Religion's Underbelly (a poem)

I wanted you 

to be delivered 

box-shaped.

Small, medium, or large - it didn’t matter.

Just prove predictable,

measurable, 

comprehensible,

and 

contained.

Should you arrive early, 

I’d be tempted 

to set you aside 

waiting 

for my readied willingness to catch up 

Should you be late,

I might demand

a partial refund of faith

or

write a poor user review,

warning of 

potential disappointment.

If dimensions 

aren’t right,

no worries.

I can trim you 

down to size.

Funnel the love 

until it seeps, 

drips,

drops,

at a manageable pace.

Whittle the edges of mystery 

with a lathe 

of certainty.

Accept only rules 

of engagement

that grant privilege 

and safety.

I’ll be sure to discount 

the grace, 

stocking the shelves 

at the five and dime,

so that demand 

never exceeds supply.

but you.

you,

of all people;

so irreligious

in your holiness.

Unrighteous piety

that's frivolous 

in love;

wasted 

on charlatans,

beggars, 

and 

drunks.

you,

stingy 

in anger

toward those 

outside 

of the sanctuary.

The liars, 

the chancers,

and 

the cheats.

you,

with dirty feet

and 

unclean hands.

Touching prostitutes

and 

crossing the road

to bandage 

the dying.

you,

a derelict

of the very system 

created 

to explain you, 

make you plain, 

bring you close,

and 

make you attainable.

Worked my fingers 

to the bone,

beat my head 

against the wall,

configured 

and decoded 

all I could,

with 

no 

lasting

success.

because you.

you,

an ever-moving target,

impossible 

to manipulate; 

an uncontrollable 

mighty wind.

you,

a blue-hot fire,

impossible

to extinguish;

unquenchable 

burning flame.

I never know if trying to explain my writing is helpful or a hindrance to the work itself. In this case, I shall give a short postlude. I have grown increasingly discontent, over the years, with the workings and ways of the American church. We are so tempted to analyze our success according to easily measurable numbers (attendance, building, and cash). And while these metrics can be helpful in assessing growth, they are far from taking into account the intangibles of true discipleship (increased virtues, deepening love of God, self, and others). The latter is much more difficult to gauge, and so we return to the things that most quickly define us as a congregation - our size (in people, facility, and dollars). 

This poem is part of my own processing as I consider the unsolvable nature and mystery of God. It's a product of my own wrestling in this last year of a changing hermeneutic in my life about the place of certainty in my walk with God. The god I knew as a child was finite, fully knowable, and predictable. As I age, I recognize that "seeing through a glass dimly" means there will be great and unsearchable things I won't know this side of heaven. Things about God's character, His stance of controversial issues, and the full matter of salvation. And I am becoming more and more comfortable, perhaps even delighted, in the uncertainty.

So, this piece is like retrospective in part, and still a current autobiography, as I seek to live resisting the urge to reduce God to a definable, fully comprehensible entity. He's much too lovely for that. But the malady of the church is that we often, quite belligerently, defend the certainty of our point of view. The people of God, who on some level know God is mystery, choose to diminish this mystery for the sake of our own comfort. And herein lies the irony - religion, which is developed to grant people access to God, is often the most guilty of culprits in denying people that very proximity of grace. It's the weakness of religion, because God was never meant to be contained.

What if believers walked in a certainty of God's goodness, seen most vividly in Christ, and a willingness to admit uncertainty in most everything else? 

The Greatest of These is Love?: Hard Days & Heartaches

The last nine months have been some of the most difficult of my life, and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about faith and hope. 

The reality of hope - the belief that something will get better before it actually does - is perhaps the hardest kind of work I’ve ever done. At least, recently. I find myself wanting to stay melancholy and to continue in my hesitation about a better, dawning day. I want to set my expectations low so I won’t have to suffer disappointment on an acute scale. And for the normal kinds of stuff and events of living that gets me by without a lot of wounds. But this big stuff…this deep-down ache of grief, the heartaches that accompany transitions, the holding out for a job that is still elusive,the believing that one of those houses I’ve bookmarked on realtor.com could actually be ours one day soon…all of that is a very different story. 

If things are to be different, I must have hope. 

A hope that burns as brightly as the sun when it’s midnight. Hope that clings to life in the midst of death. Hope that doesn’t dry up with the drought or starve in the famine. Hope that when all else is uncertain, there is one sure thing - this too shall pass and on the other side it’s good. The early apostles carried that kind of hope. The slaves in early America carried that kind of hope. People throughout history have faced the firing squad, the dictator, the loss, the genocide, the need, the diagnosis and have held tightly to hope. I am learning to admire them on a whole new level. 

It’s one thing to talk about hope, and it’s a far different thing to live by it. 

To live by it means I will not let my present state of existence defeat me. To live by it means I will believe for something tomorrow even when no forward progress was made today. To live by it means I work to fulfill what is my responsibility in this world (no more and no less). To live by it means I can stare death in the face and say without flinching, “It is well with my soul.” To live by it is to believe, beyond the shadow of a fear or a doubt, that all really is well, even when it isn’t. To live by it means I am certain about some things concerning the God I serve. 

Things like He is good, wants the good, and is therefore working for mine. That I am loved no matter what. That He is able to do far more than I give Him credit for. That He can still make my tomorrows the best days of my life. That I do not have to listen to Shamus’ voice, and allow Shamus* to have influence over me. That grace is really more about doing absolutely nothing except receiving. And then I trust that God will do the rest and it will be sufficient. To live by hope is to have faith in the God I proclaim…and to have faith that I am who He says I am.

First faith, then hope. There is no hope when I do not believe. There is no hope if I fail to understand a bit of who God is and a bit of who I am to Him. First faith, then hope.

And I think about 1 Corinthians 13. How this love chapter ends with these words: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” I think about something that has been ruminating in my mind and heart for nearly a year. How it all is coming together with a little more clarity. I have always wondered about this 13th verse of this 13th chapter - the greatest of these is love? Really? 

Why? 

I mean, faith is a big deal. Scripture tells us we can not please God without faith. That seems pretty major, right? And hope? Well, without getting into the etymology, let’s just say that the way the NIV translates Isaiah 40:31 sums it up well, “but those who hope in the Lord, will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” 

Faith and hope are significant and substantial realities, so why would Paul say the greatest is love?

Because maybe Paul isn't talking in terms of superlatives as I had always imagined. Maybe he's listing a progression. Maybe the murderer turned apostle, isn’t saying, “You know, faith and hope are okay, but love is where it’s at. Love’s the best. Gold medal winner. All others are losers, so choose love.” Maybe the once blind Saul is speaking in terms of progression. “First faith, then hope, and finally love. Love is impossible without the others, so the greatest reality in this journey is love. It means you’ve come the farthest distance.” Could it be that what I considered to be multiple choice virtues from a 1st century pen is really the legend on the map of discipleship? 

First faith, then hope, and finally love.

My last nine months have been plain hard. Like raise-the-white-flag-in-surrender kind of hard. I have been faced with the choice of whether I will lock in my faith and live according to the narrative of hope. It’s no longer idle theological chat. It’s fish or cut bait. It’s sink or swim. Do or die. It’s looking at my reflection in the mirror and asking myself, “What are you going to choose?”  If I believe what I believe about God, then it can make a difference in the midst of these hard days. First faith, then hope. And if I can do this…have the hope to be at peace even when I might be in pieces; if  I can discover an inner peace that allows me to fall asleep on the boat in the middle of a storm…then maybe love is what will naturally result in my life.

And tonight, I caught just a glimpse of what could be. A Niki who loves God in the sweetness of everyday, ordinary miracles. A Niki who loves God and so she laughs at the future and opens her arms to what may come. A Niki who loves herself so she is kind to herself, lets herself off the hook, and gives herself some stinkin’ grace. A Niki who loves herself enough to erase the standard of perfection - for her and everyone else. A Niki who loves others with abandon and without fear. A Niki who loves with her beautiful, messy life, allowing her dreams, her heartaches, and her being to change the space she’s in.

First faith, then hope, and finally love. Faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these? Love....because you have come the furthest distance.

For the first time in nine months, I can genuinely say I look forward to what is to come. For the first time in nearly a year, I will rest my head on my pillow and know that the best days aren’t really behind me. I suppose some would believe that I should have been saying and knowing these things all along, but you know what? Sometimes life beats you down. Sometimes circumstances bleed you out. And sometimes, even Jesus people can’t hold on to trite platitudes about a heavenly future because today feels like walking through Hell. But tonight, it’s different. 

Tonight, I see the possibilities of love, and that they can include me too. Tonight, hope is starting to take root and I pray it will endure. So here's to faith. Here's to hope. Here's to going the distance of and finding the blundering potential of love.

*It's a long story, but Shamus is the name I give to the destructive self-talk we all fight that would keep us in despair, defeat, and shame.

How the Incarnation Showed Up in My Grief

Grief doesn’t fall into a nice timetable. It has no respect for my schedule. And it showed up in full  force yesterday.

The holidays have been hard for me. Our family is in transition and the future is unclear. On top of all those changes, I spent my first Christmas without my dad. And my first New Year. There’s something distancing about stepping into a year that my dad will never see. It feels like I’ve lost yet another point of connection with him.

Add to that, this coming Monday would be his 65th birthday. This week, I’m sandwiched between emotional holiday firsts and a birthday I can no longer celebrate with my father. 

Yesterday was scheduled with school. Things like adding links to the paper chain we started this week where all five of us add our own link every day with something for which we are thankful. When the time comes in the next few months to move out of this house that has been our home for the last 18 years, we are going to weave that chain of paper through the empty rooms. Like our way of extending gratitude for the life and memories these walls hold.

So, yesterday school was on the docket. Reading about Charlemagne, practicing penmanship, learning metric system conversions, and teaching the concept of regrouping (Lord, help me). I was standing in the kitchen fixing lunch and I lost it. Tears running down my face, full-on ugly cry. Grieving. Aching. The deep soul kind. 

It’s hard to cook pepperoni through a flood of tears.

My tween walks in, sees my tears, and asks if I need a hug. I take it. Paul walks in, sees my face, and immediately folds me into his chest. By the time the microwave beeped that the pepperoni was done, all five of us were intertwined together for the sake of consoling me. I have good people.

The thing is, the tears kept coming. Off and on all day. After doing map work in history, while my 2nd grader use math blocks to solve an equation, and in the basement changing out laundry. None of those moments were expected or convenient. None of it was part of my plan for the day. Not a single tear was on my calendar.

But every single time, my family met me where I was. Every single time. I was not alone in my grief yesterday. 

I actually thought I was going to get away with a crying spell last night. I was sitting in the dark bedroom trying to clear myself up while the kids brushed their teeth. I stood up, ready to exit, and in walks my 7 year old. She sees my face. 

“Mommy, are you sad again about Granddad?”

“Yes, honey.”

And as she wraps her little arms around my waist, she looks up at me and says, “I’m sorry, Mommy. I don’t want you to be sad by yourself.”

Grief wasn’t anticipated, invited, or even welcome yesterday, but had it not been for my grief, I would not have found this beautiful consolation of my family. 

In the church, we talk about Christmas as the Incarnation, when God put on flesh. It was, and still is, a miracle that God would enter our world so we would know that we don’t have to go it alone anymore. Yesterday, on the heels of a hard holiday, while still in the midst of the 12 Days of Christmas, the Incarnation happened again. Jesus took up residence in the hugs, kisses, and comfort of my family. And it is no less a miracle to know that they are entering into my journey of grief so I don’t have to go it alone.

Will Smith, Grief, and Christmas

I went to a movie the other evening. I went alone because it felt a necessary and desired offering on the 4-month anniversary since my father passed away. Four months. I’ve seen September, October, November, and half of December come and go without him. I’ve passed through my oldest’s birthday, my husband’s birthday, a Halloween, an historic election, and Thanksgiving without him. And right around the corner is Christmas. I have yet to determine if it is kindness or cruelty in grief that so many significant days are packed into such a short period of time.

I needed sanctuary. A place of remembrance that allowed me the chance to honor a life, and a death, that has forever changed me. My altar was a big screen and a reclining leather seat. My dad loved movies. I suppose that’s where I got it my affinity for cinema, so it seemed fitting to find myself on this anniversary in a place doing something we both love. 

I didn’t know what I was hoping to accomplish in that dark theater. I didn’t really go with any kind of expectation. That fact, in and of itself, was a gift. 

I parked, froze as I walked from the van to the lobby, bought my solitary ticket, and found a seat among 20 strangers who had also chosen to see Collateral Beauty.

It’s a movie about grief. It’s a movie about life. It’s a movie about what we do with three abstractions: love, time, and death. Although the movie is filled with Hollywood heavyweights, it plays out as a fairly predictable and contrived storyline. Even still, there are some lovely moments where Will Smith’s vulnerability gives the onlooker the permission to grieve along with him.

I had no epiphany during the film. No moment of clarity as the credits rolled. I got up from my seat, walked back to the van, and went home. If I was sure of anything it was that I was glad I had been there. Glad to have followed through and spent a portion of that difficult day at the movies.

Now, days later, I recognize something more. Spending 97 minutes watching Collateral Beauty was the embodiment of Advent reality. The film clearly invites the audience to enter into grief, but if you accept the invitation you aren’t alone. What the film gave me was a chance to be okay with everything I might be feeling and my reactions to those feelings because I am not alone. The raw grief of the fictional Howard Inlet is a reminder that we all connect with grief because we all “bear the wound.” I am not alone in my grief. 

That’s the message of Christmas. We aren't alone. God wrapped Himself in flesh and bone and stepped into time, and in doing so He showed us there is nothing we experience by ourselves. He’s been there. He’s done that. He’s gotten the t-shirt. For grief. For being misunderstood. For the joy of genuine friendship. For being hungry. For fighting to accept the reality in front of Him. He’s walked the road. He’s lived in that neighborhood. You and I aren't by ourselves through any of it. 

Christmas says God really is Emmanuel - the God who is with us. Peering into the Bethlehem manger doesn’t erase my grief. It doesn’t eliminate the struggle of adjusting to life without my dad. But the swaddled baby reminds me I don’t do any of it by myself. I am not alone. And today, that will be enough for me.

The Word became flesh and blood, 

and moved into the neighborhood. 

We saw the glory with our own eyes, 

the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like Son, 

generous inside and out, true from start to finish. 

- John 1:14 (MSG) -

Prelude to a Magnificat: Mary’s Ache

My thoughts behind this poem:

I can imagine a “just-made-it-to-womanhood” girl whose loving devotion to God placed her in the middle of some of the most difficult circumstances an unmarried female could find herself in the days of King Herod. I imagine that Mary, like all of us attempting to walk by faith, faltered in her own understanding and acceptance of God’s will over the nine months Jesus grew in her womb. I imagine the one brave enough to say yes to God’s request was also gutsy enough to be real in His presence. Maybe we can do away with the whitewashed, romanticized girl we conjure up in blue robes, and instead see her as we might actually be had we found ourselves in her situation. 

Between the angelic proclamation and the lyrics to Mary’s Song in Luke 1, I suspect there was a whole lot of soul searching that happened in Mary’s heart. And so, this is my license to wax poetic concerning what could have been happening inside of Mary as she comes to terms with all God’s plan required of her. I see a newly birthed woman preparing to give birth while her tenuous faith and faltering confidence keep her company. And as her vanishing world of safety slips through her fingers, I imagine honest-to-God moments where she pushed back against the inevitable pain brought on by this path she accepted. I choose to place the timing of this poem just before she visited her cousin, Elizabeth. And I end the poem with questions that I think Mary might have easily asked and that God, in His infinite graciousness, immediately answered for her in the greeting she was given by Elizabeth.

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Bitter. 
This root of grief. 
Growing invisible 
while my abdomen swells.
Loss of trust 
and social standing.
It’s enough to break anyone.
At least to break me.
I am my name.
Like self-fulfilling prophecy.
Mary. 
Bitter. 

Shushed whispers,

eyes speaking a thousand judgments.

Virgin in body, but not in reputation.

I die again with each look of a father’s disappointment

and midnight weeping from a mother.

Would they even believe what is true?

Do I still believe it to be true?

Man in glowing white

pronouncing favor,

promising a child,

a king, a savior.

But blessed?

I, who am spared no rejection?

Who befriends isolation and loneliness?

Anger brews and boils.

Lingering long enough for me to invite it in

when doors have closed their welcome

and friends have disappeared.

Bitterness harvested from a heart that God chose.

Prescience might have altered my service.

How is holiness born from scandal?

Or rescue birthed from reproach?

For now, only torment seems the return

on my investment of faith that

makes God the King

but me?

I am lost and afflicted.

Questioning my sanity,

and my willingness to suffer.

My tears have bled me dry.

How long, Lord, 

before you change my name?

How long must I wrestle before becoming Israel?

How far must I walk to be Abraham?

Jehovah, Your name is great,

do not forget about mine?

Will you salvage it?

Can you redeem bitter?

Redefine Mary?

Restore me?

Have mercy, God.
If I found favor once, 
could it be found again?
Would you confirm what I heard?
What I know, but now doubt and fear?
Would you remind me
that your servant is always safe,
that you are in this struggle,
that I am blessed by you?
Even as my world distances itself from me,
will you show you are still close and fulfilling your promises?