{I don't want to rattle-- and I have no plans to let myself be tossed away}
Monday, October 27, 2014
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Consider the lilies of the field... and the keepers of the law
Lately, I have been considering the Pharisees. Members of an ancient Jewish sect who were particularly strict and particularly righteous. In my experience, they are often dismissed with a wave of the hand in Christianity. The Pharisees were... difficult. And aggravating. And pretentious, pious, and proud. Most often, though, what we hear of the Pharisees is that they were legalistic: careful followers of the Hebrew scriptures, and tough critics of one another and the people around them.
Lately, I have been considering the Pharisees, because I have been considering the lilies. See, I'm a thinker. Which means that I often let my brain dictate the battles between my heart and my head. It means that I would rather think sound thoughts about Jesus than have the warm & fuzzies. It means that when I consider, I do my fair share of considering. And recently, I've been considering the words of Christ-- one of my favorite things that Jesus asks of the crowds is to "consider the lilies of the field, how they grow." It may not sound earth-shattering, but recently, I have taken to believing that it was.
In Jesus' time, in the Pharisee's time, adhering properly to the law was given a place of prominent importance. The Pharisees spent their days dedicated to the proper implementation of the law of God. And they were good at it. Everyone knew this. They did not stumble... and if they did, it was rarely, and likely understandable because the Law of God is difficult. However, I believe that the piety of the Pharisees had become so great that they began to worship their ability to follow the law rather than rejoice in the Law.
And in comes Jesus, a country boy- by all accounts- whose father was a carpenter, who hailed from the small fishing town of Nazareth. Who looked at the people. And sat with the people. And walked with the people... and he told them stories. Stories filled with the gentleness of burdens shared, and the joy of the lost being found, and the promise that the small could, indeed, be mighty. Jesus told stories, and the Pharisees gave boundaries. Of course, the common people loved Jesus. Of course, the Pharisees did not. Jesus rejoiced in the Law. He even said so (Matthew 5:17).
And in one of these moments, Jesus says to the gathering around him: don't worry (Luke 12:27). The words that every person who has ever felt not-good-enough longs to hear. The words that would've crushed the Pharisees and made the made them defensive. Don't worry. Can you imagine? All that you have worked for, struggled for, and mastered completely dismissed by a country boy from the sticks? It would've been outrageous to the Pharisees...
But Jesus continues, saying to the people: consider the lilies-- which, in Israel, grow like wildflowers. Everywhere! Consider the lilies. In my mind, Jesus looked at the people and said: you don't have to climb the gym rope, hardly anyone can. Instead, walk a lap, it'll be good enough. You don't have to be the elite to be loved. You don't need to worry yourself with the scrutiny of the Law to know the Father.
Even as I wrote those words, my shoulders relaxed. And in my heart beat a hallelujah. How beautiful is our God? How delightful is our Jesus? That we don't have to worry. We don't have to stand against the doorjamb and straighten our spines and will ourselves to be tall enough. We must simply stop... and consider the whimsy of the wildflowers. And remember that we known, we are loved, we are enough. We do not need to worry.
And now, the greatest of challenges: we have to help others consider the lilies around them. We have to take the hands of others and walk with them. We can't receive our own measure of grace and not extend to others what has been extended to us. We have to continuously shed the weight of the Pharisees and remember to consider the lilies.
Lately, I have been considering the Pharisees, because I have been considering the lilies. See, I'm a thinker. Which means that I often let my brain dictate the battles between my heart and my head. It means that I would rather think sound thoughts about Jesus than have the warm & fuzzies. It means that when I consider, I do my fair share of considering. And recently, I've been considering the words of Christ-- one of my favorite things that Jesus asks of the crowds is to "consider the lilies of the field, how they grow." It may not sound earth-shattering, but recently, I have taken to believing that it was.
In Jesus' time, in the Pharisee's time, adhering properly to the law was given a place of prominent importance. The Pharisees spent their days dedicated to the proper implementation of the law of God. And they were good at it. Everyone knew this. They did not stumble... and if they did, it was rarely, and likely understandable because the Law of God is difficult. However, I believe that the piety of the Pharisees had become so great that they began to worship their ability to follow the law rather than rejoice in the Law.
And in comes Jesus, a country boy- by all accounts- whose father was a carpenter, who hailed from the small fishing town of Nazareth. Who looked at the people. And sat with the people. And walked with the people... and he told them stories. Stories filled with the gentleness of burdens shared, and the joy of the lost being found, and the promise that the small could, indeed, be mighty. Jesus told stories, and the Pharisees gave boundaries. Of course, the common people loved Jesus. Of course, the Pharisees did not. Jesus rejoiced in the Law. He even said so (Matthew 5:17).
And in one of these moments, Jesus says to the gathering around him: don't worry (Luke 12:27). The words that every person who has ever felt not-good-enough longs to hear. The words that would've crushed the Pharisees and made the made them defensive. Don't worry. Can you imagine? All that you have worked for, struggled for, and mastered completely dismissed by a country boy from the sticks? It would've been outrageous to the Pharisees...
But Jesus continues, saying to the people: consider the lilies-- which, in Israel, grow like wildflowers. Everywhere! Consider the lilies. In my mind, Jesus looked at the people and said: you don't have to climb the gym rope, hardly anyone can. Instead, walk a lap, it'll be good enough. You don't have to be the elite to be loved. You don't need to worry yourself with the scrutiny of the Law to know the Father.
Even as I wrote those words, my shoulders relaxed. And in my heart beat a hallelujah. How beautiful is our God? How delightful is our Jesus? That we don't have to worry. We don't have to stand against the doorjamb and straighten our spines and will ourselves to be tall enough. We must simply stop... and consider the whimsy of the wildflowers. And remember that we known, we are loved, we are enough. We do not need to worry.
And now, the greatest of challenges: we have to help others consider the lilies around them. We have to take the hands of others and walk with them. We can't receive our own measure of grace and not extend to others what has been extended to us. We have to continuously shed the weight of the Pharisees and remember to consider the lilies.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
When I am grateful for a house with many rooms
It's no secret to most of my closest friends that I'm pretty progressive. I'm down with universal healthcare. I voted for Obama- twice (and I don't regret it at all). I'm an evolutionist-- I believe God made it, but it took a LONG TIME... and science, well, I believe that points to God. I believe that women have the right to choose. I believe in recognizing my privilege-- because it's there. And I believe that in my acknowledgement, I can help work for race and gender equality to the betterment of the future. I don't believe in perpetuating gender stereotypes-- I believe little girls can be strong and little boys can be beautiful, and vice versa. I believe that everyone is allowed to cry when they're sad, yell when they're angry, and play with dolls AND legos. I try my best to support the LGBTQ community-- and I love my young people who find themselves there. Especially my young people. They struggle because they have an understanding of their innate self that others will not accept.
I differ from some of my nearest and dearest friends in these ways-- for both political and religious reasons. But, before we necessarily knew that about each other, we loved each other. I've bonded with friends over hours of Friends episodes, over mutual love of pomegranate frozen yogurt, over obsessions with anything/everything cable-knit, over a fascination with spoken word poetry, over an unfortunate addiction to Netflix, over a deep and steady love for the Lord... these are the things that cause my heart to swell when I speak of those I love. Their hearts are close to mine. Their humanity is plain to me- and it stands at the forefront. There is grace between us.
And this is what arises when we speak to one another over these things in which our disagreement lies. Not fear, not hate... sometimes disappointment... sometimes frustration... but always, always grace. It is a grace that I extend, and a grace that has been extended (and overextended) to me.
In this grace-- in this space-- between my friends and I, the veil has been lifted. And in my heart, I believe that I have seen the Kingdom of God. The Father's House, which has many rooms. The space in which Heaven has kissed the Earth-- it has been kissed with grace. With kindness. With the love that not only stands in the gap, but the love that fills the gaps up, and gives us abundance. An olive branch that I believe only the Holy Spirit could extend.
And this... this is why my heart aches: because I have seen this beautiful space. The Father's House, which has many rooms. The Father's House, which has space for you and space for me and space for all of our baggage and all of our wounds and all of our triumphs and all of our hopes and all of our fears and all of our joy and all of our criticisms, the Father's House is not a piece of land that one of us can put a stake in and claim for ourselves exclusively. The Father's House belongs to my traditional friends, my conservative friends, my progressive friends, my liberal friends... the Father's House belongs to the Father. And all who believe. And all who dare to believe that His grace is sufficient. And all who believe that we have received the fullness of Jesus Christ, in whom we have all received grace upon grace (Jn. 1:16).
And I cannot help but be grateful for this house. For this love that reaches me and reaches you; and reaches us in our valleys and finds us on our mountaintops. And, occasionally, when I find people beneath the Cross that see Jesus' house very differently than I do, I simply remind myself that indeed, the Father's House has many rooms... and that the love of Jesus has found us in different rooms... separated by long hallways.
But regardless, I am grateful. Grateful that I share this house with beautiful friends-- who agree and disagree with me on a multitude of things-- beneath the banner of Love, and constantly surrounded by grace.
I differ from some of my nearest and dearest friends in these ways-- for both political and religious reasons. But, before we necessarily knew that about each other, we loved each other. I've bonded with friends over hours of Friends episodes, over mutual love of pomegranate frozen yogurt, over obsessions with anything/everything cable-knit, over a fascination with spoken word poetry, over an unfortunate addiction to Netflix, over a deep and steady love for the Lord... these are the things that cause my heart to swell when I speak of those I love. Their hearts are close to mine. Their humanity is plain to me- and it stands at the forefront. There is grace between us.
And this is what arises when we speak to one another over these things in which our disagreement lies. Not fear, not hate... sometimes disappointment... sometimes frustration... but always, always grace. It is a grace that I extend, and a grace that has been extended (and overextended) to me.
In this grace-- in this space-- between my friends and I, the veil has been lifted. And in my heart, I believe that I have seen the Kingdom of God. The Father's House, which has many rooms. The space in which Heaven has kissed the Earth-- it has been kissed with grace. With kindness. With the love that not only stands in the gap, but the love that fills the gaps up, and gives us abundance. An olive branch that I believe only the Holy Spirit could extend.
And this... this is why my heart aches: because I have seen this beautiful space. The Father's House, which has many rooms. The Father's House, which has space for you and space for me and space for all of our baggage and all of our wounds and all of our triumphs and all of our hopes and all of our fears and all of our joy and all of our criticisms, the Father's House is not a piece of land that one of us can put a stake in and claim for ourselves exclusively. The Father's House belongs to my traditional friends, my conservative friends, my progressive friends, my liberal friends... the Father's House belongs to the Father. And all who believe. And all who dare to believe that His grace is sufficient. And all who believe that we have received the fullness of Jesus Christ, in whom we have all received grace upon grace (Jn. 1:16).
And I cannot help but be grateful for this house. For this love that reaches me and reaches you; and reaches us in our valleys and finds us on our mountaintops. And, occasionally, when I find people beneath the Cross that see Jesus' house very differently than I do, I simply remind myself that indeed, the Father's House has many rooms... and that the love of Jesus has found us in different rooms... separated by long hallways.
But regardless, I am grateful. Grateful that I share this house with beautiful friends-- who agree and disagree with me on a multitude of things-- beneath the banner of Love, and constantly surrounded by grace.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
On speaking life
I'm a youth pastor.
Okay, technically, my title is Director of Student Ministry. But that's a mouth-full. And it makes me sound pretentious when I introduce myself to my students' friends, or their parents to say, "Hi, I'm Jess! I'm so-and-so's Director of Student Ministry."
Ew. I hate sounding pretentious. Even more than I hate mushrooms. And I loathe mushrooms.
So, today, in this space, I am a youth pastor. And my job is sometimes hard-- because adolescence is COMPLICATED. I have only been removed from teenagerdom for 6 years, and HOLY CUSS WORDS, BATMAN, adolescence is complicated. My students-- my kids, my babes, my people, etc-- struggle with stuff.
I mean, we all struggle with our stuff, but when you have feelingsX1000, on top of coming into your own, abiding by everyone else's rules and rarely your own, and feeling rarely in control, struggling with stuff becomes the understatement of the century. And when you have feelingsX1000, holding onto yourself feels just as impossible as climbing that cursed rope in gym class. It feels like holding up a world that is dead-set on crumbling around you. While everyone else watches, points, and laughs.
I remember that. Sometimes, I still feel that way. And since I can't scoop all of them up and hold onto them until they all turn 20 and the world starts to level out again, I shepherd them. To the best of my ability- with all that I have. With all that I can hold. With all that I can't. With fear. With joy. With abandon. With timidity. With every ounce of bravery that I have... I shepherd them.
And I take every opportunity to throw my arms around their necks and tell them that they are loved. To kiss them on the head and remind them that they are wanted. To bump their fist and remind them that they are seen. To speak life into their hearts and into their minds. Because I love them. I want them. I see them all. And I believe in the deepest reaches of myself that Jesus loves them, wants them, and sees them. There are too many things around us that speak worry, doubt, fear, anxiety, and exclusion to who my young people are. But they are none of those things. I see them as they truly are: as beloved. And I see them right where they are: as beloved.
Put all the titles on it that you want, my job is to speak life. To give life. To see life and call it forth in all of the young people that I shepherd. Until they see themselves the way that I know Jesus sees them: as beloved.
Okay, technically, my title is Director of Student Ministry. But that's a mouth-full. And it makes me sound pretentious when I introduce myself to my students' friends, or their parents to say, "Hi, I'm Jess! I'm so-and-so's Director of Student Ministry."
Ew. I hate sounding pretentious. Even more than I hate mushrooms. And I loathe mushrooms.
So, today, in this space, I am a youth pastor. And my job is sometimes hard-- because adolescence is COMPLICATED. I have only been removed from teenagerdom for 6 years, and HOLY CUSS WORDS, BATMAN, adolescence is complicated. My students-- my kids, my babes, my people, etc-- struggle with stuff.
I mean, we all struggle with our stuff, but when you have feelingsX1000, on top of coming into your own, abiding by everyone else's rules and rarely your own, and feeling rarely in control, struggling with stuff becomes the understatement of the century. And when you have feelingsX1000, holding onto yourself feels just as impossible as climbing that cursed rope in gym class. It feels like holding up a world that is dead-set on crumbling around you. While everyone else watches, points, and laughs.
I remember that. Sometimes, I still feel that way. And since I can't scoop all of them up and hold onto them until they all turn 20 and the world starts to level out again, I shepherd them. To the best of my ability- with all that I have. With all that I can hold. With all that I can't. With fear. With joy. With abandon. With timidity. With every ounce of bravery that I have... I shepherd them.
And I take every opportunity to throw my arms around their necks and tell them that they are loved. To kiss them on the head and remind them that they are wanted. To bump their fist and remind them that they are seen. To speak life into their hearts and into their minds. Because I love them. I want them. I see them all. And I believe in the deepest reaches of myself that Jesus loves them, wants them, and sees them. There are too many things around us that speak worry, doubt, fear, anxiety, and exclusion to who my young people are. But they are none of those things. I see them as they truly are: as beloved. And I see them right where they are: as beloved.
Put all the titles on it that you want, my job is to speak life. To give life. To see life and call it forth in all of the young people that I shepherd. Until they see themselves the way that I know Jesus sees them: as beloved.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
To my students, on their first day of school
You got up before me this morning-- maybe you wondered what you should wear, what you needed to take with you. Maybe, like me, you wrestled with your hair. Maybe you're nervous. Maybe you're excited. Maybe those feelings have been mixed so deeply, you're not sure where one begins and the other ends.
It's your first day back to school.
For some of you, you're starting middle school-- a time of reinvention. For some of you, you're starting high school-- a time of reinvention. Again. For some of you, you're back where you were last year, a little older, a little wiser, a little bit ready for the routine of it all, and simultaneously dreading the homework, and the school politics, and the early wake-up time.
You woke up, and you made your way back into brick buildings filled with individuals who are ready to instruct you, to teach you, to help you grow. Filled with individuals who are ready to befriend you, love you, and model themselves after you. And I woke up, wrestled with my hair, and hit the coffee shop where I write my messages.
We both began again today. We started somewhere new, somewhere familiar, somewhere bigger than we're used to, somewhere that already feels too small to hold us. And we began- again. I sit here, with a cup of coffee and my headphones on, and I begin to believe that there is something wonderful in store for you. Something deeply indescribable- something wonderful- the cusp of a great adventure.
And so today, on your first day of school, I have many hopes for you... but one I will carry in my heart for each of you this year: be brave. Refuse to be sharpened by that which does not help your being. Arm yourselves with love. Learn from your mistakes. Be 100% you.
Because who you are... you're enough. You're wonderful. You are the face of God wherever you are-- so wear it well. Wear it like it fits you- because it does. It fits you perfectly and exactly. Wear it bravely. It is not always easy to follow Jesus- so make the decision every.single.day.
Above all, know that you are brave, that you are fought for, and that you are loved. In the familiar, and in the adventure.
It's your first day back to school.
For some of you, you're starting middle school-- a time of reinvention. For some of you, you're starting high school-- a time of reinvention. Again. For some of you, you're back where you were last year, a little older, a little wiser, a little bit ready for the routine of it all, and simultaneously dreading the homework, and the school politics, and the early wake-up time.
You woke up, and you made your way back into brick buildings filled with individuals who are ready to instruct you, to teach you, to help you grow. Filled with individuals who are ready to befriend you, love you, and model themselves after you. And I woke up, wrestled with my hair, and hit the coffee shop where I write my messages.
We both began again today. We started somewhere new, somewhere familiar, somewhere bigger than we're used to, somewhere that already feels too small to hold us. And we began- again. I sit here, with a cup of coffee and my headphones on, and I begin to believe that there is something wonderful in store for you. Something deeply indescribable- something wonderful- the cusp of a great adventure.
And so today, on your first day of school, I have many hopes for you... but one I will carry in my heart for each of you this year: be brave. Refuse to be sharpened by that which does not help your being. Arm yourselves with love. Learn from your mistakes. Be 100% you.
Because who you are... you're enough. You're wonderful. You are the face of God wherever you are-- so wear it well. Wear it like it fits you- because it does. It fits you perfectly and exactly. Wear it bravely. It is not always easy to follow Jesus- so make the decision every.single.day.
Above all, know that you are brave, that you are fought for, and that you are loved. In the familiar, and in the adventure.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
On choosing.
I'm pretty charismatic.
You might be thinking, what does that even mean?
It means I believe in the presence of God. In healing. In the prophetic. In miracles. In radical experiences of the Holy when the veil is lifted, and we behold the Glory of the God that I believe is here with us right now.
These are the things I needed to remind myself of... especially lately. With Jesus standing in the crossfires of Christian Culture wars. I found myself needing reminders. Why I work where I work. Why I choose to mix my faith with my profession. Why I fight. Why I believe. Why I don't walk away...
Because I find Jesus here. In me. In you. In this room. In that coffee shop. In the upstairs room of a bar. On Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights... but also on Monday mornings when the newness of God has once again been washed away with my makeup the night before. I find Jesus in blog posts dripping with disdain, and blog posts thirsty for hope. In all of it, I find Jesus...
Whether I agree with everyone who stands beneath the cross of Christ or not, I find Him. And I cling to Him. To His love. To His grace. To His mercy. And I let everything else fall away.
Because more than anything, I need to see Jesus in the excavation of it all. In the stripping away. In the unveiling. In the uncertainty of where I'll find Him. In the certainty that He is there somewhere. In the small, calculated brush strokes that reveal the smallest of parts... and in the places that reveal grand, sweeping truths.
I needed to remind myself that I'm just digging. That we are all digging the bones of Christ up... in our own bones. Finding His flesh mingled with our own. Discovering His heart intertwined with ours. And we uncover Him a little bit... and sometimes, we uncover Him a lot.
But the one thing in all of this that I find to be true is that I find Him... And now I only see Him in part, but then I will fully know.
And until then, I will continue to seek after Him. To find Him. To cling to Him. To believe in Him.
To remind myself why I fight. Why I believe.
Why I won't walk away...
You might be thinking, what does that even mean?
It means I believe in the presence of God. In healing. In the prophetic. In miracles. In radical experiences of the Holy when the veil is lifted, and we behold the Glory of the God that I believe is here with us right now.
These are the things I needed to remind myself of... especially lately. With Jesus standing in the crossfires of Christian Culture wars. I found myself needing reminders. Why I work where I work. Why I choose to mix my faith with my profession. Why I fight. Why I believe. Why I don't walk away...
Because I find Jesus here. In me. In you. In this room. In that coffee shop. In the upstairs room of a bar. On Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights... but also on Monday mornings when the newness of God has once again been washed away with my makeup the night before. I find Jesus in blog posts dripping with disdain, and blog posts thirsty for hope. In all of it, I find Jesus...
Whether I agree with everyone who stands beneath the cross of Christ or not, I find Him. And I cling to Him. To His love. To His grace. To His mercy. And I let everything else fall away.
Because more than anything, I need to see Jesus in the excavation of it all. In the stripping away. In the unveiling. In the uncertainty of where I'll find Him. In the certainty that He is there somewhere. In the small, calculated brush strokes that reveal the smallest of parts... and in the places that reveal grand, sweeping truths.
I needed to remind myself that I'm just digging. That we are all digging the bones of Christ up... in our own bones. Finding His flesh mingled with our own. Discovering His heart intertwined with ours. And we uncover Him a little bit... and sometimes, we uncover Him a lot.
But the one thing in all of this that I find to be true is that I find Him... And now I only see Him in part, but then I will fully know.
And until then, I will continue to seek after Him. To find Him. To cling to Him. To believe in Him.
To remind myself why I fight. Why I believe.
Why I won't walk away...
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