But first, a few more thoughts on fasting...
What's the point? I mean, I believe there's some point, but I have mixed feelings about what that point might be. Is it an attempt to empathize? An act of solidarity? With whom? Where do we draw the line between self-imposed discomfort for the sake of "growth" and self-indulgent delusions that we might understand another's suffering?
What about the line between choosing challenges and tending to our needs? Like a flight attendant, my pastoral care professor often reminds us that we must apply our own oxygen masks before attending to others. But how much oxygen is enough? At what point do we stop sucking down our filtered air and reach across the aisle? Is it senseless to choose challenges that lack concrete outcomes when we will face plenty without our consent?
And finally, Lent (and the Christian tradition, really) offers so much space for reflection on Jesus' pain and suffering, but what about Jesus' joy? Jesus delights when the lost are found and the blind can see, both of which are beautiful images of God's kingdom come. The bible is ripe with examples of Jesus' love of justice and mercy, but what about Jesus' delight in being incarnate? Sure, our bodies are fragile and our relationships imperfect, but what did Jesus love about his physical being? Did he enjoy his favorite foods? Dance all night? Make love? Maybe I just need to take a New Testament class, but I wonder...
Ok, so maybe more unanswered questions than thoughts, but I'll keep chewing on them.
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This morning, I drove 20 minutes towards downtown to Grady Memorial Hospital. Grady has one of the nation's top stroke and trauma treatment centers, and it's also the go-to place for those without medical insurance. I didn't go for treatment, but for a preaching class assignment. Each week, I've been instructed to visit a different site in search of hopeful glimpses of God at work. Based on each visit, I've written a parable: a brief, unexpected, ambiguous descriptor of the ways in which heaven is manifest on earth. Without any disclaimers, here's what I saw today:
The kingdom of God is like the emergency room nurse who nudges a sleeping man in a heavy, faded coat. "Sir, the doctor will see you now," she says, and his eyes tug reluctantly open. He's awake. She helps him up, sends him down the hallway, and turns towards the curious seminary students, who are seated in the corner, trying to blend in. Her face wears an expression of protective frustration. "Did you get permission to be here?" she asks, "What gives you the right to observe my patients?" Suddenly, I was awake too.
Plus a few parables from earlier in the semester:
What's the point? I mean, I believe there's some point, but I have mixed feelings about what that point might be. Is it an attempt to empathize? An act of solidarity? With whom? Where do we draw the line between self-imposed discomfort for the sake of "growth" and self-indulgent delusions that we might understand another's suffering?
What about the line between choosing challenges and tending to our needs? Like a flight attendant, my pastoral care professor often reminds us that we must apply our own oxygen masks before attending to others. But how much oxygen is enough? At what point do we stop sucking down our filtered air and reach across the aisle? Is it senseless to choose challenges that lack concrete outcomes when we will face plenty without our consent?
And finally, Lent (and the Christian tradition, really) offers so much space for reflection on Jesus' pain and suffering, but what about Jesus' joy? Jesus delights when the lost are found and the blind can see, both of which are beautiful images of God's kingdom come. The bible is ripe with examples of Jesus' love of justice and mercy, but what about Jesus' delight in being incarnate? Sure, our bodies are fragile and our relationships imperfect, but what did Jesus love about his physical being? Did he enjoy his favorite foods? Dance all night? Make love? Maybe I just need to take a New Testament class, but I wonder...
Ok, so maybe more unanswered questions than thoughts, but I'll keep chewing on them.
_________________________________________________________________________________
This morning, I drove 20 minutes towards downtown to Grady Memorial Hospital. Grady has one of the nation's top stroke and trauma treatment centers, and it's also the go-to place for those without medical insurance. I didn't go for treatment, but for a preaching class assignment. Each week, I've been instructed to visit a different site in search of hopeful glimpses of God at work. Based on each visit, I've written a parable: a brief, unexpected, ambiguous descriptor of the ways in which heaven is manifest on earth. Without any disclaimers, here's what I saw today:
The kingdom of God is like the emergency room nurse who nudges a sleeping man in a heavy, faded coat. "Sir, the doctor will see you now," she says, and his eyes tug reluctantly open. He's awake. She helps him up, sends him down the hallway, and turns towards the curious seminary students, who are seated in the corner, trying to blend in. Her face wears an expression of protective frustration. "Did you get permission to be here?" she asks, "What gives you the right to observe my patients?" Suddenly, I was awake too.
Plus a few parables from earlier in the semester:
The kingdom of
God is like a woman sampling freshly baked breads. Raising a toothpick over the abundant platters of challah,
focaccia, and Jamaican hard dough, her mouth waters. She is ready to eat, but before she does, she looks first to
the other customers, then to the employee offering samples, and asks, “Which
one of these is good?” At first,
it doesn’t seem as though the employee has understood, but then she smiles and
responds in an accent that lilts like her native Amharic, “Taste them all.”
The kingdom of
God is like the choral exhibit on the top floor of the art museum. Its sound echoes vaguely across three
floors, where visitors discuss cold marble statues and antebellum bureaus in
hushed tones. Then, those visitors
ascend once more, and the elevator doors open onto a clean, white space
saturated with 40 resonant voices.
Each visitor’s face sings for joy and astonishment. At last, they discern the lyrics.
The kingdom of
God is like a room filled with towers of boxes, each one marked with the big
green letters T-E-A. Just when you think you know what to
expect, your gaze shifts to the wall, where someone has written a single word
in careful script on an otherwise unremarkable sign: coffee.
The kingdom of
God is like a man who comes to the shallow water’s edge with a bucket that he
hopes to fill with fish. Three
times, he casts his line, waits patiently, senses a tug, reels it in, and finds
his hook empty. On the fourth
attempt, he draws his line with unabated eagerness, squints in momentary
confusion, and then chuckles to himself as he frees an awe-struck guppy from
the metallic grip.
The kingdom of
God is like trying to put a 3-year-old down for his afternoon nap. As you carry him up the stairs, he
tearfully insists that he isn’t tired.
Not quite believing him, you lay him on his bed, choose a book, and
begin reading. Slowly, the tears
dissolve, leaving only a faint trail of salt on his cheeks, and his eyes
curiously scan the illustrated words before you. He curls closer.
His breathing deepens. And
as you turn the last page, he left foot twitches in slumbering gratitude for an
hour of deep rest.
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