God-with-us Rested

A Holy Saturday Reflection
Written for Michigan District Church of the Brethren in 2021

Thus, the heavens and the earth were finished, and all their multitude.  And on the seventh day God finished the work that he had done, and he rested on the seventh day from all the work that he had done. So, God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it, because on it God rested from all the work that he had done in creation. – Genesis 2:2-3 (NRSV) 

(As I write these words early in the morning of Holy Saturday, I am listening to Andrew Peterson’s album Resurrection Letters, Vol. 1. And I’m so moved by the song "God Rested" that I sensed I needed to build on the beautiful imagery of the song. Thanks AP. You continue to inspire me as a wordsmith and artist.)

It is finished.

Those last words now echoed in the recesses of their hearts.  

And it overshadowed what he’d proclaimed earlier, 

that he was the resurrection and the life. 

So, they did the ritual grief work of burial.

And as they wrapped his body in linen, 

it appeared that they too, 

were laying to rest their own hopes and dreams. 

The one they proclaimed with Hosanna while waving palm branches, 

now lay lifeless in the tomb.

As the sun was setting and the sabbath lay on the horizon,

As the stone was rolled over the entrance,

they walked away sighing his last words,

It is finished.

For them it was. 

It was over. 

Perhaps the most important non-words in all Scripture appear in 

the space between John 19:42 and John 20:1.

What’s happening in the blank space on the page remains a mystery.

Yet we’ve somehow heard this story before.

It feels familiar, only now being told in reverse. 

God rested.

The work was done, 

It was the seventh day, 

and it was blessed, 

and it was good.

While the darkness covered his face in the tomb, 

the ruah of God hovered

over the deep abyss of death.

Recreating humanity in a new image. 

Calling forth Light and Life. 

For those who proclaimed him as Lord and Messiah,

their world now felt like a formless void.

It was indeed finished,

but it was not over.

It is only the beginning.

They just couldn’t see it.

It is the seventh day. 

And God-with-us rested. 

God's Eco-Bluprint for Spring

It was the first time this spring that the soil had softened enough that my bare feet were no longer walking on the earth, but in it. That cold, soft, soggy soil squished and slurped between my toes with every step. It’s no wonder that the part of our body that has the most contact with God’s creation is called our soles. For I can attest that the way to my own soul occurs when my bare soles are interacting with creation. It’s there that the inner landscape reconnects with the outer landscape. It’s there that adam (Hebrew for human) reunites with adamah (Hebrew for earth). 

My soles are caked in the mud because I am engaged in my concentric prayer walk. In doing so, I am communing with creation as though it were a spiritual director or what the Irish call anam cara (soul friend). 

I’ve found that there is an ecological and seasonal blueprint encrypted within God’s creation. And it has led to a joyful discovery that I’ve come to know as God’s Eco-Blueprint. And each season is imprinted with its own meanings and lessons. 

Springtime is a season for awakening and activating the parts of our lives that have been dormant. The warming of the earth begins to crack the wintry cocoon that we’ve been living in.  And as the Light gets to us, we’re invited to emerge and begin detoxing our minds, bodies, and souls. This leads us to feelings of new beginnings, fresh possibilities for our lives. 

For we know that the Resurrection story is one that emerges from death to new life. From deep within the earth, Christ reemerges from the muddy mess of death so that our lives and souls are made fertile again.

Spring is a time for inspiration and excitement. It cajoles us to play and be joyful. To reconnect with our childhood passions. In doing so, we reclaim feelings of joy, hope, wonder and awe. We are inspired to tap into artistic, creative expressions such as writing, painting, woodcraft, making music, and singing.  

The vernal equinox is a time when both night and day are equally balanced. We’re reminded that we too must find balance in our spiritual and corporal lives. Perhaps we feel the urge to get our hands and feet dirty again by gardening, hiking or even tackling those outside projects that have been put on hold.

It is simply a season for in which water takes center stage. Whether by rains nourishing the earth or new life breaking the waters in pregnancy, water is what creates, sustains, and regenerates life. Historically in the church, spring is the season for baptism. Perhaps you could consider baptism or renewing your baptismal vows. Even the mud, which is part earth and part water, serves as a reminder that what animated our existence were both the dusty earth and the humid vapors of breath.

And as I glance down at my muddied soles, it would be easy to live into spring’s shadow side which is not inspiration rather agitation. That’s what happens when we do not take the lessons of spring to heart. It’s easier to be agitated by muddy situations than to see the fresh possibilities waiting to unfurl beneath the surface. So, I choose to see these muddy conditions as an environment where new life is possible. So too is the soil of our own souls that have endured a season of winter are now being muddied for the new thing that God is about to do. Are we paying attention?

[Published in Messenger Magazine, March 2021]

Sing into the Dark

The June moon was full as we trekked deeper into the “back 40” wilderness area. 

Last summer’s senior high youth camp had the chance to venture deep into the woods and sit in the darkness as part of the summer theme Creation Speaks. The night hike is always a favorite for campers and this time I wanted to take them deeper… of both the outer and inner landscapes. 

I invited them to spread out and sit and listen to what creation might be speaking in those moments. (Now I must preface this scenario with the fact that we’d been talking earlier in the day about fears and the black bear that had been seen on camp property.) 

After a few minutes of sitting in silence, their fears were heightened. There was a disturbance coming from something up in the trees. Not only that but with each passing moment, it appeared to be getting closer. So, I asked them what they were feeling in those moments. Responses ranged from anxious, cautious, fearful, and even an adrenaline rush about what was out there. They kept asking me, “What is that?” And honestly at first, I wasn’t entirely sure. Something nocturnal was interested in why we were out there so late in their space. 

I encouraged the youth to shift their awareness and attention away from those feelings of fear and anxiety towards gratitude and joy. What were they most thankful for? What gives them the most joy? And within moments of the youth doing that, those unsettling noises around us ceased.

I then read from the forty-second Psalm. I encouraged them to “sing into the dark”. To let the “deep” of their soul call to the “deep” of the wildness around them. And a few of them did. Some sang quietly, others hummed. There was a clear shift in the mood of the forest that night. What had been a brooding and unsettling atmosphere was transfigured into a peaceful sense of connection with the Spirit, and God’s creation. 

One of my lifelong deep nature connection mentors has taught that we must learn to be quiet enough to distinguish disturbances in the surrounding landscape from those within the soul; to distinguish between exterior and interior wild-ness. The Psalms call to “sing into the dark” is the invitation to recognize the interior landscape of our souls. And when the darkness hems us in, we sing. And creation, acting as a mirror for our inner landscape, will reverberate with God’s lovingkindness. 

[Published in Skyridge Church of the Brethren (Kalamazoo, MI) 2023 Lenten Devotional]

A Liminal Blueprint

 Early the next morning, before the sunrise, he (Jesus) left and found a quiet, out-of-the-way place to be alone and to pray. (Mark 1:35, First Nations Version)

If you were to traverse into the woods a few minutes from our house you’d come to a hand carved sign that reads Solas Uaine (sul-uss oo-in-ya). It’s Gaelic for place of green light. Once you pass though the natural tree arch where that sign is located, you’d see a simple bench and eight stones laid out to delineate the cardinal and intercardinal directions. There’s a center stone that acts as the hub of the eco-wheel. An aspen and birch forest surrounds this space except for a small clearing to the north that overlooks a large pond about a hundred yards away. 

I have lovingly tended this space. I have prayerfully encircled those stones more times than I can count. It is a place where some of my deepest prayers and contemplations have occurred. It’s where some of my heaviest tears have watered the earth. It’s a place where my feet have been stirred to dance with profound joy. It is a space where I don’t have to speak, but merely listen. This wild threshold of God has been a container space for my soul’s metamorphosis. Simply put, this is my “thin space,” my place apart where I have had numinous encounters with God’s Spirit, embedded in the womb of God’s creation. 

No more was that evident than when we made the decision to suspend our camp programs the summer of 2020. I knew that the pandemic was forcing us into a liminal space so I realized that I should make the most of it while I had the time. Drawing on the inspiration of Jesus, Moses, and Elijah; I set out to be at Solas Uaine for at least four hours a day, for forty days. All that I permitted myself to have during that time were my prayer beads, journal, and Bible. This intentional act of cultural deprivation gave me some of the most visceral encounters and journal entries with the Spirit that has ever been known to me. It has helped to reframe certain aspects of my life and ministry. It renewed and strengthened me in ways that I could not have imagined. 

The Gospels don’t use words like liminality or thin space. Yet I have come to believe that is precisely what was happening in those very brief narrative passages where Jesus goes off by himself to a place apart to pray or to get away from the crowds. It’s clear that Jesus is intentionally creating some form of a liminal (or thin) space where he can refresh and reinvigorate his ministry and mission. Jesus had his own version of Solas Uaine. He sought the solace of the wilderness, the sea, the mountain, and the garden. He knew God’s wisdom came in these encounters and sought them out intentionally. He was drawing on an eco-blueprint as old as creation itself.

(Written for Skyridge Church of the Brethren (Kalamazoo, MI) 2023 Lenten Devotional Series)