these are the days: march

I have three or four half-written blog posts drafted in the queue, but nothing I have to say seems meaningful enough to add to the media din that has only grown louder as the world draws itself inward. Thoughts on what it actually means to be the Church in a time when we can no longer substitute “going to church,” thoughts on how all I want is to write honestly but I hesitate to do so now that honesty feels like a currency, thoughts on whether or not there is a place for someone like me (by that, I mean a female Bible scholar who has been called to teach people how to study the Bible) in the Church at all… they’re all in there, waiting to be given voice lest they make my brain explode, but for whatever reason it doesn’t feel safe out here for them yet.

So these are the days of jotting down just enough notes to keep the lid on while I wait for the day that I’m brave enough to pour out. I remind myself that this website is mine to invite others into, and they may accept or decline as they see fit. I remind myself that I’m not being asked to write the inerrant Word of God, so I don’t have to say everything just right, or even be completely right—the grace I feel burdened to show others is abundant enough to cover me, too. I remind myself that there must be other people out there who are tired of hearing the same old Christianese teaching the same tired platitudes, and that I can’t possibly be the only one craving something a little more honest, more Biblical, less pristine. I can’t possibly be the only one with complicated or uncomfortable questions to ask—and I remember that Jesus Himself showed us pretty clearly just how much the devout can benefit from a healthy dose of discomfort.

For now, these are still days of quiet—quieter than I ever envisioned when I wrote my last post. The only thing breaking up my days and weeks is my work schedule, the only thing that holds a semblance of normal. Even that is abbreviated and interrupted by a week of being sick at home, feeling more than usual the pressure to keep my germs to myself, letting Bible180 be my church service and Zephaniah be my preacher and a simple “Let’s all agree to pray together in spirit at 2pm today” be my community.

Some of the daffodils have bloomed. I cut the last of the hyacinths for one more bouquet. Between rain showers I take quick walks through the garden to see what else is coming alive to prove that time really isn’t at a standstill, and that God really isn’t checked out of this mess. It is spring, and He is here.

Suggested Thinking

• Matthew 23

• Zephaniah

these are the days: february

These are the days of sunlight, at last, streaming through the windows in the morning—after eighty days, some estimated, without the sun showing its face here. Until you’ve lived through eighty days without the sun I don’t think you can fathom how suffocating and dire the world becomes, nor how life-giving and joyful the privilege of sun on skin really is. The first week of February, when it finally came out from behind the gray blanket of clouds, I wanted to cry from pure relief, and I haven’t taken a minute of it for granted since. There is nothing so important that it can’t wait for a few hours while I sit outside in the sun.

These are the days of waiting eagerly for more flowers to pop up—my crocuses are in full swing, and the hyacinths and daffodils are close on their heels. I feel starved for every bit of color and light and joy the world can spare me and if I thought that sleeping in the garden next to my plants would make them grow faster, I’d do it. Every leaf that emerges is hope.

And especially, these are days of quiet. Even inside my mind, which is usually buzzing with new ideas or goals or processes, it is quiet—because nothing else seems reverent. I wish we still followed the old customs of mourning, in some ways, because the plunge back into life the day after a death seems not only horrifically inappropriate but exhausting beyond description. So many days I’ve wished I could respond to a call or a text or an appointment or a reminder with “Sorry—in mourning until further notice.” As much as life must stubbornly go on, it feels like something somewhere must cease, because a life that shaped my entire world is gone.

Suggested Thinking

• Psalm 91

• Endless Hallelujah by Matt Redman

the Lord will provide

Each time I read through the Bible, a different theme sticks out to me. In the past, it’s been the fearsome nature of God or the lasting pattern of Sabbath rest. It’s as if each time I travel from one end of this amazing tapestry to the other, a different color stands out against the rest, begging me to pause and see it and let it seep into me.

(This is one of the major reasons that I’m an advocate of reading through the Bible at a fast pace, and often. Learn more here.)

We are just beginning Leviticus in Bible180 2020, and the color that I can’t stop seeing woven through every scene and story and law so far is the color of God’s wildly generous grace. The deeper I wade into the story of the Bible with each passing day, the more this particular hue splashes over my understanding of every verse. Stories that I have read and studied for a lifetime have become new since I noticed, as if for the first time, the color of grace running through them.

One such story is one that I, admittedly, used to hate: Genesis 22, which my Bible titles, “The Offering of Isaac.”

Every interaction I’ve had with this chapter, whether in Sunday school or in a sermon or on my own, has left me with something like this as a key takeaway: WATCH OUT BECAUSE GOD IS GOING TO ASK YOU TO DO SOMETHING TERRIBLE AND IF YOU DON’T DO IT YOU’RE NOT A REAL CHRISTIAN!

I can still feel the fear and guilt sweeping over me from all the times, as a kid, I thought about what I would do if God asked me to literally sacrifice something I loved so much. I remember lying awake at night in tears of anxiety, afraid He would demand my sister or my parents or my horse. This story painted God as an cruel and unpredictable tyrant who could turn my life upside down on a whim, and if I protested, I’d go to hell.

What my painfully black-and-white child’s mind could not discern through the chaotic din of fear was that this is not a story about my performance under God’s tyranny, but about God’s wildly generous grace in the face of my lack.

God asked Abraham to offer his only son whom he loved, Isaac, as a burnt offering on Mount Moriah. Abraham rose early in the morning, packed the supplies, took his son, and obeyed. And yet when Isaac asks, “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” Abraham does not say, “You’re it.”

He says, “God will provide for Himself the lamb for the burnt offering, my son” (Genesis 22:8).

I have spent my life marveling at Abraham’s faith and courage to obey when the implications of that obedience were so heavy. I thought, “This is what it means to be a Christian—to be willing to do whatever it takes to make God happy.” I was wrong.

Abraham’s faith and courage don’t come from within himself, from a steel-willed determination to do whatever it takes. His faith is not set in his ability to pass the test. His faith rests, instead, in the generosity of God to provide for Abraham what he himself does not have to give: a lamb for the burnt offering.

This is what it means to be a Christian: to trust that God has provided for Himself the sacrifice that His holiness requires, because even the very best we have to give is not adequate.

Abraham was willing to give his only son, whom he loved—but God provided for Himself a ram in a thicket instead, a foreshadowing of the day when He would offer His Son, His only Son, whom He loves, for us.

Abraham called the name of that place The Lord Will Provide, as it is said to this day, “In the mount of the Lord it will be provided.”

Genesis 22:14

I have learned that following Jesus does sometimes test me beyond what I believe I can endure. But it is not a pass/fail examination to measure how well I perform and whether I deserve the name “Christian.” It is rather a testing by fire, as if of metal—it reveals what is in me, and purifies me of weaknesses. Christ took the ultimate pass/fail test when He generously drank the cup of death so that my standing before God need never fall into question again.

God is not an unpredictable tyrant, and that is exactly why Abraham could obey this unthinkable command. He already knew God’s promise to multiply Isaac into a great nation, so even as Abraham himself was being tested, his obedience counter-tested God to uphold His word. He knew God for who He is, and counted on Him to remain consistent with His character. It was never about Abraham’s special abilities or extra-strong faith or track record of obedience at all—it was always about who God is.

Wildly, generously gracious.