Future Glory

My sermon from this past Sunday. Text was Romans 8:12-25.

Henry was a fellow that I knew on the South side of Milwaukee. Henry lived outside, underneath an overpass which went over the Menominee Valley. Henry was a good guy, he had a good heart. He, of course, had demons with which he fought. He drank to excess, he was almost always in a some state of drunkenness.

Henry smelled bad, due in part to the fact that he lived on the street, and due in part to the fact that after a bender, he would sleep where we fell. He had no one to bring him into bed, or to pull him into a bathroom, or to change his clothes. He wanted to give up drinking, he really did. But he didn’t. In the winter it is hard to sleep, and so Henry, like so many other people in a similar situation, finds that drinking helps him get some sleep at night when the mercury drops dangerously low. Additionally, things were so incredibly miserable for him, that drinking is the only way to numb himself to the pain of it all. So in trying to escape his problems, he caused a whole new set. And in doing so, he entered into a cycle of destruction from which he would never escape.

He would spend his days going canning, that is, going around the city collecting cans into big bags, he would have a couple of secret places to hide his stash, and then when he had enough he would turn it in for scrap. Some times it would only be enough to buy a 40, but there were many other times in which he would have some left over and he would usually give it to the church.

Typically we only think of the cold when we know of people who stay outside, but that isn’t even the most dangerous part, the most dangerous part is the continual risk that one is at when they sleep outside. Every night Henry would try to sleep not knowing if he would get mugged or robbed or killed during the night. He would often keep a club next to him while he slept in case he was attacked during the night. Several times this would happen, and he would find that his ID card and his money was gone. We can lock our doors at night, but when you sleep outside, there are no doors to lock.

Henry was also an easy target for people who go out looking for trouble. On days when he gets some money and he drinks, his reactions are slow and he would often get beat up, sometimes to steal from him, other times just for the sick enjoyment out of it. But in spite of all of this, Henry would walk around with his snow shovel in the winter and shovel walks in the neighborhood, and especially of people he knew, and during the fall he would often find a rake and rake leaves for others.

Henry was the last person to leave after lunch after the service. Many times he would fall asleep and sometimes this would be frustrating, but as I reflect on it, it became apparent to me that it would likely happen because in the church he felt safe, he knew that there were people watching over him, and he could rest in relative safety.

But we would have to wake him, and so often I was the one who would be charged with that task, and I would help him up the stairs, not only because he was intoxicated, but also because being in his late fifties and being on the street for the last decade, it took a toll on his body.

As we would walk up the stairs toward the door to send him out into the world, he would express his frustration at the way that he would try to help people and in return they would steal from him (he would carry around all of his worldly possessions in a ripped backpack) or beat him, or some other way take advantage of him.

He would express his sense of utter hopelessness, that he wasn’t sure if there was a future for him, and if there was it likely would not get better. Henry had a lot of demons with which he battled, but the most significant one was this sense of utter hopelessness.

Henry was in bondage to decay, as the apostle phrased it.

There are roses outside of my office window here at church, and I greatly enjoy looking at them. But after too long, they begin to darken, and it seems that they have been ravaged by insects and they can’t keep going. The roses which were once beautiful become wilted and eventually the petals fall off.

Buildings which are vacant for even a short time begin to fall apart, literally decay before our eyes.

We have experienced, in the recent past, very personal examples of how we are in bondage to decay. Our congregation has lost several people recently. We have lost friends and family members in our own lives.

When we are sick or hurt, and family members and friends try to cheer us up by assuring us that things are going to turn out okay, but you still have that ever present realization that you are in bondage to decay.

“For the creation waits with eager longing,” the apostle writes, “for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.”

All of creation is in bondage to decay, and in some way, the earth knows this, the animals know this.

Not long ago I was standing by the kitchen window and there was a spider web outside right in front of the window. An insect had the misfortune of finding itself stuck in the web and it struggled to free itself from the sticky web that it cannot even see, to no avail. As it struggled, the spider masterfully walked along this web and approached the insect, and injected it with paralyzing venom, and once the thrashing stopped, the spider grabbed the insect and began the process of wrapping it in the silky fibers of the web.

Studies have shown that plants have a defense mechanism that releases chemicals when they are being chewed on that change the taste of their leaves so that they no longer taste pleasant. Recently a study was released that showed the same response when a recording of a caterpillar chewing on a leaf was played to the plant.

While this may sound strange, I think that the creation knows that it is in bondage to decay and it groans. The earth rips itself open with earthquakes, it hemorrhages lava from volcanoes. Hurricanes and tornadoes and floods and droughts damage and harm all that is, but these pains are not death pains, no they are birth pains. The creation groans.

And it groans because Creation waits with eager longing.  You see, it is not just humanity that suffers from the broken state of the world, but the creation itself suffers as well. In the third chapter of Genesis, which we often refer to as the Fall of Humanity, but it is not just the fall of humanity, but the fall of creation. In the curses that are pronounced on the serpent, the woman, and the man, God says to the man, “cursed is the ground because of you…” Adam and Eve sinned, but all of creation paid the price.

The creation is groaning in great pains, but they are not the pains of death, but the pains of birth.

The creation groans because it waits with eager longing. It may seem odd to think of birds and ants and trees looking forward with longing, but is it so strange?

In scripture trees rejoice (Ps 96:12), floods clap their hands (Ps 98:8), the wilderness can be glad (Is 35:1), mountains and hills can burst out into song (Is 55:12), and stones can shout (Lk 19:40. Why should not birds and trees and roses and insects look forward with longing?

The creation groans, but not only this, but we also groan inwardly while we wait for redemption, for restoration. After all, our bodies are still subject to death.

“I consider that the sufferings of this present time,” the apostle writes, “are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us.”

You see, it is not just the sorry state of our present condition that the apostle so beautifully speaks, if that was all he was trying to get across, he would be preaching to the choir, as the saying goes. You see, Christians live in a world between worlds. Sometimes theologians will refer to this as the “already but not yet” It is the idea that with Christ redemption has already come and restoration has already begun but these have not yet fully arrived. It is a time of tension, it is a time of upheaval, in a true way, it is a time of cosmic revolution.

And it is important that we live in this tension, and neither become too “this worldly” that we forget that there is something more than what we can see or touch or experience, or become too “other worldly” that we forget that this life has meaning, this life is not just a waiting room, but this is the only life that we have. After all, this is not waiting for the main event, this is the main event. The new heaven and new earth is not the goal, it is the rest which comes after a life well lived, a race well run, a journey well trod.

So we must remember the hope that the apostle gives us, “the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us.”

So while it is true that this is the only life that we will live, and this life is in bondage to decay, we must also remember that this is not all that there is from a cosmic view. There will be a point of restoration and redemption when all of creation will be loosed from its bondage and will be granted so great a glory, of which all of the great sufferings in this present world cannot even compare.

***

I wish that I could tell Henry that things would get better. There were times when he would sober up and clean up, and it was wonderful to see him in a better condition, but he couldn’t stay that way for long. I wish that I could tell him that if he sobered up that things would get better, but I didn’t know that. It was very likely that Henry would stay in this destructive cycle and eventually it would be the death of him.

And it was. After years of living on the street, of drinking so much, of being in and out of the emergency room from freeing cold, illnesses, and all the rest, he ended up dying after a short stay in intensive care.

And now, he can live into the hope that I had for him, that beyond the sufferings of this present time there would be immense glory, and there would be a time when he, along with all of creation, would be freed from this bondage to decay and can be restored to the glory for which we were originally intended. And this is what is in store for each of us, and the roses and insects and plants. Thanks be to God.

 

 

Hump Day Hymns: ‘Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus

Hymnal

Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus, 
Just to take Him at His word; 
Just to rest upon His promise, 
Just to know, “Thus saith the Lord.” 

O how sweet to trust in Jesus, 
Just to trust His cleansing blood; 
Just in simple faith to plunge me 
‘Neath the healing cleansing flood! 

Yes, ’tis sweet to trust in Jesus, 
Just from sin and self to cease; 
Just from Jesus simply taking 
Life and rest, and joy and peace. 

I’m so glad I learned to trust Him, 
Precious Jesus, Savior, Friend; 
And I know that He is with me, 
Will be with me to the end. 
-Louisa M. R. Stead (1850-1917)

On a cool Tuesday evening, with the sun glinting off of the rain that had just recently fallen on the grass, I head into my study at church.

My church is a small one which sits atop a hill on the rural outskirts of one of the suburbs west of Milwaukee. While we are located within a major metropolitan area, our church is surrounded by fields and woods on all sides. It has the feel of a small country church not only in setting, but also in atmosphere. We are a church that values simplicity and ordinariness.

Walking past the rosebushes, I step into the building. At the other end, the sanctuary lights are on, and I hear the pianist rehearsing for Sunday morning.

***

Coming out of seminary, I harbored a preference for hymns and songs which plumbed the depths of theology. This was not a result of my education, but rather a result of my own sense of pride and arrogance that led me to think that local churches and everyone in them ought all understand the deep things of faith, the fullness of the sacraments, and the finer points of Reformed doctrine. I shied away from choosing songs and hymns which I deemed to be too simple.

I was amazed by the depth of the things of faith and I could not wait to be a guide, showing others these wonderful things which I assumed would fascinate them because they fascinated me. When I discovered that not everyone enjoyed the intellectual aspect as much as I did and, when it truly came down to it, didn’t care all that much about, for instance, the distinctions between Calvin and Zwingli when it comes to sacramental theology, I decided that my future lie not in the simple and ordinary church, but in the academy. I wasn’t going to be just a parish pastor, I was to be something more, so I thought.

Years later, I found myself not in the academy, but in the parish. I found myself not in a church bursting with artists and writers and academics, but first a poor inner-city parish and now in a rural suburban church, both in America’s Dairyland.

While previously I looked down upon the ordinariness of the church, I have experienced it to be glorious. After all, the church is not solely made up of Theologians with a capital “T”, but also people who grow corn and who raise cows. People who fix cars and who work in breweries. Moms and dads who spend their days trying to reason with their children, and people who spend their days feeling imprisoned in a cubicle under the thumb of a boss who takes out life’s problems on the employees. It is through the process of learning how to live out faith at the factory or the grocery store or while teaching high schoolers to paint that these ordinary people become theologians, even if with a lowercase “t”.

***

So as I stand in the doorway of our little church on the hill, I cannot help but sing along. After all, I know much of the song by heart.

This is the glory of this song. While it may lack theological luster, it is a song that is memorable in its simplicity. It is one that any of us can keep with us while we are cutting grass or chopping wood, or washing dishes, or stuck in traffic. It is a song that can remind us of our faith while knitting or woodturning. It is a song that doesn’t require a particularly astute intellect or any special gnosis.

The wonderful thing about theology is that there are immeasurable depths, but faith is not only for those who can dive and explore those depths. It is also for those who do ordinary and seemingly unremarkable things, who pray heartfelt and often inelegant prayers, who read read devotional booklets after meals, and who continually learn what it means to love God and love others.

I have been trying to overcome the pride and arrogance with which I continually battle. After all, in the end it is not just about what we know but who (and whose) we are. It is not about a destination, but a journey. It is not about competing or showing ourselves to be more learned than the other, but it is about helping one another to grow in our understanding as we are able.

So I have come to love this simple and ordinary song. This simple and ordinary song that I can take with me anytime and anywhere.

Jesus, Jesus, how I trust him! 
How I’ve proved him o’er and o’er! 
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus! 
O for grace to trust him more! 

 

Number Worship and Strategic Salvation

“The church is dying!”

In my corner of the the last remnants of Christendom, I hear this or something similar regularly.

There is concern because our denomination, much like most North American mainline denominations, has a numerically declining trend. There is a fear that because the church is losing the privileged position that it has enjoyed since Constantine and thus this grows to fear that the church is dying.

However, when we are afraid that the church is dying, we become obsessed with numbers. We make goals to plant a specific number of congregations and gain a specific number of confessing members. We point to big and/or growing churches as successes and small and/or declining churches as failures. We make the implicit (or explicit) assumption that faithful churches will be large and will grow continually. The shadow side of that assumption, though, is that churches which are small or are not growing at a steady pace are dysfunctional or unfaithful.

The Church is not of our making

***

I’m at That Reformed Blog today, come on over…

Why I Welcome the Demise of Christendom

Christ flanked by emperor Constantine IX Monomachos and empress Zoe: Eleventh Century; Mosaic, Hagia Sophia

In my corner of the Evangelical Bible Belt, a few things take concern above all else. Opposing gay marriage, decrying taking God out of the schools, mourning the loss of the privileged position of the church in the United States. We fear that the church is losing ground and we fight against it in every way possible.

The root of all this, though, is the loss of greater societal privilege for the Church. It is a symptom of the disintegration of Christendom, and I welcome it.

***

The history of the People of God was never that of a great empire which conquered the world, instead, it was a relatively small people, whose ancestors were nomads, who were conquered by foreign powers again and again. The great part of the story, though, is that the People of God have endured, by divine providence, against all odds and against the might of foreign powers.

The early church found themselves pressed by all sides, and yet against all odds, they grew not only in numbers but also in strength and depth.

Things changed, however, with Constantine when Christianity ceased to be a pressed minority and became state-approved. From this point on, the story of the majority of the Western world is centered around the unholy union between Christianity and the principalities and powers.

This signaled a significant reversal of the history of Christianity. Rather than facing the end of the sword, Christians were the ones holding the sword in the name of “God and country”. The Crusades were one example of the fruit of this union as was the Inquisition and the Salem Witch Trials. Rather than being pressed themselves, Christians were the one doing the pressing, rather than facing the powers, the Christianity was in league with the powers.

Rather than denying oneself, taking up one’s cross, and following Jesus (Mt 16:24; Mk 8:34; Lk 9:23), we, in the West, have become accustomed to standing proud with official backing, taking up our sword and following the state.

The problems with a “Christian nation” are myriad. At some point, one has to question, whom do we worship…God or the state? God or the emperor, king, or president? Further, when the Church and state are wed, the rulers of the state carry undue influence in the church and the church simply becomes a pawn in national affairs or for political gain.

We see this in the United States when political candidates at all levels work to appear more religious and pious than one another (usually always in the form of Christianity), speaking of God solely for political gain. In the United States, too, the Church has become a pawn in the game of politics. One has to wonder if this is the spirit of the commandment not to misuse the name of God (Ex 20:7).

We must ask the question, is the role of the church simply to baptize the actions of the state, or is the role of the Church to speak truth to power and call the state to faithfulness and righteousness?

***

While many (especially among the Bible Belts) may see the increasing pluralization of the religious landscape of the United States and the increasing separation between church and state as the church losing ground, I think that this will be a renewal for the church to actually be the church rather than simply playing on the chessboard of the state.

The decline of Christendom brings several distinct benefits.

First, it helps the church speak truth to power in a more faithful way. When the church wed itself to the state it gave up its role to speak to the principalities and powers. Beginning with Constantine, the church became captive to the state and the fall of Christendom actually functions as liberation from an unfaithful relationship which binds the church and its witness. After all, the church must stand outside of the powers in order to honestly and faithfully speak truth to the powers.

Second, the separation of church and state protects the church from the undue influence of the state. I certainly do not want the church to be used in the game of politics. I do not want the president or members of congress to direct church assemblies, the teaching of doctrine, or the further conscription of clergy or other office-bearers of the church into the service of the state.

Third, the decline of Christendom returns the church to the historic narrative of the People of God, and the experience of being “afflicted in every way, but not crushed” (2 Cor 4:8, NRSV). What does it mean to take up one’s cross? How does the church live out its calling “to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners” (Isaiah 61:1b, NRSV) when the Church has bound itself to the powers which created these situations in the first place?

We must ask ourselves, do we require the validation of the state or the greater culture in order to live out our faith? Do we require that our faith be in a privileged position in order to follow it? If we do, the problem is not in the greater social environment, the problem is within us. There is nothing at all in all of Scripture which would lead us to believe that the People of God are supposed to be the ones in power, the ones in high esteem, the ones who do the pressing. The Jews in the first century were largely expecting a messiah who would rebuild the fortunes of the Kingdom of Israel and throw off the Roman Empire, but instead they received an outsider who turned over tables of money changers in the temple, spoke truth to power, and eventually died for it.

So I welcome the fall of Christendom, because this holds the great potential to signal a renaissance in the church. Rather than seeking to control the society, we can begin to discover what it means to live faithfully. Rather than trusting in the providence of the state, we can begin to trust in the providence of God. Rather than wielding a sword, we can learn what it means to carry a cross.

We find ourselves at the end of Christendom. We can either live into our calling to be a foretaste of the Kingdom of God, or we can abandon our calling and fight to regain power and prestige and control and esteem.

We follow a guy who died naked on a cross. Why should we expect social privilege and worldly power and esteem?

Christ as Good Shepherd: Third Century, Fresco, Catacomb of Callixtus

Wounds in the Body of Christ

Oklahoma City Bombing National Memorial

(cc) Tabitha Kaylee Hawk

Eendracht maakt Macht

These words adorn the banner at the bottom of the crest of the Reformed Church in America. Often the translation into English is, “Unity makes strength” but, as I understand it, a better translation is “Concord makes strength” — a pulling together like a team of horses.

***

The Christian church today is fractured, but it has not always been. For nearly a thousand years, the Christian church was essentially unified throughout the world. This changed significantly with the Great Schism of 1054 when the Eastern church (Orthodox) and the Western church (Roman Catholic) excommunicated one another. For another five hundred years these remained the primary divisions within the Body of Christ.

The Western church experienced yet another major fracture when Martin Luther, in his attempt to reform the church, found himself considered to be a heretic and was cast out of the church. From this moment, the Protestant branch of the Christian church was born and continued splitting and fracturing over significant things such as the Doctrine of the Trinity and more trivial things such as the introduction of hymns in worship alongside the Psalms.

I, myself, am also aware of my own history and I, too, am involved in the fracturing the Body of Christ. In the nineteenth century, there was a split in the Reformed church in the Netherlands. As some of the Dutch immigrated to the United States, the Reformed people joined together and several then joined with the established Reformed Church in the United States. For a number of them, however, this union was short lived and they seceded and came together to form a second Reformed denomination on this continent. It is into this latter denomination that I was baptized and raised, and it was here that I learned the essentials of the faith. My ancestors were secessionists and it is through them that I participate in this…

Today I’m at That Reformed Blog. Head over there to finish reading…

When you can’t find the words

My calling is centered around language, as language is the way to communicate, to express. In my pastoral role, it is my charge to speak to the community and for the community — to express the experiences and life of the community and to help us all find meaning in our individual and shared experiences. But yet, for myself, I often lack words, I lack the ability to sufficiently translate my experiences into the limits of language. This is especially so in my attempts to speak with God.

Much of this Lent has been spent in the hospital, periodically standing on the boundary between this life and eternity. As I have recently written, nighttime was particularly isolating. When the doctors go away, when the tests and scans and procedures are done for the night, and all that surrounds me is the sound of monitoring machines and the hiss of the oxygen tube, I am left without anyone to which to speak or for which to speak. There is no communal life or experience to articulate. It is just me, overflowing with fears and worries and pain, none of which will abate, and I lack words to offer to God.

***

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress;
   my eye wastes away from grief,
   my soul and body also. 
For my life is spent with sorrow,
   and my years with sighing;
my strength fails because of my misery,
   and my bones waste away.  
(Psalm 31:9-10, NRSV)…

 

I’m over at That Reformed Blog today, come on over to read the rest…

When God sits at your bedside

I am a pastor. I spend time with people, not only preaching and teaching, but also checking in on them, visiting them in the hospital, praying with them and talking with them before operations about which anxieties are high. But in March, the day after Ash Wednesday, the tables were turned.

I spent almost three weeks in the hospital, one week of which was in intensive care. I was extremely sick, but for a while, none of the seven physicians could ascertain a root cause. I went through a significant regimen of scans and tests and exams and lab work and biopsies as I continued my downward decline. I was having difficulty breathing, was being pumped full of fluids continuously and in incredible constant pain. It was a scary time for my family, and it was a scary time for me.

It was a time in which, instead of caring for others, it was I who was being cared for by other pastors, and members of my congregation. I was cared for by members of my family. I was cared for by my beloved.

Night time was particularly scary. While I was hooked up to all different types of machines and nurses checking on me every couple hours, I was afraid of what might happen when I go to sleep. Would I stop breathing? Would my lungs continue to decline in their ability to absorb oxygen? Would my heart finally give out under the tremendous strain to which it was being subjected?

***

My beloved sat with me many days and every night. We tried to carry on some of our routines and watched Jeopardy every evening. But we could not follow our routine, and we both knew it, and we worried that we would not be able to return to our routine.

One night it was getting late and my eyelids were getting heavy. My beloved saw this and she took my hand and held it and patted it. “Go ahead and close your eyes,” she said to me, “and I’ll stay here and sit with you for a while.”

***

So often we wonder why, when sickness or tragedy befalls us, why didn’t God do anything to prevent this? Why doesn’t God fix this?

It’s a valid question. It is a question that I have asked many times.

But I also wonder if we tend to place our focus on the wrong thing. Perhaps we ask the wrong questions. What if the amazing thing about God’s presence in tragedy is not that God will prevent it or fix it, but rather that God simply sits at our bedside?

While I am careful not to deify my beloved, I do strongly believe that God works through people in the world. While the face and the voice was that of my beloved, I have no doubt that the words were God’s, “close your eyes, my child, and I will sit with you, and keep watch over you.”

I fell asleep and I know that my beloved did leave that night, but even though she left, it later became apparent that God never did. Sometimes God manifested Godself in tangible form: my beloved, a visitor, a chaplain, or a nurse who was concerned not only with my physical well-being, but also my emotional and spiritual well being.

This, I think, is the wonderful thing about God’s presence in our lives and care for us. It is not so much that God waves a wand and makes it all better, but rather, that God spends countless hours, and sleepless nights sitting in the chair next to the bed, allowing us to sleep because of the assurance that God will watch over us when we cannot watch over ourselves.

***

While my sickness was serious, I am thankful that it was not what they initially thought. It was treatable and the treatment should completely resolve it. I’m doing much better now, and at the same time that I am filled with gratitude, I grieve for those who are not as fortunate, and are diagnosed with something without a cure, or something for which the treatment is difficult and the outcome uncertain.

But I never cease to be amazed that in these dark hours, when things look bleak and the shadows seem to come ever closer, God remains in these hours. Sometimes working something more clearly miraculous, other times simply sitting at one’s bedside keeping watch.

 

In the Bleak Midwinter

20140210-111100.jpg

Sitting at my window, I cannot make out what exists outside. The view is obstructed by the coat of ice on the interior of the century old windows in my century old flat.

It is winter, I am not complaining. I am from Michigan and live in Wisconsin, long and cold winters are simply part of life. I largely appreciate winter, and the drastic change in seasons. But today, in February, I look out and all I can see are distorted shapes representing life.

Or rather, life in slumber.

I appreciate winter, but today it feels bleak. A city typically teeming with life seems desolate. Water, typically inhabited by ducks and geese is solid and empty.

Trees without leaves, sidewalks largely empty except for a couple of times a day. The only signs of life are the buses and cars which continue to carry people from place to place. But still, a meager sign of organic life.

***

I know that winter does not last forever, I have experienced many seasonal cycles, enough to know that winter will come to an end, the ice and snow will melt, birds will return, leaves will grow, and my city will once again be filled with life. I am looking forward to being able to go outside without a coat or boots, or without ice forming in my beard. But today, on this day in February, it almost seems as though this will last forever…

Today I’m over at That Reformed Blog. Come and Visit for the rest of this post…

The Fourth Magus

20140108-104139.jpgI think that next Epiphany, I am going to add a fourth magus to my nativity.

Why do we sing “We Three Kings…” and place three figures when we are never told that there were actually three? Why not two, or twenty?

Far from trying to be difficult, though, my desire to add a fourth magus has everything to do with my own experience of the story and the way that I can enter into the story.

***

Different people focus at different points of the story. Me? I am drawn to the very end, the post-script, you could say. There is, at the very end, a transition sentence. This sentence serves as a bridge between the visit of the magi and the flight to Egypt. But this sentence is far more than simply a transition sentence, it could be, I think, the actual high point of the story.

“…they left for their own country by another road” (Mt. 2:12, NRSV).

The Greek word used here for “road” (NIV uses “route”) can refer to a literal road or highway. It can also refer more figuratively to a journey, and it can also be used to refer to a way of life ( for example, “I’ve been down that road before…).

I wonder what it was like for the magi, as they were packing up to leave.

Read the rest at That Reformed Blog

Autumn

Tree in autumn

As I walk through Humboldt Park in my neighborhood in Milwaukee, I make the corner around the lagoon and before me is a tree which is ablaze but is not consumed. I have an impulse to remove my shoes. After all, I am standing on holy ground. Not because this sight makes it holy, but God created this tree, this ground, this moment, and therefore it is holy. I wonder what Moses saw. I wonder if the miracle that he saw is anything like the miracle which exists before me. Nothing about this is unexplained or unknown. I understand how and why leaves change colors and fall. But the presence of an explanation or understanding does not remove the fact that this is supernatural. It is miraculous.

God has given two books, the book of scripture and the book of creation, both attest to God’s transcendence and immanence. God cares about everything, and God cares about particular things. God upholds the universe and God upholds this moment.

Read the rest of this post at That Reformed Blog