Rest

Lately I feel like my existence has been characterized less by 'seizing the day' than by clutching on to it for dear life. Maybe this is a bit melodramatic, but the truth is, the injunction "carpe diem" seems like a moot point when crippling stress overcomes me and seemingly everyone around me. To be honest, I'm not really enjoying life right now, at a time when I know there is quite a lot to enjoy. This isn't out of any ungratefulness or loss of perspective so much as out of sheer exhaustion.

Sitting in a pew in a Good Friday service yesterday, I had such a hard time focusing that I began to wonder if my brain had short-circuited. I was gripped by anxiety, a sense of panic. I looked up at the stain glass almost desperately. This church is a peaceful place, I thought. A place of solace, a sanctuary. 

"Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest." And… "my yoke is easy and my burden is light" The words -- those familiar verses -- floated unbidden across my thoughts half an hour before the pastor said them. Both times, my eyes filled with tears, because I knew it to be profoundly true, a truth I'd lost sight of.

I'd felt burdened by everything -- including 'faith' (Am I a sub-par Christian? Should I be more conspicuously involved in 'ministry'? Am I using my gifts for kingdom purposes? Am I honoring God with my time and resources? Do my actions and attitudes portray something counter-cultural, something beautiful? Was I doing enough, being enough, in my relationships and before God?). I'd forgotten, as of late, that God and his gospel to us aren't intended only to challenge us and (often painfully) transform and remold us, but also to give us rest. Faith and its application in and through our lives is not a burden -- it's freedom, support, strength, happiness, fortitude, resoluteness. It can't be reduced to a self-improvement project or a to-do list, because has the potential to bring us radical peace in the knowledge that we're not plowing through all our crap alone. 

As the choir sang its way through John's account of the Passion, I began to reflect on how remarkable it all was -- that this story of Golgotha was being told here, after centuries and across the world, in Southern California in the 21st century….that this evening of remembrance has been kept for so long, in so many places, with such continuity…that ours was one of thousands of churches across the world observing Good Friday and dwelling on the horror of the crucifixion, the power of fulfilled scripture, the magnitude of Christ's sacrifice… and anticipating the inimitable joy that is resurrection, salvation, redemption, new life, continued discipleship. 

I've been so preoccupied with tedious tasks as of late that I've forgotten to remember where I was this time last year. And sitting in church yesterday, I actually thought about it. 

Last year I was in Jerusalem on Good Friday. It was also the last day of Jewish passover, and the day of the week when Muslims usually go to mosque for a Friday sermon, for something more than daily prayers... anyways, the Old City was packed with tourists and pilgrims and average folk going about their daily lives of devotion. Most of Jerusalem was blocked off, but we found a side street from which we were ably to slip into the procession that wound its way along the Via Dolorosa, the "Way of Grief" along which Jesus supposedly carried his cross on the way to his crucifixion.

We were pushed along the famous route by Greek Orthodox pilgrims wielding wooden crosses as they sang softly and elbowed one another along with silent force towards the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. I saw an old woman lose her shoe and almost get trampled as she tried to retrieve it. She gave up the attempt and continued on her way, buffeted by her fellows. 

The church was thick with incense, candle smoke, chanting, prayers, and the shouts of IDF soldiers to "keep moving." My impressions were a blur: don't get trampled...don't get separated from the group...bearded priests half blind with age...towering arching ceilings...gargantuan boxy sepulcher of Christ surrounded by colossal candles and shrines of flowers and icons. There were so many throngs of people pushing along that we wound our way through quickly and ended up back outside in the blinding sunlight before much of anything could sink in. After getting caught in the throng of foot traffic leaving from al-Aqsa mosque, we eventually made it out through Herod's gate and climbed the road up to the Mount of Olives, surrounded by Jewish cemeteries. 

We heard a gong, sounded three times, from within the Old City that signaled the end of Jesus' hours on the cross. 

Christ had died.

Nearby was the Garden of Gethsemane, with its old, old gnarled olive trees. I remember thinking how peaceful it was there, at the place where Jesus and his disciples had prayed the day before his death. 

Arguably one of the most 'stressful' days in history. 

We entered Gethsemane Church, weary from a long day of walking in crowds and the hot sun. As we went into the church, a sadness came over me, a heaviness. 

The church was exquisitely beautiful. And then I was profoundly moved by a sense of peace, calm, and God's unfaltering and unconditional love. I remember looking up at the blue mosaic ceiling dotted with stars high over my head. I recalled how, once, God had told me that all my hopes and dreams and things to be achieved were numerous as the stars, and that He held all of them in His hand, stretched out like the glittering tapestry of the night sky in his palm. The beauty of this encouragement affects me as deeply now as it did then. 

This Easter season I am here in the United States -- stressed, tired. Always moving. Pushed along from behind. Afraid of getting trampled. Seeking sanctuary and peace of some kind. Forgetting what my hopes and dreams even are, let alone how to achieve them. Not having time to let anything sink in. Feeling like one in a crowd. But one who wants to stay faithful and one who wants to remember what happened on Calvary. One who wants to carry my cross and follow Him. 

Come to Him, you who are weary, and He will give you rest. His yoke is easy and His burden is light.

I Could Have Danced All Night

"All children...soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!' This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up." 

-- J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan 

I realized it when I was nearing my thirteenth birthday. 

It was a most horrible realization, the awareness that the exuberance of my imagination and the ability to play, wholly satiated by the delicious taste of make-believe, had somehow been unintentionally quelled by that cruel thing we call Reality... 

I realized it while babysitting a six-year old. We were sprawled out on the living room carpet, surrounded by scattered Playmobil figures. I don't remember the exact nature of our game, but I distinctly remember that at one point I told her, "No, we can't do that! That wouldn't happen in real life." I also remember my almost immediate revulsion at my own words. 

How would I know what "real life" was, anyway? When did I slip on these grown-up boots? Why was I crushing Imagination under my heel? When did I stop wearing dandelion crowns?

I'd been warned of this by C.S. Lewis and J.M. Barrie. I didn't want to be a Susan. I wanted to have a Lucy-heart.

I often find myself wistfully wishing for the same unbridled, unadulterated creative imagination and enthusiasm of discovery that we enjoy in childhood...those moments, like in The Nutcracker, of peering through the keyhole to the trimming of the Christmas tree in the drawing room, moments of rosy-cheeked anticipation and delight. 


Little did I expect to find this feeling recently in a production of My Fair Lady at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland. In fact, I think I settled into my seat somewhat begrudgingly at first. 

And then for the next two hours I was captivated by a musical that was anything but cliché.  

If it's done well, musical theater possesses the remarkable ability to transport both adults whose creative imaginations have dimmed and children who still experience the delights of life at the fullest and freshest into a uniquely charmed world.

It draws one's eye to the sparkle of a chandelier, the heartbreak and humor etched on all the faces, the harlequin colors of the ladies' skirts as they kick up their heels in whirlwind dance numbers. It satisfies one's soul with familiar and beloved melodies and new realizations about the interplay between selfishness and self-sacrifice that often characterizes relationships. It's earthly and yet ethereal at the same time.

The scene at the races was one of my favorite moments of the evening, for as the ensemble stepped forward, the gentlemen's sleek top hats and the ladies' lavishly feathered ones all descended from the ceiling on transparent cords to nestle right atop their respective wearers' awaiting heads. As the hats dropped slowly down like so many exquisite snowflakes, I watched as the audience looked up with enchanted surprise and collectively gasped at the gossamer loveliness and cleverness of the scene. On every face was pure, child-like delight. 

That night we biked back to our hotel in the dark, pedaling on old-fashioned bicycles. And we sang exuberantly, "I could have danced all night... I could have danced all night... and still...have begged...for more... I could have spread my wings...and done a thousand things...I've never done before..."

We all have to grow up, to some extent or another. But we can still peer through the keyhole. We can still play in the garden.

Recalculating

This has been a weird week so far.

After helping me pick up a huge stack of children's books I'd accidentally scattered all over the floor of the public library, this random guy asked me out to coffee, and I was a little bit surprised by how drawn-out and awkward my 'no, thanks' was (for future reference, saying "I don't know" and "Not right now" doesn't deter a potential suitor from standing there expectantly for wayyy longer than necessary. An "I have a boyfriend" would have been much more succinct and honest). 

When I got up one morning to go to the bathroom a big black spider fell right in front of my face (from the ceiling?? I have no idea where those things come from). I was too sleepy to be terrified and only said "Oh my gosh!" in a placid tone of voice and composedly smushed it with a kleenex. 

In the dining commons, I was waiting in line for the peanut butter, watching some guy slather a piece of bread with a shocking amount of jelly. He was taking an awfully long time, and I thought we could have a little bonding moment together, so I said, "Getting your fruit intake for the day, huh?" ...to which he made no response and promptly walked away. So much for an attempt at humor. 

While I was driving, the Mapquest app on my phone decided to stop working and repeatedly tried to get me to turn the WRONG way on a one-way street downtown. I found myself quite disconcerted. The phone started squawking "recalculating!" every time I made the executive decision not to head directly into oncoming traffic. 

I took the toddler I babysit on a walk to a little park. As I was holding him back from joining the ducks and turtles in the pond (which he seemed very keen on doing), a couple of people nearby starting chatting with me. They asked if I was his mother, and when I said no, they asked, "But someday, right? You look like you could be a mother. You'd make a great mother." Um, thanks?! 

I heard some Christian radio host break down on live air over the plethora of social media  choices she felt she had to keep up with... not sure if she was actually crying or just getting really worked up, but it was a bit disturbing.

I guess we never quite know what to expect.

The Real To-Do

The other day I was reading a segment from Søren Kierkegaard's 1835 journal entry because, you know, that's just the kind of thing one does in college. The attention of my thoughts were held captive by these words:

"What I really lack is to be clear in my mind what I am to do, not what I am to know....The thing is to understand myself, to see what God really wishes me to do; the thing is to find a truth which is true for me, to find the idea for which I can live and die."

It's that time of the semester when I feel swamped and irritable. When my highest aspiration is to get in bed and stay there, preferably in uninterrupted sleep, for more than four hours. When I wonder if I'm retaining any information -- let alone wisdom -- from a hefty daily reading load. When many conversations seem like grating noise in my ears, and I long to be left alone to think in quiet. 

It's that time when all too many of the people I pass by on campus have red-rimmed eyes from lack of sleep or from tears or from particularly debilitating colds (or some combination of these). Everyone's a bit on the oversensitive and griping edge about everything. 

It's that time when I wonder if I've become a second-rate friend and second-rate Christian, when I'm unhappy with where I allocate my time, and when what I want to be doing is very different from what I am doing or what I must do. 

And I daydream of hiking and sitting in the sunshine in a peaceful state of mind and knocking literature off my ever-swelling reading list and somehow producing prodigious amounts of visionary writing and traveling to fabulous places and cooking for myself and getting the ball rolling on future -- but palpable and substantive -- long-term plans (like a career?!). 

An awful lot of the current tasks set before me feel like chores from which I try to distract myself, and somehow I always feel a little bit behind, and a little bit angry at myself.

And my Bible sits on my desk collecting dorm room dust. And my friend's email sits there unanswered in my inbox. And a Christian life survey I fill out sends me into a fit of insecurity about what I'm doing with my life and how I'm doing it.

I often don't understand myself in these kinds of times. I get hung up on what I don't know -- which is an awful lot -- and don't pay attention to what I'm actually doing, how I'm doing it, and Who I'm actually living for. 

Why does anyone -- fellow college student, savvy adult, anyone -- ever think that "It'll get done" is an appropriate, helpful, or encouraging thing to say to a stressed out individual?! 'It' will only 'get done' when I DO it. Papers don't write themselves, attitudes of passionate learning don't complacently shape themselves, relational and spiritual disciplines don't just cultivate themselves. 

As I struggle to bite back words of irritation when I feel like someone is monopolizing my time or when I'm frustrated with or smothered by another tedious task on a to-do list, I'm reminded that I'm pretty sure I could figure out what God would have my responses be in each moment, and I'm pretty sure they would be ones of graciousness and diligence. And I'm perfectly capable of these kind of responses. Maybe that should go on my to-do list.

I'm reminded that I can still keep seeking and pursuing the idea and truth for which I can live and die. 

Much is asked of us because much has been given to us.

This Day Will Never Come Again

When my family was in Macedonia in January, my Dad's closest friend and mentor passed away. They had known each other for 39 years. Gib officiated at my parents' wedding; he baptized me when I was seven; he buried my Grandfather. And I can't even begin to describe how much he shaped my Dad's thoughts on theology, on fellowship, on marriage, on confession, on counseling. Gib was one of those incredibly rare people whose life is about serving others. There was something special about him, something transformed and transformative. After being in his presence or having a conversation with him, I felt like the "old self" in me -- that dark, ugly, fallen part -- would sort of shrivel up, overpowered by that sense of a "new self" committed to that which God had called me to -- the light, redemption, the truth that refines us and sets us free. This is the power of God at work through another human being, a human being who loves Him and listens to Him. 

I wasn't able to attend Gib's funeral back in Washington, because I'd returned to California and college life, but Dad sent me a copy of the eulogy he would speak at the memorial service. 

"Friendship and fellowship are fundamentally deepened by the knowledge that another human being is truly present with us in compassion, empathy and love," Dad wrote. "I knew that if Gib said he would pray for me, he did. ...I knew that he shared in my life -- a kind of presence that is hard to describe. This quality of service and 'bearing with me' made my world seem a little less lonely and inhospitable..." 

He ended with Paul's exhortation to Timothy: "But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it." Like my Dad, I, too, could hear Gib's voice speaking these words. 

This might sound strange, but I remember that when Gib would talk with me, it was as if he assumed I was a good person, as if he trusted that I loved God. And the funny thing was, it made me want to be a good disciple of Christ. It made me be better, run back to the arms of my Heavenly Father. Gib had faith in me because he trusted that I was in God's hands. 

He didn't have to know I hadn't cracked open my Bible in months. He didn't have to know the decrepit state of my 'prayer life.' Because the way Gib spoke about God opened up these floodgates that let others, including myself, speak about God too. It seemed almost ridiculous to doubt God at all when I was around Gib, for Gib's faith was so unwavering, so... fiercely solid. This was evident in his eyes, and it was terrifying and lovely and challenging and calming all at once, sort of like the way we experience God, I suppose.

For months now I've had a little card with a Thomas Merton quote pinned to the bulletin board above my desk. On it is scrawled in bold blue script, "This day will never come again!" 

Now, as I think of Gib, this short sentence is imbued with a new depth of meaning.

Gib ran the race faithfully. I have no doubt he is one of those that God will greet with the words, "Well done, good and faithful servant." Among the sweetest words we could ever hear.   

How did you spend this day, this day that will never come again? Did you listen to God? Did you love God, and love others because of it? Did the power of God work through you? 

It really comes down to this: 

Did you perpetuate the darkness, or did you loft high the light? Are you honoring God with your daily life and interactions with others, or are you not?

Continue in what you have learned. Continue in what you have firmly believed. Know from whom you learned it. 

As he prepared for Gib's memorial service and the words he would speak there in commemoration of his dearest friend, my Dad told me, "I just want to honor Gib, and honor Jesus." 

There is no doubt in my mind that Dad did, and does. 

And there is no doubt in my mind that I just want to honor Gib and honor Jesus too. 

Uninhibited

It was your typical Sunday at an American megachurch...the kind where orange-vested volunteers in the parking lot directed you to the last available parking spaces, where the sanctuary resembled a hybrid of black-box theater and warehouse, where the worship band's performance was emblazoned on your eyes from multiple screens facing the congregation from every angle, where the music was so loud that my Mom brought earplugs to church (when I told her this was embarrassing, she retorted, "A musician's ears are valuable."). One particular Sunday, the band began a hymn after the sermon. I remember (I was around eleven at the time) looking out at the vast congregation. The melody was lovely, the words profound. My heart sang out in praise.

Everyone remained seated.

I was seized by the urge to stand. I wanted to raise up my hands to God, with my whole body worship Him. My eleven year-old self wondered if it was socially acceptable to just stand up. Maybe everyone would rise to their feet, uninhibited. I pictured it, the powerful motion of a whole sea of people rising up. The evocative image of a mosque full of faithful Muslims all prostrating themselves in united prayer came to mind. We, as Christians in that megachurch, were all assembled in God's name. It seemed almost ridiculous to me that no one moved.  

And then I, too, stayed seated. 

An unresponsive, passive posture.

We use our bodies for all kinds of things, some more honorable than others. Why is it that we suddenly restrain ourselves before God?

People are watching, I always thought. For my part I knew that I stared at people that broke from the stale Wonder Bread norm. I probably sometimes harbored judgmental thoughts in my heart, too. Just like Michal "despised" David in her heart for "leaping and dancing before the Lord." 

I understand that it's not always appropriate to fall face down on the floor of the sanctuary and sob uncontrollably in front of everyone. Sometimes you can't kneel, or dance, or clap, or shout. Sometimes God leads us to stillness. Matthew records Jesus' words: "...when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites. For they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others...But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret..."  

When I was living in Istanbul, one evening I'd attended a Sufi ceremony of dhikr (remembrance, in the tradition of Islamic mysticism), performed by the iconic whirling dervishes of the Mevlevi order. Grown men with felt hats twirl in billowing long white robes until they achieve a kind of trancelike state, a unity between divine and earthly. The ceremony had clearly become something of a tourist trap. But as I dwelt on its timeworn significance, I came to appreciate the idea of physical movement, of posturing oneself so that God's love and closeness was felt in such an all-consuming way. 

Why should not the outward reflect the inward? 

When I came across this journal entry of Sophie Scholl's, I felt that she'd put expression to my very own feelings. After an April 1942 Easter service at a Catholic Church, Sophie wrote: “Much as I needed that kind of service -- because it’s a real service, not a lecture like you get in a Protestant church -- I’m sure it takes practice or habit to participate fully...My trouble is, however, I’d like to kneel down, as it accords with my feelings, but I’m shy of people seeing, especially people I know. I’d like to bow down before an effigy of God, because you shouldn’t just experience feelings but express them as well, but again I’m too inhibited.”

What if we didn't just experience, but express? 

The deprecating Michal tries to shame David, that Old Testament archetype of worship and praise, for dancing unrestrainedly before God. And he tells her, "...I will make merry before the Lord. I will make myself yet more contemptible than this, and I will be abased in your eyes." 

We should probably care less about what other people think and more about what God thinks. We should probably stop judging those around us for 'putting their hands together', or for choosing not to. 

Our bodies as well as our minds belong to God. Our physical as well as emotional and spiritual states should be oriented towards Him. 

So use your body to worship Him.

Stand up. 

A New and Old Year

This time last year I was trying to fit more socks into an already over-crowded suitcase as I prepared to fly to Turkey for a semester abroad. Little did I know that I was about to embark not only on a physical journey but such a deeply spiritual, emotional, and intellectual one as well. I can’t think of a better way of putting it other than that I have donned entirely new lenses through which to see the world. 

I also wouldn’t have guessed, that first week of January 2012, that exactly a year later I would be sitting in an apartment in Skopje, Macedonia, writing this. 

Part of me feels like I still haven’t even processed everything that we observed, every lecture we heard, every conversation we participated in, every detail we soaked up with our senses. I hope I carried some of the richness of all these experiences back with me in my suitcase, that most of this information is stashed somewhere carefully in my mind. I am so thankful for every mistake, every tearful night, every fervent journal entry, every adventure, every relationship, every way God has showered me with undeserved love, that has brought me to where I am now -- a very imperfect but blessed twenty year-old, a human being pulsating with the delight of being alive. 

Last night my sister watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I wasn’t paying much attention until one of Paul Varjak’s lines snagged on my thoughts: “...no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.” 

I don’t like running into myself. Most of us probably don’t, if we’re really honest with ourselves. You’d think that when you travel you can hide behind all the activity and newness...but the truth is, sometimes when you decontextualize yourself (when you have little control over your surroundings or cannot avoid certain kinds of interactions) and are unable to insulate yourself with the usual busyness that keeps you from searching your soul, you actually discover how lonely and cold you are when you refuse to let Christ transform you. You might see the world, learn everything there is to know, experience a host of ‘good’ new things... and meanwhile let your integrity atrophy. 

But thankfully strength of character can be exercised like a muscle. If you’ve built it up and worked it daily, its resilience can hold up anywhere and everywhere -- even under strain and weariness. 

You might be in really good shape already, but if not maybe you can think if this as a new kind of New Year’s personal fitness resolution. 

Yesterday, a very delightful Macedonian Orthodox woman showed us the Holy Mother of God Perivleptos Church (which dates back to the 10th century!) in Ohrid, enthusiastically narrating the explanations behind each exquisite and ancient fresco. We came upon a mural of winged creatures depicted in ascending movement on a ladder stretching to the heavens. It was Jacob’s ladder. Painted beneath it were Jacob and an angel, locked in silent conflict. “Some angels are going up the ladder,” we were told. According to Orthodox theology, we all climb up the ladder towards God. We can get very far, clambering up the rungs and doing good things and forgiving each other. But we hold bitterness against each other, we sin, and we have to go back down the ladder again. “See how some of the angels are going the other direction, away from God?” I hadn’t noticed this before in the dimly-lit church, but it was true. “When the apocalypse comes, we want to be found going upward -- even if we are at the bottom of the ladder -- keeping God always before us in the struggle and process of doing good. It is never too late to begin, never too late to start again.” 

I don’t necessarily agree with Orthodox theology, but I found her statement to be very profound. 

When I found the relevant passage in Genesis later I stared and stared at it. 

God says to Jacob: “...Behold, I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done that of which I have spoken to you.” Then Jacob wakes up, and says, “Surely the Lord is in this place; and I did not know it.”

God is everyplace. He is beside us in every new year inevitably marked sooner or later with our fumbling mistakes and failed resolutions and, yes, glorious achievements. He is there when you wrestle with Him. He is there wherever you run, and whenever you run into yourself. And I can tell you from experience, you can run into yourself even in someplace like Istanbul, or Amman, or Jerusalem, or Stuttgart, or Skopje. 

C.S. Lewis says it a lot better than I ever could: “If we let Him—for we can prevent Him, if we choose—He will make the feeblest and filthiest of us into...a dazzling, radiant, immortal creature, pulsating all through with such energy and joy and wisdom and love as we cannot now imagine, a bright stainless mirror which reflects back to God perfectly (though, of course, on a smaller scale) His own boundless power and delight and goodness. The process will be long and in parts very painful, but that is what we are in for. Nothing less. He meant what He said.”