faith in search of lament

If our picture of the Christian life is primarily shaped by the evangelical church service, what is missing? How might it be skewed?

This is the question I posed to myself after a campfire chat with a faculty colleague.

The Scriptures contain the full range of expression that animates the life of faith, and we develop the capacity to live faith-fully by patterning our own expressions after these.

Lord, teach us to pray. 

But for our church services we typically take a select few of these elements and canonize them, leaving others nearly untouched.

We sing praise.
We greet one another.
We preach the Word.
We exhort.
We take up an offering for those in need.
We pronounce a blessing.
We remember the Lord's death by celebrating communion.
Occasionally we baptize.
We pray for the sick.
Now and then we pray for our nation's leaders.

What's missing?

We generally don't confess our sin (at least not out loud, to each other).
We don't seek refuge.
We don't complain.
We don't wrestle out loud over what's wrong and broken in our world.
We don't lament.

That is a problem.

It's a problem because the lack of confession and lament leaves us with a monotone, anemic faith. We miss out on the richness available to us in the Scriptures, and we lose touch with reality. Our faith becomes compartmentalized rather than a fully integrated part of our selves.

Put another way, Job and Jeremiah and David and Habakkuk and many other biblical writers model for us the language of lament. Do we think we no longer need these vehicles of expression?

What would it look like to incorporate the language of the Psalms -- not just the praise psalms, but the laments, too -- into our services? How can we create a reverent space where the groans of the human heart may be articulated?

How might it feel to leave things unresolved -- to refuse to tie a neat bow on it all at the end of the service because we as a community have become accustomed to letting God do the answering and not to answer for him?

Here I'm thinking of Elihu, the "friend" who shows up out of nowhere in the book of Job. After Job's complaint is laid out before God, Elihu rushes in to answer on God's behalf. Like the other three "friends" who respond to Job, Elihu is angered by Job's words (Job 32:1-5). He feels a strong need to defend God and put Job in his place, rushing in to fill the silence with correction. But when the Almighty does reply, Elihu's words are swallowed up in the storm with everyone else's. Literarily, the lesson is clear: God doesn't need us to answer on his behalf. God can speak for himself.

When we rush to the answer we lose the depth that comes through sustained waiting. To brood over our grief -- to articulate our deepest longings for God to do something -- positions us to experience God's answer more profoundly. Ignoring our wound, we miss out on the opportunity for healing.

Lord, teach us to pray. 

Sure, now and then we're brave enough to complain to God on our own. Why did you let this happen? God do something! But communal lament -- lament as a body -- is a lost art. If we could find the voice of corporate lament it would open up new avenues to enter into one another's journey. Rather than fixing each other, we could join each other side-by-side in articulating the heart's cry.

Why should we be scared of lament when the Scriptures devote so much time and space to it? Why do we feel it's irreverent to complain when complaint is the backbone of books like Psalms, Lamentations, Habakkuk, and Job?

Life hurts. Missionaries get stabbed. Cancer returns. ISIS prevails. Lives are lost in meaningless altercations. Believers are falsely accused. When grief, complaint, longing, sorrow, and confession are kept to ourselves, out of sight, the muscles of our faith atrophy, and we lose the art of responding faithfully to our trials. It's a missed opportunity for our community to grow together in love.

One of my students, Beth Erickson, created this beautiful graphic poster of Habakkuk's lament in light of the recent racial tensions in America. I share it here with her permission. This poster is an example of one way we can begin to incorporate lament into our worship.

Every year, Jewish communities read the entire book of Lamentations aloud together. When I did this with my class on the Old Testament Prophets this summer, the effect was powerful.

Lord, teach us to pray.

gems from Jobes on James

I've spent the past few days immersed in Karen Jobes' chapters on the book of James in Letters to the Church: A Survey of Hebrews and the General Epistles. I think of Dr. Jobes like I think of a forest ranger in a National Park. While I can appreciate the park's beauty on my own, a few moments with the ranger opens up new worlds of understanding, showing me what I would otherwise miss and helping me understand the mysteries of nature. Dr. Jobes does that for these New Testament books. Having spent half a lifetime immersed in these texts, she is a proficient guide who can help me get the most out of reading them.

Here are some of my favorite gems on the book of James (emphasis mine):

"Simply put, the purpose of the letter [of James] was to instruct Jewish Christians how to live faithfully to Christ within their heritage as Jews." (166)

"James is presenting the Christian concept of a whole and unified person as the goal of spiritual maturity." (202)

"Every test [or trial in life] occasions a theological crisis, when the believer is more easily deceived or confused about who God is and how God acts." (167)

"Love for God expressed through love for neighbor is the wellspring of the faithful life wisely lived." (205)

"What is distinctive in [Jesus'] message is that he proclaims himself to be the way to life's highest good -- the way to eternal life reconciled with God." (211)

"Whatever a profession of faith in Jesus Christ might mean, it cannot mean a license to live free of God's moral order." (221)

"If believers of means [i.e. wealthy Christians] rely on their resources rather than God, if they expect to be treated with privileged status, if they oppress others to sustain self-interest, then they are 'the rich' who are condemned. . . . James's point is that Christians with resources must live differently than 'the rich' by caring for the poor; otherwise they have not truly understood and believed the gospel." (229)

On the perceived conflict between the theology of Paul and James, Dr. Jobes writes:

"Given that James and Paul, as well as Peter, left the Jerusalem Council [see Acts 15] in agreement on the epoch-making decision that Gentiles would be received as Christians without becoming Jewish and keeping the law of Moses, it seems unlikely that they disagreed over the fundamental nature of faith and salvation." (173)

"James was not writing in reference to justification but rather to describe the moral responsibilities that flow from saving faith." (219)

The final gem is a quotation from Ellen Charry's By the Renewing of Your Minds, quoted in a sidebar in Letters to the Church. This may be my new all-time favorite quote:

"The central theological task is and has always been pastoral, assisting people to know God, and by knowing him to be enabled to strive toward the excellence of his character in their own lives." (222)

a textbook that inspires

I'm working on a really fun assignment this week. About 6 weeks ago, Zondervan Publishers asked me to help them develop instructional resources for a textbook by one of my mentors, Karen Jobes, on Hebrews and the General Epistles (James through Jude). What I'm writing won't come out in print, but it will be made available digitally to professors who adopt this textbook for their New Testament courses. I'm writing chapter summaries, collecting key words, coming up with quiz questions, and developing basic PowerPoint slides for classroom use. I've used Zondervan's instructional resources like this for the classes I've taught, and believe me -- they are a blessing!

The BEST part is that I'm getting paid to learn.

Last week I was introduced to a new couple, and when they found out I was a Bible scholar, they popped their current nagging question, "So who wrote Hebrews?" It just so happened that I had worked through Dr. Jobes' chapter on the authorship of Hebrews the previous day, so I had an answer ready. Gaining knowledge is one benefit of this kind of study. (By the way, if you want to know the answer you'll have to read the book for yourself!)

But what strikes me most about this textbook is the depth of wisdom it offers for the Christian life. Dr. Jobes' writing is clear and compelling. Her theological insights are profound. Here are a few of my favorite gems from the chapters on Hebrews:

"Death is not a punishment; it is the inevitable consequence of turning away from the source of life, which is God himself." (119) 

"[Sabbath rest] is not an invitation to idleness, spiritual or otherwise. Rather, it is a place of being where the normal routines of a right relationship with God can be established and enjoyed, because Christ has resolved the crisis of humanity's separation from God and an eternal stability has been achieved." (131)

"Anyone worried about committing the unforgivable sin or becoming apostate hasn't done so. Apostates are by definition hardened to God and arrogant toward what he has said by the Son." (141)

"The reason the unforgivable sin is unforgivable is that by rejecting the work of Christ as something other than the gracious work of God, one cuts oneself off from the only means of forgiveness and the only salvation that God offers. It is, therefore, the only sin that cannot be forgiven." (140) 

"To stay in a spiritually immature state under the delusion that it is okay to sin is like walking backward in the dark toward the cliff of apostasy." (141) 

Dr. Jobes also has great sections on the cultural and Scriptural background for understanding Jesus' role as the Son of God, on what it means in a Roman context to be an "heir," on the reasons that Jesus supersedes the Old Testament, and on the meaning of "perfection" in the book.

If you're a layperson who is motivated to understand the New Testament more deeply, you could profitably work your way through this book on your own. It's filled with helpful pictures, charts, and a glossary that will guide you. If you're a professor who will be teaching on this part of the Bible, don't miss this great resource!

p.s. In case you're wondering, Zondervan didn't ask me to write this. I simply felt that this resource was too good to keep to myself!

compelled to create: art and faith

What must you do?
I'm not referring to your to-do list.
What are you compelled to do?
(besides eat chocolate)
What can you not help doing?

Asher Lev could not help but draw. His eyes would follow the contours of windows, of trees, of faces and their bodies. His fingers would trace shapes over and over, practicing. He filled reams of paper and acres of canvas. He dulled pencils and emptied tubes of paint. When he should have been studying Torah or mathematics, Asher drew. When he should have been listening, he absorbed himself in shadow and light, wondering how the effect could be achieved on paper.

What is it for you?
What were you born to do?

Asher's poor father could not understand him. He called drawing "foolishness" and chided his son repeatedly, angered by his distraction. But Asher could not shut off his fount of creativity. He even drew in his sleep (on the wall! with red crayon!). Asher's Hasidic Jewish community could not understand him. His classmates jeered at him, calling him "Picasso."

A dear friend of mine is an artist. After years of chronic pain, she's made a profound discovery—art is a form of praise. Pain has become the crucible for some of the best art she's ever birthed, more original and more meaningful, and therefore a part of her healing journey. Somehow her finger-gripped pencil bypasses the toxic cesspool of her own complaints, words that only drag her down. It liberates the praise-filled perspective she longs to have. She reminded me that the same has been true of my writing.

Enter the Rabbi—the most powerful figure in Asher's world. As his father's boss, the Rabbi's word was canon. He was never disobeyed. I expected him to come crashing down on the young artist, to forbid him to draw or paint. But in a remarkable plot twist, he doesn't. I won't spoil the rest of the story. If you haven't read the book yourself, put it on your list right now: My Name is Asher Lev, by Chaim Potok.

The friend I mentioned took a risk yesterday, showing her drawings to her parents. One brusque comment could have destroyed her, but by the magnificent grace of God, they gushed, awed by what she had created.

Providentially, after finishing the novel, I picked up the summer magazine of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary, my alma mater. The theme? "Arts in the Church"—page after page of beautiful reflections on the place of art in our faith journey. Truly refreshing.

One article in particular struck me as appropriate: "Made by a Maker to be a Maker," by Bruce Herman, an artist and professor of art at Gordon College in Massachusetts. Herman's reflections mimic Asher's journey as an artist into adulthood. He says, "the child creates art from a place of fearlessness and natural freedom. Art and fear are not good bedfellows." (Fear makes a lousy bedfellow for dissertations, too, by the way.)

Night by Bruce Herman (1991)
www.bruceherman.com

According to Herman, "The artistic act is one that can only be wholehearted."As soon as Asher Lev discovers this, when he gives himself fully to the artistic process, he creates his greatest masterpiece. But it may cost him everything. Art is not easy. It is a massive risk.

In some cases, so is a blog post. Or a meal for honored guests. Or an academic paper. Or a remodeled kitchen. Or a counseling session. Or a sermon.

Quoting Tolkien, Herman says, "we put the thought of all that we love into all that we make." As I contemplate my next major writing project, I hesitate, but only for a moment. Just as Asher must paint, so I must write. I have no other option. All that I love will find expression on the pages of my next book. Fear has no place, only a complete devotion to the craft of writing until the project is birthed.

Herman insists, "The kind of makers we are to become involves echoing God's own character in our creative process." That involves self-sacrifice and risk, the possibility that it won't be well-received, or that we'll be misunderstood. But we were created to create. And so I must. And so must you. Let's make something good.

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.

preventing the holocaust: three things that went wrong

Are you like me? Do you have the same perennially nagging questions about WWII: How could the holocaust have been allowed to happen? And how can we prevent it from happening again? If so, read on. I've found a few answers this summer.

However, before I share this list I offer a disclaimer: I am not an expert in WWII. I have not engaged in academic research on these matters. I am, like most of you, simply curious, with a long-standing uneasiness regarding this part of human history. Even now similar narratives are playing out in other parts of the world. Will we look back in 60 years and wonder how we could have stood idly by while whole people groups are slaughtered?

1. Insidious Propaganda

The first reason I encountered for the holocaust (or Shoah) is explored in John Boyne's young adult novel, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. In my opinion, the movie is even more achingly powerful than the book. You simply must watch it.

Although this is a work of historical fiction, it goes a long way toward answering my questions about the German populace during WWII. In this story, even the Commandant's family, living next door to a concentration camp, are unaware of its inhumane conditions. They don't realize the acrid smoke comes from burning bodies and that their own father is responsible for the daily murder of countless humans. They are shown videos that depict happy Jews, well-fed and grateful for a place to live. For the average German, it was less psychologically taxing to believe the propaganda than to push for answers, especially when those who did so risked personal harm.

2. Incredulity

I encountered another reason for the widespread devastation of the holocaust in Elie Wiesel's Night. This one gave me chills. Wiesel describes how a member of their Jewish community in Poland had been deported to a prison camp, escaped, and returned to warn the community. But nobody believed him. The horrors he described were so unthinkable that the other Jews decided he must have gone crazy. They had plenty of time to escape before they were rounded up, but they stayed put, confident that the war would soon be won and the Nazis would go home to Germany.

Ironically, I finished Wiesel's autobiography of the war years on the very day he died, old and full of years. What a gift he gave us all with his unflinching description of Nazi brutality. What a wonder he survived it! Self-deception can run very, very deep and animate the most egregious behavior imaginable. Let us not forget it.

3. Insufficient Sympathy

The final, nauseating insight is from Chaim Potok, author of My Name is Asher Lev and also of The Chosen, a fantastic novel about Jews in Brooklyn in the 1950's. He explains, "There had been public meetings in England, protests, petitions, letters—the whole machinery of democratic expression had been set in motion to impress upon the British Government the need for action [during WWII]—and not a thing was done. Everyone was sympathetic, but no one was sympathetic enough. The British let some few Jews in, and then closed their doors. America hadn't cared enough, either. No one had cared enough. The world closed its doors, and six million Jews were slaughtered. What a world! What an insane world!" (197, emphasis added)

If Potok is correct, immigration policy played a role in the mass devastation. Jews who had nowhere to go were left vulnerable to Nazi occupation, deportation, and death in a concentration camp.

Closer to home . . .

Are we believing lies about the true status of refugees?
     These are moms and dads with children who are desperate for a safe place to call home, not dangerous criminals.

Are we believing the truth when it is told? Or do we dismiss the stories as highly unlikely?
     Entire villages are being destroyed. Women are being sold as sex slaves to ISIS militants. Entire museums and ancient monuments are being blown to smithereens.

Are we sympathetic enough to do something about it?

"If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn't do it, it is sin for them." (James 4:17 NIV)

The solutions are complex because the problems are complex, but let's not turn and look away. These are our brothers and sisters.

a granddaughter of immigrants speaks up



In 1949, my Oma and Opa were among the first European immigrants to fly to the Americas after WWII. They left behind a country ravaged by war, where the land had been raped and pillaged by years of fear and poverty. They determined to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the memory of war. They were not well educated. They were not highly skilled workers. They were young farmers, newly married, who hated farming and wanted to begin a new life. They were not "white"; they were Dutch, and their only ticket to Canada was (ironically) through the sponsorship of a Canadian farmer who gave them work. The little English they spoke was hampered by a thick brogue. They brought little wealth to contribute to the economy. Just two pair of calloused hands and a willingness to try again to build a better life for themselves and the son they would bear.

They looked no different than Germans. I wonder whether their accents ever aroused suspicion among their new neighbors. They had been victims of war brutality, risking life and limb to subvert the German advance, but only a thin border separated them from Nazi headquarters. With the same light skin and big noses, did people wonder? Did all Europeans look the same? After all, they shared a religion with Nazi Germany — Protestant Christianity.

How soon we forget.

My father crossed the Canadian border into the United States to attend Calvin College. He met and married my mother in Grand Rapids, Michigan, beginning life as a U.S. Citizen.

That makes me the granddaughter of immigrants — immigrants who fled a war-torn country to make a new beginning. They followed their married son to Colorado so they could watch me grow up. I was nurtured and raised in a close-knit Denver community whose shared origins defined us (even today, the children of my Dutch cousins and Dutch classmates are dropping off their children at Calvin Camp, the same camp we attended almost 30 years ago, and my other grandparents are living out the remainder of their years in a retirement home populated mostly by people of Dutch descent). My community successfully integrated. No one my age that I know of actually spoke Dutch. We were Americans.

But roll back the clock just a few generations and most of our families were not in the United States.

How grateful I am that my grandparents were allowed to move here — that they were not turned back at the border on the outside chance that they were Nazi sympathizers.

I'd like to extend that opportunity to others fleeing war-torn lands.
Every human being deserves a place to live and raise a family without fear for their safety.
Let's work together to make it happen.
There's a sea of refugees out there who are just as afraid of ISIS as we are.
We can start by opening our hearts to them.