Didn't You Agree to Work for a Denarius?

"For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. He agreed to pay them a denarius for the day and sent them into his vineyard.
  "About nine in the morning he went out and saw others standing in the marketplace doing nothing. He told them, 'You also go and work in my vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.' So they went.
  "He went out again about noon and about three in the afternoon and did the same thing. About five in the afternoon he went out and found still others standing around. He asked them, 'Why have you been standing here all day long doing nothing?'
  "'Because no one has hired us,' they answered.
  "He said to them, 'You also go and work in my vineyard.'
  "When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his supervisor, 'Call the workers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first.'
  "The workers who were hired about five in the afternoon came and each received a denarius. So when those came who were hired first, they expected to receive more. But each one of them also received a denarius. When they received it, they began to grumble against the landowner. These men who were hired last worked only one hour,' they said, 'and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the work and the heat of the day.'
  "But he answered one of them, 'Friend, I am not being unfair to you. Didn't you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. Don't I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?'
  "So the last will be first, and the first will be last."
-Matthew 20:1-16

So, it's confession time for me. I'm not going to confess that I haven't updated this blog in over ten months: that is obvious, and isn't a sin :o). During those months, by the way, I moved to New Hampshire and began "working" for a Christian healing community. Working is in quotes because while there's more work than I'd ever done in my life, I'm technically a missionary and the monthly stipend I receive isn't working wages so much as a little boost in the direction of survival.

No, my confession is that, as I have a long-standing tendency to do, I have been comparing myself to other people and being dissatisfied or grumbly. I sometimes try to couch it in humor or snark, but when I am honest I know I've been genuinely displeased that other peoples' jobs here in this community seem to be easier or better than mine. (Just to be super clear, I'm not displeased about the money part.) I've also begun to hope that with so many staff leaving, I'll be able to change my job. My current job includes doing whatever I am told to do (whatever odd job needs doing around here) and cleaning the same three buildings every day. Well, six days a week. On a rotating basis sometimes. Not in that order. The cleaning tends to come first. And most importantly, leading small crews of people in this work. That is what I find most difficult.

Oh, also I get jealous of people who are good at counseling. I think it's something I want to be good at, but it might take a lot of work for me. It's not really one of my natural giftings, I'm learning. But this is a setting where people with those gifts really shine and can make an obvious difference in peoples' lives.

But I was talking to my mentor in our mentoring session this week and I had a little epiphany. It involved me remembering back to when I applied to come here. It was analogous to the question, "Didn't you agree to work for a denarius?" I realized that about a year ago when I was applying to serve at this ministry, I never said I would be good at it. I wanted to be better at mentoring and counseling, but I was never promised (by God, I guess) that I would suddenly be amazing. I just told God if they let me work here, I would. That's all. I knew it would be tons of work; no one ever hid or disguised that from me. There was never any expectation of more, or different, than tons of work all year long. I knew God would sustain me through the unpleasant seasons, and He has. I only began to be dissatisfied was when I actually arrived here and looked at others and saw what they have that I do not, or responsibilities they don't have to fulfill that I agreed to.

I have been grumbling against my landowner. And He replies, "Friend, I am not being unfair to you." (v. 13) He asks me, "Don't I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?" (v. 15)

Seeing other people possess something is not a legitimate reason for me to begin wanting it. I am not entitled to generosity (though I quickly add that's what I've been given anyway), but God will fulfill every promise He's made to me. Yet I'd better know what those promises are and what they are not, and under what conditions they are promised. Example: He doesn't promise me a more enjoyable job after I've put in some time at an unpleasant job. He doesn't promise me I can be good at all the things I think I should be good at to be good at life. There's a large spectrum of gifts, spiritual and otherwise, and He is clear that He doesn't give us all the same ones.

And, yes, I am envious because He is generous, frankly. But I have hope that as He works in my heart, I'll be able to be glad that he is generous, and happy for people who have things that I want. And to answer the other question, I do know He has a right to do what He wants with His own money. It's His, and I know in my head that I would not be a fairer boss than Him, even if I had money.

Lastly, I think this might be one of those parables where we're tempted to think of ourselves as the early workers when really we're the last workers hired, and so we do actually want God to be as generous to those last people as we are those last people. I get that. I'm just glad that Scripture can have multiple applications, because really, otherwise why would it be a parable and not just a recounting of a story?

This Wasn't Your Idea

The other day I read Job 10. It had a throwback to my last post: "Your hands shaped me and made me... Remember that you molded me like clay" (verses 8-9). And other parts of this chapter tied into my Taize experience in another way.

The entire book of Job has a fair amount of "why am I alive" passages, but these are from chapter 10: "Why then did you bring me out of the womb? I wish I had died before any eye ever saw me. If only I had never come into being, or had been carried straight from the womb to the grave!" (18-19)

At the risk of sounding extremely melodramatic, in my life I have asked/said similar things to God. This February through conversations about the concept of having children, I've come to realize that probably at least 51% of me thinks not existing must be better than existing (which I am aware is unprovable and perhaps senseless). I bet this is related to the fact that as I age and (hopefully) mature spiritually, I am not less sad than I was when I was younger/farther from God. Often the opposite seems true.

I discovered what I took as a response to this at Taize, when one of the girls in my house --I don't know which one-- translated and wrote out lyrics to a song. Even though we were all in silence all week, the girls in the house communicated daily, often through eye contact. Though only two of us (out of about ten) were native English speakers, English was used whenever language was necessary. So the words on the notes we left for each other on the big table were sometimes translated from other languages, in this case, German. (Meaning I am not sure of ever tracking down the originals of what I'm about to share).

The song's title was something like "Don't forget this." It was pretty cheesy. The kind of thing that makes you smile dopily and want to hide your face so people don't see your dopey smile. I'll spare you that (mostly because I can't remember specifics). The gist, the line that stuck with me, was something like, "Never forget that living and breathing were not your idea." That could be taken in a depressing way, but it made me feel free. I don't have to find a reason for my existence. If I don't seem to be getting consistently happier during this season of life, maybe happiness isn't the main goal. I'm responsible for my actions and reactions, but I am not responsible to figure everything out, or to take credit (or blame) for my personality or family situation or anything that happens to me.

A related poem, a prayer, showed up on the table a few days later. I copied down the three lines that I loved best:

I am because of you
in front of you
and for you.

So, sure, it wasn't my idea, but it was someone else's, and I live out the life I received by gift in his full view and I'm responsible to him for how I choose to do this. I should perhaps not expect that God will answer me why I was born, but I can know that it was on purpose.

These words also gave me insight into forgiveness. Lately I've been struggling more than usual with unforgiveness. It can be hard to forgive because if I do, the person may not understand how much they hurt me. It can even be easier to forgive deeper cuts, because the offending person must understand how awful it was for me. But if someone does something that seriously bothers me but ultimately doesn't ruin my life, then I am tempted to use unforgiveness as a way to show my frustration, which the person could otherwise miss altogether. Honestly, though, they still miss it almost altogether. I am not quite terrible enough to chase people down and make sure they understand I am angry.

I understand the faulty logic of unforgiveness. I know that withholding forgiveness mostly just hurts the person who is already hurt, or keeps their wound fresh indefinitely. But the simplest reason is that Jesus asks me to forgive everything, big or small. To forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven. And he asks this for my own benefit: the Bible implies that by extending grace and forgiving debts we open our hearts to more fully receive grace and have our own debts forgiven.

From my human viewpoint, there are times forgiveness seems like a bad idea. God is so gracious to the undeserving, I tend to doubt that he would truly exact justice from those who have hurt me, particularly as they are usually believers. God is, I often remind myself, as much on their side as he is on mine. But Jesus doesn't set conditions on forgiveness. If I ran the show, I might do it differently. But if I accept that this whole living thing wasn't my idea, I can conceptualize that maybe I should just play by the rules of the person whose idea it was.

If forgiveness looks stupid, and life looks sad, I don't have to take credit for setting up and maintaining the set of systems under which that is possible. My sphere of influence is much smaller than that, and my responsibilities are exactly the right size for me, no larger and no smaller. None of this was my idea (hallelujah).

Creation (My Clay Woman)

I spent last week at Taize, in silence. The week contained a lot of unexpected things for me. For example, I expected some big revelation, about really anything at all, but it never came. [Rather, one sort of came, but then was later swept away by a giant wave of doubt, leaving me in the same place as ever, but this time a little, just barely, one breath, more at peace. This is how things often are? God knows what he's doing?]

One of the things I did not expect to learn about was creation. I would have expected to learn mostly about Jesus' time on earth: each day we were given a few "gospel situations" or other Scripture to meditate on. (One was from the Book of Wisdom! Guys, that's not even in my Bible...) I tried to play along, especially the first few days, but the last few days' "assigned" texts didn't speak to me at all, because we were supposed to dig into the emotion in them, and I didn't have any. So I admit: I cheated on my gospel situations with my regular Bible reading plan. I was doing this little by little since Tuesday. Don't tell Sister Dominique.

And let me tell you, my regular Bible reading plan was good to me. Words jumped off the page and danced in my eyes, elevating my heart rate and making me laugh. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the Spirit hovering over the face of the waters, even though there was no light by which this concept might have been made visual. Music from nowhere poured into my ears (okay, loosely based on that Moby song*) as I tried to conceptualize what was before all things. I read about God breathing the spirit of life into humans and I stopped reading for five minutes to stare at my hand and marvel at God's detail. And this is the back story of why I was so impressed:

At the beginning of the week Sister Dominique gave us some tips for how to structure (or not structure) our silent days. One of the resources available to us was this outdoor shack full of clay we could play with. She advised that we should just enjoy seeing the "empreintes, how do you say empreintes?" "marks? fingerprints?" that our fingers made in the clay. In her words, "...you had the pleasure of touching clay-- you don't have to make something who look like something."

But because I had five hours of free time to kill, and because I was inspired by clay creations left behind by past silent pilgrims,** I did want to "make something who look like something." I wanted to make a woman. She was going to be the best woman ever. Before I even began to create my woman, I began to be possessive of her, and fond of her. The lump of clay I chose to bring with me already had taken shape in my mind, I just needed to make a few tweaks and she would be perfect. I carried the lump with me to a moss-covered stone wall overlooking a beautiful stretch of farms and villages. I broke it into a few pieces to loosely ration out different body parts and got to work.

I soon learned that clay cracks like crazy on a hot sunny day. Even if you shield it from the sun with your own body. This would not do. Back to the shack. I returned to my spot with a red plastic bowl with a little water in it. Now creation was new. If I dipped a few fingers in water, suddenly the whole surface of the clay glided and flowed. This was easier, and funner. More satisfying. And unexpectedly, more emotional. I have heard so many times this idea that God is the potter and we are the clay.. for good reason, it's in the Bible.. and that we are marked with his very fingerprints. But never had I ever once considered this concept of what creating us does to God. That what we are made of gets all over his hands.

I spent over an hour on my woman. I didn't get that far. I was astonished how much work went into her. Also how many of the modifications I made for practical reasons also naturally made her look more realistic. Largely in the stomach/torso area. Also her one thigh I made. At one time I was running out of torso clay and I had to make her chest smaller. I thought apologetically, "Your creator loves you very much, but not enough to walk practically all the way back to the house for some boob clay." And, do you, reader, have any idea how much work goes into shaping a pair of breasts? It is WAY harder than I would have ever imagined. No matter what I did they looked terrible, and/or fake. I didn't know what else to try.

I know this sounds flippant, but I am serious when I tell you that this experience gave me more respect for God's handiwork. Not just breasts (I'm still being serious here) but all kinds of things that we have. When I was reading Genesis later and staring at my hands as I mentioned earlier, it was because how the heck would I have ever given my woman fingernails? Much less those tiny tiny little triangles on the skin of backs of hands. And even if I had made her technically perfect (to my specifications), no matter how well I did, I could never lean down and breathe the spirit of life into her like God did with Adam. How amazing is that! Gosh.

After my brush with creation, I felt sure that God is way more careful with creating us than I thought. I believe he purposely makes each human that has ever existed, but even if he had only made Adam and Eve and set them in motion, that would be enough to impress me. And God is never too lazy to go back for more clay if he wants to make you a certain way. And furthermore, if my personal attachment to that chunk of clay is any indicator at all, God loves you very deeply while he is creating you, and smiles to himself often about how great you are going to be, delights in it, gets lost in thinking about it.

Well, I ended up smashing my woman. I am just a fickle human creator, not God. She had a head, but no face or hair. She had one upper arm, one thigh, and a torso that was kickin' from the back but not so great from the front. I could not do her justice, and I knew it. Also the back of my neck was getting hot. I thought if I had time in the week I might revisit her, but I am glad now that I smushed her because it would be too sad for her to have dried into that pitiable condition forever.

-
*Look up "God Moving Over the Face of the Waters" by Moby and give it a listen. Please? You will not regret it.
**This is a metaphor.. don't picture the Puritans with the big buckles on their shoes and hats...

Boats at Sea

Usually we don't realize what's going on around us in a given moment. Only in hindsight can one see (and marvel at) all that was taking shape at a given time, and how it all worked together to bring about the present moment. We're thrown into situations and have to figure stuff out while it's already going on, and there's no pause button. [A friend said of this: it's like a boat at sea. You can never dock it on dry land to patch holes or whatever; you have to make all your repairs while still keeping yourself afloat.]

The whole process of growing up fits this pattern. To use a super simple example, we had bodies long before we knew what bodies were, or that we could control our hands and feet using our thoughts. Which, sidebar, seems pretty miraculous when you think about it. This wordless fluency with which we pilot these bodies we didn't choose and often don't understand.

In a relationship with God you eventually look back and realize He was pursuing you all along, way before you were aware. He works before you give Him permission, to get you to a place where you will give Him permission.

All of life is improv. Maybe this is why on-stage improv can be possible. It's not nonsensical to step into a pre-existing situation/"scene", or, if it is, at least each player/actor has loads of experience from doing this every single day of their life. People say to me all the time that improv must be scary, and I appreciate what they mean by this, and don't mind the comment, but each moment of their own life has been improv. No matter how much you prepare for something, it's never exactly how you expected it, and you must adapt or face grave consequences. "Yeah, but you have to be funny," they reply. Well, it's easier to be funny than to be loving, kind, brave, gentle, good. Much. I would know.

I like clean breaks. Clear beginnings, wrapped-up endings. But I rarely seem to get them. I recently read that "closure" is an idea that often makes people unhappy by getting them to think it is a real thing. This was both a relief and a great disappointment. I'm sure closure is a real thing, but I am equally sure it is way more elusive than anyone wants. Certainly more elusive than I was able to admit to myself before reading that it might be fake.

You don't get the hang of almost anything until you've been doing it for a while. Here's an example about getting involved in a new place. I've been telling people about this theory I have that it takes, say, 51 times showing up somewhere to reach the tipping point. The first 50 times you show up somewhere (examples: Bible study, the teachers' lounge) in a foreign country, you see strangers and any contact is necessarily shallow and you feel awkward and have to make an effort not to leave. But that 51st time you enter the room and are greeted by name and surrounded by familiar faces, probably friendly and smiling ones. If you are living somewhere for only a semester, you can hit this sweet spot right before it's time for you to move away. Here in France, the other teachers seemed to be nicer to me than ever in my last two weeks of teaching.

It's sometimes difficult for me not to feel a little regret and wonder how this year (this seven-month?) would have turned out if I had been more outgoing and taken more risks earlier on. But, two problems with that: 1) I can't turn back time, and there are plenty of great things about this experience, I'm not going to go out of my way to engage a bad feeling; and 2) I think you always appreciate people the most at the moment you say goodbye to them. This was one of my favorite things about the study abroad experience. I appreciated my college and all my friends sooooo much when I left the country, but unlike with graduation, I got to come back the next year and appreciate them in person again. In my experience you can't rush this goodbye- closeness/attachment/appreciation. I suspect it's brought on by the pending separation. That was why studying-abroad "worked" in this way: I really left, and really came back.

Is there a lesson I gained from this? I think it changed my interactions with people because I began to think, "This is fleeting. When I look back on this, how will I want to say it all went down?" Which I think is a good way for me to live in general, in relationships or in other areas. Because life is pretty short when all is said and done. And I loathe the idea that someone could be feeling unappreciated or unloved and have to wait until, like, their retirement party to find out what they meant to people. Or worse. But I bet that happens often. People say really nice things at funerals. When we die, hopefully we go to heaven and see what we meant to others, though while we were alive we just had to trust that it was Something and that there was a current guiding our little bobbing undockable boats that we just woke up inside one day with no warning.

Wholehearted Devotion and a Willing Mind

The Lord your God commands you this day to follow these decrees and laws; carefully observe them with all your heart and with all your soul. You have declared this day that the Lord is your God and that you will walk in obedience to him, that you will keep his decrees, commands and laws—that you will listen to him. And the Lord has declared this day that you are his people, his treasured possession as he promised, and that you are to keep all his commands. –Deuteronomy 26:16-18

And you, my son Solomon, acknowledge the God of your father, and serve him with wholehearted devotion and with a willing mind, for the Lord searches every heart and understands every desire and every thought. If you seek him, he will be found by you; but if you forsake him, he will reject you forever. 1 Chronicles 28:9

God has been reminding me that following Jesus is a big deal. It’s not an add-on to an already full and meaningful existence;* it's the central point. The two verses above were in my Bible reading on the same day last week, and they arrived the day after I felt convicted on this matter. I think lately I pay lip service to Christianity without fully entering into what it means. Here is how I can tell: if someone were to ask me what I am living for, and what the point of my life is, I would reply that it's to glorify God, because I don't have anything better to say, but I would know deep down that if you look at all my actions and motivations, that's not really what I am living for. Because love for Jesus isn't what motivates the majority of my actions. In my daily life, I tend to follow him when it's convenient and lines up with what I would already do.

So what am I living for really? Well, that's the million dollar question in this recently-graduated season of my life. But I am far more lost than I ought to be. What I mean by that: I think some of the fear in my life comes from not accepting truths that the Bible teaches pretty plainly. There are some things I know already that I am still allowing to haunt me with doubt. In 1 Corinthians chapter 7 (which my Bible reading plan had me read with the above verses... what a day!) believers are specifically instructed: "each of you should live as a believer in whatever situation the Lord has assigned to you, just as God has called you." (1 Corinthians 7:17a). Then, "each of you should remain in the situation you were in when God called you," (7:20) is repeated twice. Among other things, I take this to mean that the situation I am in is the one God called me to. I shouldn't expect God to fret or be dissatisfied that the people he calls are in their respective locations. (This is also me reminding myself, again, that God doesn't call most of us to sell all our belongings and move to Africa, though he does call some to.) So I don't have to fear that I am wasting time here. I know God calls us to be wise and make the most of every opportunity (Ephesians 5:15-16), but that is separate from this larger concept of "where I am," and whether I "belong" there. The answer is yes, I freaking belong here. I must accept that and move on to other things, rather than getting mired in this question that has already been answered for me, and using that "confusion" as an excuse to walk or even limp after God rather than running after him.

Living in a jr-sr high school and getting little tastes of the social pressures and raw cruelty of that world, not to mention just plain living in another country's culture, have made me less sure of myself than I was before. I weigh my words as carefully as I can, trying to avoid saying things that will make people laugh at me for reasons I don't understand. When I say people, I of course mean the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds, because almost everyone else is mature enough to not be a jerk about language mistakes. This hesitation to speak is not in keeping with my beliefs about life, which include the idea that the only way to fail is to not try. After all, the more mistakes I make in front of these little critics, the quicker I will get feedback and improve my speech.

I am also less sure of myself at the grocery store, partly since I don't understand everything on the shelves. Today I wasn't sure if I wanted to try a can of beans with meat in it (cassoulet) but I knew I definitely didn't want to when someone else came into the aisle and I imagined looking like a loser, living alone and buying something that looked like dog food in a can. The other shopper was not looking at me, and probably even likes cassoulet, because it's probably good if there were so many shelves of its different versions, but I have not been marching to my own drum here because I have no idea how to act, and the constant awareness of not knowing how to act really throws me curveballs. This one is a great example, I mean, I don't think I would be tempted by cassoulet in America, because it doesn't seem that healthy and it wouldn't even have the distinction of being "French food," so only here in France do I find myself in this sort of weird pseudo-dilemma about what to buy and how it might seem to people I don't know, who don't know I live alone, and who are not looking at what I put in my bag.

So those are two ways I have been ruled by fear instead of living within truths I already know, like: my value doesn't come from what rude foreign children, or random strangers on the street, think about me. Or: I can afford to be kind to people, even if I'm afraid of coming across too intense because no one seems to smile and it's confusing and makes me want to stop trying anything at all.

Out of fear, I have been cherry picking which parts of God’s law and command I follow. I make exceptions for dumb reasons like what other people are doing. That is such a terrible reason because my path is different than theirs. If I want to be inspired by people, I should look at the best things they do and seek to emulate those, not use the failings of others to justify my own bad decisions. I used to justify music piracy because I had a missionary friend that didn’t think it was a big deal and got free music all the time. That is between him and God, just as it is between me and God for me to follow my conscience as best I can and not look for loopholes and exceptions and wiggle room.

As a more recent example, nowadays I seem to overlook the repeated parts of God's commands that suggest (oh wait, actually command) that we devote every part of our lives and ourselves to holiness and to his service. I don't think television is necessarily unholy, but I think using reruns to fill any spare moment that's not spent online is a poor stewarding of the time one is given. More to the point, I think if I get to midnight on a day I had two hours of work, and I have found no time to rest in God's presence, but I found time to watch some TV, I have a problem.

To return to the 1 Chronicles passage: I do have devotion. It's just half-hearted devotion. It's devotion that wakes up and hastily gets dressed when guilt gives it a little kick because it's been a bit since I went out of my way to do something nice. It's devotion that swells when good things happen to me and ebbs when I am bored or I might actually have to be in an awkward social situation with the other teachers. And do I have a willing mind? No. I have a mind that's scared I will be called to talk about the gospel with non-believing friends. That hates that idea, and hates the hate. And feels guilt for it. Then, guilty for this guilt. I have a mind that genuinely has to resist the pull of Futurama when it comes down to a choice between that or reading the Word, a mind that lets the Bible win by just 1%, a percent composed of guilt and wanting to be able to say I made that choice if I ever talk about it. There is some part of me that's willing. I know it! But surely it can't be this fragmented and often grumpy mind.

Last week, two days in a row I went to read my Bible and, through moments of quietness and listening, was led instead to a different activity that still connected me with God. It was awesome. One day, it was much-needed self-reflection through writing, and the next it was music and a reminder of what God is for me. And then an impossibly gentle further point was impressed upon me: I have a part to play, too, if I am the Christ-follower I say I am. It’s an if-then thing, which I appreciate. If I am a Christian, I have made commitments I must live up to. If not, then it doesn't matter how I choose what to do. But it's not fair to call myself by Christ's name and then put Jesus second or third on my list of what I live for. Especially if reason #1 is super amorphous and contradictory and more composed of negatives and evasion tactics than anything defined and positive.

Even though this whole thing seems negative and makes me sound really bad, I take comfort in the fact that, as evidenced by my last paragraph, God honors my efforts to reach out to him. I am not terribly disciplined yet, but he is giving me a heart just like his, and that can take a while. One of the hardest things for me to accept as a short-tempered human is God's patience with my serious issues and my waffling. He's not surprised by any of this, and it doesn't make him love me less. Instead I bet he's happy I noticed the glaring problem, and that he accepts whatever little part of my heart is his that is trying to get the rest of my heart on board. I have a hope and a belief that I am moving in the right direction, because God will do the heavy lifting (there's a lot of it) to change me, if only I ask him to. It has to be this way, because I can't do this on my own.

-

*Ha, not that I have that right now anyway.

All My Loving

"Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,
Tomorrow I'll miss you;
Remember I'll always be true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home ev'ry day,
And I'll send all my loving to you."

Today I was sitting on a bus randomly listening to "All My Loving" from the movie Across the Universe. I suddenly asked myself, "isn't this the song the guy sings the girl from across the ocean while there's a montage of him cheating on her?" I remembered how I had used to really enjoy the song before seeing the movie, because I took all the words at face value, and I had a revelation.

I believe people. When they tell me things about themselves, I buy them. The best example of this is when they tell me they don't have romantic feelings for someone. I believe their words in spite of their actions. This post isn't meant to target anyone in particular, because this has happened to me several times. And the conclusion I have come to is that people don't know themselves, either. It would be hypocritical of me to complain about this, since I certainly don't understand myself, and I am a verbal processor to boot. But this realization makes it difficult to trust people. It almost seems stupid to do so when so often I get burned in the end, whether simply looking foolish in front of other, more intuitive mutual friends, or feelings of betrayal when people blatantly go against what they told me to my face and I chose to trust.

My question would be how do you know when to trust people and when to ignore what they repeatedly verbalize in face of stronger evidence... but I said "would be," because ultimately I have no question. There isn't an answer. Sometimes I will just be wrong, and that can't be predicted in advance.

But I think there might be inherent value to trusting, given that I'll make mistakes whether I favor trust or cynicism. At the end of The Magician's Nephew, there are talking animals, and they are very nice. But Uncle Andrew can't understand their words and just thinks they are making animal noises, and is afraid of them because he perceives them as violent brutes. This is because Uncle Andrew is a giant jerk. C.S. Lewis is careful to point out here that our personal character affects the way we see others and the assumptions we make about them.

Right now I can't speak for trusting in all circumstances. I still don't trust that all the money we give to beggars goes to a good cause, for example, and my students here lie to my face without breaking a sweat. But in the context of established friendships, I wonder whether believing the words people chose for you to hear-- hard though it may be, and even though you might ultimately be wrong to do so-- is beneficial enough that it's worth it to try. To fight the instinct to distrust everyone forever, just in case. (This instinct isn't unreasonable, after all. Most people in your life end up hurting you, maybe even a lot.) To stay pure of heart and let God defend you when people take advantage. Yet in the end, I just don't know.

[Lastly,

"I'll pretend that I'm kissing
the lips I am missing
And hope that my dreams will come true."

This is unrelated, but I have to complain about this line. In the context of cheating, it's particularly horrible. In my opinion you can't pretend to be kissing the lips you are missing unless you are actually kissing some other pair of lips. Otherwise you'd just be imagining it.]

Saturday

Last night I went to the ACP Good Friday service and was so tired I fell asleep during the organ solo in the middle (and immediately woke up when the sleeping relaxed my hands and I loudly dropped my program to the floor) and I wasn't really connecting to the Scripture being read, or the hymns we sang, but at the end all the lights went out (it was a tenebrae service btw) and there was only one candle lit in the whole room, the Christ candle. And I stared at it avidly, and suddenly I was completely present to the moment, and the weight of Easter sunk over me full force. "Light of the world, by darkness slain..." goes the song.* That line ran through my head again and again. I did not want that candle to go out. I did not want our only hope to be extinguished. We would be in utter, blackest darkness without him. With no hope of a coming morning.

Earlier I had been talking to Elena about how sometimes you have hopes, or even something you think is a promise or dream from God, and waiting for them/it to come about is just like holding your breath. This stereotypical expression is perfect to describe it. You hold your breath until you can't anymore, and instead of gasping, putting your head above the water, because you can't do that-- it's all water once you've jumped into the river with God-- you, well, you drown. Better put, that one part of you dies. It's as painful and strange as you would expect, learning to live with death inside. You wake up every morning, and remember that part of you is dead. Obviously it feels like a mistake. You think, "God is the author of life! What did I do? What happened here? He doesn't make mistakes, so I must have." But I don't think that's necessarily the case.

A few months ago, I heard a sermon on the life of Joseph. It was in French, which for me sometimes means that the message takes on delightfully fuzzy edges and the ideas I take away from it are more general. Not because I don't understand it, but I simply don't remember exact wording as well as I would English. The main takeaway for me from this sermon was that things that look like a mistake aren't necessarily one. Joseph being in jail, for example. Who would think that an honest man, righteous and walking close to God, would go to jail because he did the right thing? What sorts of thoughts did Joseph have as he woke up each morning for those couple years, as he "wasted his life," forgotten and alone, even presumed dead by the father who loved him? But he rose to great honor again, and it had all been part of the plan all along. He was in the perfect position to save all of Egypt (+ suburbs? what was Canaan?) from starvation.

Today, Saturday, is the perfect time to remember that I serve a God who raises people from the dead. A God who died. It must have seemed like the biggest mistake in history to anyone watching. Instead of a kingdom established for eternity, utter hopelessness. They thought he was a king who would reign forever, and instead he died and was buried. They had held their breath for his promises, perhaps half-doubting them all along --they sounded too good to be true-- and he died on them. How hollow the promises must have seemed then. What a Saturday.

If it wasn't a mistake even for Jesus to die, if that was actually the point, then we know that God does allow death. Not small setbacks or obstacles, but even real death to our dreams. He even let Lazarus die, and then said it was better that way. Because he is strong to save, and he resurrects. He takes great delight in resurrection. And frankly, that makes a better story and brings more honor to his name than a shallower alternative. It builds more faith in us.

Today, I am reminded that when I stand before impossible circumstances, there is nothing preventing God from a literal (or any other kind of) resurrection, because that is his thing. That is what he longs to do for his children, if they will only give him control by placing their trust in him. There is no circumstance dark enough that I need to be afraid.

Tomorrow, when the sun comes up over the Seine, I will be outside watching the light seep back into the world. I will sing, "...then bursting forth, in glorious day, up from the grave he rose again!" And I will  remember that even my dead dreams, the ones that seem too impossible for a positive outcome, are in the hands of a God that, out of an infinity of possibilities, chose dying and coming back to life as the best way to redeem all that he'd ever created.

-
*In Christ Alone... durrr. But we didn't get to sing that at this Friday service.