The Last One

“It is done!” – Revelation 21:6

We are here! Today is our last day in our one-year Bible reading plan (a few days short of an actual year, due to some glitch in the adaptation). There is a particular sense of accomplishment in a task finished, isn’t there? When you pull a cake out of the oven, turn over the last page in a book, put the final touches on a drawing. There are probably far too many projects in life we don’t finish, the life-equivalent of TLDR (Too Long, Didn’t Read). Our good intentions too often run out, reflections perhaps of the fact that we didn’t really care enough, or that we simply lacked the perseverance or resources it would have taken to complete what we started.

 

God never leaves a project undone. “I am sure of this,” Paul writes in Philippians 1:6, “that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” This day comes so beautifully here in the last two chapters of Revelation. The proclamation of God that his work is finished occurs three times in the Bible: at creation (Genesis 2:3), on the cross (John 19:30), and here, at the re-creation of the world. Creation, redemption, and re-creation: God never intended to leave the story unfinished, and we carry the hope of knowing how it will end. 

 

How was this Bible reading experience for you? What is your reading plan for tomorrow? For the point, after all, was never to finish the year, but to develop a lifetime habit of daily Bible reading. My plan for continuing is pretty simple: stick a bookmark at the Old Testament, Psalm, Proverbs, and New Testament, and read through one chapter of each a day—I like how this plan chose from those sections, but this way I don’t have to look up exactly what verse to read to, which is fine given there’s no pressure to finish in a year anyway. But your plan might be different; the point is to find something that works. 

 

And if you can, try writing something every day: one thing that stood out to you from the reading. One verse you can scribble down to think on throughout the day. One point of application. One short prayer. Writing helps you consume what you read. It pushes you to read more actively. It takes the seed of the word and burrows it down deeper into the soil of your heart and mind so that it can grow.

 

To all those who are still seeing these posts a year out: thanks for reading! Your invisible presence has encouraged me immensely. May we continue reading and talking about what we’ve read together!

Robbing God

“But you say, ‘How have we robbed you?’ In your tithes and contributions. You are cursed with a curse, for you are robbing me, the whole nation of you. Bring the full tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house.” – Malachi 3:8-10

I can think of people in my life—Dave would be among them—who have the gift of generosity. Who just as easily give away money as keep it. But that is something I’ve historically struggled with. It’s ugly to admit, but I tend to feel entitled to what I earn. A while back, I wrote a piece to myself entitled, “Why does God own everything?” and listed four main reasons: because he created it (“The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the world and those who dwell therein,” Psalm 24:1-2). Because he can take it away at any time (“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away,” Job 1:21). Because we can’t take it with us after we die (“For we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world,” 1 Timothy 6:7). And because he enables me to earn what I do. It is only by his grace that I was born a woman in the late 1900’s and not the late 1800’s; that I had a supportive family and educational opportunities; and so on. Deuteronomy 8:17-18 says, “Beware lest you say in your heart, ‘My power and the might of my hand have gotten me this wealth.’ You shall remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives you power to get wealth.” 

 

God owns everything, and this should change how I live. It does not negate the need for financial wisdom and prudence, but it frees me from anxiety and the desire to control money as a primary means of security. It shoots down my pride. It should lead to greater contentment, freedom from the need to compare what I have with others, and an even greater ability to materially enjoy what I do have. And it should lead me to give willingly, because what I have is not mine but God’s. He means it when he says we rob him when we keep for ourselves what should be accounted as his.

 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “Earthly goods are given to be used, not to be collected… the disciple must receive his portion from God every day. If he stores it up as a permanent possession, he spoils not only the gift, but himself as well, for he sets his heart on his accumulated wealth, and makes it a barrier between himself and God. Where our treasure is, there is our heart, our security, our consolation, and our God.” My old pastor put it more succinctly: “Money is like manure: if you spread it around, it helps things grow. If you hoard it all in one big pile, it stinks.” Sometimes it’s good to be reminded of these not-so-self-evident truths.

Binding Wounds

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” – Psalm 147:3

On the inpatient surgical service, wound dressing typically fell to the medical student or intern during morning rounds, whoever was lowest on the totem pole. The team would stride in, the senior resident asking the patient a few questions while the junior resident did “single-point” auscultation (placing the stethoscope at the lower sternum to hit up heart and abdomen at the same time—notoriously sloppy but efficient). One of them would peel back the dressing, examine the site, then orders would be issued and entered while the team strode off to the next room, leaving the student or intern to redress the wound.

 

Those were the quieter moments on rounds, taking out packs of gauze and paper tape from my white coat pocket, fielding residual questions from the patient. If you think about it, the binding of a wound is an intimate and thoughtful act. It says, I see your hurt, your imperfect places, the things you might not show other people, the places you’ve been wounded or where you carry pain. I am reaching out to touch those places so they can be healed.

 

People like to talk about giving yourself compassion, about forgiving and being kind to yourself. But really, I have nothing to give myself. The only way I can bear my brokenness is to turn to a God who binds up my wounds. Who offers grace when I expect judgment, who sees and understands the depths of my struggles as no one else can. To give myself compassion is merely to receive the compassion He gives to me. I must see myself as forgiven because He has forgiven me. I must be gentle with myself because He is gentle with me. I must have the strength to heal and go on because that is the unspoken purpose in bandaging anything at all. 

 

And He is no minion, no minor member of the team. The next verse says, “He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names.” How jarring: this would be like the attending, the director of the entire surgical service, showing up on morning rounds just to rebandage some patient’s incision. But this is precisely how God uses his power. May we encounter this Healer who “lifts up the humble” (verse 6), who reaches out to touch us in our brokenhearted places. 

Worship In Numbers

“Then I heard what seemed to be the voice of a great multitude, like the roar of many waters and like the sound of mighty peals of thunder, crying out, “Hallelujah! For the Lord our God the Almighty reigns.” – Revelation 19:6

What is the biggest group you’ve ever participated in vocal worship with? For me it would probably be singing with two thousand people at an Urbana conference twenty years ago. Yet even that pales next to what John experiences here. Can you imagine so many people worshipping that the sound is like the roaring of water or pealing of thunder? 

 

There is something about corporate, vocal worship that cannot be replaced. John does not hear in heaven the sound of thousands of people joining a zoom call, or putting together their thoughts on a google doc. He hears their voices together, bodies together, celebrating the marriage supper of the Lamb. It hit me while reading these verses how much I miss that. There is a power, an awakening, an assurance, even an active element of sanctification, that happens when we join in physical deed and voice with others in worship of God. There is a preoccupation with Jesus and his glory that happens when we lose ourselves in a group. There is a particular kind of testimony that is proclaimed when we congregate and proclaim words in unity. There is a speaking that happens not just to God, but to each other. There is a doubling of joy when we share our own joy in God with others. Martin Luther once wrote, “In my own house, there is no warmth or vigor in me, but in the church when the multitude is gathered together, a fire is kindled in my heart and it breaks its way through.”

 

I feel sad that we can’t do that right now. The loss of physical corporate worship must be grieved, and I will certainly not take it for granted when it happens again.

 

At the same time, livestreamed worship is still corporate worship. We’re still singing words of praise at the same time, still united in worship and prayer before God. In fact, learning that we are part of a larger body even when we can’t see or feel the members of that body is an important spiritual skill. Hebrews 12:1 says that we are “surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses”—do you realize that all the believers who have gone before us are watching us, right now? They are joined with us in a very real way, in worship and perhaps even in prayer, whether or not we can see them. And even when we were meeting as a physical congregation in our church sanctuary, the spiritual reality is that we were also joined with all the other believers in all the other churches in our city and around our world in worship of God. One day, we will be able to see these invisible truths in their physical reality. One day, we will be able to meet again in person in our church sanctuary. One day, we will meet all the saints, and all the believers around the world, in the very throne room of God, and hear our voices mingle with theirs in a great roar of joyful worship.

Prophecies and Pottery

“And they weighed out as my wages thirty pieces of silver. Then the Lord said to me, ‘Throw it to the potter’—the lordly price at which I was priced by them. So I took the thirty pieces of silver and threw them into the house of the Lord, to the potter.” – Zechariah 11:12-13

The book of Zechariah, set after the Israelites’ return from exile, reads like a “wild ride” full of non-linear narrative and startling imagery (see Read Scripture video). The first eight chapters are a series of nighttime visions set in a chiastic structure; the last six are a series of Messianic visions. In fact, about 54 passages from Zechariah are echoed in about 67 different places in the New Testament, with the majority of those found in Revelation.

One prophecy I had never caught before occurs in this enacted parable in chapter 11. Zechariah becomes a shepherd who is rejected by his peers and paid out by sheep traders who plan to slaughter the flock. It’s a tragic story with a startling detail: Zechariah gets paid thirty pieces of silver to leave, the same amount that Judas got paid to betray Jesus. Lay this passage out next to Matthew 26-27, and other similarities emerge: there is haggling over the price (Zechariah 11:12, Matthew 26:15), an attempt to return the money by casting it into God’s house (Zechariah 11:13, Matthew 27:5), and ultimately the money’s use towards the potter (Zechariah 11:13, Matthew 27:7).

What is all this about the silver and the potter? Thirty pieces of silver was the amount paid if a slave was gored by an ox (Exodus 21:32)—it was what a slave, a damaged piece of goods, was worth. Zechariah speaks of it as a “lordly price” in sarcasm. A potter’s field was an area where clay was extracted, or a dump for broken shards of pottery—either way, it was cheap land. Zechariah experienced through this story what Jesus did: coming as the true shepherd who loves his sheep, only to be rejected and devalued. 

Ironically, Jesus was gored, by the nails and the spear. He died priced as a slave, his life worth only enough to buy a chunk of cheap land. Zechariah breaks his staffs of Favor and Union in this first parable only to take up the “equipment of a foolish shepherd” in the next, a shepherd who destroys and devours the sheep (Zechariah 11:15-17). We all follow some kind of shepherd. The question is which one: the shepherd who brings a favor and union that leads to life, or the one whose end is destruction?

Steadfast Love

“The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” – Psalm 145:8

One thing I feel acutely aware of these days are the limits of my emotional reserves. If I begin each day with a certain amount of emotional capital, then I make withdrawals every time I exercise patience while teaching the kids, buffer an emotional outburst or negative mood, or address an iceberg issue. These things take a forbearance that costs something, and the cost is higher if I am physically tired or meeting simultaneous needs at once. 

My reserves are not unlimited. When there is a good flow of input as well as output, I don’t notice this so much, but make nothing but withdrawals for long enough, and the limits of my patience become clear. Eventually it feels like I have to dig deeper and deeper to find the composure that the moment calls for. I need to replenish those reserves through respite, through receiving emotional care from others and from God, in order to keep going.

The Bible talks over and over about the chesed love of God. This word doesn’t really have an English equivalent—it is translated “steadfast” or “unfailing” love—but it basically marries two ideas, the idea of love, and the idea of commitment. God’s love for us is not based on us. It is a setting of the will to love, regardless of how we respond to him, and regardless of how He feels. It is as if God greets us each day with an unlimited reserve of love. His forbearance, his patience, his longsuffering love towards us is absolutely without limit or qualification.

Something as simple as the sun rising every single morning, without fail, reflects this chesed love of God. Walter Brueggeman reflects on this in his poem “At The Dawn”:

      Our first glimpse of reality this day—every day—is your fidelity.

      We are dazzled by the ways you remain constant among us… 

      Now, at the dawn, our eyes are fixed on you in gladness.

      We ask only that your faithfulness

         permeate every troubled place we are able to name,

         that your mercy

         move against the hurts to make new,

         that your steadfastness

         hold firmly what is too fragile on its own.

A Pure Heart

“It is these who have not defiled themselves with women, for they are virgins. It is these who follow the Lamb wherever he goes.” – Revelation 14:4

“Another angel, a second, followed, saying, ‘Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great, she who made all nations drink the wine of the passion of her sexual immorality.” – Revelation 14:8

Clearly these verses are speaking about virginity and sexual immorality in a metaphorical manner. And yet it is not without reason that this particular metaphor occurs in the Bible so frequently. There is nothing quite so challenging and concrete about my desire to follow Jesus as my attention towards sexual purity, and an indispensable element of any quest for sexual purity is spiritual.

Often this is a topic relegated to the mere matter of not crossing certain lines before marriage, when nothing could be further from the truth. Sexual purity is a life-long asking of the question, how do I honor God sexually, through my body, mind, and emotions? –-and then learning to live out the answer in perseverance, humility, and community. The nature of the answer may change after marriage, but the question by no means goes away. 

I was surprised to read about this during a discussion on solitude in Thomas Merton’s book New Seeds of Contemplation. He writes, “One vitally important aspect of solitude is its intimate dependence on chastity… Nowhere is self-denial more important than in the area of sex, because this is the most difficult of all natural appetites to control and one whose undisciplined gratification completely blinds the human spirit to all interior light.”

I would apply chastity here not as the absence of sex, but living with sexual purity before God in my thought life and actions—and this requires intentionality. Merton continues, “It demands considerable effort, watchfulness, patience, humility, and trust in Divine grace. But the very struggle for chastity teaches us to rely on a spiritual power higher than our own nature, and this is an indispensable preparation for interior prayer. Furthermore, chastity is not possible without ascetic self-sacrifice in many other areas. It demands a certain amount of fasting, it requires a very temperate and well-ordered life, modesty, restraint of curiosity… and many other virtues.”

Ultimately, sexual purity is a submission of not just a part, but my whole self to God. It involves aligning other areas of my life under His rule, just as other areas are affected by sexual sin. “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life” (Proverbs 4:23). This is not easy, but God can give us clarity, freedom and joy in our journeys. May we be willing to follow the Lamb wherever he may take us, so that one day we may stand before him with pure hearts.

A Liturgy for Domestic Days

by Douglas McKelvey, excerpt:

Many are the things that must be daily done.
Meet me therefore, O Lord,
in the doing of the small, repetitive tasks.

In the cleaning and ordering and

maintenance and stewardship of things—

   of dishes, of floors, of carpets

   and toilets and tubs,

   of scrubbing and sweeping

   and dusting and laundering—

That by such stewardship I might bring

a greater order to my own life,

and to the lives of any I am given to serve,

so that in those ordered spaces 

bright things might flourish:

fellowship and companionship,

creativity and conversation,

learning and laughter

and enjoyment and health.

As I steward the small, daily tasks,

may I remember these good ends,

and so discover in my labors

the promise of the eternal hopes that underlie them. …

And so I offer this small service to you, O Lord,

for you make no distinction between

   those acts that bring a person

   the wide praise of their peers

and those unmarked acts

   that are accomplished in a quiet obedience

   without accolade.

You see instead the heart, the love,

and the faithful stewardship

of all labors, great and small. …

O God, grant that my heart

might be ordered aright,

knowing that all good service

faithfully rendered

is first a service rendered unto you.

Receive then this my service,

that even in the midst of labors that

hold no happiness in themselves,

I might have increasing joy.

Amen.

Disappointment

“You looked for much, and behold, it came to little.” – Haggai 1:9

“Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation.” – Charlotte Bronte, Villette

It is so easy to feel disappointed in life, by the outcome of a project or teaching effort, by the person we married or the people we parent, by ourselves, by our friends. Sometimes it’s easy to think like one character in a Patricia McCormick book does: “Look. I have a strategy. Why expect anything? If you don’t expect anything, you don’t get disappointed.” How do we live in the face of disappointment without becoming cynical? How do we hope, yet not have the kind of expectation that leads to crushing disappointment?

Here in Haggai, God speaks to a disappointed people. After 70 years of exile, the Israelites had finally been given permission to return to Jerusalem—an event that surely bore the hopes of a lifetime—yet things were not going all that great. They were met on every side by functional disappointment: sowing without harvest, eating without fill, clothing without warmth, earning money only to lose it again. And this is the word that Haggai brings from God: “Consider your ways.” The problem was, they had come back focused on rebuilding their own houses, but neglected to build the house of God. God’s house was the avenue to and symbol of his very presence. They wanted to live life on their own terms, for their own dreams, rather than God’s.

We bear disappointment without becoming cynical by seeing that disappointment is not the end of the story. It is not a call to shut down our hopes, but to reorder them. It is disappointment that guides us to that reordering, that invites us to consider our ways. Disappointment demands that we more closely and carefully examine the nature and foundation of our expectations. Were we placing our hopes in a result or a methodology that was more our own than God’s? Are we willing to accept the workings of his purposes, on his timetable, in our lives? Reordering means that we continue to see and embrace the longing beneath our hopes, but that we yield them to God in a way that “builds his house,” that acknowledges his presence, power and purposes before our own.

Often what this practically feels like is a continual process of naming and submitting my longings in God’s presence. Of praying for the change I hope to see in people rather than demanding that change on my timetable. Of receiving God’s consolation and compassion during moments of despair. Of allowing the natural disappointments in life to strengthen my hopes for eternity. Disappointment should not abolish our hopes, but purify them. May we consider our ways with care as we invite God into those places in our lives.

Incense

“Let my prayer be counted as incense before you.” – Psalm 141:2

“The four living creatures and the twenty-four elders fell down before the Lamb, each holding a harp, and golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of the saints.” – Revelation 5:8

One of the neat things about a reading plan that draws from four different parts of the Bible is how it allows you to more easily see concordant themes and imagery. If you were to take your finger and trace the topic of incense throughout the Bible, you might start in Exodus 30, which begins the story with a recipe, with the language of shekels and grams. The combination of myrrh, cinnamon, aromatic cane, cassia, and olive oil for the tabernacle incense is precise, costly, and patented: “you shall make no other like it in composition” (Exodus 30:32). We would trace through the books of the kings how personally God takes it when incense is burned to other gods. We would begin to understand what it all means through David’s plea, then finally see its full meaning in Revelation. Our prayers rise like incense into the very throne room of God in heaven.

How are our prayers like incense? They are intentional, just as the incense was made according to exact specifications. They are regular, just as the incense was burned every morning and evening. They are communal, just as everyone contributed to the resources used to make the incense. They are personal, just as incense was never burned in random but unto another being. They are costly, a privilege bought by Jesus’ blood, just as the incense was made of costly spices. 

But I think the most beautiful thing about incense is the way it spreads. It creates an aroma that fills the space it inhabits, and lingers there. It is impossible for anyone in that space to not smell the aroma—because we must by nature breathe, and because air molecules are not by nature easily separable, we cannot choose to not smell something as easily as we could, say, choose to close our eyes to not see something. Though invisible, aromas are powerful because of their ability to disperse and permeate. And typically, the smell of incense is sweet.

Our prayers are like that: invisible, but powerful, rising up to God. Filling the space with something which all in that throne room could sense, that all would receive as sweet, and powerful, and present. Our prayers allow us, in a way, to join the elders and creatures in worship of God in that place. All that prayers are, in their adoration and thanksgiving and lament and petition, are ultimately worship. Let my prayer be like incense before you, David writes. May it be counted so for us all.

The Dragon, the Woman, and the Child

“And the dragon stood before the woman who was about to give birth, so that when she bore her child he might devour it… but her child was caught up to God and to his throne, and the woman fled…” – Revelation 12:4-6

A homeschooling mom gave me a great tip: pay attention to what your child reads just like you would be aware of what they eat. “Candy” books are fine, but they shouldn’t comprise their entire diet. One thing she does is pick a “stretch” book, one a bit beyond her kids’ reading level. They snuggle together on the couch, and she reads it aloud to them, occasionally having them read a paragraph to her as well. 

The book we picked to read with our older kids is Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring. Revisiting Middle Earth reminds me of how so many of these stories are gripping because they function on two levels: an epic one, and an ordinary one. There is Frodo stealing mushrooms and men battling for thrones on one level, but then the secret quest to destroy the ring on the other. In Star Wars, there are battles against the Empire and Han’s escapades on one level, but then the mission of the Jedi to defeat the dark side on the other. In Ender’s Game, there are battle-school games on one level, but then the confrontation between humanity and the buggers on the other. In the Stormlight Archives, there are politics and wars on one level, but then the rediscovery of magic to fight a looming threat on the other. 

The ordinary stories are what makes the characters human and relatable: but it is the epic storyline that determines whether any of them, or their world, will survive. Reading Revelation is a bit like stepping into one of these stories. On one hand, you have John, an older guy stuck in a cave on a rocky island writing his last letter. On the other hand, you have the visions he records, which are like God pulling back a curtain to reveal epic tableaus that are no less real for being less seen.

This particular vision is of a woman with a crown of twelve stars; she is thought to represent the Israelites (12 tribes, Micah 4:10) or the church (12 apostles). She gives birth to a child holding an iron scepter, thought to represent Jesus (Psalm 2:9). But as the child is about to be born, there waits for him a red dragon, the color of blood and war, with seven heads symbolizing complete evil, bearing seven crowns like a counterfeit king (Revelation 19:12,16). Later we are told the great dragon is “that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan” (Revelation 12:9). Like other epic stories, this plot involves a battle against good and evil—only it is entirely true.

We exist on both levels, the ordinary and the epic, the visible and the invisible, and to miss one is to not fully understand how to live in the other. As the authors of a BSF study wrote, “Satan has waged a cosmic war against God, and our daily lives are nothing less than the battleground. That is the context of our human existence.”

Satan and his forces are not necessarily behind everything that happens to us. But neither should we make the mistake of thinking he is not very much at work in our daily lives. The battles that we fight every day are significant precisely because they occur within the context of a much larger one, and we would do well to remember that.

Keeping Silence

“When the Lamb opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour.” – Revelation 8:1

“The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him.” – Habakkuk 2:20

We made sparkle jars over the weekend by filling a glass jar with water, a bit of detergent, a few drops of food coloring, and lots of glitter and sequins. You just shake up the jar and watch the sparkles swirl around before slowing settling on the bottom, an activity the kids found endlessly fascinating.

Sometimes our souls, or our lives, are like those jars, full of swirling sediment which only time can settle. “Just as the physical law of gravity ensures that sediment swirling in a jar of muddy river water will eventually settle and the water will become clear,” writes Ruth Haley Barton, “so the spiritual law of gravity ensures that the chaos of the human soul will settle if it sits still long enough.” We don’t have to do anything but sit quietly in God’s presence, “anything but show up and trust the spiritual law of gravity that says, ‘Be still, and the knowing will come.’”

John describes two things, and only two things, which the seventh seal brings: silence, and time. These are rare commodities in our house right now. Silence is non-existent: there is always someone talking, sometimes everyone talking. There are simultaneous zoom calls, multiple voices shouting in play (for some reason their imaginative play always involves very enthusiastic sounds). And my time is not my own. There’s always the potential of being interrupted to meet needs or handle issues. 

We need now, more than ever, to keep silence. We live noisy lives. And we are used to meeting problems with activity, meeting busyness with more busyness. But there is a kind of truth that can only be declared, a kind of clarity that can only be experienced, through sitting quietly without doing or saying a thing. Our silence is a stopping to acknowledge that God sits in His holy temple. Our silence is an invitation to allow the Holy Spirit to work in and reveal to us what He may. “I believe that silence is the most challenging, the most needed and the least experienced spiritual discipline among evangelical Christians today,” writes Barton. May we not fail to keep our silence, on earth as it is in heaven.

Habakkuk

“Though the fig tree should not blossom,

   nor fruit be on the vines,

the produce of the olive fail

   and the fields yield no food,

the flock be cut off from the fold

   and there be no herd in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the Lord;

   I will take joy in the God of my salvation.

God, the Lord, is my strength;

   he makes my feet like the deer’s;

   he makes me tread on my high places.”

- Habakkuk 3:17-19

Habakkuk reads like a journal. Unlike most of the other prophets, he does not address the people of Israel directly. Rather, he records his own thoughts and conversations with God, his personal struggle with whether God can be good amid tragedy and suffering. He lodges his complaints in prayers of lament: first, what are you going to do about the injustice, idolatry, and evil of your people? God replies, I will send Babylon to judge them. Habakkuk complains again: but the evil of Babylon is even worse! God replies, I will eventually destroy Babylon as well.

Then comes a theophany (3:3-15). Habakkuk beholds God, the way the Israelites did at Mt. Sinai after generations of slavery, the way Job did after long discourses on his suffering. There are echoes here of those earlier theophanies, echoes of creation (Habakkuk 3:6, Job 38:4) and exodus (Habakkuk 3:5, 8). The point is, these stories are not just isolated events. They echo, from ancient Job to Moses to pre-exilic Habakkuk, because they are retellings of the one same story, the story of Who God Is and How He Works. And that is a story that never changes, because God is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8). He is a God who sees and gives purpose to suffering. Who does not forget us. Who comes with salvation and justice. He is far more powerful and sovereign than we grasp.

It is impossible to behold God and not leave changed. Habakkuk becomes someone who listens and who is willing to wait (3:16). He becomes someone who chooses transcendent joy in even the worst of circumstances. If you were to rewrite these verses, what would they look like? “Though the pandemic last forever, though we never gather in our church building again, though my kids never walk into school; though my work project fails; though the smoke stains the sky… I will take joy in the God of my salvation. He makes my feet like the deer’s; he makes me tread on my high places.” Where are your high places? When have there been theophanies in your life? What does it look like for you to choose to rejoice?

The Sleeping Tiger

“Woe to the bloody city, all full of lies and plunder—no end to the prey!” – Nahum 3:1

“If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.” – Tommy Orange, There There

The prophets were people who woke the sleeping tiger. If you want the white-hot truth, look no further. Nahum was someone who looked at Nineveh, the capital of Assyria, with its resplendent palace and impressive city walls, and saw blood. Heaps of corpses, dead bodies of the innocent. What he saw was shame and filth (3:3-5). 

It is not always easy to see. In some sense, if we have the option to see or not, then we by definition are those who need to see the most. Nahum sees the truth behind Nineveh’s gleaming corridors, and the result is a book that is a startling sequel to, and contrast with, the book of Jonah. The repentance of the Ninevites did not last. Half a century after Jonah, the new king of Assyria led a military campaign of bloodshed and cruelty on a scale the world had never seen before. This time, the message of the prophet is not one of repentance, but destruction. And indeed, Nineveh is destroyed in 612 B.C., leading to the end of the Assyrian empire.

But part of what we must see is that Nahum’s vision is God’s vision. Nahum sees as he does because God sees as He does. The first chapter of the book doesn’t even mention Nineveh: he speaks only of God, the God who avenges, who keeps his wrath, who commands the world. “Who can stand before his indignation? Who can endure the heat of his anger? His wrath is poured out like fire” (1:6). This is a God who “will by no means clear the guilty” (1:3). 

We see not from a guilty conscience, not from obligation, not even from well-intentioned peer pressure. We see because we cannot read Jonah without reading Nahum. We see because we love, and are drawn to, and want to become like a God who sees. We grieve because He does. We hold mercy together with justice because Jesus did. He came not only in grace, but in truth. His coming was an act of judgment. “And this is the judgment,” John writes. “The light has come into the world.” To be in Christ is to see as he does, with eyes of flame (Revelation 1:14), through the light that exposes what might be easier left in darkness.

Voyage

from a book of puritan prayers:

O Lord of the oceans,

My little bark sails on a restless sea,

Grant that Jesus may sit at the helm and steer me safely;

Suffer no adverse currents to divert my heavenward course;

Let not my faith be wrecked amid storms and shoals;

Bring me to harbor with flying pennants,

   hull unbreached, cargo unspoiled.

I ask great things,

   expect great things,

   shall receive great things.

I venture on thee wholly, fully,

   my wind, sunshine, anchor, defence.

The voyage is long, the waves high, the storms pitiless,

   but my helm is held steady,

   thy Word secures safe passage,

   thy grace wafts me onward,

   my haven is guaranteed.

This day will bring me nearer home,

Grant me holy consistency in every transaction,

   my peace flowing as a running tide,

   my righteousness as every chasing wave.

Help me to live circumspectly,

   with skill to convert every care into prayer,

Halo my path with gentleness and love,

   smooth every asperity of temper;

   let me not forget how easy it is to occasion grief;

   may I strive to bind up every wound,

      and pour oil on troubled waters.

May the world this day be happier and better because I live.

Let my mast before me be the Saviour’s cross,

   and every oncoming wave the fountain in his side.

Help me, protect me in the moving sea

   until I reach the shore of unceasing praise.

Justice

“What does the Lord require of you but to do justice…?” – Micah 6:8

“But let justice roll down like waters.” – Amos 5:24

About two months ago, I was asked to join a social justice and health equity committee at Stanford. This committee was formed as the result of medical students pushing for concepts of anti-racism and social justice to be integrated into the medical school curriculum. At one of the first meetings, students directly confronted professors about racist and stereotyping content contained in lectures and tests. It was shocking to me to see students being so vulnerable, bold, and feeling empowered enough to engage Deans in the medical school that were 30-40 years older, and had the power potentially to impact their career trajectories.

I reflected on this afterwards and remarked to Esther that we would have never even imagined 15-20 years ago during our training calling out professors for their actions and demanding curriculum reform. But somehow, we are in a moment of history, when calls for social justice are louder than ever. It has been inspiring to hear student members of our committee—those with disabilities, who identify as queer, and those from cultures that been discriminated against—call out those with power and privilege from a place of complacency and comfortability to confront these problems within the curriculum that are traumatizing our students. 

But, I also find myself somewhat uncomfortable with the current predominant justice narrative that all power structures should be overturned so that society subverts the power of dominant groups in favor of those that are oppressed. In this postmodern framework, justice is primarily about those who have been historically without power seeking the authority and allyship to overturn inequitable institutions and assuming power.

As Tim Keller puts it “...power must be mapped through the means of ‘intersectionality.’ The categories are race, gender, sexual orientation, gender identity (and sometimes others). If you are white, male, straight, cisgender then you have the highest amount of power. If you are none of these at all, you are the most marginalized and oppressed–and there are numerous categories in the middle. Most importantly, each category toward the powerless end of the spectrum has a greater moral authority and a greater ability to see the way truly things are. Only powerlessness and oppression brings moral high ground and true knowledge. Therefore those with more privilege must not enter into any debate—they have no right or ability to advise the oppressed, blinded as they are by their social location. They simply must give up their power.”

Tim Keller points out that there are several issues with this postmodern framework of social justice, including its logical incoherence, the undermining of our common humanity, and its denial of our common sinfulness. But the two ways I feel that the postmodern framework misses the mark in offering a pathway to biblical justice is 1) it offers a highly self-righteous performative identity and 2) it makes true forgiveness, peace, and reconciliation between groups impossible. 

Keller then goes on to speak about biblical justice and other types of social justice frameworks which you can read about here. But I would like to highlight a quote from Keller that discusses what true justice looks like. It is found in the life and character of Jesus. “When God came to earth in Jesus Christ he came as a poor man, to a family at the bottom of the social order. He experienced torture and death at the hands of religious and government elites using their power unjustly to oppress. So in Jesus we see God laying aside his privilege and power—his ‘glory’—in order to identify with the weak and helpless (Philippians 2:5-8). And yet, through the endurance of violence and human injustice he paid the rightful penalty of humanity’s sin to divine justice (Isaiah 53:5). Then he was raised to even greater honor and also authority to rule (Philippians 2:5:9-11). Jesus takes authority, but only after losing it in service to the weak and helpless.”

The means for achieving justice from a postmodern framework has primarily been through asserting force, protesting for political change, and guilt assignment. All of these have their places for achieving our goal of having an equitable society. But these methods do not ultimately create heart change and inner transformation. Jesus models the way for biblical justice: a humble man who has all power and authority coming to dwell among the poor and uneducated - transforming lives, governments, and culture by modeling humility, compassion, and healing the sick. This is compelling biblical justice that changes not only our behaviors, but our hearts, and makes true forgiveness, peace, and reconciliation between groups possible.

Lion and the Lamb

“I began to weep loudly because no one was found worthy to open the scroll or to look into it. And one of the elders said to me, “Weep no more; behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals. And between the throne and the four living creatures and among the elders I saw a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain.” – Revelation 5:4-6

I tend to become task-focused when it comes to teaching my children. When they get frustrated because they can’t understand a concept or carry out a skill, I tend to want to power in there to fix things, to hammer the concept in or push until we get the assignment done. But I often learn the hard way that what my children need first when they come to me with frustrations is compassion. They need me to be gentle. They need me to listen. They need me to lay my own agenda aside so I can see and understand their struggle better.

Someone once wrote of this passage, “John was looking for a Lion—he must have been surprised to see a Lamb.” That’s interesting, isn’t it? John is told, weep no more, for the conquering Lion has come! And yet, when he looks, what he sees is a lamb. The meekest and most helpless of creatures. He was met in his grief and frustration by an image not of power or might, but of weakness.

“Compassion,” Nouwen writes, “is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to places where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken.” In a sense, I cannot teach my children until I first understand where they are. I must go with them into the places of weakness, shame and struggle. I must have compassion, and the only way I can do that is if I have received it from God. The only way I can build and restore my reserves of compassion is to receive and savor the compassion of Jesus, the slain lamb.

In the end, that is what matters. It probably won’t matter ten years from now if my kids learn right now how to spell a word or solve an equation. But it might matter whether or not they see the compassion and love of Jesus in me. “Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness and patience” (Colossians 3:12). 

The Two Sons in Jonah

“And should I not pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than 120,000 persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?” – Jonah 4:11

Reading through the prophets, the book of Jonah feels refreshing, perhaps because, despite being considered a prophetic book, it only has one sentence of actual preaching. The rest is narrative. One thing many commentators have noticed about that narrative is how it correlates with the parable of the prodigal son in Luke 15. In the first half of the book, Jonah plays the younger son. He openly refuses to obey God’s command to go to Nineveh, running away on a ship going 2,500 miles in the opposite direction. Then in the second half of the book, Jonah plays the elder son. He goes obediently to Nineveh and preaches his one sentence, but then when the people of Nineveh repent, he becomes furious, bitterly resenting God’s mercy.

It’s easy to disparage the younger son and approve of the older one, just as it’s easy to think Jonah learns his lesson when he finally makes his way to Nineveh—but in reality, both are wrong. We reject his love when we disobey in open rebellion. But we also reject his love when we obey in self-righteousness. Both fail to understand the meaning of God’s grace.

Grace is God “appointing” a fish to swallow Jonah when he should have perished in the sea (Jonah 1:17). Grace is the father running out to embrace his youngest son. Grace is God entreating the angry Jonah just as the father goes out to entreat his elder son. Grace is God appointing his son Jesus, who called himself the greater Jonah (Matthew 12:40) and like Jonah, would allow himself to be cast to death for the sake of others, only to rise in three days. But unlike Jonah, Jesus would weep for the city. He would go outside the city, not so he could see its condemnation, but so he could die on a cross for its salvation.

Timothy Keller writes, “Salvation belongs to God alone, to no one else. If someone is saved, it is wholly God’s doing. It is not a matter of God saving you partly and you saving yourself partly. No. God saves us. We do not and cannot save ourselves. That’s the gospel.” Our disobedience does not bar us from salvation. Nor can our own righteousness earn it. It is entirely God’s gift to us. 

Both stories end in mid-conversation. At the end of Jonah, God asks, “should I not pity Nineveh?” At the end of the parable, the father tells the elder son, “all that is mine is yours. It was fitting to celebrate…” But we don’t hear the response that God or the father receives. The stories stop suddenly, on a cliffhanger—as if the question is coming at us, too. As if God is waiting, too, for our response. Do you understand what grace means? Will you receive it? 

The White Stone

“To the one who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, with a new name written on the stone that no one knows except the one who receives it.” – Revelation 2:17

I’m sure everyone who has a kid going through distance learning this week has figured out the importance of having the right zoom link. You can have everything set up and ready, but if the zoom link isn’t correct, or you don’t have the required profile name, or something doesn’t authenticate, then none of it matters. In the old days, all you had to do was get your kid to the right classroom door; now, you need the right kind of ticket to get in, and there’s nothing quite like the frustration of working out tech difficulties that are keeping you from where you need to be.

The white stone was that kind of ticket. In the ancient near east, white stones were used as entrance tickets to plays and banquets, upon which names would often be inscribed. They were also how judges would declare their votes: they would drop into an urn a white pebble for acquittal, or a black one for a guilty verdict. The white stone could also be a reference to the stones on the breastplate of the high priest, either the twelve precious stones that represented the tribes of Israel (Exodus 28:17), or the Urim and Thummim set over the priest’s heart to represent judgment (Exodus 28:30).

Regardless, such a stone was a token of favor in the setting of a judgment of some kind—an assessment of admittance, innocence, or holiness. It was symbolic of remembrance, not unlike the manna (another small, stone-crystal-like object) hidden within the ark of the covenant, with which it is paired here. It was personalized, all the more here with its mysterious new name.

And it was something you could hold. For some reason, in this increasingly virtual world we’re inhabiting, that seems significant. The word used for “stone” here refers to a small stone, worn smooth by water: a polished pebble you could rub in your hand. White is the color of purity and victory. One day, we will be able to hold in our hands the ticket into the life we long for, the symbol of the righteousness and admission won on our behalf by Christ, the evidence that He has never forgotten us. We will hold in our hands a new name, for our eyes only, which He will give us. What an intimate, wondrous, and victorious thing that will be.

Prosperity

“For you say, I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing, not realizing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire, so that you may be rich, and white garments so that you may clothe yourself… and salve to anoint your eyes, so that you may see.” – Revelation 3:17-18

“Woe to those who lie at ease in Zion.” – Amos 6:1

We are now blowing through the major and minor prophets, books for which pausing to grasp historical context can be helpful. Amos lived during the reigns of Uzziah and Jeroboam, a period during which Israel experienced unparalleled wealth and prosperity. Assyria appeared to be no threat. The Israelites took these to be signs that they were safe from the judgment of God, despite their breaking of God’s covenant. Their wealth had been accrued at the expense of the poor, and their worship of God amounted to no more than pagan-like manipulations for their own ends. It was Amos’s rather unpleasant task to inform them that their prosperity was a mirage: God’s judgment was still coming. Indeed, less than a century later, Assyria exploded into an unexpected final century of greatness during which they vanquished the entire kingdom of Israel. 

Jesus has eerily similar words for the church in Laodicea. Laodicea was a wealthy city, known for its luxurious black wool, and held a leading medical center that specialized in eye treatments. Yet these very areas of perceived self-sufficiency were where they were most lacking. You need gold, clothing, and eye salve from me, Jesus says, to be truly rich and free of shame, to truly see. Here I am, knocking: repent.

We all see our need for God in areas of struggle, but how aware are you of your need for repentance in areas of prosperity? Prosperity has a dangerous tendency to make us lukewarm towards God, because it obscures our need for him, it feeds our pride. We don’t deny him, but neither do we whole-heartedly follow him. But God sees through even the most pleasant circumstances and shiniest accolades, to the true condition of our hearts. He sees whether we love his law or lie to ourselves (Amos 2:4), whether we love good, hate evil, and establish justice (Amos 5:15). “He declares to man what is his thought” (Amos 4:13)—and it is this God that says, I will spit what is lukewarm out of my mouth. I would rather you be cold or hot. “Return to me… return to me… return to me… return to me” (Amos 4:8-11). May we see our hearts as God does, especially during times of outward wealth and success, and hear his call to repentance. 

Grief and Joy

“My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning. O Israel, hope in the Lord!” – Psalm 130:6-7

Today was our first day of school. As with many landmarks during this time, it felt like a mix of grief and joy. It’s fantastic to be have freedom from finding school parking or hauling school gear, to be able to serve fresh snacks and meals. It’s a real gift to be so closely involved now in what my children are learning, to better be able to incorporate home lessons throughout the day. But the whole thing felt sad too. It’s sad to see kids staring into screens for hours a day. Knowing it was coming is one thing; seeing it happen is another. This is not how it’s meant to be.

There is consolation, I think, in how the Bible doesn’t glance over these things. Doesn’t jump to some fix or analysis, but tarries in the places where grief and joy mingle together. My soul waits like the watchmen wait. You don’t set watchmen on the walls unless there is potential for trouble. Their very existence is an acknowledgment that all in the world is not as it is supposed to be. They wait in the dark, through the night. And yet it is in that place that the psalmist speaks of hope and steadfast love. The arrival of the dawn, the end of their shift, is sure, and that is how we wait: we look, and we hope, but never in vain, for there will come the “morning star” (Revelation 2:28).

McKelvey writes, “You are the sovereign of my sorrow.” Sometimes, that is all I can see, the loss and wrongness in how we are living. But sometimes too in that place the joys and gifts pierce through, experiences and perspectives and changes that never would have happened if my life had not been so radically reframed the way this time has forced it to be. “You are the sovereign of my sorrow. You apprehend a wider sweep with wiser eyes than mine. My history bears the fingerprints of grace… you remain at work.” Sadness and grace, grief and joy, and in that place, God remains at work. Hope in the Lord.

A Liturgy for First Waking

from Every Moment Holy, by Douglas McKelvey:

I am not the captain of my own destiny,

nor even of this new day, and so

I renounce anew all claim

to my own life and desires.

I am only yours, O Lord.

Lead me by your mercies through these hours,

that I might spend them well,

not in harried pursuit of my own agendas,

but rather in good service to you.

Teach me to shepherd the small duties

of this day with great love,

tending faithfully those tasks

you place within my care

and tending with patience and

kindness the needs and hearts of

those people you place within my reach.

Nothing is too hard for you, Lord Christ.

I deposit now all confidence in you

that whatever these waking hours bring,

my foundations will not be shaken.

At day’s end I will lay me down again to sleep

knowing that my best hope is well kept in you.

In all things your grace will sustain me.

Bid me follow, and I will follow.

Amen.

The Tame Jesus

“In the midst of the lampstands one like a son of man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash around his chest. The hairs of his head were white, like white wool, like snow. His eyes were like a flame of fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined in a furnace, and his voice was like the roar of many waters.” – Revelation 1:13-15

“‘Do you think I keep him in my wallet, fools?’ said Tirian. ‘Who am I that I could make Aslan appear at my bidding? He's not a tame lion.’” – The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis

One of the things I love about the book of Revelation are its depictions of Jesus. We see God the Father come in thunder and smoke, the Holy Spirit in wind and fire, but Jesus we tend to see in his humanity. And rightly so: but Revelation reminds us that he is as much God as Man. 

The vision John has of Jesus here is fearsome enough to rival Mt. Sinai and Pentecost. Have you ever heard the roar of many waters? We once visited a huge waterfall: the sound was deafening, thrilling and fearful not only because of its volume, but because it was a testament to the sheer force and power of the falling water. When was the last time you looked into a flame of fire? In a dark room, even one lit candle is piercing, riveting, hard to look away from.

This is no tame Jesus. The long robe and golden sash are symbolic of the elevated position of royalty or a high priest. The snow-white hair indicates holiness or long age. The eyes of flame are ones that pierce through all impurity and deception. Bronze, the metal of weapons, symbolize feet of judgment. This is a fearsome Jesus, a God far beyond our ability to control. John writes, “When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead” (1:17).

And yet, this same Jesus lays his hand on us, as he does on John. He speaks words of comfort as he does to John; he reminds us that he died for us (1:17-18). The God of all power laid that power down for us. Yet he is God. He is not one to be pushed, reduced, or ignored. May we not forget to tremble.

Valley of Trouble to Door of Hope

“Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her. And there I will give her her vineyards and make the Valley of Achor a door of hope. And there she shall answer as in the days of her youth, as at the time when she came out of the land of Egypt.” – Hosea 2:14-15

Hidden here in Hosea is an epilogue to the sad story told in Joshua chapter 7. Joshua leads the Israelites in the defeat of Jericho, but all does not end well. One of the Israelites steals from the spoils kept for the treasury of the Lord, and God’s resultant wrath causes them to lose their next battle against Ai. The culprit turns out to be Achan, who is stoned to death. Before his dies, he confesses: “when I saw among the spoil a beautiful cloak from Chinar, and 200 shekels of silver, and a bar of gold weighing 50 shekels, then I coveted them and took them.” 

The place of Achan’s death is called the Valley of Achor; “achor” means trouble. Trouble found Achan and the Israelites the same way it found Gomer, in the violating of a covenant relationship with God by turning to shinier things. Hosea makes it clear that this is no mere legal infraction; this is the breaking of a love relationship. 

And yet, here in Hosea, God retells the story. You will answer me as you did in the days of Egypt. I will allure you with tender words into the wilderness. You will be given vineyards, and I will make the Valley of Trouble into a Door of Hope. There it is, the whole story of God’s people, Egypt to wilderness to the promise of fertile land, redeemed. Darkness in the valley transformed into passageways of hope. Even later, God will send Jesus, who left Egypt, who spent forty days in the wilderness, who says we are like vines who bear much fruit as we abide in Him. Who walked through the valley of the shadow of death, who experienced the judgment all the Achan's of the world deserved, to open for us a door of eternal hope: forgiveness for our troubling faithlessness, and redemption of our broken narratives. Jesus, who is God’s tender Word to us, the epilogue for all the stories in the Old Testament that have ever gone wrong.