Ruthless Surrender

What was it like to watch the sunset on the first Easter Sunday?

What did those men and women feel seeing the day slip away that first time after death was de-fanged?

Night came, not as a promise of each one’s mortality as before, but as an interlude in the journey of life. No longer was night a sinister harbinger of the death feared by every soul; now night could bring in its silky darkness a respite, a rest that healed now while reveling in the deathless life now proven and provided.

I’m doing something new here. The few times I’ve written something for this blog I’ve sat down with an idea, typed, backspaced, typed, saved, etc. Eventually, I had something formed enough that I felt OK posting it and I would log in, paste it into the New Post window, and poke the Publish button.

Today is different.

Today I am opening the New Post window and just typing. Clocking out of work, leaving all the other projects aside, and just typing.

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I was asked by a friend today about a time I took a week off of work and sought solitude. In recounting what I did and what I got from it I was reminded that there were a couple of years where I took a large chunk of time and sought God alone. I’ve not done that for a few years now.

Sure, I try to commune with God each day, but the way I’m wired it seems there’s always a handful of things encroaching on our time together. Buzzing coming from right outside the prayer closet. Big pests, noisily clamoring right outside the door.

Even something like writing; I like writing and wish to do more of it. But when the time comes that I’m not working on project X, project Y is there on the task list waiting (and usually overdue). So I sit down to write, and instead start working on finishing up the minute from the last meeting, or realizing that I have to update the church website, or I really need to get back to brother so-and-so about his question, and, by the way, I never did give whatshisname a call to see how he’s doing…

And eventually, I just sit down and realize my mind is just slowly grinding to a halt. Yesterday I struggled over and over to call to mind words that are in my regular vocabulary. Today, I looked at a simple question and needed to write a SQL query and couldn’t process the basic logic required.

In the prayer time, we always have before the messages at our Sunday morning church services I always get anxious when it’s my turn to preach. I feel the weight of the job I’m about to do. I second-guess the topic. I internally debate whether I let God lead my thoughts and direction or barged ahead in my own direction. It’s always a time of anxiety, stress, and doubt, that I face fervently with prayer. This Sunday was different. Yes, the pangs of stress and concern were there, but deeper cutting was the emotional exhaustion and fighting off tears.

And today, as I think about those refreshing times of being alone with God in years past I start to realize, God’s been getting just one more time slot on my calendar.

It’s time to get alone with God.

Exactly a year ago I posted how the Coronavirus pandemic had hit me as real. I had just read about the first NYC MTA worker who had died from COVID-19 and it had hit me harder than any of the news up to that point.

A year later, I’ve experienced COVID. I would say I got a taste of it, but I don’t taste much anymore. I’ve had plenty of debates and discussions with people about data, statistics, health and medical questions, authority and obedience, worship, “doing church,” masks, fear, and dystopia.

A lot fit in the past year. Some things were net positive, like being forced to be more of an essentialist, and some things were hard negatives, like the division and discord that have grown in the great philosophical petri dish of 2020.

As I think of the past 365 days, the word that comes to mind to best capture what has happened is “catalyst.” A lot of things lit off this year. Some things that smoldered for ages became infernos in the last year. Some things we didn’t know were hanging around in our lives/mindsets/practices came to light. People stirred pots. Some people being stirred yelled about how they disapproved of the stirring while being unable to hide that they were reveling in the ride.

Overall I think of negatives in the last year. Part of that is my tendency toward cynicism, but part of that is simply because the evidence points to a lot more negatives than positives being present in this span of time. From the big things like the huge deaths over expectation and limited gatherings for fellowship, to the smaller annoyances like wearing a facemask to go into the gas station.

I know that that I need to find the catalysts for good. Find the positives and stoke them and not fan the flames on the negatives I so easily fixate on. The story of Christianity is redemption. Of taking the broken things and making beauty from them. I want to do that with this.

Last night I read about the first NYC MTA worker to die of COVID-19. He was 49 years old and a longtime conductor in the NYC subway. This started to make the dire situation of the residents of New York City, one of my favorite places, more real to me.

I type this while sitting in a small, comfortable office in our church building, less than a mile from my house. I live in a small town with no known cases of the disease and in a county that has plenty of elbow room, and only a few people who have tested positive for the coronavirus.

I have a job in an essential part of an essential industry.

We’re even in the middle of a fairly major renovation to our house which is proceeding just fine despite the global catastrophe.

Other than some faint anxiety of whether or not our local stores will be able to supply us with some of the essentials, my only real impacts are the extra pressures on my wife due to suddenly becoming a homeschool mom and our inability to gather with our church family.

Then I read of the tent cities sprouting up around hospitals. Of refrigerator trailers being parked outside hospitals to deal with the need for more morgue space. Of another MTA worker dying, this one a 61 year old bus driver. Of doctors trying to figure out how to share ventilators from their woefully inadequate supply, and possibly use them for multiple patients  at the same time.

And I think of the scores of hours I’ve spent in the NYC subway, and the people who I literally rubbed shoulders with, and all the MTA staff who did their nearly invisible part in my moving around the city, and what that city and those people are experiencing today.

My chest starts to constrict, but not from the virus decimating the lungs and lives of so many.

This virus doesn’t scare me.

No, I wouldn’t enjoying dying, and I have no real interest in experiencing the grip of its resulting disease as an out-of-shape adult who used to be an asthmatic kid, but I don’t fear it.

Not in that way.

But I have a sense of dread for those passing from life, through death, to eternity. For those suffering, unable to draw their own breath, the very essence they need to exist. For that little world put together with concrete, steel, and glass, but held together by the people, those millions of living souls. Caught right now in the grips of a sometimes life ending, but always life changing crisis.

How far will the ripples go?

As businesses crash, jobs are lost, and the ability of many to pay for food and shelter dwindles, what next?

Yes, we pray, and we ask the God of all comfort to show Himself strong.

But how are you going to be salt, flavoring and preserving in the lives of those around you? How are you going to be light, and drive the darkness away? Will you be there to cloth the naked, visit the sick, and give the thirsty a drink, like those Jesus commends in Matthew 25, or will you be like those condemned by James who say “Be warm and full,” while doing nothing of substance?

We have an opportunity. We serve a God of redemption, who loves to take the rubble of a broken world and  turn it back to beauty. How will you be His partner, His instrument in that?

I stood in a New York City subway station, leaning against a railing. Behind me, yellow caution tape spanned the hallway, blocking off the L train platform. Beside me on the wall, a poster explained how people in Brooklyn could work around the problems created by platform closure and the disruptive L train track work.

An MTA worker equipped with a megaphone and vibrant vest stood at the intersection of  corridors, declaring a message to the seekers of the L train. “Manhattan bound L train: Take the free shuttle buses at the station entrance. Canarsie bound L stopping at the J platform: down the stairs to your left.”

She repeated this with consistency, ease, and a casualness, almost as if she were born to do it.

I watched as a woman walked up the corridor and stopped, a literal two feet from the megaphone. She looked as though she were contemplating seriously her ability to complete her journey now that the yellow tape had defeated her.

Beside her the megaphone blared, announcing a simple solution to her halted state. Once. Twice. Still she stood. Then she glanced at me. We locked eyes. In that moment I realized she saw me as a possible source of information, as I leaned there not looking lost.

We held eye contact for a couple of beats; then I deliberately shifted my gaze two feet to the left and stared at the megaphone. It blasted a third rendition in her ear: “Manhattan bound L train: Take the free shuttle buses at the station entrance. Canarsie bound L stopping at the J platform: down the stairs to your left.”

Her face lit up, and she marched down the stairs at her left, which she now knew were her path toward fulfilling her destiny. Or would at least get her to Canarsie.

As she disappeared, I thought about what had just happened. Romans 1:20 says that God, including His invisible attributes, is clearly evident in the things He created. Psalm 19:1 says the heavens and sky proclaim God’s glory and handiwork. When we think of the sun, moon, and stars glorifying God in constant praise, or the streaming colors of a sunset announcing His greatness, we can begin to feel small, quiet, and unnoticeable.

Even with the megaphone God has given His creation to shout out His glory, no sky will ever sing of salvation. No star can share the Gospel. We alone are granted that great privilege. Only we get to share the good news of Jesus Christ.

All around megaphones blast. But many people don’t notice. Sometimes, what people need is eye contact. 

I’ve found that I now schedule my stress.

I’ve had a handful of meetings, each with their own prep needs and weights. I have emails to respond to, feedback to give, research to do. This comes on top of the everyday work tasks and weights that come in service to my employer. I’ve found myself over these last few weeks pushing the stresses into containers. The weight of Tuesday’s meeting has to wait in line behind the prep and weight of Monday’s. Once Tuesday’s meeting is past the stress of Wednesday’s can start to mix with the prep for Thursday’s meeting. I’m already working to psych myself up to shelve the followup of Thursday’s meeting so Friday can be spent on wrapping up employer work followed by sermon prep and planning for next week.

I’m not sure this is quite what Jesus meant in Matthew 6:34, but queuing weights and stresses in an orderly line is so far proving superior to piling them all together.

-Perfect

Back in September I wrote about the stressful tasks on the horizon.

The biggest monster that was looming has come and gone.

It was interesting to hang out with a dragon…

It was a day that was full and stressful, rewarding and draining and energizing. It was sad and thrilling, scary and fun. It had ups and downs and there’ll never be another like it. I was glad for it and I’ll probably never forget it, but I hope there’s never one even close to being like it.

There was a lot going on. And when I think back through all the things that led to that day, I think of Romans 8:28.

God has made us creatures with free will and the power of choice. And that means we mess up. We do stupid things. We make mistakes. We miss obvious warnings along our journey. But through it all, with the missteps, mistakes, and outright wrong choices that led to that day and that specific collection of events, I turned around and saw something beautiful.

When we find ourselves on a path littered by the detritus of our mistakes, when we turn around we see the Redeemer stands there, ready to turn to good the mess we have made.

Don’t forget to turn around.

It’ll be different…

It’s a new year. The bustle of holidays and family gatherings is over. Work is settling down after the Christmas rush. So all the over-extension will change.

I’ve spent years feeling like I’m on a tight, rough path, but there’s going to be a meadow just a little bit farther ahead, so just stretching a little thinner, and living with “less than ideal” in important things, like time with family, time invested in my wife, time to rest, all of that, well, that can be lived with for a little bit, because there is a meadow is just ahead and everything will normalize, and I can probably even make up some losses in those important things that are currently under-served for the sake of other (also important) things.

But the meadow is a lie. There has never been a meadow, every time I thought I saw one ahead, it wasn’t there when I got there. There has never been one. There will never be one. Which means I need to adapt to the trail.

If you are finding yourself stretched thin and you are rationalizing that “soon it’ll  be different,” stop. It will only be different if you make it different.

Evaluate your goals. Look honestly at your life, and start pruning.

This year will be different for me. Not because I’m going to suddenly appear in that oasis opening, where the trail of life is wide and smooth and flat, but because I’m going to be intentional about dumping some of this load, and taking a machete to the path around me.

I’ve tortured the metaphor enough. Here’s the bottom line:I’m going to stop living life like a change is going to come, and make changes happen.

Care to join me?