The God of the Road Trip

I've basically been living out of a suitcase for the past month.  Pack for Thanksgiving.  Unpack from Thanksgiving.  Pack for Cran Hill.  Unpack from Cran Hill.  Pack for Bonaire.  Unpack from Bonaire.  It's gotten so bad that I find myself using travel size containers for my personal hygiene.  Right now my life is a road trip.

Which of course makes a ton of sense because if you've been in relationship with God for any period of time you know . . . God is the God of the road trip.

Abraham had to pack up his things and move to the land of Haran. Joseph, after being captured and sold by his brothers, travelled off to Egypt.  David, while a biblical hero for many, was also a man with the travel agent on his speed dial.  He was constantly on the move.  Jeremiah, even though he didn't want to travel, was told by God "to go with this people."  And go he did, also to the land of Egypt.

God's movement of people wasn't just for the individual.  It involved whole communities as well.  People familiar with the biblical language know the meaning of words like Exodus and Exile.  What we sometimes forget is that it meant significant travel.  In the Exodus, the people of God packed up their things in haste and moved out of the land of Egypt and headed off somewhere to a place called "the Promised Land."  No GPS, or Garmin, or Map Quest directions . . . just a cloud and pillar of fire and a man with a staff.  In the Exile, the people of God were forced to move by people other than God called Assyrians and Babylonians, moved out of their land into a land they were unfamiliar with.

So when we come to Christmas, are we surprised that God uses a road trip to bring about his salvation story?

Mary and Joseph leave Galilee and Nazareth and head toward Bethlehem.  While some people like a donkey in the story because there is no way in our culture of medical progress that we would allow a pregnant lady to walk that far . . . the biblical text doesn't give any indication of a donkey.  Donkey's were for rich people and Mary and Joseph certainly were not rich.  Personally, I think Mary and Joseph  walked.

When they get to Bethlehem there is no room from them in the inn.  Apparently they hadn't checked their reservation with confirmation numbers.  I guess, when you're giving birth to the Son of God, it's easy to overlook these things.   Still, they find a place to stay . . . in the stable where sheep and other animals eat and find shelter.  I can only imagine the type of review Mary and Joseph would offer on Trip Advisor about their stay in Bethlehem.

While we search for "a warm sweater with a cup of hot cocoa gathered around the Christmas tree" type of experience for our celebrations of Jesus' birth . . . sometimes we need to remember that God is the God of the road trip. To remember that Mary and Joseph were probably exhausted from their travel, just wanted to sleep in their own beds and were sick and tired of living out of suitcases . . . all in the middle of giving birth to a baby.  To remember that wise men came from the east following a star.  To remember that Shepherds ran from what they knew to what they didn't know and when they went back they were completely different people.  To remember that Mary and Joseph didn't stay in Bethlehem very long until they were headed off to Jerusalem for Jesus' circumcision and then to Egypt to avoid Herod's jealousy.  Is it any wonder that later in Jesus' ministry that he said "Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has no where to lay his head."  His life had been and is a road trip.

Right now, I find myself there.  Living out of suitcases, traveling from place to place, sharing life with people who speak different languages and live in different rhythms.  I don't feel settled or comfortable or confident from day to day.  It's all new.  And maybe, just maybe, that's the point.  That when we are in relationship with God, when we are traveling down the gospel road, when we are following the cloud or the pillar or the star or the angel's message or the prophecy of God . . . that this is all new because we are being made new . . . made new in Christ Jesus.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pack for Orlando.

Only after the Descent

It is Sunday afternoon December 4.  Kendra and I are in Bonaire sitting on the back of a scuba diving boat.  Looking around us, the sky is mysterious and cloudy, a little like the rummage of thoughts bouncing around inside of our heads.  We have been on the Dutch Antilles island of Bonaire for 24 hours and are about to take our first ever boat dive.

Geared up with all our equipment we stand at the edge of the boat about to jump in.  We have been trained and prepared and yet there is no substitute for experience when it comes to adventures like this.  What will it be like?  What will we see?  Will we remember all we are supposed to remember?  There is an excited nervousness ruminating in both of us.

Mark, the boat captain and dive master, yells "the pool is open . . . time to go diving!"  With respectful fear for what we are about to do we edge ourselves to the platform.  It's time to take the plunge.  To descend below the surface of the ocean and discover the world under the water.  With one final deep breath we leap . . . into the unknown . . . into a world we know nothing about.

Eugene Peterson, pastor, writer, scholar and friend, reflecting on the call of being a pastor, writes these words in his book Under the Unpredictable Plant, "Gradually, and graciously, elements of vocational spirituality came into view.  The canyons and arroyos were not so much bridged as descended, and in the descent I reached a bottom from which I could ascend as often as I descended (but only after the descent) with a sense of coherence, the personal and vocational twinned."

"But only after the descent."

What did Peterson mean by that?  What does descending have to do with anyone's life . . . let alone a pastor's?  To descend means to drop down, to sink or to drop lower than the place we currently are . . . which of course is completely contrary to anything we experience in this world.  We live in a world of ascent.  Corporate structures, educational systems, government hierarchies, even families are all shaped by the mindset of climbing the ladder.  We all live in a world formed by a top down mentality.  What does Peterson mean by "but only after the descent?"  I was about to find out . . . off the back of a boat . . . on the remote island of Bonaire.

Letting the air out of my buoyancy compensator (a fancy name for a vest filled with air) I slowly started to descend down into the ocean.  I was unprepared for what I saw.  Beauty raged in colors and formations I had never seen.  Corals and creatures twisted in dependent relationship dancing back and forth with the surge of ocean currents.  My eyes were as wide as a five year old child on Christmas morning.  Life was abundant here . . . full and free . . . beautiful and striking . . . discovered only in the descent.

It strikes me that the descent is the life Christ revealed to us.  "He came from heaven to earth" we sing year round.  "Infant holy, infant lowly, for his bed a cattle stall" we sing during the Advent and Christmas season.  "But he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness" Paul writes.

This is the stunning beauty of the gospel.  It is also the stunning beauty of baptism.

In baptism we descend with Christ.  We descend to the depths of brokenness and separation and sin and death; and in doing so we reach the bottom only to discover the beauty of grace.  Grace filled with the vibrant colors of God's mercy and compassion.  Grace that floods us with life even though we don't deserve it.  Grace that brings us to the surface as new people with a new identity and a new way of living.  Grace that unites us with Christ . . . but only after the descent.

The Love that Rescues Me

As we prepare to head to Bonaire for our first exploration of the sea . . . I have three random influences bouncing around in my mind.  The first is from a marine biologist, the second a fellow diver, and the third an Australian musician.

In this months copy of Outside magazine there is a fascinating interview between writer Michael Roberts and marine biologist Wallace J. Nichols.  Nichols believes that being in the ocean changes us for the better.  "If I walk in and say 'This is my friend the Stanford neuroscientist, and his research using brain scans shows that sitting by the ocean has the same calming effect as meditation on reducing stress' -suddenly the coast becomes a public health issue."  Simply stated, even science is exploring the power in the water.

I have also been reflecting on a statement I came across from a fellow diver.  "God lives in the ocean.  When I dive I go to see him.  I wish I could stay longer."  While the theology is poor, the expression creates a curiosity in me.  What will it be like to explore the deeps of coral and sea life and a system so few really understand?  Will the book of Jonah take on a new meaning?  Will the crossing of the Red Sea or the disciples going to fish after the resurrection take on new meaning?  I guess we will find out in the next few days.

Finally, I've been listening to one particular song throughout this journey of Sabbatical.  It is a song by Australian singer Michelle Tumes.  The title is Healing Waters.  The lyrics are as follows:


I've built a bridge, All of my strength cannot cross over 
I stand at the edge, The end of a road that I have followed 
Sinking from the weight of my own world, Wanting the waves of Your ways to wash my feet


Healing waters . . . Healing waters 
Solace flows, Through the river of forgiveness to my soul 
Oh, I need You . . . Healing waters


Pour over me, Water to clean all my intentions 
Baptising streams, I swim in the freedom of redemption 
Floating on the sea of purity, Knowing I can dive in the love that rescues me


Memories are raging high, Floods so deep they touch the sky 
All the things I've done to You, All the parts of life untrue 
Healing comes from outstretched hands, Saving me from what I am 


Carry me . . . Carry me.

I love the line "Knowing I can dive in the love that rescues me."  As we leave for Bonaire today, may our experience be the height and depth and width and length of God's love.  May it be your experience as well.

Baptism Imagination

Early this morning, before the sun was even up, I stood on the edge of Cranberry Lake.  Glass smooth water surrounded me with the air a still crisp clean.  There was no sound but the sky screamed to be noticed as the sun was pressing us toward dawn.  God's creation was coming to life and it was stunningly beautiful.

But I was here for a reason beyond beauty.  Something I wanted to wonder about in a place that would assist my imagination come to life.  The specific was how Moses, the famous and well known biblical character, got his name.

When we read the text carefully we find the people of Israel in a harsh place.  Motivated by insecurity and fear the Egyptians have pressed hard against God's people.  Oppression is rampant and abuse is overflowing.  It hits the crescendo of ugly when Pharaoh orders an infant genocide of all boys.  "Throw them in the Nile River" he orders, "so they drown."  Which is another way of saying, "So they don't come up."

And then a side story that becomes the main story.  Which is why I stood at the edge of Cranberry Lake this morning.

There is a Levite man who marries a Levite woman.  The woman becomes pregnant and gives birth to a beautiful baby boy.  You know the story, I'm sure of it.  Wanting to protect her child from Pharaoh's orders the woman hides her son.  After three months she can't do it anymore . . . and so she gets a basket boat made of papyrus.  She waterproofs it with tar and pitch and placed the boy in the basket.  She then sets it afloat in the Nile.  This is what I'm wondering, what was that like?

What was it like for a mother to have to place her three month old in a waterproof basket and leave him?  To set him on the surface of the very place so many Hebrew boys had lost their life.  Can you imagine?  I try.

I imagine she brought him under the cover of darkness.  This is not something you do in the daylight.  I imagine that she stood waist deep in the water holding onto the basket, rocking it back and forth as she lingers for one last time.  I imagine that her face contorts in sadness as she begins to weep, pushing the basket into the water and walking away.  I imagine a level of grief and guilt and pain that I, to be honest, am unfamiliar with.  I imagine that her mother's heart cries out in a prayer to God for something different to happen. 

Miraculously something different does happen.

The daughter of Pharaoh, the offspring of the very man who gave the genocide order, comes down to the Nile to bathe.  This is a strange place the Nile.  Children die here and children bathe here, it just depends on which side you're born.  As she bathes, she sees something.  A basket under the camouflage of reeds.  She sends her maid servant to see what it is.  When the basket is brought to her, she opens it and finds a baby boy . . . crying.  Crying like every other Hebrew baby boy brought to the Nile.  Crying like the nation of Israel under harsh oppression and abuse.  Crying like everyone of us who has ever suffered.  Pharaoh's daughter, the text says, is moved by the child. 

The child's sister swoops in, as a Hebrew girl she has no reason to fear.  She suggests getting a nursing mother for the child which seems like a great idea to Pharaoh's daughter.  The sister gets the mother and the mother and Pharaoh's daughter have a conversation.  She will do what she wanted to do all along, only now she'll get paid for doing it. 

And then a remarkable thing happens.  Something I've never seen.  Something I've skipped over all these years.

Pharaoh's daughter names the child.  Not the Levite father.  Not the mother.  Not the sister.  The daughter of the oppressor, the offspring of evil, the one who bathes in the pool of death, names the child.

He shall be called Moses because I pulled him out of the water.

This story makes me smile because it's my story.  It's your story too.  It's the story of baptism.  I was supposed to die but I've been found by the offspring of another king and that offspring pulled me out.  Out of the waters of death and into the remarkable life of being alive.  Alive in Christ.

Standing beside Cranberry Lake early this morning, before the sun was up, I tried to imagine.  I try to imagine what it was like.  I think I know.