity for solidarity is painfully sad and incredibly isolating for those suffering. Is it any wonder more people don’t speak up about infertility in our churches?"

Finally, the author speaks of the messiness of hope.

Someone will inevitably ask, “Aren’t you forgetting about the gospel and its offer of hope?” Eschatologically, our hope is secure—the risen Christ will return; sin, Satan, and death will be no more (Rev. 20:7-21:4). But hope—biblical hope—should lead us to be more attentive to present suffering, not less. Hope is not an opiate; rather, it keeps us crying out to God. Hope should lead us to groan laments because things aren’t the way they’re supposed to be (Rom. 8:18-27), such as the continuing mutilation of black bodies, the usury of Latino labor without providing legalized status, and, yes, even the silent suffering of infertility.

Hope is fragile, sometimes even dangerous. And yet we cannot live long without hope. 

Not yet.

Advent is the season that we await and long for the coming of the kingdom of God. For as much as Christ's first coming already brought forth the kingdom, the kingdom is not yet fully here on earth.

Without intending to, yesterday became filled with experiencing the emotions connected to the 'not yet.' Perhaps it might be better to say I was overwhelmed by the emotions related to the hard things I felt inadequate to do: hard things that were a result of sin and brokenness. Instead of recognizing my sadness and anger, I avoided reality with computer games and fighting with a program on my computer.

Yelling at God would have been better way of acknowledging my overwhelmedness and all the emotions: not because I expected to prove God wrong on any of it but because I needed to remember that God hears and cares. Crying would also have helped me, as it would have made me able to mourn the brokenness of the world and myself, as well as to mourn in response to the pain and disappointment I witnessed from those who were/are part of the community I love in Amsterdam.

When I express my lack of desire to be part of a world that is broken, including myself, I open myself up to being comforted. Last night the comfort came in having the exhausted child I love fall asleep in my arms. And it came through a conversation about a woman who insisted that Jesus' Kingdom was also for her and her daughter, now already (Mark 7).

Exegesis on the Widow's Coins

I really appreciated Abbot Andrew's recent musings about the widow's coins (Mark 12). Through looking at the surrounding text and the whole Bible, he both validates the widow's offering (encouraging us to do likewise) while also questioning a system/society that would take a widow's last coins.

The following are his own words:

"Highly troubling are the preceding verses where Jesus denounces the scribes who “devour widows’ houses.”. . . the juxtaposition of these references to widows raises questions. The questions become more worrisome when we recall how the prophets denounced those who oppressed widows and orphans almost every time they spoke out on social issues. The very next verse on the other side of the story of the widow and her two coins raises even more urgent questions. In response to a disciple’s commenting on the great stones of the temple, Jesus says: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” (Mk. 13: 1) This suggests that the poor widow is giving her last two coins for a bad cause.  . .  

Is this poor widow a bad example, then? By no means. This poor widow reminds us of the widow who gave Elijah some of the last grains of meal that she had after which she expected to die with her son. (1 Kings 17: 12) . . . Since giving everything is a sign of the Kingdom of God, the poor widow is a sign of the Kingdom while the rich man who went away sad and the rich who contributed lavishly to the temple treasury are not."

I encourage you to read his exegesis on the passage (it is fairly short).