A few years ago a movie starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman added a new word to our English vocabulary. The word, and the name of the movie, is "Bucket List." A Bucket List is all of those things you want to do and all of those places want to go before you die (kick the bucket).
Before Mark and I headed off to visit the Galapagos Islands, my mother kept saying to me that "the Galapagos are on my bucket list." After having explored these Islands, a place unlike any other in the world, I have to agree with her choice. Here are a few reasons why:
The raw beauty of the Galapagos is stunning. Hard edged sea cliffs with waves crashing into them with the violence of a Albert Pujols home run swing stop you in your tracks. Black lava fields with uneven steps and contrasting patterns of the earth being shaped are a beauty that no contemporary art could ever capture. The dark night skies with stars twinkling make you believe you are sitting in a planetarium when what you are seeing is actually real. Each day consisted of trying to catch your breath under such a display of beauty.
The creatures of the Galapagos live without fear. Sea lions sniffed us, sharks swam right by us, birds landed on camera lens, penguins swam around snorkelers to get their food, and sea turtles and land turtles just went about their business as if nothing was out of the ordinary. It was like being inside the cages of a zoo only without the cages.
The people in the Galapagos are fabulous. Locals welcomed us with a hospitality you would receive from family, our guide and crew on the boat were exceptional, and the new friends we made from around the world deepened our world view with an intimacy reserved for close friends. Breakfast conversations or late night reflections that included voices from Denmark, Norway, Australia, Germany, and the United Kingdom were some of the most joyful I've had in a long time. The Galapagos, a tiny set of islands 600 miles off the coast of Ecuador, is a place that brings the world together in harmony with one another.
When I read through the book of Genesis, I've always wondered what the Garden of Eden was like before the descent into brokenness and the fragmentation of sin. Adam and Eve living in harmony with one another and with the creatures that surrounded them. The beauty of a new creation filling their eyes every morning and throughout each day. A place where fear of each other or fear of God was never an issue. Of course, we all recognize that it all changed, but the Galapagos gives me a glimpse of what was. It also gives me a glimpse of what could be.
What would my world look like if I lived without fear? Where curiosity and wonder and imagination were allowed to blossom instead of being pruned by my fear of what others might think? What would it look like to be in such harmony with God and with others that the Great Commandment was more a way of natural living than something I had to work really hard at? What level of joy would I experience to be in constant appreciation of God's beauty in creation and not so worried about my next meeting or what's for dinner tonight or how the bills are going to get paid? Being in the Galapagos gave me just a hint of what that might be like.
The stunning beauty of creation . . . a life without fear . . . a rich deep harmony of relationships with God and with people . . . maybe that could be our Bucket List. At least I know my mom would sign up.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
A Jagged Map of Intention
For the past two weeks I have been criss crossing the map of my life . . . visiting the places and the people God has used as blessings of His faithfulness. Fredrick Buechner calls this "visiting the room called Remember." I call it the "road trip through a lifetime." Here are some of the highlights:
- Being in Eastern Ontario I had a chance to spend some significant time with my dad. He is by far the most influential male in my life both for good and for challenge. He is a man of great work ethic, wise insight, and deep convictions. These are the things I highly respect. Like any father, my dad also has his flaws, but this trip allowed me to see more clearly the grace God has extended to me through my father. Thanks dad. I love you.
- I also had a chance to reconnect with boyhood friends. We revisited old stories of elementary school antics, travel hockey team dynamics, and places where we should have either died or at least been in big big trouble. What amazes me is to see how God is working in their lives in significant and beautiful ways even if they might not always see it. To teach Colton Staples the "Superman Prayer" before dinner on Thursday night was better than anything I might watch on Sportscenter.
- Growing up, we went to Kemptville Christian Reformed Church, which was 30 miles from our house. We went to Church twice on Sunday, attended every Sunday School class, went to every Cadet meeting, and were there to help or be helped anytime the Church needed it. Driving that familiar and yet untravelled road of 28 years, I was stunned by my parents commitment to Church and to raising their children in a Christian community. I wonder if I would make the same sacrifices or live with the same discipline if I had to drive 40 minutes one way to Church. To be honest, I doubt it. My mom and dad did it twice every week for 12 years living out the baptismal vows they had made. As their child, I'm proud of them for that. I know God is as well.
- Later in the week, I visited my old basketball coach Ken Vander Zwaag. Ken has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer that has now moved to his lungs. This past Tuesday he started a new chemotherapy that will ravage his body. Still he had time for me, 2 hours to be exact. 2 hours of catching up, of reliving glory days, of being reminded of why he was always my favorite teacher. When I asked him about the cancer his answer was simple: "I'm not mad and I'm not going to feel sorry for myself. There's no time for that. This is God's plan for me. I'm hoping for a miracle, who wouldn't, but I'm ready to go. I just don't want to leave my family any time soon." One last lesson from a teacher and coach who has influenced so many. Thanks Coach, you have my admiration and respect to the end . . . which will become the beginning.
- On Saturday morning I sat down for breakfast with a high school buddy, Daren Roorda, aka: the Sheik. Daren is now the pastor of the Church we attended when we moved to Kitchener. It's the same Church he grew up in. He is the pastor to his parents, his siblings and to all the extended family. He bubbles over with a passion for the gospel and a genuine love for people. When I asked him what his greatest joy in ministry was he said "When people get it. When the light goes on. When grace suddenly makes sense, or a the freedom of the cross really unties the chains, or the truth of everlasting life takes root. There's nothing cooler than that." When I asked him what he disliked the most he said "That's easy. The people who think they get it and don't. The people who should know better and still say or do the same stupid stuff. That drives me nuts." Daren is a well thought out, intelligent and passionate pastor. It was life-giving to share life with him for a couple of hours. Thanks Sheik!
- I drove home with a deep sense of reflection. From my birth at Blodget hospital, to my baptism at Eastern Avenue Christian Reformed Church, to my twelve years in Smiths Falls, to the five years in Kitchener, to Calvin College, to Grandville and Olivet Reformed Church and Young Life, to Western Theological Seminary to Zeeland Michigan God has displayed his faithfulness in every place my life has travelled.
- But there were also faces . . . people. The faces of my parents who have loved me and walked with me and let me walk with them no matter the landscape. The faces of my siblings and their families. A brother and sister who I deeply admire and respect. Faces of friends; friends from elementary school, high school, college, seminary, and now Zeeland. Amazingly I still keep in contact with most of them. Faces of influential people, people like Marvin Zuidema my college soccer coach, John Ornee my first boss and the person who taught me gentleness and grace in relationships, Bill Brownson and Tim Brown who taught me the importance of scholarship and prayer in ministry, I could go on and on . . .
- And maybe that's the point of all this . . . I could go on and on. By taking the road trip through a lifetime I've been reminded that God is at work in every place and in every person and with that reminder I look forward to the future He has planned.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Tully Mars
I feel a little like Tully Mars. I think we all do.
Tully Mars is a fictional character created by song writer and author Jimmy Buffett in his book A Salty Piece of Land. He is a wanderer doing what wanderers do . . . trying to find their purpose and destiny in life. When you are introduced to Tully you find out he has been a cowboy in Wyoming, a deck hand on a Shrimp Boat, a fly-fishing guide across the flats of the Caribbean, a navigator on a schooner, and a contractor given the responsibility of revamping a old worn out lighthouse. Basically, a jack of all trades but a master of none.
Tully's movements and challenge of staying in any one place for any time are fueled by his search for the meaning of his life. At one point Johnny Red Dust, a friend and confidant of his now deceased father, gives Tully some direction for his search. I love what he says.
"Tully, there are no words to the song of the ocean, but the message is and always has been simple: not to forget where we came from. The melody is locked in the water that composes much of what we are. Most humans tend to ignore the song, but not all. You are one of the lucky ones who hold the melody in your heart."
I especially love what he says when you substitute your name for Tully's and the words "the ocean" for "baptism." Go ahead, try it. Your name for Tully's. The words "the ocean" for "baptism."
There are no words but there is a message and melody in the sacrament of baptism.
The message is to not to forget where we came from. We are covenant children of God who have Divine promises sealed into the very fabric of our being. God's signature written on our foreheads in the name of Father, Son and Holy Spirit . . . put there when most of us were only days old. Promises cemented into our lives as the light to follow when things get dark and we're not sure who we are or where we are going. I need to remember that . . . and so do you.
But there is also a melody . . . a sweet sweet song being sung that I need to listen to more clearly. It is the splash of water drops moving from the baptismal font to a young child's forehead on the hand of the Church. It is the notes of a congregation's voice as they affirm God's activity in a teenager who is making profession of faith. It is a man or a woman eating the bread and drinking from the cup as a reminder of God's mercy and forgiveness. It is hearing of God's love in a manger for the one millionth time but experiencing it as fresh as the first day we heard it. It is Advent and Christmas and the reminder of what God has done and what God will do. It is Lent, Good Friday, Black Saturday and Resurrection Sunday, the gospel relived in all its dynamic life-giving fullness. It is the quiet sound of pages ruffling as a bible is opened and God's passion for people is discovered. It is the off key ruckus of a praise song being sung in traffic. It is a silent prayer in a restaurant. It is a bed side visit in a hospital. It is loving a neighbor or co-worker even though they are not a Christian. This is the full melody of baptism being sung in all its silence.
The end of the movie August Rush finishes with the words "The music is all around us, all we have to do is listen." What I am discovering as I journey through Sabbatical is that I need to listen more for the message and melody of baptism being lived out every day.
I invite you to join me.
Tully Mars is a fictional character created by song writer and author Jimmy Buffett in his book A Salty Piece of Land. He is a wanderer doing what wanderers do . . . trying to find their purpose and destiny in life. When you are introduced to Tully you find out he has been a cowboy in Wyoming, a deck hand on a Shrimp Boat, a fly-fishing guide across the flats of the Caribbean, a navigator on a schooner, and a contractor given the responsibility of revamping a old worn out lighthouse. Basically, a jack of all trades but a master of none.
Tully's movements and challenge of staying in any one place for any time are fueled by his search for the meaning of his life. At one point Johnny Red Dust, a friend and confidant of his now deceased father, gives Tully some direction for his search. I love what he says.
"Tully, there are no words to the song of the ocean, but the message is and always has been simple: not to forget where we came from. The melody is locked in the water that composes much of what we are. Most humans tend to ignore the song, but not all. You are one of the lucky ones who hold the melody in your heart."
I especially love what he says when you substitute your name for Tully's and the words "the ocean" for "baptism." Go ahead, try it. Your name for Tully's. The words "the ocean" for "baptism."
There are no words but there is a message and melody in the sacrament of baptism.
The message is to not to forget where we came from. We are covenant children of God who have Divine promises sealed into the very fabric of our being. God's signature written on our foreheads in the name of Father, Son and Holy Spirit . . . put there when most of us were only days old. Promises cemented into our lives as the light to follow when things get dark and we're not sure who we are or where we are going. I need to remember that . . . and so do you.
But there is also a melody . . . a sweet sweet song being sung that I need to listen to more clearly. It is the splash of water drops moving from the baptismal font to a young child's forehead on the hand of the Church. It is the notes of a congregation's voice as they affirm God's activity in a teenager who is making profession of faith. It is a man or a woman eating the bread and drinking from the cup as a reminder of God's mercy and forgiveness. It is hearing of God's love in a manger for the one millionth time but experiencing it as fresh as the first day we heard it. It is Advent and Christmas and the reminder of what God has done and what God will do. It is Lent, Good Friday, Black Saturday and Resurrection Sunday, the gospel relived in all its dynamic life-giving fullness. It is the quiet sound of pages ruffling as a bible is opened and God's passion for people is discovered. It is the off key ruckus of a praise song being sung in traffic. It is a silent prayer in a restaurant. It is a bed side visit in a hospital. It is loving a neighbor or co-worker even though they are not a Christian. This is the full melody of baptism being sung in all its silence.
The end of the movie August Rush finishes with the words "The music is all around us, all we have to do is listen." What I am discovering as I journey through Sabbatical is that I need to listen more for the message and melody of baptism being lived out every day.
I invite you to join me.
Friday, December 16, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, December 2, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
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.
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.
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