Learning to live with myself - and accepting grace

Last week Friday I managed to get my email inbox down to 13 emails, which seems like a success. It's been months since my inbox has been so low, what with the chaos of starting a new job, moving, and the general challenges of life during a pandemic. Getting my inbox down to a manageable level gives me the sense of control over my life. Yet, the control was a bit of an illusion, as I'd been using my inbox as a good excuse to not work on writing my sermon. 

When I was in college, my house was always cleanest around exam time. By doing something else good, I could make myself feel better about not doing what I actually should be doing. One would hope, twenty years later, that I should be beyond that. In reality, I've simply shifted around what needs doing and the 'good' thing that I can do to avoid that.

I feel like learning to come to terms with ourselves - all of our quirks and needs, talents and skills - is something that we continue to struggle with, even as we grow older and hopefully wiser. This past week this struggle came out when faced with the daunting task of wrestling with a text and wondering what the Spirit would have me say. Is working through my email a good thing, something I can do to get an illusion of control, a sense of accomplishment, or even some tiredness so that I no longer fight to avoid doing what I really ought to be doing? Yes. no. maybe. It all depends on the day. 

As I get older, I can recognize that I can either choose to be frequently frustrated with who I am and how I act, or I can choose God's grace. 

Grace to accept who I am and my difficulties to stay on task. 

Grace to accept how much I like being in control and feeling productive (and that this is ultimately an illusion). 

Grace to see what I do as sin and name it as such - so that I can stop trying to fix myself on my own but accept my need for the Spirit to show up and work in and despite me. 

As I learn to accept myself and accept grace in the middle of that, it also allows me to rejoice more easily in the good that comes out of who I am, including my tendency to procrastination. Like being thankful for getting through emails I was behind on (and thanks, too, that the sermon did get done). And I can be delighted by how the Spirit shows up in surprising ways, like how I read last week's reflection from First CRC when I was trying to figure out how I was going to be present at our ministry's silent retreat while also being present for my small daughter. The email showed me a way that I could be creative and delight in both the nature surrounding my new house and in my daughter's joy in doing an art project with me. The results, including the joyful daughter, are in the picture below.

Prayer connected to Amos 9

The following prayer for a service on Amos 9 was written for Wine Before Breakfast in the fall. Along with allusions to Amos 9, it also contains allusions to Amos 7 and 8, as well as Psalm 139.

Gracious God,
You who control hurricanes and earthquakes, ,
Have power over the wind and the storm.

Where can we go from your presence?
‘Though we hide from your sight
at the bottom of the sea,
You will search us out.’

‘The wings of the morning
and the farthest limits of the sea’
Even there we cannot flee
from Your presence.

Such power is too wonderful for me.

How do we reconcile that no one
can hide from you?
None can hide
from the fierce love of a mother,
From the power that can leave a trail
like that of the wake of a hurricane.

Too often our images of You are incomplete:

We picture a loving friend-God
Who seems unaware of injustice,
Or an angry king-God,
Who seems bent on judgement.

How do we see the fullness of who You are?
How do we be honest about Your anger
and passion for justice,
while still resting in your grace?

We thus pray for the church
and how we proclaim who You are,
We lament especially how people have been harmed
when your image has been distorted
by proclaiming only one side of who you are.

[Silent, spoken, and written prayers for the church and for those you have been hurt by distorted images of God.]

All-powerful God,
‘You who build your upper chambers in the heavens,
and found your vault upon the earth;
You who call for the waters of the sea,
and pour them out upon the surface of the earth—
the Lord Almighty is your name.’

You punish those who turn their backs on justice,
who reject their identities as divine image-bearers;
You call for justice to flow down like waters.
So why then does injustice seem to thrive?

The poor are still bought for silver
and the needy for a pair of sandals.
So many goods are produced by those not earning a living wage.
The land is exploited,
a continuation of treaties that took advantage of others.

We lament the injustice in the world
and the suffering of those around us.

[Silent, spoken, and written prayers of lament for the suffering and injustices in the world].

God of all justice,
Protect us from your anger.
Fix your eyes on us for good
and not for harm.

We confess for how
we’ve participated in the wrong around us.
We’ve had a part in the fires raging in the world.
We have made it hard for others to breathe.

Distracted by social media and the news,
caught up in our work and worries.
Attracted to images of strength
instead of humility and truth.
We suffer a famine of ‘hearing the words of the LORD.’

[Silent, spoken, and written prayers of confession]

God of all hope,
May we see that you relent
not because of who we are
– and whether we are good enough -
But because of who you are.

Give us eyes to imagine a different story.
To see how your might
shapes a new world.

May we see how you care for all people.
That we, who are not the chosen people,
who were not the first people -
But instead are the Ethiopians,
the settlers and colonizers -
That you would care as much for us 
as for any other.

Recognizing the great gift of being included,
We lament all those who continue to be marginalized
and also give thanks for how you have included all of us.

[Silent, spoken, and written words of thanksgiving]

Gracious God,
Even as we long to hear
and speak words for restoration,
may we never stop mourning the suffering of the world.

May your presence inspire comfort and not fear.
May we look for how You are working in the world.
May we see justice rolling down like rivers.

Amen.

Lab Girl (2016) - insight into the life of an academic in the sciences

I found Lab Girl (by Hope Jahren) helpful for understanding the experience of academics in the sciences, both graduate students and faculty, especially those involved in labs. I wasn't sure, though, what to make of the interspersed chapters on plant biology, as fascinating as they were. They did provide a metaphor for understanding the rest of the book: “People are like plants: they grow toward the light. I chose science because science gave me what I needed – a home as defined in the most literal sense: a safe place to be.” (18)

At times, though, these interspersed chapters on biology felt like they got in the way of the story I wanted to hear more about, even as much as Jahren's telling us of the biology of trees is as much a part of her story as all the (mis)adventures that she had. Her story was unique: “there’s still no journal where I can tell the story of how my science is done with both the heart and the hands.” (20) Nor can she speak fully of all the non-successes that obviously don’t make it into journals. Instead she notes that “I have become proficient at producing a rare species of prose capable of distilling ten years of work by five people into six published pages, written in a language that very few people can read and that no one ever speaks. This writing relates the details of my work with the precision of a laser scalpel, but its streamlined beauty is a type of artifice, a size-zero mannequin designed to showcase the glory of a dress that would be much less perfect on a real person.” (20)

The book was also helpful in providing insights into some of the unseen challenges of academic, especially that of science professors (and those who direct labs). She notes how, while we might expect knowledge and research to be the hardest questions that scientists face, funding is actually the biggest stress:

"Next time you meet a science professor, ask her if she ever worries that her findings might be wrong. If she worries that she chose an impossible problem to study, or that she overlooked some important evidence along the way. If she worries that one of the many roads not taken was perhaps the road to the right answer that she’s still looking for. Ask a science professor what she worries about. It won’t take long. She’ll look you in the eye and say one word: “Money.” " (124-5)

She also talks about the challenges and loneliness that she experienced, particularly as a female in her profession. Despite being someone who won some prominent awards (and was on the tenure track at 26 already!), funding was a significant problem for at least ten years. She also speaks about being taken advantage of by another lab in the building, of being yelled at a conference presentation, of being ignored socially at conferences by the senior scientists in her field. She also notes about how hard when her life went against a lot of societal norms, especially what is expected of females:

“I didn’t know if I was crying because I was nobody’s wife or mother – or because I felt like nobody’s daughter – or because of the beauty of that single perfect line on the readout. I had worked and waited for this day. In solving this mystery I had also proved something, at least to myself, and I finally knew what real research would feel like. But as satisfying as it was, it still stands out as one of the loneliest moments of my life. On some deep level, the realization that I could do good science was accompanied by the knowledge that I had formally and terminally missed my chance to become like any of the women that I had ever known. In the years to come, I would create a new sort of normal for myself within my own laboratory. I would have a brother close than any of my siblings, someone I could call any hour of the day or night. . . I would nurture a new generation of students, some of whom were just hungry for attention, and a very few who would live up to the potential that I saw in them.” (71-2).

Despite all the challenges, there is a lot of hope in the book: the community that she builds, the grace and acceptance that she presents, and the quiet presence of God:

“My lab is a place where my guilt over what I haven’t done is supplanted by all the things that I am getting done. . . My lab is a place where I can be the child that I still am. . . . My laboratory is like a church because it is where I figure out what I believe. The machines drone a gathering hymn as I enter. I know whom I’ll probably see, and I know how they’ll probably act. I know there’ll be silence; I know there’ll be music, a time to greet my friends, and a time to leave others to their contemplation. There are rituals that I follow, some I understand and some I don’t. . . And, just like church, because I grew up in it, it is not something from which I can ever really walk away.” (19)

The Spirit will show us truth

I love how Chong, in his Banner article, Truth Will Win describes his experience hosting a "no-topic-is-taboo discussion for students, which sounds a lot like the hopes we had at Campus Edge for Pub Theology: 

"Everyone had a fair voice in this forum. It was dialogue, not debate. I didn’t allow any harsh words or tones. I had a number of non-Christians, even ex-Christians, who not only kept returning every week but invited their non-Christian friends to attend. 

Rather than controlling the discussion, I trusted in the Holy Spirit’s guidance that the biblical truths shared would take root in the midst of other views. Sure, some of the opinions shared made me cringe. But I trusted that God’s truth would resonate more with people in the end. The Christians grew in their faith because they learned to answer for their beliefs. The non-Christians learned more about Christianity and the Bible in a safe, non-threatening, and uncensored environment."

There is much hope in trusting that the Spirit will convict people of truth. I can trust that the Spirit will use my efforts (and that of others) to share who God is with others, but I can also trust that God will also help me see where my understandings are incomplete. 

Called to find God's presence in our actual lives

I found Tish Harrison Warren's recent article in Christianity Today, "As a Pandemic Parent, God Calls Me to This Loud and Lonely Life | Christianity Today, to be both encouraging and challenging as she invites us to look for God in our lives today.

Warren shares how Nouwen retells, in The Genesee Diary, how he longs for God to show up 

“in such an intensive and convincing way” that Nouwen would let go of his idols and commit himself unconditionally to God. In response, the abbot is neither surprised nor impressed. “You want God to appear to you in the way your passions desire,” he says, “but these passions make you blind to his presence now.” He calls Nouwen—and me—to find God’s presence in the only place where it can be found: in our actual lives."

I find this challenging, because I find being present in my actual life hard at times. It's easier to imagine that - if only ' circumstances changed, I'd be able to be as holy and loving as I imagine I can be.

Yet, I also find it encouraging because I find it comforting to know that I'm not alone in my spiritual 'fantasies.' I also find it encouraging to be reminded that I do not have to wait for circumstances to be perfect to experience God's presence in my life. God is already here in the middle of my messy and imperfect life. 

In fact, as Warren notes, my messy and complicated life is an invitation to a different kind of spiritual discipline: 

"Typically, when I forsake spiritual practices like silence or solitude, I tend to conceive of it as a failure of discipline—like skipping a workout and eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s instead. But during Covidtide, having to frequently surrender these practices is its own kind of suffering. The call to notice God in the actual moment I’m in is therefore a call to meet him in suffering, however quotidian that pain may appear."

Jesus, wake up

The following is a sermon I preached earlier this month at Wine Before Breakfast.

These past few months I have deeply appreciated the lyrics of the song “Wake up Jesus” by The Porter's Gate. The song stood out to me at first because Jesus in the storm is one of my daughter’s favourite Jesus’ stories, but I have kept listening to it as the words have resonated with how I feel this season. When I look at the world around me – at the injustices we hear about and the suffering connected to covid-19 – I feel as lost as Jesus’ disciples on the raging sea. 

And I wonder, Jesus when are you going to wake up? Don’t you care that we’re drowning?

This song captures Advent, especially Advent this year. We are in the middle of a storm. Waves of anger and hurt crash over us. Polarization and frustration rain down us. The wind blowing over us carries the cries of the downtrodden. Our boat has been shaped by the systems of privilege that help some of us but do tremendous harm to others of us.

We’re sailing blind in the middle of that boat, not sure if we should jump out or hold on. We catch glimpses of the suffering around us: domestic abuse, gun violence, empty stomachs, discrimination. But we also realize how little we see when most of our attention is focused on our own feeble attempts at staying afloat.
 
Jesus, wake up. Gracious God, do something.
Come and heal this world.
Don’t you care that we’re drowning here?
Wake up already and calm this raging sea.
 
I find it easy to imagine the panic of the disciples in the storm, as it echoes my own sense of being overwhelmed.
 
When I tell this story to my small daughter, though, her reaction is not that of being overwhelmed. Jesus in the storm is really one of her favourite Jesus stories, and she interacts with and interprets the story with the enthusiasm – and wisdom – of a 3-year-old.
 
When I start talking about how the disciples are panicking because of the wind and the waves and the rain, and they start looking for Jesus to come fix things, I ask my daughter where Jesus is. And she enthusiastically replies that Jesus is sleeping. Perhaps her enthusiasm is because she recognizes the absurdity of the situation – that in the middle of the raging sea Jesus is sleeping.
 
But perhaps my daughter's answer is one of joy because she knows what comes next in the story. The disciples go to Jesus and tell him to Wake up. Jesus, Save us. Jesus, wake up. And sometimes my daughter lets me know that the disciples must have stolen Jesus’ blankets to help him wake up. And just like her Papa responds so well when you pull the blankets off him in the morning, Jesus must also have woken up. And when Jesus wakes up, he tells the wind, the waves, and the rain to stop. And they stop. And things are restored to the way they ought to be.

When I tell my daughter this story, I am struck by her complete and utter conviction of how things ought to be. Of course, Jesus will wake up. Of course, Jesus will fix things. Of course, Jesus can be asleep in the middle of chaos – because he sees and knows things that his disciples – and we – do not.

When I listen and read Mary’s song, I hear that same conviction. The words Mary speaks are the words of someone who knows how the story ought to end. Mary knows the stories of God redeeming the people of Israel. She knows that the Messiah’s coming will change everything. She knows that God will keep the promises made long ago to the people of Israel.

Because Mary knew these stories and knew she belonged to the Mighty God who does great things, she could sing this song, a song that was active resistance and fierce hope. Because as much as Mary’s song is a song of elation – of joy that the Messiah is coming and that she gets to play a part - it is also a song that is sung in a time when Mary’s words were not obvious – like us, Mary was living in a time when it wasn’t obvious how God was working.

As much as Mary knew the stories of how God had acted in the past, she and her people were living in a time when God seemed silent. The great stories of Elijah and Hana were from the distant past. Despite the fiery message of the prophets, the people had gone into exile. While some returned, as the books of Ezra and Nehemiah tells us, it was only a small remnant. And after that came the Greeks, and then the Romans. Even Judas Maccabeus, who had looked like he might be able to rescue the Jewish people, was more than a hundred years in the past.

Mary’s song is more powerful because of the context in which it is sung. She is singing out of the conviction of who God has been to the people of Israel and out of trust in the promises that God has made – and not primarily out of her current situation as a young woman whose people had not been free for centuries.

Furthermore, Mary sings this song even though she does not yet know what will happen in her own future – she does not know if she will be rejected by Joseph and forced to raise her child alone, if she even survives childbirth. She didn’t yet know that Jesus would reject her one day or that she would witness the world’s rejection of him with his death on the cross. She did not know what would happen and yet, because of who she knew God to be – the Mighty One who does great things - because of this she declared that all people would one day call her blessed.

It is one thing to sing this song of joy when all is well. It is another thing to sing these words about God’s mercy from generation to generation, words of how God has shown strength and scattered the proud – when you were still waiting for those to happen in your own life. Mary expected Jesus to be the answer. And he was and is, but perhaps not exactly the way Mary or even we expect.

Because of Jesus, the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. (Matthew 11). Because of Jesus everything has changed. But the changes are not always how we want them to be. Jesus didn’t come as king into Jerusalem and conquer the Romans. Instead, his love and power were shown by his laying his life down. Even Mary’s song invites us into this revolutionary way of power and love – letting go of our own power, riches, and privilege so that we might be part of what Jesus started – a kingdom where all are welcomed, the silenced are given voices, the loud are invited to listen, and all have enough.

Because of Jesus’ life and the Spirit’s working in this world for hundreds of years, we now know more than Mary did about how the Mighty God has done great things for all people. At the same time, we, like Mary, haven’t lived to the end of the story yet. We often feel like we are still in the middle of the storm waiting for Jesus to wake up, waiting for God to come and heal us and this world.

In Advent, we name the difficulty of living in the middle of the storm, living in the middle of the story. As we celebrate Christmas, especially when we long for things to be different, we need to be reminded of the whole story – and that we, like Mary, can be certain of how the story ends. Mary’s song of active resistance and fierce hope is a reminder to us of how God has worked in the world and will continue to do so.

By singing this song with her, we can find hope when all seems hopeless, courage enough to keep fighting the waves of injustice and despair around us, and strength to turn to each other and Jesus when the storm overwhelms us.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

This has been cross-posted at the CRC campus ministry website

What can happen when you try to arrange things for God

Over a year ago, the main chaplain for the CRC campus ministry at the University of Toronto made known his plans to retire. As a fellow CRC campus minister, I'd become friends with some of the U of T staff team and hoped they'd find a new staff member who was a good fit for the ministry. And, because I'd like to see more female campus minister colleagues, I also thought it'd be great if they could find a female to take on the position. 

When it became known that the campus ministry was indeed looking for someone to fill the position full-time, I started reaching out to people who were qualified. I brainstormed with Sara, a friend of mine who used to work as part of the staff team in Toronto, about all of the qualified females we could ask, trying to help arrange things for God.

And then in February this year, Sara and I were wondering again how we could help out the ministry (and God) with filling the position, and she suggested again that I apply. When she'd suggested this previously, my answer had always been a quick no, sometimes with a laugh at the absurdity of the idea. I loved my job in Lansing, and if we moved again, it would be back to Europe. 

But that February, when Sara asked again, what had once seemed an obvious 'no' felt differently. So I wondered if perhaps the Spirit was prodding me to look again - had God even been using my intense interest in arranging things for the ministry as a preparation for being open to the idea of applying to the position myself? But it still felt absurd to contemplate moving to Toronto, and so when I asked Matthijs about his thoughts about moving to Toronto, I assumed he'd respond negatively. But he was enthusiastic about the idea, and I had a stronger sense of what chaos God might be asking us to enter into these next few months. 

And then the pandemic hit, life turned chaotic, and I was in a position to provide needed encouragement and pastoral care to folks connected to Campus Edge as we navigated this new season. And still, sensing God's hand on the whole process (and with some extra help from Matthijs), I applied to the position at U of T. And the folks of U of T continued with the search and hiring someone. And I couldn't help but wonder what kind of idiot contemplates upheaving their life and moving jobs across a closed border in the middle of a pandemic! 

We are now in week two of self-isolation in Toronto, and as of tomorrow I am officially working full-time as a chaplain at the U of T (I've been working part-time, gradually increasing my hours, since mid-August). I still feel like one does need to be slightly crazy to move countries and jobs in the middle of a pandemic. Or perhaps one simply has to have a strong sense that God is better at arranging things than I am: how else can I account for our selling our house, the tremendous help we had in finding housing here in Toronto (and how graciously we've been welcomed)?

Running around in our new house

Making a bridge (and slide) with stuff loaned from a colleague for our 2-week mandatory quarantine