faith

The Bittersweet Truth of Palm Sunday

March 31, 2015 By Michelle

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After church on Sunday Rowan asked me if Palm Sunday was a happy day or a sad day. I understand his confusion. I sort of feel the same way.

On one hand, there’s a feeling of celebration and joy in the air. We wave our palm branches exuberantly over our heads; we shout “Hosanna! Hosanna!” There’s a palpable feeling of anticipation and expectance as we hear about Jesus’ triumphant entrance into Jerusalem. And of course, we, unlike the Israelites, have the benefit of knowing how the story turns out. We know Jesus’ entrance was indeed triumphant, though not in the way everyone first imagined.

That’s pretty much how I explained it to Rowan. I told him Palm Sunday is the official beginning of Holy Week, and that because we know about Jesus’ resurrection on Easter Sunday, we look forward to that day of celebration and thanksgiving with hopeful anticipation.

But I also told Rowan that sometimes we’re not much different than those ancient Israelites who draped their garments on the dirt road and shouted “Hosanna!” as Jesus rode into the city on the back of a humble donkey. Sometimes we have very clear expectations of how we think Jesus should work in our lives, and we quickly do an about-face when our expectations aren’t met exactly the way we imagined and hoped.

Like the Israelites, not only do we expect Jesus to save us, we expect him to save us in the way we think is best.

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I’ve been living the reality of Palm Sunday in real time these last few months. Time and time again I’ve planned out exactly how God was going to redeem my situation (A new publisher! A better book proposal! An unexpected book deal! A new job I’ll love even more than book writing!), and time and time again I’ve been left with my mouth agape and my hopes dashed when The Plan as I had envisioned it didn’t materialize.

I’m learning, though, I really am…albeit slowly. I’m learning the faith and trust to keep shouting, “Hosanna!” — “God, save me!” — even when his plan doesn’t seem to remotely resemble mine. Even when I don’t see his plan at all. I’m learning the faith and trust to keep waving my palm branch, even as my arm grows tired. I’m learning the faith and trust to keep laying my garments down in the road, even when I can’t see the way through the dust and the grit.

Maybe it’s because I have the benefit of hindsight. Maybe it’s because I can look back at the mountains and valleys and the twists and turns of my life up to this point and see with my own eyes how God has worked his good, often in the most unexpected, unanticipated ways. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen evidence, strong and clear, of the goodness of the Lord, not only in the land of the living, but in my very own land and my very own life.

Maybe it’s because I know how the Holy Week story turns out, and I believe it. Jesus was indeed crucified, died and was buried. But he also comes again.

When You’re a Little Bit Afraid of the Powerful, Awesome God

June 23, 2014 By Michelle

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Last summer Brad took me out on Lake Superior in the canoe. The Big Lake doesn’t often permit that. The water is usually too rough, too wild — more like the ocean than a lake. But that evening the surface was as still and calm as the water in a country fishing hole, and so Brad carried the canoe to the shoreline and held it steady as I stepped in.

I’d anticipated a serene paddle, but when we pushed off shore and I glanced over the side of the aluminum canoe, fear seized my gut. Earlier that summer we’d visited Arches and Zion national parks and had gasped in awe and wonder at the enormous monuments, rock sculpted by eons of water and wind. This barren landscape far below the calm surface of the lake was eerily similar. Beneath us vast crevasses and canyons cut deeply into glacial boulders as big as SUVs, rocks rounded smooth by the ebb and flow and weight of water.

“I don’t like it,” I said to Brad, turning around to face him in the stern. “I don’t like it out here,” I repeated. “Bring me back. Can you bring me back to shore?” We’d been on the water two minutes or less, but suddenly I was terrified, an ominous dread gripping my chest and plunging deep into my stomach. For some reason those monumental formations far beneath the surface of the frigid water were far more disconcerting than the magnificent rocks we’d witnessed on land.

It was too much. The lake was too vast, too deep, too cold. There was too much under there I didn’t know; too much I couldn’t see. It felt big, way too big, and I felt small and vulnerable, my life vest cinched tight, paddle clenched in my two hands.

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Brad teaches his literature students about the sublime, a concept popular among 18th-century writers, artists and philosophers. In 1757 Edmund Burke wrote A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, defining the sublime as something that provokes ideas of pain, danger or terror, but at the same time also encompasses an element of pleasure or beauty. The sublime, Brad tells his students, is often associated with nature. The vast, indefinable qualities of nature often invoke feelings of both fear and awe – fear of the unknown, the unfathomable, awe of the powerful and untamable.

Brad sees God in the sublime. For the record, Brad sees God in sweet-singing birds and delicate blooms, too, but he often feels him more powerfully in the awesome aspects of nature. On an intellectual level, I get that. The sublime is the very reason the presence of God simultaneously evokes both fear and awe in so many Biblical stories. God is indefinable, vast, untamable, powerful, and those qualities are both fearful and awesome.

But I’ll be honest. Just as I don’t do well with the sublime out in the natural world, I don’t particularly enjoy the sublime aspects of God. The God of fear and awe scares me and intimidates me. I find myself trying to wrestle this sublime God into a manageable box, to define him and comprehend him in a rationale, intellectual way. I don’t feel comfortable with the sublime God; I prefer the still, small voice, thank you very much. I prefer the gentle caress to the wind and the fire.

Back on shore I sat on the sun-warmed rock with my knees pulled close to my chest. I drank in deep breaths of the cool, moist air and watched as Brad dragged the canoe out of the water and then, in one fluid motion, heaved it over his head and carried it up toward the cabin. I stared across the vast, still lake at the horizon, and felt grateful to be out of the canoe and off the lake.

As much as I resist it, I know it’s important that I recognize and acknowledge the more powerful, intimidating qualities of God, just like it’s important to recognize the powerful, intimidating qualities of nature. This power, this awesomeness, commands a healthy respect. After all, it’s these very qualities that differentiate me from God. These qualities remind me that I am not him, that his ways are not my ways and are beyond my understanding.

And if I’m honest with myself, even I can admit: I don’t want a God I can harness and control. I don’t want a God I can entirely figure out.

Linking with Kelli for Unforced Rhythms at Chronicles of Grace today.

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Faith Takes All Forms

December 16, 2013 By Michelle

I attend a fair number of Christian conferences every year, and I often feel a bit out of my element in that environment. Not only are my peers typically a little more conservative in their theology than I am, they are also much more demonstrative when it comes to worship. I find myself standing awkwardly with my arms at my side or crossed over my chest, while most everyone else around me raises their hands heavenward, eyes closed, swaying passionately to the music. More recently I’ve taken to sitting in the back, where I can be my stoic, uptight self without anyone noticing.

I used to feel badly about my lack of passion during worship. I worried it reflected a lack of faith. Why don’t I get all emotional over Jesus? I wondered. I worried that acting like such a stuffed shirt meant I didn’t love God enough.

I’ve since realized that there’s no one right way to worship and celebrate God. What counts isn’t how we demonstrate our love God, but that we love God with our whole heart, mind and soul.

Let’s look at some of the people featured in the verses we read in church yesterday. When the shepherds heard the news about the birth of the Savior, they actively rejoiced, hurrying to the village to crowd into the manger. After witnessing the baby Jesus, they left immediately and began to spread the word, eager to tell everyone they encountered about this Good News. The shepherds put their faith and worship into motion – traveling, visiting and then verbally glorifying and praising God everywhere they went, even as they returned to their flocks.

Now compare that demonstrative reaction to Mary’s response. While the shepherds and other visitors crowded around her and the baby, praising, rejoicing and exclaiming over the astonishing news, Mary sat quietly amid the bustle, contemplating the amazing turn of events:

“All who heard the shepherds’ story were astonished, but Mary kept all these things in her heart and thought about them often.” (Luke 2:18-19)

The New International translation of these verses reads that Mary “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.” She didn’t sing Halleluiah or exclaim Amen or even pray audibly, but that didn’t mean Mary didn’t rejoice over the birth of the Savior. She rejoiced differently than the shepherds; she quietly received the gift.

The very different ways Mary and the shepherds worshipped Jesus reminds me that praise and prayer come in many forms – boisterous and joyful, quiet and contemplative. There’s no right or wrong or even preferred way to worship. Faith takes all shapes and sizes. Faith takes all forms. God, I believe, desires that we be ourselves, the people he made us to be, and to love and worship him in our own unique, perfect way.

Questions for Reflection:
Have you ever participated in a worship service that was completely different from the kind you usually attend? Did it make you consider your faith or worship practices differently? Do you relate more to Mary or to the shepherds in these verses?

Welcome to the Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word each week. If you’re here for the first time, click here for more information.

Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code below) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in — thank you!

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Thank you — I am so grateful that you are here!

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday {Wednesday}: It’s Not Supposed to Be Easy

September 18, 2013 By Michelle

“Mommy,” Rowan asked, all wide eyes and furrowed brow, “If God asked you to kill me, would you do it?”

Rowan was about five, and we were reading his children’s Bible for the first time, the Bible I’d hoped would skirt around some of the more difficult, unsavory issues. As we finished the story of Abraham and Isaac, I realized that wasn’t going to be the case.

“Well,” I answered, “I’m pretty sure I don’t have the kind of trust Abraham had. So no, I wouldn’t. I would tell God ‘no.’” I reassured Rowan that God wouldn’t actually have let Abraham go through with it, but was merely testing Abraham’s faith.

I gave Rowan the answer he wanted to hear. But I also gave the answer I knew was true. The fact is, even in matters far less grave than the sacrifice of a child, I often don’t obey God’s will. I look for the easy way out instead.

I know I’m inclined to explain away or talk around some of the more challenging stories in the Bible, in order to make them less challenging, less disturbing.

I tell myself the story of Abraham and Isaac doesn’t apply to me. I needn’t worry about having to make a choice like that, because that was the Old Testament God. Now that we have Jesus, I reassure myself, God doesn’t ask us to make choices like that.

Even with some of the New Testament stories – like the parable of the rich young man, for example – I tell myself Jesus isn’t being literal, but is merely offering an example as a metaphorical illustration.

But I’m kidding myself. In re-writing and re-interpreting some of the tougher stories in the Bible, I am letting myself off the hook. I’m trying to skate by, to get off easy. I want to be a “good Christian,” sure, but I don’t actually want to suffer or sacrifice for it. I’ll take Christian-lite please, with as few repercussions on my personal comfort and happiness as possible.

But here’s the deal, here’s what the Gospels actually say, straight-up, if we don’t sugar-coat the message:

The Christian life isn’t supposed to be easy. And if it is, we are doing it wrong.

I know, I know, I don’t want to hear it either. But it’s true. God asks us to make sacrifices, big sacrifices, sacrifices that will have a lasting impact on our personal lives. And while those sacrifices certainly won’t require us to tie our kids to a stack of wood in the backyard, they will require trust, faith, challenge and even discomfort.

The road is not supposed to be easy. We can’t walk it half-way or even three-fourths and call it good. We can’t withhold even a little bit of ourselves. God doesn’t say, “Follow me when you’re ready,” or “Follow me when it’s convenient for you,” or “Follow me when it’s easy.”

God says, “Follow me.”

Questions for Reflection:
What are you withholding from God? Do you ever try to talk around the more challenging Bible stories in the hopes of giving yourself an out? What would obeying God’s command, “Follow me” look like for you right now?

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Welcome to the “Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday” community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word. If you’re here for the first time, click here for more information.

Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code below) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in — thank you!

Please also try to visit and leave some friendly encouragement in the comment box of at least one other Hear It, Use It participant. And if you want to tweet about the community, please use the #HearItUseIt hashtag.

Thank you — I am so grateful that you are here!

It Begins with the Leap

May 1, 2013 By Michelle

I watch him for a while as he swings across the pool from one dangling ring to the next. He makes it look so easy, so effortless, soaring over the water like a gymnast. “I’m going to try that,” I announce to my husband, heaving myself out of the water. “I’m going to try those ring things.”

“Really? I think it’s a lot harder than it looks,” Brad says.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to try it anyway,” I say, striding toward the line.

No matter that I have arms like silly string. No matter that I can muster a total of six man-style push-ups. I will master the rings. I will soar from ring to ring across the pool like Jane of the Jungle.

I get in line, shivering behind six beefy-armed men. The fact that there are no other women in the line gives me slight pause. The one man I’d watched earlier continues to glide over the water each time his turn comes, grabbing and releasing the rings in a graceful rhythm. I keep my eye on him, studying his technique, watching his timing.

When it’s finally my turn, I wipe my hands on my bare legs and grab the ring with my right hand. And then I take a giant step back and leap off the edge of the concrete.

I don’t even make it to the second ring. Instead, I swing forward, paw at the air with my left hand, miss the second ring entirely and then swing back again. I neglect to let go of the ring in time. My body hits the concrete wall, and I slide like a dead fish into the cold water.

I come up sputtering, a crowd of onlookers peering over the side of the pool, calling down, “Are you okay?” One guy simply says, “Whoa.”

Noah still talks about “the time Mommy hit the pool wall and fell into the water with everyone watching.” I shudder when I think what I must have looked like, flailing gawkily in my tankini, my body smacking the wall like a side of beef on a hook.

Still, I don’t regret trying the Tarzan rings. Despite my damaged ego, I’m glad I gave it my best shot.

I’ve leaped a lot in my life, especially in recent years. I leaped into moving to Nebraska (okay, maybe we call that one “was dragged against her will”). I leaped into faith. I leaped into writing. Most recently I’ve leaped into public speaking. At some point in the midst of all these leaps, I’ve smacked into a wall – a wall of disappointments, doubts, failures, frustrations and fear.

Leaping is scary. Yet I also believe that despite the risks and the fear, it’s necessary. Because if you don’t ever leap, you won’t ever know what could have been. And what could have been might have made all the difference.

For me, leaping has made the difference between unbelief and faith. It’s made the difference between living passively and living passionately. It’s made the difference between existing comfortably in the box and thriving in the wild open.

It’s true, sometimes when you leap you fall; sometimes you smack hard into a wall and get the wind knocked clean out of you. But sometimes you soar. You may not realize it in the moment, but in leaping you are soaring into the start of something new, something beautiful and life-changing and good.

It all begins with the leap.

Tell me, what leap has made the biggest difference in your life?

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This story ran last Saturday in the Lincoln Journal Star.

{and I know I’ve used this picture of Rowan leaping into a Minnesota lake a bunch of times on this blog, but I can’t help myself – it’s such a great picture, and that kid is absolutely fearless!}

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