Tweed Jackets, Hospital Rooms, and the Body of Christ

The room had the classic church basement feel—low ceiling supported by strategically placed columns, scattered metal folding chairs. Scott and I stood with a paper plate of danish slices and almond pound cake in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other and surveyed the room. “Where to sit?”—it was always the question. Where was the best place to break in to the space of those already in knowing conversation? We spied two empty chairs and pulled ourselves up to the table. To one side was a burly large man in late-middle-age whose accent told me he was a long-time local. Across from me sat an elderly man, with the thin cord of a hearing aid snaking out of his ear, and a smile that spread across the width of his face. He wore a brown tweed jacket, and I couldn’t help but think how much Scott would love a jacket like that, particularly if it included elbow patches. 

The man in the tweed jacket, Ralph, told us about his childhood home in Nova Scotia, about his children and grandchildren, about his career. It turns out they used to use the same type of turbo engine for electricity production that Scott now helps to create. He proudly told us this year he would celebrate 62 years of marriage with his wife. The secret?—”Always say yes,” he told us with a chuckle. When he gave a nod in his wife’s direction across the room, my eyes follow his gesture to see a horseshoe of elderly women seated along the back and side of a long folding table, strategically positioned to eye up the room. I realized then we had plopped ourselves down at what was clearly the “men’s table.” Oops. 

We had such a delightful conversation, and our new friend Ralph had some interesting stories to tell. It’s in moments like this that I’m reminded of the beauty of fellowship that spans the generations and of the dignity of having someone to listen to your stories.

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What Do You Remember?

I’m always struck by how many times in the Old Testament, the Lord gives the command, “Remember.” Remember that you were slaves. Remember how I brought you out into freedom. Remember my commands. Remember my goodness and faithfulness to you. And of course, what did Israel forget to do? They forgot to remember. They forgot to remember and set up their own gods and followed their own desires. They forgot…and they ran headlong into sin.

You could call remembrance a spiritual discipline. In the act of rehearsing what God has done in the past, we find a bedrock for our faith in the present and into the future. We look to his past faithfulness, and we are reminded of how He works, of who He is.  We remember and say “He has been good to me. He has been enough.”

Scripture tells us the story of His work in the world, to work our salvation. We can read its pages and remember all He accomplished for us in Jesus. 

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Repent. Don't Obsess.

It feels like it’s easy to fall into one of two extremes with our feelings toward sin. On the one hand, we can easily discount it. Instead of grievous offenses against a holy God, our sin becomes “bad habits” or “quirks.” We excuse and ignore the ways we fall short of His perfect standards, and we set ourselves up as judge, always letting ourselves off easy. We find it easy to forget the ways we have sinned, in thought, word, and deed, in what we have done and left undone. Fortunately, there are a lot of people talking about this tendency. You don’t have to look far to find an author, speaker, or church leader calling us to repentance and sorrow over our sin, which is a necessary part of the Christian response. 

The other extreme is less discussed, however - when we border on obsession over sin. We feel bad if we don’t have a recurrent sense of guilt. We rehearse our wrongdoings, reiterating the depraved levels of our vile, evil hearts.

All of this becomes an emotional form of self-flagellation. There may not be physical whips ripping open our skin, but our psychological whips lash at our hearts and minds. Instead of discounting the grievousness of sin (extreme #1), we discount the power of forgiveness. The point of our confession and repentance of sin isn’t to beat ourselves up. It’s to check our hearts, in order to turn them back toward the God whose love and forgiveness are ever turned toward us. Because of this blessed reality, we’re to “repent and get on with it”:

“It's as if sin is an obstacle, something to get out of the way so the good stuff, the real stuff, can arrive. It's as if Jesus is reminding me to yes, pay attention to my sin, but only in order to get it out of the way, only in order to move it aside and make room for the glorious beautiful goodness to follow, only in order to ask for the help I need to be forgiven and heal.” 
- Amy Julia Becker, “Repent and Get On With It,” Christianity Today

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Why I'm Thankful for a Suffering Savior

Sometimes life doesn’t make sense. Sometimes there are no easy answers. Sometimes the only response is a fist against the wall and tears streaming down your face. Sometimes the only prayer is “Why, Lord?” and a weeping “But yet will I trust You…” Sometimes you must sit with your sadness, keep limping along with your questions, keep trusting and loving and living with your weary, aching heart.

Thank God we follow a Suffering Savior. 

Our Lord knew heartache. He wept over his dead friend and the mourners who thought all hope was lost. He wept over the city of people who wandered lost without a shepherd. He wept in the Garden agony, begging for a different cup, a different fate. He cried out in the anguish of feeling abandoned by God. He was one familiar with pain, well acquainted with suffering. He was despised. He was rejected. He was beaten. He bled. He died, the life breath slowly pressed from his lungs until it slipped away. 

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Let Me Die, Let Me Rise: A Prayer

A prayer centering on the crucifixion and resurrection realities in our lives. Leave it to the Puritans to write one like this. 

O Lord, 
I marvel that you would become incarnate, be crucified, dead and buried. 
The sepulcher calls forth my adoring wonder, for it is empty and you are risen; the four-fold
     gospel attests it, the living witnesses prove it, my heart's experience knows it.
Give me to die with you that I may rise to new life, for I wish to be as dead and buried to sin, to
     selfishness, to the world; that I might not hear the voice of the charmer, and might be
     delivered from his lusts.
O Lord, there is much ill about me - crucify it; much flesh within me - mortify it.
Purge me from selfishness, the fear of man, the love of approbation, the shame of being
     thought old-fashioned, the desire to be cultivated or modern. 
Let me reckon my old life dead because of crucifixion, and never feed it as a living thing.
Grant me to stand with my dying Savior, to be content to be rejected, to be willing to take up
     unpopular truths, and to hold fast despised teachings until death.
Help me to be resolute and Christ-contained.
Never let me wander from the path of obedience to your will.
Strengthen me for the battles ahead.
Give me courage for all the trials, and grace for all the joys.
Help me to be a holy, happy person, free from every wrong desire, from everything contrary to
     your mind.
Grant me more and more of the resurrection life: may it rule me, may I walk in its power, and be
     strengthened through its influence.

- A Puritan prayer, "Crucifixion and Resurrection," as quoted in The Valley of Vision