ten months

The greatest gift from this past year.

photo by Grace Schmidt

James K. Smith, Desiring the Kingdom (p. 162)

You are worth to take the scroll
and to open its seal,
for you were slaughtered and by your blood
you ransomed for God
saints from every tribe and language and people and nations;
you have made them to be a kingdom
and priests serving our God,
and they will reign on earth. (Rev. 5:9-10)

But our congregation doesn't look like this kingdom from every tribe and tongue and nation. And yet we'll sing of it, in confession and in hope. We know that this is the sort of people we are called to be, and because of this, our current not-yet gatherings will have to constantly confess their failures (That we are a "broken communion in a broken world"), seek forgiveness, plead for mercy to undo these fractures, and yet "marvel that the Lord gathers the broken pieces to do his work." Our gathering is an act of eschatological hope that amounts to a kind of defiance: while the faces and colors of our gathered congregation might constantly remind us that the kingdom remains to come, the Spirit also invites us to overcome, reminding us that, despite the failures internal to our gatherings, at the same time the worldwide chorus looks miraculously like this kingdom choir--prompting us to become a people that looks more and more like the "great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and people and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb," who together sing one song, "Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!" (Rev. 7:9-10).

Hurricane by Mary Oliver

It didn’t behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
everything. But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn’t stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn’t
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
Which is what I dream of for me.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

(Peace Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi)

"By awesome deeds you answer us with righteousness,
O God of our salvation,
the hope of all the ends of the earth
and of the farthest seas;
the one who by his strength established the mountains,
being girded with might;
who stills the roaring of the seas,
the roaring of their waves, 
the tumult of the peoples, 
so that those who dwell at the ends of the earth 
are in awe at your signs. 
You make the going out of the morning
and the evening to shout for joy." 

(Psalm 65:5-8)

when others articulate the desires of your heart

"Common grace for the common good. In a few words, that was my response. I explained that unless we have a theological vision that can account for “common grace for the common good”— a way of seeing life that understands “common grace” as well as “common good” —then we cannot see more coherently, we will not see more seamlessly. At our best we will settle for some kind of compartmentalized life, some kind of bifurcated life, where some of what matters to us is “here,” and the rest of what we care about is “here.” In the classic language of dualism, we believe that God cares about some things more than he cares about other things. He loves “sacred” things, but doesn’t really have much interest in “secular” things. 

Of course the paradigm is flawed. Because God is the creator and redeemer of all things, he wants us to care about all things. There is not a “sacred” sphere as opposed to a “secular” sphere. Everything, every square inch of the whole of reality, is meant to be holy— because it  belongs to God. 

So the question of what we do, and of who we are and what we care about, is rooted in deeper, truer things that have to do with the very nature of life and the world; in fact, the very nature of God, and human beings made in the image of God. Our human vocation from the beginning of time has been to care about the world, to see what could be done given our task to be creative and responsible in and through the work we do. Planting wheat, and making bread. Cultivating grapes, and making wine. Raising cattle, and eating brisket. Understanding fire and iron, and making steel. Cutting wood, and building houses. And on and on through history… with learning to make a flute and a guitar, learning to make a wheel and a cart, learning to control the flow of water so that irrigation is possible, even learning to make machines we call MRIs and iPhones. 

What we do is always a reflection of what we care about, and even more deeply, of who we are— always and everywhere this has been true, and this will be true."

(Steve Garber, March Newsletter for The Washington Institute)

semester (and life) goals

"The collegiate ideal is a perennial image that speaks to higher education's capacity to encourage contemplation and build relationships to invite deep questions and create space for attentive response." 

(Cynthia Wells, "Finding the Center as Things Fly Apart" in At This Time and in This Place)

Sometimes you're asked on a Wednesday to head to Italy on a Saturday (really, I'm not even sure how this happened). And so, the chunk of my January was spent in a beautiful country, filled with history, art, and delicious food.

Technically speaking, I helped lead thirty-six first-year honors students, but that feels difficult to claim considering the lightness and easiness of the trip. The students were a dream, inquisitive and curious about learning, sensitive and caring of one another, and hilarious. The other leaders are fantastic people, similar to the students, great conversationalists, lively, and inspiring.

I'm not really sure where to begin reflecting -- the sites and experiences in themselves hold their own meaning, the many conversations saturated with deep questions about life and God, and my own personal growth working with undergraduate students in a different intensity than my present work. Joy, awe, and peace intertwined throughout the journey. I've received a renewed sense of wonder and appreciation for not only the works of man but our creator God who inspired them.

"Our pedagogy must aim to instill humility in the dogmatists who are sure all their beliefs are correct, but also to instill hope in the skeptics and relativists who despair over attaining even a modicum of certitude." 

(Moroney, Phelps, & Waalkes, The Schooled Heart: Moral Formation in American Higher Education)

The past week of events in the U.S., conversations around higher education, ISIS, mass shootings, Syrian refuges, tempts me to despair. The lack of virtue in these conversations, the quickness to react, control, and defend, breaks my heart, such a need for humility, hope, and patience.

God, grant me the ability to listen and hear, seeking first to understand before making my opinions and positions known. Father, remind me your love for each person you created, that you are redeeming our world. Thank you for sending your Son into the world, to be present, to not leave us on our own.

"We may ask why God has sent us into this time, why he has sent this whirlwind over the earth, why he keeps us in this chaos where all appears hopeless and dark and why there seems to be no end to this in sight. The answer to this question is perhaps that we were living on earth in an utterly false and counterfeit security. And now God strikes the earth till it resounds, now he shakes and shatters; not to pound us with fear, but to teach us one thing -- the spirit's innermost moving and being moved....

Here is the message of Advent: faced with him who the Last, the world will begin to shake. Only when we do not cling to false securities will our eyes be able to see this Last One and get to the bottom of things. Only then will we be able to guard our life from the frights and terrors into which God the Lord has let the world sink to teach us, so that we may awaken from sleep, as Paul says, and see that it is time to repent, time to change things. It is time to say, "All right, it was night; but let that be over now and let us be ready for the day." We must do this with a decision that comes out of these very horrors we have experienced and all that is connected with them; and because of this our decision will be unshakable even in uncertainty."

(Alfred Delp, "The Shaking Reality of Advent")

"And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,
and we have seen his glory,
glory as of the only Son from the Father,
full of grace and truth." 

(John 1:14)

Three years ago, we left on the 4th, skipped the 5th, and arrived September 6th in Christchurch. Technically, it was yesterday if you consider time change and all that business. I remember feeling excited, adventurous, full of hope and possibility.

I am notorious for romanticizing an experience after-the-fact, of attempting to assign meaning to even the difficult, so I want to be careful. Even if the moving to New Zealand was good, it also required leaving. With time, that moment became harder -- I didn't know hugging my father-in-law at the airport would be the last time.

I wish I could tell you that the choice to live out nudges from God is immediately rewarding -- it might be but it also might be really difficult. Regardless I'm learning that the reward or harvest is not really the point. The lesson is the living out, becoming thoughtful and aware to wherever the path leads, whether we have little control or complete freedom in where it goes. The journey, in itself, is so important, maybe more than the end.

New Zealand was for me, and still is, a place of learning, a place of believing, a place of letting go. I find myself still realizing ways it changed me. I still find myself rooting for the people I loved and even for those who were difficult. I still pray, letting go of my ability to control, trusting the Spirit to be moving.

Even now, when my heart feels drawn to the people and places I miss -- it was worth it. Even now, as I readjust to this change in path and rediscovering something different -- it was worth it. I believe in the need and power of God's love -- in all things and seasons and places. That's why we went to New Zealand and hoped to give. And that's what we gained, a deeper understanding of his love. It's not finished, it's still playing out as we walk with God.

We did it, four weeks between Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam. The world feels so small and big simultaneously. I am deeply aware of how overly privileged I am, not everyone gets this opportunity. Like Sao in this photo, my favorite tour guide, who might never visit anywhere beyond her own village. She has never attended school, taught herself English by speaking with tourists, has climbed Mount Fansipan four times, she's incredible. Traveling makes me feel such a responsibility to the world. I'm still wrestling and processing how this experience has or should change me, but more importantly how that can help me give back to others.

For now, all I can say is thank you to the beautiful places and kind people in these countries.

Many goodbyes this past week: work, friends, our church and city. As we left the South Island on the ferry, Picton grew smaller until it disappeared. It just fit. The last two and half years have been a mix of blue skies and grey clouds, it's been beautiful and an hono(u)r to call New Zealand home. The people who have loved us faithfully through beginnings and now leaving, I can't thank you enough.

mt fyffe

We woke early Friday morning and started our two hour drive. Arrived to Kaikoura, pleasantly surprised to find the mountains dusted with snow. Being a holiday weekend, we thought the track would be busy, but found ourselves first to the hut. Alone to rest, read, reflect. The clouds started to clear in the afternoon so we approached the summit. One thousand six hundred and two meters to the tippy top.

Back to the hut, we drank tea, Logan chopped firewood, made dinner. Acquainted ourselves with our roommates for the evening. Originating from Barcelona, Channel Islands, Malaysia, Netherlands, to name a few. Logan and I may have been the only two from the same country. We shared chocolate and exchanged stories, warmed by the fire as the clouds and rain approached, then quieting ourselves to bed, giving our muscles and joints much needed rest.

I woke up freezing, the fire out, moved from my bunk to Logan's in hope of some warmth. The hut in a cloud, no sight of a sunrise. Eventually the clouds cleared, the mountains with new snow, the sun brighter and warmer than the day prior, making a pleasant descent.

This next season is going to be full, busy and different, good and hard. I know we will need to seek similar moments of solitude and rest. I came across a line in my book, seems fitting of our time on the mountain, but also a prayer for the coming months: "Humble joy. Extant gratitude. Active hope. Patient waiting" (Michael Yankoski, The Sacred Year).

"'This attentiveness to the wind becomes the main task---no, that's not the right word---the main art of sailing. We must both attend to the wind and then respond to whatever it is that the wind is doing. We trim our sails, adjust our course, somethings we even exchange one sail for another---whatever it takes so as to be in the most receptive place given what the wind is doing. Our attentiveness to the wind allows the wind to move us.'

Father Solomon was smiling as he spoke. 'And---if you'll indulge me for a moment---this metaphor becomes all the more fascinating given that in Jesus' time there was only a single word for 'breath,' 'wind,' and 'spirit,' 'The Spirit of God,' 'The Breath of God,' and 'The Wind of God' are all accurate translations of a common New Testament phrase, a phrase that basically means Get Ready: God is up to something!'"

(Michael Yankoski, The Sacred Year)

ten days late

Maybe we went to bed before 9pm on New Years Eve, but that day was really cold and very wet. I mean, we took the flood route around Earland Falls and still came out soaking. But the next day was perfect, clouds clearing, the sun reappeared. As we walked along the ridge to Harris Saddle, I could not get over this was the first day of 2015.

2014 was hard, a different kind of difficult to 2013. Our hearts hurt as we lived out the reality of a year without Ross, only to be rebroken by the death of our closest friend's son Oak. Going home to be with Mark and Lauren was one of the most important and meaningful decision we made in 2014. Then on the way to the airport before getting on a plane back to New Zealand, I heard of the death of Shannon, a dear friend's mom. As I prayed for Colleen and Kevin, my heart crumbled over their second loss within two months. Both of their moms died from cancer.

I would love to say 2015 will be different. If it is, it won't be because something tragic or difficult doesn't happen. No, it will be different as I continue to learn to surrender, so that I can trust and know God. This posture brings to light a different reality, one that does not allow circumstances to determine or reflect God's presence or care for me, for my friends, for my family.

'Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you.' (1 Peter 5:6-7)

This year I want to let go and trust. I want to live not out of fear of the unknown.

"In this the love of God was made manifest among us,
that God sent his only Son into the world,
so that we might live through him.
In this is love, not that we have loved God
but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.

We love because he first loved us."

(1 John 4:9-11, 19 ESV)

Father God,

Almighty God, you are a great and awesome God.  You are worthy of our praise and service.  You are sovereign of all domains.  But yet you care about each one of us.  You are filled with compassion.  You want the best for us.  You want us to follow you with our whole heart.

Father, thank you for loving my family even more than I love them.  Thank you for watching over them and caring for them even when they are far away from me.  Thank you for giving them even better gifts than I could give them.  Father, I would ask that you show your favor to them.  Be gracious to them.  Show them your faithfulness.  Show them your powerful hand at work.

Father, do not let them go.  Allow them to walk in the light as you are in the light.  Illuminate their minds so they can see you in their science, so they can see you in their churches, so they can see you in their relationships.  Mold them and shape them into the people you want them to be.

Amen

written by Ross Hoffman on August 13, 2013
photo by Jolie Leonard

"Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things,
endures all things." 

(1 Corinthians 13:7, ESV)