Finding words for the sadness

I know I am not the only one who has been crying in the middle of the coronavirus pandemic. Finding words to describe the sadness has been hard, though, as there are so many emotions present right now as we experience the chaos and challenges brought about through COVID-19. Emily Newton at the Mockingbird gives words to some of the many reasons we are crying:

We cry for the changes to our immediate daily lives and the growing pains that have come as a result. We cry because we are limited. We cry for the uncertainty, the fear, the anxiety present in our spaces, the isolation. We also cry for our world, healthcare workers, and the hospitalizations and deaths that have come and will continue to come, both afar and close to home.

We also cry because this crisis has brought about unexpected gifts: a recognition of the friendships and community I have, the joy brought to us from our small child (and my joy in hearing her interact with Matthijs), and the sense that I am using my gifts to pastor well and bring hope and comfort to people's lives. But all of these gifts do not erase the hardness of having normal life upended, being physically separated from others, or the loss of life that this illness has already brought and looks to be coming to people closer to me.

O Lord, how long will you forget [us]? Forever?
How long will you look the other way?
How long must I struggle with anguish in my soul,
with sorrow in my heart every day?

But I trust in your unfailing love.

Excerpts from Psalm 13 (NLT)

Remember you are dust

Once again I heard the words, "remember you are dust," when I received the ashes on Ash Wednesday. And then I witnessed our small daughter also receive ashes and hear the words that she is dust. She is now old enough to realize that this experience was unusual. As we returned to our pew, she kept looking at her father's forehead and mine, noticing the dark cross on them. She was clearly wondering and trying to figure out what was going on. To explain it to her, I told her that this cross means that we belong to Jesus. 

To be reminded that we are dust is to me a reminder that we belong to Jesus - and that our time together also belongs to God. My time on earth and her father's time on earth and even her time on earth is limited. No matter how hard I strive, how careful we all are, or no matter how much I wish it were otherwise, I cannot prevent us from being hurt or any of us from experiencing loss. That is a sobering thought: a humbling realization of my own human mortality. I'd rather live in denial. Yet, in remembering that we are dust, I am also pushed into recognizing how thankful I am for my life (and loved ones) and remembering how much I need to trust Jesus and take comfort in knowing that we do belong to Jesus.

Assumptions connected to sexuality

I recently came across an blog post that raised a good question about some of the assumptions we make connected to sexuality:

"No one ever wanted to know that I was celibate when they believed I was straight. Even when I had a boyfriend, not a single person ever questioned my sexual purity. But now that I’m openly gay, everyone in the church wants to hear that I’m celibate. More than that, almost universally, I’m exhorted to open my heart to the possibility of finding a man. It makes you wonder. Why is the straight life automatically holy but the queer life automatically sinful?"

So much of the conversation within our churches about sexuality tends to focus on having the right views, meaning whether or not I'm affirming of same-sex relationships. Shouldn't it be focused on whether we are honouring God with our sexuality, irrelevant of whether or not we are single and/or heterosexual?

Faith isn't about getting gold stars

A podcast I've been listening to lately - the Mockingcast - has been helpful both for encouraging me and making me think more about faith. The podcast focuses on the places where we see grace - and its absence - in the world. Because of this, it has helped me to think more about how desperately we ALL need grace.

They also have a blog, which I've also appreciated. A recent article by Sarah Condon, one of the people on the podcast, made me laugh and wonder again how I might share more what the grace and hope of God looks like. First, the part that made me laugh:

"A friend approached me with urgency on his face and said, “Sarah, I need to tell you something. I got dressed up today for church. I mean, we were planning on coming to the service. But something has come up. And now we have to leave. And I have not seen your husband. But I want you to tell him you saw me so I can get credit.”

This poor guy, this dear friend, had accidentally hit one of my buttons.

And so, in all of my demurely Christian charism, I turned to him and said in one breath:

“I could give a sh*t whether or not you showed up at church this morning. All the credit you need happened on the cross 2000 years ago. We believe in grace at this church.”

Needless to say, I doubt I’ll be invited to speak at any evangelism conferences."

I can almost imagine myself saying that! 

She continued by reminding me of how church ought to be: "We do not come to church because we get a gold star. We come to church because we have tried everything else and it turns out we continue to be exhausted by the world and our lives. Church is a last-ditch effort for many of us. It is what happens before we start drinking more or isolating more or doing whatever it is that harangues us, more. . . As a professional Christian I should be desperate to have more people in the pews. But I am only a desperate person who sees desperate people and desperately wants to point them to the one thing that has helped me."

I was left wondering how I might do a better job of recognizing how all of us are desperate. And how do I be honest about the neediness of all of us, both in my church and ministry? Last of all, how do I speak of how God's grace and hope meets all of us there in our need?

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.