Water Pots and Hidden Wells

John 4:10 “Jesus answered and said unto her, If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that says to you, Give me to drink; you would have asked of him, and he would have given you living water.”

Jesus shows up sometimes looking like an Israeli Jew and at others like the Samaritan.  If we get stuck at the outward appearance we can miss the gift of God standing right in front of us.  If we get distracted by what he’s asking of us, we can miss the wealth of what he came to give.

We are the Samaritan woman standing before Jesus, who is disguised as the black and brown child asking for water.  We claim historical ownership of the well.  We stand with pride in our knowledge of the local customs and possession of the water pots.  And Jesus stands before us, hands empty, yet full of the living water we need to bring new life.

We may feel uncomfortable in His gaze, exposed by His questions.  But if we will ourselves to stay in the conversation and adjust our posture from give to receive, our eyes may be opened to see the Christ.  What’s more, we can become partners with the Spirit, inviting and helping others to see Him as well.

But others stand in trembling anger, through clenched teeth sputtering, "This is my water from my well on my mountain and you can’t have it!” And they hate the Jew because he reminds them of the sins of their past, all the rejection, all the shame and all the hurt.  They curse him because, despite their best attempts at avoidance, he is here seeing their frailty and weakness, seemingly shouting out their failures.  They do not trust his gentle voice or his offer of forgiveness.  They do not believe his invitation to contentment and new life.  So they snatch their pots and they storm away with backward glances through bitter tears.  And they reject the Lord of glory, standing in the guise of a pauper child.  For after all, what could he possibly have to offer them?

Prayer:

Help me not to miss you today when you’re standing in front of me in unlikely vessels.  Help me not to reject you because of my pride and fear.  Help me rather to be open to receive from you, both grace and correction and to demonstrate my gratitude by inviting others to come to you, my source of living water.

Decisions, Decisions

It was the second day of the new year and my devotional led me back to Genesis, back to the beginning where the man and his wife were in the garden with God, naked and unashamed.  I love finding new insights in old familiar passages and once again the text does not disappoint.  It is the dialogue between the woman and the serpent, the familiar exchange we have heard time and again. 

The conversation begins innocently enough with a question, “Did God really say…”  The serpent, described as more cunning than any of the wild animals that God made, places his suggestion in question form and it is enough.  Enough to lead the woman to rehearse and then eventually reexamine what, until now she had simply accepted as true.  Sensing the open door, the serpent moves her forward, quickly turning the question into the lie.  Can’t you see him roll his eyes, shake his head and exaggerate a chuckle as he hisses, “You certainly will not die: for God knows that in the day when you eat, then your eyes will be opened and you will be like God, knowing good…and evil.”

The first sin was not the act of disobedience but rather the decision to disobey.  The point of decision is always where rebellion first occurs.  It is here that we question God’s law and His right to require it of us.  We scrutinize His motives which attacks His nature or at the very least calls it into question.  We challenge His omniscience and resist His sovereignty for it takes all of this to choose to disobey.

The questions arise when Satan presents an opposing position or outcome to what God has said.  “You shall not surely die.” 

It is then that we begin to reason within ourselves, “Well, after all the tree does have fruit on it.  What other purpose does it have if not for food?!  And it looks so good.  And it will be good for me, making me wise.  What harm can eating one piece do?  Just…one…bite…”

But immediately, there is shame and guilt and fear and our attempt to hide ourselves from God.  However, here is the beautiful irony.  God does not move away from us.  We – like Adam, Eve, Cain and the countless men and women who came after – move away from Him.  The presence of the one true and living God comes for us, calling us by name, and we hide amongst the trees of our busyness in fear and disbelief.  God is always pursuing us.

As we step timidly across the threshold of a new year, we may be tempted to quickly construct our own fig leaf resolutions in a feeble attempt to cover the mistakes of 2014.  But in fasting and prayer, in solitude and stillness, I am reminded that the sacrifice for our sin has already been met in Christ.  There is now no condemnation, no need to cover ourselves and hide.  No, rather, we can come boldly before Him, like little children, naked and unashamed once again.

Walking Toward Ferguson

It was still dark when I dropped him off outside the Delta entrance of the Portland airport early Wednesday morning.  In the past several years of our married life airport runs have become routine – a quick stop, a light kiss and a promise of a later call from the next destination.  And usually on the ride home I’m moving ahead, thinking about my upcoming errands or the ever running to-do list in my head.  But this day was different.

As much as we tried to treat it the same, everything was different on this morning.  This morning my glasses fogged as I tried in vain to fight back the tears that were threatening.  This morning my heart ached with the weight of it all.  This morning I could hear my breath in the dark, silence of the car, short and rapid with the fear I was trying to push down. 

I hated the reason for this trip, the need of it.  In my mind were the images of the previous night’s news, the words of the obviously frightened reporter, looking over her shoulder anxiously throughout. The angry faces of the crowd, the threatening police decked out in their military garb, the frantic press shuffling from place to place, on the hunt for the story. I wanted to say no, don’t go.  It’s not safe.  But instead I kissed him good-bye and drove away because in spite of the possible danger, there was the need.  There were the cries from the street.  There was the threat of the overwhelming darkness. And there was the call.

“¹⁴ For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility…. His purpose was to create in himself one new humanity out of the two, thus making peace, ¹⁶ and in one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. ¹⁷ He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. ¹⁸ For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit.” Eph. 2:14-18

Just over a year ago I sat on the edge of my bed in Atlanta, hot tears streaming down my face.  The Zimmerman verdict had just been announced and my children and I, including my black boys, my young adult sons, had watched it together, the shock and horror of it rendering us all speechless.  A short while after I retreated to my bedroom, wrestling with the awful truth that was becoming all too clear.  In my country, my children – all born and raised on American soil, educated in American schools where they saluted American flags, working at honest jobs where they paid American taxes, registered and voted in their county assigned American polling places – had been declared to be of less value than the children of the dominant culture or perhaps of no value at all.  Our laws would not protect them.  Our government would not protect them.  We were, it appeared, on our own.

Still, the Martin family was gracious.  There was no violence in the street, just a collective sigh and ache in the soul of our communities.  We wiped our tears, swallowed our sorrow and kept moving.  But though many of our non-black, Christian brothers and sisters sat in heart-breaking silence, our loving God took note.

Unfortunately, forgiveness and grace did not bring repentance for the bodies of our children have continued to fall at the border, on the reservation and in the streets of urban neighborhoods.  The powers that be were ordained by God for good for us but instead many have chosen rather to destroy.  This cannot continue for the black and brown child has also been brought near and reconciled by the cross.  We too have drunk from the well of living water and been invited to abundant life.  Any people and any government in any town anywhere that denies that is an unjust people, government and town at odds with the King and His kingdom and we, who have been called out and sent as ambassadors of that kingdom must respond.  It is for this reason that we have been reborn.

So, despite the pit in my stomach and my shallow breath, I left my love at that airport in the predawn hours, headed to join the gathering saints in Ferguson and the powerful stance of a peaceful resistance, and drove back down the interstate towards home.  Because the kingdom of heaven is suffering violence.  Because I have sons and daughters in this America.  Because of the call.

Stepping Off the Treadmill

Sixteen months ago shots rang out at our neighborhood middle school.  Police were called.  Helicopters flew overhead. Reporters swarmed the streets.  That was Atlanta, the southeastern United States.  And we watched as poor children, predominantly black and brown, stood shaking and crying in the arms of terrified parents.  Anger and terror and shock rolled through the streets of our community like a wave.

Today, two thousand, six hundred and forty miles away in the "great northwest", shots are fired again.  This time at a local high school just 9 miles from our home in Portland, Oregon.  Police were called. Reporters swarm. Predominantly middle-class, white parents stand shaking, crying, waiting in the streets for their children to be released to them.  The local newspaper reports that this is the 74th school shooting on an American school campus since Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, December 2012.  Seventy-four.

I watched the story unfolding this morning across half the flat screens hanging from the ceiling of my local gym - bold headlines across the top of the screens, real time information scrolling along the bottom, images of crying parents, grim-faced officers and dozens of police cars with lights still flashing looping again and again in the middle.  From the gym sound system, in ironic and almost mocking contrast, blared Pharrell's popular pop hit, "Happy."

I stepped off the treadmill, fighting back the tears that were threatening and the ache in my heart.  "I guess we're not so happy after all," I thought as I headed for the locker room.  And all the dancing, "room without a roof" music in the world wasn't changing that.  I sighed as I closed the locker and headed back through the gym to the parking lot.  I started my car and the story continued to follow me, spilling from the car radio.  I groaned as they continually referred to "the shooter" and "the students" as though the student with the gun had not been child as well.

They are all crying out to us, whether from poverty or privilege, hoping that we will hear them over the drone of our own voices and respond.  While hiding underneath cheap department store make-up and expensive Beats headphones, they want to be seen.  And though working overtime to appear aloof, cool, brooding or indifferent, like us, they want to be considered and understood.  Because at the end of it all, "the shooter" and the "student victims" are often one and the same.

They were all kids - tired, frightened, angry, lonely...armed children.  And all our liberal freedom and conservative rights, our i-technology and PC windows, no-whip lattes and cleansing juices, electric cars, legal weed, organic food, 401K's, IRAs, NRAs, cul-de-sacs and condos, Prozac and Zoloft, gun loving, Obama hating, smart phones, smart houses, smart cars or dummy books haven't been able to help them. We have to help our children.  We have to save our marriages. We have to fight for our families and our neighbors.  We have to rescue our faith from our politics and our friendships from social media.  We have to reconcile our communities and we have to do it today.

74 schools... and counting.