Foreshadow

For the past couple of weeks, I have been developing an online magazine called Foreshadow to feature writing that points to the Kingdom of God. These writings include nonfiction, fiction, poetry, reviews and music. 

Foreshadow is scheduled to launch in early 2021. In the meantime, I've been reaching out to professors, friends and other writers to gather content. 

If you have any writings you'd like to share, or have any other ideas, do get in touch!

Here is a link to Foreshadow: https://foreshadowmagazine.com

An update

I am in the process of creating an online magazine. As you can imagine, this has taken up much of my free time and mental space. 

I'll plan to share updates on this blog until the magazine is launched.

In the meantime, if you're interested in learning more, please get in touch.

Finishing the race well with hope

Horses at Silecroft, Cumbria

The other day, Miriam and I were walking in a nearby park when we ran into Miriam's secondary-school PE teacher. But Miriam knew her better as her orienteering coach.

Orienteering is a racing sport combining running with map-reading. Athletes navigate their way on a course (in the South Lakes, the courses are usually outside through woods and fields or on top of moors) seeking checkpoints, or 'controls', usually in a prescribed order. They record their arrival at each control: in Miriam's time, the control was a kind of hole-puncher, each with a distinct design that athletes would punch on a card they carried; nowadays it's electronic. Then they run to the next control, repeating this until they arrive at the finish line -- and whoever gets there first wins.

So this week, when Miriam ran into her former coach and another orienteer and they caught up on old times, I imagined the enjoyable struggle of orienteering. 

As one of Miriam's family friends has described it, orienteering requires the skill of 'cunning running' -- cunning because one must navigate on one's feet, and running because one must be quick about it!

Orienteering can be a helpful image of the kingdom of God. Like orienteers, we too are engaged in a race: a joyful struggle to enter the kingdom of God (as I have written about here), in which God is restoring the world, and we are summoned to compete and win, overcoming spiritual forces of evil. But unlike orienteers, our victory does not come from our skill or strength; our victory comes from God. 

As Psalm 147 says. '[God's] pleasure is not in the strength of the horse, nor his delight in the legs of a man; the LORD delights in those who fear him, who put their hope in his unfailing love' (vv. 10-11).

The strength of the horse and the legs of a man refer to power harnessed by humans, and one can hear in these images echoes of war. This too relates to orienteering, which originated in the late 1800s as a competitive sport among Scandinavian military officers. 

In the Old Testament, there is a direct connection between horses and war. We can see this in the book of Job, in which God describes the fierce strength of horses:

'Do you give the horse his strength
or clothe his neck with a flowing mane?
Do you make him leap like a locust,
striking terror with his proud snorting?
He paws fiercely, rejoicing in his strength,
and charges into the fray.
He laughs at fear, afraid of nothing;
he does not shy away from the sword.
The quiver rattles against his side,
along with the flashing spear and lance.
In frenzied excitement he eats up the ground;
he cannot stand still when the trumpet sounds.
At the blast of the trumpet he snorts, "Aha!"
He catches the scent of battle from afar,
the shout of commanders and the battle cry.' (Job 39:19-25)

Further, whereas some of the nations surrounding Israel tamed horses for war, God told the Israelites to not use horses so that they would not be tempted to return to Egypt, the land of slavery, where horses could be obtained (Deut. 17:16). 

Perhaps, too, God wanted to teach the Israelites to rely upon him, and not on horses, for their victory. As I read through the accounts of Israel's battles against foreign armies, conquering and inhabiting the Promised Land, it becomes clear that although their courage and skill were important, the true source of their victory was not the strength of their weapons or might, but God alone. 

As Moses tells the Israelites,

You may say to yourselves, 'These nations are stronger than we are. How can we drive them out?' But do not be afraid of them; remember well what the LORD your God did to Pharaoh and to all Egypt. You saw with your own eyes the great trials, the miraculous signs and wonders, the mighty hand and outstretched arm, with which the LORD your God brought you out. The LORD your God will do the same to all the peoples you now fear. Moreover, the LORD your God will send the hornet among them until even the survivors who hide from you have perished. (Deut. 7:17-20)

Fast-fowarding to today, if we are engaged in a race or a battle towards God's kingdom, then what does it mean to compete with fear of God and hope in his unfailing love?

To answer this question, I want to look at two biblical examples. The first is the widow described briefly in the Gospels as giving two small coins for the temple offering after the rich gave their gifts. Jesus sees her and says she has given more than the others because they gave out of their wealth, whereas she in her poverty gave all she had to live on (Lk. 21:1-4).

About a decade ago, I attended the wedding of two friends of mine. The minister marrying them preached a sermon based on this widow, using her as an image of my friends offering themselves completely to God through their sacrificial love for one another in marriage. 

At the time, the widow seemed to me an unexpected sermon topic for their wedding. My friends were and are both capable doctors, whereas the widow was in those patriarchal times among the most vulnerable of people, being without a husband and protector. At the time, if I had guessed which passage of scripture the minister would preach from, I might have said 1 Corinthians 13 (the famous 'love' chapter) or something similarly obvious. 

But now I see wisdom in choosing the widow as a model for their marriage, because marriage involves sacrificial love, and sometimes such love is invisible to people looking for 'the strength of the horse' and human power. Jesus, on the other hand, sees deeper than the surface; he delights in the widow's fear of God and hope in his unfailing love, expressed through her ultimate gift, and he invites us to also look at the world through his vision.

The widow did not have much in terms of possessions or wealth, but what she did have, she gave with all of her heart to God. Thus, in a spiritual sense, she was a stronger athlete than all the rest; she triumphed through completely trusting God and seeking his kingdom first.

The second example of what it looks like to fear God and hope in his unfailing love comes from the Apostle Paul's farewell speech to the elders of the Ephesian church, as told in the book of Acts (20:17-38). Paul reminds them of how he lived among them in the face of fierce opposition: for three years, night and day he steadfastly proclaimed the Gospel to them.

Like the widow, Paul offered his all -- particularly his strength, energy and effort:

You yourselves know that these hands of mine have supplied my own needs and the needs of my companions. In everything I did, I showed you that by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' (vv. 34-35)

Paul used his intellect and zeal to serve God, the church and those in need. In Paul, we see that 'the strength of the horse' and human power, though not essential in God's kingdom, are not meaningless, either; rather, what matters is how one uses one's power in whatever form that power comes.

Knowing the challenges he faces, Paul tells the Ephesian elders that he considers his life worth nothing to him 'if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me -- the task of testifying to the gospel of God's grace' (v. 24). 

Paul sees himself as a runner on the last leg of the race, and he gives it everything he's got. Although historians understand that at this point, Paul has many years of ministry ahead of him, we see that he lives each day as though it were the end of a race, similar to the widow's complete offering to God in the temple.

I'm not saying we should be reckless and burn ourselves out. Part of being an athlete is knowing one's limits and taking care of one's body. From my own memories of running long distances in secondary-school PE classes, I needed to pace myself if I wanted to finish well; simply trying to sprint the whole time resulted in fatigue and was unsustainable. 

Finishing well is the goal. Miriam has described to me that the end of the race is the most exciting part of an orienteering event, when the orienteer has recorded their last control and all that remains is making a mad dash to the finishing line, where all their family and friends are cheering them on.

But the finishing line can feel far off or even nonexistent in these days of COVID-19 and lockdown, when we may be exhausted and perhaps even lost. 

This is when we need hope the most to sustain us: hope that the finishing line -- the kingdom of God -- is awaiting us, where God and all the saints and angels are rooting for us, even if we can't always see or hear them, to finish the race well through being faithful to God.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. (Heb. 12:1-3)

Receiving God's kingdom like little children

Elimo Njau, Nativity, 1959. St James' Anglican Cathedral, Kiharu, Murang'a, Kenya

One of my in-laws is pregnant. She was recently explaining how, during an ultrasound scan, she unexpectedly felt protective of her baby: while the nurse was pushing the scanner around her belly searching for the baby's head, my relative instinctively wanted to guard the baby from physical harm. 

Such parental protection will, God willing, continue also after her baby is born. I recently learned that because our species, Homo sapiens, stands upright, thus constricting the female pelvis, and because our brains and thus also our heads are 300% bigger than those of other primates, human babies are born more prematurely than those of any other species. This means human parents have greater responsibility than other animals in protecting, providing for, nurturing and teaching their children, who depend on them.

This sheds new light, for me, on Jesus' teaching that 'anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it' (Lk. 18:17). 

Like little children depending on their parents (ideally both parents) not only to live but also thrive, we depend on God for everything we need and receiving his kingdom.

Psalm 131 provides a helpful image of this, comparing our relationship with God to a weaned child with their mother:

My heart is not proud, O LORD,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have stilled and quieted my soul;
like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, put your hope in the LORD
both now and forevermore.

Whereas our culture encourages us to be self-reliant and independent, this psalm reminds us that everything we have and need come from God. Whereas success in our time is defined by our achievements and awards, success in the kingdom of God is defined by the quality of one's relationship with God. 

Cardinal John Henry Newman says it this way:

We cannot be our own masters. We are God’s property by creation, by redemption, by regeneration. He has a triple claim upon us. Is it not our happiness thus to view the matter? Is it any happiness, or any comfort, to consider that we are our own? It may be thought so by the young and prosperous...But as time goes on, they, as all men, will find that independence was not made for man – that it is an unnatural state – [that] may do for a while, but will not carry us on safely to the end. No, we are creatures; and, as being such, we have two duties, to be resigned and to be thankful. (From his sermon 'Remembrance of Past Mercies')

But isn't simply '[being] resigned and thankful' too easy? Doesn't entering God's kingdom involve struggle? Doesn't Jesus teach that we must enter the kingdom with force (as I wrote about last week)? How do we reconcile joyfully struggling to enter God's kingdom on the one hand with receiving God's kingdom as little children on the other? 

It takes great effort to still and quiet our soul, to rest in the love of God. When our passions and external forces tempt us to seek possessions, status or anything other than God, it takes discipline to put our hope in the LORD instead: in the life that he gives, in the future he is bringing. 

Receiving God's kingdom like children doesn't mean being thoughtless or thinking uncritically. Throughout the Gospels, Jesus challenges his followers, inquirers and opponents to engage critically with his teachings and their own practices, and encourages those who would follow him to first count the cost, like a man planning to build a tower or a king preparing to wage war (Lk. 14:25-33). 

Nor does becoming childlike mean diminishing our self-worth. Receiving God's kingdom results in becoming fully alive, courageous in Christ, as we were created to become (as I have written about here). 

Nor does it mean we shouldn't work hard or tend to our practical needs. As I have written about before, we are called to offer ourselves to God as living sacrifices, worshipping God and sharing our possessions and our very lives with others -- and this involves our best effort and our love! 

Instead, becoming childlike means that in the midst of our work, our relationships, our downtime, our daily lives, we continually ground ourselves in God's love, putting our hope in his kingdom more than anything else. 

Although to an outsider, it may not look like there is a difference between those who are children of the kingdom and those who are not, I think there is an internal difference: those who are little children in spirit offer themselves to God and others from a place of stability, not anxious striving. Their roots grow strong, deep and firm in the soil of God's love. They are confident about their identity as beloved children of God . 

I introduced this blog post with a painting of Jesus' nativity because that event, which Christians also call the Incarnation, shows us that God himself became like a little child in order to enter -- in fact, establish -- his kingdom. 

The God who created, redeems and regenerates all things became one of us, learning dependence on his parents and others by being born as a baby -- and in a cave of all places, among animals, because the world had no room for him. 

G K Chesterton writes about the significance of Jesus' being born in a cave:

Christ was not only born on the level of the world, but even lower than the world. The first act of the divine drama was enacted, not only on no stage set up above the sight-seer, but on a dark and curtained stage sunken out of sight; and that is an idea very difficult to express in most modes of artistic expression.

But in the riddle of Bethlehem it was heaven that was under the earth. There is in that alone the touch of a revolution, as of the world turned upside down. (The Everlasting Man)

Jesus began the revolutionary upside-down kingdom of God by becoming a little child, thus leading the way for us. Through dependence on his immediate family, he developed dependence on his Heavenly Father, who at significant moments in his life clearly revealed his love for him, such as at Jesus' baptism and his transfiguration. Throughout his life, Jesus took time to abide in God's love, and it was from that centre that he offered his love to the world. At his crucifixion, he surrendered himself completely to God because he knew that God's love was strong enough to save him from death. After his resurrection, he told his disciples that through him, they too -- and we along with them -- can know with certainty that we are God's beloved children. 

Joyfully struggling towards God's kingdom

A beck flowing through a grate into a pipe beneath our garden

One morning a few days ago, our neighbour knocked on our door. She reminded us that the beck (stream) running through our garden was blocked, causing the water to flood our lawn and even begin flooding her own garden.

Although we had been regularly clearing the beck in the previous few days, when the fallen leaves from nearby trees had begun blocking the flow, her announcement compelled us to do so again that morning. With a garden fork and in my wellies (Wellington boots), I cleared away fistfuls of soggy leaves clinging to the rusty grate that covers the entrance to the pipe that runs beneath our garden. Over the course of about five minutes, the water level sunk back to normal.

A few hours later, though, I looked out the window and saw that our garden was flooded again. This time, when clearing the debris, I did something different: I lifted the grate and watched in awe as water bubbled and quickly sank, returning to normal levels in just a few seconds. The grate was now tilted at an angle, revealing a large clump of leaves in one corner that hadn't dislodged before, the removal of which had made all the difference. As before, rather than overflowing onto the lawn, the force of the water now flowed swiftly into the pipe beneath our garden.

This image of water forcing its way through the unblocked grate into the pipe illustrates what Jesus says in the Gospel of Luke about people entering the kingdom of God: 'the good news of the kingdom of God is being preached, and everyone is forcing his way into it' (16:16).

But what does it mean that people are forcing their way into God's kingdom?

Metropolitan Anthony Bloom writes that entering God's kingdom requires an attitude of joyful struggle:

This notion of joy coupled with strenuous effort, with ascetical endeavour, with struggle indeed, may seem strange, and yet it runs through the whole of our spiritual life, the life of the Church and the life of the Gospel, because the Kingdom of God is conquered. It is not something which is simply given to those who leisurely, lazily wait for it to come. For those who would wait for it in that spirit, it will come indeed: it will come at the dead of night, it will come like the Judgement of God, like the thief who takes us unawares, like the bridegroom who comes when the foolish virgins are asleep. (Meditations on a Theme)

Metropolitan Anthony continues to write that this joyful struggle involves mastering ourselves so that we can listen to and obey God; ultimately, forcing our way into the kingdom is taking up our cross and following Jesus. 

The Apostle Paul illustrates this with a sports image: 

Do you not know that all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. (1 Cor. 9:24-25)

Seeking God's kingdom requires our best effort. We might learn from presidential candidates when they run a campaign election: for months, sometimes years in advance of Election Day, they fight and campaign as if their lives depend on it -- as if the life of the nation depends on it.

We too are running a campaign, or rather we are invited to join God's campaign in overthrowing the reign of sin and evil in this world. Our job is to force our way into God's kingdom through offering ourselves to God.

This effort is not to earn our salvation, which comes as a gift from God. Rather, it is our response to God's gift. His love for us awakens our love for him. This joyful struggle is the expression of our desire to give him our very best because that is what he deserves.

What gets in our way? What are the leaves, twigs and other debris that block the flow of water, that keep us from joyfully struggling towards the kingdom?  

One can think of several answers, such as our passions (I have written about this briefly before). However, recently I have been thinking about another answer: idolatry.

The prophet Ezekiel similarly describes idolatry as blockage. At one point, when the elders of Israel come to Ezekiel to hear God's word, God tells Ezekiel that 'these men have set up idols in their hearts and put wicked stumbling blocks before their faces' (Ezek. 14:12). The idols that the elders worship block their inner vision and their relationship with God. God warns that he will turn against such clogged-up people unless they 'Repent! Turn from your idols and renounce all your detestable practices' (v. 6).

In this time of waiting for the election results, it can be tempting to think that if only our favoured candidate wins the election, if only our party kept or gained power, then surely God's kingdom would come at last. It can be easy to think that our salvation is found in an ideology, whether conservative or liberal, socialistic or libertarian or nationalistic or anything else. 

But this is idolatry, devoting ourselves to the systems of this world rather than to God. As Father Alexander Schmemann says,

there is but one essential sin, one essential danger: that of idolatry, the ever-present and ever-acting temptation to absolutize and thus to idolize "this world" itself, its passing values, ideas and ideologies, to forget that as the people of God "we have here no lasting city, but we seek the city which is to come" (Heb. 13:14). (Church, World, Mission)

The kingdom of God does not come through the Democrats or Republicans, through one or another candidate. No matter who wins this election, the US -- and the rest of the world, for that matter -- are in the same position as before: in need of the life that comes only in Christ. 

I'm not saying it's wrong to vote or to be involved in political decisions. I myself voted and have certain political views, and I hope that I sought God's kingdom through how I voted. I believe it is right to hope that our communities, politicians and nations would reflect and seek God's kingdom above all else in the decisions they make. 

But this is usually not the case. Political parties and nations usually seek their own kingdoms first, not the kingdom of God. No party or nation is completely righteous. Putting all our hopes in political leaders is like blocking a beck with dead leaves on a grate; it keeps us from joyfully struggling towards the kingdom of God, which is the only true source of our salvation.

Inviting people who cannot invite us back

A couple of Miriam's Thanksgiving pies
Photo credit: Momiji S.

Although US Election Day is on many peoples' minds -- even here in the UK -- there is another day coming up in November associated with the US. 

Miriam and I had been looking forward to inviting some family around for a Thanksgiving meal at our place (one of my American cousins also lives in the UK), but the recent COVID-19 restrictions may change those plans.

When we lived in Manchester, every year we were invited to a Thanksgiving dinner by a couple originally from the US. My being an American was a prerequisite for being invited. Over the years, their Thanksgiving gatherings of American ex-pats and their families has grown. Folks pitch in the usual food: turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes and green beans, but the highlight is the variety of pies. Miriam would prepare apple pie; cherry and pumpkin pies were also regulars; and it was at these gatherings that I was introduced to the sweet frozen peanut-butter pie.

Jesus teaches about the importance of inviting people over to dinner. However, he adds a twist: rather than inviting people who have the means to pay us back, Jesus says to invite 'the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you; for you shall be repaid at the resurrection of the just' (Luke 14:13-14).

Jesus is, I believe, teaching us one practical way to seek the kingdom of God, and one way to become signposts of the kingdom. 

This teaching reminds me of a church I used to be a part of in San Diego, which every year hosts a Thanksgiving dinner for the local community. The church, in a low-income neighbourhood, opens its doors and serves anyone who comes in -- some of whom they never meet again, except perhaps for the following Thanksgiving dinner. 

The pastor of the church, Steve Rodeheaver, explains how this meal serves as a signpost of God's kingdom: 

Jesus as well as the prophets before Him compared the coming of the Kingdom to a great banquet. . . . The reality was hitting home that our feast to end all feasts didn't end anything, especially hunger. But for one night, for one meal, [they] all were satisfied. . . . We reminded them of the future. They participated in a picture of the Kingdom. . . . For one night, for one meal, for one moment, folks of all ages, races, incomes, and backgrounds entered into the Lord's house and banqueted together at His tables. And they all were satisfied. (Snapshots of the Kingdom)

Jesus' teaching challenges me to consider who are the vulnerable people I know personally or who are in my community -- the people who cannot invite me back -- whom I can invite into my life. 

Although I can't think of many examples of my actively following this teaching, one memory does persist in my mind. One evening at our church in Manchester, I was teaching a workshop. I had spent nearly a year thinking about, planning and preparing this course, and was excited to begin leading it. Like any good workshop leader, I made sure there was plenty of coffee, tea and biscuits for everyone, and I felt encouraged when a few people arrived and settled in. 

Then, towards the beginning of the workshop, someone else walked in through the front doors of the church. 

'I saw [one of the workshop attendees] hobble in and the light was on, so I thought I'd drop in', he said.

It was T., one of the regulars at our weekly allotment project, where some volunteers from our church and from a homeless charity in the city centre would work together growing vegetables in our church's garden. The purpose was to give work skills, experience and confidence to those volunteers transitioning off the streets into stable housing.

Normally T. was friendly, so I was glad to see him -- if not also slightly surprised, since I only saw him during the allotment project, whose season had long ended for the winter. But then he interrupted me as I was teaching. His glare did not have the usual vacant look; there was an edge to it. I don't remember what he said exactly, only that he was mostly unintelligible. After responding to him, I returned to my talk, only to be interrupted again soon after.

I realised T. was drunk and that his presence was bothering the other attendees. However, they were extremely patient and would quietly wait for me to finish speaking with him before resuming the workshop. At one point, I moved over and sat next to him and said he was welcome to stay but that he needed to stop interrupting me. I thought this would work, but several minutes later, his banter returned.

For some reason, I strongly felt it would be wrong to tell him to leave; something inside of me would not allow me to do that, so I simply trudged through the rest of the workshop. It ended fine, but I felt disappointed because of the distraction T. had been to the group. I wondered if I should have firmly asked him to leave for the others' sake.

Afterwards, while I was washing the cups, T. came up to me and explained that his friend had recently committed suicide. That explained why T. had been acting so aggressively. Although I still felt upset with him, it helped to know more of the reasoning behind his behaviour. We spoke for a little bit before he left. I reminded him that when spring came around, our allotment project would start again and we hoped to see him there. 

A few months later, when our allotment project began its new season, T. came as usual, and this time he was his normal self, wearing bright eyeglasses and a crooked smile. He remembered how he had behaved that night and apologised. I was relieved we hadn't asked him to leave. 

This story doesn't perfectly illustrate Jesus' teaching. We didn't host a dinner (although we did have refreshments, as is expected of a church function), and we didn't invite T. to our gathering. However, because of our relationship with T., he felt that he would be welcome and accepted at the workshop even without having received an invitation simply because our doors were open and he recognised some of the people walking in. 

T. knew that we loved him, and in this case, that was invitation enough.

Seeking God's kingdom through lamentations

One of the two Discovery apple trees Miriam and I planted in a church garden in Longsight, Manchester in 2018
(Photo credit: Jane G.)

Soon before we moved out of Manchester, the church we had been serving in gifted us with money to buy fruit trees. Now that we have a garden, and now that the season for planting new trees has arrived, at last we have ordered them: a Discovery apple, a Charles Ross apple and a Blue Tit plum tree. They're supposed to arrive sometime in mid-November, though we don't know when. Soon, I need to dig holes and fill them with horse manure -- but it's still a little early for that. For now, all we can do is wait.

To a small degree, waiting for the trees reminds me of waiting for the kingdom of God. Like the trees, we don't know when the kingdom of God will come, but we wait for its arrival and the life and joy it will bring. 

Last week, I wrote that we are called to become signs of God's kingdom. Perhaps it's no surprise, then, that this week I have been thinking about a passage in the Gospels where Jesus says, 'Seek first the kingdom of God, and [your daily needs] will be given to you as well' (Luke 12:31; Matt. 6:33). 

There are many ways we can seek God's kingdom, but today I want to illustrate such an orientation through a passage from the book of Lamentations. 

The book of Lamentations was written by the prophet Jeremiah, it is believed, in about 587 BC, when Jerusalem was destroyed and the Israelites were taken to Babylon in captivity. 

The passage below is the high point of the book, at the heart of five laments that describe Israel's destruction and destitution. Here, Jeremiah remembers the compassionate faithfulness of God, looking forward in the hope of God's salvation:

I remember my affliction and my wandering,
the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:

Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, 'The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.'

The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him,
to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly 
for the salvation of the LORD.

Lamentations 3:19-26

I have much to learn from these words about seeking God's kingdom. But first, the question may arise: how can we compare our situation today with Israel's defeat? For Israel, children and babies were strewn about the streets (2:11), women ate their own children to survive (2:20), those who were once wealthy became destitute and homeless (4:5), and it became normal that women were violated, authorities were humiliated and young men were forced into harsh labour (5:11-13). 

Though for many of us, today's situation is not as devastating as Israel's was, the pandemic has still brought our world much suffering. Not to mention those infected and dying from the disease, the knock-on effects include people losing work, being alone, not having practical support and feeling hopeless. This past week, some UK news articles have featured the deterioration of mental health among children, university students and inmates, to name a few examples.

I think Jeremiah teaches us that we need to grieve -- and that in the midst of our grief, we must hope in God's kingdom. We must remember that God will save us from this pandemic. 

We don't know what the short-term future holds. We may become infected with the virus; we may even die of it. We may, like Jeremiah and the Israelites, lose our possessions, honour and identity. But even if so, we must remember that in the big picture, in the long-term future, God's kingdom is coming to save us, even from suffering and death.

I'm not saying we shouldn't help those in our lives who are vulnerable; this is required of us. Nor am I saying we shouldn't trust scientists and doctors; I believe God uses their knowledge and work for our healing. 

But we also have to learn to wait, to be still and return to God. 

As I wait for the three fruit trees, I focus more on the garden. The more I anticipate their arrival, the more important they become for me. Similarly, the more we wait for God's kingdom, the more it becomes a priority for us. This can embolden and prepare us to do the life-giving work God has for us to do, both in the future and in the present (I have written an introduction to this life-giving work here). 

Perhaps through lamenting and putting our hope in God, COVID-19 can be a tool for our salvation, turning us away from our passions and redirecting us to seek first the kingdom of God; or in Jeremiah's words, this crisis is an opportunity to remember God's great love, compassion and faithfulness, and to turn back to God and wait quietly for his salvation.

Restore us to yourself, O LORD, that we may return. (Lam. 5:21)

Are we signs of the kingdom of God?

A nearby tree begining to turn

Across from our house, sycamore, oak and maple trees are turning yellow and gold: the clear sign that autumn is here and more change is coming. 

It reminds me of the spectacular change of seasons I witnessed when I lived in Indiana, each autumn observing birch, oak, ginkgo bilboa and other trees turning brilliant red, orange and yellow. When I moved from Indiana to a tiny island off the west coast of Scotland, it took me two months to realise why the setting felt so different: Iona has very few trees -- a few dozen, mostly clustered in the village. Without trees, it was more difficult to mark the passing of time and the changing of the seasons.

Like deciduous trees, key people in history have served as signposts of change. In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus teaches a crowd, 'This is a wicked generation. It asks for a miraculous sign, but none will be given it except the sign of Jonah. For as Jonah was a sign to the Ninevites, so also will the Son of Man be to this generation' (11:29-30).

Like trees in autumn pointing to change, Jonah was a sign announcing the coming judgement of God: in forty days, God was going to destroy Nineveh for their evil and violence. But the Ninevites humbled themselves and turned from their evil ways, and in response, God showed them mercy. 

As I have written before, God's judgement can be either destructive or life-giving, depending on how one is judged. In the case of the Ninevites, God's judgement was life-giving because they turned from their evil. 

Beyond being a sign of God's judgement, Jonah was a sign of God's coming kingdom. As Jesus says elsewhere, Jonah's spending three days and three nights in the belly of the fish foreshadows Jesus' spending three days in the heart of the earth before rising to life, winning the decisive battle against evil and granting the world entrance into God's kingdom. Jonah was thus a sign of God's kingdom because he was a sign of Jesus, that kingdom's King.

What about us? Are we signs of God's kingdom and of Jesus? What about our communities, whether our churches or towns, the companies we work for or even our nations? Like trees in autumn expressing the change to come, do we anticipate and reflect the second appearing of Christ, the coming day of God's judgement? Are we transparent to the light of the heavenly kingdom shining through us?

Let me give a few examples. This week is Anti-Slavery Week, ending on Anti-Slavery Day on 18th October. I first learned about modern slavery in university, when for a political science course I read Gary Haugen's Terrify No More. The book describes the International Justice Mission's work of partnering with law enforcement officers and holding traffickers accountable through the legal systems of each of the countries where they work, and delivering people enslaved in trafficking. I am proud of my university's own involvement in supporting vulnerable people, such as through its Beauty for Ashes Scholarship Fund, which helps survivors of human trafficking pursue a college education.

In the UK, over a dozen organisations are dedicated to supporting victims of modern slavery. Many such groups describe their motivation as being not only compassion for the specific people they support, but also their vision of a world in which slavery does not exist, where people do not exploit the weak for economic gain, where all can live up to their full God-given potential. Although not all of these organisations are Christian, they reflect God's kingdom to the extent that they offer a glimpse of God's justice over evil and mercy for the lowly. 

A more personal example: I was recently participating in a Christian worship service. In the midst of the singing and praying, I sensed that we were being transported to heaven, joining the worship that is taking place there (as I have written about briefly before). 

I share this only because this is the best personal example I can give of what I'm saying: the Church is called to be a sign of the kingdom of heaven, to be a community where, in its worship, people ascend to heaven, resulting in the transformation of everything they do 'down here' on earth. 

As theologian Alexander Schmemann writes of Christian worship,

The Eucharist is the anaphora, the 'lifting up' of our offering, and of ourselves. It is the ascension of the Church to heaven. 'But what do I care about heaven,' says St. John Chrysostom, 'when I myself have become heaven. . . ?' (For the Life of the World)

Although that specific worship service has ended, my brief experience has remained with me, renewing my spiritual vision to recgonise that 'the whole earth is filled with God's glory'. Although I already knew this to be true, I needed that experience in worship to remind me and to transform my vision again.

In her song 'Kingdom Comes', Sara Groves expresses other ways we let the kingdom shine through our lives:

When fear engulfs your mind
Says you protect your own
You still extend your hand
You open up your home

When sorrow fills your life
When in your grief and pain
You choose again to rise
You choose to bless the Name

That's a little stone, that's a little mortar
That's a little seed, that's a little water
In the hearts of the sons and daughters

This kingdom's coming

Schmemann has written (in his book Church, World, Mission) that most of Western society, especially the Church, has lost its orientation and rootedness in the ever-coming and already present kingdom of God. Instead of opening ourselves and our communities to being transformed into workers of God's kingdom, we have pursued our own agendas, seeking to transform the world based on our dreams of how it should be, apart from God and his power. Instead of being a people 'in, but not of, this world', we have remained both in and of this world, giving little thought or reference to the heavenly dimension.

Rather than trusting that Jesus will come again to unite heaven and earth, we can fall into the trap of thinking the task is entirely up to us. 

Like deciduous trees changing colour as a sign of the coming change, our work remains for us to be for our generation what Jonah was for his: a sign of the kingdom of God. We do this by proclaiming through our lives, both to ourselves and to the whole world, the message of Jesus: 'Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.'

Come, Lord Jesus!

Accepting the present

A man of understanding sets his face before wisdom,
but the eyes of a fool are on the ends of the earth.
Proverbs 17:24

Looking ahead towards the Cumbrian Mountains

 

Often when I am working on the computer, I find myself remembering past seasons of my life. These feelings of nostalgia were especially strong during lockdown (as I wrote in a previous blog post). Perhaps since we weren't allowed to leave our homes, my mind became even more itchy for retreating into the past.

My father-in-law says the same thing happens to him when he is working long hours in the garden: memories resurface, seemingly from nowhere and for no apparent reason.

I am sure, to a degree, there is good reason for this. Metropolitan Anthony Bloom has written of elderly people that the past often haunts them, teaching them of some unresolved conflict they must make peace with: someone they wronged years ago, perhaps, or someone they need to forgive. 

But there is harm in dwelling too much on the past. I have sometimes caught myself living in the past -- on an ongoing basis, believing that a part of me still lives in a chapter of life that has already ended, preventing me from being fully present in the season I am living in now.

Differing greatly in degree, the strongest biblical example I can think of is when Israel is held captive in Babylonian exile. They long to return to their home, but the prophet Jeremiah tells them they must build houses, plant gardens, marry and have children (in other words, settle down) and seek the peace and prosperity of Babylon. Only after seventy years of living in exile will God return them to their home. Thus, they have to fully accept their present circumstances and make the best of their life in a foreign land; this, surprisingly, is what God intends for them.

Living in the past -- or anywhere other than our current setting -- can prevent us from living the life God has given us now. The Gospel of Luke tells us about a certain person who has the opportunity to follow Jesus, but then the person says, 'first let me go back and say good-by to my family'. 

Jesus replies, 'No one who puts his hand to the plough and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God' (Luke 9:61-62).

How often do my nostalgia or even dreams for the future distract me from the work God has for me here and now?

I think about the coronavirus pandemic, and how people say we have to 'adjust to a new normal' -- except this new normal remains unstable and uncertain, making it difficult to adjust to anything! Like the Israelites in Babylon, I long to return to the relative stability of the past, but there is no guarantee of that happening soon, if ever. 

But it is in these very circumstances that God is still at work, calling us to participate with him. I am not suggesting that God caused COVID-19; whether he did or didn't is beyond my understanding. I am also not saying we should surrender to our challenges. What I am saying is that God's kingdom is coming into the world even in the midst of our current crises, and perhaps we need to first accept our new situation before we can recognise God's activity in our midst and then participate with it.  

As essential as remembering the past is, and as important as planning for the future is, we can only receive the life Jesus gives us here, in the present, and it is only now -- every new day he gifts us with -- that we have the opportunity to again turn and follow Jesus, 'for the kingdom of heaven is at hand': even here, even today.

What is our evidence that God loves us?

 

Photo credit: Sarah S.

As I wrote three weeks ago, this Sunday our local church is celebrating the harvest. Traditionally, for the Harvest Festival people bring vegetables (usually gourds and marrows) to church, along with tinned food to be given to food banks. Last year in a different church, someone brought a large sack of hundreds of carrots from a local (Lancashire) farm to share with others.

The photos above are from Miriam and my wedding in 2016 (the anniversary of which we celebrated last week). One of Miriam's aunts arranged the vegetables from Miriam's dad's garden and polytunnel, and the church kept them there for the Harvest Festival, which occurred the next day.

The festival is an opportunity to give thanks for the gifts God has provided us, particularly the fruit of the soil. I am reminded of the tone of thanksgiving in Psalm 104: 

The earth shall be satisfied with the fruit of Your works.
You are He who causes grass to grow for the cattle,
And the green plant for the service of man,
To bring forth bread from the earth;
And wine gladdens the heart of man,
To brighten his face with oil;
And bread strengthens man's heart (vv. 13b-15).

We often show our love to people by giving them gifts, particularly food. People often invite other people round for hot drinks or a meal as a form of hospitality. During bereavements, people often cook a meal for the family grieving not only for practical aid, but also as a sign of support. Our neighbour recently gave us a large bowlful of Braeburn applies from her fully-laden tree, and we appreciated the gift and the bond it has strengthened. 

A friend recently described to me his crop of courgettes as blessings. It struck me to read his words because I don't always consider vegetables as gifts from God, but this time of year especially reminds me to give thanks where it is due.

Most importantly, the harvest points to the greatest blessing God has given humanity and the world: his Son Jesus.

As the Apostle John writes, 'This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him' (1 John 4:9). 

We often rightly consider how we humans might offer sacrifices to God, but in Jesus we find unexpectedly that God also offers a sacrifice to us. This sacrifice is himself a gift of food, the 'living bread that comes down from heaven,' as Jesus says of himself: 'This bread is my flesh, which I give for the life of the world' (John 6:51). 

Whereas we offer sacrifices of praise, thanksgiving and service to God to give worship where it is due, God the Father does not give us his Son to worship us, but rather so that we might receive eternal life and know his love for us.

However, we often first look elsewhere for evidence of God's love. During harvest season, it might be easy to look to the beauty and bounty of nature and say this is all we need to know God's love. Although we rightly give thanks for God's providing everything we need, the natural world is not always pleasant or nourishing. In it we also find decay, death and the limits of our control. It can be easy to 'feel' God's love on a sunny, early-autumnal day, for instance, but when we're exposed to driving wind and rain on the fells in winter, God's love is far from our minds. Further, the natural world, without Jesus, does not give us hope for union with a loving God beyond our death. Without that hope, what certainty do we have that God loves us?

Or, we might look for evidence of God's love in other people or in ourselves. However, like the previous example, this can cut both ways; even the people we look up to the most can disappoint us because no one can love as perfectly as God loves, and if I am honest with myself, even in my better days I am only a disfigured reflection of God's love (if even that), and in my worse days, I am far worse than that, to say the least!

In this case, we might say that the limited warmth we have experienced from other people can be a springboard or a foil, teaching us that God's love far exceeds the flawed love of humans. As true as I believe this to be, and as helpful as the comparison may be at times, it is not sufficient or objective evidence of God's love for us. Perhaps it proves more our ability to trust in the goodness of God than it proves his goodness itself. 

I'm not saying God doesn't express his love for us through providing for our needs or through other people. Rather, such gifts reflect the love he has fully revealed to us in Jesus, who became a part of the natural world and transformed it, and who transforms even us so that we may experience his everlasting life. He is the best assurance we have of God's love for us because in him, we receive life that we can receive no other way.

Jesus is a heavenly meal, one that far exceeds the annual harvest that is cooked and gone in a short time. Jesus explains that 'whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day' (John 6:54). The Church has from the beginning understood Jesus to be referring here to the Eucharist, or the thanksgiving meal that he introduced to his disciples, which the early Church participated in regularly and has continued doing through the centuries, a mystical feast through which Christ makes himself known to the Church.

The Church has also consistently fed on the presence of Jesus through prayer, learning from the apostles' teaching and the scriptures, sharing with one another and supporting people in need (Acts 2:42-47). 

If I want to know the love of God more closely, then, it would be wise to participate in the life of the Church, as it participates in the life of Jesus.

I have been blessed to have been a part of churches that live in love for God and for their neighbours, but even then, no church community perfectly follows Jesus. They can even do the opposite, harming people rather than being vehicles for divine healing. 

However, the Church is the bride of Christ, the beloved people entrusted with the Gospel message of God's love for the world in Jesus. Despite its failings, the Church is the community upon which the Holy Spirit was poured out on the day of Pentecost (Acts 2), empowering it to faithfully display God's love through God's power. The Church is the people called to embody and proclaim the love of God in Christ to the world.

God can use anyone, even those outside of the Church, to reveal his glory and love. Thus, we cannot say where God is not present. However, we can confidently say that Jesus makes himself known among the Church, the people who gather in his name and who walk in his light, who have been washed in his death and who receive the life of his resurrection.

Further, while our own individual walk with Christ is required, our participation with the Church is also essential because it is among the Church that we receive the fullness of the heavenly banquet at Christ's table, which strengthens us to serve God wherever we go in the world afterwards. As I have written previously, we cannot have Christ without the Church.

When I was a freshman at university, I took an introductory philosophy course. Although in retrospect I appreciate the new ideas I learned through the course, at the time I became confused, doubting not only the love of God but even his existence -- and even the nature of reality itself! 

That same semester, I began attending a church that would become my spiritual home for the next few years. I told my pastor some of my questions, and he said he could relate to them. He also encouraged me to keep coming to church and being involved there. 

At the time, I thought his reason for this advice was because of how important practice and discipline are despite our changing thoughts, feelings and moods; sometimes we have to carry on living as though we believe what we have believed in, until we believe again.

That can be true -- but again, it is not evidence that our beliefs are true. In light of the Apostle John's words, however, I also see in my pastor's advice the recognition that participating in the life of the Church is essential, especially when we feel far from God, because it is among the Church and the Church's work in the world that we expect to clearly encounter Christ, in whom we most assuredly know God's love for us.

Stages of development in discipleship

Recently, to my surprise, the runner beans have been flowering a second time since planting them. Now tiny bean pods the size of young earthworms are emerging from the scarlet flowers. 

It's rewarding to witness their development again; this time around, I am noticing more of the details. Flowers are forming, around which flies and bees hover to pollinate them, after which the petals wither and fall away as bean pods grow out of them like claws. These claws then swell with beans (seeds for new plants) until they are ready for plucking; harvesting them before they reach maturity enables the flowering to continue next time. 

Like runner beans, Christian discipleship involves stages of development, as described by the Apostle Peter. First he writes that through God's power, we may escape the evil nature of this world -- the passions -- and participate in the divine nature; in other words, we may become Christlike. Then he describes how we become Christlike in more detail, urging his readers to make every effort to 'add to your faith virtue, to virtue knowledge, to knowledge self-control, to self-control perseverance, to perseverance godliness, to godliness brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness love' (2 Pet. 1:5-7).

Overall, then, our development as Christians involves faith bearing the fruit of love. Putting our faith in Christ -- that is, committing ourselves to Jesus as our Lord and our God -- is only the beginning of the journey. The next step involves diligently adding more elements to our faith so that we may mature. This effort is not an attempt to earn our salvation apart from God's grace; rather, everything we need to accomplish this comes from God's divine power, with which we participate (vv. 3-4).

Here I offer my reflections on each stage of development in discipleship.

• 'Giving all diligence, add to your faith virtue' -- Virtue sets the tone for our faith, directing it to produce something life-giving, wholesome, beautiful; in a word, good. Goodness is one way the word 'virtue' can be understood, the same goodness with which God looked upon his creation in the beginning and was satisfied by what he had made.
  
  Another way to understand 'virtue' is as moral excellence. We are called to strive for excellence in our relationships with God and others, and in maintaining our own integrity. This means becoming pure in heart, single-minded for God's kingdom and righteousness.
  
  
• 'and to virtue, knowledge' -- Knowledge helps us discern between good and evil and thus supplements our virtue. Becoming virtuous is not guided merely by our feelings or emotions; it requires knowledge of the truth about God, the world, others and ourselves.
  
  This knowledge is not merely book knowledge (although that can help), but especially applied personal and spiritual knowledge. For example, yesterday was Miriam and my wedding anniversary. I have been reflecting recently on how much better I know her now than I did four years ago when we first married, and this knowledge comes from the experience of my relationship with her; it could not have come only from reading facts about her. In order to learn about her in this way, my active participation and observation are required, and I will always have more to learn about her. Further, learning more about her and my relationship with her has taught me more about myself as well.
  
  
• 'and to knowledge, self-control' -- As we come to know God and ourselves more truthfully, we recognise especially our own passions and sinful habits. This teaches us when to pull away, limit ourselves and keep from stepping over the line ('trespassing') into sin. Christlikeness is not only moving towards someone, Christ, but also moving away from something, our sinful nature. Self-control means mastering ourselves so that we may not sin and so that Christ's character may form in us.
  
  For an example of the relationship between knowledge and self-control, I have a skin condition that flares up when I eat certain foods. By carefully monitoring what I eat and how it affects my skin (knowledge), I can know what foods to limit myself from eating too much of or to avoid eating altogether (self-control). Perhaps our soul is similarly impacted by the passions, and by paying attention to our internal reactions, we can learn how to control our desires to avoid damaging ourselves and others.
  
  
• 'and to self-control, perseverance' -- It's easy to overcome temptation once in our life, or at least far easier than to consistently do so. This relates to my previous dietary example; it's one thing to avoid eating a piece of chocolate cake once, but to commit to doing so for the rest of my life requires greater strength. Thus we need perseverance to maintain our discipleship for the long-haul.
  
  We recently climbed a mountain (Bow Fell, in case you're wondering, among the Cumbrian Mountains) and as we started off, I realised that I would enjoy the ascent much better by focussing on taking small but steady steps. That way, too, I would not tire myself out in my rush to climb the mountain. 
  
  Thus, perseverance requires a commitment to see things through and wisdom to pace oneself, taking on only as much as we know we can handle until we know we can take on more. Again this connects between knowledge, self-control and perseverance: without knowledge of our abilities and limitations, and without the self-control to discipline ourselves, we cannot achieve the sustainable pace required for perseverance.
  
  
• 'and to perseverance, godliness' -- Godliness begins with our devoted relationship to God. As we persevere in our transformation, we don't become stoic and cold-hearted; we become holy, glowing with the love of God. 
  
  When I consider godly people I've met, I am struck by the warmth of their love, even upon meeting them for the first time, which must come from a life hidden in God.
  
  This, I imagine, is what inspired the woman with a sinful reputation to wash Jesus' feet with her tears. Without a word, she knew that Jesus loved her and this moved her to pour out her own love to him in thanksgiving. In this act of love, she found healing (see Luke 7:36-50).
  
  
• 'and to godliness, brotherly kindness' -- Brotherly kindness develops from godliness, which itself develops from the previous stages. Thus, we have seen explicitly the link between faith (the first stage) and love for others (here in the last stages). Although this link is spoken about throughout the scriptures, here we learn that there are several stages in-between (virtue, knowledge, self-control, perseverance and godliness). This suggests that genuine compassion for others doesn't develop overnight; we can't expect compassion to emerge simply by forcing a smile or making a one-off donation to charity. Rather, such compassion comes through the slow formation of our character, involving our effort in partnership with God's power to help us.
  
  
• 'and to brotherly kindness, love.' -- Love is the crown of our discipleship. This love is a union between our love for God, our love for others and God's love for us. This love is not sentimental, fickle, wavering or romantic; rather, it is faithful, virtuous, insightful, self-controlled, persevering, godly and compassionate. 
  
  This is the nature of God's love for us in Christ, shown by his steadfast concern for the human race and the world. As we grow towards embodying this love, we become who God intends us to be. God is love and we cannot know God without love.
  

I don't claim to have arrived at this level of maturity in love. I write about it like someone standing at the bottom of a mountain, describing what I see of the summit above me with my naked eyes and as it looks on a map.

Where am I in these stages of discipleship? I can't say, but I wonder if one can be at multiple stages at the same time, like how a single runner bean plant can have several clusters of flowers blooming at different stages in different areas: some just beginning to bud, some flowers fully open and being pollinated by flies and bees and some beans emerging to the glory of God. 

Like the perennial runner bean, maybe we can always grow deeper in each of these eight stages, developing from one to the next in a process that will only find its fulfilment when at last Christ is revealed.

Courgettes and greatness

'Courgette' is the French name, used in the UK, for 'zucchini'

For the past two months, we have been enjoying the steady growth of our courgettes (a kind of squash in the gourd family). However, we've been harvesting them as soon as they are about four to six inches long, rather than waiting until they grow larger to become marrows. The main reason for this is that many of our young courgettes have rotted, so we pluck them as soon as they are ready. 

Apparently there are many possible causes for the withering of young courgettes. In our case, the most likely reason is poor drainage or too much rain, each of which disturb the root development.

A similar challenge involving a gourd plant occurred for the prophet Jonah. While sitting on the outskirts of the city of Nineveh, a gourd plant grew beside him, shading him from the heat. (Who knows? It could have been a courgette.) But the next morning, a worm devoured the plant, and when Jonah discovered this, he became angry. This led to a conversation with God in which God explained that, just as Jonah cared for the gourd, so God cared for the people of Nineveh.

As the capital of the Assyrian Empire, the Ninevites had a reputation for doing evil and violence. But God saw their value beneath their evil, giving them a chance to humbly repent and become holy. Nineveh was like the gourd plant, planted to provide shade and comfort to others, but just as the worm devoured the gourd, Nineveh's evil was leading to its own demise. 

Thus, God sends Jonah to preach against Nineveh's sins, in the hope that they will turn to God. The plan works. As soon as they hear Jonah's preaching, all the people of Nineveh, from the greatest to the least, declare a fast and wear garments of mourning. Even the king leaves his throne to sit upon ashes. Most importantly, they resolve to cease committing evil and violence, and they turn to God. This results in God having mercy on them and sparing them from destruction. At the end of the book, God tells Jonah Nineveh is a 'great city' because in it dwell thousands of people in need of guidance (they 'do not know either their right hand or their left'), and much livestock. 

Nineveh can resemble any nation, group or individual with both great power and great evil. I have been thinking about Nineveh because of a recent conversation I had with someone about my being an American living in the UK. He asked me, 'What good has come out of America?' I could almost hear beneath that question a resemblance to Jonah's question about Nineveh: is this nation worth God's mercy?

This may sound like a strange question, but it is relevant, especially in a time when most of the news people in the UK hear about the US is terrible: mass shootings, police brutality, violent protests and sexual abuse -- just to name a few examples. 

I said I could answer their question on several levels, but ultimately the good that I have seen in America comes from things one doesn't read about in the news: people I know who love their neighbours as themselves, people who 'act justly, love mercy and walk humbly with [their] God'. Throughout the many places I've lived and travelled in the US, I have met families and communities that welcome strangers and support those in need with mercy and compassion.

Where does this greatness in mercy come from? I believe it begins with repentance, just as the Ninevites' greatness was restored through their repentance. To illustrate, a friend on Facebook recently posted a picture of a family kneeling in prayer in their sitting room. The caption of the picture said something like 'This is how America becomes great again'. 

Someone commented in opposition, saying what's needed is not prayer, but that people should live as Jesus lived. I understand the reasoning behind this response; prayer alone is meaningless if we don't live in obedience to God's commands, seeking justice for those who are wronged and supporting the most vulnerable in our midst. Jesus spoke against those who flaunted their spiritual resources and yet did not show mercy to people in need. 

But Jesus also prayed regularly and taught his disciples to pray, and he marked the beginning of his public ministry by fasting and praying in the wilderness for forty days. Prayer was foundational, and thus essential, to his work of teaching, healing and liberating people from evil. Jesus is even now praying on our behalf before the heavenly throne, as it says in the book of Hebrews. 

Not only that; prayer is putting ourselves in a posture of humility before God. Every time we come before God in humility, we are repenting to some degree, since repentance is turning away from ourselves and turning to God. 

Without such ongoing repentance, we become like courgettes rotting from poor soil conditions. But when we turn from the evil and violence that are in each of us and turn instead to God, then with God's help we will destroy the worm that eats away at us, and God's healing will come. 

God has created all people for greatness. But this greatness does not come from doing violence or following our passions, which destroy us in the end; rather, it begins with humbling ourselves before God so that we may receive mercy, which leads to a life empowered by God in joyful service to others. This is true greatness.

As Jesus said, 'Whoever humbles himself will be exalted'. He is our leader in this, as he humbled himself even to death, and was raised by God as the victor over death and evil. He grants all who follow him the power to crush the sin that devours us, recovering our identity as children of God and granting us citizenship into the kingdom of heaven.

Sharing as an act of worship

 

'Uchiki kuri' squash

Many churches in the UK are preparing to celebrate the annual Harvest Festival in a few weeks, in which they will give thanks to God for his blessings on the land and in their lives, and also share with others. Traditionally, people bring vegetables and other produce to church on Harvest Sunday as an offering to God and to be distributed among the community; it's also common to bring tinned food to donate to food banks or collect money for people in need.

The book of Hebrews says such sharing is one of two acts of worship: 'Through Jesus, therefore, let us offer to God a sacrifice of praise -- the fruit of lips that confess his name. And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased' (13:15-16).

In other words, worship consists of two dimensions, 1) our offerings to God, such as praising him and confessing Jesus' name, and 2) our offerings to others through doing good and sharing with them, which pleases God.

These two dimensions resemble the great commandment, which Jesus teaches is the summary of the Law: that we are to love God with all that we are and love our neighbour as ourselves.

This also resembles what James writes in his letter, that faith in God (the vertical dimension) is completed by good deeds (the horizontal dimension), without which our faith is dead.  

This surprises me because when I think of worship, I usually only think of the vertical dimension. I'm not downplaying that dimension; it is essential. However, our worship is empty if we do not also perform acts of mercy to the people in our communities. If we love God, then we will honour him by loving our neighbours as well, who are made in God's image.

Thus, there is potentially no separation between the spiritual and the material, between the sacred and the secular, between holiness and everything else. All of these categories can be holy altars if, through Jesus, we bless God by offering ourselves to him and to others. 

For example, a few years ago, our church at the time celebrated the Harvest Festival by hosting a ceilidh open to the community, free of charge. (Ceilidh is the Gaelic word for 'visit'; traditionally, it meant gathering to share local news and music, but now it's associated with Scottish folk dancing.) A live folk band and caller performed and led folk dances for over fifty people. Volunteer cooks also brought casseroles, pies, stews and other warm meals for everyone to share. 

I didn't make this connection at the time, but looking back, that ceilidh was an act of worship because we were sharing with one another in Jesus' name, which (I hope) blessed God. 

If worship is a ceilidh, then Jesus is the caller, at the center of it all directing the music and dancing. The book of Hebrews uses different language, saying Jesus is our high priest. Further, he leads by example, modelling for us sharing as an act of worship. Throughout his earthly life, he shared his power with others by feeding, healing and teaching them. Through offering himself on the cross, he shared with the world his very life, making us holy by his suffering. Now he leads us in worship at the heavenly altar, sharing his life with us through interceding for us, praying that we may endure our trials and join him in his perfection.

During lockdown, our local church regularly collected offerings for some of the nearby food banks. The pandemic has increased many peoples' need for support from food banks, due to their being let off work and other economic hardships. Thus, even while public worship services were prohibited for several months this summer, the church continued its worship through sharing food and resources. But the work continues; food banks warn that they are expecting an increase in clients this coming winter because of financial-support schemes ending and continued economic downturn.

When I worked at a food bank a few years ago, one of the recurring statements I heard from people donating money or food was 'I could just as easily be in such need'. Such donors were humbly sharing out of solidarity and the realisation that we are all connected. 

In addition to compassion, I think we are called to give for the simple reason that it blesses God. Sharing is an act of worship, putting us in touch with our primary identity as worshippers of God. Father Alexander Schmemann says it this way: 

"Homo sapiens," "homo faber" . . . yes, but first of all, "homo adorans." The first, the basic definition of man is that he is the priest. He stands in the center of the world and unifies it in his act of blessing God, of both receiving the world from God and offering it to God -- and by filling the world with this eucharist, he transforms his life, the one that he receives from the world, into life in God, into communion with Him. (For the Life of the World)

In other words, all people are called to be priests, blessing God through receiving his gifts and then offering them back to him. One way we bless God is sharing with our neighbours.

In addition to physical provisions, we can share our time with people. When I first visited Iona Abbey as a guest, I had a conversation over lunch with an older woman who told me that Iona had taught her how to take the time to be with and pay attention to other people, rather than pass them by or take them for granted. The greatest gift we can share with others is our time, she said, recalling how her grandmother, at the end of her life, only wished that she had more time to be with others. 

I close with words from a sermon by St John Chrysostom that clarifies all I have said with an image of two altars at which we worship: the first is the Lord's table, where we receive the body and blood of Christ through Communion, and the second is the table of the poor, in whom we also find Christ: 

This [second] altar may thou everywhere see lying, both in lanes and in market places, and may sacrifice upon it every hour; for on this too is sacrifice performed. . . .  When then you see a poor believer, think that you behold an altar: when you see such an one a beggar, not only insult him not, but even reverence him, and if you see another insulting him, prevent, repel it.

In light of this, I ask, who are the poor in my communities? How might we worship God through doing good and sharing with others in Jesus' name?

Christ overcomes our fear of death

 

Autumn approaches the Furness Peninsula

Autumn comes: I feel the crisp bite of cold in the air, and see the bracken on the hills and some of the trees beginning to brown. In our garden, the sugar snap peas have long slowed their production, and the vines are drooping and yellowing, soon to be pulled up and thrown into the compost bin.

Autumn is usually a season when I think of death to a small degree, but even more so this year. I was recently telling someone about how the coronavirus has highlighted to me my own mortality. For most of my life I've known that I will die, but it's easy to push that thought aside, distracted by daily business, entertainment and other things. However, reading news reports about rising infection rates and death tolls and seeing photographs of people of all ages and fitness levels in hospital beds connected to ventilators has reminded me of how I could just as well be in their position, and that at some point death waits for us all, whether or not we're ready for it or expecting it.

I don't think I have thought about death this much since middle school. At one point, I was ill for several weeks, and while at home recovering, I thought much about death -- my own and that of my loved ones -- which caused prolonged sadness. After I recovered, I didn't think about death as often (partly because I had other things going on, like being at school rather than at home alone), but at times the weight of fear and sorrow would return.

The summer of my first year of high school, I grew deeply in my faith in Christ, and I learned much about God through praying and reading the Bible. That summer marked a turning point for me in many ways, one of which was that I was filled with joy and hope. I had my low days, but never like those weeks in middle school when I was ill and some time afterwards, when the fear of death preoccupied me. I still knew that death was coming, but I no longer dreaded it because I also knew that Christ was with me.

The Letter to the Hebrews says that Jesus shared in our humanity 'so that by his death he might destroy him who holds the power of death -- that is, the devil -- and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by their fear of death' (2:14-15). 

To some degree, this describes what I experienced. During those middle-school years, I was in bondage to my fear of death, but this changed when I understood that Christ conquered death by dying and rising from the dead, pioneering the way for those who follow him to our own resurrection after we die.

However, I am aware that, while I have confronted my fear of death, I have not yet faced death itself. In these days of the pandemic, thinking about death more often, I ask myself how truly I do trust in Christ to save us from death, to meet us on the other side. When death is staring me in the face, will my faith in Christ be firm? Will I be afraid then?

I want to be like the saints and martyrs who bravely stood firm in their faith, even when it meant they would be executed, who in some cases welcomed death because they considered it an honour to suffer for Christ's sake, knowing it would unite them with him. I believe that for such Christians, while death has been something to both acknowledge and respect, by the power of the Holy Spirit, it has not been something to fear.

Jesus says, 'If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it' (Luke 9:23-24).

Following Jesus, therefore, means dying small deaths every day so that we may partake of his life. This little dying is like practising for our physical death. It means turning away from our selves, our passions and our sins, and turning towards God. Paradoxically, it is only in losing ourselves like this that we are found in God, restored to our full humanity, fully alive.

That first summer of high school, I let go of who I thought I was at the time and discovered that I was becoming a new person in Christ -- a truer version of myself, this time not burdened by fear. This process has continued ever since, one in which I am coming closer to the truth about myself and about Christ.

When I take the time to sit quietly, shedding distractions, I realise that it is my deepest desire to meet with Christ because he is my life, a life that is stronger than death.

This, I think, is what St Simeon experienced when he met Jesus. Simeon had been told by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before seeing the Messiah. At last, he met Jesus as a baby in the temple, and he held Jesus in his arms, praising God in prayer.

Simeon's prayer (with which I end this post) is remembered by Christians in various worship services. When I worked at the Iona Abbey, we would recite his prayer to conclude the Sunday evening quiet service. In the Anglican tradition, his prayer also ends the evensong service, and similarly in the Orthodox Church, it is prayed towards the end of the vespers (evening) service. It is fitting that each of these services takes place at night, since night often symbolises death, but perhaps even more significant that for the Hebrews and the ancient Church, evening marks not the end but the beginning of the day. Although the rest of the world sees death as the end, we who are in Christ face it as the beginning of our life. 

Further, that Simeon's prayer concludes worship suggests that in our daily lives, as we die to ourselves, offering our bodies to God as living sacrifices through our worship and service, we too encounter the Messiah.

When I am staring death in the face, and even now as I seek to take up my cross daily so that I may more fully live, I hope to join in Simeon's praise for having found, or rather for having been found in Christ, knowing that through death I will see Christ's own face.

Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,

now dismiss your servant in peace.

For my eyes have seen your salvation,

which you have prepared in the sight of all people,

a light for revelation to the Gentiles

and glory to your people Israel.

Take courage!

Strengthen the feeble hands,

steady the knees that give way;

say to those with fearful hearts,

'Be strong, do not fear;

your God will come'.

Isaiah 35:3-4a

A bee regathering its strength on a hot day

Towards the beginning of lockdown, I read some thoughts written by a pastor about the pandemic. He recalled advice given by a sports coach: 'Fear no one, but respect everyone', and applied that to COVID-19, aiming to live bravely in face of the virus without being reckless.

That advice rang in my mind the first time I shopped for groceries during lockdown. Now, months later, I've plucked up more courage to go out and do such things. But among many of us, myself included, courage is still needed to face these times. 

Of course, we are not the first to live in a time of uncertainty. It seems courage has always been required. In the Gospel of John, for example, soon before Jesus is arrested and crucified, he tells his disciples, 'In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world' (16:33b). 

Jesus knew the trouble his disciples would face, not only in the short-term when they would feel lost without him, but also in the long-term, after his resurrection and ascension, when they would face persecution. The disciples' uncertainty was unlike ours in many ways, yet they too needed courage to endure their trials.

They would remember Jesus' words, 'Take heart!', encouraging them to faithfully witness to the truth they had learned about him, even though it would cost many of their lives. ('Take heart' means 'Take courage', since 'courage' comes from the Latin word for 'heart'.)

They would remember his words, 'I have overcome the world', reminding them that even though the authorities would use their power to try to crush them, all authority in heaven and on earth ultimately belonged to Jesus (Matt. 28:18).  

Thus, it takes courage to have integrity, to live in accordance with what is in one's heart, especially when other people or forces oppose one. Facing that opposition requires courage. In other words, it takes courage to tell the truth, both with our words and our actions. Perhaps we are courageous only by living truthfully. 

Jesus' word to his disciples -- 'Take heart!' -- applies to all who seek to live truthfully, all who seek to love God with all their courage (Mark 12:30), in a time when fear can tempt us to surrender to death instead.

It takes courage to trust in God's love for us when we are suffering.

It takes courage to love other people when doing so involves swallowing our pride or sacrificing something of ourselves.

It takes courage to live with integrity when it's easier to blur the truth instead.

It takes courage to do what we know is right when we fear the consequences.

It takes courage to carry on when the future looks bleak.

Though it may not seem like it, Jesus is Lord -- even over the coronavirus, even over the leaders of the nations, even over death itself. 

It takes courage to live in faith that this is true.

'Take heart! I have overcome the world.'