From the Study | This Must Be the Place

From the Study | This Must Be the Place 

In line at the grocery store, you stand there with your basket: a single yellow onion, a tube of tomato concentrate (double concentrated, to be precise), a box of fusilli because it’s a weeknight and you don’t have time or the inspiration to make pasta from scratch, some nonfat Greek yogurt, and a case of Waterloo. You’re pretty sure you’ve got a can of San Marzanos in the cupboard at home. You grin at your ever-so-ordinary life, on an ordinary Wednesday, headed to your ordinary home to make ordinary pasta. The playful little synth melody of Talking Heads’ “This Must Be the Place” bounces along on the grocery store radio.

The cashier and the customer ahead of you are going on a bit long about the weather. Suddenly, the woman behind you accidentally bangs her cart into your ankle. Surprisingly, you stifle your yelp and manage your expression so as not to show your extreme annoyance. She says, “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” immediately turning her attention to her child, who is about to come unglued. The apology was sincere, but she didn’t have time to look you in the eye because the little one missed his snack earlier in the afternoon, and this was prime meltdown time. Wednesday is performing just how Wednesdays perform. “It’s no problem,” you say with a slight smile.

You turn back, and now the cashier has changed the subject to the upcoming family vacation. This will undoubtedly go on for another thirty seconds. One eye roll should scratch the itch. The fruit of the Spirit known as “patience” was already spent on the ankle. And so this is all you’ve got left in the tank. “Forever,” you say in your mind. “This damn clerk is going to go on forever.” Even though you really know that “forever” in that moment is a whopping thirty seconds. Look at you, an adult, keeping time like a child in the backseat on a long summer road trip. Yep. You’re Squints in The Sandlot, telling the story about how “The Beast” (the massive, slobbery dog that keeps the kids’ baseballs) was to be chained up “for-ev-er.”

So, you do what we’ve been conditioned to do: you reach into your pocket for your phone. One small hit of dopamine. A text, an email, anything to pass the time. You’ve got thirty seconds with nowhere to go, and somehow that feels unbearable. Again, this is going to take for-ev-er. But what if you noticed that little pull? That quiet urge to be anywhere but here, sandwiched between the cart lady and the clerk and the customer talking about the weather? There’s nothing you need to check. You just want somewhere to go.

So, for a moment, you leave the phone in your pocket. You look down at the yellow onion. Who grew it? Whose hands pulled it from the ground? Who put it on a truck? Who drove that truck? Who was working in the produce department when it arrived and put it out for you to pick up on an ordinary Wednesday? Suddenly, there are ten thousand layers to consider, and only some of them belong to the onion. The rest belong to how it arrived in your little green basket. Thirty seconds ago, you needed somewhere else to go. Now you’re wondering where your onion has been.

I don’t need out of this moment. I need this moment to be slow. I need this moment to be still. I need this moment to reorient my life. I need this ever-so-minor inconvenience. Because my life is more than hurrying from one thing to the next to the next. And above all, God is in this moment. And not in a vague way, either. He’s faithfully present. The Holy Spirit lives within you whether you feel him or not. Nothing in this grocery store needs to become more interesting for that to be true.

Ahhhh. Reset. Waiting thirty seconds won’t kill you anyway. You turn around. The little one is still having a hard time, and his mom is trying to hold it together. Heck, you might even say, “Would you like to go ahead of me? It looks like you might have a full evening ahead. Besides, I’m going to go grab an extra can of San Marzanos anyway.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you so much.” She makes eye contact this time, and you can see a little bit of relief come over her face. You grinned twice, by the way.

And besides, you hadn’t checked the weather. Apparently, Thursday and Friday are going to be beautiful in the city. Glad you caught that. That little synth melody is still bouncing along on the radio. This must be the place.

From the Study | The World is (Still) a Vampire

“The world is a vampire.” I’ll never forget the first time I heard Billy Corgan of The Smashing Pumpkins sing that line as they took the stage in Chicago; I was in my bedroom well after midnight, wide awake and quiet as a mouse, doing all that I could not to wake my parents, eagerly anticipating one of the greatest bands of all time to take the stage and unveil their follow-up to Siamese Dream. I tuned in to 99.7 FM, 99X, our alternative radio station in Atlanta. Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness was about to be released into the wild, and my 15-year-old (and honestly 46-year-old) heart could hardly stand it. I turned the volume on my stereo down as low as possible for fear of getting caught and grounded until the end of time. You can probably imagine the rest of the story, including fashion, choices, attitudes, values, and my overall demeanor toward everything in the world. It was 1995, and I had more angst, uncertainty, and frustration inside me than I could contain. I didn’t know what post-modernity was; I didn’t know how existentialism felt; I didn’t consider whether or not truth was relative. All I knew was that I didn’t care about algebra. I still don’t. I lived on Barq’s root beer, Thrasher Magazine, and the thrill of not getting caught. That’s who I was, where I was, and how I was. Everything smelled like teen spirit. 

My family was sound asleep, and I sat on the edge of my bed next to my Siamese cat, Maggie, jittery like a little boy on Christmas Eve, eagerly waiting for Billy, James, D’Arcy, and Jimmy to take the stage. I was locked and loaded with blank tapes, ready to press “Play” and “Record” at the same time and capture what I knew would be part of my life forever. That night, I heard the crowd, the band, the lyrics, imagining what it was like to be there in person; I was utterly lost in the experience; the intensity of the music, enjoyed in the quiet in the middle of the night next to Maggie; I’ll never ever forget it. 

Well, here we are, thirty-one years later, in October. School is fully in swing; 90s fashion has never been more alive; the fall has arrived, the larches are yellow, the grey expands as far as the East is from the West, and the high schoolers are listening to Basement, Citizen, and Title Fight. It could be worse. But Billy was right. The world is a vampire.  

At fifteen, I understood those words to mean something like: the world is here to take whatever it can from you. It will feed on you, live off of you, and then move on to its next victim. You, the consumer, exist to be consumed. And you know, Billy was right. Thirty-one years later, I’ve found that the world is still a vampire. It’s easy to doomscroll on your phone and watch reel after reel of injustice all over the world. And as you do, a nihilistic resignation settles into your spirit, dragging you down to the dregs, and soon, you feel the weight of what Nietzsche said about the abyss gazing back into you. 

Pause.

Exhale. 

I know what you’re thinking. “Thanks, Pastor, for this ever so uplifting slog of an email. How might I lift my eyes to the hills, count it all joy, or say with the psalmist, ‘This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it’?” “And besides, who is right? Billy or the psalmist?” “Is the world a vampire or not?” And the answer is that both Billy and the psalmist are telling the truth. The world is a vampire, but that’s not the end of the story. 2,000 years ago, Jesus Christ, the Author of life, shed his blood on Calvary and triumphed over the grave! The Light of the world, the hope of glory, the vampire-conqueror now reigns and rules, and as he does, he pours out his wisdom on his people, guiding us in our daily lives, enabling us to suffer without giving in to despair, to give more, to serve more, to repent more, to change more, knowing that the world will not always be a vampire; it will be made new. So in the meantime, we agree with Billy, but by faith, we sing with the psalmist. 

From the Study | The Two Shells

please listen to End Serenading by Mineral

Once upon a time, there was a curious, energetic, daring, dreaming little boy.

Like most little boys, he loved jumping off the stairs, Flintstone vitamins, building forts in the woods, and helping his dad wash the family car on Saturday afternoons. Warm, soapy water would pool in the corner of the driveway, and he’d gently tap his toes in it. Those moments were rare, but when they came, he could feel it down in his bones—the existential relief of losing track of time and simply belonging.

Helping with the tire shine, yes. But more than that, it was the temporary, almost sacramental certainty that he belonged. There was nowhere else he needed to be. Nowhere else he had to be. Nowhere else he wanted to be. Perhaps holy is the only word that can describe moments like this.

As he grew older, however, life became more complicated. He began to realize he wasn’t becoming the kind of person others expected him to become.

His imagination was like the crabs in the grocery store tank, constantly climbing the walls.

What others called “too much,” he slowly learned to call himself. Medication. Shame. Anxiety. Tears he couldn’t explain. The suspicion eventually calcified into certainty. He wasn’t simply afraid that something was wrong within him. He believed he was wrong.

That summer, while walking the beach, a conch shell washed up on the shore. He picked it up and held it to his ear. He heard the sound of a mighty rushing wind. The soothing, calming sound inside the shell somehow drew the howl out of him.

A moment later, he turned it over.

The shell was speckled with pink, orange, and brown. He held it to his lips and prayed. It was, in many ways, the first real prayer of his life. Not because he had never prayed before. He had grown up in church. He had folded his hands, bowed his head, and repeated all the right words.

But this one came from somewhere much deeper. It rose from well beneath the surface. This wasn’t a prayer he was saying. He was becoming one. It rose from the depths where words are no longer sifted, sorted, and carefully selected, but simply spoken. Where the soul finally names the truth.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t impressive. It wasn’t even particularly articulate. It was simply honest. It was simply lament.

“I’m sorry. What’s wrong with me? Please help me.”

He thought about hanging onto the shell. Instead, he dropped it in the sand and walked away.

Years passed. The boy became a man. For years, he searched for healing in all the places he thought healing could be found. Some things helped. Many didn’t. So the ache remained. 

Then something unexpected happened. God began speaking to him through creation. Not in spectacular ways. In ordinary ones.

A bee disappearing into a flower. Rain tapping against the window. A stack of firewood slowly disappearing. A ratty flannel shirt hanging from a neighborhood stop sign. An overcooked veggie pizza in the backyard.

It wasn’t that the ordinary world suddenly became alive. It had been alive all along. He was simply waking up to just how alive he—and all of creation—really were.

And with that awakening came new tears. Not because he was becoming more fragile. Because he was finally becoming more honest. The torrent that came with that pizza was unlike anything he had ever known. It became full-blown wailing—the kind of wailing that comes when the soul finally admits what it has carried for far too long.

As the tears came, something else came too.

Peace. Not because every question had been answered. Not because the past had been undone or rewritten. But because the truth had finally been named. And finally accepted.

Several weeks ago, he was walking on another beach and picked up another shell. It wasn’t the same shell, of course. But it reminded him of the prayer he had left behind all those years earlier. He held it to his ear. The rushing sound was still there. Only this time, there was no apology. A dull lament, yes. But there was no pleading. No bargaining. No writhing. Only a quiet certainty that seemed to rise from somewhere much deeper than the sea.

“You belong.”

Epilogue

My friends, I share this story simply to say that deep healing is often a long journey.

Were it not for the faithful love of God expressed through compassionate friends, wise counselors, patient mentors, and brothers and sisters who have walked beside me, I am certain much of the healing I’ve experienced would have been delayed by years—perhaps even until the life to come. That’s not because God couldn’t simply speak peace into my soul in an instant. And sometimes he does. But more often than not, he seems to choose the slower road. The road of patient grace. The road of faithful presence. The road of returning again and again—not only to him, but to the people through whom he so often ministers his love.

If you find yourself somewhere between the first shell and the second, don’t lose heart.

Keep praying. Keep paying attention. Keep walking with the people who love you. Healing may be slower than you hoped. But our Lord has a long history of finishing the good work he begins.

It’s an honor to serve as your Pastor. 

Morning Grace,

Alex 

From the Study | What Time is It?

On a five-hour road trip, there is no more repeated question in a father’s ears than:

“How long until we get there?”

The question came from the backseat somewhere along Highway 101. Back in 2020, that question was launched no less than 5,000 times from the mind and mouth of our nine-year-old son. He had Dorito dust on his fingertips and enough anticipation in his body to power the entire Pacific Northwest.

Meanwhile, Jana and I were soaking in every turn of the Oregon coast. Mountains disappeared into marine fog. Dairy farms opened into valleys. Nils Frahm’s album Screws played softly through the speakers (this album is a favorite of mine). I found myself thinking about my dad again.

I wondered what he’d think of me now. I was forty years old. A pastor. Trying my best in a world that feels increasingly difficult to understand. Would he have wisdom for me? Would he feel just as bewildered as I sometimes do? I don’t know.

What struck me, though, was that my son and I were experiencing time completely differently while sitting in the very same vehicle.

For him, time was measured in distance remaining. For me, it was measured in presence. Or maybe even absence. The older I get, the more adulthood feels like learning to live with both at the same time: Who was here? Who is here? Time slips through our fingers exactly the way it’s supposed to.

The Greeks had two words for time.

Chronos is clock time. Deadlines. Schedules. Minutes. The ticking pressure of ordinary life. It’s the kind of time my son was asking about from the backseat: “How much longer?”

But kairos is something else entirely. Kairos is meaningful time. Sacred time. The kind of moment that somehow lodges itself deep in your soul and refuses to leave.

Not every moment becomes kairos. But every once in awhile, ordinary life suddenly glows from within.

I remember one of those moments from when I was nine years old. My family had driven down to Panama City Beach in our old Aerostar van. One afternoon my dad and I left the beach to grab something from the condo. Bill Early in the late 80s had the beach look dialed in. Green swim trunks. White V-neck. Black rubber flip-flops. Aviator sunglasses. Absolute legend.

We rode the elevator up together in silence. It smelled like bleach, sunscreen, and saltwater. Sand stuck to my bare feet. When we reached the seventh floor, my dad unlocked the condo door and a blast of freezing air conditioning rushed over us like the opening pages of Acts — wind and wonder spilling suddenly into ordinary life. And for one brief second, I saw myself reflected in his sunglasses: a shirtless little boy looking up at his father.

Then he reached into his pocket and handed me a peach Jolly Rancher. I still think it was the best candy I’ve ever tasted. That moment lasted maybe ten seconds. But somehow it became eternal. To this day I can close my eyes and within a few moments, I feel like I can be right there again. Me, him, the Holy Spirit, and a peach Jolly Rancher.

That’s kairos. 

And I wonder sometimes if we are losing our ability to notice those moments altogether.

We have become people obsessed with chronos. Watching clocks. Refreshing feeds. Shaking our heads at gas prices, political hot takes, and whatever fresh chaos the algorithm serves us next.

But the Apostle Paul writes: “Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil.”

The best use of the time.

I love that command.

What’s the best possible way to steward this moment? How can I honor Jesus in the way I wash this dish, talk to my neighbor, or even walk the dog? You do know that hanging out with your pets is holy work too, ya know?

Notice what is sacred before it disappears unnoticed.

On that first Easter Sunday, the disciples on the road to Emmaus said to one another, “Did not our hearts burn within us while he walked with us on the road?”

Oh, they missed it.

They missed him.

But he didn’t miss them.

Sometimes the holiest moments are accompanied by signs, wonders, angels, and dramatic feats — the unveiled glory of God on full display; impossible to miss.

And yet, there are also moments that are just as holy, and they rarely announce themselves while they are happening.

They arrive disguised as Dorito dust.

Condo doorways.

The reflection in a pair of aviator sunglasses.

A peach Jolly Rancher handed from a father to a son.

Holiness and nostalgia are not quite the same thing. Both matter.  Both have the ability to tie the heart and mind together. But only one touches the soul and thereby changes everything.

So where might God have been nearer to you than you realized at the time?

Afternoon Grace,

Pastor Alex 

Nouwen: Stop Being A Pleaser

“You have to let your father and father figures go. You must stop seeing yourself through their eyes and trying to make them proud of you. 

For as long as you can remember, you have been a pleaser, depending on others to give you an identity. You need not look at that only in a negative way. You wanted to give your heart to others, and you did so quickly and easily. But now you are being asked to let go of these self-made props and trust that God is enough for you. You must stop being a pleaser and reclaim your identity as a free self.”

— Henri Nouwen, The Inner Voice of Love, p. 5. 

Toys

“The innocence of the child is its immediacy and nearness to everything. Rilke says that in all our subsequent life we will never again be as close to any thing as we were to our toys in childhood. The toy becomes your friend and closest confidant. Before and below words, you invest the delight and concern of your heart in the toy. If you are clearing out an attic and you come across one of your old toys from childhood, it can release a flood of memories. The child lives in the neighbourhood of wonder where innocence keeps mystery playful…

In contrast to how a child belongs in the world, adult belonging is never as natural, innocent, or playful. Adult belonging has to be chosen, received, and renewed. It is a lifetime’s work.
”

— John O’Donnohue, Eternal Echoes, 35

Never Horses

“Never Horses

The landscape is littered with ponies never to become horses, lazily grazing til kingdom come.
Men are bound to perpetual adolescent thought and behavior; over the last 70 years, the once strong spine of a man has become a pile of sugar.
Words like “maturity,” “commitment,” and “sacrifice” are despised in an era of rampant pornography consumption and low carbohydrate diets, as energy drinks get a man through the day.
The prophetic edge dissipates as men stare mindlessly into their phones, looking for purpose but only finding dopamine, followed by feelings of loneliness and anxiety.

Men are too scared to dream, and so they quit making art.
Men are too indifferent to act, and so they forsake justice.
Men are too stubborn to grow, and so they refuse to read.
Men are too insecure to ask questions, and so they settle to admire the notion of character in others but do not possess it for themselves.
Men are too distracted with trivial things, and so light refuses to come into their eyes; love will never enter their hearts, and life abandons them to merely exist.
Men are too proud to listen to their own conscience, much less anyone else, and so they have lost any sense of curiosity.
Men are too bored to fly a kite on a sunny day, so they don’t laugh from their bellies; they only laugh from their brains.
Men are too embarrassed by their past and so they drag it into today.
Men are too self-interested, and so they call in sick to work.

The intellectuals have reinvented the image of a man so many times we no longer know what one is.

The sluggish, intolerant society to which we belong will use the same knife to cut out the tongue of truth in the morning to remove everything of significance by evening.

God forbid me to walk through this grief-stricken world without hope, vision, or meaning.
God forbid me to pander to anyone.
God, let my yes be yes and no be no.
God, let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight.

May repentance mark my life.
May kindness be quick to fall from my lips.
May generosity flow through these hands.
May creativity come from this mind.
God, make me a man.

“Do not harden your hearts as in the rebellion.”

You have said, “Seek my face,” and my heart says to you, “O Lord, your face, I seek.”

The landscape is littered with ponies never to become horses.”

"Cool of the Day" A Pastoral Approach to Dealing with Shame

One of the incredible responsibilities I have as a pastor is helping people process, steward, and release their shame in light of Jesus, the gospel, and the indwelling Holy Spirit who comforts, guides, and empowers us to walk in new life. Shame is an overwhelmingly powerful force; moving through shame and into a place of belonging can be difficult work for a number of reasons. I recently observed something that I’d never known seen before. In the Garden of Eden, right after Adam and Eve sin, we read in Genesis “God came walking in the cool of the day” (3:8). The Church Father Jerome commented,

“God sought out Adam, not at midday but in the evening. Adam had already lost the sunlight, for his high noon was over. ”

— Homilies 1

Perhaps God sought out his children in the dark rather than the light so as to not intensify their shame but instead waited to gently enter into a less-lit space where healing, reconciliation, and belonging could be made possible again. Such is the nature of grace. For those involved in pastoral care, wisdom takes not only the truth of the matter into account but also the timing, tact, and tone of the wounded.

May Sarton | Now I Become Myself

“Now I become myself. It’s taken

Time, many years and places;

I have been dissolved and shaken,

Worn other people’s faces,

Run madly, as if Time were there,

Terribly old, crying a warning,

”Hurry, you will be dead before—“

(What? Before you reach the morning?

Or the end of the poem is clear?

Or love safe in the walled city?)

Now to stand still, to be here,

Feel my own weight and density!

The black shadow on the paper

Is my hand; the shadow of a word

As thought shapes the shaper

Falls heavy on the page, is heard.

All fuses now, falls into place

From wish to action, word to silence,

My work, my love, my time, my face

Gathered into one intense

Gesture of growing like a plant.

As slowly as the ripening fruit

Fertile, detached, and always spent,

Falls but does not exhaust the root,

So all the poem is, can give,

Grows in me to become the song,

Made so and rooted by love.

Now there is time and Time is young.

O, in this single hour I live

All of myself and do not move.

I, the pursued, who madly ran,

Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!”

— May Sarton, Now I Become Myself

Ted Loder | There Is Something I Wanted to Tell You

“Holy One,
there is something I wanted to tell you,
but there have been errands to run,
bills to pay,
arrangements to make,
meetings to attend,
friends to entertain,
washing to do...
and I forget what it is I wanted to say to you,
and mostly I forget what I’m about or why.
O God,
don’t forget me, please,
for the sake of Jesus Christ....

Eternal one,
there is something I wanted to tell you,
but my mind races with worrying and watching,
with weighing and planning,
with rutted slights and pothole grievances,
with leaky dreams
and leaky plumbing
and leaky relationships that I keep trying to plug up
and my attention is preoccupied with loneliness,
with doubt,
and with things I covet
and I forget what it is I want to say to you
and how to say it honestly
or how to do much of anything.
O God,
don’t forget me, please,
for the sake of Jesus Christ....

Almighty one there is something I wanted to ask you
but I stumble along the edge of a nameless rage,
haunted by a hundred floating fears,
of war,
of losing my job
of failing
of getting sick and old
having loved ones die
of dying
and I forget what it is the real question is I wanted to ask
and I forget to listen anyway because you seem unreal and far away
and I forget what it is I have forgotten.
O God,
don’t forget me, please,
for the sake of Jesus Christ....

Oh father in heaven perhaps you’ve already heard what I wanted to tell you.
What I wanted to ask in my blundering way is
don’t give up on me, don’t become too sad about me,
but laugh with me,
and try again with me,
and I will with you, too.
O Father in Heaven,
perhaps you’ve already heard what I wanted to tell you,
What I wanted to ask is,
forgive me,
heal me,
increase my courage, please.
Renew in me a little of love and faith,
and a sense of confidence,
and a vision of what it might mean to live as though you were real,
and I mattered,
and everyone was sister and brother.
What I wanted to ask is for peace enough, to want and work for more,
for joy enough to share
and for awareness that is keen enough to sense your presence
here,
now,
there,
then,
always.
Amen”

— Ted Loder, Guerrillas of Grace, 66

Warren | On "The Rapture" & Advent

“…at times Christians have made the return of Christ seem either hokey or horrifying. In much of the popular media surrounding the “rapture” and the “apocalypse” – books, films, tracts, and so on — teachings about the eschaton, or the end times, are used as a scare tactic: give your life to Jesus or you’ll have to endure catastrophes to come. When I think of the second coming of Christ, my mind flits between Tim Lahaye’s Left Behind series, Hal Lindsey’s The Late Great Planet Earth, and bumper stickers that proclaim, “In case of rapture, this car will be un-manned.” My husband’s childhood church in Georgia had an in-case-of-rapture vault (no joke) that contained a TV, a VCR, and a video explanation of what to do after the rapture had occurred and you were left behind. I suppose they hoped someone would stumble in and find it amid the apocalypse.

Churches with rapture vaults would be incomprehensible to the vast majority of Christians throughout time. The idea of the rapture as it’s popularly conceived sprung up around the nineteenth century. But as a child and a teenager, my husband didn’t know this had not always been the church’s teaching about Scripture. These ideas were in part why he gave up on church for a while after he left home for college.

These bizarre teachings are not good news. Bad second-coming theology has done a number on our theological imaginations. It has made the return of Christ seem like the stuff of badly written fan fiction, apocalyptic horror, and anti-intellectual pie-in-the-sky escapism. These novel teachings have made many Christians anxious about a doctrine that has historically been a chief source of hope for the church. In order to faithfully and fully enter into this “coming” of Advent, then, we may have some unlearning to do.”

”

— Tish Harrison Warren, Advent: The Season of Hope, pp.18-20

The O Antiphons

This year I introduced our church to the “O Antiphons” (anti meaning “to return” and phone meaning “sound”). These are seven, short, one-sentence prayers that have belonged to church history since medieval times. Believers have prayed once a day over the last week of Advent building up to Christmas. These one-sentence prayers are prayers of response to what the prophets declared Jesus, the messiah would bring; but he did not just come to bring gifts; he came to reveal his very self.  Each of the O Antiphons is found in the Advent hymn, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel. 

ANTIPHON 1 

Whom did he consult, and who made him understand? Who taught him the path of justice, and taught him knowledge, and showed him the way of understanding? 

Isaiah 40:14

O Wisdom, coming forth from the mouth of the Most High, reaching from one end to the other, mightily and sweetly ordering all things: Come and teach us the way of prudence.

ANTIPHON 2 

God said to Moses, “I am who I am.” And he said, “Say this to the people of Israel: ‘I am has sent me to you.’ ”

Ex 3:14

You brought your people Israel out of the land of Egypt with signs and wonders, with a strong hand and outstretched arm, and with great terror. 22 And you gave them this land, which you swore to their fathers to give them, a land flowing with milk and honey

Jer. 32:21–22.

Now I want to remind you, although you once fully knew it, that Jesus, who saved a people out of the land of Egypt, afterward destroyed those who did not believe.

Jude v. 5.

O Adonai, and leader of the House of Israel, who appeared to Moses in the fire of the burning bush and gave him the law on Sinai: Come and redeem us with an outstretched arm.

ANTIPHON 3

There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit.

 And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the Spirit of wisdom and understanding, the Spirit of counsel and might, the Spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord. And his delight shall be in the fear of the Lord. He shall not judge by what his eyes see, or decide disputes by what his ears hear, but with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth; and he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth, and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked.  Righteousness shall be the belt of his waist, and faithfulness the belt of his loins. The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat, and the calf and the lion and the fattened calf together; and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze; their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the cobra, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the adder’s den. They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain; for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea. In that day the root of Jesse, who shall stand as a signal for the peoples—of him shall the nations inquire, and his resting place shall be glorious. 

Is 11:1–10

O Root of Jesse, standing as a sign among the peoples; before you kings will shut their mouths, to you the nations will make their prayer: Come and deliver us, and delay no longer.

ANTIPHON 4

And I will place on his shoulder the key of the house of David. He shall open, and none shall shut; and he shall shut, and none shall open.

Is 22:22 

Key of David and scepter of the House of Israel; you open and no one can shut; you shut and no one can open: Come and lead the prisoners from the prison house, those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

ANTIPHON 5

Violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls Salvation, and your gates Praise. The sun shall be no more your light by day, nor for brightness shall the moon give you light; but the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your God will be your glory.   Your sun shall no more go down, nor your moon withdraw itself; for the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your days of mourning shall be ended. 

Is 60:18–20

O Morning Star, splendor of light eternal and sun of righteousness: Come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

ANTIPHON 6

Who would not fear you, O King of the nations? For this is your due; for among all the wise ones of the nations and in all their kingdoms there is none like you. 

Jer 10:7

O King of the nations, and their desire, the cornerstone making both one: Come and save the human race, which you fashioned from clay.

ANTIPHON 7

Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel

 Is 7:14

O Emmanuel, our king and our lawgiver, the hope of the nations and their Savior: Come and save us, O Lord our God.

Buechner | On Advent

“The house lights go off and the footlights come on. Even the chattiest stop chattering as they wait in darkness for the curtain to rise. In the orchestra pit, the violin bows are poised. The conductor has raised his baton.
In the silence of a midwinter dusk there is far off in the deeps of it somewhere a sound so faint that for all you can tell it may be only the sound of the silence itself. You hold your breath to listen.
You walk up the steps to the front door. The empty windows at either side of it tell you nothing, or almost nothing. For a second you catch a whiff in the air of some fragrance that reminds you of a place you’ve never been and a time you have no words for. You are aware of the beating of your heart.
The extraordinary thing that is about to happen is matched only by the extraordinary moment just before it happens. Advent is the name of that moment.
The Salvation Army Santa Claus clangs his bell. The sidewalks are so crowded you can hardly move. Exhaust fumes are the chief fragrance in the air, and everybody is as bundled up against any sense of what all the fuss is really about as they are bundled up against the windchill factor.
But if you concentrate just for an instant, far off in the deeps of you somewhere you can feel the beating of your heart. For all its madness and lostness, not to mention your own, you can hear the world itself holding its breath.



”

— Frederick Buechner, “Advent”, in Whistling in the Dark: An ABC Theologized, p.2

Nouwen: Pursuing Irrelevance

“I am deeply convinced that the Christian leader of the future is called to be completely irrelevant and to stand in this world with nothing to offer but his or her own vulnerable self. That is the way Jesus came to reveal God’s love. The great message that we have to carry, as ministers of God’s Word and followers of Jesus, is that God loves us not because of what we do or accomplish, but because God has created and redeemed us in love and has chosen us to proclaim that love as the true source of all human life.””

— Henri Nouwen, In the Name of Jesus: Reflections on Christian Leadership, pp. 28-30.

Pressfield | Resistance is Most Powerful at the Finish Line

“Odysseus almost got home years before his actual homecoming. Ithaca was in sight, close enough that the sailors could see the smoke of their families’ fires on shore. Odysseus was so certain he was safe, he actually lay down for a snooze. It was then that his men, believed there was gold in an ox-hide sack among their commander’s possessions, snatched this prize and cut it open. The bag contained the adverse Winds, which King Aeolus had bottled up for Odysseus when the wanderer had touched earlier at his blessed isle. The winds burst forth now in one mad blow, driving Odysseus’ ships back across every league of ocean they had with such difficulty traversed, making him endure further trials and sufferings before, at last and alone, he reached home for good.
The danger is greatest when the finish line is in sight. At this point, Resistance knows we’re about to beat it. It hits the panic button. It marshals one last assault and slams us with everything it’s got.
The professional must be alert for this counterattack. Be wary at the end. Don’t open that bag of wind.

”

— Steven Pressfield, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, 19.

Peterson: To Follow Jesus

“To follow Jesus implies that we enter into a way of life that is given character and shape and direction by the one who calls us. To follow Jesus means picking up rhythms and ways of doing things that are often unsaid but always derivative from Jesus, formed by the influence of Jesus. To follow Jesus means that we can’t separate what Jesus is saying from what Jesus is doing and the way that he is doing it. To follow Jesus is as much, or maybe even more, about feet as it is about ears and eyes.”

— Eugene Peterson, The Way of Jesus, p. 22

Longfellow | Changed

“From the outskirts of the town,
Where of old the mile-stone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down,
I behold the shadowy crown
Of the dark and haunted wood.

Is it changed, or am I changed?
Ah! The oaks are fresh and green,
But the friends with whom I ranged
Through their thickets are estranged
By the years that intervene. ”

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Changed

Knocking on Me

“It’s good to try to remember moments that are easily forgotten because it is within those moments that I suspect Jesus’ words ring the truest. “The kingdom of God is among you,” he remarked to the grumpy, pedantic, questions of his opponents. More interested in indulging their high-brow religiosity, the scared little boys who grew up to wear big black hats exposed their ignorance of mind and absence of heart as they blithered on right before the great I AM.

People hide behind all kinds of things; doors, clothes, calories, and questions. Were they really all that interested in the Kingdom of God? I suppose they’re not so different from me. I’d rather ask questions about things I really don’t care about so that I don’t have to ask the question that I need so desperately answered; namely, “Am I worthy love?”

On rare occasions, I am present enough in a moment to catch a glimpse of the Kingdom. It’s there and gone so quickly. Most of the time, I miss it, or better said, I forget to name it for what it really is. But today, I realize that I can be present in my memories and feel my way toward Home ahead by living in the Home behind.

My mother played the slightly out-of-tune piano in our little Baptist church off Main Street. I sat next to my father; he wore a heavily starched white shirt, red tie, black slacks, and nicely polished black shoes. He was handsome in his late thirties, with a full head of hair, a good-paying job, and a gentlemanly smile. He’d nicked his chin an hour earlier at home, leaning over the sink shaving. He quietly unwrapped the silver around the stick of Big Red gum. The smell of cinnamon lingered and the warm morning light spilled through the stained glass as the G sharp rang perfectly. I leaned on him. He’s been gone for nearly fourteen years.

I didn’t know that while I was sitting there on the church bench, I was knocking on the door of the Kingdom of God. Maybe it was knocking on me? 

And the answer is yes; I AM.
”

Barnes | Keep Converting

“Debate about how one gets converted has gone on for a long time. It is linked to competing perspectives on baptism, evangelism, and the nature of the church. That debate is very important, but we only scratch the surface of the doctrine of conversion if we limit it to a discussion of when the life of a a Christian believer begins.
Conversion describes a lot more of the Christian journey than its initiation. It also describes what happens to those who stay on the road behind Jesus, as he takes them to a place they would rather not go and gives them a vocation that changes everything.

Central to the Bible’s teaching on conversion is the call to make a choice. Confronted with abandonment, Christians can either turn their hearts back to the things they lost or turn toward the hope that Jesus Christ is in fact their Savior.

The theological term for this choice is repentance. The Greek word for repentance is metanoia. It simply means “to turn.” Before it became a biblical term, metanoia was commonly used to describe the process of turning around. If a man left the house and then remembered he had forgotten something, he would ‘repent,’ turn around and go back home. Over the centuries, the church endowed the word with connotations of judgement and remorse. But the biblical call to repent and be converted still essentially means to turn toward the work God is doing in our lives.

Life continues to confront Christians with invitations to repent and be converted, even after we have begun to turn our faces toward God. Our eternal salvation may be secured by the initial decision to accept Christ’s forgiveness, but conversion is the lifelong process of turning away from our plans and turning toward God’s maddening, disruptive creativity.

In spite of all our carefulness and hard work, we probably will not achieve the life of our dreams. In fact, our dreams are precisely the things that have abandoned us. But it is then that we hear the invitation of Jesus Christ, ‘Now is the opportunity to step out, walk forward and give your life to God.’
”

— M. Craig Barnes, When God Interrupts: Finding New Life Through Unwanted Change, pp.27-28

Remember Me

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
”

— Luke 23:42

“Thieves know where to look for valuables. They understand that it takes hard work to seek out hidden treasure. They know that the jewels are locked in a big black safe. They know that the cash is two stories underground at the bank. They know where things of worth are stored. So, even from his cross, the thief had scoped out the situation, he had cased the joint, and in the right moment, he thought that just maybe grace could come his way and that he could get one more thing out of a world from which he had taken so much.

He asked for the only thing Jesus had left to give. He asked for his memory. He asked to be remembered. Have you ever thought to ask someone this question? “Will you remember me?” Surely some scoffed in dying sunlight at the thief’s pitiful request. But was really it all that pitiful of an ask?

If you’ve ever been truly remembered by someone else, then you know the man strung up next to the Messiah was actually asking for the moon. To asked to be remembered is not a request of the brain; it is a request of the heart.

Think of those people throughout your life who cared enough to pick up the phone or come by or send you a letter in the post. The people who both smile at you and smile about you. Those you moved away from or those who moved away from you that still remember you.


The ones you are thinking about are your life. When the heart speaks to the mind, and a face suddenly appears, we call that love.

With hands pinned open, the thief could finally receive love.

”

“Jesus answered him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
”

— Luke 23:43