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.

Battling Temptation

“For all that is in the world—the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and the pride of life—is not from the Father but is from the world. And the world is passing away along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever.” – 1 John 2:16

McKelvey writes in his “Liturgy for One Battling a Destructive Desire”: “In this moment I might choose to indulge a fleeting hunger, or I might choose to love you more… Given the choice of shame or glory, let me choose glory. Given the choice of this moment or eternity, let me choose in this moment what is eternal. Given the choice of this easy pleasure, or the harder road of the cross, give me grace to choose to follow you.”

In the moment, the desires of the world feel so strong, don’t they? Sometimes, as the line goes, resistance seems futile. Yet the reality, John says, is that our desires, just like the world they come from, are passing away. They are in actuality fleeting, temporary. It is the will and glory of God that abides forever. In a sense, all of temptation is a battle to choose what is eternal over what is momentary.

It’s a battle that Jesus understood. Someone once pointed out that these verses in 1st John map out Jesus’ temptations in the wilderness in Matthew 4. Jesus experienced the desires of the flesh when he was tempted to turn stone to bread to satiate his hunger. He experienced the desires of the eyes when he was taken to a mountaintop and shown all the glory of the kingdoms of the world that could be his. He experienced the pride of life when he was tempted to prove that God would command angels for him. We have a Savior who was tempted in every way as we are, yet was without sin (Hebrews 4:15). He felt the temptation even more strongly, perhaps, than we who give in, but he is also a living testament that these desires are passing, that the One who does the will of God indeed lives forever, just as we now can. 

May we choose eternity in our battles with temptation. As the liturgy ends: “Let me build, then, my King, a beautiful thing by long obedience, by the steady progression of small choices that laid end to end will become like the stones of a pleasing path stretching to eternity and unto your welcoming arms and unto the sound of your voice pronouncing the judgment: Well done.” 

Reacting and Responding

“A fool gives full vent to his spirit, but a wise man quietly holds it back.” – Proverbs 29:11

There is a difference between reacting and responding. More often than not I find that being too quick to react inhibits my ability to respond well. If there is one parenting lesson I am slowly, slowly learning over the course of these past six months, it is that quite often the very best thing to do in the moment is not to react. Not snap back, not lecture, not vent. Not say anything, even if the words are forming in my mind, bursting to be spoken; even if they are fully justified. I’ve been doing an experiment of sorts, and found that each time I have consciously held back, a better outcome has resulted. I’ve never regretted it.

This doesn’t mean I don’t respond, but in fact helps me respond better. It allows the cloud of my emotions to pass by so I can focus on what my child needs with greater clarity. It allows me to assess for optimal timing, to choose my words with greater care. It often prevents an angry outburst or an escalated argument, which end up being more destructive than productive. It opens a window for grace. It guides me towards correction that points to the gospel, rather than becoming tinged with personal vindictiveness.

In the book Every Moment Holy, Douglas McKelvey writes “A Liturgy for a Moment of Frustration at a Child”:

Let me not react in this moment, O Lord,

in the blindness of my own emotion.

Rather give me—a fellow sinner—

wisdom to respond with a grace

that would shepherd my child’s heart

toward your mercies,

   so equipping them

   for the hard labors

   of their own pilgrimage.

See-and-Hide

“The prudent sees danger and hides himself, but the simple go on and suffer for it.” – Proverbs 22:3, 27:12

One game the kids never tire of is hide-and-seek, or its variant, sardines. One of their favorite things to do in new or old spaces is to ferret out the perfect hiding spot. I suppose there’s an excitement in staying hidden while someone passes you by. 

That’s the mental image I have when reading this verse. Proverbs uses the word “prudent” eight times, and it is always associated with some element of concealment. A prudent man covers shame (12:16), conceals knowledge (12:23), does not lay open his folly (13:16), and hides himself (22:3, 27:12). He makes himself unavailable for the danger.

How can I make myself unavailable for danger, for temptation or sin? The first step is to see. I can track patterns to see if there are particular physical or emotional conditions, times of day, triggers or social situations where I tend to struggle with a habitual sin. I can do an end-of-day examen or journaling session to reflect on sins in my day and what may have led to them. I can give more consideration to areas of danger that may be coming in the future.

The second step is to hide. This may mean avoiding certain movies, books, or news articles. It may mean refraining from speaking. It may mean avoiding hanging out with certain people or at certain places. It may mean removing environmental cues or triggers around the house. It may mean actively seeking spiritual fellowship and accountability. It may mean finding a positive pursuit to make myself less available for dangerous distractions. 

The point is, making ourselves unavailable for danger can be an option. We don’t always have to stand and fight or struggle. But it requires prudence. It requires a certain kind of vision and knowledge about ourselves and about the situations and dangers around us. May we have wisdom to see what is coming and hide ourselves if we need to.

Resilience

“He who is often reproved, yet stiffens his neck, will suddenly be broken beyond healing.” – Proverbs 29:1

“What people need, it seems, is not a stress-free life, but the framework to treat stress well; to use it as a stimulus for growth, rather than buckling under it.” – Kirsten Burkett, Resilience: A Spiritual Project

One of the hardest things to teach our children is how to receive reproof without becoming defensive. There’s some variation depending on age and personality, but nearly always the response to a statement like “what you did was wrong” is some version of, “but last time this happened” or “they were wrong too.” Last week I found myself trying to explain to the kids what being “defensive” means: it’s like holding up a shield so that any negative feedback bounces off. That’s our natural instinct. But sometimes, you need to put the shield down and receive the negative thing; you need to try to listen, because that is how you grow. 

It occurs to me that this is about having a kind of resilience, the ability to bounce back from something bad. Indeed, this verse uses the language of elasticity: to stiffen ourselves against reproof is to become dangerously brittle. There may come a day when we snap. But receiving reproof is learning to be flexible, to have resilience, so that by implication we may heal and grow. 

“Resilience” has become somewhat of a buzz-word in popular psychology, but while resilience research centers on a lot of the same concepts that we see in Christian spirituality—adversity leading to strength, importance of meaning and purpose, benefits of hope and optimism—Christianity offers deeper, more centered answers, I think. Christianity says that resilience is possible because you are deeply loved. When my children know that reproof comes from a parent who loves them in a deep and even sacrificial way, they are able to lower their shields because they know that whatever comes their way will ultimately not shatter their sense of self, their identity as a beloved child. Secondly, resilience is possible because Christianity says that suffering is not all bad. Our response to adverse events depends not so much on the event itself as on our belief about that event—and if we believe that God can use even suffering to build our faith and purify our hope, then our response to it will be different.

We need resilience these days—spiritual, emotional, mental, and physical resilience. May we learn how to regroup in the face of unexpected challenges, may we never lose our hope and joy, may we not be afraid to walk through suffering, because we are deeply centered in a God who loves us and has called us to this moment we are in.

A Liturgy Before A Meal Eaten Alone

from Every Moment Holy, by Douglas McKelvey:

You created us for companionship,

O God, for the sharing of burdens,

for the joining of celebrations,

for the breaking of bread in fellowship, 

and so it is not unnatural

that we should taste a particular sorrow 

when eating a meal alone.

Sit with me and linger

at this solitary table, O Lord.

Sit with me as my father.

Sit with me as my brother.

Sit with me as my shepherd.

Sit with me as my friend.

In the absence of human companions,

may I know more fully your presence.

In this silence where there is no conversation, 

may I more clearly hear your voice.

Use my own momentary loneliness

to work in me a more effectual sympathy 

for others who are often alone,

and who long for the companionship

of their God and of his people.

Let me afterward be more intentional

in the practice of hospitality.

Let me sometimes be the reason

the loneliness of another is relieved.

Meet me now in my own loneliness, O Lord. 

Meet me in this meal. I receive it as your 

provision for my life in this hour.

Amen.

Knowledge and Wisdom

“Whoever trusts in his own mind is a fool, but he who walks in wisdom will be delivered.” – Proverbs 28:26

We were in a bible study group once, preparing to study the passage in which Abraham is asked to sacrifice Isaac, and the leader asked us to share the thing about ourselves that would be hardest to give up. Some people said their ethnicity, or a physical ability, but for me it would be my mind. I remember taking care of a patient with brain cancer once, and the process in which she lost her ability to think without having insight about what was happening struck me so much I wrote a piece about it called “Losing Your Mind.”

The fact is, I rely on my mind quite a lot. I count on my ability to list-make, analyze, discuss, reflect, or research whatever comes my way. And in this post-Enlightenment, information age, don’t we all? Isn’t that our first impulse? There’s always another book or article to read, another expert to consult, another angle from which to analyze the situation.

None of that is bad, but this proverb states quite baldly that if we primarily live by trusting our minds, we are fools. The first and second half of this verse are cataclysmically different. They exist in two different paradigms. The second half talks not at all about thinking but about walking: he who “walks in wisdom,” it says, not “thinks in wisdom.” We can think all we like, but in the end trusting our minds will not really tell us how to walk out our lives. That requires wisdom. And wisdom is seeing that we need deliverance. We don’t need to try harder or get more information: we need to be saved. We need to pray. We need to ask for help. This is not to say wisdom does not include knowledge, but it is something far more than that.

And so I ask myself: how much do I rely on what I think or research, and how much do I rely on prayer? How much do I sit and stew about the possible outcomes, and how much am I willing to just take the next wise step forward? How much do I think it’s really up to me, and how much do I trust in a God who delivers? Whoever trusts in his own mind is a fool, but he who walks in wisdom will be delivered.