If there’s one thing I had to say I’ve become more thankful for this year than I ever have before, it is the body of Christ.
I’ve lived in four different places within a year’s span. One of those was the place of college, one was my childhood home, one was my in-law’s home, and now we are in Brooklyn, NY. The body of Christ I engaged with has looked very different in those different places, yet I have found it has the same unity. The same purpose. The same function.
I have seen people wanting and people struggling in their walks. I have seen people growing, at slow speeds and at fast speeds. I have walked with people I know so very well and others I just see from afar when the body gathers.
I have experienced such rich fellowship, specifically in high school and college. In entering into this new phase of adult life, I didn’t know what to hope for as far as community or friendships. And perhaps this is strange, but I have found such a great joy and contentment in...
Expecting little of people and much of Christ.
Expecting little of people enables a freedom and joy of discovery in meeting new people and developing new friendships. The lack of expectation leads to a greater gratitude for what is bestowed and developed naturally, and by the blessing of the Lord. It allows for more open eyes and hands to receive who may not have been sought out or anticipated at the beginning, yet turns out to be a wonderful, unexpected blessing. With this, there is a surrender of right and privilege of friendships and relationships to the Lord; instead, recognizing that they are gifts to be treasured and taken care of.
Yet, we should be expecting much of Christ in their lives. Faith enough to know that He knows them, loves them, cares for them, rebukes them, teaches them. My prayers have changed in this last year as I pray for people. I hardly ever ask God to do specific things for people, as if He were not aware of what that person needs, and as if I know better and need to tell Him so. Instead, I pray for the person. I pray for the eyes of their heart to be open. I pray for them to willingly engage and walk with God in whatever He may be teaching them and bringing him/her through. If I have insight as to what those things may be, then I pray for those.
To expect much of Christ and little of people is not to belittle individuals and who they are. Rather, it is to recognize the human limits of striving and change, of goodness and pure motives. We all are sinners and fall short of the glory of God and who we are intended to be. It’s to recognize that He searches out the hearts and minds of individuals and knows their motives. It’s to recognize that Christ exceeds all limits and bounds, and the work He does and can do in human lives is tremendous.
Expecting little of people and much of Christ prevents us from attempting to make people out to whom we would like or expect them to be, but rather, enable an environment where they are free to be just as they are. It enables them a place where they have the freedom to grow and be encouraged.
In the body of Christ at large in the world, we don’t usually share a lot of similarities. We are rather diverse. It is an easy reaction to mentally “divide” the body of Christ into smaller segments in order to compare and contrast, to analyze and understand. Yet, I fear in doing that, we miss the opportunity to see an intrinsic beauty within it that cannot be explained or reasoned away. There is one body and one spirit, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, and one God and Father. We are comprised of many parts with the purpose of unity.
And expecting much of the Father and Lord means to recognize these truths about the body and remembering what and why it has been bestowed. It means to humbly receive the gift of adoption into this family of Christ, expecting much of what can be done through the works of redemption and salvation in people’s lives. It remembers and holds fast to the knowledge of the promise for those who do not yet know Him, that through the sacrifice of Christ, they too, may be redeemed and transformed. It remembers that we were once there ourselves and to never doubt the power of the Gospel and the saving grace of Christ.
There is such a gratitude and thankfulness that has grown in expecting little of people and much of Christ. We are a messy, diverse, young, old, immature, and always growing bunch. Yet, that is what makes the body of Christ beautiful, unexpected, dynamic, and always surprising. It is a lifelong pursuit of growing in the grace and knowledge of God. It is a wonderful journey to do in the fellowship of believers, all that they may be and are, and for that, I am truly thankful.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Bridges
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| Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, Queens, NY |
In the moments as I fall asleep, I attempt to orient my thoughts to the same thing, night after night. It allows for my mind to simplify itself and quiet down. I’ve had to find a new thought as of late, and the choices are plentiful. What is it that I will choose to remember, to think of in the last waning moments before I slip into uncontrolled consciousness? The last few nights the choice has been coming back to the beach.
Sand. Water. Ocean. Sun. Warmth. All things that most people enjoy and might even say is rather trite as a focused thought to calm before sleep. Yet, for me, there’s a deeper meaning in this thought, one I didn’t really recognize until last night.
On August 1st, John and I went to the beach for the first time since we moved here in early July. We took the subway out, which was a grand opportunity in itself—to be able to go to the beach by subway in only an hour trip! We had packed lunches and aimed to get out there earlier to beat any crowds a Monday might bring. The subway ride was interesting in itself. It starts underground, which is to be expected here, but after several minutes, it climbs above ground. For a couple of minutes, the cityscape is relatively the same here as the rest of Brooklyn, but then it begins to change. Parking lots outside McDonalds and grocery stores begin to appear. There are less people outside and seems to be an air of calm. A couple of more minutes on the subway go by, and it changes still. Now we see the beginnings of a “small” eastern coast waterfront town, clapboard houses with white trim and sea hues on their bodies. There are backyards and boat slips, connected to a snaking stream that leads to a bay. And suddenly, the bay appears. Ironically so, it’s a wildlife refuge…one breathtakingly beautiful and can transport you to a different world, if you can ignore JFK airport and its hoard of planes on land and in sky on your left. There are so many birds here. Cranes, especially. We travel across the bay for several minutes on a narrow bridge meant just for the subway, surrounded by water the entire time. Sigh. After a quick transfer to another subway shuttle, we take the ride the rest of the way to Rockaway Beach, a narrow yet long peninsula home to over 100 blocks of public sandy waterfront. We leave the train and descend down stairs, then our legs perform a sequence of steps amounting to about 200 yards until we are on the sand…once again.
It’s familiar. We (more so me), spent much time at the beach while living in San Luis Obispo, CA. The choices of beaches there were plentiful…four completely different ones within 15 miles of one another. I had my own favorites each year, but I specifically remember going to Avila Beach just about every week by myself during my last quarter in SLO. It was a time of respite, reflection, and relaxation for me. It had become so much a part of my home and life in the five years of San Luis Obispo that I wanted to take the remaining chances I could to enjoy it before John and I moved away. And there are so many memories…
In September of 2005—my first weekend of freshman year of college—I went to the beach with a bunch of people from my dorms, rounded up by our Campus Crusade staff member who decided we should go hang out at the beach. There was a girl down the hall from me who was also from Colorado, and we had been connecting. We decided to rent surfboards and wetsuits to attempt surfing for the first time in California. We picked them up that day and put them in her open air Jeep, myself in the back seat to hold them down as we drove there. It was warm and sunny in San Luis Obispo at the time, but the course of thedrive revealed fog down at the ocean by Pismo Beach. I remember those moments to myself…thinking of how different this was than anything I had ever done before, and how different this place was than anywhere I had been. With it though, came an honest and unbridled joy for what I was about to experience, though I had no clue what it would be. What would that day bring? What would that year bring? What would life bring?
We arrived and met up with the group. The staff member and two other guys joined us in the surfing; the other girls and guys remained on the beach. Amy and I attempted surfing for about an hour and a half before we were exhausted and headed back to shore. We joined the group to go to the legendary Splash Café up the street to grab lunch. Later, back down on our towels on the sand and enjoying our food, I remember interacting with the guy from Colorado I was beginning to get to know. I remember looking at him in that moment and thinking that my life was going to be different with him now in it. He was full of joy, a little crazy and overenthusiastic, but contagious nonetheless. Our group spent much of the day there before we went back to our dorm and back into the beginning of “beginning-adult” or college life that we were learning to navigate.
As I sat on the beach on August 1st of 2011, I looked at this calm man beside me, wearing very few lines of childhood on his face, and I remembered the overenthusiastic, contagious, joyful young man he was then. Now, he is my husband, and I his wife, almost six years later.
Unlike the Pacific Coast I resided upon where the waters were almost always too cold to go into, this Atlantic water was the perfecttemperature. Therefore, I went out and swam a bit. I jumped the waves, remembering the unbridled joy as a child I had in doing so, and then arched my back as I trusted the dense seawater to hold me afloat. Ebb and flow. I was one with the water and the water with me…and in those moments I was reassured beyond all doubt that the Lord knows every part of me and my heart, for I couldn’t imagine much better than floating in the warm ocean in the presence of the Lord with my husband on shore watching me. In those moments, I knew we are exactly where we are supposed to be now.
And so the beach is the bridge. The beach connects me to the beginning of my college and independent life, and the beginning of self-sufficient married life. There are so many similarities in feelings and thoughts… the bridge possesses an honest and unbridled joy for what I did and will experience, remembering what was and not knowing fully what the futurewould be, what would that day, year, and ultimately, life bring.
In moments here in New York City, I feel so young all over again. I feel overwhelmed at the prospect of my entire life before me. But, I look back to the other side of the bridge and remember who I was then and see what six years has brought. I remember that six years ago, I had no idea where I would be now, but that bridge has been built and now I see. That’s the intermediate context I have for now. It’s a six-year bridge of the beach that connects then to now. There’s another bridge to be built from here; I know, and that’s all I know. It’s okay to be beginning again. The bridges are built beautifully with the care of the Lord and the passage of time.
Friday, September 02, 2011
Poverty of Spirit
Every subway ride is different.
During the workweek, the stations I frequent are the same, but the ebb and flow of a human group is always changing. Occasionally, I do see the same people, as we will take the trains at the same time in the same car, each holding to our own routine as if to preciously guard some semblance of normalcy and routine in a place where there is so little. But that too, gets interrupted. As good as one can get at putting on the blinders and attempting to enacting our own opaque personal bubble where we cannot see or be seen, reality does puncture it. Then, we are forced to witness people and events not of our own choosing. There are no filters for humanity on a subway ride except for two dollars and twenty-five cents.
It was between 51st and Grand Central, a ride of about two minutes, where I witnessed one of the most public displays of an impoverished spirit in a long time, and especially so for here. I stepped on the train as the doors were closing, and the car reeked of alcohol. There was a man, relatively calm yet dejected, with what appeared to be a freshly casted and bandaged arm. Next to him was a woman, his companion, who looked on the brink of despair. She had laid her head heavily on his shoulder. Then, her eyes started raining and her mouth wailing, as she collapsed into his lap. He stroked her, as if he understood her pain, and that it was okay even as she was making a scene. This woman had broken, in what seemed to be every way.
I don’t know their story. I only know what I saw in the two minute ride before I transferred trains, but my mind attempts to fill the gaps. Was he just injured? Did he lose his job, and is their financial future in doubt because of it? It looks like they just came from a hospital, maybe someone close to them died? They have their suitcases with them, were they just evicted? Or, are they simply the bearers of much pain, and this was the point in which it became too heavy a load for her to bear?
I don’t know.
And I don’t know what to do in times like this except pray. It was such a private display in such a public place that I felt as if I were intruding on something I shouldn’t be, seeing something I shouldn’t see. I prayed for their pain. I prayed that they would receive God’s mercy. I prayed that they would see hope somewhere and know God is the source.
Witnessing something like this is uncomfortable. It makes one realize the true poverty of spirit that exists in the hearts of many. We are broken but we try to hide it; we are dejected but we dare not ever show it, except for those moments where we simply can’t help it, when it simply becomes too much to hold inside and it must overflow whenever and wherever it releases itself. It is uncomfortable because in just one moment, we are hit hard in the face with the reality of our differences and similarities we share with our common men, and the lines are blurred. “I would help them if I knew them” is a common response, citing our differences as the reason. But the secondary response is “why does that have to be a qualifier for help?”
I don’t know.
What I do know is that we live in a world full of pain. Most of it is just more private than what I witnessed. Yet, this public display reminded me that they are not the only ones with pain. We are good at trying to hide, but in a place like New York City, pain is so often worn visibly across the sagging lines of a face, the emptiness of soul in the eyes, and the slumping physical body. People are weary and hurting. If you truly open your eyes to look, it cannot be ignored.
And it cannot be ignored in me that I can be a part of the solution. I know that somehow in some of these moments, God willing, I can be an instrument of his love and grace. When I look at these people and see their pain, I become intimidated at the depth of it that I forget how easy providing a little relief can be. First, let me look at them with these eyes with a look of gentleness they may not often see in this city, that they may know their presence is acknowledged, not ignored. Second, may I give them a small smile, to engage with them in a sign of human connectedness that they may know that they have been seen, singled out. It’s after these steps I tend to get a bit stuck. Do I talk to them? Will I understand them? What do I talk to them about?
When I get stuck, I end up praying for them. I know that God knows them and sees them, and He can do far more for them than I ever could. Yet, there’s a problem in this, and that is that I do not pray for myself. I do not listen nor ask how I may be His hands and His feet, bringing forth His words and His love. I simply pray for the other person, and ask God to bring relief to them through His divine presence and perhaps, another person who knows Him. But, I am missing out and mostly, so are these people.
I am intimidated by the amount of pain that I see. I forget that I do not have to be the solution, but that I can be part of the relief. I am intimidated at the prayer I know I must pray now, and that is that I would actively be the hands and feet of Christ in part of a world and pain I do not know. Yet I am compelled. I must, for every subway ride is different. Every subway ride provides an opportunity to bring relief to someone’s pain.
For the Scripture says, “Everyone who believes in him will not be put to shame.” For there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; the same Lord is Lord of all, bestowing his riches on all who call on him. For “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” But how are they to call on him in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone preaching? And how are they to preach unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the good news!”
Romans 10:11-15
During the workweek, the stations I frequent are the same, but the ebb and flow of a human group is always changing. Occasionally, I do see the same people, as we will take the trains at the same time in the same car, each holding to our own routine as if to preciously guard some semblance of normalcy and routine in a place where there is so little. But that too, gets interrupted. As good as one can get at putting on the blinders and attempting to enacting our own opaque personal bubble where we cannot see or be seen, reality does puncture it. Then, we are forced to witness people and events not of our own choosing. There are no filters for humanity on a subway ride except for two dollars and twenty-five cents.
It was between 51st and Grand Central, a ride of about two minutes, where I witnessed one of the most public displays of an impoverished spirit in a long time, and especially so for here. I stepped on the train as the doors were closing, and the car reeked of alcohol. There was a man, relatively calm yet dejected, with what appeared to be a freshly casted and bandaged arm. Next to him was a woman, his companion, who looked on the brink of despair. She had laid her head heavily on his shoulder. Then, her eyes started raining and her mouth wailing, as she collapsed into his lap. He stroked her, as if he understood her pain, and that it was okay even as she was making a scene. This woman had broken, in what seemed to be every way.
I don’t know their story. I only know what I saw in the two minute ride before I transferred trains, but my mind attempts to fill the gaps. Was he just injured? Did he lose his job, and is their financial future in doubt because of it? It looks like they just came from a hospital, maybe someone close to them died? They have their suitcases with them, were they just evicted? Or, are they simply the bearers of much pain, and this was the point in which it became too heavy a load for her to bear?
I don’t know.
And I don’t know what to do in times like this except pray. It was such a private display in such a public place that I felt as if I were intruding on something I shouldn’t be, seeing something I shouldn’t see. I prayed for their pain. I prayed that they would receive God’s mercy. I prayed that they would see hope somewhere and know God is the source.
Witnessing something like this is uncomfortable. It makes one realize the true poverty of spirit that exists in the hearts of many. We are broken but we try to hide it; we are dejected but we dare not ever show it, except for those moments where we simply can’t help it, when it simply becomes too much to hold inside and it must overflow whenever and wherever it releases itself. It is uncomfortable because in just one moment, we are hit hard in the face with the reality of our differences and similarities we share with our common men, and the lines are blurred. “I would help them if I knew them” is a common response, citing our differences as the reason. But the secondary response is “why does that have to be a qualifier for help?”
I don’t know.
What I do know is that we live in a world full of pain. Most of it is just more private than what I witnessed. Yet, this public display reminded me that they are not the only ones with pain. We are good at trying to hide, but in a place like New York City, pain is so often worn visibly across the sagging lines of a face, the emptiness of soul in the eyes, and the slumping physical body. People are weary and hurting. If you truly open your eyes to look, it cannot be ignored.
And it cannot be ignored in me that I can be a part of the solution. I know that somehow in some of these moments, God willing, I can be an instrument of his love and grace. When I look at these people and see their pain, I become intimidated at the depth of it that I forget how easy providing a little relief can be. First, let me look at them with these eyes with a look of gentleness they may not often see in this city, that they may know their presence is acknowledged, not ignored. Second, may I give them a small smile, to engage with them in a sign of human connectedness that they may know that they have been seen, singled out. It’s after these steps I tend to get a bit stuck. Do I talk to them? Will I understand them? What do I talk to them about?
When I get stuck, I end up praying for them. I know that God knows them and sees them, and He can do far more for them than I ever could. Yet, there’s a problem in this, and that is that I do not pray for myself. I do not listen nor ask how I may be His hands and His feet, bringing forth His words and His love. I simply pray for the other person, and ask God to bring relief to them through His divine presence and perhaps, another person who knows Him. But, I am missing out and mostly, so are these people.
I am intimidated by the amount of pain that I see. I forget that I do not have to be the solution, but that I can be part of the relief. I am intimidated at the prayer I know I must pray now, and that is that I would actively be the hands and feet of Christ in part of a world and pain I do not know. Yet I am compelled. I must, for every subway ride is different. Every subway ride provides an opportunity to bring relief to someone’s pain.
For the Scripture says, “Everyone who believes in him will not be put to shame.” For there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; the same Lord is Lord of all, bestowing his riches on all who call on him. For “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” But how are they to call on him in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone preaching? And how are they to preach unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the good news!”
Romans 10:11-15
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