I watch the widow place two tiny coins in the offering plate. Her neighbors’ noses are in the air as they let their handfuls of change drop in, noisily burying her pathetic gift. She is nothing, her gift nothing—1%, maybe, of an acceptable offering. What is that to their fine gifts, their fine selves?
Another woman breaks a vial of expensive perfume and pours it on Jesus’ head. The noses are in the air again: how could she be so wasteful? (Too much might be worse than too little for these impossible-to-please critics.)
But Jesus’ math is different. After the offering plate has finished making its rounds, he gathers his disciples and says to them, “Did you see that widow? Everyone else just gave change. She gave 100% of what she had.”
And to those hassling the woman who poured out the perfume, Jesus responds, “Back off. She has done a beautiful thing.” Her gift, too—her love, her self, her reputation—was exactly right.
“Let grace be grace,” I sensed Jesus inviting me at the start of Lent. One piece of that seems to be, “Let me teach you how to see.” It’s impossible to see grace when we don’t know how to look.
Recently I happened across a health and productivity scale which ranked me from 0 (bedridden) to 100 (working full time without symptoms) and discovered that despite continued slow improvement over nine years, I’m still somewhere below 50. Until I saw the score, I’d been (most of the time) content. But all of a sudden, though I knew in my head the score wasn’t about failure, . . . let’s just say I’m not use to seeing 30 or 40% on anything related to me.
I’d thought I’d moved past it until I sat with the friend who helps me listen and found myself talking about it—with tears. Eventually she asked, “I wonder how Jesus sees the 30%?” Instantly I knew. “He doesn’t see me as 30%. He has all of me. 100% . . . There are places I hold back, but even those are his to work with as he wishes.”
Immediately I felt whole again, no longer 30% of a person. Only later did I realize that maybe the 50 or 60 or 70% that the world doesn’t see and thus declares missing are Jesus’ favorite bits (if he has favorite parts of me). Those limits, those places that keep me working limited hours from home and needing daily naps, the places that the world doesn’t score as valuable, are the places that are specially his, specially ours, pushing me deeper into trust and into receiving his love and giving mine back. Those are the places that keep us most deeply connected.
“Grant us the courage to delight in the life that is ours,” I’ve been praying again and again, the line from the SoulStream noon prayer becoming a refrain that echoes into the corners of my life. For me that prayer means first of all, “Grant me the courage to look at Your face, not the faces of the world around me, when I need to be reminded who I am.”
Now that I’ve been reminded how Jesus sees me, I’m free to be content once again, even while I continue to do all I can to be as healthy as I can be. Jesus meets me here, here in this particular life. Here we work together to bless others in ways that only he and I together can, and here we rest and enjoy each other. Remembering that, once again I can truly say I love this life that he has chosen to live with me.
I recently had to clear up a misunderstanding with someone, and it was hard. I discovered all over again that I have a very strong good-girl in me who has a big fear of even getting close to the edge of rules. That makes me a great law-abiding citizen, but it is a problem when many of my unspoken rules can be summed up by this one: Good girls don’t rock the boat. Which means they don’t get angry. They don’t bother anyone. They care only about others, so they don’t ask for what they need, and definitely not for anything extra. And if someone unknowingly hurts them, they certainly don’t let that person know.
This good girl broke all those rules in one conversation—and when she felt the fear, she realized why she doesn’t break those rules very often.
BUT, even if it was a bit messy, that conversation opened up the possibility for that relationship to continue and flourish, as sisters now, equal adults both free to love and grow.
AND, it opened up the possibility for me to know more of the true God rather than the god I’ve made in my own image—an insecure god who cares more about nit-picky rules than he does about love . . . or about me.
It’s intriguing how these outgrown (but not entirely gone) beliefs about God surface from time to time. Whenever they do, it’s a gift, because there’s new freedom just around the corner.
Seeing the false belief about God is a big step toward healing, but it isn’t an automatic cure, so I’ve been hanging around with the Real God, enfleshed in Jesus, watching as he interacts with a woman making the transition from “good girl” to “equal (and loved) adult.”
She has been sick for twelve years, and has done everything she could think to try to fix herself. She has spent all her money, been to all the doctors, followed all the rules. Nothing has worked.
Her bleeding—the very thing that makes her so desperate for Jesus’ help—is a barrier to receiving that help. As a bleeding woman, if she touches a man, she will, according to ritual laws, contaminate him.
But she’s desperate. And too ashamed to ask for what she needs. So she takes a deep breath and breaks the rules and touches the clothes of this rabbi.
And Jesus stops. Something about this is important enough to interrupt his life-and-death errand to heal a little girl who is dying.
He looks around and asks, “Who touched me?”
The woman’s heart is pounding and she wishes she could melt into the stony street.
Jesus is still waiting, looking for the perpetrator.
She falls at his feet and, in front of everyone, confesses her desperation and her rule-breaking and the knowledge that she has been healed.
And Jesus? He calls her “daughter.” It’s the only recorded time he does this, and he does it not in a moment when she keeps the rules perfectly, but in the moment she breaks the rules and reaches out to ask (through her actions, because she can’t find her voice) for what she needs.
He calls her daughter in the moment she throws aside the rules and all her own efforts to make herself acceptable and stakes everything on grace.
He names her as family, tying her to himself, in the moment when she risks it all and feels most vulnerable and afraid of rejection.
In her longing for healing, she breaks the rules, and, instead of condemning, Jesus commends her for her faith—because she has trusted him, trusted his character, enough to step through the rules that blocked her access to him.
The rules that were intended to keep God’s people close to him had become a means of keeping her away. And in helping her find her voice, in freeing her not only from her body’s bleeding but also from the bleeding of her heart, in declaring, through naming her daughter, that she is accepted and loved, that she matters and she belongs, Jesus puts rules in their proper place again: it’s the heart of God behind the rules that is central—the heart of love that always wants us close.
They call it paradise and, aside from the daddy long legs stalking me in the shower, it pretty much is. A soft blue and yellow bedroom with hydrangea blossoms on the dresser and a recliner in the corner, lounge chairs by the waterfall in the back garden, kayaks to paddle among the islands. These are all part of it, but they’re not the heart of the paradise.
It’s the freedom to be my proper size that brings the peace and lets me rest.
There’s a lack of urgency that resides here. A comfort with being human. . . with beauty and mess and hunger and joy, fatigue and tears and laughter. Dirty dishes and fruitflies are part of life, taken care of in their time, but coexisting quite happily for a while with sweet nectarines and gouda sandwiches and fresh blackberries capped with ginger yoghurt cream. On the days that I can, she’s happy for me to wipe the crumbs off her counter. When illness takes hold, she knows how to make a bed in the warm air where I can listen to the bees and watch the sun set the maple keys aflame. She has done it for others. I am human and small and it’s okay. Life is not an emergency and I can lay down control.
Living in the real world
I am sad to leave this place, to start back to my busier life. I fear being pressed and pulled by the world ungently, urgently, forcing me to the center where I do not belong, driving me (by dint of my exaggerated self-importance) to shoulder burdens I was not meant to carry. Urgency takes my eyes off the One who has it all under control, making me think that I need to control it. It tricks me into thinking that the world of the urgent is the real world and rest a brief and tantalizing illusion.
But Jesus speaks:
“Come to me, all you weary and burdened ones, and I will rest you. . . “
It’s a permanent offer, and one without condemnation. No fear of our humanness. Just invitation. “Come. I will rest you.” These days apart I have tasted the real world, the world of welcome and invitation and the love that invites rest. The urgent is the illusion.
His rest can happen in the chaos, miles from recliners and kayaks; His rest comes with staying our proper size, and that can happen anywhere.
“. . . Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke fits perfectly, and the burden I give you is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)
He is humble – having a true view of reality – and when we step out of our do-it-yourself yoke, out of the world’s expectations, and into his yoke with him, we begin to see rightly too, regaining our proper size. He is gentle, and, walking with him, we learn to live gently, not urgently.
Living gently: it’s a lot about listening and responding. A child gently handling an animal senses its timidity, its fragility, and responds with respect and care. A gentle mother hears the heart cries beneath the angry words and responds to her child in healing love. A gentle life is not driven by the urgent but makes space to listen to the heartbeat of God and others and self, and act in tender response.
This is how Jesus rests us: He helps us live our proper size. Small and fragile and (rightly) dependent, and cherished and made great in his love (. . . but more on that soon.) Rejoice with me, will you, at this invitation to put down the burden intended for greater shoulders and rest in His love?
Shout for joy to the Lord all the earth. . . .
It is he who made us and we are his,
We are his people and the sheep of his pasture. (Psalm 100)
A repost from the archives, part of a summer series leaning into God’s repeated command to remember.
“Grrr. This morning routine takes forever!”
I’m settling back into a new term, trying once more to find a rhythm that lets me prioritize the things to which I’m called. And I’m coming face to face again with just how long it takes me to get from waking to working. There’s the lying in bed with my Bible waiting for medication to kick in before setting feet on the floor. Then the salt drink to fill up my blood vessels and keep my blood pressure up. The trip to the gym or the run on the seawall—skip this and the light-headedness quickly puts me back in bed. Stretching, and, lately, doing the exercises for a shoulder that’s not behaving. Shower. Breakfast. Drying my hair. And finally, three hours later, I’m settling at my desk with my blue pottery mug of lemon-ginger tea and my laptop.
Often I enjoy the routine—the stretching of stiff muscles, the morning fog lifting from the water, the moments for my heart to rest while my body awakens—but that morning I was frustrated. I’d risen early, eager to make some progress on my book, and still it seemed that the morning was half-gone before I was getting down to it.
And then I remembered. The question. The one I’ve been asked so many times. “I wonder what Jesus might think about this?” I pray again the prayer that my spiritual director prayed the last time we met: “Jesus, help us to see what you see.”
I feel like I’ve been floundering around in the fog and fuzz, unable to find my glasses, and someone has just handed them to me.
I see that my morning routine has a lot to do with faithfulness—that word that I’m borrowing from Holley Gerth as my focus word for this year. I love the way she describes faithfulness: “Doing what is needed to take good care of what is entrusted to you.” My body, my soul, my ministry—that morning routine is foundational to all of these, a way to bring my whole self before God and pray with body and soul.
A memory pushes its way to the surface, a conversation I had with God four or five years ago as I was dragging myself the few blocks to the gym on a windy winter morning, wondering if it was worth the effort. If I was worth the effort. I sensed God say, “If you can’t do it out of love for yourself, will you do it out of love for me?” I can race (or drag) through the morning routine, resenting it, or I can offer each moment as a love-gift to the One who cares about this body, this self, that He has entrusted to me.
And then the surprise: “Oh! This morning routine is a gift from You to me too!” For so many years I’ve wrestled to receive His love, to believe it. I’ve lived as though my work for God mattered more to Him than I did. And now He has stitched into the workings of my body a sort of love-tattoo, an every-morning reminder I can’t ignore: “You are far more important to me than the work you do for me.”
Somehow it seems Jesus isn’t in the same hurry I am to race through the routine. It’s another place for Him to love me. And for me to love Him back.
She wheeled me through the exhibits in the chair we’d borrowed from the front desk. It felt to me like a miracle: not that I was in the chair—I’d needed that a year ago when we’d first talked about going to a museum or art gallery, but I’d chosen instead not to go; not that I was being wheeled around—I’d needed that five years ago when I’d insisted on walking myself through the airports on the way home from Afghanistan though I was flown business class because I was too sick to sit up. What felt like a miracle on Saturday was that I was in the chair and wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. No anxiety, no shame, just gratefulness to be able to linger long enough to read the information and enjoy the exhibits. That freedom seemed like a much bigger miracle than the miracle that would have been needed for me to stand for the three hours we moved slowly through the museum.
I don’t know to what to attribute the change: my mother’s prayers? God’s deepening of my certainty of being loved just as I am? my decreasing fear of the messiness of life? I feel a bit like the newly sighted man trying to answer all the questions about how he was healed, “One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!” One thing I do know: a year ago I shuddered to think of setting foot (or seat) in a wheelchair; on Saturday I was free.
Our God is a healing God: sometimes he heals us out of wheelchairs and sometimes into them.
There are a host of ways to pick up your bed and walk.