Waiting When Jesus Is In The Grave

Recently one of my students, Chelsea West, did a praise dance about how the Lord has grown her through a difficult time of her life. Here's short explanation of the dance she did:

Jesus knew what He was going to do before he went to die on the cross; his disciples couldn't quite grasp what was going to happen, but Jesus could. He was fully aware of how fruitful His death and resurrection would be. On October 21st, 2013, as I walked into a courtroom that would soon be full of people, I wasn't conscious of the fact that my mom could possibly receive jail time. However, God had a bigger plan that would completely change my life.

       The song Buried in the Grave is about the Saturday after Jesus' death; it portrays the pain and confusion the disciples felt. They had given up everything to follow Jesus and there they were, torn between the faith they had and the reality of the situation. For me, this song is the perfect depiction of the season of waiting I went through during the six months my mom was away.  All I had was a release date: a promise like a thread that kept me from fraying at the edge. I didn't know what God would do through me and I didn't know why God would put my family in such a situation. Too often, we get caught up in what we think our call is. We forget that God calls us to be faithful no matter the situation because He is in control and His plans are perfect.

        The song says "all we know is You said You'd come again, You rose up from the dead." That is the promise we need to cling to. God is present in your life and He isn't gone. He didn't leave me in the hardest time of my life; He filled me with joy and peace and my faith blossomed through those six months. What we learn in the waiting is sometimes a greater message than what we learn in the high points of our lives.

View the Dance here

May Day: A Tribute To My Grandma

Today is a funny day, emotionally, for me.  It’s the anniversary of my Grandma passing away.  When she first passed away, five years ago now, my mom always said “May Day is a sad, but beautiful day, Grandma’s gone but the sun is still shining.” That’s just who my mom is; intrinsically hopeful, grounded in truth, and triumphantly joyful.   I am in such a different place today than I was five years ago.  All the things that seem crazy in life right now, did not even remotely exist then.  And all the worries that I had then, do not even remotely exist now.  It’s amazing how we grow.

To really understand my Grandma, it is important to say that she was a part of a pair.  The way that her and my Grandpa lived, and loved, each other every day was something out of a story.  My Grandparents were simply amazing.  Growing up next door to them for that matter, was for lack of a better word, amazing.  With them both gone now, it can sometimes be hard to reflect on their lives because of the pain that comes from lose. Yet, they gifted a love that was so receivable, filled with both passionate and power, and that is just something that never really leaves you, no matter how many years pass.  

Some of me really remembers her as perfect.  One of the sweeter things was  that she loved to tell me stories.  As a little girl I can so vividly remember sitting on her floral yellow couch reading books like Corduroy, Stop That Ball, and I’ll Love You Forever; all my favorite childhood books.  She loved to read.  I think she ultimately taught me how to read, and how to love a good story.  Grandma’s voice was soft and gentle, but always so expressive.  She was the best storyteller there was.   I would always sit on the left side, I don’t know why I remember that, but that’s just always how it was.  Grandpa would sit in his lazy boy next to us, and turn the golf channel on mute so he could simultaneously watch golf, while still listening to his girls reading.

My favorite story that she would tell me, was about her and her sisters, and how they got their names.  Her mother (my great Grandma) was the person that everyone loved. She was always happy, and kindness poured from the deepest parts of her being.  Clearly nothing changed from my Grandma, or my mother, and I’m praying that something about that joy is genetic.  She had three sisters.  And all their names were some rendition of “happy.”  Grandma always said that her parents did that because there was very little joy in anything else but family in those times.  Mary, Bonnie, Gay (grandma) and Sunny.  Talk about joy.  Today as I run through story after story about grandma, reminisce on her beauty, I think about our names, our very identity.  For her it was a hard fact of reality that her name meant was joy.  it was rooted in joy.  But what about me.  Allyson, nowhere in the dictionary does that mean happy or joyful, but what if I just made it that way.  What if my very name was rooted so deeply in joy that it became my definition, my Story.

Clothing of Love

As I began to read the story of Samuel this morning I was struck by the character of his mother, Hannah.  She is admirable.  One who “rose early in the morning and worshiped before the Lord.^1:19” She “poured out her soul before the Lord^1:15” and gave her first son, Samuel into the house of the Lord.  There are many significant things that point to the character and worshipful heart of Hannah in the first few chapters of this book, however what stood out to me was simple, the robe.

“And his mother used to make for him a little robe

and take it to him each year when she went up with her

Husband to offer the yearly sacrifice. ^2:19”

 I began to think about what this had to have felt like each year for Hannah.  As she wove together the linen and stitched together each seam of the robe for her son, what did she think about? Did her heart mourn as she felt desperately separated from the flesh of her flesh? Did she rejoice with joy over the place her son resided? What did she feel? What did she think?  As her old fingers limberly moved, and tied, and sewed a robe for her son, did she worship? Did she pray? Did she think about all the things she did not get to experience with her son? Did she long to know what he had had for a meal that day? Did she wonder how tall he had grown that year?  Did she ask God to comfort her?  Did she worry or cry over his wellbeing? 

She worshipfully gave up her son into the hands of the Lord.  The greatest of places to be, yet she had still given him up.  To make that robe for him year in and year out she kept herself connected.  How exciting the day must have always been when she finished it.  Satisfied with its completion, and knowing that that meant she would soon be seeing her son. 

That day would come, and her and her husband would travel to offer the yearly sacrifice, and she, she would carry her sons robe.  Although only linen I’m sure she handled it like pure gems.  Like something of great wealth, but this wealth was that which comes from love.  I can only imagine that every year she would see her son in the house of the Lord and her heart would fill with joy.  She would reveal for him his new robe.  Each year, a little bigger than the previous, because he had grown.  He would put it on and show her, and she would exclaim at how handsome he was becoming.  How beautiful and proud was this mother’s love.  The day would pass and she would returned home, and every year she would make for him a little robe as he lived in the house of the Lord.  Although she was far and never present, each day he was clothed in her love.  Clothed in the robe that she had made for him.  Every morning, each day, he put on love first.  Just a little robe.

A Religion Major Exposed

            Sometimes I really don’t enjoy the fact I’m a religion major. Don’t get me wrong I love Biblical scholarship. My passion truly lies in the studying of historical relevance, the bigger the book, the smarter I feel. I love reading. I love learning. However, it often feels that after four years of study, 130,000 dollars later the only thing I will have gotten out of this major is how to say, “I don’t really know for sure,” or “we can’t really say for sure.” No real practical life skills will have resulted from my study, and truly, being a religion major ruins you for working in a Church.

            The academic theories, and histories, I’ve learned are not orthodox, and are therefore deemed dangerous. The sensitivity towards religions will soon come out in some sort of heresy.  My views politically have been shifted towards what I consider caring for people. How I interpret the Bible has greatly shifted through many spiritual mentors, and brilliant, brilliant men. I don’t know where the Lord is taking me with the knowledge he has gifted me, but I must be patient and hold fast in faith that he has a plan for gifts, and opportunities He gives.

Doxology

            With an open heart and tear filled eyes I lower my hands. The final song has been played at my college’s weekly praise and worship. Sunday nights are a night for contemplative, unadulterated praise. With the lights turned off, students voluntarily take an hour away from their evening in order to fill it with the power of worshipping the almighty, creator God.

            When the lights are turned down, it is easy to get lost in the presence of the Spirit. Song after song I sing, letting my words begin deep in my soul, flowing through my innermost being, to all ends of my physical body, and finally projecting outward with truth towards my Divine love. There is a beautiful simplicity in singing worship songs, and I often feel as though I am the only one in the chapel with God. Which is a wonderful way to praise, but when I get caught up in only God and me, then I miss the greater community, and the full experience of the Lord.

            With my hands lowered I instinctively grasp the hand on the person on my left, and then my right. Both ends of the chapel converge, and cross the great divide between the west pews, and the east pews. All students in this sanctuary, this place of retreat, are now clasping hands. The band begins to sing without instruments:

Praise God from whom all blessings flow

Praise him all creatures here below

Praise him above ye heavenly hosts

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

Amen

            I use the back of my hand to wipe my now drizzling eyes. What beauty there is worshipping in community, the beautiful people the Lord has created and called good. There is incredible power in independently worshipping God, but when you realize we are made to do faith together, worshipping as one unified voice, it becomes that much more powerful. I especially enjoy ending with the doxology because it brings me back to this home in community. I am not simply singing with those people in the room, nor simply Christians who speak English, nor this generation, or those living today. I gather in singing with the saints who have chanted, sung prayed, said these words since they were published in 1709, and I join with all the Lord's people who have been praising Yahweh since the beginning of time. What a gift worshipful community is.

Keeper of the Lamp

Keeper of the lamp

Exodus 27:20-21

“You shall command the people of Israel that they bring to you pure beaten olive oil for the light, that a lamp may regularly be set up to burn.  In the tent of meeting, outside the veil that is before the testimony, Aaron and his sons shall tend it from evening to morning before the LORD.  It shall be a statute forever to be observed throughout their generations by the people of Israel.”

I am the keeper of the lamp.

The collector of the oil

What a purity, what a beautiful thing it is

A light that burn with no smoke to blur its brightness

A light that burn to remind us to praise our God

I am the keeper of the lamp.

I am one of the family of Gods beloved  children

I gaze intently at the hue of its glow day in and day out.

In the morning I rise to tend to the flame

At night I care for it as a shepherd to its flock

I am the keeper of the lamp.

My heart worships with the never fading light

I am the keeper of the lamp.

A child of God on high

A bearer of His holy name

A servant to His will

And a lover of His covenant

I am a keeper of the lamp.

I shall tend it from evening to  the very lights of the morn

I will observe its beauty and testament

I will worship it for the rest of my days

His lamp is and will be a statute forever

I am the keeper of the lamp.

My heart worships with the never fading light

My Pet Peeve

            One of my biggest pet peeves is how quickly we, as Christians, write other Christians off. The example I’ll specifically use to get my point across is Rob Bell. Bell was an evangelical superstar. Between his Nooma video series, and books such as Velvet Elvis, or Sex God, Bell was praised as being thought provoking, engaging and a phenomenal communicator. With countless small groups, youth groups, churches going through his work, Bell’s influence on the American church was significant to say the least. However, when Bell came out with one of the most controversial Christian books of the past couple decades everything hit the fan. Those "thought provoking questions" were no longer considered, because they made us uncomfortable. That incredible gift of communication was disregarded, because he was attempting to communicate heresy. Therefore, the Church had a book burning of all that is Rob Bell (Not literally of course… Well, none that I’m aware of).  Even though, most people critiquing Rob Bell had never read his book, Love Wins. Wendall Berry has a wonderful quote on this stating, “the first rule of the criticism of books: you have to read them before you criticize them.”[1] Anything that had been produced from the thoughts of Rob Bell became completely irrelevant. Apparently, because he had different views on one aspect of theology, nothing he ever said was worth listening to. I strongly oppose this line of thinking.

            There are quite a few things I disagree with when it comes to Mark Driscoll. From his attitude, and how he presents himself, to a couple major theological points. But, I would consider myself foolish and ignorant to say I’m never going to listen to anything he says based on his views of women’s roles and leadership. This also boils down to a deeper seeded problem we as Christians, including myself, struggle with, and that is disagreeing theologically. We have to move away from our initial gut reaction of “burn them at the stake,” when we find ourselves in theological contention with others. Anthony Le Donne sums up what our approach should be, and it’s more eloquent than what I have to say. In a discussion on if Jesus was a Zealot he states, “I think there is quite a virtue in having scholars of all faiths, of all backgrounds, in the conversation [of who Jesus was]. I think we can only become more intelligent with more voices, and the diversity of voices involved.”[2]

            Let us learn from others. Let us learn from disagreement, and let us grow through challenging positions.

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[1] Berry, Wendell. "Christianity and the Survival of Creation." Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community: Eight Essays. New York: Pantheon, 1993. 94. 

[2] Aslan, Reza, and Anthony Le Donne. "Was Jesus Just... a Zealot." Interview by Justin Brielrey. Unbelievable?.  Premier Christian Radio.