when it’s too late | on john 11

First Baptist Fire, Jackson, TN 2012

It is just after the time when it’s too late.

Our prayers are guided this way. We pray leading up to the time when it is obviously too late. And then we explain why he didn’t show up. Why he didn’t answer.

When our prayers are answered the ways we ask, we give God thanks, and remember it as a way to explain that God indeed does answer prayers.

When our prayers are not answered the ways we ask, when they are not answered in time, we explain that God knows better. We talk about his soveriegnty, and our need to trust him.

We say things like, “Our ways are not God’s ways,” and, “We will know when we should know.”

And in many ways, we come up with explanations either to give God credit, or to let him off the hook.

We pray, and still families fall apart.
We pray, and still jobs are lost.
We pray, and still the famine continues.
We pray, and still we are abused.
We pray, and still we abuse.
We pray, and still the fire burns it all the way down.
We pray, and still the gunshots are fired.
We pray, and still the son is lost.

And so, we say, God knows best. Our ways are not his ways. We will know when we should know.

But not Martha. She is angry.
She had faith, and called him early. When he got sick, she sent for him to get there.

But he did not. He was too late. And she let him know, “If you had only been here.”

And this time, of course, he was not too late. In the ways that he is never too late. There is no too late. Time waits for him, and he does not need time to work in his favor.
And this time, the too late was just on time. When the stone gets pushed out of the way, he comes stumbling out wrapped up like a mummy.
And we talk of the sovereignty of God, Jesus’ power against death, his ways as being other than our ways.

And we are comforted, for a moment. The story helps us take a deep breath, and say to ourselves, it is never too late for him.

But still, we are sitting in the aftermath of
families that have fallen apart.
jobs that are still nowhere to be found.
famine that is murdering millions and millions.
abuse that does not stop.
abusing that cannot stop.
crumbles of chard homes, businesses, churches.
gunshot wounds and hospital noises.
gravestones of our sons and daughters.

And to say the he is never late feels poisonous escaping from our lips.

Martha says, “But even now, I know that God will give you whatever you ask him for.”

In some ways, this makes it worse because we are sitting in the murky puddles of loss and hopelessness.
In other ways, this makes it better because we know that we have seen you more than once defy time and loss and death.

Help us let this make it better.
And when it does not, and we cannot, call for us as you called for Mary, from our mourning…

djordan
Pine Tree Dr.

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rosa parks | in remembering and in hoping

Rosa Parks | February 4, 1913 – October 24, 2005
On thoughts of Black History Month 

Rosa Parks Black History Month

+ “Rosa Parks” from Walter Brueggeman’s Prayers for a Privileged People

djordan
Pine Tree

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with your interfering and your promises

Unlike the other gods
you are not satisfied with holocausts
and the sweet smell of smoke.
Unlike the other gods
you do not let us be
but come and pitch your tent
with ours and sniff out
all we do. You are not satisfied
to have us satisfied,
to leave well enough alone.

No, you sent me out,
an old man, with your interfering
and your promises, and all your countings
of the stars and my son’s son’s sons.
You might have picked a better man
to fall before the terror of great darkness.
Twice, fear for my life
passed my wife off as sister.
Why not, with her barren womb?

And then a son. In my old age a son.
You do nothing like the other gods
and so I know you are my God
and my son’s God and my son’s sons’.
I do not understand the stars
uncountable in number;
nor do I understand you.

I wept. And when,
after all, you did not accept my sacrifice,
the ram brought laughter home.

 

+ “Abraham: With Laughter” from Madeleine L’Engle’s The Ordering of Love

djordan
Pine Tree

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against single stories

adichie

We listen long enough to get the details needed to tell one story about those around us, and then we move on. It’s more about coping for us than about knowing another.

Someone is allowed either to be awesome or horrible.
Either cool or sketchy.
Either generous or greedy.
Either loving or hateful.
Either honest or dishonest.
Either strong or weak.
Either whole or damaged.
Either victim or perpetrator.
Either faithful or unfaithful.

And so we only give the humans we find ourselves in life with the opportunity to plead their cases for one or the other. And as soon as we have enough information to sort them into single categories, we do so.

And then we stop listening.

But we don’t stop talking; we often then take our labeling into conversations with others and inform them of where and what certain people are…and only are.

We get to stop listening, you see, and then those around us get to stop listening as well. We become a community of talkers.

We can see it clearly in global narratives about genocide, xenophobia, welfare and war.

But we don’t see it clearly in our conversations over coffee, in our sermons from our pulpits, in our clients in our offices.

Because we’ve been taught to stop listening once we’ve heard a single story about someone.

And then we imagine the way that King Jesus managed to interact with women and men in ways to suddenly surface more than single stories that had been communicated about them. Tax collectors become humble and generous. Centurions become sensitive and scared. Prostitutes become beautiful and hopeful.

But only after an opportunities for actual conversation. Only after listening. Only after assuming we may not know more than only one story about someone.

May we work to listen to those we think we already know. And may we be eager to have stories rewritten by the characters themselves rather than histories and jargon. It is part of living in the kingdom.

djordan
Pine Tree

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every now and then

people who let you be yourself

There’s a certain kind of desire to push time and space closer together.

I met a buddy for drinks the other night. We share a past that goes back to early high school, and in our conversations I noticed multiple desires. One is that we were back in high school, talking about life and God and our futures while sitting around my parents’ pond. The other is that we had then the knowledge and wisdom and insight that the last fifteen years has given us. It’s incredible to think about the ways that the very little we have learned in the meantime would influence our then fears and concerns and misguided pieties.

But there is an other kind of realism that suggests life doesn’t actually work this way. We can’t know then what we know now, and we can’t go back to then with what we have learned by now. Times then are easier in our imaginations because we hadn’t yet learned all there was to fear.

And when we were in those easier times, they felt just as impossible as our right now feels.

But every now and then, we end up with people that make us feel like we have pushed time and space together. Sometimes they are people who have known us a long time, and other times they are people who have immediately known us. Sometimes it is earned, and other times it is simply landed in. Either way, it feels as if our knowing and our learning and our loving happened to have occurred at the same time as our actual lives, and somehow in the same space, and we notice that we are suddenly with people who are fully with us.

People who have stayed around with us when we have been our most challenging
Our most insecure
Our most needy
Our most unimaginative
Our most impossible

And then we notice that they have, indeed, lasted with us beyond our insecurities, our neediness, and our lack of imagination, our impossibleness … and they remained.

They call out to us the truth of who we are even when we fail to see it.

The truth of our courage. Our long-suffering. Our imagination. Our possibilities.

And it is in those moments that we feel an overwhelming desire to say, more than anything else we have felt the need to say in a very long time, “Thank you.”

And we learn in those moments more about the character of a God who is always accepting when we are willing to tell the truth about who we are, who we aren’t, and who we hope to be.

So to those people, “Thank you.”

 

djordan
Pine Tree Dr.

catch us up into reality

View from a restaurant, V&A Waterfront, Cape Town, South Africa

I was cleaning up around the house and found journal pages from Cape Town this past summer. Here is an entry from June 10, 2011, written while sitting in a restaurant at the V&A Waterfront. The picture is from the same restaurant, different trip. Thanks again to the friends who welcome me at the table.

***

Catch us up this day into the reality
of your good purpose, that by the time we leave
each other we will know – yet again – that your
mercy and justice and love outrun all the needs of the world …

… keep us simple and on task, and we will
praise you by our glad obedience.

+ Brueggeman, from “Prayer of the Church”

We fear that we’ve lost our minds, and perhaps we have.

Perhaps we’ve lost our minds and our life.

Life with.
Life by community.
Life plural.

Broken by the reality of our own struggle against status, power, privilege.

Broken by the reality of our own struggle against dulling.

Broken by the reality of what we see for only a moment when we dare open our eyes
Those things we see in others and then become terrified to see in ourselves

Greed. Pride. Injustice. Dishonesty. Piety. Blindness. Insecurity.
Relentless protection of the status quo under the guise of protecting the church, the faith.
Our arrogance.

And with
by community
plural
in the harsh reality of the present, you call us to join one another

At the table.

And slowly, as our broken pieces sit together
around warm food made by broken hands
around dim candlelight that already threatens darkness
around the giggles of children, around their questions

we begin to become whole.
Only in the context of others.

Truthfully
Honestly
Humbly

Broken hands. Threatening Darkness. Giggles and Questions.

Together.

At the table.
And for the first time in a long time
Something tells the truth, and we are made new.

djordan
V&A Waterfront
Cape Town, SA

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challenge of the ordinary

A good, solid night’s sleep after 25 hours of travel.

Three weeks in Cape Town and all of the lead up to actually getting there, now a flash of memory.

Several restorative, sticky, thick, true memories. But still, now only a flash.

I woke up in my own bed, in my own room, in my own house: the faded curtains, the dog hair, the noise the floor boards in the attic make when they pull and push against their sixty year old nails.

I woke up back in the everyday.

And now, toward the challenge of the ordinary. The space between my toes and the scuffed old wooden floor is just as filled with possibility as the space between my sandals and the rocks of Table Mountain. The opportunity for evenings with friends telling and hearing the truth, and leaning our lives together into the kingdom are waiting to be had here just as they have been had evening after evening in the summer twilight of the Western Cape.

But the ordinary this morning threatens to push my eyelids closed, numb my senses, clog my ears making it harder to feel the possibility between my toes and this old wooden floor.

But it is pregnant with possibility. It must be.

So I’ll muster the courage stirred up in me with trusted friends and sacred spaces in Cape Town, and dare to look again for the transcendence with those trusted friends and sacred spaces here at home. I won’t struggle to make them the same; there’s no point. There’s a deep and stirring love for family in Cape Town, and it is the perfectly surprising and refreshing gift that it is.

But for right now, home is home.

And it, too, must be holy indeed. So I’ll hold out courage for the challenge.

 

djordan
Pine Tree Dr.

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the in between time

I got a lesson in stars a few nights ago. Camping underneath the South African sky in Franshoek for a couple of nights, I found myself one evening settling into the sleeping bag, staring up at Orion on his head, the bright Southern Cross nestled near the thick Milky Way smear across the sparkling sky. I knew that it was moments like these where existential thoughts come. You hear them referenced time and again: “Underneath the stars, I looked up and decided right then that my life needs to …”

So I waited.

I closed my eyes again–a hard close like we do when trying to reset our thoughts so we can find what we are looking for–and opened them again. Same breathtaking sky, still no existential question or declaration born.

So I waited.

Nothing. I passed out for the night.

The next morning, we stumbled out of sleeping bags and tents and strolled in together, faces, hair and clothes not put to rights. We made coffee for each other. We laughed heavy laughs before ever brushing our teeth (or, at least I had not yet brushed mine).

I have had three weeks of this kind of in between time, and the size of my world has grown bigger because of it.

Coffee and tea made for each other first, ugly thing in the morning.

Deep laughs on the way to and from the school and market.

Back yard stillness that’s almost too dark to make sense of, but the sense of it is clearly very, very good.

Walks through the commons. Walks through the forest.

Laughs that turn to tears ordering items on menus, cradling bicycles, and sitting around with the boys over a beer.

The endings of conversations where it’s clear that people have seen each other.

Words about work and hope and pain with feet dangling in a tiny pool on the side of a mountain.

It’s the in between times of work and play that add up to those existential realizations that something else is always brewing in the world of ours, something holy and real, something a bit thicker than what we are aware of at our worst, and a bit richer than those things we finally notice when we are at our best.

Thanks, Craig, Liesl, Caroline, and the kiddos for making me at home, and for challenging me to live into the great news of the kingdom. And for teaching me that it’s the lesson in stars itself which ends up being the existential moment we wait for.

Thanks for the in between times this month. They have born in me great courage.

djordan
Cape Town

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holy indeed

The time is starting to fall between my fingers now during these last days of a perfect holiday in Cape Town. The speed has been a perfect kind of slow. The days have been a subtle kind of long. But now, the air feels thin, like I’m doing my best to gulp in as much as I possibly can.

As always, senses heighten in those kinds of times. They did this afternoon.

Walking with a good friend in the hot sun on a perfect Cape Town afternoon, I was reminded of the holy space we are given to be in and share the whole of life with other people. There are constantly sad stories of what churches––people––try to do to force community among each other, aiming for it like a bull’s eye. I’ve felt people try so hard to demand community that the very last drops of life are squeezed out, and all goes dry.

But walking through that field today, with this friend and these thoughts, a quote from Michael Frost came to mind:

“Aiming for community is a bit like aiming for happiness. It’s not a goal in itself. We find happiness as an incedental by-product of pursuing love, justice, hospitality, and generosity. When you aim for happiness, you are bound to miss it. Likewise with community. It’s not our goal. It emerges as a by-product of pursuing something else.”

I took a deep breath on that walk home today, and gave thanks when realizing that I was, in fact, breathing in the fumes of holy community. The gift of walking with another who is trusted, and who trusts. Who is willing to brave dreams and nightmares simultaneously. Who allows me to be complex, and who bears complexity. Walking together, as followers of Christ, standing in that gap trying our hardest to keep a tight hold of a world going not well with one hand, and the coming of the kingdom with the other.

I was walking in true community this afternoon, and its thickness and richness is holy indeed; I’m beyond thankful for this time. In joining God’s people toward kingdom lives of love, justice, hospitality and generosity, we notice all of a sudden, on afternoon walks with a good friends in the hot sun on perfect Cape Town afternoons, that we have indeed landed in and come face to face with true community.

Holy indeed.

djordan
Cape Town

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