Sir Gawain and 10th Grade Boys

 "Never forget that you're teaching the students, not the subject."

I'd heard teachers say this my whole life and mentally assented, but now, after several years in the classroom, I get it in a whole different way. 

In my current job, I teach three rounds of the exact same lesson plan each day. As much as I may love my material (and I do love a lot of it), even I can admit that it could get boring fast, especially the third time around. 

But it doesn't, because even though the material is familiar to me, it's always new to my students. And I can never know for sure how they will respond. Sure, I can predict and prepare and attempt to lead them to a particular response to the subject. I can generally predict which students will make profound comments, connections that I might not even have thought of. But when it all comes down to it, I don't know what any of my students will say when they raise their hand and I call on them. Sometimes we will be in the middle of a great and (I think) captivating discussion. I'll call on an astute student who's had his hand up, and instead of making an insightful comment, he'll ask to go to the bathroom. Other times, the students who usually spout banalities will actually have something really interesting to contribute. I truly never know what to expect - and that's what keeps this interesting. 

In 10th grade Medieval Literature, we started the semester off with Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which is such a fun book to teach. It includes elements of the eerie and supernatural (one of the first scenes is a giant green knight getting beheaded, picking his head up off the floor, issuing a challenge to his assailant, and galloping from the scene on a green horse). But it also includes a lot of questions about reputation vs. character, best intentions vs. actions, obvious temptation that we avoid and insidious temptation that hamstrings us before we know what's happened. 

The central episode of the book involves Sir Gawain, our hero, visiting a castle and being accosted early in the morning on three successive days by the wife of his host. She is ravishingly beautiful, skimpily dressed, and very obviously throwing herself at Gawain, who has to walk a fine line between maintaining his virtue and not offending his host and hostess in a very remote location. 

This is a fun lesson to teach. 

I usually start off by sitting on some poor 10th grade boy's desk and getting a little too close for his comfort - just close enough to make him uncomfortable and to make his classmates laugh, but nothing inappropriate. I then remind them that this discomfort is NOTHING compared to what Gawain is facing, in his bed in his skivvies early in the morning with his ravishingly beautiful married hostess almost literally pinning him down so he can't just run. 

Then I ask them what they would do if they were Sir Gawain. 

"Remind her politely that she's already married." (He tried that and it didn't work.)

"Politely ask her to leave, and if she doesn't, firmly assist her from the room." (That would be great, but he's not decently attired, which makes this a complicated endeavor.)

"Wrap the sheet around himself and run!" (Like Joseph with Potiphar's wife. Oh wait, five of my students don't know this story. We can't have that. Brief segue to recap the story of Joseph and Potiphar's wife.)

In my third class of the day, with my supervisor in the room for my formal observation, one of the students I enjoy the most for his confidence and engagement and complete unpredictability, stands up, shrugs his shoulders, grins (I know it's impish, even beneath the mask), and says "I mean...well..."

I prompt him to use his words please. 

"Well...I mean..." he shrugs again, "I'd probably just go with the flow." 

"Go with the flow how? Like Gawain did? Walking the line between courteousness and virtue and somehow pulling it off?"

He shrugs and grins again. "I mean...well...it's consent..."

Split second of silence, and then I hear a short burst of laughter from my supervisor. Bless her - she's taught high schoolers for years and raised three of them - nothing takes her by surprise. Then the class is metaphorically in an uproar. Laughing, incredulous, sheepishly agreeing, attacking the spokesperson, who can totally handle it. 

I'm laughing too, rolling my eyes, and thanking the Lord for the opportunity to engage with these crazy, dear, thoughtful teenagers. This is my kind of conversation. 

"Ok...well, by our culture's standards, unfortunately, that's all that's required to make this acceptable. But what's wrong with this?"

Classmates chime in.

"She's married!"

So?

"It's against the code of chivalry!"

"It could hurt Gawain on his quest!"

"Rumors could spread and ruin his reputation!"

I nod, affirm the answers, and ask, "What else?"

Crickets. 

"Y'all. Chivalry is a cultural code that we left behind hundreds of years ago. If this were just about violating the code of chivalry, then if Gawain lived today, it would be totally acceptable for him to "go with the flow." After all, in our culture, consenting adults basically get to do whatever they want. But culture doesn't determine morality. God does. And God says over and over again throughout the Bible that adultery is wrong. Period. That's what's so dangerous about this situation. The Lady isn't just tempting him to violate a cultural code; she's tempting him to violate the law of God."

They have quieted down now, and they're listening. But I can see that they still think this is just about Gawain and a lady in some long-ago, far away castle. 

So I tell them, "Y'all. This is about us. You might never have thought about this, but I'll tell you straight: many of the people I respect most in the world have been 'propositioned' at some point in their lives. And they had to decide how to respond. Were they going to slip into that sin and excuse it, or were they going to stay committed to their morals? We're all going to face times like this, and it might not be nearly as obvious as the Lady was."

Now I have their complete attention. I can see them processing. Thinking. This was an unexpected turn. So I let it sink in, and then I move on to the next part of the lesson. 

I don't teach the subject. I teach the students. I truly never know what my students will say, or what avenue of conversation will open up on any given day. 

In the world of literature, we talk often about the idea of cultivating a moral imagination. It's the idea that moral formation is about so much more than a list of do's and don'ts. It's about helping students imagine what it would be like to be in morally complicated situations, and then giving them the opportunities to see how protagonists respond to those situations. Sometimes the protagonists do the right thing; sometimes they don't. Either way, it gives the students a safe space to think through the ramifications of different responses to different kinds of situations. Then, hopefully, that will cultivate their ability and desire to act rightly in their own lives. Will any of my students be accosted in a castle by a ravishingly beautiful medieval woman? Nope. But might they face situations at college parties or later in life that are equally morally compromising? Yep. And my hope is that this conversation will stick for some of my students, and that when they end up in those situations, they will remember not only the biblical commandments about sexual purity, but also the example of people like Sir Gawain, who remained steadfast in a very sticky situation.

But the beautiful thing about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is that while it's about moral fortitude, it also deals with moral failure. Gawain stays faithful when up against the Lady's temptation, but he falls in another way later in the book. He is crushed. But rather than staying crushed, he humbles himself, admits his mistake, and vows to always wear a memento of his sin to keep him humble. Gawain went on to accomplish many daring feats and adventures, but rather than getting puffed up by pride, he remembered his human frailty and depended on the character of his Savior rather than his own gleaming reputation. That, too, is something I hope my students will remember when they fail. I hope they will confess, repent, remember, and move forward to do great things in the grace of God. 

rational and loving conversations: an approach to disagreement

{Painting from Glimpse Art}

"There have been other things you have posted over the last few years that I took violent exception to but I didn't say anything about. And I probably won't again." 

When I read this Instagram DM from a dear longtime friend, my first emotion was sadness. Not exactly sadness that we disagree - sadness for missed opportunities to gain a new perspective and challenge my own thinking. 

These came in the middle of a long and somewhat heated exchange about something I'd reposted. The specifics aren't important for the purposes of this post. Suffice it to say that my friend challenged the logic and presuppositions of what I'd posted and pointed out implications that I hadn't thought about. I'm so grateful for her willingness to engage with me. 

While the broad brushstrokes of my opinion haven't changed, as a result of our conversation, I have more questions that I want to pursue answers to, a more nuanced understanding of the complexity of the issue, and a healthy, concrete example of my own fallibility in inadvertently communicating things that I didn't mean to. 

If you know me well, you probably know that I tend to live in a world of big ideas, literature, and philosophical ideas. Current events? Not my thing. At all. Too emotional. Too divisive. And, frankly, way too time-consuming and overwhelming for me to keep up with. Plus, in my mind, current events are things of the moment, while my beloved books help me tap into conversations that have been ongoing for centuries.

But I'd have to be a special kind of ostrich to have kept my head in the sand during the Year of Our Lord 2020.  

As I've begun to educate myself on a lot of issues and begun to develop my understanding of them, I initially limited conversations to close friends and immediate family members who I could expect to have a moderately similar perspective to my own. It was a safe space to process, and the kinds of issues that I've been processing can be highly emotional and divisive, so I wanted to play it safe. 

But then I was convicted. As I've watched the polarization of media and politics spiral out of control, I and many of my friends and colleagues have bemoaned the lack of healthy civil discourse in our country. Why can't we have rational and loving conversations about divisive issues and seek at a minimum to understand the other side, even if we can't reach an agreement?

Then I realized that if I want things to change, I have to start seeking out those kinds of conversations. 

I realized that my effort to avoid these sorts of conversations is, in many cases, much more telling of my failures than the failures of those who disagree with me. When I imagined opening conversations with specific people, my gut reactions were "I know what they have to say is going to make me so angry" and "I don't know nearly enough about this to defend my opinions to someone who disagrees with me." Guess what? Both of those things are my problem: I need to work through not feeling personally affronted when my ideas are challenged, and I need to have the wherewithal to put in the legwork to actually know what I'm talking about. I also need to be ok to admit when I don't have an answer and need to revisit the conversation later, after I've done more research.

So, slowly, I've started engaging in conversations with people who I value highly and also disagree with on some pretty key issues. Sometimes I initiate the conversation. Other times, a conversation lands in my lap (or, rather, an email lands in my inbox), and I have to formulate a response to an issue that I didn't really intend to address. 

My primary goal in these conversations is not to win the other person over to my opinion (though of course it would make me happy if that eventually happens). Rather, it is to learn to understand their perspective and, hopefully, give them a gracious and well-articulated defense of my ideas so that they can also understand my perspective. Sometimes one (or both) of us end up with a slightly different perspective than we started with. Always, I want them to walk away knowing how much I love them, and that however big a disagreement might seem, it's small potatoes compared to how much I value the relationship.

I'm new at this. I've made mistakes. And that's scary, because I really like to be right. But more than that, I really like my relationships to be in a comfortable place, and these conversations are not comfortable. But they are ultimately much more productive than just skating around uncomfortable issues. 

This summer, Bri McKoy was talking about her own learning process in starting to speak up about some things she thinks are important but that can be divisive. She admitted that she felt like a beginner and that that's intimidating, because beginners make mistakes. She's a recipe blogger and cookbook author, and she compared the experience to her early forays into cooking. She forgot to salt her chicken SO MANY TIMES that when she finally remembered to salt her chicken, she felt like a huge success and posted the recipe on her blog. Now, she says, she would never recommend that recipe. But then, for baby cook Bri, it was a really big deal. And she could not have become the excellent cook she is today without being a beginner in the kitchen and making all sorts of beginner mistakes like not salting your meat. 

The moral of her story was that if we want to learn something challenging, the ONLY way to get there is by going through the beginner phase. There is no way to skip this phase. It's part of the learning process. Essentially, she was reminding me to give myself permission to flop. As long as I picked myself up, dusted myself off, made the necessary apologies and kept trying afterward. 

I took a couple of days to respond to my friend's Instagram DMs. I know that people tend to bemoan the effects of communicating digitally rather than via face-to-face, but I found myself grateful that we were having this conversation online rather than in person. It gave both of us space to reflect and consider before responding. I know I needed that; my friend wasn't attacking me, but I felt attacked. I don't know how the conversation would have gone if we had been face-to-face, but I don't think I would have been happy with my response. I would have been defensive, and probably focused on the details of disagreements rather than operating from what I know is our common ground: a love of Jesus and a desire to love his people well in a crazy complicated world. 

If I know my friends disagree with me on important issues and just ignore it and avoid those subjects, that does not necessarily contribute to Christian unity. In fact, if I don't give the people I love the opportunity to share their opinions with me, then it's easy to forget that the people "out there" who have those opinions are often thoughtful, nuanced, complex people with perspectives that I can learn from. Now, there are times to agree to disagree and move on. Sometimes that's the healthy course of action. But not always; avoiding a subject is not the same thing as living in unity with one another. 

And can we talk about unity for a moment? It's a catchword right now, and a word that shows up often with regard to Christian community. Psalm 133 starts "Behold, how good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell together in unity." It's a beautiful and biblical idea, but often I think our understanding of unity is impoverished. I was listening to Dr. Lucretia Berry recently, and she pointed out that often we interpret "unity" to mean "uniformity" - complete agreement and an identical approach to issues. This is the understanding of unity that leads to silencing conversation on complex issues, because we fear that lack of uniformity in an approach to something means disunity. 

But what if that's not what unity means? Dr. Berry pointed out that the New Living Translation, among others, translates that verse, "How wonderful and pleasant it is when brothers dwell together in harmony!"

Harmony only happens when there are different voices singing different melodies. Same goal - pursuing Christ's kingdom - different approaches. Differing voices - differing opinions - don't have to be the clamor of discord. They can come together into the richness and beauty of harmony. 

I've recently started following Sharon McMahon on Instagram. She's a government teacher on a campaign to start a gracious, fact-based conversation about all things current events (and whales). She's an invaluable resource, and I've really appreciated her perspective on how to approach disagreement. One thing that she says over and over and over again is that "we cannot work for the opposition's destruction." In our current political climate, it's easy for Republicans to think that life would be so much easier if the Democrats disappeared, and for Democrats to think the same about Republicans. But here's the thing: communities that eliminate the opposition turn dictatorial very fast. Healthy democracies - and healthy communities - learn how to listen to one another, understand the other side, and work together in the face of strong disagreement. 

What if, instead of being afraid of tension and disagreement, we entered into it with the hope of harmony? Especially among believers, we know that our goal is Christ and his kingdom. Christians have been disagreeing since Jesus called the first disciples - but what if instead of avoiding that disagreement, we entered into it with the desire to learn from one another and grow together?

how to be a good conversationalist

I gave a  talk at the English Department Chapel at Wheaton my senior year. I closed with this:

We have a responsibility to act on the vision that literature gives us. This dovetails with our calling as Christians to see the world for what it truly is. We know that the world is good, because it was created by a good God as an expression of love. We can see goodness and beauty in places where other people see only the mundane. We are called to cultivate that beauty so other people can see and respond to it. On the flip side, we know that the world is deeply broken as a result of the fall. And we are called to see the world's brokenness, wade into it, get our feet muddy, and begin the work of restoration that will culminate in the Kingdom of Christ. This is our calling - to cherish the world's beauty and rebuild the world's brokenness. But in order to do that we have to have the kind of vision that can see beauty and brokenness. Through my time at Wheaton I have learned that literature is one of the most powerful tools there is to mold our vision. And vision leads to action. 

In many ways, this was the culmination of my academic experience - an experience that shaped my desire to examine the intersection between the world of ideas and the world of action.

During my first few years in college, professors encouraged me to ask questions to spark ideas for papers. "Don't start with what you think. Start with a question. And look for an answer to that question. Be willing to be surprised with where you end up."

Y'all, until my junior year of college, I had no earthly idea how to do that well. I would choose questions so big I couldn't possibly fit them into the scope of a six page paper. Or I would choose questions so narrow that it was ridiculously challenging to stretch my conclusions over six long pages. But the deeper problem is I would start with what I wanted to say and then write a question to which my opinion was the answer. That stunted my learning.

But then I spent a semester in Oxford. I had to write three research essays every two weeks. At the beginning of a week, my tutors would hand me a primary source and a list of about 20 questions to choose from. They always encouraged me to use the list as a starting point to develop my own questions. The essays I brought back to them were NOT meant to be my polished final word on the subject. Rather, they were meant to be evidence I was doing the difficult intellectual work - they were supposed provide a good entry point for a conversation with my tutors.

The process was about learning and dialogue, not about my establishing my authoritative opinion - which was good because I was 21 and had no business having an authoritative opinion on anything.

To prepare for my conversations with my tutors, I read extensively from vastly different perspectives on the subjects at hand before I began to formulate my response. In reading those sources, I felt like I was listening in to a conversation that had begun long before I walked into the group.

Basic lesson in human interactions: do not walk up to a conversation that other people are having, assume after two seconds that you know exactly what they are talking about and what you think about it and then jump in to make your two cents known. It doesn't usually end well. At best, you cause some awkwardness and confusion, and at worst you might spark a very unpleasant disagreement in which all the parties are talking past each other rather than listening to each other. (I know this from personal experience.)

Continued basic lesson in human interactions: when you walk up to a conversation that other people have been having, it is not only polite but profitable to actually listen to the conversation for awhile. Seek to know what's going on. Ask good questions to help understand what ground has already been covered, what conclusions have been drawn, and the trajectory of the conversation. You may find that you hold even more firmly to your initial opinion, and that it will add value to the conversation. Or you may find that your initial opinion actually is erroneous in the context of the conversation. Or your might find that you now have big questions that had never before occurred to you. Now it's time to join the conversation as an informed, invested participant rather than as a conversation crasher.

This is what I learned to do through hours in the English Faculty Library and the Bodleian Library, on walks through University Parks, and through conversations with my dinner group (now my online book club).

At this point you've probably realized that although my experience was extremely academic, it had real application to my actual life. I'm an opinionated person, and through my young adulthood I tended to approach difficult issues with a pre-formed opinion. (Who are we kidding? I still have a natural tendency to do that.) Whether I realized it or not, the questions I asked were often designed to validate my opinion as the right answer, rather than to facilitate listening and learning.

My approach to interacting with people and ideas was profoundly shaped by my academic experience at Oxford, the reading I do on my own time, and my relationships with other people. I have learned how important it is to listen for awhile before inserting myself into a conversation. This is NOT because I think my voice has no value or because I don't have strong opinions. It's because I want to be able to use my voice and my opinions to contribute to and shape the conversation, rather than shutting it down with my ignorance or intransigence.

Why am I saying all of this? You've probably guessed it by now.

This has been one heck of a week for our country. In the wake of the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery,  Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd, the nation is in uproar. Peaceful protesters are taking to the streets - as are rioters and vandals. My city has instituted an 8 pm - 6 am curfew until further notice. Not to mention the fact that there is still a global pandemic.

In a situation like this, it is so easy to shut down the challenging questions. It's hard to listen with humility and grace to a conversation that is so messy. It's easy to feel attacked by people who call for the complete defunding of the police and claim that the violent response to police violence is morally justified. It's hard to take the time to distinguish between those voices and the voices of people who are galled both by nationwide destruction and by the deaths that sparked that destruction. It's easy to state an opinion based on my gut response and biases. It's hard to listen to the voices who are begging us to pause and listen to the conversation and ask questions about the underlying issues.

But here's the thing. I think everyone agrees something's gotta change. And change only comes when people are willing to wrestle with difficult questions about the way things are in order to begin to imagine the way things could be. People may disagree on what that looks like, but the only way to develop a vision of productive and lasting change is to choose to be still, ask questions, listen to the response, ask more questions, and begin to formulate a way to move forward.

Please - don't shut out the questions. Don't shut down the conversation. Ask the questions. Learn the stories. Ponder the ideas. And let those questions, those stories, those ideas, push you into action.

a life in food

In her book Come and Eat: A Celebration of Love and Grace Around the Everyday Table, Bri McKoy makes a powerful and winsome case that if we want to share the love of Jesus with the world, we need to start by sharing meals at our table.

I have underlined and starred and hearted half the book. Many paragraphs have this annotation: "YES! So thankful to have learned this from Mom." I think this book is going to be a kind of handbook for me as I work through how to do life together around the proverbial table - the place where we come together and nourish our bodies with delicious food and build a community that nourishes our souls.

Somewhere in the book - I can't find the exact spot right now amidst the multitude of marked-up passages - Bri makes the claim that each of us can think of a meal that was pivotal to our lives.

That got me thinking. To be perfectly honest, I cannot yet identify a single meal that changed or defined the trajectory of my life. And yet - and yet -

One thing that was very important to my parents in my childhood was that we shared regular meals together. As homeschooled kids, Charlie and I were often left to our own devices for lunch, but nearly every evening of my childhood we gathered around table and shared a family meal. Many of those meals are ones that Mom - and later Mom and I - prepared in 30 minutes or less. Many were at our favorite local restaurant. Many were in the places we travelled. Most of my formative memories are in some way linked to food. I don't remember much about Krakow, but I will always remember the mouth-watering pirogies we ate there. I have many memories in Italy, but one of the most vivid is when the waiters at a restaurant on the coast all vanished to jump into fishing boats because a school of fish was swimming by and they needed fresh seafood.

While there is no one meal that fundamentally changed my life, the meals that I shared with my family were formative in ways that I can only begin to name. They created a space of security, a space for laughter, a space for hard conversations, a network of memories that is strong and steadfast. If I were asked to, I truly think that I could tell the story of my life as a story of meals. Here's a start.

I am six. Hair in a "truly" - the half-up hairdo that my family named for Truly Scrumptious. I'm all dressed up because I just "graduated" from kindergarten. We are celebrating at the Rose Garden Cafe.

I am eight. It is the Fourth of July. Pop, Charlie, and I have already participated in the parade. Now it's time for lunch. Perry's BBQ, with all the requisite sides: green beans, mac and cheese, hush puppies, coleslaw, collard greens. We lick our fingers and eat watermelon for dessert.

I am ten. A loaf from Panera bread, sun-dried tomatoes and olives from big Sams Club jars, cheese, and grapes are arranged tastefully on our coffee table. We are having a "European picnic" - a frequent meal in our home in Virginia as we practiced for a hoped-for return to life in Europe.


I am eleven. We just moved back to Germany, Dad is deployed, and Mom, Charlie, Nana and I are in Paris. We get crepes from a stand behind Notre Dame - a stand that became a standby for meals on the go in the city of lights.

I am twelve. We have already had gelato twice, but we've hiked for hours among Italian fishing villages. When we reach the last village and Charlie and I beg for one last scoop, Dad doesn't say no.

I am thirteen. My fingers and toes and nose are freezing but my throat is burning with too-hot Nurnberg bratwurst chased down by Kindergluhwein - the alcohol-free version of mulled wine that is a staple at German Christmas markets.

I am fourteen. We take the train to Venice with a friend who lives an hour from the floating city. We ignore all the tourist destinations (which we had seen on a previous visit). Instead, Reba takes us to a corner grocery stores patronized by locals (imagine being a local in Venice). We purchase just-ripe nectarines, a loaf of long white bread, and a cheese that is kin to provolone. We sit on the steps by a canal and make rustic sandwiches. The nectarine juice drips down our fingers.

I am fifteen. We visit London for the umpteenth time, and beeline for our favorite fast food place - Pret a Manger, which still has the best carrot cake I have ever eaten. Not to mention their prawn arugula avocado sandwiches. We take our loot to the fountains near the lions on Trafalgar square.

I am fifteen. We walk to Da Silvano, the local pizza place where Isabelle, the waitress, brings out our drinks before she takes our order - we are regulars. Another night we walk to the Greek restaurant that has the most delicious gyros salad you have ever tasted. One time my parents were on a date there, and the owner pointedly ignored Dad waving for the bill, because she had decided their date hadn't lasted long enough. Which would have been fine, except they were then late to Bible study.

I am seventeen. In London again, we make a pilgrimage to the cafe in the Victoria & Albert Museum. Decorated by William Morris, this cafe has the best scones and clotted cream our family has ever tasted.

I am eighteen. I have just graduated from high school, and my grandparents borrow a pontoon boat for an afternoon on the lake. My cousin Hannah makes to-die-for strawberry-filled cupcakes. I'm not a cupcake person in generally, but my mouth still waters at the memory of these.

I am nineteen. It's floor night on the college dorm, and we pass around a pan of pizookie, taking ritual spoonfuls straight from the pan. Sure, it's cold season, but who is going to pass up just-barely-baked chocolate chip cookie with ice cream on top?

I am twenty. Mom and Dad graciously take me along to Charleston on their anniversary trip. We savor the best shrimp & grits in the history of Southern cooking.

I am twenty-one. I fill my semester abroad with oatcakes and cheese and scones and clotted cream on study dates with friends. Occasionally I splurge on a mouth-watering, artery-clogging full English breakfast - complete with beans and grilled tomatoes.

I am twenty-two. I fling my tiny college kitchen open to whoever wants to come - the freshman who is a kindred spirit, the surrogate grandparents who bring over veggies from their garden, the core group of friends who have walked through all four years of college by my side. We laugh and we cry and we grow and we learn from one another.

I am twenty-three, living in Munich after college. A girl from church - a fellow expat - has decided we are going to be friends. She invites me over for countless lunches of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes - comfort food. Over those countless lunches, we become fast friends.

I am twenty-four. Mom, Dad, Nana and I are in a tiny village clinging to a hill in Galilee - Zafed. There we have the freshest-you-could-possibly-imagine falafel, fingers chilly in the cold rain, bellies warmed by the freshly fried food.

I am twenty-five. On Tuesdays, my church Community Group has themed potlucks. Asian food, childhood favorites, vegetarian night, appetizer night. Each dish comes with a story that we share as we do life together.

I have a list of formative/memorable meals that spans five pages of a legal pad - and that was only the ones that sprang to mind effortlessly. There are so many more.

I have no idea how the rest of my life will pan out, but one thing I can confidently claim is that food - good food, shared with friends, family, and strangers - is going to always be a key part of my life.

Mom and Dad, thank you. Thank you for building our family around the table. Thank you for recognizing and cultivating the richness of experiences built around food. Thank you for giving me my love of good food and good conversation and safe and holy spaces. What a legacy.

P.S. Mom, as I write this, I'm listening to the French Kiss soundtrack. Nothing says "dinner music" like that album.

A Letter to Wheaton's Class of 2020

Wheaton is much on my heart these days. It's Wheaton Gives day - and I gave in honor of Julius Scott, a professor I never met but whose presence at Wheaton indelibly impacted my time there decades later. Several days ago, I got an email asking recent grads to send a note of encouragement for the class of 2020. I sat and typed this out on my phone with my whole heart. 

Dear Wheaton Senior,

The first time I cried during the pandemic was for you. I graduated just three years ago, and I grieve with you for the loss of your final quad at Wheaton.

But I have also rejoiced to see you responding with hope and resilience. The insta account @overheardatwheaton brings me so much joy. I’ve talked to some of you about the unexpected fruitfulness of online discussion forums, even in the midst of frustrations regarding zoom classes.

You didn’t leave Wheaton as you expected to. But you do leave prepared. You spent nearly four years at an institution dedicated to shaping you to go out into this broken world with great hope as you live for Christ and His Kingdom. I believe that even this unexpected end is for the purpose of preparing you to live with that call shaping your life.

Your dreams may be crumbling, or taking new forms. God has dreams for you, too, and the pandemic is no glitch in His plans. He is with you. He goes before you to guide you, behind you to protect you, beneath you to sustain you, and beside you to befriend you. Do not be afraid. The blessing of God is upon you. Although you are sad, do not be afraid. Go in peace - the peace that passes understanding, that is the shelter of those whose minds are fixed on the Lord, that is the gift you carry as you endure Coronavirus.

So stay strong as you finish up those zoom class sessions. Relearn your class song and sing it with gusto. Teach it to the family members you are quarantining with. Look through the years of photos and quotes from quote walls and send them to the friends you looked forward to celebrating your achievement with. Remember, and grieve, and laugh, and celebrate. During my last quad at Wheaton I found that laughter and tears are strangely suited to be beautiful companions. But even when it doesn’t feel beautiful - when it feels ugly and wrong and unfair - feel those emotions and bring them to the God who brought you to Wheaton in His own good time and has taken you from Wheaton according to His timing, not yours.

He meets you here - in online learning, in uncertainty for the future, in loose ends left untied - and He holds all of you with care and compassion and grace.

Be blessed, and know you are beloved.

Grace,

Kate 

people of the resurrection

Finally - Easter Sunday. 

****

an unnamed woman

I wake with the birds, weary from sorrow. I roll over and look around the room. The other women are also beginning to stir. 

We spent the sabbath day in shock. Comforting Mary. Comforting each other. 

Today we will serve Him for the last time. I dread it. This is goodbye. After this, there will be nothing left to do for Him. I will have to build a life without Jesus. Is it even possible? I know intellectually that life is always possible with God. That God is still good and still in control. But I can't feel it. I pray that He will have mercy. This is not the normal bereavement experience. I know - I don't just feel it - that the Light has been sucked out of the world and things will never be right again. Lord, have mercy.

We rise and prepare to go. We don't talk much - there isn't much to say.

We walk to the tomb, feeling the cool morning air. Wondering who will roll away the stone. Slightly intimidated at the thought of the Roman guards. 

We get to the tomb and discover that the guards are nowhere to be seen, and the stone has already been rolled away. Odd. But it makes our task easier. I brace myself and walk into the tomb.

He isn't there. 

It's such a shock that I don't know what to think. Rational thought flees. It is too much. All that we have been through and now the body disappears? We can't even do this one last thing for Him? I am just barely holding myself back from hysterics, and I sense the other women in the same perplexity.

As I try to get a grip so we can decide what to do, the soft morning light is suddenly electric. There are two - men - among us, dazzlingly white, of tall and imposing stature. Their faces are otherworldly. I cry out and fall on my knees, looking at the ground because I cannot bear to look at them.

A voice fills the tomb: "Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen."

My heart stops. I can't breathe.

"Remember how He told you, while He was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise."

It is not a question, but a command. Remember.

I do remember. Three times He told us, and we hadn't listened. It was too impossible to picture Him dying. But now that that impossible thing had happened, was it really unbelievable that He be risen?

No. 

In less time than it takes to process, I believe.

I look up and the angels are gone.

For a moment there is stunned silence. Then chaos - joy - skepticism. Mary Magdalene in particular is too stunned to believe it. But I know that it is true, and that we must go to tell the disciples. I start to run.

They are all up and gathered together. I burst in first, exclaim, "He's alive!" and then all the other women catch up. Chaos. Uproar. Too many people talking. I look around at the fear and skepticism on so many of these beloved faces instead of the joy that fills me so that I could burst.

Thomas says we must be imagining things. That the strain of the last four days has been too much. 

I stamp my feet, dancing in frustration. 

I tell him that we were absolutely not imagining things and how could those men be made up and remember what Jesus said???? And if they didn't believe us they should go look at the tomb themselves. Imagining things?!?! This is the only way that God could still be good and in control. I don't know how I didn't see it before. I am in a frenzy of joy and frustration and impatience.

Peter and John, at least, take my word for it and bolt for the tomb. 

****

John

I wake worried for Peter. As hellish as the last few days have been for all of us, Peter is at his wit's end. He doesn't talk much. When he does, he keeps saying things about his "perfect [threefold] denial."

I don't know how to help him. I can't express the devastation of being with Jesus as He died, but I also know there is no other place I would rather have been. I want to tell Peter that the Lord understood and still loved him, but that would have to come from the Jesus Himself. And that is not possible. My face crumples.

I look at Peter. He's lying on his side with his face to the wall, but I can tell he's awake. I brace myself to try to get him to get up and have something to eat. Previous efforts have been exhausting.

A commotion breaks out downstairs. 

Peter rolls over and looks at me. Sighs. Says we'd better go down. I am grateful for something to do. A distraction. A flicker of Peter's old tendency to be in the thick of things. 

We go downstairs, pause on the bottom step.

It's mayhem. The women have seen - something - and the men are questioning them. For a moment I can't understand what anyone is saying.

Then two sentences hit me.

Mary is frantic: "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him!"

She is standing in front of me, wringing her hands. 

But another woman grabs her by her shoulders and shakes her. She turns to me, face radiant, and before she says it a wild hope springs up. Lazarus...

"He is risen!"

I think she says more, but Peter is running and I am running and I have to get to that tomb.

I outrun Peter, but pay the price for it. My lungs are about to burst. I bend over outside the entrance - the stone has been moved and the guards are gone - trying to catch my breath. I look into the tomb, and Jesus isn't there. But His grave clothes are.

Peter arrives, panting, and goes into the tomb.

I follow. He stands, silently gazing at the remnants of burial.

I look. Possible explanations flash through my mind. But suddenly I know it's true. It has to be true. The Lord is alive. Alive! ALIVE! I believe it with every fiber of my being, and the joy is so great that I can barely stand.

Peter is in a stupor. I don't know what he is thinking or feeling, but I don't have to. Jesus is alive. And He will make things right with Peter.

I am going to burst with joy.

I don't understand it, but I know this is not wishful thinking.

What grave robber would leave the clothes?

And then I remember Mary. His mother. I have to find her, tell her, share with her the great eucatastrophe.

He is alive!

****

Mary Magdalene

I follow Peter and John back to the tomb. I don't know what else to do: I had thought of this place as the closest I could come to Jesus, and now He is gone. I weep in grief and fury and frustration. What right did they have? First to kill Him and then to take His body? The last remaining vestiges of His presence among us? It brings the grief of His death - which had numbed a bit - back in full force.

I suspect the others think I am over-indulgent in my grief, but I can't help it: I can't bear it.

WHERE IS HE?

I am still crying, but less violently. I notice the garden for the first time. It is beautiful. Contemplative. Lovingly tended - a peaceful place for a tomb. A bird sings. I wonder who the gardener is. A man who tends a garden with this much care wouldn't disdain speaking to me. All I want is to find the Lord - be near Him even in burial. 

I realize subconsciously that Peter and John have left. That there are two strangers in the tomb. I answer their questions mechanically, not really paying attention.

Where have they taken Him?

Where is the gardener?

I sense someone behind me. I turn and glimpse a figure standing there. I quickly turn away again to try to wipe my tears away and compose myself.

"Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?"

I take a deep breath. Try to speak calmly. 

"Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where," the tears start flowing again and I squeak out, "tell me where you have laid Him, and I will take Him away."

So much for remaining calm. But how am I supposed to speak calmly of Him? He is - oh Lord, was - my everything. Oh God, is this a penalty for idolatry? Lord have mercy, and show me where He is. Let this man have mercy toward me, or my heart will shatter.

How am I supposed to live without Jesus?

I cannot stop sobbing. 

Then in a voice so low I barely hear it, but so resonant with compassion and joy it reverberates through the garden: "Mary."

My name. How many times have I heard Him say it? I thought I would never hear Him say it again. My world, which had come crashing down in the last days, rebuilds itself with a speed too dizzying for me to comprehend. But it doesn't matter. My world doesn't really concern me right now. My Lord does.

I turn - "Rabboni!" - and fling myself at His feet. I don't know what is going on. Intellectually the pieces are all muddled. But I know that this is my Jesus, my Lord, alive, and I will never let go of Him again. My intellect is slow but my emotions are on overdrive and I almost choke on the laughter and tears bursting from my frame.

He places His hand on my head, and I grab it, feel the scar, kiss it. There are no words for this explosion of joy.

He pulls me up, laughing deep wells of laughter and joy. I have heard Him laugh so often, but never like this. Like hell itself has no more power.

"Ssshh. Hush. Mary, don't cling to me so. You will have to let go. I have not yet ascended to the Father. And remember? I promised that when I do ascend I will send you a greater gift even than my physical presence. So continue to rejoice! But you must go and tell my brothers the good news. Tell them that I am ascending to My Father and your Father, to My God and your God."

****

the unnamed woman

I'm jittery and totally unable to stay in one place or focus on one thing for a reasonable length of time. I believed as soon as we saw the angels this morning, but I haven't seen Him and it's driving me crazy. But now four people have seen the risen Lord. I bounce up and down.

Mary Magdalene is near a window, beaming. Sometimes a cluster of people will gather around her and she will speak with animation. At other times she simply gazes out the window, radiant.

Peter is sitting at a table, staring at nothing. He is very unforthcoming about what the Lord said to him. I think he is still wrestling with guilt about denying Him. But he is more at peace than he has been since that night. People have given up trying to talk to him.

Cleopas and Mary Cleopas are now the center of attention. They just arrived, and they, too, have seen the Lord. They are being peppered with questions.

Someone makes sure the doors are locked. Resurrection or no resurrection, the Pharisees may still be out for blood.

The mood is chaotic. The four who have seen Him insist that He is alive. Some, like John and I, have not yet seen Him, but we believe without doubt that He is risen. Others are skeptical - afraid to hope. Unable to wrap their minds around the possibility. Besides - why is He so difficult to recognize? And why doesn't He stay put? Could it be that they were seeing a ghost?

Someone posed this question and instantly voices are raised in an escalating argument. I stay out of it because I have zero evidence. I go and stand beside Peter.

Things are getting heated when suddenly He is in the room. "Peace!" - in the voice that calmed the storm. Instantly there is complete silence.

My heart leaps into my throat. It is the Lord. I recognize Him at once, though I see why the others didn't. There are lines of sorrow on His face that were never there before, but also unrestrained joy in His eyes, no longer tempered by knowledge of future suffering. His body is whole - no longer battered, shredded, and bruised, though I think I see - is it my imagination? - glimpses of the nail holes. 

The silence lasts only a heartbeat. 

"It's a ghost!" Someone shrieks - "Only a ghost can pass through locked doors!"

Instant mayhem, for the umpteenth time that day. Peter's voice cuts through it all: "Even before, He walked on water. This is no ghost."

In the hush, Jesus speaks. He released a sigh in the midst of the hubbub, but now a smile plays around His mouth and lights His eyes.

"Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? See My hands and My feet, that it is I Myself. Touch me, and see. As the Father sent me, eve so am I sending you."

He goes to each person in turn, seeking to them quietly. I drink Him in. Marvel that He stands among us, watch the release in each disciple's face as He speaks to them.

He embraces John, tears filling both their eyes.

He stands before Peter, who bows his head and murmers: "My Lord." Jesus touches his shoulder. When Peter looks up, He bends down and breathes on him. Peter's tension relaxes, but he ducks his head again, overwhelmed.

Now Jesus is standing before me, looking at me. I look at Him and marvel at His compassion and joy and strength and love. This is the same Jesus, but as if a veil has been removed from my sight. I fall on my knees at His feet, weeping and laughing with joy. His feet are scarred. He lifts me up, taking my hand in His. When I stand, He shows me the nail holes in His hands.

"You are bound to Me by these scars. As you walked with Me in My death, so now abide in Me in my Life. Apart from Me you can do nothing. Cleave to me."

I want to pour out my soul to Him, but I can't find the words. So I just look at Him, overwhelmed and overjoyed by His presence.

He smiles, leans forward, and breathes on my forehead. "Receive the Holy Spirit." It is the breath of an anointing.

I am the last one.

As He steps away, He glances at the table, where someone had absentmindedly left some dried fish. He raises His eyebrows: "Anything to eat?"

I grin and offer Him some fish. He takes it and eats it before us all. This is no ghost. And suddenly we are all dancing, the joy too great to contain. At first, Jesus dances with us. Then He steps back. Later, I look around and notice that He is gone. 

they call this Friday good

Yesterday in my Maundy Thursday piece I shared a bit of what I recorded last year as I contemplated the Passion accounts as part of the Ignatian Exercises. Today, I reread my record of the Good Friday contemplation, and I wanted to share it here as well. Hang tight - it's Friday now, but Sunday is coming.

The night is cold. Overcast. Breezy. Not a pleasant night. The thugs lead Jesus into the High Priest's courtyard, hollering that they've got Him. He is exhausted, having endured the night in the garden and been roughly run through the streets with His hands tied. But He is firm in His purpose. 

The High Priest comes out and rebukes his ruffians: "Quiet! Do you want to rouse the city? Hold him here until the council assembles. Feel free to have some fun. But keep him conscious."

The thugs start shoving Jesus around.

Peter and I slip into the courtyard, staying in the shadows. A group of the High Priest's household, roused by the commotion, is waiting to see what will happen.

I can hear the occasional vicious thud as Jesus is beaten. I want to cry, but the shock and the danger sting my eyes dry. 

Eventually the household, tired of standing around in the cold, kindles a fire. Cats skulk in the shadows. Hands numb with cold, Peter and I sidle in to the fire. As we approach, a servant girl looks at Peter. "Hey! This is one of his followers!"

Peter opens his mouth, shuts it, and then mutters: "No I'm not. You must have mistaken me for someone else." I can sense his fear, relief, and shame. I'm just glad they haven't asked me.

A little later someone else looks over at Peter: "Certainly I've seen you with Him."

Peter responds curtly: "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never seen Him before. Only heard tell."

The questioner catches my eye as he shrugs and turns away. Peter refuses to look at me. I want to tell him that I understand. I don't know if I'm courageous enough, either. I can't process what's happening.

Nearby, the thugs have blindfolded Jesus, laughing as they strike Him and ask Him who did it. It makes me sick and angry - and there's nothing I can do. He may not even know we're there, trying to stay close. His lip is swollen.

The thugs get tired of their game and sit around, forcing Jesus to stand. It begins to get incrementally lighter. I hear birds waking up.

This whole time members of the council have been trickling in, some with attendants.

Suddenly everything happens at once.

Caiaphas announces that the Council is complete and the trial can begin.

An attendant comes over to the fire, takes one look at Peter, and says: "You. Galilean. Weren't you with him?"

I sense Peter close to the breaking point. He snaps: "Good God! What is with you people? I swear by all that's holy that I am not with him!"

I know the man is about to ask the same thing of me, but before he does, two things happen: the thugs release Jesus' blindfold, and He turns to look at Peter as the rooster crows.

His face is black and blue, with one eye nearly swollen shut. His gaze as He looks at Peter is not condemning. It is sorrowful, exhausted, and compassionate. Beside me, Peter breaks. He turns and stumbles out of the courtyard. I can hear him choking back sobs. He is finally assured of his own weakness. In the moment he wanted most to be there for Jesus, he failed HIm.

Jesus looks at me next. I try to communicate how confused and scared and upset we all are. How desperately we want to be there for Him, but how with Him under arrest we are panicking like sheep without a shepherd. How every bruise on His face is a punch in my gut. 

As He looks at me, I see something beneath His sorrow and exhaustion and loneliness and pain. I see His courage. I see that He is active, not passive in this nightmare. I see resolve and purpose. I barely understand what's happening, but as surely as I know that He is suffering horrifically, I know that He has already counted the cost. 

All of this takes mere moments. I'm ripped from Jesus when the man addresses me: "And you? Are you with Him?"

I speak quickly and quietly, before I lose my nerve. "Yes. I am."

In the beat following my response, the commencement of the trial is announced and all attention turns to the leading figures.

***

Torches illuminate the walls of the courtyard, flickering over the faces of the sleepy, bored, impatient, and (in the case of Joseph and Nicodemus) numb Jewish leaders.

Jesus is seated. Silent. His face battered and bruised. Disfigured, a man of sorrows. Yet somehow He is the most calm of everyone in the room. He knows what is going to happen. He has chosen it. All that remains is to endure.

Caiaphas fumes as yet another witness stumbles over his words and contradicts himself. This was supposed to be an open and shut case - verdict predetermined. It should not be taking this long. He slams the palm of his hand down on the table.

"Enough! I will question the man myself."

He rises, bypasses the witness, and stands before Jesus. Jesus stands, flinching a bit at the pain.

"Do you hear what these men say? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Jesus remains silent. Resolute.

The High Priest puts his face inches from Jesus' own. He can smell blood and sweat and tears. His voice is low.

"Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?"

Jesus does not move. Does not falter.

"I am. And you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power, and coming with the clouds of heaven."

Time slows.

Suddenly every member is wide awake, nerves taught. 

It is almost absurd to hear this broken and bruised man stand there claiming to be equal with God. Can He even understand what He's saying? Yet He seems to be perfectly sane. 

Triumph flickers over the High Priest's face, quickly replaced by outraged incredulity. He steps back and tears his robes theatrically.

"You have heard it from his own lips! What shall we do with him?"

"Execute!"

Only Nicodemus and Joseph remain silent. Stunned. 

Jesus does not seem remotely surprised. He gazes levelly at the High Priest until the guards take Him away.

***

I gasp when Jesus reappears after being questioned by Herod and Pilate. He looked awful before. Now He is nearly unrecognizable. He has been brutally scourged. Skin is peeling off His back in shreds. He is covered in blood - it's even dripping into His eyes from that brutal crown of thorns. His face is swollen and disfigured. I don't know how He can still be conscious, much less stand.

They shove Him down the stairs and none too gently hoist the cross onto His shoulders. For one awful moment I am in His skin, feel His pain. The rough wood on the tattered, burning back makes what was nearly unbearable literally excruciating. Blood fogs over His eyes, and He stumbles and blacks out.

I spring forward instinctively to help Him, but someone holds me from behind. Peter? No, Peter is gone. John. He will not let me go to Him. At first I struggle, then give up, sobbing onto his shoulder. John comforts me, watching Jesus all the while.

The soldiers consult. They look around for someone strong, and they grab a man trying to get through the crowd. He clearly wants nothing to do with this, but knows that in a situation like this it's best to do what's demanded. He shoulders the cross. The soldiers splash water over Jesus and pull Him up.

Jesus plods on, followed by a rabble of mockers and a group of lamenting women. He is painfully slow. 

At one point He turns and addresses the weeping women. When He turns again to continue, He stumbles. I have had enough. I elude John, run to Jesus, and put His arm around my shoulder to support Him.

A soldier considers stopping me, but he decides not to, seeing that Jesus will never make it to the execution site on His own.

Jesus is focusing hard on each step. He has no energy to spare to thank me or comfort me. But it doesn't matter. I would rather be with Jesus, bearing the scorn and shame, than anywhere else in the world. My tears have dried up, and I help Him approach Golgotha. 

***

I watch them crucify Him.

Nearly cry out with the pain of the nails that go through His hands and feet. 

Flinch as nearly every person there mocks Him.

Marvel at His words.

Remember His miracles.

The world goes dark. At first I think it is my vision clouding from the pain, but then I realize it really is dark.

Mary crumples. I help support her - John takes the other side.

All we want, still, is to be with Jesus. If it is in His death, so be it.

He is suffering. Every moment He suffers. Breath ragged. Face disfigured. Blood everywhere. It hurts to look at Him, but turning away hurts more. His eyes are clouded with pain. He is conscious, but only with an effort. I wish He would allow Himself to pass out.

He assures the thief that today they will be together in Paradise.

He entrusts Mary to John. She weeps.

I begin softly singing Psalms for the dying. When I reach Psalm 22, He cries out the first line with me - "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Then I sing a bit of Psalm 31. 

Be merciful to me, LORD, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow, 
my soul and body with grief.

But I trust in you, oh LORD.
I say, "You are my God." My times are in your hands;
Deliver me from the hands of my enemies,
from those who pursue me. Let your face shine on your servant;
save me in your unfailing love.

Before I can continue, He cries out: "It is finished."

The earth shakes. We are all thrown off balance. When we regain our feet, He is dead.

The centurion pierces His side - Mary cries out and leaps forward. Blood flows out. The man says under his breath, "Surely this man was the Son of God."

Joseph of Arimathea approaches. "I've gained custody of the body from Pilate. We can put Him in my family tomb. It's just around the corner, but we have to hurry - it's nearly Sabbath."

We take Him down from the cross, bloodstained and bruised. Dead weight. Mary embraces her Son, kissing Him as we remove the crown of thorns, sticky with blood. She holds her Son as we wash and cover Him.

The men carry Him to the tomb and we follow. Nicodemus is there with the embalming spices and oils. But the sun is nearly setting, and there is no time. We wrap Him in linen and step out side, running into a group of guards led by a Pharisee. As we leave, they roll a stone before the tomb. 

a journey through five years of Maundy Thursdays

Maundy Thursday 2016 - London, England

I slip into Westminster Abbey - late. Much too late to have a seat where I can see the celebrant and the speaker. I walk down the side of the ancient building - one of my favorite holy spaces in the world - and take a seat on a folding chair in Poets' Corner. 

A boys' choir sings through the service. Clergy kneel to wash twelve congregants' feet. I rejoice in my favorite line of the liturgy - "Lift up your hearts! We lift them to the Lord!"

Returning to my seat after receiving Eucharist, I step over the memorial flagstone for C.S. Lewis - "I believe in Christianity as I believe the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."

Suddenly I am in awe. I feel the weight of glory - the cloud of witnesses. A statue of Handel - who wrote his Messiah oratorio in a bare three weeks - looks down on the scene. William Wilberforce sits in a tucked-away corner. According to the plaque beneath his statue, he added "to high and various talents, to warm benevolence and universal candour . . . the abiding eloquence of a Christian life." 

It is not just the witness of these great men that overwhelms me. It is the witness of the hundreds upon hundreds of faithful believers commemorated in this space. It is the witness of the thousands upon thousands who have worshipped in this space every Maundy Thursday for more than seven hundred years. It is the witness of the millions upon millions of Christians gathering today to remember - to remember Our Lord Who knelt with a basin and towel, Who broke His body and shed His blood to heal us, Who remained faithful when we were faithless, Who is the source of our unity and strength. 

Maundy Thursday 2017 - Wheaton, IL

It is the start of Holy Week services at Church of the Resurrection in Wheaton. I see my friend Karis across the sanctuary and slide into the pew beside her. During the time for the foot washing, she washes my feet so tenderly. I wash hers. 

We receive communion for the final time before the cross is shrouded. I will spend many hours in this space between now and Resurrection Sunday, but for all the many services, there will be no communion until the declaration of His resurrection is made. 

I don't know it yet - though I suppose I have an inkling - that those few days will be life-altering. 

Maundy Thursday 2018 - Großgmain, Austria

I live in Munich, and my college roommates Angela and Bryn are spending Easter weekend with me and my parents in a tiny town split by the Austria/Germany border. 

We read excerpts from T.S. Eliot's "Little Gidding:"

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. 
[. . .]
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. 
[. . .]

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time. 
[. . .]

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

Maundy Thursday 2019 - Winnweiler, Germany

I am working my way through the Ignatian Exercises, part of which involves imaginatively exploring the gospel accounts. 

In the evening, there is laughing and banter, good conversation and good food. Jesus is a little subdued, but we barely notice. It is a night for celebrating. Someone asks, "Why do we keep this feast every year?"

A shouted response: "To remember how the Lord God led our ancestors out of Egypt with a mighty hand and outstretched arm and brought them to the Promised Land."

Simon the Zealot asks Jesus: "Lord, is the time soon coming when You will restore the Kingdom to Israel?"

There is a lull in the conversation - people waiting for Jesus' answer. My heart beats faster.

But Jesus seems not to have heard the question. He rises and leaves the room. 

There is a confused pause. The conversation slowly picks up again, people asking one another why He is in such a strange mood.

I notice Him come back in, a towel wrapped around His waist. He fills a basin with water, kneels down behind John, and starts washing his feet. John starts, but says nothing, going quiet and trying to take it in. I glance around the table. Most people haven't noticed anything amiss - conversation continues.

Jesus dries John's feet and moves to Peter. Peter startles violently at Jesus' touch, clattering against crockery and bringing all conversation to a halt. Jesus smiles and reaches again for Peter's foot. Peter pulls away.

"Lord! Do you wash my feet??"

Jesus sits back on the balls of His feet and looks at Peter. "What I am doing you do not understand now, but afterward you will understand."

"You shall never wash my feet!"

Jesus continues to gaze at Peter. "If I do not wash you, you have no share with Me."

Peter looks at Jesus, stupefied, jaw dropped. He does not resist again, but looks on in a daze. He has seen those hands heal the sick, multiply loaves, cast merchants from the temple, calm a storm. And now those hands are washing his filthy, callused feet.

As Jesus begins drying his feet, Peter blurts out: "Lord, not only my feet but also my hands and my head!"

Jesus smiles - oh, impetuous Peter. "The one who has bathed does not need to wash, except for his feet, but is completely clean. And you are clean, but not every one of you."

He moves on to Andrew.

I am next.

I look at Him as He began to wash my feet, hands tender and firm. The water is cool and refreshing after a long day of preparing and no time to sit down. I don't understand, but I feel His love and care - and also sorrow.

"Lord," I ask, "Who is going to wash Your feet?"

He looks at my face, but gives no answer.

After He finishes washing everyone's feet, He goes back to His seat. "Do you understand what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do just as I have done to you. Truly, truly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them."

I have been debating ever since it was my turn. Now I decide. As Jesus speaks, I get up as quietly as I can. I wrap the discarded towel around my waist, take up the basin, and kneel down behind Jesus. I take a deep breath, then I gently take His feet and start pouring water over them, spongeing them off. He turns toward me, and I am startled to see tears in His eyes. My own brim. 

Maundy Thursday 2020 - Montreat, NC - Church of the Resurrection, Wheaton, IL

Tonight I am in the guest room at my grandparents' house in Montreat, North Carolina. For the first time in three years, I join the Church of the Resurrection Maundy Thursday service - one silver lining of a pandemic is that I am able to worship with the Rez community even though I'm hundreds of miles away.

The service is bittersweet - as the bishop asked, "Who would have imagined a Maundy Thursday in which we cannot gather around the Table?"

And yet, I am reminded of the clouds of witnesses I felt so overwhelmingly four years ago in Westminster Abbey. I may be alone in this bedroom, but I am joining in community with over 400 people tuning in to this livestream, and with hundreds of thousands who are celebrating Maundy Thursday from the shelter of their own homes.

The longing for kingdom community is real - and it is a reminder that even we can gather together in churches, we are still waiting for the time when all things are made new and we feast at the wedding supper of the Lamb - with Jesus in His Kingdom.

But for now I ponder the words of the sermon-

He gives us provision in the wilderness.

He places us in a family.

He prepares for us a feast.

He plans for us a future. 

Jesus' suffering on the cross is so that His Father can be our Father. He places us in His family with His Father, because He knows the wildernesses we will walk through, and He gives us one another to wash each other's feet and love one another to the end. 

He gives us Himself. 

This is Jesus' Story. This is why He came. Jesus longs for the fulfillment of the Passover Feast in the Kingdom of God. 

He waits for us and He waits with us. 

"Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in Me. In My Father's house are many rooms. . . And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also . . .Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid. . .This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. . . .I have said these things to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have trouble. But take heart; I have overcome the world" (John 14:1, 3, 27; 15:12; 16:33). 

We rehearse the story of Jesus, Who has overcome. 

Though we are quarantined, the Power of Jesus is not. The Holy Spirit is not on lockdown. We shelter at home, but we shelter under the wings of Jesus. 

We have been shaken, but we hold fast to a kingdom that is unshakeable.

***

Every night for three weeks I have read a poem on my instagram stories. Tonight's poem is "Judas, Peter," by Lucy Shaw.

because we are all
betrayers, taking
silver and eating
body and blood and asking
(guilty) is it I and hearing
him say yes
it would be simple for us all
to rush out
and hang ourselves
but if we find grace
to cry and wait
after the voice of morning
has crowed in our ears
clearly enough
to break our hearts
he will be there
to ask us each again
do you love me?

unexpected fellowship

Online church is not my thing.

Which is something I need to work on, since online church is the modus operandi for churches worldwide these days.

Maybe tomorrow I'll gear myself up and attend an online Palm Sunday service. But to be honest, the last few weeks, I haven't even tried. Don't get me wrong; in many ways I'm more connected to my spiritual community right now than I was before a global pandemic kept us all at home - praise the Lord for technology. But that doesn't mean I'm watching the weekly sermons.

Strange how the Lord provides even when I don't feel like showing up.

Last Sunday, my grandparents' previous pastor and his wife, whom I have known my whole life and absolutely adore, appeared on the front porch with a guitar and a pie. They came around back and announced that they were there for a 10-minute church service - and they meant a full-blown church service, complete with prayer, sermon, hymns, offertory (the pie), special music, and benediction.

They are absolutely amazing.

We all kept our distance (probably the hardest thing so far - I dearly wanted to hug these precious friends) and reveled in the fellowship.

The sermon, well, it was something else.

After a couple of songs, Owen directed us to open our Bibles to John 11:35. We chuckled as we all leafed through imaginary Bibles, until he "arrived" at the text:

Jesus wept. 

"As we examine this text together, it occurs to me to wonder why Jesus wept. Yes, Lazarus was dead, but Jesus knew that before long, He would raise His friend from the dead. So why did he weep?

James Tissot / Public domain

"There are many theological reasons that people have proposed, but there are two that I want to focus on today. For the first, please turn with me to Isaiah 53:3 (more imaginary leafing): 'He was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.'

"The first reason that Jesus wept is that He knew the pain of sorrow and grief. He knew the hearts of Mary and Martha in their grief and confusion, and He sorrowed for their sorrow, even though He knew that the cause of their weeping would soon turn to joy. He weeps with those who weep.

"Now, as I said, there are many theological reasons why Jesus wept, but it strikes me in this time that one of those reasons was that He simply missed His friend" - Owen choked up - "just like we miss you, precious friends."

Wow. What a sermon for this time. Jesus wept. He knew what it was to sorrow with devastated friends - friends who were at least partly devastated because they knew He could have stopped the death, had He so chosen. He did not stand back callously and refuse to share their sorrow, knowing that it was temporary. He entered into their grief with them, because even though He knew the ultimate story would be one of resurrection, this part of it hurt like hell. Because death must precede resurrection.

He also knew what it was to miss dear friends - to face the pain of separation on earth. And He wept for it.

I've been talking to my students about two things as we prepare to enter into Holy Week during a pandemic. First, God is in control. He is not surprised. He is not overwhelmed. He holds each of us in His hand and guides our steps. He will work out all things for the good of those who love Him and who are called according to His purpose.

Second, He is not removed from us in sorrow and confusion and pain. He steps into those emotions with us, even though He knows the bigger picture. He is not impersonal - He is deeply personal and caring.

That precious ten minutes on the back patio on a Sunday afternoon will be one of the sweetest memories from this time - sweet for the unexpected fellowship with longtime friends, and sweet for the reminder that God fellowships with us.

Grace be with you. 

An Ash Wednesday Meditation

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

On the top floor of the Billy Graham Center in Wheaton, there is a nearly life-sized crucifix. As crucifixes go, it's fairly typical. Jesus' arms are opened wide, nailed to the cross. His head hangs under the crown of thorns and the weight of sin.

It's not the form of the crucifix that's unusual; it's the substance. This crucifix is made of dust. Literally.

The sculptor - whose name I cannot remember, which is why I have no image to share with you - collected the contents of the campus vacuum cleaners for months upon months. Then, he compressed the dirt and dust and used it as his medium to craft a crucifix.

It seems sacrilegious, almost, until you remember: we humans are formed of dust.

In the moment of the Incarnation, God Himself became human - He humbled Himself and took on the form of man - made of dust.

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

I found myself contemplating the memory of that crucifix during the Ash Wednesday service that I attended this evening. Believers throughout the world gather on Ash Wednesday to mark the beginning of Lent - a season of fasting and repentance as a time of preparation for Easter.

In a dimmed sanctuary, the members of the congregation silently stepped to the front to receive the ashes. The priest dipped his finger in a mixture of ashes and anointing oil and imposed the sign of the cross on each congregant's forehead. He spoke softly: "Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return." Somehow, in a quirk of acoustics, all that was audible unless you were the one receiving the ashes was "dust...dust...return...dust...dust...return...dust...dust...return." 

In the ten minutes of silent listening to this refrain, I contemplated the anointing. That cross on our foreheads is an mystery and a reminder: we are dust; Christ became dust for us; though once we were sinners under judgment we are now covered by the work of the Messiah on the cross. We are marked by His grace.

Because He became dust, our return to dust is not the end of the story. When we return to Him, He begins the mysterious work of renewal in us that will be completed when He comes again.

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

This refrain stems from the curse in Genesis 3, when God pronounces judgment on Adam for his rebellion against the Lord. In other contexts, the word refers to ashes; hence, Ash Wednesday. 

But there is another Hebrew word used earlier in Genesis 2 in the account of man's creation. It's actually the word that the name Adam comes from, and it means land, ground, or soil. It is from this idea that the layperson, Mary, who delivered the homily this evening, developed her question:

How is the soil of your soul?

Mary went on to paint an image of Lent that I wasn't familiar with: a time for tilling the soil of our souls, so that we are ready to receive the seed of joy that Easter brings. 

It's a beautiful image, made more beautiful by a story she told. 

Early in her marriage, she and her husband were directors of a community called Selah out in California. The community shared apartments around a courtyard. Initially, the courtyard was barren, with dead bushes and some scraggly plants - not a welcoming place. But the members of the community decided that they wanted it to be a gathering place, so they went to work - weeding, preparing the soil, planting seeds. It became a beautiful garden. 

One day Mary came down the stairs with a load of laundry to find a sweet Japanese lady on her knees in the garden. She had a plastic sieve, and she was carefully shaking the dirt through it. As she sifted, she threw out rocks, twigs, and pieces of trash. 

When Mary asked what she was doing, her friend replied, "If I don't do this, the soil won't be any good."

If I don't do this, the soil won't be any good. 

What an image for the discipline of Lent - a time to sit with the Lord and sift the soil of our souls, opening up to His work in our hearts to sift out rocks and twigs and trash so that we can bear the fruit of abiding in Him. 

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

As I sit on the couch in my PJs, preparing for rest, these images are settling in my heart. 

The sibilant refrain "dust...dust...return...dust...dust...return."

The sensation of ash and oil on my forehead. 

The image of a woman kneeling in the dirt to sift the soil so that living things could grow in it. 

The image of a Jesus made of dust stretching out His arms on the cross. 

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

We are dust - but thanks to the work of the Creator and Redeemer, we are anointed dust. Consecrated to carry out His work and bear the fruit of abiding in Him as we walk through the brokenness and beauty of this fleeting life. As we dwell on this turning world, may we continually return to Him.