The Death of Easter: A Holy Week Reflection

I write this on Maundy Thursday, as the ominous events of Good Friday begin to cast their long shadow over the controversial figure of Jesus of Nazareth, and as a global pandemic casts its long shadow over our celebration of Holy Week.

Jesus' mind was made up. He had "set his face to Jerusalem," all the while knowing what awaited him there. Neither the Romans nor the Jewish leaders had room in their power structures for his rule. Each one depended entirely on the status quo -- that delicate political balance that would line their pockets and ensure their children's futures. For Jesus to bear his message to the capital city would require either their capitulation or his death. He knew this. He knew the explosive potential of his own ministry. To keep the peace, to maintain control, they must stamp out alternative visions of reality. People's hearts were too easily swayed by hope. Jesus stirred a dangerous ferment of ideas by speaking of the kingdom of God, and by hinting that the kingdom had come. The discontent of the masses was fanned into flame by his presence. They thought only in terms of military overthrow. And how could they think otherwise? Worldly power structures were all they had ever known.

Still, he went. This fateful act was the reason for his coming. Ironically, the way to win would be to lose. Jesus' demonstration of self-giving love was the most powerful articulation possible of his vision for a new kind of kingdom. It seemed contrary to reason. It was contrary to reason, under the world's system. But Jesus knew something they didn't know. There was another path to victory. A path through death itself.

Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. (John 12:24 NIV)

In these unprecedented times, as the world's leaders seek to contain the spread of the CoronaVirus, the church is not allowed to gather. No Holy Week services? It would seem a defeat for the church to cancel the high point of the Christian year. Sure, we can view sermons online and sing in our living rooms. But it is not the same. We are missing the most joy-filled celebration of our faith, the essence of the Christian message. We are witnessing the untimely death of Easter. But if we've learned anything from the story of Good Friday, we should know that apparent defeats can be something else entirely. The path to victory passes through death itself.

The power of the gospel does not depend on large crowds or full-throated singing or Easter lilies or new dresses. All we need for Easter is an empty tomb. Perhaps this year, more than any other year, we will rediscover this. In the isolation of our own homes, we bury this seed. Wearily, we await the passing of the pandemic's fury. But we do so in hope, because we have an advantage. We know something Jesus' first followers didn't know. We know resurrection. We can already anticipate the joy of long-awaited handshakes and hugs. We scarcely knew how important these were until we were deprived of them. This death of community will be reborn in a deeper embrace.

More importantly, we know that Jesus' resurrection is only the beginning of what God has planned for all of creation. This broken and dying world will be brought to life. Sickness and sorrow will be reversed. Sin defeated. Death conquered. And all things made new. This is our confident hope.

Let us not mistake numbers with power. The Christian movement started under the radar with small groups of shaken believers, gathered in homes shuttered against the fury of Rome. Jesus appeared to them bodily, behind closed doors, and banished their doubts. He can do the same today. His presence and power are limitless.

May the temporary death of our Easter spring forth into a harvest of faith-filled community.

Imagine how those who don't normally attend church will watch online from the safety of their living rooms.

Imagine how the gospel is infusing our homes as we gather to pray and sing and read Scripture within these walls.

May the temporary death of our Easter remind us of our true hope--that God is making all things new.

What if the profound brokenness that characterizes our world fueled our desire for the kingdom of God to come in all its glory?

What if we grasped more deeply the ultimate reason for our joy--not that all is well, but that all will be well.

May the temporary death of our Easter be the beginning of something even better.
 

Top 12 Posts of 2016

2016 has been deeply satisfying for me personally. This is ironic, considering the tumultuous waters we have traveled as a nation and the looming crises internationally. By the grace of God, the collective lament and angst and fear has opened doors for me to write, teach, and speak in ways that are more culturally connected than ever before. This is evident on my blog, as I've come out of my academic cave and touched on issues of race, immigration, social media, vocation, politics, death, and tough questions of the faith.

Perhaps you haven't read it regularly, and you'd like to catch the highlights. In case you blinked, my blog changed titles this year, and so did I! Here are the posts that have (mostly) generated the most hits this year. I've skipped a couple and added one of my own favorites.

On race, immigration, and politics
2/1   refugees and religious extremists -- what to do?
7/12 an open letter to people who think they're white
7/14 so you think you're white
11/7 election day encouragement

On living life fully in God's presence
4/4   learning how to celebrate
5/18 a simple path to joy, part 1 and part 2
11/2 the surprising beauty of unanswered prayer
12/7 undone by the Psalms

On finding our vocation
1/3   leaning in
4/12 lasting impressions and do-overs
7/4   perspective on cape perpetua
7/26 quilted hearts: mentoring for the long haul

quilted hearts: mentoring for the long haul

Dear Hazel,

I wasn't ready yet for you to go.
In your own unassuming way, you "held the ropes" for us.

It's not just that I loved you. You loved me back, too.

I bumbled into your sewing circle in the church basement, a young mom full of zeal. Mentoring was what I wanted most, advice for how to raise children, how to make my way in the world. Since I was 40 years younger than the next youngest member of the group, I thought it an ideal place to learn. I prodded, asking questions, seeking wisdom. The women hunched over the quilt looked at each other and shrugged. I think you answered first, Hazel. You said something like "Don't ask us! We're no experts!"

It bothered me then, your reticence to pass along what you had learned. I didn't realize that your answer really was an answer, the answer I needed most—that all of us muddle through the best we can and figure things out as we go, and that what we discover along the way is that there's no single right way of doing things, and no guarantees that what worked for you will work for me.

When I was silent long enough, swallowing my questions and slowing my pace, the conversation drifted back to its natural cadences—TV shows and recipes, small town news and medical reports and silences. These conversations held no instant magic, but I see now that each was another quilting thread, connecting hearts as thread joins layers of fabric stitch after stitch.

Hazel (center), the last time I saw her (photo: C Imes)

Now that you're gone, the fabric is torn and so is my heart.

Quilting is slow work, and so are relationships. Your faithfulness over the long haul created something beautiful. We could always count on you to keep the conversation moving. Although you stopped short of giving advice, you gave me something even more important—you genuinely cared about me and my journey. I know because your face would light up when I entered the room. This, too, was a kind of mentoring.

You were there when Eliana cruised around underneath the quilt frame, her bald head a traveling bump. You were there when we sold our things and said our farewells, headed to the Philippines. You were there when we returned, broken and bleeding. You said farewell again when we moved across the country. And you were always there when we came home and I showed up unannounced at sewing. Every time the group was smaller, as friends went on ahead -- Elizabeth, Vesta, Edna, Ruth, Bertha, Alice -- but I could count on you to be there.

How I wish your chair didn't stand empty now! I'm afraid if I take my place around the quilt again my tears will make a mess of it. I didn't realize how much you meant to me until it was too late to tell you.

I'd like to know how many quilts you stitched, how many dollars they fetched for the cause of world mission, how many lives were changed as a result. As meticulous as they are, the minutes of the Women's Missionary Society won't be able to tell me that. But I know that your faithful giving and serving has brought light and life to many others around the world, including mine.

So Thank You, Hazel.
You'll be sorely missed.

learning to see

Two events, miles apart and so very different, linked hands in plain view, inviting me to consider them side by side.

The first, a memorial service. I had only met the man once in church before a dreadful disease took hold of his mind and dragged him on a downward spiral that ended this New Year's Day. I knew only the severity of his illness and saw the sorrow and courage of his wife as she came alone on Sundays. We connected briefly, the day I learned of his condition, and I held her in my heart for the ensuing weeks. When I heard of his death, I had to be there. For Char.

... for Dear Life (Photo: C Imes)

In that hour I learned volumes about the man whose rich life was cut short. An optometrist by profession, Don spent decades helping others to see. And on weekends? He explored the outdoors — camping, fishing, hunting, hiking — toting heavy camera lenses everywhere he went. Before the service started we were treated to a sampling of his award-winning work. He had such an eye for beauty! Butterflies up close, wildebeests crossing muddy rivers, birds in flight. Anyone can whip out a cell phone and snap a picture of nice scenery. It takes a special "eye" (and sophisticated equipment) to get the angle and the lighting and the aperture just right so that the picture comes alive. Don possessed that special sight.

From the service I headed directly to Newberg to teach my class on Wisdom Literature. The order of the day was understanding how Hebrew poetry works, especially proverbs. We began by discussing a chapter from Leland Ryken's Words of Delight: A Literary Introduction to the Bible. One student spoke up, "I really like how he related proverbs to photography. That's such an interesting way of thinking about it." Aha! Indeed, Ryken refers to these "wisdom teachers" as "the photographers of the Bible" (316, paraphrasing Robert Short, A Time to Be Born—A Time to Die).

And it's true, isn't it? The writers of proverbs have an extraordinary eye for ordinary things. They look at the same ship, the same busy street, the same plants, but they see beyond the surface, making connections that enlighten our minds and dazzle our ears. Here's a glimpse through the eyes of a sage:

"The LORD tears down the house of the proud,
but he sets the widow's boundary stones in place." (Proverbs 15:25)

The images evoked by this proverb, chosen at random, are so vivid! See Yahweh himself, muscles gleaming in the hot Mediterranean sun, as he demolishes a stone house. See him cross the field with stone after plaster-crusted stone and place each deliberately as a boundary, while the grateful widow looks on, tears streaming down her face. See the proud man with arms crossed and furrowed brow, sputtering frustration, but unable to defend himself.

The sage could have said, "It is inadvisable to be proud" and "You should not take advantage of the poor." But here instead we have a living image, painted in words, that joins both ideas. Yahweh himself takes action. We watch him at work. We stand at the sidelines feeling chastened or grateful or energized -- depending on the state of our own hearts.

Captured Alive (Photo: C Imes)

And as we seek to understand this picture in words, we begin to see what the wise one sees. We are overtaken by wonder.

More than one person at the memorial service told us that they had one of Don's stunning pictures on display at home. They were grateful to have been given his eyes, to experience his love of creation, and to have had their own wonder awakened. Don, a modern sage, helped others to see the wisdom and beauty of God's handiwork.

Ironically, in the final months of his life, Don's eyesight faded until he was completely blind. His caregiver spoke about the doctor's blindness. As he lost physical sight, he began to experience vivid visions of glory. He would take the hands of those around him and ask, "Do you see it? Do you see Jesus in all of his glory?" Don was learning to see in other dimensions, and his faith grew in leaps and bounds over those dark weeks and months. The eye doctor who possessed such extraordinary vision in this life far preferred his new-found spiritual sight.

May we, too, learn to see.

rethinking heaven

What if most of what you've ever believed about heaven wasn't true? What then?

Three and a half years ago I wrote a blog post in which I suggested that this was the case. You've never seen that post, because I got cold feet, deciding it was too controversial and not worth the risk.

Since then, a growing chorus of evangelical scholars has been calling us back to a more biblical view of the afterlife (for example, Old Testament scholar C. J. H. Wright and New Testament Scholar N. T. Wright -- and how can you argue with someone who is always "Wright"?). And none has articulated it more clearly and thoroughly than biblical theologian J. Richard Middleton. In fact, his book won the Word Guild Award for the Best Book in Biblical Studies in 2014, and was selected as the Baker gift book of the year for the Institute for Biblical Research annual lecture.

Middleton says we're not going to heaven for eternity. The Bible doesn't teach that. He is not even sure that we go to heaven in the meantime, while we're waiting for Christ's return. His careful reading of passages demonstrates why.

The future that awaits us is not a disembodied existence, with mainly harps and clouds. It includes food and drink, culture and government, creativity and fulfillment. It is in fact much like Spirit-filled life today, minus the sorrow. When Jesus returns we'll walk with him right here on this earth, transformed as part of the (re)new(ed) creation. Jesus' resurrected body is the "firstfruits" of this new creation, affirming the inherent value of the created earth and giving us hope that it can be re-made to overcome the effects of sin and death.

An idea like "heaven" isn't going to die overnight, especially given its well-entrenched history stretching all the way back to Plato. We can hardly talk about salvation without talking about heaven. Middleton's book aims to change that.

Middleton boldly says,

"Not only is the term 'heaven' never used in Scripture for the eternal destiny of the redeemed, but also continued use of 'heaven' to name the Christian eschatological hope may well divert our attention from the legitimate expectation for the present transformation of our earthly life to conform to God's purposes. Indeed, to focus our expectation on an otherworldly salvation has the potential to dissipate our resistance to societal evil and the dedication needed to work for the redemptive transformation of this world. Therefore, for reasons exegetical, theological, and ethical, I have come to repent of using the term 'heaven' to describe the future God has in store for the faithful. It is my hope that readers of this book would, after thoughtful consideration, join me in this repentance." (237, emphasis mine)

Now that's worth pondering. For a long time.

Middleton also says,

"In the present, as the church lives between the times, those being renewed in the imago Dei are called to instantiate an embodied culture or social reality alternative to the violent and deathly formations and practices that dominate the world. By this conformity to Christ—the paradigm image of God—the church manifests God's rule and participates in God's mission to flood the world with the divine presence. In its concrete communal life the church as the body of Christ is called to witness to the promised future of a new heaven and a new earth, in which righteousness dwells (2 Peter 3:13)." (175, emphasis mine)

It is striking how often this same point is now being made by respected evangelical scholars. It is a truth whose time has come, and which requires us to re-think carefully how we articulate the gospel. If Jesus didn't die for us "so that we can go to heaven when we die," then why did he die?

Watch out, church. If our generation can truly grasp this, the transforming power of the gospel will be released in profound ways, right here in our midst.

a giant has fallen

I first knew him as "The Mad Scanner," but I was sorely mistaken. A fellow Wheaton student told me about a stern man who spent hour after hour scanning documents in the basement of the library. I had seen a man who fit that description scanning on the 2nd floor. We wondered if the mysterious man was digitizing documents illegally to sell them online. After all, who could read all that material? The librarian asked us to let him know if we ever saw the "Mad Scanner" again, since he was clearly abusing library privileges. One day there he was, scanning like mad. I went downstairs to report the suspicious activity. The librarian went straight upstairs to check it out. My heart pounded. I waited. Soon he returned, puzzled. "The only person I saw at the scanner was Harry Hoffner."

My jaw dropped. I felt the blood rush to my face. Harry Hoffner, the renowned Hittitologist? "Are you telling me that man scanning on the second floor is Harry Hoffner?" There I had sat at my desk, scarcely 20 feet from the copy machine where Dr. Hoffner collected sources for his research and writing. Could it be that I had even cited him in my papers without realizing he was standing at his post right around the corner? How embarrassing! This was no Mad Scanner. He was a professor emeritus, a giant among peers.

-----

Fast-forward a few months. Dr. Block asked me to help publicize a lecture on campus. The esteemed Dr. Harry Hoffner would be giving a talk on David's kingship in light of Hittite monarchs. I hung posters, arranged for electronic announcements on TV screens across campus, and showed up early to the lecture to make sure Dr. Hoffner and his wife had everything they needed. That's when I first shook hands with both of them.

Now that I knew what he looked like, I saw him often in the library. I began to say hello. Because of the lecture, he now recognized me, too. Dr. Hoffner was the consummate researcher. Several times a week he combed the shelves for sources to undergird his research. He was, I found out, producing a commentary on 1 and 2 Samuel for the Lexham Bible Commentary series online. No wonder he needed so many books. He became a fixture in the Wheaton College library (which was closer to his home than the University of Chicago library).

-----

Dr. Harry Hoffner and Dr. Daniel Block (October 2012),
with Dr. Alan Millard,, my Doktorgroßvater, to the right

One of my duties as Dr. Block's TA that year was to make sure Dr. Hoffner (a long-time friend) had the books he needed for his research. It was simple. He emailed me, I requested books and put them on hold for him when they arrived. It only took a few minutes, but Dr. Hoffner was very grateful. I discovered that it was a handy thing indeed to have an expert "in the house." Was there a Hittite equivalent to the Hebrew segullah? Can you think of any Hittite treaties where the king promises to protect the oppressed? Do you have a digital copy of such-and-such article you've written, which is not available online?

His knowledge of Hittite language and culture was so encyclopedic that you could catch him in the library stacks and ask him a question and he could quickly scan through everything in his mental "files" and give an accurate answer. He was also kind and conscientious enough to double check his personal library when he arrived home and email the results. He came through for me just last month when I needed an article he wrote for a conference paper I was writing (and quick!). Harry Hoffner to the rescue!

Dr. Block tells me that he once heard Dr. Hoffner give advice to young scholars at a conference, saying, "Be good at what you do, and be good." Dr. Hoffner certainly was both. He was a master in his field as well as a model of virtue.

-----

It wasn't all work. In December I sent Dr. Hoffner a link to this hilarious parody just for fun because it reminded me of him more than anyone else I know (you really must watch it). And he wrote me to see if we were watching the Oregon Ducks play. He told me of his current projects, an article honoring a deceased French Hittitologist, a dissertation examination for a student at Trinity, a paper for a colloquium. He also continued to serve as Senior Editor for the Chicago Hittite Dictionary project — a project he began in the 70's.

Harry A Hoffner
November 27, 1934—March 10, 2015
Photo: Carmen Imes

I don't think he realized it, but Dr. Hoffner's kind words encouraged me through some of the most difficult days of my time at Wheaton. He had hoped to see me graduate, and it would have meant so much to have him there. But alas, it was not to be. His earthly life came to an abrupt end earlier this week, shocking us all. In one of his last emails to me, dated December 30, 2014, Dr. Hoffner said, "I don't think I will ever cease doing research in some way in Hittitology and in the Bible." He was right. He was engaged in several projects right up until the end, not only researching and writing on the Hittites, but teaching an adult Sunday school class for the College Church choir on the book of Acts. Now Dr. Hoffner has joined the "great cloud of witnesses," where he will cheer me on to the finish (Heb 12:1).

Dr. Hoffner, I'll miss you. I'm so glad our journeys intersected in this life. Save me a spot in the heavenly choir!

all things now living

It all happened so fast.
A hand on my arm. Mom's soft voice rousing me from my slumber. "It's Oma." She was somber. Whatever I was dreaming vanished in a heartbeat. It was 5:00am. Too early for casual news.
"Is she gone?" I asked haltingly.
"Not yet, but soon."

The morning was calm, but laden with significance. Measured. Decisive. My parents had already been up for hours, checking for flights, speaking with nurses long-distance, and considering options. They caught us up and we helped them with the decisions. How does one pack or plan for a journey of unknown duration? Just in case, should one bring funeral clothes? Dad looked through his files trying to find the instructions for his mother's funeral, just in case. They weren't there.

It was Father's Day, and this was not the plan. We were supposed to have a family breakfast with the whole crew. Then Danny and I and the kids would continue our journey westward to meet our moving truck at our new home in Oregon, leaving my parents, my brother and his family behind. A new plan emerged: we would drive my parents to the airport on our way out of town. They would fly to Bellingham, rent a car, and hope to make it to the hospital in time. Meanwhile we would drive as fast as we could to Oregon, unload our truck, and head north, either to see Oma, or . . ..

We ate breakfast together as planned, and prayed and cried (in that order). It was a precious time. Then we loaded up and left, with our hearts in our throats. I called the hospital on the way and asked the nurse to bring Oma the phone. She struggled to breathe and to talk, but sounded grateful to hear my voice, as I was to hear hers. I tried to calm her agitation by telling her that she could just rest; there was nothing left for her to do. Nothing for either of us to do, really, but rest and receive what was given. It was Wyoming, hours later, when the tears started flowing and wouldn't stop.

My dear Oma. My strong, independent, and witty grandmother. She was one of the bravest people I knew, and yet how I wanted to stand beside her and squeeze her hand and help her be brave one last time.

My parents enter the memorial service for Dad's Mom

It didn't take long. The next morning I awoke in our trailer somewhere in western Wyoming to the sound of my cell phone buzzing. Oma had slipped away in the night. The next days were a whirlwind. We finished our drive "home" in one day. While we waited for our truck to arrive the next morning, I prepared a slide show for Oma's funeral and gathered my thoughts. Dad asked for ideas of hymns Oma liked, because he couldn't find her list of favorites. Neither could I.

Oma's brother, nieces, and nephew sing
 "Great is Thy Faithfulness"

With the help of friends, we unloaded the truck in just a few hours, and in a few more hours I had located all of our funeral clothes. Early the next morning we drove the 6 hours to Bellingham and reconvened with my parents and my brother, who had flown in with his family. A few hours later the service was underway, ready or not. The next morning we loaded all of Oma's things on another moving truck and drove it back to our new home, exhausted. Oma had died late scarcely 3 1/2 days earlier, and now my own home was filled with memories of her.

It was a few days or even weeks later that I opened one of Oma's boxes and found her hymnal. Inside the back cover, as I might have guessed, was a list of hymns she wanted to have sung at her funeral (you think about things like this when you're 93). We looked them up, but none were songs we actually sang at the service. Then came the inspiration -- wouldn't Oma be honored if we taught those hymns to her great-grandchildren? And so we began.

Each evening after dinner we read a Psalm and then sing our hymn together. I don't know how these things work, but if Oma can see us now, I'm sure her heart swells at the sight of Easton (age 6) singing with gusto. These hymns may have been picked out for Oma's funeral, but they were written for the living, not the dead. In this new home, gathered around my grandparents' table, our faith is being formed verse by verse.

Let all things now living, a song of thanksgiving 
to God the creator triumphantly raise,
who fashioned and made us, protected and stayed us,
who guides us and leads to the end of our days.
His banners are o'er us; his light goes before us,
a pillar of fire shining forth in the night.
'Til shadows have vanished and darkness is banished 
as forward we travel from light into light.

His law he enforces, the stars in their courses,
the sun in its orbit obediently shine.
The hills and the mountains, the rivers and fountains, 
the deeps of the ocean proclaim him divine.
We still should be voicing our love and rejoicing
with glad adoration our song let us raise
'Til all things now living unite in thanksgiving, 
to God in the Highest, Hosanna and praise!

-by Katherine K. Davis, 1939

Today would have been Oma's 94th birthday, but I would not wish her back. Her creator guided her gently until the end of her days. No shadows darken her path now. As we hold her memory in our hearts, we turn to face life head on, joining the growing chorus of those singing God's praise.

thrust into the spotlight

10 days ago, most people in the world had never heard of SIM, even though our organization has been working around the globe for more than 120 years. The Ebola virus changed all that.

Now Anderson Cooper, Sanjay Gupta, President Obama, Donald Trump, the CDC, the WHO, and just about every other person with access to news in the developing world has heard of it.

Danny and I have been members of SIM for 12 years now, but as we settle into a new community, we're finding that lots of people we meet don't know what it is. Today's press release explains:

SIM is an international Christian mission with a staff of nearly 3,000 workers serving in more than 65 countries. In addition to medicine, SIM serves on every continent in areas of education, community development, public health and Christian witness. While SIM stood for Sudan Interior Mission when it was founded 120 years ago, it is now a global mission known as SIM. Two of SIM’s three founders died of disease within the first year of the organization’s founding. Yet SIM continued on to become one of the largest Christian medical missions in the world.

A few hours ago I watched a live press conference in Atlanta with our director, Bruce Johnson. No doubt his voice was heard on nearly every news network this evening. In the midst of a medical crisis, our SIM leaders and coworkers around the world have an unprecedented opportunity to "give an answer to anyone who asks us the reason for the hope we have" (1 Peter 3:15) in the face of suffering. Bruce did an outstanding job on this occasion, and he'll have many others in days to come. The disease threatening thousands of lives in West Africa may never have caught the attention of the West aside from this direct threat to American missionaries. Kent and Nancy are now known around the world as heroes who put themselves at risk for the sake of others in need.

I, for one, am grateful to belong to a band of people such as these. People who deliberately go where it's not safe. Who serve tirelessly where the need is greatest. Who have been doing so for ages without media attention. And who stand ready to give an answer for their hope in death's valley. Kent and Nancy (and the countless others like them who you will not see on the 10 o'clock news) remind me very much of Someone Else who gave up everything for the sake of the dying and lost His life in the process. May their tribe increase!

UPDATE 8/27/14: Last week Kent and Nancy were both released from Emory Hospital in Atlanta, virus-free! We're rejoicing in this answered prayer. Sadly, the virus continues to spread in West Africa. Pray that effective treatment will be developed and the spread will be stopped.

wondering what's behind the curtain

Something is stirring backstage.
Winter has lost its grip, but spring is not quite here.
Birds flutter and chirp in the trees, repairing old nests, building new ones.
            But as of yet there are no leaves to hide them.
Squirrels scurry about, sniffing, digging for half-remembered acorns.
My soul is restless, too. Expectant. Wondering. Searching, even.
What's next?
Something is stirring, but it's too soon to tell what.

In just a handful of weeks we've walked with friends through cancer, emergency surgeries, loss of a baby, loss of jobs, loss of funding, insomnia, painful waiting, depression, chronic pain, conflict and misunderstanding. It's been heartbreaking. In those same weeks we've seen students accepted, funding promised, proposals completed, chapters written, dissertations finished, jobs offered, and babies born. Life refuses to stand still. Surprises wait around every corner.

Some dear college friends, Heath and Emie, put it so beautifully in a recent email (which they agreed to let me share with you):

In August, Jesus made it abundantly clear that we were to step back from something that was very dear to our hearts. At the time, we didn't understand what God was doing but we followed him into an unknown space and waited.  I told people during the time from August to December that it was like we were sitting in auditorium with the curtain drawn across the stage.  We could sense tons of preparation and movement behind the curtain but we had no idea what would be playing when the curtain was pulled, much less what the stage might look like.  

What's behind the curtain? What is God doing that I cannot see?
For Heath and Emie, the curtain has opened, and the scene awaiting them has brought both joy and tears. God is calling them onstage—calling them back to Africa. Emie admits,

The last two months have been hard for me.  I've cried buckets of tears.  I told Heath it's not that I'm not ready to go. . . I just know what I'm going to.  There's no blind anticipation and adrenaline rush this time.  I know the poverty that will be right outside my gate every morning.  I can still see the faces of the street kids going through my trash as soon as I turn my back to walk into my house.  I remember the sadness in the eyes of the people who live with virtually nothing, sick and dying.  And it undoes me.  At least it did 6 years ago.

Back to poverty. Back to sickness, sadness, and death.
Waiting can be hard, but sometimes knowing is even harder.

Having the courage of a Garry Friesen or a Heath and Emie Locke does not erase the suffering of surrender. We surrender because we trust that the One who is directing this drama knows best. And we'd rather be part of the story He's writing, no matter how difficult the role, than miss what he is doing.

when words fail

Some things defy explanation.
And yet ...
we seek it anyway.
Scouring the news.
Looking for answers.
Wanting to understand.

Praying.
Crying.
And hugging our kids close.

It shouldn't have happened.
Not in that neighborhood.
Not in that school.
Not to those kids.
But it did.

Young lives snuffed out
stripped of innocence
robbed of peace.

In a moment, heroes emerged.
All teachers give their lives for their students,
but yesterday,
some gave up their lives,
others risked theirs,
and the whole world stands in awe.

And we feel we must say something.

If the Bible offers us anything for times like this, it is an invitation to speak, to say how we feel.

This is no time for silence.

The Psalms are full of laments.
The Prophets rail against wickedness.
Job faced unspeakable tragedy, too.
He wrestled with undeserved pain in a world gone wrong.
As Gerhard von Rad put it,

•  "Job saw himself confronted by a theological abyss in which everything that faith was able to say about God was lost" (Old Testament Theology, 1:412).
•  "In the tremendous tension of his struggle the picture which he has of God threatens to be torn in pieces before his eyes" (1:415). 

And so Job speaks, and speaks, and speaks some more.
He voices his complaints and begs for answers.

Two years ago, at the SBL annual conference in Atlanta, Julia O'Brien spoke to us about the jarring poety of the prophets. She reminded us that "ultimately all of our language about God will fail." But, she insisted, in the face of horror we are invited "not to silence speech but to heap it up, since none of it is adequate in itself."* Just as we can never succeed in wrapping our minds our minds around God, so we can never wrap our minds around evil.

And so we talk and we listen, heaping up speech...
... troubled by a world in which a deranged young adult can so easily access semi-automatic weapons
... amazed by a kindergarten teacher who can read calmly during a massacre
... a principal whose first instinct is to dive into a spray of bullets to save her students
... a janitor who has the presence of mind to dash through the building to alert teachers
... a team of first responders and medical personnel who can sort through the carnage
... and a tearful dad who can face a sea of reporters with courage and extend grace to the family of the one who murdered his precious daughter.

And we wait.
And we pray.
Because that's all we can do.

*quoting an unpublished version of O'Briens paper, entitled "A 'Darke' Theology?" In the first quotation O'Brien is quoting an unpublished paper by Andrew Mein on Ezekiel.

remembering 9/11

I've been caught by surprise twice now at the depth of emotion I still feel remembering 9/11.  Eliana was an infant on that fateful day - alive, but oblivious to the horror that swept the nation as we watched the events play out.  It wasn't until she was in first grade or so that it occurred to me to tell her about that day.  As I told her I couldn't help but weep.  She was suprised to see mommy cry.  I rarely do.

Tonight at dinner it was Emma's turn to hear the story.  She's 6 now, and that must be the magic age of maturity for things like this.  Step by step we walked her through the horrifying events.  Again I cried.

Why does it still feel so raw 10 years later?  Why tears?

I guess it was the biggest world event that had happened in my adult life, or at least the biggest one I witnessed live.  (I do vaguely remember when "The Wall" came down in Germany, but I was not old enough to appreciate its significance.)  I'll never forget the call from my Dad that we should turn on the TV because a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.  His urgency seemed odd to me.  Planes crash now and then.  It's sad when it happens, but Dad was insistent that we watch.  And watch we did, as before our very eyes the second plane hit the second tower.  It was in that horrifying moment that the sickening truth sunk to the pit of my stomach:

This was intentional.

Panic ensued.  The events unfolded too quickly for us to process them.  The Pentagon crash.  The collapse of the two towers as the pavement swallowed them whole, a living grave for hundreds and thousands of people. The 4th plane crash in a cornfield, an aborted attempt to bomb the White House.  Where will they strike next?

The stunned silence of the next few hours and days was filled with tears, pleas from family members for information on their loved ones, stories of people who should have been in the towers and were not, stories of the brave men and women who had been running up the stairs to their death when everyone else was running down to safety.

Other tragedies have happened in our lifetime, larger ones even.  Tsunamis, hurricanes, earthquakes, wars, shootings, even.  For me, 9/11 was different because it was on our soil, the effects were massive, and it was intentional.  No one knew where it would hit next.  "Terror" came home.  That day a new generation learned that humans are capable of unthinkable evil, and even the invicible United States was brought to its knees.

I'm sure you remember the groundswell of prayer that ensued.  I wish that could have been the most lasting after-effect.  Naturally it gave way to finger-pointing, blame, and a thirst for revenge.  War was inevitable, we just had to locate our enemy (a process that took nearly 10 years!).  Meanwhile, America developed a deep distrust of Muslims from any country.  For me this was equally tragic.  Unfortunately, the line between revenge and justice can be a blurry one. 

I'll always be grateful that we had the opportunity to move overseas shortly afterwards and live among people who looked different than we do.  By the time the third anniversary of 9/11 came around I could count 80 Muslims among my friends.  They gave their children names like Ishmael, Hussein, and yes, even Osama bin Laden.  But I loved them and they loved me back.  I knew I was safe in their community because they were looking out for me.  My one desire was to show them the love of Jesus. 

Did you know that Jesus loves Muslims?  He did before 9/11, and he still does.  We can let our fear or hurt or mistrust build walls between us and the Muslims in our communities, or we can cross the line, extend a hand, and offer the gift of friendship.  It's the only way to reverse the cycle of hatred and revenge.  Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me!

a life well-lived

When someone dies, our memories of them are magnified and suddenly the little things they did may be seen in proper perspective.

Grandma Dorothy was one of the most cheerful people we knew.  We got news several months ago that she was dying, so Danny called her right away to say goodbye.

"They tell me I'm dying," Grandma told him cheerfully.  "But I don't feel any different than I did yesterday.  It's kind of like a party.  All the people I love are coming to see me, and everything is taken care of.  I don't have to do a thing." 

She was ready to go.  Her faith was strong.  She spent a week at the Hopewell House, the hospice care facility where Danny's dad spent his final days back in 1995.  But then, against all odds, Grandma went home.  Not heaven, mind you.  Home to her earthly house.  The Hopewell House didn't really know how to handle a discharge.  All of their other patients leave in hearses.  But not Grandma.  They backed off her oxygen at her request, expecting that without a ventilator she would breathe her last.  But she didn't.  Grandma kept right on breathing, so they sent her home.  I don't know much about her last weeks and months, but I do know that she was at home, sleeping peacefully when she died.

We'll miss her bright smile and cheerful greeting.  We'll miss her double birthday cards (one for Danny and one for me in the same envelope since she couldn't remember when my birthday was and didn't want to forget me) with $5 to buy a milkshake.  We'll miss her faithful financial support, spanning the whole 9 years since we started ministering with SIM.  She was a dear lady.

We were in Oregon for a family visit when she died, but we just missed seeing her.  We're staying an extra week so that we can attend her funeral, and our kids will get to attend VBS at Calvary Mennonite Church, our home base here.  The community at Calvary is feeling sharply the loss of another dear soul this week: Bonnie.

Bonnie was quiet, but she had a fun giggle you could hear if you hung around her long enough.  For as long as I attended Calvary Bonnie came daily to volunteer.  Yes, I said daily.  All year round. She was not the up-front type of person, but now that she's gone the congregation is gradually realizing what a vital role she played here.  Bonnie died suddenly and unexpectedly this spring of complications from the flu.  Most of her volunteer hours were spent in preparation for children's ministry.  She kept attendance records, prepared supplies for crafts, organized classrooms, decorated bulletin boards, and did countless other things behind the scenes that the rest of the church is only now beginning to realize.  She was heavily involved in VBS every year, and without her help the team has been stretched very thin.  Bonnie didn't live for fanfare.  I don't remember ever hearing any public thanks or acknowledgement of her service.  She just kept on serving, day after day after day.  That's what faithfulness looks like. There is no shortcut.  It's a "long obedience in the same direction" as someone has said.

The measure of a life well-lived is not some great moment of faith or generosity or service.  It is the gradual accumulation of consistent faith, consistent generosity, and consistent service.  We will not be remembered for what we did once, but for what we did over and over, day after day, and year after year.  What does it take to be great in God's kingdom?  If we wait for our "great moment" it may never come.  Living well requires a thousand thankless acts of service, a thousand smiles, a thousand gifts given little by little.  Thanks Grandma, and thanks Bonnie, for living well and showing us the way.