Real Rest

What do you do when you're totally wiped out? I don't just mean that you've had a long day, but more like a long week or series of months. The kind of bone-weary that comes from too much work, too little sleep, too much stress, and too little margin. Bone-weary isn't quite right... more like brain-weary. The kind of weary where even sleep only helps so much - not only is it hard to wind your mind down enough to actually get sleep, but when you do, it feels like your brain revs up in its subconscious state and morning just brings everything back full force. 

What do you do when you're that kind of wiped out?

I've been there. In the last year or so, more often than I'd like to admit. Times when the weight I was feeling seemed to be bigger than the God I was serving, and there seemed to be no answers in sight. The reality is that most of life is like that, if we allow ourselves to go there. I think about the suffering and pain of those around me, I pray into the weight that is on the shoulders of those I love and care deeply about, I look at the obstacles that seem to be blocking the path in front of me in just about every direction, and I can very easily get weary. Bone-weary. Brain-weary.

I would love to say that my response is, like the hymn writer opines, to "take it to the Lord in prayer." And that truly does happen... but it doesn't always provide the magical elixir that lifts the burden. So then what? Like many, I suppose, I look for ways to rest my mind. Staring at a game on the television, or if I'm really desperate, playing one on the iPad. Eating food that I don't want or need. Surfing the internet. Mindlessly flipping through Facebook posts about how everyone else's life is better than mine. Or worse in that one specific moment--LOL, SMH--and then magically better. I excuse it all with the reasoning that my mind simply needs a break. 

But here's the hard question that I need to honestly answer: Does any of that actually help? When my heart and mind is weary, does sending them on a mini-vacation by trying to numb them with vacuous entertainment actually get me anywhere? If I'm honest, which is a difficult task at times, the answer is no. I turn off the TV, shut the laptop, toss the dishes in the sink, and I still don't feel refreshed.

The other day I came across John 4, the story of Jesus encountering the Samaritan woman at the well.  If you don't know the story, it's well worth taking a few minutes to read--grab your Bible, open a tab for Bible Gateway, or whatever. It's a chapter that I've probably read 100 times. But in my bone-weary, brain-weary state, I noticed something I hadn't really paid attention to before: When Jesus stopped at the well in Samaria, He was exhausted. (John 4:6) Probably bone-weary and brain-weary. Being able to see the true reality of the world around Him, I would think far more weary than I ever am. How did He respond? 

He engaged this desperate woman in conversation, which is the very thing I would avoid like the plague in that state. If I had seen her coming, I'm certain I would have found a reason to slip away to do some window shopping at a nearby stand, or at least would have carefully inspected the dirt on the far side of the well. Literally the last thing I would have done is start a conversation with an emotionally needy lady. Recognizing her neediness and His weariness, there are lots of ways to read their interaction--it could be that in the midst of His weariness, this was a point of temptation for Jesus in some way or another. How does He respond? By pointing to work of God in the world. By explaining the gospel to her in a way that she could understand. By loving her and valuing her in a way that likely no one else in her life ever had before.

By the time the disciples get back, the conversation is wrapping up. They know how exhausted Jesus is, so they offer Him some comfort food. "Hey Jesus--not sure why you're talking to that woman, but how about some mashed potatoes and gravy? That makes everyone feel better." His response is striking: "I have food you don't know about." (John 4:32) Through the narration, we've been privy to this entire scene, and He hasn't had any mashed potatoes. What gives? "My nourishment comes from doing the will of God who sent me." (John 4:34)

Could it be that when we're bone-weary and brain-weary, that numbing our hearts and minds isn't actually what we need, but rather, we need to activate them?

I'm certainly not suggesting we shouldn't rest, but rather, that we're resting wrongly. Or at least I am. Filling my moments with mindless entertainment doesn't actually help. However, pushing to truly engage the will and work of God actually does feed me. Whether it's talking to the needy person I encounter or simply filling my mind and heart with the Word and worship of God, there is a way that I can actually be refreshed.

We, too, can have secret food. Stealthy nourishment, unknown to outside observers. Food that can bring us joy, even in the midst of that bone-weary, brain-weary state.

Rest, friend. Rest.

A Perfectly Imperfect Family

OK, it's been a week or so since I've written. I could give you the excuses as to why, but they really aren't that exciting, and I'm convinced that I'll be back on the wagon again soon. Which is what I believe every time I stop writing, so I should probably quit fooling myself.

Anyway, it's much more exciting to give you the motivation as to why I've decided to write today...

Check out this family:

These are the Weidemanns. I don't know if they look like anything special to you, but I'm telling you, these guys are really amazing! As you might be able to pick up from this picture, they're a great bunch of folks who love to laugh and see the joy of life. While they're all wildly different, they stick together and love one another through all kinds of ups and downs. But that's not what really amazing about them.

Here's the thing: For most of us, family is a haven away from the rest of the world. We live in a culture that tends to either idolize family, "focusing" on family to the exclusion of the rest of the world, or to denigrate family, rejecting and ignoring some of our most important earthly relationships. Both extremes are wrong. Rarely, however, do we see families operating the way God intended--please don't hear me say "perfect," but the way that God intended--seeing their home and their relationships as a vehicle through which they can be a blessing in the world. I'm quite sure these guys aren't perfect, but they recognize what they've been given as a family, and they do everything they can do to give it away to those who desperately need it.

So here's the story, in Sharon Weidemann's own words:

As many of you know, our family has a passion for adoption and giving special children a home an love. Fred and I were contacted last week by a friend who was trying to help her friend who had just had a baby. This brave momma know she could not keep her baby and had met with an agency and chosen a family to adopt her baby. The baby was born. However, her baby was not "perfect" and the family backed out, leaving this mom in a really tough place. Fred and I talked and we reached out to this mom. She is bravely taking this baby home until adoption details can be worked out. She has a strong desire to have a choice in where her baby is going and that her baby is in a good home and loved well.

Amen. Just as we'd all want for our own kids.

There are already five kids living in Fred and Sharon's house, working to survive on a single income. The idea of tackling a tradition adoption is high on the impossibility scale for a family like this--the costs are just too high. However, Arella is the kind of child that Fred and Sharon have given a home to in the past, and they long to continue to do so. Why? Because they recognize that they have been blessed by God, and that the blessing they've been given isn't for them alone, but it's for other who may never get to experience that same blessing. So they are stepping out in faith and seeking to adopt this precious child.

My wife and I have given toward this adoption. We believe in this family and the love that they have for the world around them. Can I encourage you to consider doing the same thing? Whether a few bucks or a bunch of them, we can all work together to give this child a home to be raised in, godly parents who will point to Jesus, a bunch of loving siblings, and every opportunity that may never be possible otherwise.

Even if you're not able to give, I hope that you'll be encourage to consider, as I have: What have you and I been given that God is intending for us to give away to the world around us? I love seeing a family that recognizes that they themselves are a gift that God can and will use to impact the world--one "perfectly imperfect" child at a time.

If you want to support Fred and Sharon's adoption costs, click HERE to donate!

The Final Movement: Celebration

It's been a tough few days. 

I'm not one to post lots of personal details on blogs or social media, but we've had some difficult health news in our family, and my thoughts have regularly been drawn back to that reality. I've preached about it for years, and realized it would eventually come, but I still wasn't quite ready for it: All of us are just one phone call, doctor's visit, or conversation away from experiencing suffering.

Not a very happy thought, but a reality nonetheless. What we as a family are experiencing is far less than many experience daily, but suffering is always painful when it's your suffering. Comparing pain with that of others, or trying to gradiate it on a scale, is wasted effort. All pain hurts worse when we feel it personally.

So why start a post on the final movement of the liturgy, The Celebration, talking about suffering? Because our relationship with God is not about a fantasy world. It's not about how things would be if everything was great. Our faith is not intended to be experienced separately from real life. Faith is not excluded from pain.

We approach God by first recognizing that we're part of a larger body, spanning both time and place: The Invitation.

We tether ourselves to the ancient faith and the reality that grounds us: The Proclamation.

We acknowledge that, somehow, the God of the Universe is interested in our lives, and that, in Christ, He's already turned His face toward us: The Invocation.

We agree with Him about our brokenness and the many ways in which we've fallen short, all in the recognition that we're already forgiven: The Confession.

We are intimately connected with Him through His sacrificial and sacramental death. He was not sheltered from pain, but rather experienced it fully and completely: The Eucharist.

We build our lives on the realities of His purposes and His passions, engaging the Truth that guides us into life: The Homily.

And then, based firmly in that reality, we Celebrate. Not blithely or foolishly, but deeply and realistically. The Celebration of the liturgy is not the happy, clappy worship that so often defines modern Christianity within the safe confines of our Western culture. It's not the pasted on smiles of the dreaded fine-itis that has infected so many church communities: "How are you?" "I'm fine. How are you?" "Oh, fine!" I mean, sure, I'm drowning in debt, my marriage is falling apart, my job stinks, and my kids are redefining the limits of rebellion... but I'm fine. 

Rather, the Celebration is a grounded, honest declaration that, despite the reality that we can see with our eyes, we know that God is truly good. We know it through the varied experience of community--we've walked with those who have emerged from suffering with joy, and we're walking with those who are experiencing joy even as they journey through the valley. We know it through the declaration of the nature and character of God--if the eternal God freely gave up His Son, as the Apostle Paul says, how will He also not give us all things? (Romans 8:32) We know it through the sacrifice of Jesus Himself, which assures us of both His favor and forgiveness, however we come and whatever we've done. We know it through the deeply intimate connection with Him at the table, as well as through the solid foundation of His Word.

He is good. We don't always experience it that way, but we affirm it by faith. And so, we celebrate. Sometimes with laughter, sometimes with tears. We don't live in denial or as the naively innocent. We live as those who daily experience suffering, but we know with confidence that our pain is never the end of the story. We will emerge joyfully, even if it's with a limp.

And so, we celebrate. Thank you, Jesus.

The Sixth Movement: The Homily

There is more than a bit of fear and trepidation that accompanies a Saturday nights for a pastor. It's a reality that only fellow pastors really understand. For most, Saturday night is the joyful wrap-up to long week, but for the preacher of the Word, the week has evaporated by mid-afternoon, and by Saturday night, though the sun is down, a new week has already dawned.

I can't speak for other preachers, but from those I've talked with, their process is similar. Here's how it works for me...

Thursday is my wrestling day. I spend the vast majority of the day immersed in books, articles, dictionaries, and commentaries. Because I don't have original language training, I'm also frequenting websites that help me understand Greek and Hebrew meanings, tenses, and peculiarities. My study is often done a series at a time, so I go into most Thursdays with a decent of where I'm headed, but most of the time having no clue how I might get there. Through a long process of praying, thinking, writing, erasing, starting over, and often some time staring off into space, I emerge from my office (most weeks) with some level of confidence. I've heard, I've organized, and I know how we're getting to where we're headed.

Friday is a rest day for me. A twenty-four hour Sabbath time, during which I avoid anything that looks like church work like the plague. By Saturday, I'm typically headed to meetings, counseling appointments, classes, and the like, and I try to have some down time in the afternoon to hang out with the kids, get some chores done around the house, or hang out with some friends.

And then it happens.

About 6:00pm on Saturday night, I can start to feel the weight building. Every few moments, I find my mind wandering back toward Thursday's preparation. There are some weeks where I can't remember any of it. There are other weeks I remember it all, but can't remember what in the world I was thinking. Every once in a while, I still feel as confident as I did emerging from my office on Thursday afternoon. I've learned that those are the scariest weeks.

By 7:30, I'm no longer worth being around because I'm so preoccupied with the weight of the message for the morning. By then, if not before, my loving wife sends me upstairs, as I'm clearly of no more use within the flow of the family. It's at that point I look back at my work from Thursday and begin to try to make sense of what often seem to me to be unorganized words that have absolutely no connection to one another.

I look at my outline, at the passage of Scripture, then back to the outline. On good weeks, I begin to sense the primary message for us as God's people and I start to focus there. On bad weeks, I consider starting the whole process over. I read over things, re-read resources, think through things as I walk through a mindless preparation routine. But more than anything, the weight settles onto my shoulders. More weeks than not, I feel like I enter the shower at night 4-6 inches shorter than my 6'3" frame, having been weighted down for the last few hours. Will I get in the way? Have I truly heard form God? Will others be able to hear from me? The sins from the past week rush into my head, and I confess them as quickly as I can think them. The unfinished work, the connections that have gone unmade, the calls and emails that have gone unreturned--each feels like an insurmountable barrier that the Spirit of God will need to leap if the message will ever be able to land. Faces and names swirl... Have they been in church recently? Will that joke offend them? How will she hear that point? Will he think I'm talking to him?

Sometime during this mayhem, I begin to weary. I set an early alarm, and drift to sleep, still thinking through the opening illustration. By 4:15, I'm up and thinking again, this time with new urgency. The countdown is on. Coffee, read, pray, read, eat, pray, coffee, preach to myself, take a few notes, preach to myself again. The routine is far from dynamic or exciting, but there's comfort in it, and so I do it. By this point, the weight is often like a dark shadow that feels like it's sitting on my forehead, pressing my head down and slumping my shoulders. However, within a few hours, it will be gone. The words will be out. Some weeks, they're out with joy. Other weeks, it's more relief. But they're out. And another week will be able to finally get started.

The homily. The ancient, timeless, eternal Word of God brought to bear on modern ears for modern lives. This is the first step out of the presence of God into the waiting world. The homily gives feet to the substance of the Word; application to its Truth. The old, old story is made new again each week. It is manna that will help us each survive the week ahead. 

The message is secure, but the messenger is not often so fortunate.

The Fifth Movement: The Eucharist

This week I've been wrestling through the idea of how we, as fallen and finite humans, are supposed to approach the infinite and Almighty God. Coming from the Protestant Evangelical stream, I hear a preponderance of admonitions into that relationship, but I find a significant shortage of instruction on how to get there. Remarkably, where instruction does exist, it seems to bear a disconcerting resemblance to the way I engage my next door neighbor: I talk with him (most days), he helps me out when I need it, and I return the favor at times. The relationship is pleasant enough, but if it is to be deep and meaningful, it's going to require me to push and work at it--and even then, I can only wait to see if he responds. 

It seems that being in relationship with the Almighty should be different than being in relationship with a guy that spends 50 hours a week in shift work, runs out of time to cut his grass, and forgets to put the trash out on the right day about once a month.

It seems that if Jesus came to give His life for our relationship with Him, that relationship shouldn't be primarily dependant on my effort, and His response probably doesn't remain a crap shoot.

So this line of thinking has led to a week long journey through the liturgy. The idea of liturgy gets a bad rap as "dry" and "boring," and many are repulsed by the idea of it. However, upon closer investigation, I'm finding it to be a well-trodden pathway into regular connection with God. Ancient monks constructed prayer labyrinths that physically and graphically depicted a process by which we enter the presence of God, and then intentionally move back out of the presence of God into the world. The liturgy is just such a tool.

The last several blog entries describe the ancient path, but in summary:

The Invitation reminds us that we are invited by God, and that we're not alone in our journey. We recognize we are on this journey with those from every time and place, together being invited by God into relationship with Him.

The Proclamation declares the foundational beliefs that undergird our faith. We declare who God is, who we are, and like a rope that leads us back to our home, the creeds won't allow us to wander so far from home that we get lost in the storm.

The Invocation acknowledges the reality of grace given to us in Jesus. His face has already been turned toward us in Christ, and by inviting His gaze, we recognize that the eternal God is somehow interested in the mundane details of our lives.

The Confession is an agreement with God about who we are and who He is. We don't confess our sin in the hope that we might be forgiven. Rather, we declare our shortcomings with the joyful foundation of knowing that we are already forgiven in Christ.

Which leads to the centerpeice of Christian worship, the Eucharist. This ancient "feast" of bread and wine contains a depth that cannot be plummed, meanings that cannot be exhausted, and an intimacy that cannot by described in words. In the ancient labyrinth, it's the center. It's the place where we can sit in the presence of God Himself, through Jesus, and truly rest.

The bread is the body, broken for our sins. The cup is the blood, spilled over our lives to cover our sin and shame. The sacrifice is the reality that Jesus, being in very nature God, was separated from God. The Father turned His face; the relationship was broken. This unthinkable action means for all those who will follow, we will never be separated. The pain has been endured, the suffering absorbed, the penalty paid. In the Eucharist, Jesus has come toward us and established deep and abiding relationship. The work is finished. The Eucharist celebrates that finished work, beckoning us deeper into the story.

The love feast has always been the centerpeice of Christian worship. It's not dependent upon a gifted worship leader or talented preacher. It's not dependent upon proper contextualization. It's not dependent upon mood lighting, lasers, smoke, or soft music. It's simple and elemental: Jesus' body broken, Jesus' blood shed, His life sacrificed. Given for me. For us. For all who, throughout history in every time and place, have placed there hope in Christ. And for all who will.

It's here, at the Eucharist, we can rest.