Lazarus and the Great Thaw

There's been this nagging whisper in the back of my mind ... you have nothing to say. Well, actually, that's just one variation on a theme that's been running through my mind since the end of March. You have nothing to say. Nobody wants to hear what you have to say. How in this world will what you have to say make a difference in this world?! Seems on the surface a crisis of confidence or of identity. Maybe so.
At the end of March, I committed to a change in vocational responsibilities that I knew would change my life. And, boy was I right. I am still a pastor, but without a congregation in the truest sense of the word. Everything about communal life that one experiences as a part of a congregation - even as its shepherd - is different. (The biggest change and hardest has been the absence of children in my life, especially celebrating and assisting Truth unfolding in and for little ones and those willing to be children of the King.) And, since the end of March, I've found myself spinning more plates (reference: that recurring act on Ed Sullivan who never could make it all the way through his stint without a broken plate) than I ever dreamed existed in the Church ... and I've had a few things to say about "juggling" before.
The passion for most of my vocational responsibilities has been in desperate need of a good thaw. The picture of the nandinas in my old front yard, frozen solid by the ice that came late in the winter would be a perfect visual of how my heart has felt about this appointed work before me ... until this morning.
With several new responsibilities in front of me tomorrow (officiating an annual Charge Conference for the first time, preaching in front of a cluster of churches in my District for the first time as their Superintendent to name two), I settled into a wrought-iron chair on my patio in the delightful coolness of morning that we've been dreaming of, waiting for through many long hot months. As I began to let the Word I'd chosen for tomorrow wash over me, bubble inside me, I found something else happening ...
That great thaw. In the space of three hours so much has happened: I've watched my little Izzy "squirrel hunt" the whole back yard, I've been covered by Grace (taking her morning nap on my feet) like an indescribable grace-blanket of love and belonging, I've been serenaded by those chattering squirrels that Izzy stirred up and the songs of invisible birds ... and giggly little girls from the yard next door. And, I've been warmed by a stirring in my heart and mind that I haven't felt in a long, long time. Like waiting for the thaw that turns winter to spring, there is a new joy and a new anticipation in me for sharing with God's people like I haven't in a long time.
This is not the first time since March that I've sat with the Truth and been moved. But, today is different. Somehow, Lazarus and that rich guy in that made-up story Jesus told have given me what I've needed since March. Thanks guys!
p.s. I'll keep you "posted" on what happens tomorrow!

Shedding What Hinders

Moving from a fairly sunny day with the temperature near 70 degrees at its peak to a day at least 20 degrees cooler has reminded me of the not-quite forgotten days of near-zero temperatures and frozen stuff falling from the sky. The picture to the right is one of the nandinas just outside my front door. It was a new sort of beauty to watch the ice form before my eyes on everything from trees and shrubs to patio furniture. The ice acted like a prism, making the reds brighter and the buds I hadn't noticed yet seem bigger ... and alive! But, the breathtaking beauty that the ice brought quickly turned to hindrance, then destruction before we could do anything about the accumulation of it all. Pay attention as you drive our neighborhoods and you'll still see limbs dangling and others piled up at the street's edge. I recently drove through western Kentucky and the evidence is still overwhelming there nearly two years after a devastating ice storm kept residents in the dark and cold for weeks. Trees still alive and still bare from the winter look scrubby at best, like they've given up.

As we find ourselves half way through this Lenten season, I have to say that these images - the ones from my camera and the ones I see as I drive familiar neighborhoods of the present and the past - are a powerful reminder of what happens when we cannot or will not throw off those hindrances that hold us back. Many things come to us like the ice "came" to the nandinas in my yard: more expectations of our limited time and energy, pressure to conform to the world around us, the growing felt need for the approval of others, and much more. One at a time, we can handle those demands (some, legitimate; others, not so much). We are tempted to say that the problem starts when those things weigh me down like the ice eventually weighed down and threatened the health of nandinas and trees. But, the greater Truth is that the problem starts when we allow any of those "things" to stick that have the potential - alone or in concert with other attitudes, practices, or habits - to break us down.

When Jesus was led into the wilderness by God's Spirit and faced temptation there, it was evident that He knew how and when to say "no!" He knows how to shed those things that can hinder and will teach you ... if you let Him. There's something more than letting your 'yes' be "Yes!" and your 'no' be "No!" (Matthew 5:7) that needs our attention. That is, determining what deserves a "Yes!' and what requires a "No!" That knowledge can and will only be gained by spending time with God. The gospels are full of reminders that Jesus Himself made it a practiced priority to pull away from the distractions and demands of any day to spend time with the One who authored and ordained (and is trusting you, too, with) this day. I'm confident that God will show you and me what hindrance(s) need to be shed. Keep that picture in your mind of what accumulating ice does to trees (and nandinas) and what accumulating "stuff" does to your soul. And, ask God to help you shed what hinders.