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Sovereignly Sorted: Contrarieties & Christ

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I have found solace from a strange friend as I wade through the unknowns of parenting teenagers: George Herbert, an English poet and pastor from the 17th century.

Herbert’s poetry has always been a refuge to me, but especially of late. Herbert does not seek to hide his wrestling with God any more than he could hide his deep intimacy with God. He is honest in a way that I do not expect from someone separated by thousands of years from our cultural moment of authenticity and emotional honesty.

Things Sort Not to My Will

A few particular lines from his poem “The Cross” have both exposed and comforted me as I seek to keep submitting the future and well-being of my boys to the Lord:

“Besides, things sort not to my will,
Ev’n when my will doth study thy renown…”

Things sort not to my will. If I were to choose a statement to describe this season of attempting to parent and love my teens, it would likely be “Things sort not to my will.” Things rarely go according to my plans, which is much to my chagrin as one who loves to plan and order and prepare for all eventualities. When my will gets “thwarted,” I feel fearful, insecure, and exposed in my false sources of security. Even though I know cerebrally and theologically that my safety is to be found in Christ, I keep practically and habitually seeking to find it in the illusion of control (one thing that the teenage years quickly strip away).

I love the closing stanza of Herbert’s poem “The Cross” and have taken it up as my prayer when (daily) things don’t go according to plan.

“Ah my dear Father, ease my smart!
These contrarieties crush me: these cross actions
Do wind a rope about, and cut my heart:
And yet since these contradictions
Are properly a cross felt by thy Son,
With but four words, my words, Thy will be done.“

Sorted by Scarred Hands

When things, to borrow Herbert’s pithy term, “sort not my to will,” they are being sorted to a better will, one that I would choose if I saw what God sees. In this season, it is far easier for me to say “He sorts the stars” then to be believe he sorts my son’s varied schedules and sports, disappointments and desires.

He is doing a deep work in me as I learn to parent teenagers whose lives are not my own (and have never been, I might add). He is moving me from the false security of the illusion of control to the sure security of his sovereignty. It helps me to remember that his love-scarred hands are sorting every part of their story from the seemingly mundane to the monumental.

Sovereignly Sorted 

Your sovereignty isn’t a string I pull 
As if to bend You to do my will,
But a safety net when all comes apart,
A Father’s arms wrapped about my heart. 

When days don’t sort as to my plans,
They are still guided by scarred hands.
Your wild, wide ways don’t fit in my frame,
Yet they work for our good and Your fame.

There are a thousand facts I can’t see,
So, I choose to entrust my will to thee. 
I’ll sit amid the questions, straining to see
The story You write to draw us to thee.  

Even when life is going swimmingly and seem to sort to our wills, circumstances are a fickle source of security. During the days and seasons that God’s sovereign plans seem to cross our wills, we are being led to deepening dependence on Christ. Even and especially when circumstances cross our wills, we are invited to grow and stretch our faith muscles. As the writer of Hebrews so concisely defined faith and distilled its basic tenants, “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things no seen” (Hebrews 11:1, ESV). I love the J.B. Phillips translation of verse 6: “And without faith it is impossible to please him. The man who approaches God must have faith in two things, first that God exists and secondly that God rewards those who search for him” (Hebrews 11:6, J.B. Phillips).

Faith that fights to follow when things sort not to our wills honors and pleases our good and trustworthy God. I pray that you are learning with me and my mentor, George Herbert, to echo Christ’s “Thy will be done.”

“Satisficing” & the Savior

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My bathroom is clean enough. My pantry is organized enough. My schedule is ordered enough. Someone asked me recently if I was type A or type B, and I was torn. I am ordered and structured enough to be more ordered than most people, but not enough to be the most ordered person I know. I have chosen where to cheat; I have certain standards of tidy that suffice for our life and values. In these examples (and, if I am honest, in my most areas of my life) I am “satisficing.”

I learned this new term and accompanying concept this week, which for a word-nerd is an exciting feat! In his fascinating book The Organized Mind, Daniel Levitin mentions the concept of “satisficing,” a term coined by Nobel prize-winning Herbert Simon. Simon. a leading voice in the world of information processing, created “satisficing” to describe the way humans settle for a good enough solution for most of life. If we all always sought to find the very best restaurant or house cleaner or way to order our linen closet, we would easily steal time from the things we value most. We settle for good enough in the things that matter little and save our efforts for the things that matter most and contribute to our greater satisfaction.

As limited beings, we can’t do everything. As such, we have learned to satisfice, when possible, in order to seek greater impact and satisfaction in the things that matter most.

Satisficing to Seek the Savior

In a culture that loves to tell us how to order our lives for maximum joy and satisfaction, believers in Christ follow a different source. Influencers are happy (and well compensated) to tell us about the shoe organizing system that has literally saved their sanity or the picture frame that decluttered their fridge or the diet system that slimmed their excess fat and worry. But, believers in Christ have a different source for what matters most. For those who are hidden in Christ, our priorities do not come from our personalities or our preferences but from the living word of God. His word tells us that we will only be satisfied in pursuing relationship with Him, with lining our lives up with his purposes and plans.

I’ve been asking myself the following questions since learning about satisficing: Where and with whom am I satisficing? Who gets the best of my time, talents, and attention? Who or what gets the rest of my time, talents, and attention? Am I settling in some spheres so that I might prioritize Christ? Or, am I settling for my own selfish pursuits and comfort?

As the Lord would have it, I have been meditating upon Psalm 27 wherein David tells us where he refuses to satisfice:

“One thing have I asked of the Lord, that will I seek after: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and to inquire in his temple” (Psalm 27:4–5).

David was willing to let other things go so that he might seek Christ with a whole-heart. When I let other things go, is it that I might free up time and energy to do the same?

If I am honest, I see in my flesh a tendency to satsifice with Christ rather than for Christ. I tend to settle for shorter times in his presence so I can get my checklist done or clean up the house. Oh, that this might be flipped.

The All-Satisfying Savior

We satisfice so that we can be satisfied. We give on the lesser things so that we can take more time on the greater things. And there is nothing and no one greater than Him and the priorities and passions that flow from a life rightly ordered around him.

For he never satisficed for us. He was tempted to do so by the Enemy in his temptation wilderness and at the very end of his earthly life. He was tempted to settle for less than God’s best for him and us (which meant the worst for him: death on a cross), but he chose to be satisfied fully in God alone (Matthew 4).

I love a tidy house and a full pantry. I love a fully-accomplished to-do list. But the slight satisfactions they offer certainly don’t last long. The dog keeps shedding, the teenagers keep eating, and the list keeps growing. If I satifice or loosen my expectations, I long that it would be to make more space for Christ and the things that he ordered his life around rather than in my time with him. He is the All-Satisfying One. Let us not satisfice with him.

The Thick Fog of Suffering & The Sight of the Savior

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Our youngest son is already dreading the days when his beloved older brothers fly the coop for college. Last summer, in an attempt to create a hopeful experience of life with just the three of us, we took a trip to San Fransisco while the bigs were at camp. I came terribly unprepared. My sundresses and Birkenstocks were a terrible mismatch for the cold and the fog.

Apparently, the fog in SF even goes by the name Carl. Carl taught me a few things on that trip: when going to SF, always bring a hoodie, Birks are incompatible with hills, and fog is a powerful reality.

Just as Carl had the ability to completely hide a massive, fire-engine red bridge from sight, suffering obscures sight. I love Elisabeth Eliot’s simple, yet profound definition of suffering: wanting what you don’t have or having what you don’t want. God cares about all human suffering, even the kind we bring upon ourselves.

A few weekends back, I spoke at a retreat on suffering. The preparation, the delivery, and the stories I heard over the weekend were a heavy reminder of the reality of suffering and how quickly suffering obscures our view of our Savior. I’ve been bent over by brokenness, which is why the following verses and quotes have been balm to my soul this week.

God Lives with & Lifts the Lowly

Through the prophet of Isaiah, who served as the mouthpiece for a fair amount of hard realities, God offers precious words of hope and comfort to his sin-laden, brokenness-bound people. He reminds them (and us) his essence and character even and especially as we walk through brokenness.

“I dwell in the high and holy place, and also with him who is of a contrite and lowly spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly, and to revive the heart of the contrite. For I will not contend forever, nor will I always be andy, for the spirit would grow faint before me, and the breath of life that I made.” (Isaiah 57:15–16).

The Lord loves to live with the lowly. The Hebrew word daka translates as “broken, crushed, beaten, small, and trodden down.” Though our God is high and holy, he does not stand aloof from the hurting; rather, he stoops to offer succor. David captures the same sentiment when he writes, “The Lord is near to the broken-hearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).

It’s not just that the Lord loves to live with the lowly and dwell with the devastated, he loves to restore and comfort. A few verses later, Isaiah continues, saying, “I have seen his ways, but I will heal him; I will lead him and restore comfort to him and his mourners, creating the fruit of the lips” (Isaiah 57:18).

He dwells with the lowly, but he also delights to lift them, not based on their perfect or even mediocre response to suffering, but based on his character. Despite seeing (Hebrew raah) the backsliding, closed-eared way of his people, he still chose to heal them (rapha). He sees and knows us completely, sin and all, but he still chooses to mend us by sewing us together. Just a few chapters earlier, the prophet Isaiah had hinted at the way this would happen: One would come who would be crushed (same root word daka) to mend the crushed (Isaiah 53:5).

Not Seeing, but Still Trusting

Isaiah looked ahead to a coming Suffering Savior; we look back upon him. Yet even for those who know him well, suffering acts like a thick fog that obscures the eyes of our hearts. When we suffer, we struggle to see, something the Apostle Peter understood well.

When seeking to comfort a terribly hurting people, he wrote, “Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls” (1 Peter 1:8–9).

It was true in a double sense that the beleaguered believers had not seen Chris. They were one generation removed from actually having laid physical eyes upon Jesus. They were also struggling to even see him through the eyes of faith due to the thick fogs of suffering.

In his sermon entitled “The Eloi,” George MacDonald writes the following powerful words regarding striving to believe when we are straining to see:

“Troubled soul, thou art not bound to feel, but thou art bound to arise. God loves thee whether thou feelest or not….For he sees through all the gloom through which thou canst not see him.”

When my son and I had trekked miles (in the aforementioned Birkenstocks) to the bay to get a picture of the iconic Golden Gate Bridge, we were deeply disappointed by the fog. Carl was ruining our plans, so we decided to sit until we could see. We sat stubbornly for an hour to catch grayed glimpses of the bridge. Finally, the sun began to break through, allowing us to see glimpses of the beauty for which we came and of which we had heard.

My lowly, brokenness-bent, suffering friends, the fog will lift and your eyes will behold your Savior. In the meanwhile, he sees you as you strain to see him. He longs to lift you and delights to comfort you.

Shifting from Security in Place to Security in Presence

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God’s incredible interactions with Abram have long been precious Scripture passages for me. I’ve studied them so many times that I honestly thought I’d mined out most of the gold there. Silly me.

Having begun a new series on the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob at church, I’ve found my soul camped out with Abram once again. As I sat studying passages deeply familiar to my soul, I found myself crying at the freshness of the words to me today.

Abram, having recently returned from the risky rescue of his nephew Lot and even more recently rejected the riches offered him by the world, finds himself in the grips of fear (Genesis 14). Perhaps Abram fears the marauders coming after him in vengeance for his rescue of Lot; if this is the case, it makes sense why he mentions to God his lack of a proper heir. Perhaps it wasn’t even death itself that he feared, but, rather, dying without the heir that would have been necessary to seed the lineage of nations that God had promised to him. After all, years have elapsed since God’s first initiation toward him which prompted his leaving of country and kindred to follow the self-revealing God (Genesis 12: 1–4); however, the promised child was nowhere in sight.

Either way, God comes to him and speaks rich blessing over fearful Abram:

“Fear not, Abram, I am your shied; your reward shall be very great” (Genesis 15:1).

Security of Presence

The Scriptures are replete with imagery of God as refuge to his people. When I think refuge, I tend to think place (fortresses and cleft in the rock kind of refuges). When our boys were younger, I spend most of my time and energy doing my best to create a home that was a place of security, stability, order, refuge, and safety for them (and for my own sanity). in those early years, they needed the security of place.

But God had previously and distinctly called Abram away from the safety of place. He bid him leave the places and positions that were comfortable to him to trade them for a life of following him (Genesis 12: 1–4). In light of this call to leave the security of place, God’s promise of security through presence stands out.

The Hebrew word God used for shield implies a buckler, a small shield that is used as covering or protection. This is an offer of as-you-go-protection and security for Abram and Sarai. This is an offer of security through presence.

My heart was strengthened to remember that God does not simply promise to provide a shield (though that would be generous in and of itself). No, God goes far beyond provision of a shield: he promises to be Abram’s shield.

I didn’t know how much my soul needed this reminder of the security of God’s presence until my eyes welled up with tears. As my boys grow (physically, spiritually, emotionally, and relationally), they need as-you-go-security of God’s presence, his promises of protection and nearness, more than than they need the security of place that is our home. Though they still need a safe place to land and regroup, their worlds are getting larger and larger and the leash between them and myself is getting longer and longer. The as-you-go security of the indwelling Spirit of God settles my heart as they spread their wings. He is with him. He has attached himself to them. He is their security through all the changing scenes that are sure to come.

And the same promise applies to me as the seasons of motherhood (which has become a place of security for me) change. My security is not in the presence of my children or having them all under one roof or in one car; my security is the sure, steady presence of Christ in me.

Security of Presence that Leads us Towards the Security of Place

It’s a good thing God had not promised Abram the security of place, because his life remained one of much changing and moving. As Abram waited upon the fulfillment of the flourish of promises God made to him, he learned what we, too, must learn: his security would not be found in any earthly city or any temporary season of stasis, but in the city that was to come, whose builder and architect was God (Hebrews 11: 10). Through the security of presence, Abram, by faith, moved towards the security of place that is the New Heavens and the New Earth.

Abraham and Sarah, along with all the saints who have gone before us, let the security of God’s presence lead them toward the security of God’s place (wherein we will also experience the fullness of his presence).

“These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth” (Hebrews 11:13–14).

We join a long train of sanctified sinners acknowledging that no place on this earth or season of life will ever fully offer us security. He alone is our shield and our very great reward.

To Remember Rightly: The Great & Terrible Wilderness and the Great & Awesome God

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Memory is a funny thing, isn’t it? My first memory is being pushed around in a dolphin cart at Sea World by my beloved Grandpa. But, then again, I don’t know if I actually remember it, or if looking at a tattered picture created a memory to which I cling. Either way, I treasure it because (though the picture holds no hints) my grandfather was very sick with the cancer that would take his life earlier than any of us would have liked.

The Scriptures are replete with the command to remember; however, there are two ditches we can fall into when traveling the backwards path of time: remembering with rose-colored glasses or remembering through melancholic lenses.

Remember

The Hebrew word for remember is used fifteen times throughout the book of Deuteronomy. The aged Moses reminds God’s people to “remember that you were a slave in Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm” (Deuteronomy 5:15). A few chapters later, he bids them to “not be afraid of them” but instead “to remember what the Lord your God did to Pharaoh and all Egypt” (Deuteronomy 7:18). My favorite of the string of remember verses occurs one chapter later, when Moses commands them to remember the whole commandment and the whole way:

The whole commandment that I command you today you shall be careful to do, that you may live and multiply, and go in and possess the land that the Lord swore to give to your fathers. And you remember the whole way that the Lord your God has led you” (Deuteronomy 8:1–2).

Whole is the world that trips me up: obey the whole of the commandment to remember wholly. To remember rightly is to remember wholly (the good, the bad, the ugly, the shameful, the embarrassing, the delightful, the traumatic and the triumphant).

Remember Rightly

This past week, I did not plan to take a time-traveling drive in a DeLorean, but some triggers led me back to some parts of my story I don’t like to remember. In fact, I have become adept at side-stepping or sugar-coating or suppressing (depending on which works for the moment). The Spirit brought two phrases from early in Deuteronomy to heart and mind: “that great and terrible wilderness” (Deuteronomy 1:19) and the aforementioned”the whole way the Lord your God has led you” (Deuteronomy 8:2).

I don’t like remembering “that great and terrible wilderness,” and I would bet the Israelites did not like it either: the hunger, the thirst, the confusion, and the long-wandering; the reminders of their unbelief, murmuring, and disobedience; the just punishment for their acts. That’s a long parade to parse and ponder. Yet, Moses (or more precisely, the Lord through Moses) bids us remember rightly.

We all have our own great & terrible wildernesses, don’t we? But those parts of our stories that we try to hide or repaint with gold-colored hues are significant pieces of the whole way the Lord has led each of us. To truncate them or to try to spin the story differently is to siphon glory from the stories of glory and redemption the Lord is writing for his glory and our good.

Bleached stories don’t show off his many-colored, variegated grace (1 Peter 4:8 &10). Books with chapters torn out don’t honor the author or show off his skill and artistry. In all the trials of the great and terrible wilderness, even those they brought upon themselves, God was with his people. Moses reminded the Israelites, “These forty years the Lord your God has been with you. You have lacked nothing” (Deuteronomy 2: 7). Later, he exclaims, “For what great nation is there that has a god so near to it as the Lord our God is to us, whenever we call upon him?” (Deuteronomy 4:7).

We can remember our great and terrible wildernesses because we know our “great and awesome God” (Deuteronomy 7:21). Not only can we remember them, we can even learn to rejoice in them as pointers to the power and presence of our God.

That Great & Terrible Wilderness

That great and terrible wilderness
His faithfulness has fully tamed.
Follow the crumbs of the manna,
Remember all Christ has claimed!

Retrace His ways in this wilderness,
Admitting your lack and His love.
Mark out your own meager faith
And His plenty-dropping from above.

That great and terrible wilderness?
His mercy has made it a garden!
Remember the whole way He led,
Lest your heart in forgetting harden.

I don’t know your great and terrible wildernesses, but I do know the great and awesome God. I pray that he would gently lead to remember rightly the whole way he has led you thus far. His gentle leading of his children will not stop until he has walked us all the way into glory (Isaiah 40:11; Psalm 73:23–24).

The God who Sees & Hears: Atonement & Attunement

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One look from my most loved ones can level me. A look of fear from my son on the pitching mound makes me ready to climb the fence and rescue him. A silly look of affection from one of my teenaged sons covers a thousand little irritations and miscommunications. The upturned, attentive face of my husband when I am hurting says more than a million missives.

Those who live together in close quarters know that there is a language without words. An upturned chin, a sharp glance, a tender gaze– these speak volumes in closely-attuned relationships. In fact, just this past Sunday at church, a dear friend caught on to our inter-family communication (which happened, at that moment, to be the frustrated-mom signal). He then proceeded to make crack us all up with his very fine-tuned impression of my silent signal to one of my sons. Maybe we need less-easily-intercepted signals. But I digress.

This Easter Monday, a stanza from George Herbert’s “Prayer (III)” reminded me of the accessibility of our incredibly-attuned God:

“Of what an easy access,
My blessed Lord, art thou! how suddenly
May our requests thine ear invade!
To show that state dislikes not easyness,
If I but lift mine eyes, my suit is made:
Thou canst no more not hear, than thou canst die.”

Though I’ve read this poem before, the last two lines struck me anew, perhaps because we had celebrated Christ’s inability to stay dead the day before. Christ can’t die, and he can’t not hear his children. In fact, he died so that God could, without separation or hindrance, hear directly from his children. He offered himself in atonement so we might know the Father’s attunement.

I’ve been musing on those two little lines for a few days now, alternating between awe and disbelief. That the God of the universe notices my needy gaze is hard for me to believe, but I long to believe it and become completely persuaded of this precious reality. My mind knows it, but I long for my emotions and body to join my brain in believing this kind of security.

Unlike me when reading my children’s various gazes, God has not only depth of care but also complete control. I can’t help my son pitch or heal a hurting heart or secure peace, but the God of the universe most assuredly can.

He hears sighs as loud, clear cries (Romans 8: 26–27). He reads looks like letters. He knows what we need before we do. Before a word is formed in our mouths, his mind knew it (Psalm 139:4–6). In the book of Exodus, God reassured the captive Israelites that he was the God who saw and heart his people: “And God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob. God saw the people of Israel– and God knew” (Exodus 2:24).

Though it is only one verse, there is enough fodder here for the fires of our faith: God heard. God remembered. God saw. God knew.

In his short but powerful book With Christ in the School of Prayer, Andrew Murray wrote that all true prayer begins when we are able to say and mean: “My father sees. My father hears. My father knows.”

I don’t know how to translate sighs, and I can’t see your looks of pleading desperation. But there is One who does. I pray that you would know the astonishing attunement of his love today.

Behind the Basin

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Last memories matter.

It should come as no surprise to us that Jesus, who was the most intentional human to ever walk this globe, was very intentional about His lasts with His disciples. Of course Jesus wanted to leave a few specific scenes burned on the brains and seared onto the souls of His disciples and best friends.

What does shock and surprise me, and should scare the flesh in all of us, are the specific last scenes that Jesus intentionally played out for his friends.  The two symbols that Jesus left with His followers that night were a table and a basin, two ordinary objects that conveyed sacrifice and service in community.

He could have given them a scepter as a last group impression, a symbol of power and sovereignty.  Yet, for His last lesson with the band of brothers who had literally followed him in the world’s classroom of highways and byways, He chose to wash nasty feet.

Feet. Jesus dreamed up the tarsals and metatarsals. He spoke and the bones were formed in the foot of the first man.  He did the unthinkable and became a baby who played with His feet. He stubbed His toes and likely got callouses as He logged some serious mileage on those two puppies.

One of the last scenes of his short life involved Him dressing himself like a common household servant and washing the nasty feet of his friends. He slowly went around a room of twelve dear friends, one of whom He knew would betray him in a few short hours, caressing and cleaning their feet.

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He has called us to be people of the basin. Basins imply a lifetime of unsexy, selfless service. Basin living looks different for each of us and changes in different seasons. Basin living may mean changing diapers in the nursery or soiled bed sheets as you care for an aging parent. It may mean investing in the lives of students who have little support outside of the classroom or it may mean folding laundry.

While the spaces and places where we use our basins look widely different, the people behind the basins share one thing in common: behind the basin must be stand someone who is convinced that he or she is the beloved of God.

In his prelude to his series of Last Supper stories which covers the majority of his gospel, John lets us into a few clues of what enabled and empowered the Savior’s service leading up to the ultimate Sacrifice on the Cross.

Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. During supper, when the devil had already put it into the heart of Judas Iscariot, Simon’s son, to betray his, Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his outer garments and, taking a towel, tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples feet and to wipe them with the towel that was wrapped around him. John 13: 1-5 (emphasis mine), 

Jesus lived all of his life in an atmosphere of assurance of the love of His Father. He knew that the Father had given and would give Him all He needed to do His will. He knew that the embrace of the Father whom He had willingly left to become a man was waiting for Him upon His return from His quick dash to the earth.

The love of the Father freed Jesus to pick up the basin and put down His own rights, yet again. Assurance of His place as the Beloved of the Father freed Him to take the place of a servant, even a servant who would wash the feet that would flee to betray him moments later.

Through faith in Christ’s life, death and resurrection we are named the beloved of God. We are invited, through faith, into the same atmosphere of beloved-ness that compelled Christ to the basin.

Dirty feet, dashed heart and desperate neighbors abound. May we bask in the undeserved, unearned and unconditional love of God, and thus become people of the basin and towel.

 

 

Christ’s Vulnerability in the Garden of Gethsemane

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As we approach Holy Week, there are two realities that shout from the gospel records of Jesus’s days in approach to the Cross who which he came: his deity and his humanity. Both are true at the exact same time, but as I read the gospels this week to prepare my heart for Holy Week, I have to take the optometrist office approach: switching lenses from deity to humanity, from humanity to deity. My finite mind struggles to hold the mystery of the Incarnate Christ.

When I read Matthew’s account of Jesus in the Garden in Gethsemane looking for the humanity of Jesus, I found myself in tears. Here we meet Christ, finding a hidden spot on the Mount of Olives to express his growing grief to the Father. Bible commentator Alexander MacLaren powerfully wrote, “He withdrew into the shadow of the gnarled olives, as if even the moonbeams must not look too closely on the mystery of such grief.”

He may have hid his grief from the moonbeams, but, in his humanity, he invited his three closest companions into the weight of heaviness that had been building to the point of crushing, encompassing grief. Matthew notes the following:

“And taking with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me’.” (Matthew 26:37–38).

Stay and See

The English translations don’t capture the intensity of the pain Jesus is expressing and the vulnerability he shows in needing the companionship of his human friends. The words Matthew uses to express Jesus’s pain mean “extreme vexation,” intense pain like in childbirth, and an engulfing heaviness. As these waves of human emotion (which have their own somatic effects) come over Jesus, he asks his friends to do two things: stay with me and see me.

The Greek word meno is translated “to abide, to stay with, to remain with.” Jesus, in a sense, invites his friends to join him in this sorrowful space, to hold space for him and be with him. Anyone who has attempted to accompany another through unthinkable pain (be it physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual) know what a challenge it is to stay. Our compassion and empathy make us want to get moving to offer solutions. Jesus asks to stay and offer our selves. First, Jesus asks his friends to stay, then he asks them to see.

The Greek word gregoreo is translated “to stay awake, to be vigilant, to be watchful, and to be responsible.” Anyone who has experienced suffering knows that it makes the sufferer feel invisible, unseen, unnoticed, and alone. Jesus, whose heart was not hardened by even a hint of sin, felt suffering in ways no other human ever could; yet, he asked his disciples to stay awake, to stay alert so that they could be watchful and see him.

The requests which sound so simple are simply profound. The One who created olive trees kneels bowed down in olive grove under the weight of grief, inviting humans his power caused to stand to stand with him in his pain.

We know how it goes. The disciples, even at their best, fall palpably short of their Master’s requests. Multiple times, they fall asleep. Perhaps it was the heavy meal and the wine from the Passover, perhaps their brains were shutting down at the immensity of emotion being shown by the One who was always their security and their calm. Either way, they could not and did not stay or see.

This is where we see the deity of Christ on full display. He wrestles, but fully submits (Matthew 26:39–46). He wills what the Father wills, even when it means willing a death he does not deserve. He chooses to shut his eyes in submission for the friends who can’t keep their eyes open for him in his pain. He greets his betrayer still calling him friend (Matthew 26:50). He who could call legions of angels to protect him offers himself willingly (Matthew 26: 52–56).

Staying with and Seeing Our Savior

We live on the other side of the story, we who are indwelled by the Spirit of the Living God. We know that he suffered alone so we would never again have to. We know what our sin couldn’t do and what Jesus did so we would no longer be enslaved to sin. We can learn (even if ever-so-slowly) to stay and to see our Savior.

Isn’t that what Jesus asked his disciples earlier in the same evening before this episode in the olive grove? “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches” (John 15:4–5). That is the same Greek word, meno.

The invitation remains: stay with me. Stay alert, be watchful, be vigilant, learn to see as I would see and to be as I would be.

Stay with him. See him. Savor him. Speak of him. These are the natural responses of the love he has shown us in bowing himself to the Father’s will that we might stand freely in the Father’s love.

Was Ever Joy Like Mine?: A Poetic Response to Herbert’s “The Sacrifice”

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Traditions are funny. Often, whenever I try to force their creation, they fight back at me; however, sometimes, when I am not even trying to create one, it just happens.

This is exactly how my yearly reading of George Herbert’s lengthy yet poignant poem “The Sacrifice” came about. I read it once and then found myself reading it again as Easter approached. Now it’s my own poetry tradition!

As Spring shows her glad face and Easter approaches, I look forward to its familiar lines and my notes scribbled in the many margins. The depth contained in such tight stanzas still shocks me afresh every time. The repeated line in each stanza, “Was ever grief like mine?” continually invites the reader into the agony Christ endured to offer us access back to His agape love.

Here are a few of my favorites:

“Oh all ye who pass by, behold and see;
Man stole the fruit, but I must climb the tree;
The tree of life to all, but only me:
Was ever grief like mine?…

Betwixt two thieves I spend my utmost breath,
As he that for some robbery suffereth.
Alas! What have I stolen from you: death:
Was ever grief like mine?”

After reading it last night, I found myself feeling stuck in the heaviness of the reality of the Cross and the cost that Christ paid for my redemption. I whispered to Jesus, “I am so sorry.” I imagine he would reply, “I’m not.”

Christ, who was once in agony, is now in ecstasy. His grief has been turned to joy. Redemption is accomplished. Christ resurrected. His children are coming to His embrace. These realities led me to want to write an accompanying poem to be paired with Herbert’s “The Sacrifice.”

The Relief

I heard her sobbing, shaking with grief,
She who from demons had found relief,
“I’m no gardener; I’m death’s chief!”
Was ever joy like mine?

I felt desperate hands clutching me in fear,
Shocked to see Rabboni again so near,
“Don’t cling; go call the others, my dear!”
Was ever joy like mine?

I found them locked in an upper room,
Huddled in confusion, mixing hope with gloom,
“Locked doors are no matter; let’s resume!”
Was ever joy like mine?

My tender Thomas was not within
Yet I heard his doubts, the honest Twin.
I offered my hands his heart to win.
Was ever joy like mine?

Walking at daybreak on a familiar shore,
Peter fled the boat like the time before.
Being led by an impulse he couldn’t ignore.
Was ever joy like mine?

I embraced him in a wet and welcome hug,
But his three offenses at his heart did tug.
Thrice I forgave what he struggled to shrug.
Was ever joy like mine?

We breakfasted over a charcoal fire,
A second chance to do his heart’s desire.
A shepherd’s calling he did acquire.
Was ever joy like mine?

I watched him shed a thousand pounds,
As I swallowed up the failure that hounds.
I welcomed him into grace that abounds.
Was ever joy like mine?

Forty glorious days with my friends,
Speaking of the kingdom that now extends,
Offering them living hope that transcends.
Was ever joy like mine?

I spoke of the Helper I promised to send,
The One who’d be with them until the end;
No better comfort could I recommend.
Was ever joy like mine?

With the Father, I watched from on high
As the Promised Spirit to them drew nigh,
And as they learned how on Him to rely!
Was ever joy like mine?

At the Father’s right hand, I still intercede;
For each of my children I gladly plead
Until with me, they will feel no need!
Was ever joy like mine?

What manner of love is this would walk through agony to gladly invite us into the agape love of the Trinity? Was ever a joy like ours?

The Inner Circle: Parenting Teenagers (and the Teenager in Me)

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I never intended to be hanging out with high schoolers outside of my own. I still feel the ringing sense of relief that I am through those daunting, delightful years. However, one of the best pieces of advice I received in the early years of parenting was to love your children’s friends. This piece of advice has settled into my soul and become a habit in my home. Thus, I find myself doing a version of high school ministry: picking up a crew of unaccompanied teenagers for church every Sunday, cutting their friends’ hair, and trying to keep up with the lingo and the emojis. (Hint: no periods. They imply anger and frustration; no ellipses: they imply the same).

As I hang out with these teenagers, I see and sense the hunger in them to belong, if not to the inner circle, at least to an inner circle. The shifting loyalties and rezoning of friend lines make me tired as a listener. I cannot imagine them as one living through them again. And yet, I find the same deep desire still within me, aching for a place to belong solidly and securely. In an essay in The Weight of Glory, C.S. Lewis called this the desire to be in “the Inner Ring.”

The Power of the Inner Ring

Lewis’s description of the inner ring rings true for teenagers (and those who parent them).

“You are never formally and explicitly admitted by anyone. You discover gradually, in almost indefinable ways, that it exists and that you are outside it, and then later, perhaps, that you are inside it. There are what correspond to passwords, but they too are spontaneous and informal. A particular slang, the use of particular nicknames, an allusive manner of conversation are the marks. But it is not constant. It is not easy, even at a given moment, to say who is inside and who is outside. Some people are obviously in and some are obviously out, but there are always several on the border line.”

Even as I type our Lewis’s words,, I feel the exhilaration and the exhaustion of wanting to be in the inner ring both for myself and for my children. I feel it on the sidelines of soccer games, before dances, and even at church. I see the insecurity when the lines are shaken up and the pain when they find themselves on the outs. I feel it deeply because I still experience the same things as an adult. 

Lewis wisely advises his young audience to know and respect the power of wanting to be in the inner ring. He tells them (and me), “The quest of the Inner Ring will break your hearts unless you break it.”

Outsiders Brought In

I have found that the only way to break this desire is to see it fulfilled completely through the gospel. The Scriptures tell me that I was created to be an “insider with God,” welcomed into the overflowing love of the Trinity. I chose to be an outsider by usurping God on the throne in my heart. Yet, at great cost to himself, he purchased me back so he might welcome me in fully and forever.

The story of Jesus’s interaction with Zacchaeus shows my soul the hospitable love of God, the invitation to the outsiders to be brought in (Luke 19: 1–10). The fact that Jesus saw him, hidden as he was in a tree and by his own shame, named him, and invited him into intimate fellowship brings me to tears as I parent teenagers (and reparent the teenager in me). This unexpected, undeserved welcome changed Zacchaeus instantly. Such is the power of belonging and secure love.

I long for my children what I long for myself: a deeply-seated awareness that Christ has invited us into the Inner Ring from which our desire for belonging to inner rings comes. There is no shifting in the nature of our God. There is nothing that can separate God’s children from his love (Romans 8: 31-39). Such a secure inner ring enables us to weather the constantly-shifting lines of human relationships until we are with our Triune God and see him as he is (1 Corinthians 13: 12; 1 John 3: 2).