Fullness of Time

Some days it feels like I’m supposed to be a cheerleader at a funeral.

Some days it feels like I am doing hospice work

with a patient who is unaware of their own impending death.

Holy Shit

At the end of July I developed two of my previous posts on lamenting (Lament and The Lost Art of Lament) into a sermon. As part of the sermon I invited people to write down their laments on a piece of paper that was photocopied to look like a brick. The staff at church and I assembled the bricks into a “wailing wall” that is displayed at the entrance to our worship space.

I sat down at my desk the following Tuesday and began reading through all the laments that were emptied out onto the paper bricks in worship on that Sunday morning. There were laments about the state of our nation and the political process. There were laments about the civility of our society, random violence and even specific examples taken from the news. There were laments about the aging process, health concerns, illness, broken relationships, and personal failures. And of course, there were laments about the death.

When I finished reading the laments I sat quietly for a time marveling at the resiliency of the human spirit.

The Lost Art of Lamenting

The help we need to get through an emotionally difficult time doesn’t come from people who are not suffering. It comes from the people who know the same kind of suffering and who are willing to suffer with us. When we lament together as a community we admit that we are vulnerable and, at the same time, discover that we are not alone in our pain. That discovery often gives us the strength to work through the grief and help others cope as well.

Lament

As I return to my writing after a month-long sabbatical I am struck by the events of this summer, and especially this past weekend, that have left us shaking our heads and wondering, “Why?” From the seemingly every day tragedies reported on the news shows to the extreme cases like the shooting in Aurora, Colorado, the events surrounding the Penn State football program, and the disappearance of two young girls in a neighboring community we are faced with the various ways evil manifests itself in our life. Such a constant barrage of bad news leaves us in a precarious emotional state searching for some way to respond.

On the Move

One of the predominant, but rarely talked about, themes of the Bible is moving. The characters in the Bible are constantly moving, asking to move or being asked to move. Adam and Eve are moved out of the garden. Abraham was called to a new land. Jacob moved to escape his brother’s wrath. Later his tribe moved to Egypt to survive a famine. The nation of Israelites wandered in the wilderness before settling in the promised land. David stayed on the run to hide from King Saul. Jesus’ ministry is described in the gospels as a journey towards the cross. Paul’s travels kept him moving to spread the news about Jesus.

We all know what it is like to move. Just thinking about such a change can cause anxiety to well up inside of us. We leave what has become familiar to face the unfamiliar. We walk away from the comfort that we know in hopes of creating a better life. We venture into unknown places, unknown relationships and, sometimes, unknown customs and cultures. Even when our move is nothing more than leaving one job to take another, we experience the same kind of anxiety and change as if we moved across the country, just on a lower level.

So far in my life, I have lived in ten unique zip codes in five different states. I’ve moved more than that, however.. I’ve lived in some towns more than once and have moved to a new residence within the same zip code a couple times. I’ve lived in cities, in suburbs, in small towns and in rural settings. Each transition created its own grief over what it being left behind as well as hope for what possibilities existed in the new place. Each place presented its own mix of new values and cultural assumptions. Each move brought unexpected challenges in addition to surprising gifts of wonder and grace.

The first move I remember happened when I was three or four. My family moved from a modest house in the city to a newly built house in the suburbs. Well, it wasn’t a suburb yet. It was a subdivision plopped down in the midst of a cornfield between the city and neighboring town. The landscaped brick wall at the entrance let passersby know that this was no ordinary, run of the mill neighborhood. These homes with sodded lawns and spindly trees were, in fact, Countryside Estates.

The subdivision was primarily one, main street with a couple of other streets that looped around and came back to main drive. In two or three places streets branched off and dead-ended at the edge of the corn field ready for future development. Since there was only one way in and out of the neighborhood there wasn’t a lot of traffic which made it great for being able to ride bikes when I got a little older. The subdivision ended at the top of a small hill in a wooded lot where some of the older kids made bike trails. It always felt dangerous and thrilling to ride through the woods since I was certain that my mom could sense whenever I participated in this forbidden activity.

When we moved to the subdivision we left behind my neighbor Ernie. I remember him being old because he had grown children but he was kind to me and my brother whenever we were outside. He wasn’t the only kindly older person we moved away from either. In the city we lived between my two sets of grandparents, just a few blocks from each. The subdivision wasn’t too far away but it required some planning to get together.

What I gained in the move was a bigger yard to play in (and eventually mow) and a house where I could have my own bedroom, which, as it turns out, was one of the very few times in my life when that was the case. The move also provided a safe place to gain a growing sense of independence. I started school while living here. As I got older I was able to venture beyond the borders of our yard without constant parental supervision. And I began that arduous task of making friends of my own with all the attendant heartache and joy that entails.

People leave home and move away for many different reasons. My parents moved because they thought it would be best for the family. I moved because I had to. We see both of  these reasons for moving in the Bible too. Clans and communities move because they decide it is in the best interest of everyone to make a change. There is better land somewhere else or they can avoid famine over there. But people also move because someone more powerful forces them: A community is sent into exile, an employer transfers a worker to a new city to keep a job or the government announces that a new highway is being built through your neighborhood.

Moving, like any change, is a varied mixture of outside forces and interior desires. No matter what the motivation, however, not moving rarely seems to be a viable option. (Lots of Bible stories are about people’s reluctance but I can’t think of any stories where people refused to move and found blessings. If you can think of one leave let me know.) While we like to think that making such a change on our own terms is better, the truth is that it is difficult regardless of the reasons. Leaving a place of comfort and venturing out to experience something new is never easy but it seems to be one of those things that we are forever being faced with.