I See Beauty

About two months ago, I bought a “new” car. A white 2002 Volkswagen Jetta I named Rosalind. She was beautiful. Her heated leather seats kept me warm on cold mornings, her CD player kept me company on long drives, and her sunroof made the evening commute just a bit more enjoyable. I worked hard to take good care of her, making sure she got a bath every few weeks, checking her oil before road trips, vacuuming sand off her seats after a weekend at the beach. It was love.

Then, a few weeks ago, it all came to a sudden end. At the risk of making myself sound like a bad driver, I’ll spare you the details and just say that Rosalind was attacked (almost literally) by a median and totaled. I was heartbroken.

A few days after the accident, while I was still dealing with frustration and, I’ll admit it, a bit of anger, I remembered the words that Job speaks immediately after learning that everything he owns — his livestock, his house, and his children — are gone. The New Living Translation phrases his reply this way: “The Lord gave me what I had, and the Lord has taken it away. Praise the name of the Lord.”

Every time I read this, I’m blown away by Job’s response. And as I thought about these words after losing my car, they actually brought me comfort. You see, Job’s not pointing the finger at God here. Rather, he’s recognizing God’s divine sovereignty. And he’s acknowledging that everything he owned came from the hand of God. Even with his world shattered, he chose to trust — and worship — God.

And by God’s grace, that’s what I’m doing too. You see, when life doesn’t go our way, we have the same choices Job did. We can blame God and decide that he’s out to get us or that he doesn’t care about our circumstances. Or, we can acknowledge that he is sovereign in all things and trust in his goodness

I’m comforted by joining Job in saying, “The Lord gave me what I had, and the Lord has taken it away,” because this declaration takes the power away from my possessions. It affirms that my trust is completely in God, whose goodness has proven unfailing — even in the midst of this situation.

 God protected me and my passenger, he’s supplied the means for me to replace Rosalind, and he’s provided me with generous friends who are kind enough to lend me a vehicle while I car shop.

Rosalind wasn’t going to last forever. Accident or not, she was only temporary. And while I’m still bummed that she’s gone, I’m thankful that God used this situation to remind me that nothing I have is permanent. Living in this reality is actually freeing. It’s liberating, because it means that this situation doesn’t have the power to make or break me, and it reminds me that I live for something greater than temporal possessions — I live for a God whose goodness never fails.

Neoteny

Derived from the Greek word neos, meaning new, fresh or youthful. Neoteny is the retention of youthful qualities by adults.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about joy. And what I’ve started to notice is that mine has gone missing. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but somewhere between the social stresses of high school, the emotional strain of college, and the physical challenges I’ve faced in recent years, the joy I once had simply dried up.

And I did have joy. It’s fresh enough in my mind that I can still get high off the memory — if only for an instant. As a child, my nickname was Joyful Jessie — and not just because it formed a nice alliteration. God had gifted me with genuine joy. But somewhere along the journey of life, I let the enemy steal it away.

There are a lot of things I miss about being a kid, but I think that genuine joy is one of the things I miss the most. And there’s a reason for that. We weren’t made to give up our joy. God designed joy to get us through the rough times. But all too often when the rough times come, the first thing we do is abandon our joy. And it’s a shame. It’s a shame because God has so much more for us.

You see, there’s something about a lack of joy that keeps us from telling great stories with our lives. In his book, In a Pit With a Lion on a Snow Day, Mark Batterson talks about this idea of neoteny, which he says, “isn’t just a nice concept about people who age well or lead well. [It] is at the very heart of what the kingdom of God is all about.”

This retention of youthful qualities is critical to our walk with Christ because kids look at things differently. They don’t let the can’ts and shouldn’ts get in the way of their dreams. And they don’t let life’s struggles steal their joy. Sure, they might experience unhappiness, but they have this optimism — this underlying hope that the world is truly beautiful. They may not express it in those words, but that’s their general approach to life.

No wonder Jesus told us to come to him as children. He knew this was the only way we’d be able to fully live in the joy he has to offer. He didn’t mean for us to be immature or overly optimistic, but he wasn’t suggesting that we be cynical either. Cynicism kills joy. It often feels practical and realistic, but it’s actually not the most effective — or enjoyable — way to go through life.

Resistance, community, and acting 3 years old

Couple of weeks ago, I was babysitting a 3 year old, and when I told him it was time for bed, he responded in typical 3-year-old fashion, informing me that he wasn’t tired. I told him we were going to get ready for bed anyway, and it wasn’t long before he was protesting through tears, “I’m not tired. I’m not tired.”

As I took him upstairs, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself — not because I get some sort of sick enjoyment out of making crying children go to bed, but rather because I found it amusing that the amount of emotion he displayed actually revealed the opposite of what he wanted me to believe. Those freefalling tears told me just how tired he really was.

And then I realized that this is a lot like life: the things we desperately need are often those we resist most strongly.

I’ve spent a great many years convincing myself that I’m okay without deep relationships — that I don’t need to bother with the difficult, terrifying act of seeking community. After all, I am an introvert by nature. And I’m quite independent. Why would I need anyone else?

 I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been the metaphorical three-year-old, curled up on the couch in the comfort of my own home, adamantly insisting that I don’t need to let anyone into to my life, all the while knowing that deep down, that’s exactly what I want.

As humans, we’re hard-wired for community. There something in us that craves to be known. The longer we resist this, the more singular and out of touch we’ll become. Trust me, I know. But by the grace of God, I found the courage to get off the couch and seek relationships. And slowly, I’m learning what it means to live in community.

And it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful because community means being in relationship with people who aren’t like us — people we may not always agree with or understand. We can only teach ourselves so much, and the things we can learn from people just like us and greatly limited. We need to be around people who look at life from a different angle. That’s one reason for community. And it’s one of the reasons I’m grateful for the people God’s placed in my life — many of them people I would never have guessed I’d become friends with.  

I love how sometimes God gives us little unexpected gifts -- things we don't necessarily need but that He knows we'll enjoy.

The beautiful is as useful as the useful . . . More so, perhaps.

—Monseigneur Bienvenu, Les Miserables

When was the last time you looked at a vibrantly colored spring flower, the snow just covering the peak of a mountain, or the pattern made by clouds in the sky and simply asked “why?” Why so much detail, so much variety? It’s breathtaking, but if you think about it on a strictly pragmatic level, it’s also unnecessary. Wouldn’t the world turn at exactly the same speed if all the flowers were an identical shade of orange?  

Why is the quintessential question every creator must wrestle with before he or she can make truly good art. Why write poetry? Why paint murals? Why craft elaborate sculptures? In a world full of injustice and evil, wouldn’t our time be better spent feeding the hungry? Bandaging the wounded? Standing up to tyrannical governments?

There’s certainly a case to be made for this, and it might be valid if stomachs were the only things that needed to be fed, if the only wounds that needed ointment were those of the flesh, and if tyrannical dictators were the sole forces of evil. But it’s precisely because we live in a world full of injustice and evil that we need art. There’s something in our souls that cries for beauty. God knew this. That’s why he created our world with variety — with the hand of an artist worried about craftsmanship and beauty, not just functionality. And the part in each of us that longs to create is indeed evidence that we are created in God’s image.   

I don’t know about you, but it’s not often I see a movie twice while it’s in the theater and then rush out and buy it the week it’s released on DVD. But that’s exactly what I did with "The King’s Speech." And when I watched it again this last week, I enjoyed it just as much as the first few times. Simply put, it’s brilliant. It’s well-written, it’s well-directed, and the acting is spectacular.

After watching it again, I started thinking about what it is that makes the story — not just the movie, but the story itself — so good. After all, the best actors, writers, and producers are only as good as the stories they have to work with.

My favorite writer, Donald Miller, always says that a story is about a character who wants something and overcomes conflict to get it. For a story to be good, these elements must be clear — and I don’t think they’re hard to find in "The King’s Speech." The Duke of York wants to speak publicly without stammering, and he overcomes a host of challenges — including an unforeseen “promotion” to king — before conquering not only his stammer, but more importantly, his self-doubt.

And as I thought about this story “formula” and how it plays out in "The King’s Speech," there was one word I couldn’t get out of my mind: courage.

There’s a lot I love about his movie, but I think one of the things that makes it so great is that you have a vastly underestimated guy standing up to a whole slew of things he doesn’t want to face. He doesn’t want to face the public. He doesn’t want to face his stammer. He doesn’t want to become king. And he most certainly doesn’t want to speak for the nation in a time of war. But these are the issues in his path. And instead of running away, he stands up and he deals with them head on.

That takes courage. Loads of it.

Bertie (as the therapist, Lionel, fondly calls the Duke) would have loved to hide. In fact, he tells Lionel that were he not of royal blood, he would not be seeking help — he and his stammer would be confined to the privacy of his own home. But Bertie had a greater calling on his life. And to fulfill that calling, he had to face his fears.

There’s something intensely beautiful about finding the courage to face the things that haunt us — the things we’d like to change about ourselves, the circumstances we wish were different, or the people we’d rather just ignore. And I think what makes this so beautiful is that it means we’re doing something bigger than ourselves. We’re doing something that defies the odds. Something that people don’t think we can do — something that we might not think we can do. That’s what courage is all about.  

What is it that you don’t want to face? What is it that you’re afraid of — that you think you can’t do? And, more importantly, what greater calling might you be missing out on if you don’t face those fears?

So forgive my cynicism, but I'm often skeptical of mainstream contemporary Christian songs because I feel like many of them just repeat Christian cliches without saying anything new. But when I stumbled across this song last week, it almost made me cry (and if you know me, I don't cry) because it said something so real--something that I don't think is said enough. And it's something God's been teaching me over the past few months.

Today, I’m thankful for health. But I’m also particularly thankful for the days when my health isn’t exactly up to par. I’ve had several of those lately, and they’ve been teaching me something about faith.

You see, after two months of dealing with ongoing acid reflux, I was forced to question my faith in God’s healing. And what I discovered was that, while I fully believe God can and does heal people, I often struggle to believe that he will heal me.

I was praying about this on the drive to work last week, and it got me thinking about this story in the New Testament where a Roman Centurion asks Jesus to heal his servant who is near death. The centurion sends a message to Jesus, telling Him that He doesn’t even have to come to his house: “Just say the word, and my servant will be healed.” That’s when the Bible tells us that Jesus was actually amazed at this guy’s faith.

“I want that kind of faith,” I told God. “But I know that’s not where I’m at.” And that’s when God did something awesome. Just a day later, a coworker brought up this same story in devotions at work. And he posed the same question I’d been pondering for the past 24 hours: “What do we do when we don’t have faith?”  

In answer, he read one of my favorite stories from the New Testament. There’s a father who comes to Jesus seeking healing for his demon-possessed son. When asked if he believes Jesus has the power to heal his son, the man tells Jesus, “I do believe. Help me overcome my unbelief.” I’ve always loved this story, because I think it’s beautiful that we can be this open with God. We can tell him, “I want to believe, but I’m having a hard time. I want to have faith, but I need you to increase it.”

So I prayed that. And then that night while I spent time with my church community, God reminded me of something else that’s beautiful about faith. It doesn’t have to be complicated. The 9-year-old girl sitting next to me on the couch offered up a heart-felt prayer — just telling God what was on her heart, trusting that in His goodness he would hear — and as I listened to her, it was as if God said, “it’s that simple.”

I complicate things. I rationalize. I tell myself why I don’t deserve healing, or I look to medicine and science. And God knew I would do this. He knew we would do this. That’s why he told us to come to him as children.  

Breakfast

“For eating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably.”

So I’ve been into pears lately — eating one almost every day. And a few days ago, I had one that was at the perfect stage in the ripening process. The flavor was amazing. The texture was perfect. It was one of those pears where the juice drips down your chin, but it tastes so good that you don’t even care. And that’s when I realized something about flavor — something that’s also true about color and beauty and art. And it’s this: none of it is actually new.

The thing about this pear was not only that it was so good, but also that it reminded me of my favorite Jelly Belly flavor as a kid. And I thought how amazing it was that they captured the flavor of a pear so accurately. And that’s when it hit me that nothing we do — nothing we make — is new. The Jelly Belly flavor I loved as a child wouldn’t have been created if the flavor of an actual pear hadn’t preceded it.

Like I said, we like to think we’ve created new things. A chef can come up with a “new” flavor and an artist with a “new” color, but find a well-trained pallet and a sharp eye and you’ll be able to pick out the spices that went into the dish and the colors that were mixed for the painting.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to taste a completely new flavor — one that had no hints of any other taste here on earth? Or to see a color that was nothing like the ones that fill our landscape every day? Really, it’s beyond our imagination. God has given humans loads of creativity, but we’re still limited. We’re limited to the colors, the flavors, and the tools that God has given us.

Under the sea | Photos from the Seattle Aquarium.

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And Heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

Couple of months ago, while driving home from work, I heard a song that asks “have you ever thrown a fistful of glitter in the air?*” In addition to a look of puzzled amusement directed at the singer on the other side of the radio, my immediate response was, “Can’t say as I ever have. But now that you mention it, I kind of want to.” And literally, there was part of me that wanted to go home and throw a handful of glitter into the air just so I could watch it fall and then study the shapes and patterns it made on the ground and say, “I did that.”

I know this makes me sound like I’m in preschool, but I don’t really care. While I couldn’t tell you the lyrics to the rest of the song, the image of glitter is stuck in my mind. I can’t stop picturing how beautiful and freeing it would be to throw a fistful of glitter in the air. And I think that’s because it’s such a departure from my disciplined, scheduled, orderly self. 

As I thought more about it, I realized that as a creator, this is exactly the kind of license I must give myself. To create, one must have both discipline and freedom. Sometimes you need to throw the glitter up in the air and watch it fall — you need to give yourself permission to make a mess and see what comes from it. And then you need the discipline to rein it in and make it something worth sharing.

 I liked thinking about glitter as confetti and what might come if we unleash our creativity, because the thing about glitter is, you never know exactly how it’s going to land.

I’m off to the craft store. Here’s to watching the glitter fall.

Endure

To hold out against; to bear without resistance or with patience; to last.

Considering what we celebrate today, it seems ironic that we call it Good Friday. But really, what we remember today is one of the most beautiful events in history. Lets embrace the darkness but not forget why this Friday is truly good.

Why Passover matters today

On Tuesday, my church family celebrated Passover with a Messianic Seder meal. If you’ve never had an opportunity to take part in a Seder meal, it’s an extremely ritualistic but very meaningful experience. As a Christian, I’ve always been fascinated by Jewish culture and celebration because I believe this is our heritage. Though Jesus overcame the law and extended his promise to Gentiles, Jewish tradition is still the history of our faith, and there’s still much we can learn from it.

As I sat through the Seder meal last night—something I’d only done once before—I found myself realizing that we can’t fully appreciate the Last Supper or understand what Jesus was saying until we first understand Passover.

The traditional Jewish celebration involved four cups—each representing something different, each with a different name. At various points during the ceremony a drink would taken from every cup. Every cup that is, except the third. This cup represented the coming Messiah for whom the Jews were in waiting. During Jewish Passover, the cup would remain untouched.

But when Jesus celebrated Passover with His disciples, this is the cup he picked up when He said “This I my blood shed for you.” This is the cup he told his disciples to drink from. Similarly, the bread he broke was a piece that was ceremonially set aside to represent the Messiah the Jews could not yet see. Jesus picked up both of these symbols, and said, “This is me. My body. My blood.” With those words, Jesus was declaring himself to be the Messiah they’d been anticipating every Passover up to that point.