"It's dark in here...we need a Light."

I know a few people who secretly started to listen to Christmas music before Thanksgiving day. Some, like myself, consider this a serious breach of an unwritten code. A crime. An offensive decision. But for those who follow the rules, after that glorious meal, there is nothing as satisfying as Christmas music floating though the house when washing the mile-high stack of cranberry-stained dishes. As Amy Grant’s Immanuel belts out, my sister starts in sync at the top of her lungs...Wonderful, Counselor, Lord of Life, Lord of all, He is the Prince of Peace, Mighty God, Holy One....Im-m-a-an-u-el, Immanuel. The sounds of these songs are magical; we can’t quite wear them out. For one month we press repeat on the songs that tell the story of the holidays: family gathering around the table, presents under the tree, chestnuts roasting, snow falling, mistletoe, turkey and a baby born in Bethlehem...the memories bubble up in my mind with each song.

Then there’s the other part of Christmas--bags in hand, bustling about in shopping centers and malls, sitting for hours online scouring for sales...hopeful for just the right find for someone, and crafting a long list of the particular things we all want. The economy breathes it all in with one big, Grinch-like smile. For those who wander around in the scramble, it takes an intentional awareness to notice these same songs whispering through the speakers in Dick’s Sporting Goods, Eddie Bauer, or Marshall’s. Hark the herald angels sing glory to the new born King...Silent night, holy night, Son of God, loves pure light...The hopes and fears of all the years, are met in Thee tonight...

Ironic. Hovering over us as we race and rush are the songs that beckon us to worship. At no other time EVER do shoppers hear lyrics so boldly proclaiming Jesus as God, as Savior, as Messiah. The story of Christmas gets hijacked by the sales and sparkle of the season. Jesus is just another magical element, much like our stockings...hung by the chimney with care.

Yesterday I pulled out of Dilworth Coffee with Elgin’s fluffed Cafe O’ Le in hand and hit the highway from Matthews, NC to Media, PA. 8.3 hours. My eyes took in every beautiful landscape along the drive through Virginia and along the farmlands of Pennsylvania. At points I saw some flurries, caught up with an old friend on the phone and snacked on some sweet holiday treats from my students. I never mind this road trip. My mind is still, undistracted and attentive. The Christmas break travel is especially invigorating with the cold, gray skies, the warm drinks, and the Christmas music that inspires me to sing like Julie Andrews at the top of my lungs!

And as I sing,
I listen...

Some lyrics bring tears to my eyes. Pure poetry, rich in theology and a reminder of what we revere.

At times I imagine the malls, highways, and food stores going into lockdown mode, everyone’s feet glued in place, stuck. All conversation stopped, all registers closed, all lights dimmed, total silence...except the songs of Christmas...


...No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found...


...Hail, the heaven-born Prince of peace!
Hail the Son of righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
Risen with healing in his wings.
Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
Hark! the herald angels sing,
Glory to the newborn King...


...Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God love's pure light
Radiant beams from thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord at thy birth...

...Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long
Beneath the heavenly strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong

And man at war with man hears not
The tidings which they bring
O hush the noise, ye men of strife
And hear the angels sing

O ye, beneath life's crushing load
Whose forms are bending low
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow

Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing

For lo, the days are hastening on
By prophets seen of old
When with the ever-circling years
Shall come the time foretold

When peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling
And the whole world give back the song
Which now the angels sing...


...O Holy Night
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of our dear Savior's birth
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
'Til He appeared and the soul felt it's worth
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morning
Fall on your knees, O hear the angels’ voices
O night, divine...

A Savior has been born. He has come to take away the curse of sin and the despair in meaningless living. Every twisted act of violence, every selfish obsession with money, every misplaced affection, every demanding and controlling intention, every racist response, every prideful root, all idolatry of children, stuff, power, physical beauty, all envy, strife, anger, passivity, laziness, workaholic lifestyle, dismissal of the Sabbath, covetousness and the love of self rather than love of God. God came as an infant. He came poor, helpless and hated. He came to rescue us and resurrect us from our lives of hopelessness and self-absorption. There is a sad truth in all of this, even for those who know Him. The malls are much like our Christian homes. We love the holidays but forget about the Christ. We move fast and eat a whole bunch, we buy gifts and blast the music while we cook and laugh and sing. Our table is set and our gifts perfectly wrapped...all to celebrate a King we never mention.

Christmas comes around each year, and each year we push Him to the side. We feel good to feed the homeless but are terrible at prayer. It’s awkward and serious to put Him in the middle of it all.The results are profound, and though subtle, powerful: greed, high expectations on family members, an increase in the numbing effects of materialism, disappointment when we don’t get what we want, debt, tension, apathy, selfishness, distraction, busyness...

He comes to make His blessings known, far as the curse is found...

O ye, beneath life's crushing load
Whose forms are bending low
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow

It’s no different today than in the days of old. A Savior had come to a world that would reject Him. And we still do. We choose darkness over light. We choose stuff over Him. But He is the gift, and just as God said to Abraham in Genesis, “I AM your great reward,” Jesus tells us to stop and consider Him. He is the reward. He is the gift we long for. He is the only balm for our grasping souls. He makes all crooked things straight. He makes streams flow in the desert. He finds the one lost sheep. He raises the dead. He heals, listens, cares, redeems, He fills us with bottomless joy ...A baby born with a mission to find us in our toiling, give us direction in our waywardness and peace in our angst. Above all, Isaiah prophesied about Christmas this way:

The people who walk in darkness will see a great light; those who live in a dark land, the light will shine on them. Is 9:2

Stop as if your feet are glued to the ground. Force it. Wait and listen. Be still and pray by yourself, even if just in the shower. Better yet, lead your children to the manger where true life is found. He will fill them up more than an American girl doll, an Xbox, or the coolest trendy clothes.

It’s dark out, help them find Him.

Help them hear the message of Christmas...

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices...

3646 Central Avenue. Our new home. But not our final home...

 

Christ Central Church turned 10 years old this past year. There was a big throw down party to celebrate and dance and eat. We did it Christ Central style. The building we meet in has always fit the demographic of people who come. The ones in need of repair. The ones who have a list of things that just don’t work. The ones who can’t find the money to make any changes. The Neighborhood Theater is unique in character but lacks practicality. The mauve colored stalls in the bathroom lack luster and the toilets flush roughly 50% of the time. In order to see the words on the program some had to  use their convenient iphone flashlights; even the shortest of us had no space for our legs; we chose our seats with an attempt to avoid all beer-stains; and periodically each of us caught glimpses of various rodents scampering about in the dark corners. Some days we had no AC, some days no water, some days a flood. Our parking went away, our projector and screen were sold, we had no good place to teach our kids and every square inch was crumbling away or unstable. For 5 years our pastors and elders and other good men combed the city for a place to migrate. We just needed a place to go! But God held off. And in the waiting, He kept busy doing the work of humility in our church. The wandering was just the soul-construction we needed. Each Sunday we sat in the same chairs. We worked with what we had, and slowly accepted that this was His good place for us, for now. He brought new people. Our leadership grew in numbers and integrity with the commitment to keep us healthy and honest. Some were directed on to their next place to worship. Many of us “old timers” remained. Each week we came. Each week we heard the same message, ate at the same table, and waited for the next charge. This building, this move....was not our job. Truth be told, we didn’t even have the money to fix our own toilets, how would we find a new place to call home?

3646 Central Avenue. An old skating rink. An ugly building “with much potential.” This would become Christ Central’s new landing spot. The scent of this miracle blew through our church today as we had our first service. God has constructed for Himself a place to dwell. His Temple. “Don’t get the story of this building twisted. We did not give it to God; He gave it to us so that He could be with His people.”

A few commands from the pulpit: “don’t get this backwards.” “The building is not ours.” And another command: “We MUST festival before the Lord!” And that we did! In Christ Central style the long tables were set with baked beans, Asian salads, macaroni and cheese, broccoli salad, mashed potatoes, and fried chicken! We all sat wherever there was space; we mingled about and moved from one gathering of people to the next. Some wandered about the place still in shock, some stood outside for the quiet and crisp fall air. A family supper. That’s what it was. As I looked around it was clear, we all felt the same way. Grateful, humbled, excited, and hopeful. 3536 Central Avenue will be a beacon. Like the Temple in Solomon's day, the glory of God has come to express itself, to leave it’s mist and it’s mark.

With festival and loud jubilation, we will worship this mighty and overcoming God. Our party will keep going on and on. We have no reason to shut it down. We will still be singing and dancing when the skies are ripped open and God arrives to set up His new Temple once and for all time.

Easter-Type of Love

I read today that the Spirit essentially GIVES the best gift of the abundant love of the Father to us. What mind-blowing truth: this perfect love is IN us. Paul said it in Romans 5. It drew me in immediately. That enduring, limitless, ever-pursuing, engaging, intentional, completely pure love of God is poured into me by means of the Spirit? My heart is challenged to accept this as I feel the very real resistance inside of me, wanting to believe it, wanting to be internally settled because of it and yet terrified that it is only that "barely keeping my head above water" level of love. I often live instead only catching a quick glimpse of it, just almost grasping it yet not quite able to reach it, not even close at all. I want to fill up and float away on this reality so that no gap, no lack, no missing piece or pounding ache can settle in too quickly since this love takes up all the space inside of me and chases out any dark morsel of emptiness. A love that shuts down that ever-present haunting hum, "You will never have what others all around you have, those who have found true, ongoing, surreal, disney-like happiness." I limp along in line with the other misfits, staring at the beautiful and satisfied who laugh and sing their songs of glee in celebration of their arrival to the American Dream festivities.

But this love has been a different sort of seed planted in my heart. As mercy comes new every morning like rain, showering down, this seed has grown and this love from the Spirit has taken up residence stretching its vines all about and through my interior. This is the love we have been fitted to, like lock and key. Every other form or possibility of love will run dry and even become embittered if it is set as the first, top-tier love. Lesser loves can't hold the weight of our enormous need for supernatural, unfailing, character-changing and perfectly wise affection from God the Father. This is the love the Spirit plants and grows within us. This is the banner I raise high above my life story. "You have sought me and found me, you have rescued me and changed me, you have stayed and kept me, and you have named me and crowned me. You have found my misfit-self and transformed me." This is true love...bubbling up and over and out of me. This is a sacrificial and raise-you-from-the-dead level of love. You won't find that anywhere else.

And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love. (Romans 5:5 NLT)

"It's ok, I like when things are broken..."

I got the estimate for the car.

100.000 miles of wear and tear on a Rav4 and much too much to spend on a teacher’s salary. These are the necessities of life and the reasons to keep a savings in tact. Anticipating a long, 10-hour drive from 77 to 81 to 76 to the familiar route100 means I want to have a car where my mechanic says, “All is well. Merry Christmas and safe travels.” The diagnosis was grim but life-saving: near-dead battery, bubble in one of my tires and brake pads in dire need of repair. And then there is the issue with the passenger’s door automatic lock. I have unfortunately gotten used to the fact that no longer do I have to shift my entire body all the way over, extending my arms out, straining my fingers to finally reach the lock on  the door opposite me. Today, I just push a convenient button and at the speed of light, every door unlocks.

So presently my lock sits stuck, silent. Nothing moves it into the unlocked position. So now I unlock it “old-school” style.

The estimate showed a high cost to fix my lock, something that in the end, works fine. My conclusion was that I would pull out some handy scotch tape, close up the panel and embrace a broken, automatic door lock. Let it be. Save money and be annoyed now and then.

One of my students was driving with me when I went into the full explanation of the lock issue. Though I am used to it, I assume it may be a pain for someone else. Her response was well worth the thing being broken. Truly.

“It’s ok; I like when things are broken actually. It’s nice when everything isn’t fixed.”

 She just sat there as if it weren’t profound. I glanced over at her and didn’t say a word, but my mind was immediately full; my heart was immediately set right.

Ashley comes from a wealthy home. She isn’t a brat, she isn’t self-absorbed, but she does live with most of her wants met. She has been born and raised in Charlotte, NC which is polished and clean and “perfect.” This is the banking capital where image is the forefront value. Cars, houses and clothes are the trappings and garland hanging around this city. Measurements for “who’s who” in the runnings-up for the American Dream are like a cancer that eat away at the meaning, joy and contentment of life. This is the world Ashley lives in. Beyond the toxic atmosphere that breathes down her neck, this young girl fights her own internal battle of perfectionism. The intensity level of her stress is unique. Headaches, stomachaches and late nights pining away for the possibility of closing the margin for “an even better grade” leave her at times lifeless. The pressure for everything to be as it should be is overwhelming. It’s like this for Ashley, but it’s like this for most kids today who genuinely care to be responsible. Some are driven by the fear of the future, the plague of competition over college acceptances...some are harassed by a ghostly slave-driver that births from their own imbalanced expectations.

Ashley is tangled in both.

Her words tell so much about what finally makes her feel freed from any measurement: broken, un-fixed things; a situation that isn’t perfect serves as a reminder that life goes on, and even well, when something is left undone. The more perfect the things are around her, the more oppressed she feels to be shiny too.When things around her are broken, the standards mist away...

I can appreciate this bondage. Those kindred friends I have who aren’t preoccupied with what they wear, what they drive, how perfectly their house is furnished or decorated...they admit when they are wrong and seem to be un-phased by my own, besetting trip-ups. They speak truth confidently while draping grace over my shoulders like a cloak. Their kids are not the center of the universe and their daily priority is not to present a perfect face to the free world...Friends who are not competitive, who speak of emptiness but seem to find their hope in heaven...people who listen well, enjoy creativity and who find mystery and joy in the differences of culture, style and giftedness. They don’t fix everything because they can’t afford to, or it just doesn’t seem to matter so much. These are the refreshing ones, who don't have one fixed template for what "successful" living is.

Things left undone can force new strength and deeper appreciation for anything at all. Ashley likes my broken lock because it takes the strain off, and reminds her to focus on the things that matter, not all the extra externals that weigh us down along the road to seeking security, love and forgiveness. It seems to me that if I spend all my time making everything perfect it is far more challenging to face the fact that I can’t get it all right all the time. I start to pretend, put on a face, lock up my failures, polish away all my stains; worst of all, I run in the opposite direction of a Savior who is here to dust me off and wash me clean. Truly clean, down to the lining of the core of my sin-scuffed self.

Ashley will find her greatest freedom in embracing her brokenness. It means not straining and striving for what is a tense tight-rope to walk. It means being “as she is,” and loved in spite of all the unkempt entanglements that criss-cross from her shoulders to her heels. It means her colors start to shine more like humility, patience, endurance, self-control and empathy. It means she starts to walk with dignity instead of pride and pomp; it means she leaves a dusting of authenticity wherever she goes.

It means she lives by a different measure altogether, that of repentance and hope, knowing that One greater than her is making all things new. That’s simply not her job.

He’ll fix her broken lock, and every other mixed up thing inside of her.

Poem for Advent

Advent is speaking to me.
This waiting with hope.
This waiting in ache.
Still and silent, but listening.

In days past
they long-awaited the Messiah;
we long-await His return.
At times it feels too heavy to bear. 

My soul thirsts and pants for the living God to come
and blanket me with His ten-times over fulness.
Like the silent, constant snow falling,
fall on me.
Cover me.
Coat me
with the everlasting love of God
while I wait.

For true salvation,
and broad in every way,
comes only from You.

I wait.
I pay attention.
I seek.
I hope.
I pine for His peace.
I wait more.

I hold on to Bonhoeffer's words,
“...the door is shut,
and can only be opened from the outside.”

Advent, though painful,
is necessary to refine and produce,
like soon-sprouting seeds,
the internal parts of me.

And one day,
in the waiting,
a light will
dawn.
The door will open.

My Idols are Killing Me...

There is a deep well in me, a place that I often fear will not fill up. I keep running to broken jars that can’t hold the water I’m so thirsty for. Let me drink from You, like the woman at the well who went in circles to find a morsel of comfort and finally found You who would be her freedom, hope and security. My first movement is to repent, to say, “I am deeply sorry that over and over and over again I seek life outside of You and the promises You have made to be my companion, joy and satisfaction.” As the years have gone on I realize that this is a daily, moment by moment unfolding. It is in time that I fill up; it is not immediate but rather a daily process of trust and obedience. I have found that each time I test You out with obedience I find my faith increases and I am more calm and content. That is consistent. I gain the perspective, peace and understanding that You are FOR me, aware of me, and moving my life in a direction of purpose. Learning that there is a huge plan and such engaging mystery to keep me hooked to You for on and on. I get to be part of the big narrative of redemption instead of the small tale of self-absorption.

My mess becomes more obvious as I first confess that I have denied You; I have rejected the very food You offer and then get angry that I am wandering around hungry. I confess that I have looked You in the face and told You boldly that You are not enough and yet somehow think that broken things will be able to bolster me up. In so many ways, as I stop and reflect, it is like a certain level of insanity. It’s as if I am building my house out of paper cards, hoping it can withstand the guaranteed storms of life. When I pull back and look at the bigger picture, I can see how crazy it is; but while I wander, I keep thinking it is rational to drink from dirty water in a cracked container. Without much thought, I drink from this tainted source and always get sick. What’s most crazy, I go back to drink two seconds after I throw up.

So You call me to come...to You...the Living water, so that I will not have to drink from this unsatisfying well anymore. The key is for me to be reminded of who You are. “Truth sets you free” is what You say. So I will retrieve truth:

You know my steps, You have a particular plan unfolding that will be useful and meaningful as I follow You. When I attach to these idols, I become small and useless. When I attach to You, I am less selfish, less anxious, more willing to sacrifice, less afraid, more passionate, less demanding, more free, more surrendered, less chaotic. When I reflect on the fact that You are committed to me, I do not fall into perfectionism because You do what I cannot. When I realize that You are never-ending in Your forgiveness, like the power and rush of the Niagara Falls, and it just keeps swelling over me, it just keeps cleansing me, it is a surplus of ongoing, non-stop “I have paid, I have let it go, it no longer owns you,” I can rest. I don’t have to pay for it. I don’t have to get You to come back. I don’t have to beg You to still love me because it is actually Your delight to show me mercy...this is calming. This is what reminds me that You are enough.

Your Word says You are “slow to anger and abounding in love.” In the parables it’s clear that You keep chasing after the one who is sick. You lift the head of the one who feels so condemned, lost and trapped in a cycle of idolatry, and You look me in the eye and say, “I will stick around, and I will be strong FOR you and I will dust you off, pay your dues and bring you home. Do not fear and do not be despaired, I will fight for you when you have no fight left.” This is the voice I hear. I have never heard anyone else say this to me. I have never had anyone promise such things. I have never had anyone come near me, and literally sit with me in the cesspool of my crap. You do this and You say You actually want to. This is motivating to me. At the end of the day I want all that I love to always be second and third and fourth to You. When You sit in the front, all else takes their rightful places. If I drink from the source that is able to handle me, I release others from demands they are unable to fulfill. It’s why I love when the author of Hebrews says, “So fix your eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of your faith...”

No one else can do that.

The Trees are Not So Demanding.

I feel more comfortable around trees. They pour out water to my empty places.

Thirsty, I wander these sidewalks and streets, measuring myself against the bar. Everywhere I look there are standards to meet, fashions to fashion myself to, lists of things I don’t have, an image out of my grasp, a hopeless mountain to climb and no ropes holding me secure as I trip and fall. Or so it seems...

She is taller than me. Her boots are cute and her legs are fit. She has three kids. Her husband carries the car seat with the baby. He is good looking and sports a perfect shirt. His eyes, perfect. The car, nice and rich. Smiles and laughs. Friends upon friends. No concern for money. Clothes are always set just so over the shoulders and the hair never out of place. A purse with a name, a soft face with just the right eyeliner. She drips with sophistication and elegance. She doesn’t worry, she doesn’t fear, she doesn’t lack, she doesn’t ache, she doesn’t cry, she doesn’t want what anyone else wants because she has it all. Every square inch of desire has been filled up with what she has. She envies no one because everyone envies her.

I follow her and chase her, one day I will be her...

Then I go into the woods.

The spinning stops. The anxiety-producing comparisons fade away. My eyes gaze up as high as the trees extend to the skies and I get lost in the wide open spaces and the smell of pine. The tightness fades, the ongoing and suffocating measurements disappear. I can breathe. The trees write a different script. They sing a new song. They erase the power of the image that chokes itself around me. They instruct me in a lesson on genuine beauty and simple existence. They untangle me. No tiring evaluation haunts me in the woods. No “right way” or “wrong way” demands expectations for me. No oppressive portrait hangs over me. The trees redirect me, the crunch of the leaves under foot lighten my mood and bring me to a state of calm.

This is what Creation does. This is part of what it is meant to be: a tool unlocking and reframing. We shift our gaze from an inward, staring-at-ourselves and what we wear, own, carry, drive and build to what is sacred, inspiring, lifting and altogether breath-taking. A small tuft of perfectly smooth moss takes the attention, a patch of purple flowers, huge mushrooms in various ballooned shapes, the smallest birds bounce everywhere to find their tasty snacks, and the endless sounds of the woods showering us with peace. We find respite here. We stop clamoring for the new, the better, the other, the endless list of pointless wants. Our insatiable selves stop and settle down. We are reset.

The treadmill of “keeping up” is a slow death of the soul. Like a twisting of who we are, it  subtly reshapes us into a one-dimensional, hollow person. Be intentional to swim in the opposite direction of the rest of the crowd. Some who have gone before us, said it well...

“Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.”
    -Mark Twain

“Wrong does not cease to be wrong because the majority share in it.”
    -Leo Tolstoy


“I don't imagine you will dispute the fact that at present the stupid people are in an absolutely overwhelming majority all the world over.”
    -Henrik Ibsen

“The fact that an opinion has been widely held is no evidence whatever that it is not utterly absurd; indeed in view of the silliness of the majority of mankind, a widely spread belief is more likely to be foolish than sensible.”
    -Bertrand Russell

So swim upstream, right into the woods...

Food for My Worn Out Self. Every Week.

Consistently I am moved by the final twenty minutes of my church service. Every Sabbath we take the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. Every week we confess our sins. And every week we are reminded of the unconditional acceptance of Christ for His people. My pastor will consistently stress that this meal is not for people who have life tied with a bow, rather it is for those who have failed and fallen flat or at times are so hopeless they can’t see two steps in front of them. This supper is not for the ones who have "pleased" Jesus and can come and sit at His table because they are shiny and clean. This table is for the crippled, poor, and blind, for those left starving as a result of misplaced love. It’s the one church I have been to where people actually choose not to take it. They understand they either need to come to Christ first or they have to resolve a festering conflict brewing with someone around them. They stay seated and, thankfully, feel safe enough doing so. Finding a church free from shame and judgment is a feat in itself.

Today I had a bird’s eye view as I sat in the front, available for people to stop and receive prayer if they needed it. Sitting in a chair off to the side, I watched the long lines form. Poor and rich, black and white, young and old, tattooed up and yuppie to the core. Some physically limb and some barely able to lift their heads. The confident and the cowardly. All walk ahead to humbly partake of this transforming tradition. "Do this in remembrance of me," Jesus said. It hits me fresh week to week. We are a mess, a mod-podge of individual lives who are shuffling to the front of the church looking for a windfall of grace to fill our beat-up insides and give us what we need for the week ahead. This is a means of God pouring out on us the gifts of His forgiveness, peace, hope and motivation to endure the darkness. Undeserving, we limp forward with our hands reaching out and open to receive this meal that changes us over time. I cannot help but be reminded over and over again, “You are mangled and bruised by the fall, but you are healed, loved and free.” This is a sermon, a tangible picture each and every Sunday that the deficit I have accrued has been accounted for. I walk forward, slowly, in contemplation...here is my balm. I have been rescued.

“Dawn, this is His body and blood shed for you...”

They say my name, they look me in the eye and I return to my seat, knowing all is well with my soul.